by Rick Acker
Kim felt David’s body stiffen. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
Colin made some response, but Kim didn’t hear it. She felt sick to her stomach and her head started spinning. She turned and ran blindly, her eyes filling with tears. She stumbled toward the exit as fast as she could, ignoring David’s calls and the exclamations of the people she pushed past.
She collided with a wall of muscle and nearly fell down. A large arm steadied her, and a vaguely familiar voice said, “Whoa! Hey, watch where you’re goin’ . . . Kim? Whatsa matter?”
She looked up and found herself staring into the wide blue eyes of Bedford Lavelle, a defensive tackle for the UCLA Bruins. Kim’s sorority had volunteered to help tutor the football players when she was a sophomore, and she had helped Bedford with the basic calculus class he was taking. He was an enormous, slow-speaking man from Sallis, Mississippi. He had asked her out halfway through the semester and had been surprised when she turned him down; girls from her sorority apparently didn’t do that to football players often. He wasn’t bad-looking and she would have said yes, except that she had just started dating David. Also, Bedford had a reputation as a forceful drunk—not necessarily violent, but difficult to refuse.
Before Kim could say anything, David came running up. “What are you doing?” he asked as he reached for her arm. “Come on back. I’ll buy you a drink and you’ll feel better.”
She shrank away from him, unconsciously moving farther into the crook of Bedford’s arm. “No, David! Stay away from me! You’re taking it again!”
“That was just Colin talking out of his butt,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“But I do! I know all about your ‘genius pills.’ I know! And I can tell you’re taking them again!”
“Look, I just—” he began, taking a step toward her and reaching out for her again. Bedford’s left arm curled around her protectively and his right reached out and pushed David squarely in the chest. “She said to stay away from her,” he said firmly.
David stumbled backward and tripped over someone’s foot. He fell, knocking over a small table. A pitcher of beer landed on his head and balanced there for an instant like a comical crown. Bedford laughed, as did several other bar patrons. “David!” Kim cried as she tried unsuccessfully to disentangle herself from Bedford’s arm.
David sprang to his feet and lunged at Bedford, who reached out with his right arm to intercept him again. But David was too quick. He ducked under the football player’s grasp and punched him in the side. Kim, who was now pressed against Bedford’s other side, could feel the shock of the blow through his body. The big man grunted and pushed her away to free both his arms for combat.
The two men squared off in the empty circle that always forms when a bar fight starts, no matter how crowded the club is. It did not have the look of a fight that would last long: Bedford weighed roughly double David’s 160 pounds. He also carried himself in a way that made it clear he had significantly more experience in these situations. After a few seconds of feinting and circling, Bedford used a bull rush to crowd his smaller opponent into a corner by a pool table where he couldn’t escape.
Kim pushed her way through the yelling spectators just in time to see Bedford hit David with a gut punch so powerful that it lifted him several inches off his feet. She screamed, but to her surprise David did not collapse. In fact, he hardly seemed to feel the blow. He punched Bedford twice in the face, his arms moving so fast that the larger man couldn’t react.
Bedford staggered back and Kim yelled, “Run, David!” But David didn’t run. He grabbed a cue from the pool table and swung it like a baseball bat. He hit Bedford on the left side of the head and the cue shattered. Bedford fell to the floor in a disorganized heap.
David jumped on top of the football player, grabbed his shaggy blond hair with both hands, and began pounding his head against the uncarpeted concrete floor with all his might. Bedford did not resist.
Kim screamed again and ran forward, but someone held her back. She turned and saw a burly man wearing a blue Hammerhead’s shirt emblazoned with the word “Security.” A second man with a similar shirt pointed a Taser at David and yelled, “Stop! Get off him!”
David ignored the order and smashed Bedford’s head into the floor again. The bouncer pulled the Taser’s trigger and two small needles attached to thin wires shot into David. He stiffened, let out a guttural shout, and collapsed on the floor next to Bedford.
The man with the Taser walked over to the two inert forms on the floor. He gave the two men a nudge with his toe, but neither moved. He swore, kneeled down between them, and put a finger on each man’s neck. The bar was now quiet, except for the jukebox. After a few seconds, he called out, “No pulse on either of ’em! Call 9-1-1, and someone help me with CPR!”
Ben was in his office preparing Karl’s cross-examination when the call came. Susan had gone home for the day, so it rang directly through to Ben. “Hello. Corbin law offices, Ben Corbin speaking.”
“Hello, Ben, this is Curt Grunwald at the US Attorney’s Office.”
“Oh, good evening, Curt. What can I do for you?”
“We worked together pretty well on that Chechen case, and I’m hoping we can do it again. I understand that you’re representing Karl Bjornsen’s brother in a legal dispute they’re having.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you planning to put Karl on the stand tomorrow as a hostile witness?”
“I am,” Ben replied slowly. He didn’t like the fact that Grunwald was apparently on a first-name basis with Karl. “Why do you ask?”
“Karl is cooperating with us on a very sensitive investigation. We’re concerned that confidential information may come out, either during your cross of him or Bert Siwell’s direct, and that the press might publish some or all of it. That could be very damaging to our investigation.”
“All right. What are you asking me to do?”
Grunwald hesitated for an instant. “Well, we’d like you to not ask him about that shooting and fire in Norway. Also—and I know this is a lot to ask—we’d like you to agree to a stipulation that can be read to your jury that says basically that the parties agree that Karl wasn’t responsible for those crimes.”
Ben sat in openmouthed silence.
“Ben, you there?” asked Grunwald.
“I’m here. What . . . How do you know he isn’t?”
“We and the Norwegians have investigated that incident pretty thoroughly, and we’re convinced that Karl was not behind it.”
“Well, I’m not convinced,” Ben said sharply. “And with all due respect to you and your office, Curt, it will take more than your say-so to change my mind.”
Grunwald chuckled. “I thought that might not satisfy you. I have authority to share some information with you under the same terms and conditions as last time. I’ll e-mail a letter of agreement to you now. Sign it, send it back, and we can talk.”
“Fine.” Ben hung up and checked his e-mail. Nothing yet. His mind whirled as he waited for the letter to come through. Whatever Karl had done to get the USAO to intervene on his behalf, it must have been pretty dramatic. Ben could not imagine what it was, but his mind’s eye could now clearly see a huge sandbag hanging over his head.
An e-mail from Curt Grunwald appeared with the letter. Ben looked it over quickly. It prevented him from using anything he learned from the federal government in Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals v. Bjornsen or disclosing it to the press, but that was no surprise and was almost certainly nonnegotiable. He signed it, sent it back, and picked up the phone.
Grunwald answered on the first ring. “Okay, here’s the scoop, in general terms: There’s a guy who Main Justice, the FBI, Interpol, and a bunch of other agencies have had their eye on for the past three or four years. He’s committed all sorts of felonies related to the Internet and electronic crime, particularly when it comes to selling drugs. But we couldn’t do much because he was
unextraditable.
“This guy was trying to blackmail Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals into selling him drugs illegally, so he staged the shooting and fire in Norway and threatened to make it look like Karl Bjornsen was responsible. I can’t go into details, but Karl made it possible for us to arrest this guy. He also gave us evidence, which we have since confirmed through other sources, that he—meaning Karl—had nothing to do with what happened in Oslo. We—”
“Why am I only hearing this now?” Ben broke in. “You knew someone had tried to kill my wife and unborn son. You must have known that I was getting ready for trial against the guy who would look like the prime suspect to my client and me. And you wait until now to tell me this?”
“I’m sorry we kept you in the dark, but we had to. Here’s the most confidential thing I’m going to tell you: This guy’s customers and suppliers don’t know he’s been arrested. They think someone tried to kill him and that he went into hiding. He ran virtually all of his operations through e-mail and websites, so we’ve been able to pretend to be him. We’re gathering an incredible amount of intelligence right now. If we can keep this going for a few more weeks, we’ll be able to take down dozens of major players. We’ll be able to make a major dent in Internet drug crime.
“We haven’t said anything to you because we need to keep this entire operation secret. If word leaked out prematurely, targets would vanish, start destroying records, and so on. We had to keep information about it on a strictly need-to-know basis. You might have wanted to know—and frankly, I wanted to tell you—but you didn’t need to know.”
“Actually, I did,” Ben said angrily. “You knew I was getting ready for this trial, right? Didn’t it occur to you that it might come up that two people got shot while they were working on the case, and that a building full of damaging records got burned down?”
“We thought the case was about trade-secret theft and accounting fraud,” replied Grunwald defensively. “We thought you might file a separate battery case against Karl, or seek evidence-spoliation sanctions for the fire, but no, it didn’t occur to us that in the middle of your trial you would suddenly put on a witness who accused Karl of arson and attempted murder.”
“Well, it should have occurred to you!” Ben shot back.
“Well, it didn’t. Look, I’m sorry, Ben. We were prepared to have this call as soon as you raised the issue, but you caught us by surprise. I finished reading the rough transcript of Henrik Haugeland’s testimony ten minutes before I called you.”
“You got the transcript from Bert Siwell, right?”
“Yeah. He called me this afternoon after your trial recessed for the day and told me what happened. He also said that he plans to have Karl testify about what happened, and tell his whole story, unless I can get you to agree to the stipulation I mentioned.”
“Can . . . can he do that?” asked Ben.
“Ordinarily, no. Our agreement with Karl only allows him to disclose what he knows if he is required to do so during a legal proceeding. But because Bert represents the company, he could subpoena Karl and technically require him to testify.”
Ben leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could feel the sandbag crashing down on his head. “So he set us both up.”
Grunwald paused. “Could be.”
“Oh, he did. Brilliant piece of work, too.” Ben sighed. “Okay. Let me see if I have this right. My options are either to agree to a stipulation that will be read to the jury, saying that Karl wasn’t responsible for the Oslo attack, or to have Bert put him on the stand to tell the whole story—in which case your ongoing sting operation probably becomes public.”
“You got it.”
“Not much of a choice, is it?” He grimaced and shook his head. “I’ll talk to Gunnar about it. I understand where you’re coming from, but the ultimate decision is up to my client, of course.”
“Of course. Thanks, Ben.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CLOSINGS
David Lee’s parents sat by themselves in the waiting room outside a surgery theater at the UCLA Medical Center. Kim Young had been there, but she was now in another room being interviewed—for a third time—by the police.
The waiting room had a collection of Bibles, Korans, Vedas, and other religious books in a plywood bookshelf, together with a random assortment of former bestsellers donated by charities, former patients, and their families. Cheung and Meiying Lee were not reading, however. Mr. Lee stared stoically out the window at the darkening parking lot outside, his back erect and his hands on his knees. Kim had offered to hang up the coat of his dark navy suit when he and Mrs. Lee arrived three hours ago, but he had declined and still wore it.
Mrs. Lee sat beside him, wearing a dress with a cheery floral print that contrasted jarringly with her pale, slack face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she held a damp handkerchief in her hands. Her purse was still over her shoulder—a habit developed during her youth in one of Hong Kong’s poorer areas, where putting a purse on a bench when one sat down was an invitation to quick-fingered thieves.
The waiting-room door opened, and a doctor in blue surgical scrubs entered. He looked tired and said nothing as he walked over and sat down in a chair facing the Lees. “I’m very sorry,” he began. Mrs. Lee bent her head and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “We tried everything we could think of to save David, but we just weren’t able to. You can see him now if you would like.”
Mr. Lee nodded. “I want to see my son,” he said quietly.
“All right, but I want to warn you that there is a large cranial incision. We cut away part of his skull in an emergency operation to relieve pressure on the brain, and . . . the sight may be disturbing.”
“Knowing he is dead is disturbing!” Mr. Lee said with sudden vigor. He stood up, and Mrs. Lee stood with him. “Take me to him.”
The doctor nodded and rose. He led them out of the waiting room and down a long, tiled hallway. The doctor stopped outside the door and said, “I’ll let you be alone with him.”
Mr. Lee turned to him. “Will there be an autopsy?”
“I’m afraid it will be necessary, given the circumstances of his death.”
Mr. Lee nodded mechanically. “Good. I want to know what killed David.” The Lees opened the door and walked in to see what had once been their son.
It was a warm night, and the Corbins sat on their deck eating Indian takeout. Ben had been in a deep funk ever since he got off the phone with Curt Grunwald, so Noelle had decided to cheer him up by getting food from Ben’s favorite restaurant and opening a bottle of a sauvignon blanc he liked. He was still in a dark mood—alternately blaming himself for not having seen Siwell’s trap, and wondering how he was going to salvage his case—but he appreciated what his wife had done and did his best to show it. He tried to push the case out of his mind and talk about their plans for the still-unfinished nursery and dream about what Eric might be when he grew up. Eric, meanwhile, lay in a bassinet beside the table, covered by an anti-insect net. He slept soundly, which of course he did only when his parents were awake. A Beethoven piano concerto played softly from speakers on a chair next to the bassinet. Brutus was busy running around the yard, hunting June bugs.
The epiphany came to Ben as he chewed a bite of tandoori chicken. “They have an agreement,” he announced.
Noelle looked at him blankly. “What?”
“Karl has an agreement with the US Attorney’s Office. If he were just a witness and a good citizen who had helped arrest a criminal, he wouldn’t need an agreement. People only make agreements when each side is getting something.”
“So what do you think Karl is getting?”
“Immunity,” he replied, taking a sip of his wine. “He must be getting immunity for something.”
“The embezzlement, bribery, and so on, right?”
He nodded. “That’s my guess. Whatever it was, he would have had to make a full confession to the USAO as part of the deal. They won’t give immunity unless they kno
w exactly what they’re immunizing. And if it turns out that the facts are worse than the person getting immunity lets on, then the deal is off.”
“So he would have had to be pretty open with them.” Her eyes lit up. “Do you think you can get a copy of the immunity agreement?”
Ben pulled out his cell phone. “No, but I may be able to get something out of Curt Grunwald. I think I’ve still got his cell number from when we were working out a deal for Dr. Ivanovsky.” He paused as he scrolled through the numbers in the phone’s address book. “Yep, here it is.” He pushed the “Call” button.
Grunwald answered on the third ring. “Hello.”
“Hi, Curt. It’s Ben Corbin. Sorry to bother you at home.”
“That’s fine. Do you have an answer from your client yet?”
“I’m still working on that. I’ve got a few follow-up questions for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Okay, you said that the government and Karl have an agreement. Does that agreement give Karl or Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals immunity for anything?”
Grunwald didn’t answer immediately. “We normally don’t disclose the details of witness agreements, particularly when they relate to an ongoing confidential investigation.”
“But witnesses normally don’t use loopholes in those agreements to force you to do favors for them in civil lawsuits, do they?” Ben countered.
“No, they don’t,” agreed Grunwald. “I’ll tell you what; if your client is willing to agree to the stip you and I talked about, I’ll tell you whether we gave Karl immunity for anything.”
“And what he got immunity for?”
“All right, fine. I’ll also tell you in broad strokes what the immunity covers—assuming any immunity grant exists.”
“Deal. I’ll talk to Gunnar and call you back.”
Gunnar agreed readily, and fifteen minutes later Ben was on the phone with Curt Grunwald again.
“All right,” Grunwald said, “I’m going to trust that you’ll be reasonable when we negotiate the stip language with Bert Siwell. You’re right in guessing that Karl is receiving immunity for his cooperation. So is Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals. Specifically, they’re getting immunity for any crimes arising out of the sale of controlled substances to a certain dealer in illegal drugs, the failure to report income from those sales on their tax returns, embezzlement of the sale proceeds, and use of the sale proceeds for bribery.”
