A Young Lawyer's story

by John Ellsworth

  "Six months? Where were you before that."

  "Before United States I worked in Beijing. Systems engineer there."

  "Mr. Hoa, please take a look at this man right here," Thaddeus requested, moving around behind Frank Broyles and placing his hands on the defendant's shoulders. "Do you know this man?"

  "No."

  "Have you spoken with him before?"

  "No."

  "Have you met with him before?"

  "No."

  "Do you recall meeting him at the Georgetown Reservoir?"

  "When?"

  "This year. Well, at any time."

  "No."

  "Have you ever been to the Georgetown Reservoir?"

  "Never been."

  "Isn't it a fact you paid Mr. Broyles money for a briefcase at the Georgetown Reservoir?"

  "No."

  Thaddeus shuffled his feet at the lectern. This was making a point, but what was it? Only that the guy might as well have been some stranger of the street who was English-challenged? So he moved on to where he really wanted to be.

  "Mr. Hoa, have you seen me before?"

  "At my grandfather's house I saw you."

  "Any other time?"

  "No."

  "You don't recall coming to a restaurant where I was eating lunch?"

  "No."

  "Mr. Hoa, isn't it true that within the past several months you came up to me while I was eating lunch at a local restaurant and tried to solicit me to sell you national security secrets?"

  "Solicit? No solicit."

  "You never offered me money to sell secrets to you?"

  "No."

  Now Thaddeus was flummoxed. But it was to be expected; obviously the guy wasn't going to implicate himself. Then Thaddeus thought he might be able to use the man as a tool for a different purpose. So he jumped back into his questions.

  "Do you recall anyone from the United States Department of Justice ever telling you that they had got me to agree to sell you secrets?"

  "Objection! Leading." Ollie Anderson was on his feet.

  "Mr. Hoa is an adverse witness, Your Honor," Thaddeus answered back. "Leading should be allowed."

  "Overruled. But there will be limits, Mr. Murfee. Please don't bore your audience. Or me."

  Thaddeus ignored the judge. Prejudicial, as usual, but more fodder for appeal if Broyles were convicted, so he let it go.

  "One last question. Mr. Hoa, the indictment in this case said that my client Franklin J. Broyles committed acts of espionage and treason by transmitting top secret documents to one Sing Di Hoa. That is your name?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, did Mr. Broyles ever transmit government secrets to you?'

  "Never."

  "Or to the Chinese Embassy in Washington?"

  "Never."

  "Or to any other Chinese person or entity?"

  "Never."

  "Thank you, Mr. Hoa. That is all, Your Honor."

  "Mr. Anderson, does the government have any cross-examination?"

  Ollie Anderson stood and said, sweetly, "He hasn't proven any facts in dispute, Judge. I don't see why the government would want to take up the court's time with cross-examination. We'll waive."

  "Very well. Mr. Murfee, please call your next witness."

  Thaddeus looked around the courtroom.

  "Defense calls the records custodian for the U.S. Attorney's office, Washington, D.C."

  All heads turned to look around.

  When no one came forward, Thaddeus asked the court for a sidebar.

  "Judge," he whispered when he and Anderson were gathered close to the bench, "I've subpoenaed the records custodian from the U.S. Attorney's office. Evidently he or she hasn't shown up yet. Can we recess until they show? I will notify Your Honor when they arrive."

  Sick and tired of the animosity between himself and the young lawyer, Judge Barnaby agreed to recess. However--he counseled Thaddeus--they would resume no later than one hour from now. If Thaddeus had no further witnesses to call by then they would move to closing arguments and jury instructions.

  Thaddeus went to the hallway at recess and called the U.S. Attorney's office. After being jacked around and switched off here and there, he at last was turned over to Melissa McGrant. She was the last person who'd had anything to do with Thaddeus. She was short and rude when he asked whether the records custodian was on the way to court.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Murfee," she said. "I haven't seen any subpoena duces tecum directed to any records custodian. I'm afraid you've got the wrong office. I'm hanging up now."

  "No, no, no! I served the subpoena last week by mail."

  "Mail isn't service. You need a marshal or process server to serve it on the U.S. Attorney or the manager of this office. Did you read the local rules? The FRCP? Do you even pay attention to the law, Mr. Murfee? Or are we all supposed to just jump in and help you out anytime you need it just because you're a nice guy. Well, you're not a nice guy and that will not be happening. Goodbye now, Mr. Murfee."

  The phone line went dead.

  Thaddeus checked his watch. Fifty minutes before trial was to resume. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. What to do?

  Inspiration struck when he was considering how else he might obtain the files from Broyles' folder. He rushed down to the cafeteria and began typing furiously. When he was satisfied, he took his laptop upstairs and asked the clerk's office if they would allow him on the network to print his motion. After much hemming and hawing--but learning he was counsel of record of an ongoing trial--they agreed and the motion was printed. At the same time, it was filed with the court electronically. Thaddeus thanked the clerks who had pitched in. He ran back upstairs to Barnaby’s courtroom. He re-read his work several times then went into the office of the judge's secretary. He handed her a courtesy copy of the motion for Judge Barnaby. She glanced it over and almost immediately began shaking her head.

  "What?" he asked.

  Her name was Linda and she controlled the office with an iron hand.

  "Judge isn't going to grant this. You're asking the court to give you access to the U.S. Attorney's network. Judge Barnaby would never do that, Mr. Murfee. You need to do better than this."

  A half hour later, the motion was heard in Judge Barnaby's chambers. Anderson, Thaddeus, and Matheson attended, along with the judge and his clerk. The court reporter rolled new paper into her machine and made ready.

  Judge Barnaby slowly read the motion. He began shaking his head not ten lines into it. He scanned over the remaining two pages.

  "The Court cannot do this, Mr. Murfee," said the judge. "It would jeopardize the government's entire computer system."

  "What can I do to get at those files, Your Honor?" Thaddeus asked. "I sent a subpoena to the U.S. Attorney's records custodian but Ms. McGrant now tells me the service was improper. I--"

  "Hold it right there, Mr. Murfee. The court is getting the feeling that we've come to a place in your inexperience where you're now asking the court to sweep up after you. You're asking me to clean up the mess you made by your inadequate service of process. I cannot and will not do that for you, Mr. Murfee. The subpoena and the necessary documents--those are issues that should have been worked out long before trial began. For the life of me I cannot begin to imagine how you could come to try this case without first acquiring these documents anyway, given what you say there are in this motion. They were far too important to put off until the last day of the defendant's case. Very poor work, sir. So the motion is denied. We'll go back in the courtroom and begin jury instructions now, gentlemen, unless Mr. Murfee has any other evidence or witnesses we need to hear."

  "I don't have any other witnesses. And the evidence I need is on the new U.S. Attorney's file server. It's that simple."

  "Can't help you there, Mr. Murfee," the judge said with a hint of glee creeping into his voice. "We stand in recess."

  The court reporter sat upright and began scanning back over her tape. However, bef
ore anyone could leave, Thaddeus spoke up, angrily this time.

  "Judge, my client's very life depends on me doing this case correctly. So far I've made lots of mistakes. But we've been able to clean those up, Mr. Matheson and I. This latest problem is definitely my fault too, but I'm begging the court not to hold it against my client Frank Broyles. He didn't create this situation and he was probably wrong in hiring me to defend him. But his error in judgment shouldn't get him executed or imprisoned for life."

  "And?"

  "So I would ask the court to continue the trial until tomorrow morning. Just give me that much time to figure out how to get the documents I need. Maybe there's another way and I'm missing it."

  "Your Honor," Matheson said, leaning forward in his chair and speaking to the judge as if to an old friend, "Mr. Murfee is correct. It would be inappropriate and maybe require reversal on appeal for the court not to grant this brief continuance so Mr. Murfee can lay hands on the files he needs. If this case does require an appeal, I will be pursuing that. I'm confident I can not only get you overturned on this one issue alone, but I'm also confident I can talk the Court of Appeals into censuring you for not making this simple accommodation. I would urge the court to use its best judgment right now."

  Judge Barnaby put his hands together and squeezed.

  "My thoughts exactly, Mr. Matheson," Barnaby suddenly said, seizing on the warning he'd just been given. "Trial is recessed until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Anything further?"

  Thaddeus shot a look at Matheson. "Thank you," he mouthed. Matheson looked away.

  "Then get out of here and let me get some work done. You gentlemen are dismissed."

  Thaddeus headed for the door.

  "Mr. Murfee," the judge called to him before he could escape. "Lockup waived this afternoon, but expect to find yourself back in jail tomorrow after court concludes. Don't plan on going to the Bahamas after you win your case."

  Thaddeus didn't bother to respond. The tone was insulting and the reference to a trial win was sarcastic.

  Out the door he went, followed close behind by Matheson and Ollie Anderson.

  Once outside, Thaddeus spun around and faced Anderson head-on.

  "Ollie, I need those records."

  Ollie looked puzzled. "What is it exactly you're after?"

  "Frank Broyles’ files off the U.S. Attorney's server."

  Ollie bit his lower lip. He checked his wristwatch.

  "I'll see what I can do," he said softly.

  Thaddeus wanted to hug the man, but restrained himself.

  "Oh, my God, thank you," he said. "You don't know how much--"

  Ollie spun around just as he was leaving.

  "Thaddeus, I do too know. We were all idiots once. Right, Matt?"

  Matheson could only nod.

  "Were we ever," he finally managed. "And I was the biggest idiot of them all."

  Ollie smiled. "You said it, not me."

  29

  Matheson had made an empty office available for Thaddeus' use once he was onboard. Thaddeus furnished it with a second-hand card table and three second-hand chairs that were unrelated to each other. In short, it was a mishmash.

  Three hours into the afternoon Thaddeus was panicking. A solution to acquiring the Broyles files hadn't announced itself to him. And it was getting dusky outside. Offices all over D.C. would be closing for the day in less than one hour, including the office of the U.S. Attorney. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he tried to force strategies onto the problem. Then he sat back and closed his eyes, imagining himself stealing into his old office at the U.S. Attorney's and making off with the files. But that wasn't going to happen, he realized with a start. Like Broyles, he no longer worked there. Like Broyles, he no longer had access to the network.

  He was sitting at his table drumming his fingers on the flimsy top when Matheson's receptionist leaned in his door.

  "Thaddeus. You have a visitor."

  "Who?"

  "Unknown. Young woman."

  "Please show her in."

  He'd seen her around the U.S. Attorney's office. She was generally in the company of a young male paralegal either coming from or going to lunch. They were inseparable and Thaddeus had once noticed how happy they appeared.

  She came strolling in and took a seat across from Thaddeus without being asked.

  "Ollie sent me. He says this meeting never took place. I'm to give you this. She opened her hand and there was a silver key. She moved her hand to the middle of the table and turned it over. The key fell to the quilted-vinyl table top.

  "What is it to?" he wanted to know.

  "Bus station. Locker number's on the key. Goodbye."

  "Wait. Please, what is it?"

  She shrugged. "Need to know. I'm not on that list."

  "Well, thanks."

  "One more thing, Mr. Murfee."

  "What?"

  "Ollie said to say, they are following you."

  "Who is following me?"

  "Sorry. Need to know."

  "That's all he said about it?"

  "Goodbye, Mr. Murfee."

  "Goodbye. Please tell Ollie I said thanks."

  "Tell who?"

  He almost answered, then realized. This was the way it was done.

  Thaddeus rode downstairs to the parking garage. His Vespa was parked in a slot that wasn't really a parking place but was a small island between the last car and the wall. Inserting the bike key, he fired it up and lifted his feet.

  Up the ramp he rode, stopping at the pay arm to pass three dollars to the gatekeeper.

  He played her words in his head: Ollie said to say, they are following you.

  But who was "they?" Bottom line, it really didn't matter. He had the key and he was headed to the bus station and whoever might be following him was about to discover the real advantage of Vespa scooters. He ramped onto the freeway and joined stop-and-go traffic. With a simple turn of the handlebars he edged the bike into a position where he was suddenly moving forward between two lanes of stopped traffic. He turned the grip, accelerating even faster as he took a quick glance in the rearview mirror and confirmed: there was no one behind him on a similar rig. Which meant that whoever was following him had just been ditched. They sure as hell wouldn't be following him down this non-existent lane of traffic, he told himself. So that part was taken care of.

  He came flying up New York Avenue and headed south to Union Station. Parking up next to the entrance in a designated motorcycle area, Thaddeus hurried inside the building. He pulled the silver key from his pocket and noted the locker number. 239E. By passing the 100's and making his way to the lockers in the 200's, Thaddeus became aware of a few men wearing black suits scattered through the milling crowd of people. It seemed--could it be?--they were watching him. But he decided that was paranoia and headed for 239. He realized, as he came upon a man with folded arms lingering at the 200 row of lockers, that it wasn't paranoia at all. The man looked him over and began coming up to him. Thaddeus abruptly spun on his heel and retraced his steps. He made it back outside the main doors, trying his best to melt away into the crowd of commuters leaving the building.

  Then he was on his scooter and fleeing through the parking lot. Headlights bounced in behind him. He turned right at the row of parked cars and the headlights followed. He randomly turned left at the next row and sped up. The headlights did likewise, keeping tight on his trail. Then he realized. The headlights were close-set; in the early night light he looked again. It was a motorcycle and it was closing on him.

  He panicked and made a run for it. Back out onto Massachusetts Avenue he blasted, giving his Vespa all the gas it would take. But it was useless. The motorcycle stayed right there. He ramped onto New Jersey Avenue and began filtering through the stop-and-go lines of traffic. The bike stayed right on him.

  Pulling back into the underground parking at Mathewson's building, Thaddeus saw the motorcycle break away, pull on up to the next corner, then sit off to the side, engine idling. I
t was the last he saw of his pursuer as he ducked underground and flew off to his parking slot beside the elevators. Back upstairs he went, closing his eyes and consciously trying to slow his racing heart. The office was locked but Matheson had kindly provided a key. Thaddeus let himself inside and went back into his office, where he flopped into his folding chair. A yellow message was centered on his desk. He picked it up.

  Call Nikki. She's home.

  Thaddeus couldn't punch her digits into his phone fast enough.

  She picked up on the first buzz.

  "Thaddeus!" she cried. "I had to come. I've withdrawn from school and I'm ready to help my dad's case. Just tell me what to do."

  "Nikki, thank God you called. I really need your help with a project tonight."

  "Just say when and where."

  "Come to Matheson's building. Do you know where it is?"

  She said she didn't; he gave instructions. She was to come to the building and meet him downstairs in the Oxbow Restaurant. She said to give her thirty and she'd be there.

  He ended the call and sat back. Whoever was following--the FBI probably--was onto him, was onto Morrissey, and probably onto any and every one Thaddeus had involved in the case. But Nikki was an unknown. She had been away at school. He hoped upon hope: they would never see her coming.

  Thirty minutes later, she walked into the Oxbow wearing jeans, a tan sweatshirt that said Redskins, and a black beret. No one came in after her. They hugged and she slid into the booth next to him.

  "So," she said, turning to him, "how are we doing? Are we winning?"

  He couldn't resist. For one, he was so glad to have someone step up to help him; but more than that, he was really glad to see Nikki. It had come to that, his thoughts of her, the pain of extricating himself from her life when it would have been wrong to stay entwined. Whatever; he was damn glad to see her. He leaned forward and met her lips with his. Neither made an effort to draw apart, even after several moments.

  Then Thaddeus pulled back.

  "First we have to save your dad. Then we'll talk. Here," he said, and he handed her the key from Ollie. "I need you to go to Union Station and bring back whatever's in this locker."

  She took the key.