Counterplay

by Richard Aaron

  “He can’t do that. We are constitutionally independent,” replied Judge Mordecai.

  “Yes, we are. I told the minister of justice that if he phones my office once more, I’m going to the press.”

  “You, the chief justice, going to the press?”

  “Damn right. You are running a complex trial, which has landed square into the realm of international conspiracy theories. You’ve gone completely viral on the internet. I think billions of people are going to see that clip where the sheriffs dragged Mr. Alexander away. But we are completely independent of the politicians. We are not going to bend with whatever political wind blows our way. We will do our jobs, Shawn. We measure and weigh the evidence. We instruct juries. We ignore politicians, even if they show up in our courtrooms. You can expect someone to bring a motion to spring him, and then that’ll go to the Court of Appeal. Maybe even to the Supreme Court of Canada. Get ready for some stormy waters, Shawn. I have a feeling that this is a long way from being done.”

  “Yeah, Allan, I’m ready for whatever weather comes my way. I’ve got a ringside seat on a total circus, and, quite frankly, Chief, it’s a blast.”

  48

  “Riotous bedlam” was too gentle a phrase to describe the scene outside Courtroom 401 the following morning. There were hundreds of spectators jostling and pushing one another before the courtroom opened. The plan was to pump the video feed into two large courtrooms that weren’t being used that day to accommodate the overflow crowd. A satellite village had been erected over the course of the night. News agencies from around the world caught on to the significance of what was transpiring in the trial of Leon Lestage. There was hilarity in abundance, as the behavior of the director of TTIC was pure vaudeville. Late-night television hosts indeed had a field day with it. Strip the humor away, however, and there were serious questions about who committed the Colorado attack. Who was Yousseff? What went on with the Colorado inquiry? Was America in bed with terrorists? If so, why?

  Ten o’clock came, and, as had become a hallmark in the Lestage trial, proceedings were anything but ordinary. Turbee, at the behest of the sheriffs, took his seat in the witness box. Dana was ready with a few final questions and Sheff was coiled like a snake, waiting to strike. As Judge Mordecai nodded to Dana to begin, the double doors at the rear of the courtroom opened and in walked two senior partners from Inverness McPhail International— two senior partners of the powerful law firm, in one court, at the same time. Both were dressed in $10,000 Savile Row suits and $1,000 Italian shoes. As was his custom, His Lordship completely ignored them and repeated his instruction to Dana, a little louder. “Carry on, Ms. Wittenberg.”

  “Mr. Turbee, yesterday, before all the interruptions, you were explaining to the jury how email works, and I believe before we stopped, you were explaining to the jury how you checked the various servers through which the emails allegedly passed. Can you explain how you did that, and what your conclusions were?”

  Turbee had had a dreadful night. He had hardly slept. George put them all up in one large suite in the Wall Centre with Richard in one neighboring room and Zak and Kumar in the other. As soon as Turbee felt nourishing sleep roll over him, his mind would return to another image of death in the Colorado attack. Demonic appearances of Dan Alexander haunted him as soon as he closed his eyes. Sometimes he’d imagine himself alone in Gitmo, or in the Denver Supermax. He had been there on the internet, and the thought of scorpions on the loose was in itself enough to get him to a thoroughly agitated state. The dark circles under his eyes were growing darker and his eyes appeared to have receded in their sockets. He talked softer than normal. The judge had to ask him repeatedly to speak into the microphone.

  “Yes, of course. I was able to search the hard drives that were given to me, and review the email logs.” He cast furtive glances in the direction of McPhail and the other lawyer, standing between the counsel table and the witness box. “What was the question again?”

  Dana repeated the question, urging him to explain how he’d concluded that the emails entered into evidence were fake.

  Turbee cleared his throat and tried again. “I used special searching software, and the email messages that Mr. Lestage apparently had sent and received were not in any of the series of servers that were involved in the mail delivery. After conducting these searches, I found no record of those emails being sent or received. They are fake emails that were never sent or delivered to anyone.”

  “And can we go back to—”

  “Excuse me, m’lord.” McPhail had grown tired of waiting and had no appetite for a repeat of his last experience in front of Judge Mordecai.

  Dana respectfully stopped speaking. Turbee fell silent and began inspecting his fingernails.

  “Ms. Wittenberg, please carry on with this witness.” Judge Mordecai was fed up with interruptions.

  “Did you compare the emails found on Mr. Lestage’s computers to the other emails produced in this case?”

  “Yes. We go back to the emails themselves. I compared them, and their properties, to the emails on the computers that belonged to the members of the Los Angeles terrorist cell. The nature of those emails was identical. The properties were identical. It is my opinion that the emails placed on the Los Angeles computers were similar in their properties and metadata to the emails placed on Mr. Lestage’s computers.”

  “And what—”

  Dana was cut off again by McPhail. “Excuse me, m’lord, there is an international crisis brewing, the United States is in the thick of it, and you have placed the director of an American intelligence agency in cells so that at some undetermined time in the future, Ms. Wittenberg can call him as a witness on some irrelevancy or other. This is an outrage, and has sparked an international row between Canada and the US. Both our prime minister and the American president have demanded the release of Mr. Alexander and Mr. Turbee. We demand to be heard now.”

  “We will wait for this witness to be done, then you can make whatever fool point you want to make. How much longer will you be in chief, Ms. Wittenberg?”

  “I am winding down. Fifteen minutes.”

  “And in cross, Mr. McSheffrey?”

  “The rest of the day.”

  “Very good. McPhail, you can make whatever stupid motion you want to make at four o’clock today.”

  “This is an outrageous ruling, m’lord. This man needs to be at the Pentagon now.”

  “Well, I am sure the Pentagon can wait a few more hours. I doubt that the world will end between now and four o’clock.”

  “That is not acceptable, my lord. Here is a writ of habeas corpus demanding the release of Mr. Alexander now. You will note that one of the affidavits in support is sworn by the president of the United States. This must be done now.”

  “The president, you say—”

  “If I disagree with what the president says in his affidavit, can I move to cross-examine him?” asked Dana.

  “You see that, McSheffrey? She’s learning,” said the judge with a grin.

  “M’lord, this has become an international embarrassment,” said McPhail.

  “Probably it is, Mr. McPhail. The question is who caused this. I don’t see Ms. Wittenberg threatening GUB bombs, or whatever Mr. Alexander was blathering about yesterday. I don’t see our sheriffs intimidating witnesses. I don’t see Ms. Wittenberg or Mr. McSheffrey answering cell phone calls in the middle of this trial. This matter will be dealt with at 4 p.m. today. Neither the president of the United States, nor the Pentagon, nor the director of TTIC, nor our prime minister have any right to come into my courtroom, in the middle of a difficult jury trial, and demand to be heard immediately. That’s not going to happen. You do understand the concept of constitutional separation of powers, don’t you? I mean, you have about 3,000 lawyers working for you, and I’m sure that the president has several thousand working in his Justice Department. I am sure one of them can figure that out.”

  McPhail ignored the barb. “M’lord, nuclear missiles could w
ell be flying before 4 p.m. There is no reason for you not to stand this witness down now and hear the habeas corpus application for the release of Mr. Alexander.”

  “You seem to have some difficulty in grasping my orders,” Judge Mordecai said. “That I find surprising since the collective rates of the two of you has to be three or four thousand dollars an hour. For that amount of money, you must surely be able to grasp the legal nuances of ‘Be here at four’? Am I correct, or am I assuming too much?”

  “There is no need for that, m’lord. We will leave the application, the affidavits, and four volumes of case law for your consideration.”

  “That’s very kind of you, counsel. I’ll try to read it between questions and answers, breaks, lunchtimes, etcetera. Sure. I’ll read your fifty-pound pile of paper. Now get out of here. I have a trial to run.” He looked at Dana. “Carry on, Ms. Wittenberg. I doubt that these characters will apologize for intruding, but carry on.”

  Dana asked Turbee a few more questions about Lestage’s computers, which he answered with great clarity. Then came a few final bombs to toss. “You know that there was an inquiry into the Glen Canyon Dam explosion?”

  “Yes I knew that.”

  “Were you asked to testify at that inquiry about the emails found on the Los Angeles cell computers?”

  “No.”

  “Even though you examined those computers?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did anyone testify about those emails?”

  “Yes. Two FBI agents did, but they simply read the emails into the record. There was no evidence given by anyone that those emails might not have been legitimate.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “That you will need to ask Mr. Alexander. He is the director of TTIC.”

  “Why him?”

  Turbee paused for a moment, magnifying the impact of his answer. “He testified at length at the inquiry. He knew what happened in the Colorado attack. He knew Yousseff and Kumar were the key players.”

  “That’s all, my lord,” said Dana. “Those are my questions.”

  49

  Dana wrapped up her examination and sat down, feeling for the first time in the trial that things were starting to go her way.

  “Oh, that was easy,” Turbee said. With a big smile he stepped out of the witness box and headed toward George and Khasha, who were sitting near the top of the gallery.

  “Mr. Turbee,” Judge Mordecai said, his voice raised. “There may be a few more questions from this gentleman over here.” He pointed a finger at

  McSheffrey. “You’ve got to come back here.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I thought I was done,” Turbee said with contrition, walking back to the stand a little less joyously.

  McSheffrey stood up and gave Turbee the eye over. Turbee felt the power in those eyes. Sheff, fully gowned up in courtroom blacks, cut a fearful figure.

  “So, Turbee, tell us, how many different drugs are you on, right now?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what drugs I’m on. Khasha has the bags . . .”

  “You’re so stoned that you don’t know what drugs you’ve taken today?”

  “I . . . I, I mean, I . . .”

  “Why don’t we just bring Khasha and the drug bag up here so we can all have a look?” He turned around and motioned to Khasha to come forward. He took the bag and started to rummage through it. “What’s this one, Ativan?”

  “It helps me deal with anxiety. It doesn’t seem to be working right now. Can you pass me one?”

  “Sure, Turbee. Here you go. Don’t knock over your water glass now.” The jury did not chuckle.

  “And this one, Clonazepam, what does it do?”

  “Helps me sleep at night. It hasn’t been working that well lately, either.” “And these. Concerta?”

  “It’s a time-release form of Ritalin. It helps me to stay focused and together. Without it, I can’t organize my thoughts, no matter how hard I try.”

  “I guess that’s not working so well, either, these days?”

  “Not really, sir. I do not feel very together right now.”

  “Do you want to take one of those, too? Might help with your testimony a bit?”

  “Sure, Mr. McSheffrey. Thanks.” He reached for one and downed it with another splash of water.

  “And these two? Paxil and Effexor?”

  “They’re both antidepressants . . .”

  The first half hour of cross-examination consisted of extracting detailed information about Turbee’s medications. It was obvious what Sheff had in mind for closing arguments. He moved on, eventually, but to even more uncomfortable ground.

  “Do you know a Washington lawyer by the name of Dan Alexander?”

  “Yes. He is the director of TTIC.”

  “You don’t like Mr. Alexander, do you?”

  “No. He has been very mean.”

  “But you work for TTIC and he runs that agency, does he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s your boss and he can tell you what to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you and your friend George decided one day to get rid of him for a while, right?” Turbee did not answer. “Right, Mr. Turbee?” Very softly Turbee said he did.

  “And why don’t you tell the jury how you did that.”

  “He had been humiliating me. He called me retarded. He called me stupid. All the time—”

  “Mr. Turbee, I didn’t ask what you think he did, or what paranoia you might be harboring. I am asking you how you and George got rid of Dan Alexander for a while.”

  “Okay. But he was really wrecking TTIC and he was threatening to shut it down. And he imprisoned Admiral Jackson. And Liam Rhodes. And all he does is play golf and do stuff with women.”

  “No, Mr. Turbee. Please answer the question. Listen to me. What did you do?” Sheff’s eyes had turned cold and deadly. Turbee could only glance at them every now and then.

  “He left TTIC one day, he had been really awful. He had fired me at one point and—”

  “Mr. Turbee, answer the question.” Sheff was ordering him to answer. It was no longer a question.

  “Okay, okay okay okay. He left TTIC by cab. Before he reached the airport, I had found the seven credit cards he had with him and canceled them all. Then I accessed the no-fly list database and put his name in there. Then I got into the FBI’s most wanted list, and put him at the top, saying that he was wanted for terrorist activities.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “Apparently when Mr. Alexander reached the airport, there was a tremendous scene.” He could see a number of jurors nodding and smiling. Dan Alexander’s tantrum at Reagan National Airport had made headlines in a number of newspapers.

  “So this is the background to that story, is it?”

  “He resisted arrest. There was a bit of a fight. At the end of it, he was shipped to Guantanamo Bay. He stayed there for a few days.”

  Sheff asked a few more questions and moved on to something he found even more entertaining. “You have a criminal record, don’t you?” McSheffrey slowly went over every assault and every unlawful escape charge. The question led to Turbee’s ultimate incarceration at St. Elizabeth’s, a hospital near Washington, DC, that was reserved for the criminally insane. “That would mean,” McSheffrey asked, “that you were both a criminal and insane? Both of them together? At the same time?” He repeated the questions slowly, and had Turbee say “yes” to each one.

  “But, Mr. McSheffrey, I am not insane. I am not retarded. I am autistic. I have a hard time talking to people. This process is really, really tough for me.”

  “You don’t deny that you were in trouble with the law, and charged with assault, escaping custody, resisting arrest, assaulting police officers, a whole slew of things, right?”

  “Yes but—”

  McSheffrey didn’t give Turbee any room to explain further. He turned to some of Turbee’s more amazing hac
ks. He began with his invasion and takeover of America’s Milstar satellite system, his takeover of the drones, and his hacking into and use of three very complex satellites, the Orion System, and virtually any computer on the planet.

  “On the planet?”

  “Yes,” said Turbee. “And off the planet, too.”

  “How is that, Mr. Turbee?”

  “I hacked into the Mars Rover once,” Turbee replied, brightening up a little. “I had it write the words ‘To infinity and beyond’ in the sand on Mars.

  Then I had it sign it as Buzz Lightyear.”

  There were smiles from all the jurors.

  “You just hack into all of these systems when you want?”

  “Yes, but I never do anything destructive. I never shut down programs or make demands for money or put a million emails from some database or other onto Wikileaks. I never do those things. And most of the time, I do it at the direction of Liam Rhodes, the deputy director of TTIC.”

  “Who, by the way, is imprisoned right now for treason of some kind?” “Sort of, I think,” Turbee answered.

  “The fired deputy director of TTIC, that Liam Rhodes?”

  “Yes. And most of the time, when I do that, I’m working to solve a case. We have blocked many terrorist attempts because of this.”

  “Most of the time? Does that mean that some of the time, you do it for, for fun?”

  “Yes, I do. But I never hurt anyone, or steal anything, or wreck anything.”

  McSheffrey played around with the concept of unauthorized access to any system for an hour or so. Then he switched track. He attacked Turbee’s view of the Colorado terrorist attack inquiry and brought up the fact that Turbee had, through websites, created the “conspiracy theory” version of the Glen Canyon Dam attack. This point of view, McSheffrey noted, was contrary to the inquiry’s findings, but, in spite of warnings, Turbee kept the conspiracy theory alive.

  And that was it. Sheff didn’t bother to attack anything that Turbee had said about Lestage’s computers or the phony emails. Not one question was devoted to that. He was using a stunt that any trial lawyer employs from time to time. If you can’t attack the case, attack the person. If you can’t destroy the evidence, destroy the witness.