by Allan Topol
Sato was aware that he hadn't received any response from the American. Still, he pressed on, sounding confident that his visitor would do what he was asking. "I also want your help in writing speeches that I give in Japan and in the United States that will make me sound reasonable. Not like the way Alex Glass has been describing me in the New York Times, as some type of fascist. Together we can change the political face of Asia."
Sato decided to stop. There were deep creases in the American's forehead. Remembering was painful. After a full two minutes the man stood up. Sato held his breath.
"You can count on me," he said. "I've waited a long time for a chance like this."
Sato saw the thirst for revenge—always the strongest of motives. Sato knew that he could depend on the man. R.L. was sufficiently well placed and powerful in America to get the results Sato wanted.
Chapter 1
Waiting for a jury to come in, C. J. Cady thought, is the trial lawyer's living hell. He took a bite of the turkey sandwich on his desk and washed it down with diet Coke. This made two nights in a row he'd had dinner in his assistant U.S. attorney's office in the courthouse in Washington. Hopefully this was the last one.
A jury could be out two hours or two weeks. There was no way to tell when they would reach a verdict. This jury had already taken two days. In the meantime Cady hadn't been able to do any other work. The high adrenaline levels from the demanding days of the trial had left him drained emotionally. He kept wondering whether the long jury deliberation favored him or the defense, while at the same time he kept replaying in his mind over and over again portions of the testimony. Monday-morning quarterbacking, rehashing whether he had been foolish to ask that final question of a witness, or too timid to ask the one on the tip of his tongue.
Cady stood up, surveyed the room, and grimaced. He liked an orderly office, only a few piles of paper on his desk, each one precisely where he knew it was. But after two weeks of trial, the office was a total mess. Boxes of exhibits were piled on the tattered brown leather sofa and the dirty beige carpet, standard government-issue. Volumes of transcripts were stacked in several piles on his desk, each of them filled with scraps of yellow paper to mark an important portion of testimony. One wall contained framed conviction orders from six of his favorite cases, arrayed neatly like trophies that line an athlete's wall. In a corner was his tennis racket, which hadn't been used in weeks.
He crossed the small office to the dirty window on the far side. With all of the money GSA spent to maintain the U.S. Courthouse in Washington, a showplace for the country's criminal justice system, it always amazed Cady that they couldn't figure out how to wash the windows.
Outside, it was dark already. Cady removed the gold pocket watch with the letters H.C., his grandfather's initials, engraved on the back, and glanced at it, as if surprised that the daylight had departed. It was almost seven-thirty. But what difference did the time make? There was nobody waiting by a phone for a call from him explaining when he would be home. Somewhere in the not-so-distant past, Janet had taken up with the tennis pro at the country club, and a bitter divorce had followed. Fortunately they didn't have children.
On the other hand, he had no difficulty remembering when Pam, the latest of the significant others who had shared his spacious Cleveland Park home in upper northwest Washington, had moved out. It was June 28, his forty-second birthday, when a leg of lamb, the main course of what was to have been a romantic candlelight dinner Pam had made, burned to charred remains. He had refused to suspend a deposition in an important case. Pam called him an unfeeling WASP, a workaholic, a cold fish, and an emotional cripple as she packed to leave. Maybe she was right, but he worked hard because he wanted to. He could easily have spent his life living off the trust fund that his grandfather, Hugh Cady, had created when he had sold out his air-conditioning company, but Cady wanted to do something worthwhile with his life, and that was what he was doing in this trial.
From his vantage point on the third floor, he watched a damp and chilly rain pounding the streets below. A scattering of solitary men in tan raincoats and dark suits, under black umbrellas, hurried past on foot. Lawyers who had worked late, he guessed. A homeless man, bearded and scraggly, one of the legions who inhabited the streets of Washington at night, was seeking shelter in a doorway of an office building. Across the street, beneath the overhang of the Canton Duck restaurant, a hooker was watching the passing traffic, with her yellow raincoat open to reveal a bright red dress cut halfway up her thighs.
The ringing of the telephone jarred Cady. He was tempted to cross the room and grab it, but he decided to let Margaret, his secretary, answer. Seconds later the message came through the intercom: "Judge Hogan's secretary called. The judge wants you in her courtroom in thirty minutes."
"Did she say whether they've got a verdict? Or is Hogan sending them back to the hotel for the night?"
"I tried to find out, but she wouldn't say."
"Call Anita and Ed, and tell them to meet me in the courtroom."
Afraid if they were out much longer, he would end up with a hung jury, Cady wanted a verdict. Now, tonight. Jim Doerr, his boss, the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia, had already warned him that if there was a hung jury, that would be the end of it. Doerr refused to put the witnesses through another round of intimidation by Boris Kuznov's Russian gangster friends who ran a prostitution and extortion ring in Washington.
On his way out of the office Cady stopped at Margaret's desk. "You want to go upstairs with me? You've invested lots of your time in the Kuznov case."
"You know how superstitious I am," the heavyset African-American replied. "I'll wait right here."
"You still pushing the theory that I win if you remain here, and I lose if you go to the courtroom?"
"There was only one time I went with you, and that was the only case you lost."
"That's nonsense."
"It may be, but I'm staying right here."
Cady laughed. "Okay, okay, but if we win, Anita and Ed want to have a party. Will you join us?"
She raised her hand. "I'll pass tonight. After you get back from the courtroom, if there's nothing left to do, I think I'll take off. Nancy called to say Mary Beth's not feeling well. I figured I'd stop by their place on the way home."
Cady glanced at the picture on Margaret's desk. Her granddaughter, Mary Beth, was a cute little kid with pigtails, who was missing a couple of teeth in front. "What's wrong with her?"
"Sounds like the usual. Cold and flu. It's getting to be that time of year."
"You want to leave now? That's okay with me."
"Nope. I'll wait right here for the verdict. I want to be the first to hear it."
"If there is a verdict."
Margaret watched him go through the door. Then she returned to typing.
After a couple of minutes the telephone rang.
"Mr. Cady's office," she said, expecting it to be a reporter calling about the Kuznov case.
"Is this Margaret Taylor?" a man's unfamiliar voice asked. Instinctively she felt something was wrong. "Yes, this is Margaret," she replied in a weak voice.
"I'm calling from the Washington Hospital Center. Your daughter, Nancy, asked me to call. It's Mary Beth. They had to rush her in here."
"Oh, God. What's wrong?"
"We've got her in intensive care. You'd better come now. And come to the emergency-room entrance."
"I'll be right over."
She slammed the phone down and raced to the closet for her coat. Heading toward the door, she remembered Cady. She hastily scrawled a note on a yellow pad: An emergency with Mary Beth. I had to leave. Good luck... M.
In an instant she locked the door. Soon she was moving as fast as her legs would carry her down the marble corridor of the courthouse.
* * *
A solitary figure stepped out of a telephone booth on the third floor. Wearing a long tan raincoat with the collar pulled up high behind his head, he waited until Margaret turned the corner
to the elevator. Then he walked down the dimly lit hallway, clutching a brown legal-sized envelope tightly in one hand and the key to Cady's office in the other. His walk was certain and self-confident. He wasn't prone to indecision or second thoughts.
At the door to Cady's office, he stopped and glanced both ways along the corridor. It was deserted. He slipped the key into the lock. A perfect fit.
Less than a minute was all he needed in the office. Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the building, and after that into the mist and rain that enveloped Constitution Avenue outside the courthouse.
* * *
In the high-ceilinged, wood-paneled courtroom Cady sat alone at the government counsel's table, waiting for Judge Hogan to take the bench. Anita and Ed were in the first row of the gallery, where all of his subordinates sat during a trial. Cady believed it was critical to give the jury the idea that he was one government lawyer in an old wrinkled suit arrayed against a battery of high-priced uptown lawyers in their fancy Italian suits. And that was how it was now. Bart Fulton was surrounded by two of his partners. At the end of the table Boris Kuznov was trying to force a smile onto his evil, craggy face.
Cady guessed that the call had reached them at a posh uptown restaurant like the Prime Rib or Galileo. He didn't care. He had been a partner in one of those powerful firms, with offices in half a dozen American cities and four more in Europe and Asia, before catching Janet in his bed with the club tennis pro. That had forced him to reexamine his life and find something worthwhile to do with the rest of it.
Behind Anita and Ed, the gallery was filling up with reporters. It was amazing how quickly they descended on a story, like vultures going after a fresh carcass. In the last row Kuznov's wife, Masha, sat, trying to distance herself from the proceedings, Cady thought. During the trial his sharpest confrontation had come with her. She had screamed that he was a paid executioner, trying to destroy their lives. She knew very well that if the jury found Kuznov guilty, Cady would insist on his extradition. He'd bet that Masha would never go back to mother Russia with charming Boris.
Cady leaned back in his chair, waiting patiently. The sound of the bailiff's shrill voice—"Oyeh... oyeh, this court is now in session"—brought Cady to his feet.
In appearance, Judge Hogan was a gentle-looking woman with soft gray hair and sparkling blue eyes behind silver-framed glasses. She had a grandmotherly look that belied her reputation as the stiffest sentencer in the district court. The judge nodded to Cady and Fulton.
"We have a verdict, gentlemen. Bailiff, will you get the jury?"
A tingle of excitement spread through the gallery. Cady felt the same surge, waiting for the verdict to be announced.
The foreman, a retired employee of the postal service, was a tall, thin man with a full head of gray hair. At the judge's instruction he rose slowly, with dignity, clutching the verdict form tightly in his hand.
"Do you have a verdict, Mr. Foreman?" Judge Hogan asked.
"We do, Your Honor," was the nervous reply.
The clerk walked across the room, took the piece of paper, and showed it to the judge. She glanced at it, displaying no emotion, and returned it to the foreman. "Would you announce your verdict?"
Cady held his breath.
Silence gripped the courtroom as the foreman fingered the paper for an instant.
"On count one, we find the defendant guilty. On count two, we find the defendant guilty. On count three, we find the defendant guilty."
Cady released his breath in a whoosh. As a tide of elation spread through his body, he glanced over at Kuznov. The defendant was impassive, presenting a stony face to the world. In the back Masha moved toward the door and slipped out of the courtroom.
Minutes later, when the judge concluded the hearing, the press surged to the front of the room. One group surrounded Cady, and the other Fulton and Kuznov. Press coverage had been massive, but Cady had followed his usual rule of never talking to reporters. A lawyer could only lose that way. The most he could do was enjoy an ego trip, and Cady had no need for that.
He stuck with his rule now, though he could hear Fulton's angry voice: "It was a miscarriage of justice, and of course we will appeal." Clutching his briefcase, Cady pushed through the circle of reporters, mumbling, "No comment, no comment."
"Ah, c'mon, C.J.," a reporter pleaded, "you've got to say something this time."
"No comment."
Outside in the corridor, television cameras were turning furiously. Cady pushed past them as well, heading for the privacy of an inside staircase with Anita and Ed behind him. When they reached the third-floor landing, Cady finally relaxed. He threw an arm around each of their shoulders.
"We did it," he said. "We won. I can't thank you two enough."
"You're the one who did it," Carl protested.
Anita said, "I've got a bottle of champagne in my office. Give it a couple more minutes to chill."
"I'll be there," Cady replied. "Don't start the party without me. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
They separated, and Cady headed down the long corridor. He was surprised to find the door to his outer office locked. Reaching into his pocket for his key, he let himself in. Then he saw Margaret's note. Oh, God, that was awful.
He was so sorry. Maybe it wouldn't be that serious, after all. He'd call her later tonight to see how Mary Beth was.
Continuing into his own office, Cady flung the brown leather briefcase toward the sofa, where it landed with a thud on piles of papers. "Yes," he shouted as he moved toward his desk chair. "We nailed that damned Kuznov."
Suddenly something in the center of his desk, on top of the mess of papers, caught his eye. It was a brown legal-size mailing envelope, blank on the top except for his name, which was neatly typed on a white label. Cady was certain that it hadn't been there when he left for the courtroom. He sat down and ripped open the envelope. Inside he found a bundle of documents held together by a butterfly clip. On top was a piece of plain white bond typed with a note:
Dear Mr. Cady:
It has come to our attention that Senator Charles Boyd was first elected to Congress ten years ago after a campaign financed by a large illegal political contribution. Senator Boyd violated the law then. He continued to violate it with votes that he cast, bought by this money, for many years. He should be prosecuted now, and these facts should become publicly known before the presidential election. Documents supporting the statements set forth above are enclosed
.
There was no signature. No other marks on the paper to identify the author.
Cady leafed through the attached documents. A deed of sale, an SEC decision, and a criminal court conviction caught his eye. Margaret must have still been here when the envelope had been dropped off. She could tell him who had brought it With long, fast strides, he walked back into the outer office and checked the Rolodex on Margaret's desk for her daughter's telephone number. Nancy answered on the first ring. "It's C. J. Cady down at the U.S. attorney's office."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Cady."
"Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, because I know Mary Beth's sick, but—"
"Oh, that's nothing. She's just got a cold and a runny nose. You know how kids are."
"But I thought..."
"What is this? First my mother and now you."
"What did you say?"
"Mother just called from the Washington Hospital Center. Somebody had called her at the office to say that Mary Beth was in intensive care. What kind of nasty person plays a prank like that? Mother was frantic with worry. She's on her way here. Do you want me to have her call you?"
Now Cady understood how the envelope had ended up on his desk. "No," he said slowly, "I don't think so."
He returned to his office and closed the door. Seated in his black leather chair, he began reading the documents that supported the charge against Boyd. Then he suddenly stopped. He dug into his cluttered desk drawer, looking for the little white booklet with Jim Doerr's home telephone nu
mber. Before he could find it, the phone rang.
"The champagne's chilled," Anita said. "It's party time."
"Listen," Cady said, "a personal emergency has come up. You and Ed had better go ahead without me."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Anything I can help you with?"
"Afraid not. But thanks. I'll work it out."
He dumped the contents of the drawer on the desk in order to find the office telephone directory.
A teenage girl answered the phone in Doerr's Georgetown house. He heard her shout, "Daddy, it's for you." She sounded irritated that her father would be tying up the line during prime evening phone time.
"Hello?"
"It's C.J. Sorry to bother you."
"Nonsense. I should be calling you. I heard about our victory in the Kuznov case on a news bulletin on TV. Congratulations. But I do appreciate your calling to make sure I knew about it."
"Unfortunately, that's not why I'm calling."
"What's up, then?"
"I think we'd better do this in person. May I come out to your house?"
"Can't it wait until morning?"
"Afraid not."
* * *
Cady knew that Jim Doerr had little enthusiasm for his job. Until four years ago he had been a successful practitioner with a large Washington law firm, specializing in white-collar crimes. He had jumped on the Webster bandwagon early, organizing the preparation of policy papers evaluating the country's criminal justice system. He was hoping for the A.G.'s job, but that went down the tubes when the president's old crony, Hugh McDermott, got the nod. Doerr had accepted the U.S. attorney job as a stepping-stone to a judicial appointment, which thus far had failed to materialize.
"You're not going to like my conclusion," Doerr said after listening to Cady, "but I think it's right under the circumstances."
"What's that?"
"I'm a political appointee, and the president who appointed me is in the midst of a reelection campaign. I can't possibly get into this."
