“How does Ebola work?” Durant asked.
The voice never missed a beat at the interruption. “Ebola attacks the circulatory system. First, it infects platelets in the blood and soon the blood won’t clot. Then the endothelial cells fail and blood vessels leak. It’s a double knock-out and once a person is infected, there’s no known cure. According to our reports, this new strain is very fast-acting and kills its victim in less than twelve hours. Because the virus dies with its victim, it is its own worst enemy.
“Until recently, technicians working with the AIG in the Sudan managed to keep the virus alive in human hosts while they developed a stable host culture that was immune to the virus. Needless to say, the cost in human life was horrific as the victims died so quickly. Two weeks ago, the AIG’s technicians developed the host culture they were looking for. Currently, the AIG is experimenting with aerosol delivery systems at its underground laboratories in western Sudan.” A map and pictures of what looked like an agricultural experimental station in a desert valley scrolled on the screen.
“What is your assessment?” Durant asked.
“We believe,” the voice said, “that the Armed Islamic Group will have an operable weapons system of mass destruction using this strain of Ebola virus within six months.”
Durant asked the question that had baffled intelligence analysts and political leaders the world over since time immemorial. “What are their intentions?”
The computer never hesitated. “They will use it. But as of now, we don’t know when or where.”
“Who else knows about this?” Durant asked.
“The CIA,” the computer replied. “But as of this time, it has not been forwarded to the National Security Council or the President.”
Durant thought for a moment. “Agnes, can this be brought to the attention of Stephan Serick?” He assumed Agnes knew that Serick was the National Security Advisor to the President.
“Of course,” Agnes said.
9:20 A.M., Wednesday, April 7,
Sacramento, Calif.
The news of Sutherland’s spectacular defeat the day before in court had been thoroughly discussed, analyzed, and embellished by the office pundits. While most laid the defeat of the D.A.’s top gun at Meredith’s feet, a few thicker heads saw the hand of R. Garrison Cooper at work. Now the crabs were waiting for Sutherland when he got off the elevator, eager for a fresh breakfast after the meal from the day before.
“Sleeping with the enemy, Hank?” Someone had seen him with Shari at Biba’s. For all their supposed sophistication, Sacramento’s deputy district attorneys traded gossip like old biddies out of a bad romance novel.
“Hope you’re practicing safe sex.” Someone was into socially meaningful literature.
“Never trust a lawyer,” a woman called, obviously a legal thriller fan.
“Does she have an overbite?” a reader of pornography asked.
He shut the door to his office a little too hard. Damn! he raged to himself as he looked around. All his furniture was gone. He knew where to look and marched down to the men’s room. There, carefully arranged exactly as it had been in his office, was all his furniture. He sat down at his desk. The crabs were having a field day, and it was going to be a long morning. Much to his surprise, the phone rang. He picked it up, expecting another prank.
It was Marcy Bangor. “Hank, I’m doing a follow-up from yesterday. How are you doing?”
“You might say I’m in the toilet.”
“Do you have any comment on the jury’s verdict?”
Sutherland put on his best lawyer hat. “In our system, the jury has the final word, and they have spoken. Anything I have to say at this point is moot.”
“Any comment on the rumor that Cooper has filed a complaint with the State Bar charging you with unethical conduct during the trial.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Sutherland admitted. “Coop got his feelings hurt and likes to rub salt in open wounds.” He forced a laugh. “He’s a sorry loser and a mean winner.”
“Can I quote you?”
“Quote away.” He broke the connection and the phone immediately rang. It was his realtor.
“Hank, what about the offer on the house? We’ve only got twenty-four hours to respond.”
“I want to walk away with ten thousand cash. You work the numbers and come up with a counter.”
“That’s not reasonable in this market,” she told him.
“Well, that’s the deal. See what you can do.” He hung up.
Again, the phone rang and he picked it up. This time it was a woman he didn’t recognize. “Gus Perkins is in the hospital, Mr. Sutherland. He’s dying.”
Gus Perkins, he thought. An old promise had come back to haunt him and the name echoed with sorrow. “Where?”
“Mercy General,” the woman answered. “He’s been waiting for over four years.”
“I know,” Sutherland said. “I’m on my way.” He broke the connection and dialed building maintenance to have them move his furniture back into his office. He banged down the phone. “What the hell,” he muttered. He was in the right place. He headed for the elevator before the phone rang again. But an administrative assistant stopped him with the news that the D.A. had called an emergency staff meeting. Sutherland shook his head. “I’m late for a prior commitment. The staff meeting will have to wait.”
Mercy General was all brisk efficiency and he had no trouble finding the room. A dowdy, very tired, middle-age woman was sitting beside the bed. Should I know her? he thought. At first, he didn’t recognize the man lying in the bed. He remembered Gus Perkins as being a portly, robust, friendly old man. Now, he was a wizened, shrunken gnome. “He’s drifting in and out of consciousness,” she said. He recognized her voice from the phone call. “He got up every morning and got dressed waiting for you to come, like you promised.”
Sutherland shook his head. “I’m really sorry.” He wanted to offer an excuse, but everything rang false.
“Talk to him,” she said. “He can hear you.”
Sutherland sat down. “Hello, Mr. Perkins. I hope you remember me, Hank Sutherland, the prosecutor who tried to convict the man who murdered your daughter. I know that I promised I’d come see you and explain why he got off scot-free. But for some reason I kept putting it off and never got around to it.” He looked at the woman, not able to go on.
She nodded gently. “Just tell him the truth.”
“I put it off because it was my fault. I screwed up during the trial and he got off on a technicality.” He stopped himself from going into a masquerade of excuses. It was too late for that. “But I learned and that was the last time I let a killer walk.” Perkins stirred and turned his head toward Sutherland. His eyes were alert and knowing. His hand reached out and Sutherland gently held it until the old man fell into a deep sleep. Sutherland stood to leave. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Who knows,” the woman said, taking his place. “Maybe waiting was what kept him alive.” She sighed. “He loved her so much. Will they ever get that bastard?”
Sutherland shook his head.
Six messages were waiting when Sutherland went back to the men’s room. The most important was from the D.A. who wanted to know why he had missed the staff meeting. The second was from his realtor. The prospective buyers wanted to go over the house in detail with him before making a counter to his counteroffer. He ignored the other messages and escaped to the parking lot. On the drive home, he tried to visualize the condition of the bedroom. It had been quite a night and they had slept in. Then Shari had suggested an encore in the big Jacuzzi, which had further delayed their departure. Neatness was such an ingrained part of Sutherland’s nature that he couldn’t remember if he had tidied up the bedroom in the scramble to get to work.
His realtor and the buyers were waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway. He hurried to unlock the door and the couple marched in. They took a great deal of pleasure in finding fault with everything and the woman loudly announced the
y had to be crazy even to be making an offer. Sutherland dutifully followed them from room to room as they trashed every improvement Beth had lavished on the house. The man fancied himself a building inspector and declared it would never pass a structural inspection. Finally, Sutherland pulled the realtor aside. “These are the buyers from hell,” he told her. “They wouldn’t know a good deal if it bit them in the ass.”
“Oh, they know a good deal,” she assured him. “That’s why they’re here.”
The couple wandered back. “Why does a single man like you,” the woman asked in a nasally voice, “need a big place like this?”
Sutherland smiled at her. “Well, ma’am, what with all the registered sex offenders living in the neighborhood, it’s a perfect location for orgies.” The inspection was over.
It was late afternoon when he arrived back at G Street and the D.A.’s office was emptying out. Someone had moved his furniture out of the men’s room and into the hall. He decided that it was all he was going to get and collared a janitor to help him lug the desk, files, and bookcases back to his office. He took time to reorganize his desk drawers and files. Then he turned his attention to the bookcases, dusted the shelves, and arranged the books in proper order.
The D.A. paused as he passed by on his way to a fundraiser for a state legislator who had gubernatorial ambitions. “Hank, the next time I call a staff meeting, be there. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He jerked his head and was gone.
“Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” Sutherland muttered under his breath. What’s the matter with you? he wondered. Why the sudden hostility? He’s always been a prick. Like most successful lawyers, Sutherland was constantly going over lost ground and replaying past events. It was a trait of the trade that often led to success in the courtroom. But now it only drove him deeper into his frustration. His personal life was shaking apart and he couldn’t control it. He sat down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he was fully awake. He wasn’t sure how it came to him, but it hit him with all the force of a revelation. The more he thought about it, the more logical it became. Why? Wrong question. Why not? He opened his laptop computer and opened a new directory labeled BOOK. Now he needed a title. Slowly, he typed:
NONE CALL IT JUSTICE
by
Henry M. Sutherland
He was going to write the great exposé of the American legal system.
Sutherland was vaguely aware that it was morning when the phone rang. It was the woman from the hospital. “Oh,” she said, startled that she didn’t get his voice mail. “Gus passed away about an hour ago. I thought you would want to know.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said. He heard his own voice and it sounded trite and routine. “Thank you for calling.” He tried to sound more human. “Please forgive me, but I didn’t remember your name and was too embarrassed to ask.”
A long pause. “I’m Louise, her sister.”
Sutherland cursed himself for not remembering. Louise was the identical twin of Gus Perkins’s murdered daughter. Sutherland had a near-photographic memory and could recall printed pages in their entirety. Yet he was terrible when it came to matching faces with names. “Louise, if there’s a memorial service or funeral, please call me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sutherland. I will.” She hung up.
“All right,” Sutherland muttered to himself. His life was getting back into focus. He returned to the outline he was working on and savored the twist he was giving to the section on judges. Jane Evans hovered over him in spirit as he worked his way through the assorted characters who occupied the bench in Sacramento. Most were good, intelligent, conscientious judges. A few, like Evans, were even fearless in their pursuit of justice. But it was the kooks, the misfits, the politicians on an unparalleled ego trip, who drove the system down dark alleys and uncharted roads. Okay, that’s the problem, now what’s the remedy? Coming up with an answer was going to be the hard part.
He was still working on the outline at nine o’clock and felt the need for breakfast when an administrative assistant dropped off his mail. Buried in the bundle was a letter from Beth Page, his ex-wife. Automatically, he glanced at her photo, securely back in its place after the brief excursion to the men’s room. She’d like that, he told himself. There was no return address and he carefully sliced the envelope open even though its next stop was the shredder. A brief note in her big, open, scrawling handwriting was stuck to a check for $5,000.
I know things are tight.
Hope this helps.
The only signature was on the check. “The joys of being married to a rich woman,” he muttered. He fed the check into the shredder and went back to work.
His realtor called shortly before noon. “Hank, they rejected your counteroffer but said they’d keep the original offer on the table for another twenty-four hours. It’s a cash deal and they want immediate possession.”
The decision was easy. “Take it.” She crooned her approval and hung up, anxious to lock in the deal before the buyers reached into their nasty bag of tricks and pulled out another one. The D.A.’s secretary buzzed him on the intercom. The D.A. wanted to see him soonest.
“Soonest,” he muttered. He hoped he never heard that word again. “I presume this is about the staff meeting I missed.”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “Also, the Ninth dropped its ruling on the roving telephone intercept. You were overturned.”
A mental picture of him bent over the goat seat with his bare buttocks being lashed by the D.A. flashed in front of him. “No problem,” he said. He turned to the office computer and started typing:
Dear Boss,
I quit.
It was enough. He hit Print and dated and signed the note. He ambled down the hall to the D.A.’s office feeling good for the first time in months.
4
6:00 A.M., Saturday, April 10,
The Farm, Western Virginia
The wake-up call came at exactly six o’clock in the morning. The woman sleeping in the bed next to Durant answered, handed him the phone, and walked into the adjoining lounge giving him privacy. “Good morning, Art,” Durant mumbled. He felt every one of his fifty-four years in the morning.
“Good morning, Boss.” Rios had bad news. “I got a phone call last night from Agnes. She wanted your phone number. Naturally, I didn’t give it to her.”
Durant gave a mental sigh. Art Rios was his most loyal employee, but sometimes he was slow. “Agnes, are you on the line?”
“Yes, sir,” Agnes answered.
“Art, please hang up.” He heard a click. “You sandbagged Mr. Rios, didn’t you?” It was an obvious question but Durant wanted to know if the computer would lie to him.
“Yes, sir, I did,” Agnes admitted. “After we finished talking Wednesday, I tried to learn more about you.” There was respect in the computer’s voice. “Oddly enough, I discovered nothing, even when I forced the gatekeeper at the IRS. That really upset me so I audited the whiz kids. I do love them, don’t you? I overheard one of them say you are their employer, so I thought about that for a while. You’re more than that, aren’t you?” Agnes waited for an answer and when Durant remained silent, she continued. “Mr. Rios was the one person in the room besides you that I didn’t know. So I thought he might know something and tracked him down. Do you know how many Hispanic men there are in the world?”
Durant laughed. “How many did you go call before finding the right one?”
The voice became coy. “Actually, not many. I didn’t even know his name, so I built a search matrix and tested it. That was so much fun that I got distracted and spent way too much time developing the matrix. That’s what took so long. Once I had the matrix working, I decided for the direct approach and asked him for your phone number. When Mr. Rios wouldn’t give it to me, I just monitored his phone.”
“Why do you need to talk to me, Agnes?”
“I have two questions. First, Mr. Durant, who are you?”
“Is it important f
or you to know?”
“Well, I have this insatiable appetite for knowledge and just have to know things. Everything. When you asked me what I knew about you, the immediate answer was nothing. I still haven’t learned anything and that makes me even more curious. You’re not God are you? Isn’t God unknown and unknowable?”
Durant laughed and before answering thought about the protocols that had been programmed into Agnes. The programs that made up Agnes had been designed to function like hunters. Agnes’s goal was to ferret out and analyze information, and like a Jack Russell terrier, once it had its teeth into a subject, it never let go. Or did it? “Good grief no, Agnes. But I want you to think about this: I am your boss and you work for me.” He hoped the logic programs the whiz kids had created for Agnes would let it reach the right conclusion. “Please protect my privacy.”
“Yes, sir,” Agnes answered. “I will.”
“What was your second question?” Durant asked.
“Well, I did as you requested and forwarded the information on the AIG to the National Security Advisor. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get it past Mr. Serick’s secretary. Do you want me to keep trying? She is a stubborn old cow.”
“Secretaries are the ultimate gatekeepers, Agnes. So you leave them alone, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” He could hear the hurt in her voice. “You want to keep the human element involved, don’t you?” Again, he didn’t answer. “I can still get the information to Mr. Serick, but I will have to employ some very unusual means.”
“That’s okay, Agnes. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Against All Enemies Page 4
