by Tom Swyers
Nothing is private in jail. Everyone knows your face, your body, and your business. But at the same time, David had never felt so alone.
THIRTY-FOUR
Thanksgiving came and went. David worked all day in the jail kitchen, helping to make Thanksgiving dinner meals to occupy his mind and hands—and to keep the demons at bay. It was the longest day of his life. When it was finally over, he ate some turkey jerky from his commissary stash and pulled the covers over his head to sleep. Work, commissary food, visitors, and sleep were his lifelines.
On Friday morning, David found himself in the back seat of a US Marshal Service van on the way to the federal courthouse in Albany for the detention hearing. It was a media circus at the prisoner entrance. News crews and photographers jockeyed for space, shouting and shoving in an effort to get a shot of David as he entered the building. The US Marshals stood guard, rifles in hand, surveying the crowd. The nationwide death toll in the bombing spree was twenty-seven, with many more injured.
The door to the van opened, and David stood up in his canary-yellow county correctional jumpsuit and his orange sneakers. A guard had to help him step down from the vehicle. He shuffled in tiny steps so he didn’t trip over his leg-iron chain on his way up the ramp. His hands were cuffed in front of him in a parody of supplication. David thought he either looked guilty as hell or like a clown in search of a circus. So much for the presumption of innocence. Video rolled, and cameras clicked.
He made it a point not to look toward the media people, no matter what they shouted. No point in giving them a full face shot. Nope, they could settle for a stoic profile and a great shot of the green garbage bins that lined the barred entry.
Inside the building, David continued to shamble down the hallway toward the courtroom. During his slow progress, he saw a familiar rotund figure duck into the men’s room. It was his old boss, Dick Pottenger, senior partner at Baxter & Chadwick. Jim had mentioned in passing that David’s case was the only one on the docket that morning. Dick Pot’s presence confirmed David’s suspicions: Helmsley Oil was really his client, and Amber Remington reported to him.
Knowing Dick Pot as he did, David knew that Pottenger liked to think of himself as a shadow lurking in the background; he also knew that Pottenger required total control, which dictated that he stick close to the action. In this way, Pottenger and Donovan Kincaid, CEO of Helmsley, were cut from the same cloth. David imagined that’s why Dick Pot had been at Baxter & Chadwick’s Albany office, a few doors away, when David had visited Amber in the conference room a few weeks ago.
Now David suspected that Dick Pot would do everything he could to ensure he wouldn’t be set free. David imagined that glimpse would be the last he’d see of him this day. For the hearing this morning, David thought Pottenger probably had a paralegal or secretary in the gallery who would run straight to him with a report once he or she learned anything.
The doors to the courtroom swung open, and David stepped slowly past the pews in the gallery. The benches were jammed to the aisle with people. Jim told David that he didn’t know what to expect from the US Attorney with respect to the detention hearing, so he planned to bring in a few witnesses to testify on David’s behalf, just in case they were needed. A number of friends and players from the baseball league had written letters to the magistrate about David’s close connection to the community and how he was not perceived as a danger to his neighbors.
Ben Prior was there with his son, Mark. David hadn’t seen Ben since the day he’d met with him in his apartment downtown. Ben hadn’t visited David in jail, but then again, David didn’t have any visitors except for Christy, Annie, Jim, Julius Moore, and the pretrial services officer. David wondered if Ben would ditch him and get another lawyer to pursue his case. He couldn’t blame him for that. If David didn’t make bail, Ben would have no choice but to get a new lawyer. David couldn’t run a law practice from behind bars.
Pete McNeal was in the back of the galley, farthest from the aisle. He wasn’t there to testify on David’s behalf. He couldn’t, because David was a suspect in the Salar killing. Testifying on David’s behalf would conflict with his official duties as police chief. Jim had told David he thought that Pete was piggybacking on the FBI investigation. He’d told David that Pete was looking to go after David or someone else, depending on what the feds decided.
Jim also had told David that his slacks had come back from the State Police forensics lab with a match to Harold’s blood, but it was just a tiny speck. Jim said that the person who had pounded Harold’s head into the wall likely would have had more blood than that on him. David sat his yellow-clad butt down next to Jim in a square, leather-backed chair in front of an oak table.
David turned around to face Annie and Christy and managed to smile. They were sitting right behind him. Annie tried to smile back, but it didn’t reach all the way to her eyes; the rest of her face was awash in worry. Christy nodded to acknowledge his dad. His mien was icy, almost defiant of all that was going on in the courtroom.
Across the aisle sat Assistant US Attorney Niles Randolph. Jim said he was fresh from the University of Virginia School of Law and out to make a name for himself. He was slim, short, and boyishly handsome with blond hair. He wore a Brook Brothers wide-striped medium-blue suit with a white handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket. His suit almost matched the shade of blue of the courtroom carpet, and his maple-syrup-toned wingtips echoed the paneling on the walls. Put him on a GQ cover, and he’d look right at home, despite the fact that he was vertically challenged.
David glanced at the other faces in the crowd. Julius Moore was nowhere to be found. Just in case he needed it, Jim had brought along a tape and a transcript of the recording David had made of his meeting with Moore outside the offices of Baxter & Chadwick.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned. “The Honorable Shirley Buchanan presiding.”
Magistrate Shirley Buchanan entered the court from the rear in her flowing black robe accented with white lace around the neck opening. She was in her late forties with a short, brown, pixie haircut. Her makeup made her face nearly look tan under the cool-white fluorescent lights. She was a little taller than Niles Randolph but thinner, almost frail. She sat down and donned her reading glasses and instantly looked ten years older.
The clerk announced the case and asked both counsels to identify themselves for the record.
“Please be seated,” the judge said in a raspy voice, looking down at them from her perch.
“Good morning, Your Honor. For the government, Assistant US Attorney Niles Randolph.”
“Good Morning, Your Honor. I’m Jim Fletcher, attorney for the defendant.”
“Good morning to you both. Are we ready to proceed with the detention hearing?”
“Yes, the government is ready,” Randolph announced.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jim said. “Your Honor, before we begin, could I ask that Mr. Thompson’s hands be uncuffed? I mean, there are enough US Marshals in the courtroom.”
“I understand,” she said, “but it is within their discretion, and my understanding that he is to remain cuffed at this time.” She looked to a US Marshall who stood off to the side, and he nodded.
She continued, “I have read the pretrial services report and its recommendations. But it is my understanding that the government intends to argue that Mr. Thompson should be held without bail until such time as his case is tried. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Randolph said.
David’s heart sank as he slumped down in his chair. He couldn’t believe it. The thought of being in jail until trial sucked the life right out of him. That, in turn, made him angry. Bouts of depression followed by fits of rage. That was the new normal in David’s life. Now he knew how Ben Prior felt. He tapped Jim on the sleeve. Jim looked at his red eyes, smiled weakly, and then grasped David’s forearm for a second before turning his attention back to the proceedings.
The magistrate asked, “Is it just this one felo
ny charge? Are there any other indictments pending that the court is unaware of?”
“Yes, Your Honor. One charge at this time.”
“You may proceed then,” she said.
“If I may ask for the court’s indulgence for a second, I’ll need to assemble our witnesses.” Randolph turned toward the gallery. Julius Moore wasn’t there.
“All right, Mr. Randolph. Go ahead.”
Just then, the courtroom doors swung open with a bang. In marched the lead agent for the FBI, the man who had arrested David at the airport. Randolph spotted him. The lead agent strode up to the smaller man, hustled him toward the empty jury box, and began furiously whispering.
David touched Jim on the sleeve again. Jim looked at him with raised brows and shrugged.
“We’re waiting,” the magistrate finally said.
The lead agent turned his back and walked away, leaving Randolph looking toward the bench with his mouth hanging open.
“Mr. Randolph,” she said, “are you ready to proceed now?”
“Uh, Your Honor, the government wishes to follow the recommendations of the pretrial service officer’s report at this time.”
Murmurs spread in waves across the courtroom.
“Order,” the magistrate said, banging her gavel. “Order in the court.” Then she just stared down at Randolph and didn’t flinch. She shut her eyes for a second and then opened them, peering over her reading glasses. Randolph stood there, frozen like the bronze statues a block away in Tercentennial Park, looking up at her face. Then he dropped his head, looked down, and shuffled some papers on his table.
The magistrate looked at Jim. “Are you agreeable to the terms outlined in the pretrial services report?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Well, having read the letters on behalf of Mr. Thompson, I find that he is not a risk to the community, and I further find that he is not a flight risk, either. I’ve decided to follow the recommendations of pretrial services, and let the record show that both parties have agreed to those terms as well. Anything else, gentlemen?”
“No, Your Honor,” Jim and Randolph said simultaneously.
“Very well. Mr. Thompson needs to sign the conditions to the release before he leaves here. If there’s nothing else, this court stands in recess.”
David and the rest of the room stood up in unison. People talked among themselves in small groups. David turned around and saw Annie wearing a trembling smile, almost ready to burst into tears. He shuffled to her as fast as he could, raised his cuffed hands over her head, and then hugged her as best he could. When she broke his embrace and ducked back out from the circle of his restrained arms, he turned to his son. Christy patted him on the shoulder and smiled. Jim walked over to join them.
“Oh, David,” Annie said, “I’m so relieved.”
“You and me both, Annie,” David said. The idea that he was going to be set free made him tremble with anticipation.
“Can you come home with us?” Annie asked.
Jim shook his head. “Sorry, he needs to go back to jail first before he can go home.”
“Thank you, Jim,” Annie said. “Thank you so much for everything.”
“It’s a good start,” Jim said, “but we’ve got a tough row to hoe ahead of us.”
“Why did the government change its position?” Christy asked.
“I’m not sure,” David said, “but I’ll bet Julius Moore had a lot to do with it.”
Annie looked puzzled. “Isn’t that the man I met at school who said he knew you?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s an FBI agent who took a chance on me,” David replied.
Annie’s eyebrows shot up. Her expression begged for details.
“It’s okay,” David said to her. “I’ll explain it all to you when I get home. This is not the time or the place.”
Later that afternoon, in a haze of relief, David traced the same blue line out of jail that he had followed going in. A guard told him that the average prisoner stayed in the jail for forty-five days. David had been there just nine days, and throughout every minute of every one of those days, he’d hated himself for being there. Each day felt like he was living in a nightmare that rewound and played over and over again. He couldn’t imagine doing forty-five days. He was angry that the government had planned to keep him there all the way through trial. Outside at the malls, it might have been Black Friday, but it felt like Christmas morning to David.
When he hugged Desiree goodbye at the barred window where he claimed his possessions, she slipped him a card. It was from Julius Moore. He had left his personal cell-phone number for David and said to call him when the dust settled. It reinforced David’s belief that he had a champion inside the government. Thank God, someone had believed in him enough to offer a chance to redeem himself. He couldn’t ask for anything more.
As David walked out the same doors he entered just over a week ago, tears sprang to his eyes when he spotted Annie and Christy waiting for him outside.
THIRTY-FIVE
While the Thompsons couldn’t have Thanksgiving dinner together, they did enjoy Thanksgiving leftovers on Friday and Saturday after David’s release. Turkey soup, open-faced turkey sandwiches, turkey salad—anything and everything turkey. David usually got sick and tired of eating turkey by the weekend following Thanksgiving, but he swore he could eat it every day from now on.
It felt good to be home, but unfortunately, he was a changed person after his jail experience. While he savored every minute of his freedom, he couldn’t relax and enjoy it for a single second. It was a freedom full of restrictions.
He had a curfew and wasn’t allowed to leave the area served by the Northern District of New York. The GPS ankle monitor that he wore as a condition of his release made sure of that. The device was like a thorn in his side—a constant reminder that he was just one signal away from being picked up and thrown back into jail. He pulled an oversize tube sock over it, but it stuck out like a tumor on his ankle.
While he had ridden home in the car with Christy and Annie, it had vibrated and spoken to him. A woman’s voice had said, “Mr. Thompson, your connection has been established.” The disembodied voice had scared the crap out of all of them.
If the feds could talk to him, David knew they could listen to him as well. He had to pay out of his own pocket for the monitoring, but it beat the heck out of being in jail.
David lived with the constant fear that he could end up back in jail at any time. He had a nightmare about being in jail Friday night, and then awoke in a cold sweat Saturday morning, thinking he was still there. It stiffened his resolve to do everything and anything to stay out. The way he saw it, he had nowhere to go but up. If he did nothing, he was headed to prison or to the lethal-injection table. The last thing he wanted to do was to be known as the next Timothy McVeigh, the guy put to death for blowing up the federal building in Oklahoma. In his mind, the opening charge was lying to the feds with terrorism charges to follow if he didn’t do something to clear his name. Doing something included helping them with their investigation. They didn’t require it as part of his bail package, but David and Jim could read between the lines.
So when he wasn’t with his family on Saturday, he focused every waking minute on research. He tried to dig up any information he could on Ali Rahman Yasin online. He searched through every accessible file on Harold’s laptop, which Jim had returned to him. He perused railroad maps across the country to search for a pattern to the explosions.
He prepared himself for the Donovan Kincaid deposition on Monday by researching him, as well. He stayed away from reading the news. The New York Times openly questioned his release. The last thing he needed at this point was to read about that.
As the afternoon wore on, pieces of information began to fall together in David’s head. Then someone rang the front doorbell.
“I’ll get it,” David called from his office. Christy and Annie were glued to the television in the living room. They loved to watch reruns o
f Emergency!, a television series from the 1970s about two paramedics. David usually joined them, but he needed to continue his research. It was important to put some questions to rest, or he would never sleep that night. Every time he heard the sound of sirens that ran throughout the soundtrack of the show from his perch in the basement office, he tensed up at the thought that the FBI was coming for him.
David was cautious as he approached the front door. He didn’t know if it might be some crackpot on the other side who didn’t approve of his release. He peered through one of the front door panels and saw the profile of an average-height, heavyset fellow. The man’s head was turned away from the front door, his attention focused down the street. David couldn’t see his face but noticed that the man wore a three-piece suit. Given that it was a Saturday and the man was so well dressed, David thought the man was probably a Jehovah’s Witness looking to talk his ear off. But when David opened the door, the man didn’t have a partner with him, didn’t have any magazines, and didn’t have a Bible.
“Hello,” David said from behind a crack in the door, as he eyed the man’s hands. They were both in plain view, hanging beside his hips.
When the man turned around, David thought he recognized the face. The man’s pomaded hair was thick and totally white, but his baby face suggested he was not as old as his hair might indicate. His lips were big and almost feminine, but they were a pale crimson, a softer shade than the red on his ruddy cheeks. He sported a single-breasted, chalk-striped navy-blue suit that was tailored to fit his rounded physique. The vest matched the jacket over a crisp, snowy shirt and a red-silk power tie. The outfit screamed 1980s banker to David. He hadn’t seen a suit like that in upstate New York for as long as he could remember.
“Mr. Thompson, sorry to bother you at home like this, but I needed to talk to you privately about a matter of the utmost urgency.”