The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  I look at my watch. It’s ten thirty in the morning. We flew standby, a red-eye out of Amsterdam, chasing the sun across the Atlantic. It lapped us and won. “What day is it?”

  “Friday,” says Harry. “Least that’s what the calendar in front of me says.”

  Even with some pretty good winks on the plane, I’m dead. “Let me take a shower, get some coffee,” I tell him. “Gimme an hour and a half.”

  When I get to the office Harry is already there. There’re a handful of messages waiting for me in the little carousel on the reception counter. There would have been more, I’m sure, except the phones were down.

  Sally, the receptionist, hands me another one. “This guy’s called three times in the last two days. Says it’s important.”

  I take the slip and look at it. “Clete Proffit.” The pillar of the bar who had me followed to Graves’s office in D.C. He wants me to call him back. I’m wondering what he wants.

  I check the other messages. Nothing from Herman.

  Sally is back talking on the headset, taking a call. I whisper over the counter, “Did Mr. Diggs call by any chance?”

  She shakes her head.

  “If he does, put him through immediately. Even if I’m on the phone.”

  She nods. Gives me the big OK circle, finger to thumb.

  I head to my office. When I pass Harry’s open door I see him sitting behind his desk swung around in his chair with his back to me. At first I think he’s laughing. Then I realize Harry is crying. Sobbing like a baby.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He turns and looks at me, his face all red. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s nothing.” He grabs some Kleenex from a box on the credenza behind his desk.

  I close the door so that no one else can see. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head, wipes his eyes, puts his hand out, like maybe I should go away. “It’s nothing,” he says.

  “It must be something,” I tell him. I’ve never seen Harry cry before. This is a first.

  “I guess . . . I don’t know. I guess it’s just everything,” he says. “All of a sudden it’s just catching up with me. The other night. The old man.”

  He’s talking about Korff. His body by the bridge. Harry is suffering a delayed reaction. Post trauma. “Listen, why don’t you go home and get some sleep? We’re both tired. That’s where I’m going in just a few minutes. As soon as I check my desk and take care of a few messages.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” says Harry.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Wasn’t able to sleep at all on the plane.”

  I sit down in one of the chairs across the desk from him. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “What’s to tell? You were there. You know,” he says.

  “Sometimes things affect people in different ways. Tell me.”

  “Jeez,” says Harry. “You’re gonna make me say it?” He lifts his shoulders. When he drops them he starts crying again. “We got him drunk!” says Harry. “I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t kept pouring, maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Don’t you get it?”

  “No! No, you have to stop thinking like that. He didn’t die of alcohol poisoning. He died because somebody murdered him. Giving him beer had nothing to do with it. We tried to put him in a taxi. We offered to take him home. Don’t you remember? He said no. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I know,” says Harry. “But I still can’t help thinking . . .”

  “He told us he’d take a cab. We both saw him. He walked to the counter and hit the bell. What were we supposed to think?”

  Harry nods.

  “Besides, the man had a tolerance for beer. I’m not saying he wasn’t drunk. But if you or I had consumed anything near what he had, we wouldn’t have had to worry about a taxi. They would have taken us away in an ambulance.”

  Harry looks at me red-faced and laughs. He wipes his nose.

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. Sometimes it’s just fate. If JFK had been ten minutes earlier in Dealey Plaza he probably would have served out his term and, who knows, done another four years. If Lennon had come home an hour later at the Dakota, maybe he’d still be making music. And if Korff had gotten into a taxi at the front door, outside that hotel, my guess is they would have never even seen him,” I tell him.

  “You think so?”

  “The fact they killed him on the far side of the bridge tells me they were probably waiting for him there.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Nobody in their right mind is going to want to track Korff across that bridge under all those lights. He was a big man. And if he turned to fight maybe they get trapped out there.”

  Harry nods.

  “So try not to think about it. We did everything we could.”

  “Yeah, but if we’d known . . .”

  “But we didn’t. We took him at his word. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

  “Still,” he says. “We should have thought about it. I mean after the girl and Graves.”

  “We did think about it. That’s why we told him to take the cab. It wasn’t just because he was drunk.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “He knew that Serna didn’t die in an accident. We told him as much. He was well aware of the dangers. He had to be. He knew more about what was going on than we did.”

  Harry nods. “You’re right.”

  “Listen. Tell you what, when we’re done here, why don’t you follow me to the house. We’ll sit and talk,” I tell him. “We need to relax and unwind. A lot of stress.”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. Go do what you have to do.”

  “I will. But not until you give me that rusted piece of crap in your center drawer,” I tell him.

  “What were you doing in my drawer?”

  “If you must know, I was looking for drugs.”

  “And you saw the gun?”

  “You bet I did. How could I miss something like that?”

  “What do you think, I’m gonna . . .”

  “Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m just worried that if you go and pull the trigger with the corroded bullets you’ve got, it’s gonna blow up and take your hand off. I don’t want you running around the office trying to hit the keyboard with a stump. That’s all.”

  “Get out of here,” says Harry. “Go make your phone calls.”

  I smile.

  He looks at me and winks.

  I head to my office.

  FORTY-SIX

  Hello, Mr. Madriani,” he says.

  “You called?”

  “I did indeed,” says Proffit. “How is everything going?”

  “The usual,” I tell him. Why trip his curiosity telling him about four murders and a burned-out gas station?

  “How’s your case going?” he asks.

  “Which one is that?” I can play stupid too.

  “Mr. Ives, of course.”

  “Oh, that! Moving right along. What is it you called about?”

  “It appears you have friends in high places,” he says.

  “How’s that?”

  “Senator Maya Grimes called me the other day. Do you know her?” he says.

  The second he says her name, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Grimes, my home state senator, the woman Simon Korff saw at Gruber Bank with a boatload of cash. I could tell him I never heard of her, but I don’t. “I know of her. Who doesn’t?”

  “That’s funny,” he says. “I was sure the way she talked the two of you knew each other.”

  “What did she say?”

  “It seems she thinks very highly of you. So highly, in fact, that she asked me to give you a call.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Well, it seems there’s a vacancy on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. You are familiar with the court? Sits in San Francisco, twenty-nine active judges, I believe. One step below the US Supreme Court.”


  “I’m familiar with it.”

  “Have you ever appeared before any of its panels?” he asks.

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” I tell him.

  “Well, that is strange,” says Proffit. “Senator Grimes seems to think you’re highly qualified to fill the vacancy. So qualified, in fact, that she’s already talked to the White House to inform them that you have her unqualified support for the position.”

  “And why would she do that?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” says Proffit.

  “I have no idea. Are you sure you have the right Madriani?”

  “Oh, yes. No mistake about that,” he says.

  “Why didn’t she call me herself?”

  “Well, you know politicians,” he says. “They always want to keep some distance.”

  “You make it sound like a Mafia hit,” I tell him.

  “I’m glad you said it and not me. I’m just carrying the message. She would like you to file an application for the position as soon as possible.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “As I said, I’m just conveying the message. Are you interested?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Do you want some advice?” he says.

  “I don’t know. But it sounds like you’re itching to give me some.”

  “Grimes is in the position to block other competitors for this spot, which she can do by using her position in the Senate to prevent the scheduling of a confirmation hearing if she doesn’t approve of the candidate. It’s called senatorial courtesy. However,” he says, “she can’t help you dodge the slings and arrows at a hearing if members of the Senate Judiciary Committee decide to come after you. Say if, for example, the candidate seems to be lacking certain qualifications.”

  “You mean like me.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to say it,” he says. “I like you. I like you very much.”

  I suspect this makes me part of an exclusive club, fraternity of one. Maybe it will last until the end of our conversation, if he gets what he wants.

  “Allow me to save you the pain,” he says. “They would eat you alive. Why don’t you let me call her back and tell her you’re not interested? Save yourself a lot of grief.”

  Or, I could just ask him for a map through the minefield. I’m sure Proffit climbed on his bulldozer to start laying them the minute he hung up the phone from Grimes.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “There was one other thing. But it’s somewhat distasteful.”

  “That’s all right, I’ve got some mouthwash in the other room.”

  “I’m not sure I feel comfortable repeating it.”

  “Steel yourself,” I tell him.

  “Just remember you’re the one who asked,” he says. “She made it sound as if this, what I’m about to tell you, and the judicial appointment are somehow linked. In other words, you don’t get one unless you do the other.”

  And this offends him.

  “You mean like one of your contingent fees. You win, you take fifty percent of everything.”

  “We don’t get fifty percent,” he says.

  “We can split hairs later. Cut to the chase,” I tell him.

  “But this does trouble me,” he says. “We’re talking a significant judicial appointment here. There should be no quid pro quo. You know that.” What he’s talking about is bribery. I suspect Proffit would know all about that. For all I know, he holds an advanced degree from Serna.

  “You haven’t told me what Grimes wants me to do yet. Who knows, maybe I’ve already done it.”

  “You haven’t,” he says. “Trust me.”

  That’ll be the day.

  “So why don’t you tell me? Then we’ll both know.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” He starts hemming and hawing.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll take you off the hook. Why don’t I just call Grimes at her office and she can tell me herself?”

  “No, no, there’s no need for that. I’ll tell you.”

  “Good. Now that we’re past all that.”

  “There’s a case, a federal matter. She’d like you to get involved. You do federal work in the criminal courts, don’t you?”

  “On occasion.”

  “The trial on this is actually over,” he says. “First she said it was an appeal. Then she said something about negotiations. I’m not sure of the actual details. And I’m not sure I want to know.”

  His nose is growing at the other end. If he keeps going on like this it’ll be poking me in the ear any second.

  “She said she was sure you’d be interested.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It seems this man is incarcerated at a Supermax near Florence in Colorado. His name is Rubin Betz. At the moment, according to the senator, Mr. Betz has no legal representation. She would like you to represent him.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “All she said was that she had reason to believe you were dying to talk to him. Her words exactly,” says Proffit.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s everything. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “You should think very carefully about all of this. Especially this thing in Florence.

  “I got to thinking,” said Proffit.

  Yeah, that’s always dangerous.

  “I remembered our conversation over drinks in Georgetown that night. Do you remember?”

  “How could I forget? You had me followed to Graves’s office.”

  “Yeah. Terrible what happened to him,” he says. “How’d it occur, anyway? Do you know?”

  “Why don’t you get to the point? Our conversation in Georgetown?”

  “As I recall, you mentioned that Serna had a relationship with a man some years ago. Unless I misunderstood, you said the man’s name was Rubin Betz.”

  Serna was not the only one with a titanium memory. But then the fact that Serna had bedded a man at some point in her life seemed to come as a real shock to Proffit. How could he have missed that boulder when he was furiously turning over every pebble in her past?

  “I thought to myself, now that is a real coincidence,” he says. “It is indeed a small world. I mean, Ives smashes into Olinda way out in California. You talk to Graves and the very next day he gets hit by a train. And now this.”

  And unless he’s just being discreet, Proffit doesn’t know the half of it.

  “As you say, a small world.”

  “I really don’t want to get you into any trouble,” he says. “If you like, I can call Grimes back and tell her you can’t take the case.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, don’t you see it?” he says.

  “See what?”

  “Conflict of interest, of course. You represent Ives. Ives is involved in Serna’s death. Serna had a relationship with this man, Betz. Plain as the nose on your face,” he says. “You can’t represent both of them.”

  “You’re assuming their interests are adverse.”

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  “You know, Mr. Proffit, for a man who’s supposed to be at the top of his game, the managing partner of one of the biggest international law firms in the country, you don’t seem to have a very good handle on what’s going on in your own offices.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you don’t know I can’t tell you.”

  There is nothing but silence on the other end of the line.

  “Are you there? Hello?”

  “I’m still here,” he says.

  I give him a few seconds of silence to mull it over. Finally he can’t stand it anymore. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Not my job. Let’s just say you should have kept a closer rein on her.”

  “On who?”

  “No. I’m not playing that game anymore. I don’t want to mention her name because I wouldn’t want to disparage the dead. Besides, you never know who�
�s listening in.”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t been watching the news lately. Tell you what. Why don’t you let me worry about any conflict of interest. Call Grimes. Tell her I’m interested in talking to Betz. Ask her if she knows how I can make contact in order to set up arrangements to see him in Florence.”

  My guess is she’ll pick up the phone and call the director at the Bureau of Prisons. They’ll probably pick me up in a government jet and whisk me out there in hopes that I can clean up their mess.

  “Oh, and so that there’s no misunderstanding in terms of communication, I will confirm all of this in writing to Grimes’s office.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.

  “Well, that’s the point. You’re not me.” And I hang up.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  They’ve shattered the vestiges of my idealism,” says Harry. “The thought that Washington and Wall Street are corrupted by rapacious schemers.” He’s planted himself on the sofa in my den next to the kitchen.

  “You’re saying I shouldn’t take the appointment?”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” he says. “Why don’t you call Proffit back, see if there’s something in it for me?” If Harry had a cigar he’d be puffing on it, holding it between his fingers and flexing his eyebrows.

  “OK, so we can both assume that the judicial thing is nothing but a distraction,” I tell him.

  “And if it isn’t, it should be,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, it’s not that I don’t think you’re capable.” Harry looks at me. Another puff on his mythical cigar. “Question is, how can they think we’re that stupid? I’m insulted,” he says.

  “They didn’t make you an offer,” I tell him.

  “Yes, but they know we’re associated. It’s a joint insult to our cumulative intelligence,” he says.

  “Yes, but look at it from their point of view. They needed a carrot to offer in order to offset the burden of representing Betz. You know, some plausible consideration to lure me to Supermax so they can probably stick a shiv in my back.”

  “You think that’s the plan?”

  “Not in so many words. Maybe not right there, but the ultimate objective, you bet.”

  “I’ve been wondering when they were gonna get around to that.”