by Tim LaHaye
Several officers, with guns drawn in point-and-aim position, sprinted forward to surround the cabin of the jet. Over a bullhorn a voice advised the occupants to exit the plane with their hands raised high. Moments later the door opened. The pilot, still wearing his sunglasses, appeared with hands up and slowly descended the steps.
Next came Cal with his hands up as well. When they were on the tarmac, the officers grabbed them and cuffed them. All eyes were on the open door of the jet.
“Abigail Jordan,” the voice on the bullhorn announced, “exit the airplane immediately with your hands up or we will come in after you.”
In the SIA headquarters, watching the arrest scene play out on the monitor in Jeremy’s office, the director was muttering, “Doesn’t this lady know the jig’s up?”
There was movement in the cabin near the open door. Someone was preparing to exit. A woman’s hand appeared through the door and grabbed the handrail.
“Hands up!” the bullhorn boomed. Then the person exited the plane in full sight of the law enforcement team on the ground with their weapons drawn.
“What?” was the first word that came out of the SIA director’s mouth. And then several profanities quickly followed.
Descending the stairs was a blonde middle-aged woman dressed in a pilot’s uniform with a pair of sunglasses perched carefully just above her hairline so as to not muss her elegant coiffeur. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she raised her hands but with a maintained gait and look of relaxed confidence, the kind of expression belonging to someone who had grown accustomed to high-stress intrigue.
As the FBI special agent in charge holstered his weapon and approached the woman, he ordered his fellow agent and two D.C. cops to enter the plane and search for Abigail. They scrambled up the stairs. The agent, now directly in front of the woman, squinted in the early morning sun, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Victoria?” he stammered. “Victoria McHenry? What in the world are you doing here?”
She smiled and replied, “Hi, Fred. Yes, it’s me.”
“You aren’t,” he began and stepped closer, “still in the Agency …”
She shook her head. “No. Pack and I’ve been out of the clandestine services division for a number of years now.”
“Then what in the world are you doing here? In a pilot’s uniform?”
“Can’t a girl play dress-up once in a while?”
From the top of the stairs, the other FBI agent shouted down, “Fred, there’s no one else in the plane.”
Fred straightened up into a posture of official business. “Sorry, Victoria, but if you’re a civilian, then I’m afraid you’ve just walked into a world of legal troubles.”
“And what would those be?” she asked nonchalantly.
He bulleted back his reply without taking a breath. “Assisting a citizen who has refused to submit to federal BIDTag identification procedures as required by federal law.”
Cal spoke up. “That’s where you’re wrong …”
The FBI agent whirled around toward Cal. “And who are you?”
“Cal Jordan. You need to know, agent, that in the rush toward passage in Congress, the federal act making it a crime to refuse to get tagged contained one technical mistake. It was drafted in such a way as to prevent someone — like Victoria McHenry, or me for that matter, or even the pilot of our Citation X — from being prosecuted for aiding and abetting or even being a party to conspiracy to aid someone who has refused to get tagged. In other words, the only person you could prosecute would be someone who actually refused to get BIDTagged. And I presume you think that person is Abigail Jordan, my mother. Am I correct?”
The FBI agent strode up to Cal. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No, but I’ll be a law student in a couple of weeks.”
The FBI agent narrowed his eyes as his face faded into a scarlet color.
“Wanna bet?”
FORTY-NINE
Dulles International airport, Virginia
John Gallagher had received the message from the Roundtable that Abigail needed his help. So he flew to the East Coast, having just arrived at the Dulles airport, west of D.C. He used his ex-fed-agent contacts to get a big SUV with tinted glass, hoping that would limit facial-recognition systems from getting a peek at Abigail, who was now sitting in the backseat. The license plates had special reflective plastic covers that made them unreadable from intersection cameras.
In a matter of minutes he would have to pass through the Dulles Toll Road. As part of the BIDTag program, the highway folks had discontinued the quick-pass system. Now, all drivers had to stop at the tollbooths and hold out the back of their hands to the scanners. He half-turned around to alert Abigail. “Okay, tollbooth ahead. We’re about to see if I’m Mr. Clean with the feds or not.”
Abigail leaned forward with her forearms resting on the seat in front of her. “John, this is the only route that will get me to the federal courthouse in time for my argument. We both heard the traffic report on I-66. The Dulles Toll Road is our only hope. So, friend, you do the driving up there, and I’ll do the praying back here.”
When they arrived at the booth, Gallagher held out his hand so it could be examined by the scanner housed within the little plastic hood that jutted out toward the driver’s side.
The tollgate stayed closed in front of him and the red light was illuminated.
Gallagher waited, shifting in his seat. He could hear Abigail’s voice softly Speaking behind him. He raised his eyes to catch the reflection in his rearview mirror. He saw Abigail in the rear seat, hands clasped, head bowed, praying.
Come on, come on, Gallagher thought.
Then the gate lifted and the light turned green. Gallagher rolled to the tollbooth. A clerk sat in her little window. He took out a couple of international CReDO coins — the only ones that were accepted at tolls, and handed them to the woman. She counted the coins. The final light was still red ahead of them. The toll woman seemed to be studying her BIDTag scanner screen. Gallagher shifted in his seat, staring at the red light. Another half minute passed. Finally, the red light turned green and Gallagher eased his car forward, and then immediately merged into the crush of traffic on the Dulles Tollway heading toward downtown Washington.
In the Security and Identification Administration headquarters, Jeremy was working the same Rubik’s cube he’d been working on all day. And he was about to twist the last colored square into place.
He reviewed the footage from the cameras at the Columbus commercial hangar. It showed someone — obviously Abigail Jordan, he now knew in retrospect, dressed as a pilot and walking from the Citation X into the hangar. Then, shortly after that, Victoria McHenry, also dressed as a pilot, left the hangar and then headed back to the Citation X.
Jeremy asked the obvious question: Where was Abigail Jordan now?
He was more than a little embarrassed and nervous to have to put in yet another apprehension request. This was his third request for the same violator, and now he had to get the approval of the director. He ran upstairs to the executive level and waited outside his door in the lobby. This particular apprehension was giving him heartburn. After fifteen minutes he stepped over to his secretary and asked her to move things along. Five minutes later, the director stepped out. Jeremy had the order for apprehension on an e-pad and a digital pen in his hand. The director scribbled his signature on the screen, gave him a look of disappointment, and reentered his office.
This was Jeremy’s last chance — and he knew it. He returned to his database and tried another search. This time, the computer revealed just the information needed. Abigail Jordan, attorney-at-law, was scheduled to present an oral argument that morning at the U.S. federal court building in Washington, in the case of United States v. Jordan. Jeremy typed the courthouse address into the notice and hit Send, delivering it electronically to “all available law enforcement personnel within the District of Columbia.” Then he crossed his fingers.
FIFTY
Abigail was
as ready as she would ever be.
She clutched the brown expandable case file in her hand as she rode in the back of Gallagher’s SUV. During the flight, she had changed into a dark blue suit and white silk blouse — the one she had stored in the flight case that she had carried off the Citation X and onto the commercial delivery plane. It was the outfit she often used for appellate arguments back when her law practice had her appearing in court regularly. That was when she would be able to jog several miles a day and would log three days a week at the gym. She giggled to herself in the jet’s cramped bathroom when she put on the suit, skirt, and blouse and realized that they all, mercifully, still fit. Life had become so complicated recently. Almost no time now for the gym or running or so many other seemingly mundane things she used to take for granted. Sometimes she yearned for them.
As she buttoned up the suit, she wondered, When, exactly, did the journey of life transform itself into such a hair-raising mountain climb? She used to chuckle when friends would talk about slowing down and preparing for a future of relaxation and recreation. For her and Joshua, the days had sped up, not slowed down. The risks were more dangerous, and the stakes had become almost too high to calculate. In a short time she would be trying to enter a U.S. courthouse with a forged BIDTag to defend her husband in court. It was as if a spider web with the tensile strength of steel had entangled them both.
As she continued to get ready in the SUV, now brushing some lint off her sleeve and trying to work the wrinkles out of her suit jacket, Abigail looked ahead at the traffic on Constitution Avenue. Just a few more minutes and they would be at the courthouse.
She thanked God for the miracles that had popped up every step of the way. That ride from Columbus to Dulles airport on the commercial transport plane had been arranged courtesy of Rocky Bridger, retired Pentagon general and devoted friend on the Roundtable. Rocky knew the president of Rapid Air personally. He hadn’t filled them in about all the details of Abigail’s desperate plight, but Abigail and Cal had researched the law and knew that Rapid Air employees couldn’t get into any criminal trouble by helping her avoid the SIA surveillance. Another Roundtable member, Judge Fort Rice, also checked out the BIDTag authorization act hurriedly passed by Congress. Because of a glitch in the law he had come to the same conclusion. Of course, none of that affected the ability of the U.S. government to come after Abigail.
Gallagher slowed the SUV and pulled into a parking spot reserved for “authorized vehicles only.”
“Okay,” the ex-FBI agent said, turning off his car. “I’ll get a parking ticket here, so I’ll have to send you the bill.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But it avoids all the cameras and scanners in the public parking area. Also, here’s some good news for you. I checked and the facial recognition cameras inside the courthouse had to be yanked out. Got some kind of computer virus. Come on, Abby. Follow me.”
Gallagher and Abigail moved along the perimeter of the courthouse building until they arrived at a rear service entrance. Gallagher hit the speed dial on his Allfone. “The agent is outside,” he announced into his cell and clicked it off.
“So I’m an agent now?” Abigail asked.
“I know the courthouse security guy. Did him a few favors when I used to be a frequent government witness here in D.C.. Anyway, I told him you’re operating undercover. You are, aren’t you?” Gallagher half smiled. “Anyway, this’ll get you past the front door X-ray machines and cameras, but it won’t get you past the BIDTag scanners they’ve set up on every floor. Which courtroom are you heading to?”
“Courtroom 11, fourth floor.”
“You remember the back stairway leads up to each of the floors?”
“Yes.”
“It should be smooth sailing to your floor. But from that point on, SIA agents are at the scanners. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. You’ll be on your own.”
Abigail nodded, then checked the time. Ten minutes left. She hurried to the stairwell.
A bailiff and a court clerk with her hands full of files stepped into the stairway, then passed by her, complaining about the crowded elevators.
Abigail tried not to look too rushed as she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Arriving at the door that led to the open hallway, she prayed, Lord just give me the chance to argue Josh’s case — I will accept whatever happens after that.
She opened the door. Fifteen feet ahead was the SIA security station, blocking the hallway leading to Courtroom 11, which was halfway down the corridor on the left. Two SIA agents were in position, one on each side of the scanner, which was a larger and presumably more sensitive version of the one that was in the tollbooth on the Dulles Toll Road.
A lawyer with a fat briefcase was standing in line ahead of her. He placed his right hand into the scanner. Ten seconds later the bulb on top flickered green. The SIA agent nodded, and the lawyer strolled ahead, briefcase in hand.
Abigail stepped up. She smiled. “Good morning,” she said brightly.
“Right hand please,” one of the agents told her.
Abigail inserted her right hand into the open space in the big square scanner, palm down. She was glad it was only a BIDTag scanner and not a facial recognition camera. But that was only cold comfort now as she waited to see if Chiro Hashimoto’s substitute BIDTag was as good as he had claimed.
The SIA agent squinted at his screen. A few seconds passed. The light on the scanner was not lit. “Withdraw your hand please,” he barked.
She did as she was told, but her heart was racing.
“Reinsert please,” he said bluntly.
Abigail placed her hand in again, palm down. Two seconds passed. The SIA agent staring at his monitor gave a nod toward the screen but seemed surprised when he looked over at the unlit bulb. He reached over and tapped the bulb with his finger.
The bulb lit up green.
Abigail, still clutching her file, strode between the SIA agents and picked up the pace. Courtroom 11 was only thirty feet away, but there was a sudden noise behind her in the hall. An FBI agent and an SIA official had just blown into the hallway from the stairwell.
“Stop her!” one of them shouted.
At the opposite end of the hallway, at the other SIA station, the two agents posted there left their position and started charging toward Abigail. She broke into a flash of speed, sprinting with legs churning.
I haven’t come this far …
She skidded to a stop at the open doorway of courtroom 11 and dodged in. A court clerk with an electronic clipboard was standing just inside the courtroom. Abigail could see that a dozen other lawyers were already seated in the benches, waiting for their cases to be called.
“Abigail Jordan, arguing for the defendant. United States v. Jordan,” she said hurriedly to the man.
An instant later, one of the armed SIA agents grabbed her by the arm.
“What’s this?” the bailiff said with a stunned look.
“Illegal entry into the building,” the agent barked, “and an outstanding SIA warrant.”
Abigail stretched forward, getting as close to the bailiff’s ear as she could, and whispered, “Sir, I am an attorney, and I need to argue my husband’s case today. Please.”
The court officer held up a hand and looked at the SIA agents. They were immediately joined by the FBI agent, who grunted, “No offense buddy, but you’re just a court bailiff. We’re federal agents with a warrant. So step aside.”
The bailiff’s eyes lit up. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”
The SIA agents ignored him and began to tug Abigail out of the courtroom.
The bailiff was fuming. “You may be federal agents, and I may be just a bailiff, but you have just stepped inside the courtroom of the United States Court of Appeals. The judges are in charge here — not you. And those judges have delegated authority to me — that’s right — to me — to exercise absolute control over the conduct of all persons entering this place. So I say to you, gentlemen, please unhand this attorney. Take your seat
s quietly in the back if you wish, but you’ll have to wait until after her case has been argued to execute your warrant. If that’s not acceptable, I’ll call the U.S. Marshal’s office downstairs, and you can have it out with them.”
The SIA agent loosened his grip, and Abigail quickly pulled away, striding up to the counsel table in the front of the courtroom.
The opposing attorneys from the Department of Justice were already in their seats. All three government lawyers were bug-eyed, having just witnessed the spectacle in the back of the courtroom. Abigail pulled her notes out of her file and laid them on the table with precision, trying to calm the thumping in her chest. She turned to the three opposing attorneys.
“Counselors,” she said with a nod of greeting. She turned to face the door where the three judges would soon enter.
Lance Dunny, the lead prosecuting attorney at the other table, returned her greeting. “Counselor,” he replied. And then with a twisted grin added, “This is perfect. A criminal for a lawyer, comes in to defend her criminal husband.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Abigail, and she turned back toward her abrasive opponents to share it. “As John Adams once argued in the most famous case of his career — ‘Facts are stubborn things.’ And just for the record, Mr. Dunny, so am I. I trust you’re prepared for both.”
FIFTY-ONE
Lance Dunny was the government’s choice to argue against Abigail. A smart move, Abigail knew. The DOJ lawyer who was standing at the lectern addressing the three judges was the head litigator in the government’s criminal division, and when Dunny won — which was often — he didn’t just edge out the opposition by a nose. He would usually crush them. His argument that day in United States v. Jordan had been commanding and elegant in its simplicity, perfectly attuned to the three judges, two men and one female, who sat, black-robed, in front of him and peered down from the bench.
