by Randy Singer
She knew the first statement was a lie. But if he’s lying about the second part, Jamie thought, it’s a world-class performance.
She should have left celebrating. Wellington didn’t have to testify. The key to the algorithm would never leave his hands. Jamie could wipe out her student loans with a fraction of the settlement and still have enough to live on for ten years. If money could buy justice, Carzak had just provided a nice down payment.
Yet somehow, Jamie felt like she had been played. She hated this feeling of compromise, of feeling like she’d sold her soul one little piece at a time. Beating the government at its own game brought no real satisfaction. She wanted to be able to trust men like Carzak, prosecutors sworn to uphold the law and protect the citizens.
When Jamie became a prosecutor, things would be different. She would bust the bad guys, all right, but not sacrifice her own morals in the process. She would not break the law in order to convict criminals. There had to be a line, she decided as she walked away from the federal building. A line she wouldn’t cross.
A person had to determine where that line was before she started practicing, or the temptation would be too great in the heat of battle. Especially for someone like Jamie—a crusader, someone who hated to lose, someone with some very personal reasons to combat crime. Jamie would never cross that line, she told herself.
But something inside her didn’t quite believe it. She knew in her heart that she would use any means necessary to make sure her mother’s killer, now sitting on death row, received his ultimate punishment. She would continue to do whatever it took to ensure that the men who killed Snowball got what they deserved.
That was different, she told herself. Personal tragedies. As a prosecutor, she would maintain a professional distance from the crimes. She would be vengeance personified, a scourge on the criminals, but she would not compromise integrity or ethics just to achieve some misguided notion of justice.
She beat back that skeptical voice in her head, the one claiming that the system required those kinds of compromises. She buried it someplace deep in her own subconscious. If she couldn’t walk the line, then why even become a lawyer? Why become a prosecutor especially—with all the power of the state at her disposal?
Jamie had learned advocacy well from her law school professors. By the time she climbed into her 4Runner, she had convinced herself it was true. Jamie Brock, representing the people of the state of Georgia, would never compromise just to get a conviction. There were some things in life more important than winning.
90
Thursday, April 24
Los Angeles
As Walter Snead’s grand jury testimony ground to a conclusion, Allan Carzak had to admit that the law school professor made a formidable witness. In the last two days, Snead had painted a graphic and detailed picture of justice for sale in Los Angeles—crooked lawyers buying verdicts in civil cases and simultaneously selling out their criminal defense clients. He had a nearly photographic memory, testifying without notes about the particulars of cases and meetings from four or five years ago. His details always checked out with the corroborating documents that Carzak and his team had assembled from Snead’s computer and legal files.
Getting the grand jury to indict would not be a difficult matter. Defense lawyers weren’t even allowed in the grand jury room—all of the proceedings were conducted in secret. Carzak had often claimed he could have indicted the pope if he had wanted to. Thanks to a wealth of damning testimony from Snead, this grand jury had more than enough to issue blanket indictments that would shake the Los Angeles legal community. Plus, the feds in California had already used Snead’s particulars to flip another crooked lawyer, one who would testify at trial in the light of day as part of his plea agreement.
These were the best of times for the career of Allan Carzak. The big shots at justice knew about his role in helping to procure the Abacus Algorithm, though thus far the encrypted code had proved impenetrable. He was personally handling the Atlanta grand jury proceedings that would generate additional indictments against the Manchurian Triad members and several of their cohorts. At the same time, he had been asked to question Walter Snead in front of this Los Angeles grand jury, since Carzak and his team were the ones most familiar with Snead’s testimony, the ones who negotiated the deal requiring Snead to testify in the first place.
As Thursday afternoon drew to a close, Carzak turned to his last area of questioning: the deal between Snead and the federal government.
Carzak had warned Snead and the U.S. attorney for the southern district of California that he would cover this ground. Carzak always informed grand jurors of plea bargains and deals that might be used to question the credibility of a witness. That way, when the defense attorneys eventually got their hands on the grand jury transcript, they couldn’t attack the prosecutors for a failure to disclose exculpatory evidence. Plus, it only served to make the grand jurors trust Carzak more—he appeared so forthcoming.
Snead handled the questions about the deal without flinching. Yes, he had been granted immunity. In fact, he had insisted that the government enroll him in the witness protection program. He couldn’t provide details of where he had relocated, of course, but the government had given him a fresh start in exchange for testifying here today. Snead even admitted, rather arrogantly in the opinion of Carzak, that his deal included the proviso that the government could not call him as a witness at trial. He was only required to provide this grand jury testimony before he disappeared forever.
But Snead was adamant in saying his testimony had not been bought. It was all true, he claimed, looking the jury dead in the eye. Every word of it.
Carzak nodded his affirmation, then took a few steps toward the witness. Carzak didn’t appreciate crooks who tried to game the system. It was one thing to negotiate a deal with the government—such dealings greased the wheels of justice every day. But it was the way this deal got cut that stuck in Allan Carzak’s craw.
“You understand that your immunity applies to any criminal activity associated with the practice of law in Los Angeles and in particular the allegations of bribing judges; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you also understand that you have immunity with regard to any dealings you might have had with Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman and the Chinese mafia; is that also correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you do know, Mr. Snead, that if you testify falsely today or have misled the government in any way about these events—in other words, if you have defrauded the government in the process of obtaining this deal—you don’t have immunity for those types of actions.”
Snead took a drink of water. He stared at Carzak as if trying to read the man’s mind. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Of course not.”
Carzak brought out a personal laptop computer and had the court reporter mark it as a government exhibit. “Is this your laptop, Mr. Snead?”
Snead took the computer and inspected it, snarling at Carzak, undoubtedly wondering why they had departed from the script. “Without turning it on to make sure, it appears to be.”
“You will recall that the government seized this computer pursuant to a search warrant issued last week. Is that your recollection?” Carzak smiled as he asked the question. He knew how much Snead hated the smile.
“Yes, I believe that’s correct.”
“Did you know, Mr. Snead, that your computer hard drive retains evidence of every document produced and a log of every website ever accessed?”
“I don’t doubt that, though I fail to see the relevance of it.”
Carzak loved this moment. He studied Snead’s face. The scowl lines were carved deep into the man’s forehead. Snead probably knew that Carzak was now toying with him, but he obviously hadn’t figured out the details just yet. Carzak glanced quickly at the jurors, giving them a watch-this look. “You know, Mr. Snead, there was one thing that always bothered me in the case against the Manchurian Triad. You have any idea wha
t that was?”
“No, Mr. Carzak,” Snead said sarcastically, “I’m afraid I left my mind-reading crystal ball at home.”
“After four years of hiding out, why would David Hoffman write a letter to Johnny Chin and try to sell the algorithm to the Chinese mob?” Carzak started pacing in front of the witness. He was no longer technically in question mode, but this was a grand jury. There was no judge to rule him out of order, and Snead knew better than to start an argument here.
“If Hoffman wanted to sell the algorithm on the black market—even the encrypted algorithm—would he really pick the one organized-crime group that already had a grudge against him for killing several of its members? And even assuming that Hoffman sent the letter, how did the Manchurian Triad find him? The only people who knew where he lived were his wife, the federal marshals, the FBI, and his attorney. That would be you, Mr. Snead.”
Carzak stopped and turned toward Snead. The man had a look of false bravado, but Carzak saw sweat beads on his forehead. “I knew the marshals and the FBI wouldn’t turn Hoffman over to the mob. Heck, we didn’t even know he had kept the algorithm. And it sure didn’t make sense for Hoffman to turn himself over either.”
“Is there a question in that parade of sentences?” Snead growled. “Or are we all just here to watch you grandstand?”
Carzak gave the witness a pleasant but condescending look. “Okay, Mr. Snead, here’s a question. And keep in mind that my computer techs can access every document ever created on your hard drive, including ones you thought you had deleted.” Carzak paused to study the witness. Snead glared back. “Did you or did you not create and send the letter to Johnny Chin that purportedly came from your client?”
“I most emphatically did not.”
Carzak smiled. His computer techs had, in fact, searched in vain for the letter on Snead’s hard drive. But Carzak wasn’t finished. The witness was feeling cocky. It was time for the counterpunch.
“Did you or did you not, on February 14 of this year, exactly twelve days before Mr. Chin received that letter, access the website for the Federal Bureau of Prisons and use the inmate locator function to determine where Johnny Chin was being held?”
“Which proves nothing,” Snead countered without hesitation. He shifted in his seat so he could address the jury directly. “Since the attorney-client privilege does not allow me to reveal the details of any conversations with my clients, allow me to pose a hypothetical. Let’s suppose that Mr. Hoffman was concerned that the Manchurian Triad might find out about his renewed efforts to sell the algorithm to legitimate companies. Suppose he expressed that concern during one of our meetings. Wouldn’t you expect to see a federal inmate locator search on my computer, not just for Johnny Chin, but for every other member of the Manchurian Triad who had been convicted four years ago as well?”
With the question hanging in the air, Snead turned back to Carzak. “Why don’t you tell the jury the total number of names you found associated with that search, Mr. Carzak? Why don’t you try telling the jury the whole truth?”
Carzak wiped the pleasantries from his face. Snead had indeed been careful—probably typing the letter on some obscure computer, even covering his tracks when he searched for Chin’s address. “The whole truth,” Carzak repeated, nodding. “Fair enough. You represented the Hoffmans. You tried to sell the algorithm to legitimate companies but could not because it had been encrypted. At the same time, you started feeling the heat from the Los Angeles investigation. You stood to lose everything—your career, your freedom, your money.” As he spoke, a genuine anger sharpened Carzak’s words.
This was why lawyers had a bad name. This man—selling out his client for his own self-preservation. A breach of the nearly sacred trust given to lawyers. A man who treated clients like commodities, justice like a game. And Carzak was stuck with him as a witness.
He had to use Snead. But he didn’t have to like it.
“Then it dawns on you, Mr. Snead. The feds would probably do anything to get their hands on this algorithm. If you put your own client in harm’s way and let the feds know this algorithm was still out there, you could probably work out a deal where you end up getting immunity along with your client. So you send a letter to Chin under Hoffman’s name and contact the Manchurian Triad to let them know the general area where Hoffman is living. Then you have the audacity to sue the federal government, committing fraud on the court by claiming that we were the ones who sent the letter to Chin. At the first opportunity, you propose a deal that will give you immunity and make you part of the witness protection program. How am I doing, Mr. Snead?”
“Alice in Wonderland, Mr. Carzak. You spin a wonderful fairy tale.”
“Do you deny under oath that you contacted the Manchurian Triad, Mr. Snead? Do you deny telling them about a scheduled court appearance by Hoffman?”
It had all come to this—Snead’s moment of truth. Carzak’s long speech really had just one purpose: to frustrate the witness and rile him up. To throw him off-balance and make him more likely to react. Snead was right—the computer evidence was circumstantial at best. But on this pending question—whether Snead contacted the triad to tell them about Hoffman’s location—the evidence was direct. If Snead denied it, Carzak would have him for perjury. And that would only be the start.
How could Snead even make contact with the Manchurian Triad? Carzak had wondered. What conduit did he use to inform them about Hoffman’s location? It wasn’t through Chin—he had only received the typed letter that didn’t say anything about Hoffman’s court hearing. It dawned on Carzak late Monday afternoon, after hours of rehearsing Snead’s grand jury testimony.
The plastic surgeon—Dr. Silvoso. He had worked with the triad to facilitate Hoffman’s first kidnapping. He might know how to get a message through to the mob.
When Carzak squeezed Silvoso, the surgeon squealed. Yes, Snead had recently contacted him. Yes, Silvoso had passed a message on to some members of the Manchurian Triad. The rest of it Carzak had pieced together on his own.
“Do you deny it?” Carzak pressed. “Do you deny that about three weeks ago Mr. Hoffman came to you with a routine legal matter? Do you deny telling him that he could save some money by going through legal aid and you would still oversee the matter? Do you deny not only sending the letter to Chin but also sending a separate message to the Manchurian Triad, through a plastic surgeon named Dr. Silvoso, about Hoffman’s scheduled court hearing?”
This time Snead paused, his brilliant mind churning through the possibilities. “I’m asserting my Fifth Amendment rights as a U.S. citizen, Mr. Carzak.” The rage darkened Snead’s face as he spoke, his voice a mere growl. “I refuse to answer these ridiculous questions.”
91
Friday, April 25
Allan Carzak, U.S. attorney for the northern district of Georgia, and Eva Salazar, his counterpart for the southern district of California, coordinated their announcements of the groundbreaking indictments under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act and various other federal statutes. An Atlanta-based grand jury had returned multiple indictments against eleven members of the Manchurian Triad, including Huang Xu and Li Gwah. State charges, including crimes punishable by death, were expected to follow. A Los Angeles–based grand jury indicted seven prominent L.A. lawyers and three California state court judges.
For all the hoopla, there was no indictment against Walter Snead. It was Carzak’s decision, and despite the protests of Parcelli and several other FBI agents, Carzak was comfortable he had made the right call. Snead had been smart enough not to perjure himself during the grand jury proceedings. Carzak probably could have built a case against Snead for defrauding the government, but an indictment against Snead would divert focus from Carzak’s main prosecution of the triad leaders. Even worse, it would give the triad’s defense lawyers some ammunition for their arguments and might jeopardize the entire grand jury proceeding.
Plus, Carzak didn’t want to set a precedent for prosecuti
ng government witnesses who provided vital information under the witness protection program. Carzak would go after the big fish. He had wanted to put the fear of God into Snead. Nothing more.
Saturday, April 26
Seminole, Florida
Walter Snead celebrated the indictments by gambling the night away at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino Hollywood, a Seminole casino located an hour from his waterfront condo in West Palm Beach. He arrived home a few hours before the sun came up, somewhere around 4:00 a.m. As he climbed out of his three-day-old silver Mercedes, parked in the soft lighting of his own driveway, he took a sniper’s bullet to the base of the skull. The coroner concluded Snead was dead before he hit the ground.
Allan Carzak found out about Snead’s assassination through a phone call from Sam Parcelli, who didn’t seem the least bit distraught as he recounted the events. “One day we discover that Snead defrauds the government so he can get immunity. Next thing I know, somebody shoots him in the back of the head. Clean shot from nearly two hundred yards away. Sounds to me like a professional hit man.”
The casualness of Parcelli’s description, the lack of concern in his voice, the way he practically gloated over Snead’s death—it was all too much for the normally unflappable Carzak.
“We can’t lose witnesses like this,” Carzak said sharply. “I don’t care how much you dislike the guy; it’s your job to keep him alive. The entire witness protection program is only as good as our ability to protect witnesses. And frankly, Sam, you and the marshals’ office have done a miserable job on this one.”
“I hear you,” Parcelli said drily. “I’m all broken up about it.”
“Doesn’t sound that way to me,” Carzak fired back. He took a deep breath and calmed down a little. Allan Carzak wasn’t the type to lose his cool or hold a grudge. What good would it do? His success ultimately depended on good relations with FBI agents, including agents like Sam Parcelli who happened to be first-class jerks. Carzak hadn’t come this far by burning bridges. Instead, he built trust. He couldn’t let the death of one crooked lawyer tear down the trust he had spent years nurturing with his counterparts at the FBI.