Sheff was on his feet, but before he could say, “Objection,” His Lordship was on it. “Wittenberg, what kind of stupid question is that? That calls for hearsay, speculation, and agencies do not have ‘concerns.’ People have concerns. And I’m not even going to talk about relevance. Move on.”
Dana tried once more. “Corporal Gray, as a result of conversations that you had with TTIC individuals, did you form the impression that the emails found on the perpetrators’ computers could possibly have been planted there?”
Sheff was on his feet again, but before anyone could say anything the corporal said, “Possibly.”
“Move to strike,” said Sheff. “Irrelevant, based on hearsay, and I don’t know how many other reasons.”
“But, but m’lord, yesterday you said that hearsay could be, could—” “Totally different, Judge,” said McSheffrey. “The question is improper. And this TTIC thing is getting stale.”
“Yes,” said Judge Mordecai. “It kind of sounds like you’re up to your eyebrows in conspiracy theories now. Did aliens build the pyramids? Did the CIA destroy the Twin Towers? This is a courtroom. A Canadian courtroom. Not the National Enquirer. The jury will disregard that last answer. And that last question.”
The seed, however, had been planted, and Wittenberg did not need her computer to ask the next question. “You know that a substantial portion of this case is based on emails found on Lestage’s various computers?”
“Yes.”
“And did you have some doubts about the reliability of that evidence?”
Again Sheff was on his feet, but again, before he could object, Corporal Gray answered in the affirmative.
“M’lord,” began Sheff with vexation. “There is no foundation for that question and answer. The corporal does not have the expertise to answer such a question, so again, this is based on hearsay. And she is giving an opinion, which is not permitted unless she is qualified as an expert.”
“Anything to say, Ms. Wittenberg?”
“Umm, she can testify as to umm, her, you know, her state of mind. If she’s not sure about the emails how can the jury be?” Not bad for an answer drawn out of the air, in the midst of a sea of panic, or at least Dana thought so.
“That’s just nonsense. These are emails from various people in different organizations. None of them are sent to her or by her. If the other emails are an issue, we’ll hear from experts. The jury will disregard the last answer.”
“But m’lord,” Dana protested, “there is no computer expert on the prosecution witness list.”
“Maybe they don’t need one. Maybe this issue is a figment of your imagination. Are the hard drives available, Mr. McSheffrey?”
“Sure. If she wants them, all she needs to do is ask.”
“I’m asking,” replied Dana. “People at TTIC felt that—”
“Objection, objection, m’lord. She’s trying to plant this TTIC conspiracy nonsense in the jury’s mind, when it’s clearly based on hearsay and irrelevancy. And speculation. Defense counsel is way off track here.”
“Do you have any evidence that the computers have been fiddled with?” asked the judge.
Dana thought for a minute and decided she had nothing left to lose by sticking her neck out a little further. She was going to go to med school anyway. “The defense does not need to disclose that. The prosecution has to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. I don’t need to disclose my evidence.”
“Okay,” muttered Judge Mordecai. “But if you’re stringing us all along here with some half-baked conspiracy theory with no evidence, things are going to end badly for you. Understand?” “Yes, sir,” Dana said.
At that point, one of the sheriffs tapped Dana on her shoulder and passed her a note.
“Who’s this from?” she asked quietly.
“The old guy in the wheelchair,” said the sheriff, pointing to an ancient gentleman with impressively bushy eyebrows, a sharp nose, and intense eyes.
Dana shrugged and asked the question. “Were there communications between TTIC and the RCMP about my client’s involvement in the attack?” “Yes there were,” answered the corporal.
“Emails, texts, things like that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Dana. “I move to strike the indictments.”
“Aww, Jesus Christ,” said the judge, throwing his pen into the air. “Did you get your legal education by watching American lawyer shows on TV? Or did you have to send 200 Wheaties box tops to some online law school?”
“No, my lord. There must be communications between TTIC and the RCMP dealing with my client’s involvement in the conspiracy, and I don’t have them.”
“I see. A point. You actually made a point, Wittenberg. What about that Mr. McSheffrey? Why have you not given those documents to Ms. Wittenberg?”
“We didn’t know that such documentation existed. My learned friend seems to be flirting with conspiracy theories here. Next thing you know, she’s going to ask about the second gunman behind the grassy knoll.” Dana bristled at the comment; everyone knew the phrase “learned friend” was Canadian lawyer code for “loon.”
“Maybe,” replied Judge Mordecai. “But you go to whoever at the RCMP is giving you instructions and get them to produce those documents. Got it? And get those documents to your colleague over there,” he added, motioning to Dana.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“I note the time,” muttered the judge, who couldn’t wait to get out of this nuthouse of a courtroom and back to his chambers where he kept a few bottles of rare, very expensive single malt Scotches. It was time for a couple of doubles.
As Dana was packing up her computers, she heard a rasping voice behind her. It was the old man in the wheelchair. “I’m Lee Penn-Garrett,” he said in a very soft voice. “You and I need to have a little chat.”
It was then that Dana recognized the man. Lee Penn-Garrett. The Sage of Smithe Street. He had spent fifty years in the courts as a lawyer, a trial judge, and an appellate judge. After he was forced to retire at age eighty-two, he simply hung around the courtrooms to watch. He couldn’t let it go.
“Sure. Cup of coffee in the cafeteria?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s fine. Let’s go there now. You push.”
McSheffrey and Archambault saw them leave together. “That’s trouble, Sheff,” said Archambault. “We don’t need to have that old fart elbowing his way into the trial.”
“No we don’t,” replied McSheffrey. “No we don’t.”
16
An hour after Liam’s arrest, the highly connected Daniel Alexander hailed a cab. “Ronald Reagan National Airport,” he said. “Private terminal.”
He relaxed in the anonymous comfort of the back seat of the taxi, pulled out his cell phone, and placed a call to his chief pilot. He wanted his new Challenger 605, more beautiful and more expensive than a fancy new Gulfstream, idling on the runway when he arrived. The number was his speed dial 01; the most important number he had was the number that placed him in his own totally controlled universe. Immersed in his thoughts, he realized he’d had the telephone to his ear for a good minute and nothing was happening. Momentarily confused, he dialed the number again. Speed dial 01. Again, no circuits connected and no pilots answered. Annoyed, he looked at the phone. He looked at the small five-inch screen only to see the message Cellular serviCe disConneCted scroll across. Furious, he punched the number a third time, and, on a fourth try, punched in the full ten-digit code. Same result.
He had mentally fired half his staff before he tapped the cab driver on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy, my cell phone is malfunctioning. Could I borrow yours for a second?” The cabbie looked disapprovingly in the mirror and was slow to respond until Dan advised him that there would be a significant, profound tip in it for him if he could use the phone.
Once the functioning phone had been produced, he punched in the number and, on the first ring, reached his chief pilot. “Cliff, it’s Dan here. Get the Challenger ready. I’m fiftee
n minutes away.” Cliff responded in the affirmative and Dan gave the cell phone back to the cabbie. He did not know how to say “please” or “thank you.”
The cab came to a stop in front of the terminal and Dan gave the cabbie his American Express card. The cabbie slid the card through the electronic reader; a few seconds ticked by as the number was verified. The card reader emitted a sharp buzz and for the second time that day, an electronic device dissed Dan. Charge Card CanCelled was the message. The cabbie looked sharply at Dan. “It’s forty-two bucks, plus a significant, profound tip, as you may recall.”
Dan’s mood turned blacker. A full three-quarters of his personal staff was fired at that point. “I don’t know what the deal is,” he said with an uncharacteristic meekness. “That card has a $100,000 spending limit. I charter planes on it. Something’s got to be really screwed up someplace. Here, here’s my Visa.”
“Charter planes, huh? Sure, buddy. Mine does, too,” the cabbie said not realizing Dan was now homicidal with rage. He slid the Visa through the reader. Unbelievably, it too, was declined. The cabbie was looking more skeptically at Dan. He’d seen the type before. Dressed in fancy threads, with a thousand-dollar computer carrying case and wearing a million-dollar tan.
All talk, no walk.
“Okay, asshole,” said the cabbie, not realizing that people had been destroyed for saying less. “Forget the significant, profound tip. Just pay me the forty-two bucks and get the fuck out of my cab.”
“Look, you don’t know who I am,” Dan said. There’s got to be a mixup someplace. Here. Try this one. It’s a Mastercard with no limit.” He was becoming unsure of himself as he passed another piece of plastic through the opening.
“Thanks, buddy. You don’t know who I am, either, but I have a wife and four teenage kids, and I’m working eighteen hours a day to make ends meet. This one had better work.” He slid the card through the reader and passed it to Dan to punch in his four-digit code. aCCount aCCess denied was the message that came up this time. Dan began to panic and gave the cabbie three more cards to try before his supply was exhausted.
“Well, asshole, how much cash’ve you got?”
Dan ferreted through his wallet and was able to produce ten dollars, more or less. He dug another ten out of his computer case, and another three from various pockets.
“That’s it?” said the cabbie incredulously. “Twenty-three bucks? That’s fucking it?”
“I, I don’t know what to say, sir,” said Dan, not realizing it was the first time in his life that he’d called a cabbie by that name. “My pilots should be just inside there. They should have enough cash or plastic. I have no idea what’s going on here.”
“I have a fairly good idea what’s going on, asshole,” said the cabbie. “You leave me the twenty-three bucks. You leave the fancy computer case and whatever’s inside it. You leave your fancy overcoat. If you’re not back in five minutes, I leave with them.”
“Fine,” said Dan. “But I take the computer.”
“Must be because of the highly secret and vital-to-the-national-interest shit that’s on it,” said the cabbie.
Dan stormed out of the cab, at this point having mentally fired his entire staff, including his pilots. This was unspeakable. Heads were going to roll. He was a master of the universe, not one to hunt for nickels and dimes. He walked into the small but fancy terminal and saw one of his pilots on the other side of the security zone. “Cliff,” he yelled, but his pilot did not hear him. “Cliff!” Still no response. “Cliff. CLIFF!”
One of the security people came over, a guard whom Dan had seen on many occasions, as he used the private terminal at Reagan National often. A guard who knew Dan by name, and had, from time to time, said hello, but a man to whom Dan had never spoken, acknowledged, or so much as smiled at.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Alexander?” asked the guard suspiciously.
“I’ve lost my, umm, I’ve lost my wallet and can’t pay the cab fare,” Dan replied.
“Oh, can’t pay the cab fare?” said the guard, much too loudly for Dan’s comfort. Another bastard he would need to deal with, shortly. “And the name of your pilot?”
“Well, it would obviously be Cliff, now, wouldn’t it? Cliff. Cliff, umm, can’t recall his last name. I saw him right ahead there. Cliff.” That was Dan’s problem at this point. Servants, be they butlers, chauffeurs, or pilots, were servants. There to serve. He had never bothered to learn a thing about any of the dozens in his employ. You don’t make conversation with the lower echelons. Waste of time.
He heard the guard yell at the entrance to the secured area, “Cliff. Cliff, your guy is here, Mr. Alexander. Seems he can’t pay for the cab fare.” At this point, Dan was casting about for a weapon, but thought the better of it.
A moment later, a reprieve was at hand. Cliff came through the secured zone. “Problem Mr. Alexander, sir?”
“Yes, Cliff. I’ve lost my wallet and can’t pay the cab fare. Can you handle it?”
“Sure, Mr. Alexander. No problem at all.”
“Oh, and Cliff, my overcoat and computer bag are still in the cab. If you could retrieve those for me also?”
“Yes, Mr. Alexander. No problem, sir.”
“And don’t tip the asshole. Give him nineteen bucks.”
The pilot did as he was told and handed the cabbie a different American Express card, under the name Alexander Connecticut Property Holdings, one of the many vehicles through which Dan managed his inherited wealth. “Here you go, sir, this should do the trick,” Cliff said.
The cabbie ran the card through his card reader, but again a shrill buzz.
The error message this time was aCCount not reCognized. The cabbie’s disposition once again soured, and he was about to ask for the coat and computer bag. Cliff, however, was able to dig up nineteen dollars in small bills and change. With that, the cabbie peeled out of the traffic circle and headed back into the city, bent and determined to tell this particular Dan Alexander story to everyone he met in Washington, in his cab, and elsewhere for the next hundred years. Perhaps he would sell it to the gossip mags.
Cliff hurried back inside the terminal, wondering what his boss had been up to. However, another more disturbing scene was unfolding on the other side of the security area. Dan had already walked past the metal detector and other security equipment. Security personnel had stopped him and were scrutinizing him and his passport, which he kept with him wherever he went.
“What’s going on?” he snapped impatiently.
The two security guards looked again at him, his passport, and the small laptop in front of them. One of them reached for a phone as Cliff came back through security to join his boss.
“Problem, Mr. Alexander?” he asked.
“Now they’re fucking with my passport,” Dan snorted. “As though I haven’t been inconvenienced enough already.”
Two more security guards appeared from the tarmac side of the terminal. They joined the original two guards and surrounded Dan. One of them, in a smooth, easy motion, slipped a pair of handcuffs around Dan’s wrists.
“NOW what the fuck are you guys doing?” he said, voice elevated with impatience and anger. “Get these things off me now and let me get on my plane. What the fuck is going on?”
“Well, it would appear that two things are, sir,” said the head guard. “The less severe of the problems is that your name is on a no-fly list.”
“What the hell? No way! Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you? Remove these things now or there will be hell to pay!”
The well-heeled passengers sitting in the small terminal were now watching the process with interest. Most of them knew who Dan was, more from his appearance as a political commentator than anything else. This was becoming entertaining. A few started to take out cell phones and snap photos and videos of the scene. CNN would run with it.
“Well, that leads directly to the second problem,” said the lead guard. “We can’t remove the cuffs
because you are under arrest. It would appear you are a dangerous and wanted terrorist.”
“A what? WHAT? What the fuck are you saying?”
“Terrorist, Mr. Alexander. A terrorist. You will very shortly be getting on a plane. But it will be taking you to Guantanamo. Says so right here,” he said, lightly tapping the laptop in front of him. “Guantanamo Bay. The boys here will be taking you to a more secure detention area while you wait.”
“I am an advisor to the president,” raged Dan. “The president. Of the United States!”
“That would make you all the more dangerous, wouldn’t it? A terrorist having direct access to our president? No, Mr. Alexander, or whoever you are. We have you now.”
It was at that point that Daniel Alexander III, silver-spooned since birth, relying on armies of cabbies, pilots, guards, and servants to do his bidding, having the ear of the president and the secretary of defense, could not come to terms with this new gestalt, and delaminated.
“Screw this bullshit,” he snarled, kicking the security guards’ laptop. “Cliff, I’m done with this. Take me out of here.” Shaking off his surprised persecutors, he attempted to run toward the tarmac exit, beyond which his splendid $85 million plane was idling. If he could only make it onto the plane, his ultimate bastion of power and privacy, this mess could be sorted out. However, it was not to happen, and a few feet before he reached the doorway, he was gang tackled by all four security guards. One of them punched him in the jaw, another pepper-sprayed him, another tasered him, and the fourth slapped leg cuffs on him. That was the last that Washington would see of Daniel Alexander III for a while.
17
April 5, 1979
The five-year-old with bouncy blond tresses and a dirty pink smock tugged repeatedly at the creased dark trousers of the Wells Fargo security guard. “Come. Come with me.”
His coworker snorted. “Yo, Freddie. You’re picking ’em kind of young these days, aren’t you?”
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