We walked into the conference room to meet Woody and Ben, who weren’t there yet. I placed Diana’s laptop at the head of the table, and I sat at the other end.
“Don’t you want to sit next to me, Matt?”
“The last time I sat next to you at a meeting, you put your hand on my leg and kept rubbing it. Call me old fashioned, but I have a rough time conducting a meeting with a throbbing hard-on.” Diana laughed.
“We’ll take care of that tonight,” she said.
Ben and Wally walked in.
“Folks,” I said, beginning the meeting, “Diana, our diligent scholar over here, will share with us what she’s found so far on her late husband’s computer.”
“I expected to wade through a lot of files that didn’t make any sense to me,” Diana said, “but I was surprised by what I found, and a lot of it came back to me even though Jim died over four years ago. Jim, as you know was a talented writer and reporter. He was even a runner-up for a Pulitzer Prize for an article he wrote in the Wall Street Journal. I was his unofficial first-draft editor, and I remember his style well. He would always put notes to himself in all caps, as a reminder that he needed to follow up on something or do more research. What I’m about to show you was something he wrote a week before he died. It was in a file named ‘Chopsticks.’ Like a lot of writers, including me, he had codenames of files to help him remember. And this is very interesting. The first document in the ‘Chopsticks’ file is named, in all caps, ‘HOLY SHIT.’ When you open the document, the only text that appears is, ‘HOLY FUCKING SHIT!’ Jim had a bad case of word processing potty mouth.”
“Do you have any idea what Jim found so startling?” I asked.
“I distinctly remember Jim walking around for days saying to me, ‘Diana, you are not going to fucking believe this.’ Jim had an earthy way of talking as well as writing drafts. I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t fill me in on the details. As a journalist, Jim was diligent as hell. He wanted to get all of his facts together before he’d talk to anyone about an article, even his wife and editor. But I definitely remember him constantly telling me, with a bunch of expletives, that he was working on something mind-blowing.”
“After Jim’s death, Diana, did you think much about the article he was working on?” asked Bennie.
“I did for a while, but then I started to get wasted on booze and heroin every night, so the article just drifted into memory, a very cloudy memory. Oh, I should mention that after Jim’s death I became a world-class drunk as well as a drug addict. But I’m a good girl now.”
She looked at me and winked as she said that.
“Diana,” I said, “you just mentioned that you went through a rough time with alcohol and drugs. Do you have any substance abuse issues that you’d like our firm to know about?”
Diana and I had discussed this. She was emphatic that Ben and Woody should know about her past problems, and she agreed that this meeting would be a good time to bring them out.
“I have absolutely no substance abuse issues at all. I’ve shaken that monkey off my back. But I will admit that I have a strong craving for cioppino.”
She looked at me, smiled, and winked. Damn, I could feel a stirring below my belt.
“What’s cioppino?” said Bennie. “I’ve heard of it but I can’t recall what it’s like.”
“It’s wonderful stuff, Ben,” said Diana, “simply wonderful. I can’t even describe it.”
“Thank you, Diana, please go on,” I said as I reached for some ice water and pulled my chair closer under the table.
“I’ve printed the documents out in date order, to help us see how his research was progressing. The first document, after the HS file is large. It’s obviously a first draft of the article he was working on.”
“HS file?” said Woody.
“Yes, the ‘HOLY SHIT’ file.”
We all laughed.
“I’ll pass this draft around to you guys now. I think you’ll see some interesting stuff. I know I did, not that I’ve been able to figure much out yet.”
She read from the first page of the article, which was entitled, “Chopsticks One.”
“Notice the occasional use of all caps. As I said before, that was Jim’s way of telling himself that
he had to follow up on something. I do the same with my writing. Okay, here goes.”
***
“In an alarming breach with protocol, Angelo Jackson, Deputy White House Press Secretary, refused to answer any questions about the Deepwater Horizon oil spill disaster of 2010. THIS FUCKER’S LYING. CALL HIM. When pressed by a reporter from CBS on the rumor that the spill may have been a result of intentional sabotage, he would only repeat that the accident was still under investigation, and that the White House would have no comment. He referred all questions on the matter to Bart Clemmons, a spokesman for the Energy Department. CLEMMONS IS AN ABSOLUTE LYING FLAKE. When the CBS news reporter reminded Jackson that the Deepwater Horizon spill was years ago, he still refused to comment.”
“Hold on, Diana, please,” I said. “Does anybody in this room recall hearing anything about the Deepwater Horizon disaster being a suspected act of sabotage?”
“Impossible,” said Woody. “My brother-in-law was one of the lead investigators on the incident. He worked for British Petroleum. He would have said something to me. My wife and I used to see him all the time.”
“I’m not sure why I’m asking this, Woody, but would you be able to get your brother-in-law in here so we can talk to him?”
“No, Billy’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Woody. How did he die?”
“Car accident. Hit and run. He got sideswiped and was forced off the road.”
***
When I was in Iraq, I once felt the effects of a stun grenade. No shrapnel, just a loud blast and flash of light that sets off a shock wave that you feel in your guts. The immediate effect is dizziness and confusion. I felt like a stun grenade just went off in our conference room.
“Holy shit,” said Woody. He just realized what he had said about his brother-in-law.
“What was your brother-in-law’s full name, Woody?” said Diana.
“William Patton.”
Diana entered the search term into her laptop. She read the search result.
“In a bizarre twist to the story, William Patton, the lead investigator for British Petroleum, was killed in a hit-and-run car accident the night before he was to give a press conference. Earlier that day, Earl Montblanc, CEO of BP, announced that they would have something shocking to report to the public the next day. Montblanc also died the following morning. He was killed in a robbery.”
“Diana, why don’t you Google Angelo Jackson, the White House Deputy Press Secretary back then? Also Bart Clemmons, the Energy Department spokesman.”
“Oh my God,” said Diana. “Angelo Jackson was killed in a hunting accident and Bart Clemmons died in a house fire—within a week of each other, and also within a week of Jim’s death.”
“The bodies are stacking up like firewood,” said Woody. “Somebody wants to keep something quiet. We just don’t know who that somebody is, or how many of them there are. Diana’s late husband was on to something. Too bad it got the poor guy killed.”
“Does anybody in this room have any lingering doubts about Woody’s theory that Jim Spellman was killed intentionally?” I said.
“Let’s take a short break,” suggested Bennie.
Diana was crying. As the evidence mounted that Jim Spellman was murdered, so did its emotional toll on her. I walked over and put my arms around her.
“I know this is painful for you, babe. I’m sorry you have to go through this.”
“Matt, if somebody murdered Jim, and it sure as hell looks that way, I want to find out who it was. What does your guardian angel, Maggie, think?”
“She thinks you’re a tough lady, hon. And she wants you to find out who did it. And she wants me to find out who did it. Just remember, I’m here for
you.”
“And I’m here for you, Matt. Have I told you how much I love you today?”
She put her face against my chest and continued to cry gently.
***
I decided that the Spellman case had grown too important not to let my father and Bill Randolph in on our latest findings. Although they were both busy, they came into the conference room immediately.
The four of us brought them up to the minute on our findings, including the mounting body count.
“So if I’m hearing this correctly,” said Bill Randolph, “Diana’s late husband was on a trail of evidence that the Deepwater Horizon disaster may have been sabotage, maybe even a terrorist act. I think this matter has outgrown Blake & Randolph. We need to go to the government.”
“I have a concern about that, Bill,” I said. “We don’t know where all this is heading. It could lead to the White House for all we know.”
“May I make a suggestion,” said Bennie. “A good friend of mine is the head of the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force. His name is Rick Bellamy, and he’s one of the smartest agents I’ve ever met. I’ve worked with him on some major cases, and I’d trust him with anything.”
“I think Bennie has a perfect idea,” my father said. “Because Bennie knows him, he’ll take us seriously, although after what you folks have just told us, I think any FBI guy would have his antenna up. What’s the protocol, Ben? Do we invite him here or do we go to see him?”
“We definitely should visit him in New York,” said Bennie. “I suggest a small delegation, like Matt and I. Maybe Diana as well, if she can get off from the university for a couple of days.”
The Spellman case was no longer just a personal injury matter.
Chapter 36
I rang Dee’s doorbell at 6:30. I wasn’t wearing grease in my hair.
I recently started calling Diana “Dee,” and she said she loved it.
She threw her arms around my neck and we kissed. I had brought some more clothing and toiletries. Just in case.
“So, hon, did you sit down with my dad to talk about a settlement after our big meeting?”
“Yes, your dad is charming, just like his son. He talked about upping the demand and settling the Spellman case as soon as possible, as long as I agree, of course.”
“And what did you tell him, Dee?”
“I told him that I’d agree to settle the case as soon as I was confident that law enforcement was on top of the criminal matter and not a moment before. I want to find the pricks who killed Jim, and to do that there has to be a case, either civil or criminal. I have a feeling that after we meet the FBI guy in New York, the Spellman case will be in good hands. Do you agree?”
“Yes, and I already told my father that you would have that reaction. But I have something else to talk to you about.”
“Shoot, hon.”
“I want to talk to you about a condition precedent.”
“A what, who?”
“Technically it’s called a condition precedent subject to a condition subsequent.”
“Have you decided to abandon the English language? Talk to me, my favorite lawyer-boy, without obfuscation if you don’t mind.”
“I want to propose something, but it has to be conditional on the Spellman case coming to a close. I don’t want any ethical issues at all to float around you and me.”
“What, exactly do you propose?”
“I want to propose marriage. I want to ask you to be my wife. I want to ask you to spend the rest of your life with me.”
“I was about to shout yes, but then you put in all the ‘I want’ stuff. Do you want to propose, or do you propose? In other words, if you pardon my layperson legalese, why the fuck do we have to wait for the case to end? What’ll it be, hon?”
“Well, I think it may be ethically inappropriate for a man to marry a client whose case he’s working on, and from which he can expect to make money.”
“Bullshit, in plain English. I know lots of people who are represented by their lawyer spouses. I don’t know where you got this idea from.”
“Well, maybe I’m confused. I’ve been so sensitive about representing you since we, well, since we fell in love. I want everything to be perfect for us.”
“I’m going to straighten this out now,” She said.
“Who are you calling?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Hi, Jim? It’s Diana Spellman. I hate to bother you at home, but you said I could always call you. So I want to pose a hypothetical question. Suppose a lawyer is representing a woman on a personal injury case, and they want to get married. Does the case get in the way ethically?”
The person on the other end was talking. Holy shit, I thought, it’s my father.
“Really, I didn’t think so. No, no, this is just hypothetical, but in answer to your question, you’ll be the first to know.”
She hung up the phone and smiled at me.
“That was a friend who’s a former federal judge and is now a personal injury lawyer. I understand he also taught a legal ethics class at Northwestern Law School. He has a smart, handsome son who can be a knucklehead at times. He says there is absolutely no problem with an attorney representing his spouse. And he wants to know as soon as his advice has been acted upon. So in answer to your convoluted condition precedent bullshit, I have a question—Do you want to propose or do you propose?”
“I propose. Marry me, Dee. Do you accept?”
“Absolutely! I absolutely accept your proposal. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
We hugged as if we were afraid to let go. We just passed a threshold—a marriage proposal, an accepted marriage proposal.
“Now let’s seal the deal with a kiss and then I’ll turn the heat up under the cioppino,” Dee said.
Chapter 37
Dee and I met Bennie at O’Hare Airport for our flight to New York. Bennie had already checked in and was waiting for us in the passenger lounge.
“Bennie, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
Bennie looked around. “Who?”
“My fiancée, Diana Spellman, the future wife of Matt Blake.”
“Holy shit,” said Bennie, as he spilled his Pepsi all over himself. He got up and gave Diana a huge bear-hug, and did the same for me. A smart psychiatrist knows that emotions are best not kept inside, so he cried.
“I love you guys, two of my favorite people. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
***
We walked into 26 Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan, the site of New York’s FBI headquarters. I remembered that the entrance was the scene of one of the horrific explosions on that terrible day of 10/15. After we passed through the clanging, ringing, flashing, buzzing bullshit of all the security devices, we were escorted into the office of Rick Bellamy, head of the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force. Rick was a tall, handsome man, maybe in his early 40s or so. He looked like he knew how to fake a relaxed demeanor, a good talent for a stress-crazy job like his.
“Pleasure to meet you folks. Bennie has told me a lot about you.”
“And I just found out that Matt and Diana are getting married,” said Bennie, looking every bit like a proud uncle.
“Congratulations. I hope your marriage will be as happy and fulfilling as mine,” Bellamy said.
“So, let’s talk about the amazing Spellman case. I guess when you folks started this lawsuit you thought it would be a routine personal injury matter, not that there’s anything routine about losing a loved one. From what Bennie has told me, you’ve concluded that this is not a case of negligence, but an intentional act, murder to be specific. I’ve read up on your firm, and you’re one tough bunch of hombres, and also smart as hell. Matt, you don’t mind if we call each other by our first names? Please fill me in on where you people are in the matter.”
I reviewed the case to date with Bellamy. I gave him the names of the dead from Jim Spellman’s computer.
“Here’s the bottom line, Ric
k. We’re convinced that Diana’s late husband was murdered. When we found out that other people involved in the Deepwater Horizon disaster were killed, it removed any doubt. We also realized that it was time to share our findings with the government.”
“I’m sure you understand that there are things I’m not free to talk about,” Bellamy said, “but I consider you folks on my team, and I’ll tell you what I can. Your late husband, Diana, was a hell of a journalist. From what Matt just told me, he was way ahead of us with his suspicions. Let me get to the point. Yes, those deaths were murders, and yes, the Deepwater Horizon disaster was not an accident. Not only was it intentional, it was an act of terror. Al-Qaeda is our main suspect. Well, not a suspect, we friggin know it was them. I read the preliminary briefing memo you sent me, Matt, and I thank you for that. That detective you have at your firm, what’s his name—Woody Donovan—is a hell of a guy. I have a job for him if he ever gets tired of Chicago winters. The key piece of evidence he uncovered was the fact that Harold Morgan was an expert stunt car driver. We have evidence that he was involved in at least five murders involving his vehicle. Matt, you said that Angelo Jackson was killed in a hunting accident, according to Jim Spellman’s notes. Here’s the rest of the story: His car crashed into a hunting lodge after it was driven off the road. Folks, this is one of the largest conspiracies I’ve ever worked on.”
“Pardon me if I’m asking something that’s none of my business, Rick, but what is the link to terrorism?”
“Mainly financial and economic at this point, Matt. After the Deepwater event, the oil industry took a big hit as a result of drilling moratoriums. Al-Qaeda has a ton of money, and a lot of it comes from oil. When the price goes up, the assets of al-Qaeda swell. They’re looking to hit all aspects of Western economies. Recently we uncovered a plot to bomb five shopping centers, a disaster that could have killed as many as 75,000 people. My wife was the lead architect on those buildings, and she was kidnapped and almost killed because of her involvement. And I don’t have to remind you of all the shit that’s hit the fan since 10/15. Train bombings, building attacks, cruise ship sinkings, and of course, the granddaddy of all terror attacks, the Super Bowl. They want to kill in large numbers, and small, such as Diana’s late husband. Diana, I can’t tell you how important it is that you’ve come forward with the backup of Jim Spellman’s hard drive. I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you for a copy.”
Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series Page 11