by Tim LaHaye
Of the three appellate judges assigned to hear this case, none had been appointed by President Tulrude. Abigail considered that a plus. On the other hand, all three had reputations for pro-government toughness when it came to criminal prosecutions. Rarely did any of them vote for reversal of criminal convictions. Agnes Lillegaard, the chief judge on the panel, had been a former federal prosecutor, as had Judge Turkofsky, who sat to her right. Judge Preston on her left had a stint, before appointment to the bench, as counsel to the Senate judiciary, where he helped draft stringent anti-crime legislation.
In his oral presentation, Lance Dunny did an artful job pulling apart what he expected to be Abigail’s chief arguments.
During her own opening argument, Abigail made two main points. First, that the “material witness order,” which the trial judge had imposed against her in Joshua’s case, was improper. That order, she pointed out, prevented her from leaving the United States while Joshua’s case was pending, supposedly on the basis that she was an important witness for the prosecution, and that without such an order she might be a flight risk, leaving the country to join her husband overseas and thereby placing herself beyond the jurisdiction of the court. This, she said, violated due process, constituted cruel and unusual punishment for a witness, and further violated the constitutional right to travel.
Dunny called those arguments “absurd.” At one point Judge Agnes Lillegaard, nodding as Dunny continued to denigrate Abigail’s reasoning, added her own comment: “Some wives might feel that being forced to join their husbands would be the real cruel and unusual punishment —” The courtroom broke into cordial laughter.
Then Judge Turkofsky asked, “Mr. Dunny, isn’t it a fact that the defendant, Mr. Jordan, has already been residing overseas, placing himself outside of the jurisdiction of the United States?”
Dunny nodded vigorously. “Precisely, your honor. In Israel. And he has successfully avoided extradition back to America. So we have already been stonewalled by a criminal defendant who has committed acts of treasonous interference with the U.S. government. It is outrageous that his wife is trying to get this order overturned so she can flee this country too.”
Abigail then argued her second point, that the case against Joshua had been based on false and contrived evidence, which, she said, she would soon reveal.
At that point, Dunny’s invective became white hot. “Mrs. Jordan comes into this courtroom, telling us that honorable, high-ranking members of the Department of Justice have deliberately manipulated a witness into presenting false testimony. This is astonishing! Does this woman have no shame? But look at what she has produced — an affidavit from a former low-level assistant U.S. attorney, clearly a disgruntled former prosecutor who — for whatever reason — has invented this tale of prosecutorial misconduct. This attorney, Mr. Collingwood, by the way, has now joined one of the most well-known criminal-defense firms in Washington. His affidavit admits that. Apparently, now that he’s defending criminals rather than putting them behind bars, Mr. Collingwood is showing a different side of his character — a side that doesn’t blink at defaming the very legal agency he once worked for.”
But Dunny saved the hardest blow, the punch in the solar plexus, for last. He argued that Abigail was ethically disqualified from even appearing in front of the judges as her husband’s attorney “in light of the clear ethical rule prohibiting a lawyer from representing a client in the same case where the attorney is called as a witness. The material witness order recognizes that the government intends to call Abigail Jordan as a witness against her husband,” Dunny said. “Case closed. Mrs. Jordan’s appearance here is an insult to the rule of law.”
When Dunny sat down, Abigail approached the lectern for her rebuttal. As she took a moment to collect herself, she felt the volcano of emotions threatening to be loosed within. She knew the risk she had taken in even defending her husband in the appeal — trying to argue with cold analytical precision a case that had so torn their lives apart and had separated Joshua from her by the full expanse of an ocean. But now she had no choice. She had to become someone else — Lady Justice herself, dispassionate, objective, and truthful.
“As to counsel’s argument,” Abigail said, “that I am a material witness in the case against my husband, and am therefore disqualified from appearing here, note that the word material implies relevance and materiality, that I have something relevant and significant to say in court that would tend to incriminate my husband. Where is that materiality? Where is that relevance? I have filed an affidavit proving that I have nothing whatsoever to say that could possibly show my husband — a true American patriot and hero — to be a criminal. Curiously, the government has failed to advise you judges exactly what they would expect to elicit from my testimony that could possibly be helpful in their case, which leads us to two conclusions: either the government lawyers are sloppy — or they are devious. Sloppy in mistakenly assuming that I have something to add to their empty case. Or, the more likely explanation, devious in deliberately obtaining a material witness order against me just to keep my husband and me separated, thus applying psychological pressure to get Joshua to return to the United States to face a wrongful and contrived prosecution.”
Judge Preston, who had been quiet during oral argument, now came to life. “Mrs. Jordan, those are serious charges. Why should we believe you and not the United States government?”
“Because, Your Honor, as I’ve often said, facts are stubborn things. They call out to our sense of justice and reason and appeal to our moral conscience. So let’s look at the following facts. First fact — a respected assistant United States attorney has signed an affidavit — under oath — indicating that the assistant attorney general coerced a witness — a lawyer no less — into making false allegations against my husband, allegations that are the core of the government’s case. Fact — the government lawyers have failed to counter that affidavit with one from the assistant attorney general disputing those allegations. Now that is truly astounding. Another fact — Mr. Collingwood, in his affidavit, implicates the Tulrude administration in trying to railroad Joshua into prison for purely political purposes. And a final fact — the government has refused to produce a single piece of evidence disputing those facts.”
Judge Agnes Lillegaard took her reading glasses off her nose and stared directly at Abigail Jordan. “You are asking this court to dismiss this case against your husband before it ever gets to trial, based on a single affidavit. As long as I’ve been on this court we have never done such a thing, Mrs. Jordan. You are asking for something extraordinary here.”
Abigail’s voice quivered. “This case is extraordinary. We live in extraordinary times, when extraordinary injustice has taken place. And in this courtroom we have presented extraordinary evidence of political and legal corruption of the most astonishing kind.”
As she prepared to collect her papers, noticing the red light on her lectern, Abigail finished. “There is a reason that in the familiar statue, Lady Justice is always blindfolded,” she said. “That is so she will not be dissuaded — not be tempted — by the faces of high and powerful figures, even those in the attorney general’s office, and the Oval Office, those who would wink at her, suggesting slyly that their corruptions be overlooked so that they might continue persecuting those who expose their corruption.”
Abigail gathered up her papers and walked back to the counsel table. As she did, she saw the contingent of armed federal officers in the back of the room who would soon be placing her into custody.
FIFTY-TWO
Denver, Colorado
The task was to keep Senator Hewbright alive.
Deborah Jordan momentarily thought this was an audacious assignment — bordering on crazy. But with her military training at West Point in clandestine operations, and her desire to work in national security matters, did she really have a beef after all? She would have been happier if John Gallagher was closer, but Abigail had assured her that the former FBI agent was out
of pocket. Even if he wasn’t, his past government profile and current association with the Roundtable disqualified him from trying to pose as some nondescript campaign volunteer. Besides, he was not the kind to quietly blend in.
As Deborah wheeled her rental car off Auraria Parkway and headed to Chopper Circle to park as closely as possible to Denver’s massive Pepsi Center, she wasn’t thinking about the frenzied political convention about to take place there. Instead, she thought about her mother’s final instructions. “Stay as close as possible to Senator Hewbright — but even closer to Zeta Milla. Milla was the most likely threat against Hewbright, but only when we get clear evidence against her can we afford to blow your cover and reveal it all to Hewbright.”
Everyone in the family said that Abigail had the gift of spiritual discernment when it came to people. Okay, Deborah thought. True enough. But the initial facts were sketchy. A dead campaign director in Wichita. The fact that Milla was wearing a ring that matched the one worn by U.N. Secretary-General Coliquin. Plus Milla apparently lied about being a refuge from Cuba as a child. And Hewbright’s economic plan had been stolen by someone, apparently in China, who had hacked into his Allfone. That was all they knew.
Until, that is, Gallagher dug around in Wichita and learned that Zeta Milla was the last person who was with Perry Tedrich at his health club, then at a restaurant for lunch, shortly before his disappearance. In Deborah’s mind, that blew everything wide open.
Gallagher had shared the news with FBI Agent Ben Boling, with whom he had been working, but then, incredibly, Boling had gone silent. Maybe it was because the Secret Service had already checked Milla out, along with other staff, and had given her a clean bill of health.
Or maybe it was something else.
So Deborah had decided to do some digging of her own. She checked into Milla’s position on the campaign team by making a few calls and using some of her contacts at the Pentagon, hoping to cinch the case against Milla as some kind of saboteur. But the stuff she came up with was pretty benign.
Not surprisingly, Milla’s job with the campaign was to help Hewbright bone up on issues relating to Central and South American affairs, including Mexico and the island republics in the Caribbean. She wasn’t hired to give immigration advice, however; that was strictly the territory of Hewbright’s domestic advisors.
Deborah learned that Milla had a master’s degree in international affairs from American University, with credits toward her Ph.D. She worked for a while in the State Department, first during President Corland’s tenure, and then in President Tulrude’s administration. She was a middle-level staffer, and as far as Deborah was able to determine, she had not distinguished herself. She had kept a low profile. Milla had joined Senator Hewbright’s staff just in time for his decision to run for president.
As Deborah made her way through the crowds that swarmed the cavernous lobby of the ten-story glass convention center, and headed toward the Hewbright staff registration desk, she kept asking herself the same three questions. No matter how many times she turned them around in her head, they all seemed hopeless, particularly as she stepped into the monolithic chaos of a presidential convention. First, why would someone like Zeta Milla pose a threat to Hewbright? Second, even if she is a threat, how am I going to find out about it? And third, if I find out — how am I going to stop it?
A political volunteer, a tall, blond, athletic-looking guy was behind her in line.
“Hi, there,” he said, bending forward to catch Deborah’s attention.
She broke out of her mental distraction. “Oh, hi.”
“Diehard or newcomer?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m a diehard Hewbright supporter. Helped him in his last senate race. Just local canvassing stuff. My home state is Wyoming. How about you?”
“Oh, yeah I’m pretty diehard. I work in Washington.”
“State?”
“No, D.C.”
“So you’ve jumped on board recently, I bet.”
“Something like that.” She smiled politely but wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“There’s already some trash talking from Governor Tucker’s group,” he said.
That got her attention. “Oh?”
“Yeah, they want to disrupt the ballot and to throw it into a brokered convention. Maybe these lamebrains can’t add, but Hewbright’s already got the delegates sewn up. He swept almost all the primaries, but the Tucker Troops just won’t give up. Just thinking about it makes me sick. What a rotten deal if Tucker actually wrangles the nomination. He’s like Tulrude lite, don’t you think?”
She was mildly impressed. “Absolutely,” she responded.
“The guy’s cut from the same cloth as Tulrude ideologically; so why doesn’t he just switch parties? And he came across on the TV debates like a college professor. Practically put me to sleep every time he opened his mouth. Reminded me of my history prof at Colorado State. Anyway, Tucker’s so totally unelectable it’s tragic. No sweat though. Absolutely no chance of him pulling it out. Hewbright’s got this locked up. I mean, really, Hewbright would have to get hit by an asteroid to lose this.”
Deborah’s head snapped. She thought, Whoever you are, you have no idea what you just said.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m Rick. And you’re …”
“Deborah.”
He shook her hand. He had a strong grip.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other during the convention. Tell you what, if we do, I’ll buy you coffee.”
“Sure, but I have a feeling we may be pretty busy,” she said, keeping a poker face. “You know, coming to the rescue of our candidate.”
FIFTY-THREE
Washington D.C., Office of the United States Attorney
As soon as Abigail finished her oral argument she snatched up her file and made her way to the back of the courtroom, preparing for the worst. It was every bit as humiliating as she had imagined. In full view of the court, the federal officers jumped to their feet. Then, one agent on each arm, they escorted her into the hallway — where they cuffed her.
Abigail had a single, dismal thought. Ball game’s over. Now we just wait for the score.
She had expected to be hustled to the federal detention center and booked and put into a cell. And she may have been heading that way. But while she was in the back of the agency car with her hands manacled, the SIA agent in the front seat received a call. When he hung up, he then turned to the driver and said only, “Change of plans. We’re going to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” On the way they perfunctorily advised Abigail of her Miranda Rights. She knew what that meant. Here we go, she thought, bracing herself.
The new U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia, Tanya Hardcastle, was a recent appointee of President Tulrude’s. That was all Abigail knew. But that was enough. When they arrived at the building just off of Second Street, the squad drove down into the underground parking. Surprisingly, the cuffs were removed and Abigail was walked through the structure and up into the lobby. She couldn’t help but smile when the BIDTag scanner gave her the green light. Her captors were not amused.
She was taken to a small conference room on the same floor as U.S. Attorney Hardcastle’s expansive office. She was offered coffee but replied that she preferred tea. They brought her some in a cup with a saucer, and whatever it was, it wasn’t bad. Several hours passed. Assistant U.S. attorneys and their staffers scurried by. She caught glimpses of them through the window in the door. And she waited.
When Tanya Hardcastle, a short, bony woman with a smoker’s voice, finally entered, she smiled and sat down across from Abigail at the conference table.
Tanya Hardcastle knew that Abigail had no clue that the three federal judges in her case went into their standard closed conference immediately after the morning’s oral arguments to consider their votes. And she would not have known how they had made such quick business of the case in United States v. Jordan, that it only took one vote to secure a decisi
on among the three appeal judges. It was unanimous. Hardcastle also knew how Judge Agnes Lillegaard had drafted an order. When that judge emailed that order to the court clerk, it was read by another clerk, who called a friend at the Department of Justice. Swearing the friend to secrecy, he disclosed the contents of the order. But the word spread rapidly, and then a deputy attorney general called Hardcastle’s office to alert her to the rumor, knowing that she already had Abigail in custody in the high-profile case. So Hardcastle knew the end of this legal story and what the court order said. And Abigail knew none of it.
Sitting across from Abigail, Hardcastle started off with a good-cop routine. “I’ve checked you out,” the U.S. attorney said in an even, pleasant tone. “You have a reputation as a very sharp attorney here in the District. Some impressive victories. And, as you and I both know, it’s a man’s world, Abigail … may I call you that?”
Abigail smiled tightly and nodded.
Continuing, Hardcastle said, “It’s been a man’s world in the practice of law. Back when I graduated from Princeton law, the partner in my first firm had me working in the secretarial pool. Can you imagine? But women like you and me, we’ve changed things — for the equality of women. Don’t you think?”
Abigail took a sip of tea. “Are you trying to turn me into a feminist, Ms. Hardcastle?”
“I think you’re already one. You just don’t know it.”
Pushing the cup and saucer away from her, Abigail replied, “What I am, madam, is a believer in the U.S. Constitution. When the Fourth Amendment says that every citizen has a right to be ‘secure in their persons,’ it means what it says. It means that the federal government cannot force Americans to receive a laser-tattooed tracking device imprinted onto their skin, even if it doesn’t hurt and even if it’s invisible to the naked eye.”
“Federal courts have disagreed with you, Abigail.”
“Only because the Supreme Court has refused to take the issue up. I’m guessing that Justice Lapham can’t muster the necessary four votes to grant a writ of certiorari on all those appeals from nontaggers.”
