Balance of Power

by Richard North Patterson

  "For what purpose?"

  Conn glanced at Schwab. The lawyer inclined his forehead, as though granting permission to proceed. Reaching beneath his chair, Conn placed a battered leather briefcase on the table, and removed a two-inch stack of documents.

  "To give her these," he answered.

  Nolan eyed them grimly. "What are they?"

  "The documents Mike Reiner ordered me to destroy."

  His quiet words were poisoned by an undertone of resentment. Still gazing at the documents, Nolan considered his choices, weighing how best to proceed.

  "In your mind," he inquired at length, "what is their significance?"

  "That varies." The malicious smile returned. "The common denominator is that they implicate Mr. Reiner in misconduct."

  With mounting disquiet, Sarah realized how deeply Conn despised his superior—an emotion which, once established, would make him easier for Nolan to discredit. A slightly patronizing tone crept into Nolan's voice. "Then why don't we go through them, from first to last."

  For the next fifteen minutes, Nolan directed the court reporter to mark documents as exhibits. Sarah and Harry Fancher watched in silence, more tense for the suspension of the questioning. At last Nolan asked, "What is the significance of Conn Exhibit One?"

  In response, Conn spread a sheaf of documents in front of him, regarding them with the scholarly satisfaction of a paleontologist sorting prehistoric bones. "Exhibits One through Twenty-seven are trace requests received by Lexington Arms from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."

  "And what do they show?"

  "In each case, the ATF gave us the serial number of a Lexington P-2 used to commit a crime, and asked us to identify the distributor or dealer we shipped it to." Conn's smile contained a palpable spite. "These documents cover a six-month period. Taken together, they indicate that the P-2 was commonly used by criminals and that Lexington— at least Mike Reiner—knew it."

  "On what do you base that?"

  Conn's gaze flickered across each document. "After the First Lady's family was murdered, Mike asked me to destroy them."

  "Where were you," Nolan asked with quiet acidity, "during this supposed conversation?"

  "Mike's office."

  Nolan permitted himself a faint smile of disbelief. "Just the two of you?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you consider yourself a confidant of Mr. Reiner?"

  "No."

  The one-word answer, delivered in the flattest of tones, hinted at more. But Nolan—for strategic reasons, Sarah was certain—chose not to pursue it. "Do you have any explanation as to why Reiner chose to rely on you, rather than destroy these documents himself?"

  "Yes. He didn't know where to look. I did."

  To Sarah, the answer was mundane, and yet so unexpected, that it had the ring of truth. But Nolan raised his eyebrows. "While he was enlisting your assistance, did Mr. Reiner explain his motives?"

  "That he remembered seeing the documents, and didn't want Lexington to get in trouble."

  "Why were Exhibits One through Twenty-seven 'trouble'?"

  Conn looked annoyed at his questioner's opacity. "Because the P-2 is a crime gun," he answered stubbornly.

  "That's it?"

  "Not all of it." Trembling slightly, Conn's right hand flittered across the documents. "The P-2 is banned in California. But twenty-four of these guns were sold in Arizona and Nevada, mostly close to the California border." Conn's reedy tone became accusatory. "Obviously Reiner's marketing plan was to flood Nevada with guns Californians would buy. These documents proved that it worked—that Bowden's buying this gun was no surprise to Mike."

  "Are you suggesting," Nolan snapped, "that Mr. Reiner knew where and how Bowden acquired a Lexington P-2?"

  The question was a stratagem, Sarah knew. Its obvious answer— "no"—was intended to keep Conn from overreaching, and, at least tacitly, to expose his bias against Mike Reiner. Conn knew it, too. With a smile of superiority, he fixed his gaze on Nolan, and uttered a soft, surprising, "Yes."

  Sarah suppressed a shudder of relief. However well or badly he fared, Conn was now committed. "Where in any of these documents," Nolan asked harshly, "does it show—or even suggest—that Mr. Reiner could have known where John Bowden got his gun?"

  "None of them."

  "Then what's your basis for that aspersion?"

  The smile vanished. "I told him."

  Nolan scrutinized him with disbelief. "And how did you know?"

  "Two reasons." Sorting through the documents, Conn rested his finger on Exhibit Twenty-eight. "This document is a report listing the serial numbers of a shipment of P-2s stolen from a dealer in Phoenix, Arizona. The dealer didn't want to pay us, and Reiner was pressing them. After the murders, we got a trace request, and realized that the serial number of the murder weapon matched one of the stolen guns. Mike asked me to destroy it."

  "What would his motive for that be?"

  Conn glanced at Schwab, a benign presence at his side. From the equanimity of his lawyer, Sarah could divine how carefully the two men had prepared. "About two months before," Conn said in an ashen tone, "I received a telephone complaint from the owner of a Lexington P-2.

  "He told me the gun kept jamming. When I asked if he'd bought it from a dealer, he said no—at a gun show in Las Vegas. So I asked him if he knew the seller, and maybe could swap guns." Once more, Conn's gaze darted toward his lawyer. "The guy just laughed."

  The answer stopped abruptly, as though its final sentence explained all. "Did he respond in words?" Nolan inquired caustically. "Or did he just keep laughing?"

  Conn did not seem to register the sarcasm. Softly, he answered, "The caller knew the guy from Idaho, he said, but that he wasn't easy to find, or the kind to worry about customer relations. Then the caller asked me if I'd heard of an organization called 'the Liberty Force.' "

  Sitting across from Sarah, Harrison Fancher stopped scribbling notes, staring at the witness with his pen suspended in midair. With an air of renewed caution, Nolan asked, "How did you respond?"

  "That I hadn't. So he told me that Liberty Force was a group of white supremacists, and that this guy was more likely to blow his head off than give him another gun."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I asked him for the serial number. When I checked our files, it matched with one of the stolen guns." Briefly, Conn's mouth pursed. "I went to Reiner and said it looked like some paramilitaries were peddling them, and asked if we should call the ATF."

  Nolan grimaced. "How did Mr. Reiner respond?"

  "He said no—that he didn't like the aroma it gave us." The bitterness seeped back into Conn's voice. "I didn't 'like the aroma,' either. Only the stench was coming from Reiner. So I wrote him a memo confirming what I told him." Pausing, Conn added with lethal quiet, "After the Costello murders, I reminded him of that."

  Nolan shot him a cynical glance. "For what reason?"

  "At first, I thought maybe the shooter was a member of Liberty

  Force. Whatever, it was pretty clear to me that the murder weapon had passed through the hands of these paramilitaries, and that we ought to tell the ATF."

  "You said that to Reiner?"

  "Yes." Conn's speech slowed, underscoring his contempt and condemnation. "Instead he ordered me to take these documents from our files, and bring them to his office."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes. But only after making copies."

  Nolan waved at the exhibits. "But not, apparently, of your alleged memo about the Liberty Force."

  "I couldn't find it," Conn answered quietly. "When I asked Reiner where it was, he told me not to worry."

  Nolan studied him. "Is there any corporate policy requiring you to retain the documents Reiner supposedly asked you to destroy?"

  "No."

  "Is there any law which mandates their retention?"

  "Not to my knowledge, no." Hastily, Conn riffled the documents. "Only Exhibit Thirty-eight."

  Nolan frowned. "For t
he record, what is Exhibit Thirty-eight?"

  "A letter from the ATF, asking us to retain all trace requests for P-2s used in crimes. After the murders, Reiner asked me to destroy it."

  "Remarkably thorough, wasn't he," Nolan observed in caustic tones. "Did you report all this malfeasance to anyone at Lexington?"

  Gazing down, Conn flexed the fingers of his hands; perhaps, Sarah thought, to repress their renewed tremor. "No."

  "Not even Mr. Callister?"

  "No."

  "And yet you were appalled by Mr. Reiner's supposed orders. Didn't you owe it to the company who'd employed you for twenty years to let them in on your little secret?"

  Almost imperceptibly, Conn leaned closer to his lawyer. "At first, I was worried about my job. After the murders, when I knew how bad it was, I didn't know where to turn."

  "And so you chose Ms. Dash, a total stranger."

  It was this implausibility, Sarah recognized, that suggested hidden motives. Conn stiffened in his chair, defensive, heightening her fear that Nolan already knew what those motives were. "For one hundred fifty years," he answered in a rising voice, "Lexington was a proud part of our nation's history. We armed Americans in two World Wars, and in Korea and Vietnam. Our standards were exacting, our guns impeccable, and our customers people who deserved the best—soldiers, cops, or lawabiding sportsmen . . ."

  However deeply felt, Sarah thought, the speech was worrisome in its irrelevance, offering a hint of instability. But now the lid was off what seemed to be a cauldron of emotions. "The P-2," Conn went on with palpable loathing, "is cheaply made, an effort to compete with the sleazy companies in Southern California who make junk guns for criminals. It's what Mike Reiner would be if God had made him a handgun . . ." As if hearing himself, Conn paused abruptly, lowering his voice. "The P-2 was Mike's idea, and it's where we sold our soul. Because we knew who we were selling it to—people like John Bowden." With a trembling hand, Conn snatched a multipage document from among the others. "That's why Reiner asked me to destroy this."

  Nolan summoned a look of wariness and pity. "And what is that?"

  "Conn Exhibit Thirty-five," Conn answered with a defiant pride. "The testing data for the Eagle's Claw bullet. We filled life-size plastic dummies with gelatin, and then blew them full of holes. It was a proud moment, Mr. Nolan. We proved that our holes were bigger than for any other organ-shredding projectile on the market. More than good enough to slaughter a six-year-old.

  "You asked me why I went to Ms. Dash. Because Mike Reiner had turned Lexington Arms from the paragon of our industry into the armsmaker of choice for a cold-blooded killer."

  To Sarah's relief, Schwab looked at his watch, his mask of serenity suggesting that nothing remarkable had happened. "We've been going for some time now," he said to Nolan. "Why don't we take ten minutes?"

  Please, Sarah thought. But Conn reached for a glass of water. "I'm not tired," he insisted. "I want to finish this."

  The degree to which he personalized the deposition unsettled Sarah, summoning a disturbing vision of how Conn might bear up at trial. But it seemed she might find out right away—for Sarah to plead for a break, however plausible her excuse, might add to Conn's agitation.

  "When," Nolan asked abruptly, "were you last promoted?"

  Crossing his legs, the witness shifted his weight. "Twelve years ago."

  "Since then, have you sought promotion within Lexington?"

  "Yes."

  "How often?"

  To Sarah, Conn's smile of resentment embodied his psychic scars. "Several times."

  "And each time, you were refused."

  "Yes."

  "By whom?"

  "Mike Reiner."

  "Isn't it also true that you complained about Reiner to Mr. Callister's predecessor?"

  Conn hesitated. "Yes."

  This time it was Nolan who smiled. "Regarding what? His disregard for quality? His neglect of Lexington's proud history? His penchant for destroying documents? Or was it something else?"

  "I told Mr. Cross that Reiner was prejudiced against me."

  "On what basis, if I might ask. The denial of promotions?"

  "The repeated denial of promotions."

  "Perhaps—repeatedly—Mr. Reiner thought you less than qualified."

  "I do my job," the witness answered stubbornly. "I take pride in my work and cut no corners."

  Nolan looked at him askance. "Was one of Mr. Reiner's complaints that you refuse to follow instructions?"

  "He claims that."

  "And that you have a problem with authority?"

  Conn raised his chin, eyes narrowing in dislike. In that moment, Sarah felt certain that Nolan had hit his mark. "I have a problem with stupidity," he answered.

  Inwardly, Sarah winced. But Nolan's expression was one of condescending kindness. "While at Lexington, have you ever taken disability leave?"

  Abruptly, Conn hunched in his chair, seeming to deflate in front of Sarah's eyes. "Yes."

  "For what?"

  "Post-traumatic stress disorder. From Vietnam."

  "And how did that affect you?"

  "It affected my concentration."

  "And your emotional equilibrium?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Did you," Nolan asked more harshly, "have outbursts of temper?"

  Conn folded his arms. "That was ten years ago," he said in muted protest. "Not since."

  "Were there outbursts of temper directed at Mr. Reiner?"

  "We had words."

  "But instead of firing you," Nolan said softly, "Lexington and Mr. Reiner allowed you to take disability leave."

  Incongruously, Conn shook his head. "It was only for two months. I was in Vietnam for thirteen months, and it's stayed with me for thirtyfive years. Two months isn't much to ask."

  "But you asked," Nolan continued in the same quiet tone, "and Reiner gave them to you. And this is his reward."

  The statement required no answer. Sarah could imagine easily Nolan's version of Norman Conn: a difficult employee, kept on out of charity, his perceptions so skewed that they perverted this gratuitous kindness into a denial of his worth. "Isn't what happened," Nolan asked, "that you saw Ms. Dash's web site, pleading for informants, and decided that this was your opportunity to destroy Mike Reiner?"

  "No."

  "No? Specifically, Mr. Conn, didn't you copy these documents, destroy the originals, and then concoct a story blaming Reiner for their disappearance?"

  Conn folded his arms. "I did not."

  "No again? Isn't the reason there's no memo of your conversation tying the Liberty Force to Bowden's gun that no such conversation occurred?"

  Briefly, the witness shut his eyes. "It happened. Believe me, it happened. I didn't make it up."

  In Nolan's place, Sarah might have left it there: given Conn's apparent instability, his enmity for Reiner, and the absence of corroboration, Nolan's story line was, at least, plausible. But Nolan went for the kill. "You did," he said flatly. "Because you first heard about the Liberty Force from Sarah Dash. Isn't that why there are no witnesses?"

  Sarah stifled her indignation. "No," Conn answered.

  "Yet again. Isn't the reason you didn't go to Lexington because your employers know you all too well?"

  Suddenly, Conn sat upright again, his face and body animated with a tensile alertness. His finger jabbed a document. "Are you saying that this trace report is a fake? Or this one, showing that they made the Eagle's Claw to tear your guts out? Or these, proving that Reiner was marketing to criminals?"

  Nolan's eyes went hard. "I'm not here to answer questions."

  "Well you can read, can't you? So now you know what they knew."

  Conn's voice rose in anger. "You can't say I made these up. So you try to divert attention by saying I made up a story to go with them. Because you're just like Reiner. You don't give a damn what you do or say as long as you get paid for it."

  The two men stared across the table. Startled by Conn's comeback, Sarah awaited
Nolan's counterthrust, not knowing whether to be heartened or distressed. "That break I mentioned," Conn's lawyer interposed. "It might be good for several of us."

  Sarah released a breath.

  TWENTY-SIX

  On the morning of the day that the Senate would vote on gun immunity, Chuck Hampton rose to deliver the final speech in opposition.

  The White House had done all it could to help him. The headline in the morning's New York Times was "Bowden Gun Traced to White Supremacists." The article reported the indictment of one Ben Gehringer who, as part of a plea bargain, acknowledged selling the Lexington P-2 to Bowden at a gun show in Las Vegas. With its unsavory mix of racism, trafficking and gun shows with the slaughter of Lara's family, the announcement by the United States Attorney for Idaho was a boon for Kerry Kilcannon, ratcheting up the pressure on the last three undecided senators—Rollins, Coletti, and Slezak—without violating Gardner Bond's gag order regarding information emanating from Mary Costello's lawsuit. Hampton could only wonder at the nature of the President's involvement—the no doubt indirect conveyance of his wishes and directives—which had led to this exquisitely timed announcement. As to Kilcannon, the media reported nothing.