Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  “Then you don’t have any privilege that makes your conversations confidential.”

  “What’s your next question?”

  “I can get a subpoena.”

  “Do what you have to do, Agent Evans.”

  Evans could see that Hawkins wasn’t going to cave in, so he moved on.

  “Where did you go after you left the safe house?”

  “You know, you should be looking at Senator Gaylord and her people.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Agent Evans. Our little exchange before you told me you were working for Kineer revealed that I knew about the Ripper’s MO and would be able to fake a copycat killing, as suggested by the story in Exposed. I’m guessing that Gaylord’s people had the same information and an excellent motive to get rid of Walsh to keep her from testifying that Gaylord put her up to her stunt at the farm.”

  “That’s interesting. I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you.”

  “Now, if there’s nothing else…”

  “Actually I did have one more thing I wanted to ask you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Chicago.”

  “What about Chicago?” Hawkins asked cautiously.

  “Did you bring Charlotte Walsh to see the president in Chicago or was it another member of your staff?”

  All emotion vanished from Hawkins’s features. One moment Evans had been talking to a human being and the next moment he was standing opposite a machine.

  “It’s been nice talking to you,” Hawkins said. “Tell the members of the Ripper Task Force that they did a great job and the president appreciates it.”

  Hawkins turned his back on the agent and walked away. Evans watched him disappear before strolling over to the members of the press corps who were still around. He’d spotted Harold Whitehead earlier. Whitehead worked for the Washington Post, and they’d run into each other several times since Evans moved to D.C. The reporter was in his early sixties, and he’d been working in the newspaper business before the big corporations and twenty-four-hour news channels had converted the news from information to entertainment, as he constantly reminded people. Early in his career, he’d reported from war zones and visited the scenes of disasters, but a bad hip and a serious heart attack had ended his globe-trotting days and landed him on the political beat.

  “I hear you’re working with Kineer at the independent counsel,” Harry said.

  “You hear correctly,” Evans answered as the men shook hands.

  “So, did Farrington off the coed?”

  “As soon as I find out, you’ll be the first to know. Are you up for a beer?”

  “Always,” Whitehead said as he eyed Evans suspiciously. Reporters sought out heads of serial killer task forces and the right-hand men of independent counsels, not vice versa.

  “You know The Schooner in Adams Morgan?” Evans asked.

  “Sure.”

  “See you there.”

  During the drive from the White House to the bar, Evans thought about Maggie Sparks. While he’d waited with her for the ambulance, Evans realized that she meant a lot to him. He’d thought about all the reasons he’d given himself for not trying to get to know her better and he’d decided that none of them made sense. He vowed that he would find out how she felt about him when he had some time to breathe.

  The Adams Morgan section of Washington was funky and crowded with jazz nightclubs, pizza parlors, Ethiopian restaurants, and bars. While many of the local bars catered to young professionals or college kids, the clientele of The Schooner were laborers, firefighters, cops, and gentlemen who were between jobs. Evans arrived at the bar at ten past two. Harold had beaten him by twelve minutes, and the agent found the reporter nursing a beer in a booth in the back.

  “Okay, Keith, what’s this about?”

  “Can’t a guy buy another guy a beer without a hidden agenda?”

  “You’re an underpaid government employee, Evans, and you’ve got alimony payments. You don’t make enough money to treat me to a beer.”

  “Sad but true.”

  “So?”

  “We’re off the record or you don’t get your beer.”

  “Prick.”

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Whitehead answered grudgingly.

  “It’s Charles Hawkins. I want to know as much as you can tell me about him.”

  “What’s your interest in the Farringtons’ attack dog?”

  “We’re trying to figure out what happened on the evening Charlotte Walsh was killed. I asked Hawkins about it and I got nowhere. We know he was at the farmhouse after Walsh left, but he won’t tell me anything. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “A very dangerous guy, according to the rumors. A former army Ranger with combat experience.”

  “You called him ‘the Farringtons’ attack dog.’”

  Whitehead nodded. “Hawkins is completely dedicated to the Farringtons. There’s nothing he won’t do for them. He’s like those knights of the Round Table, totally devoted to the king and queen. Hawkins could have turned his relationship with the president to his advantage, but I’ve never heard a hint that he’s made a penny off of it. I think he would consider it dishonorable.”

  “Now that you mention it, he doesn’t dress for success like some of the other movers and shakers I’ve met.”

  “His relationship with the Farringtons makes Hawkins one of the most influential men in Washington, but you’d never guess the power he wields by looking at him. He buys his suits off the rack, doesn’t wear a Rolex like every other Washington player, and still drives a Volvo he bought before Farrington became governor of Oregon.”

  “How did Hawkins and the president meet?”

  “They both went to Oregon State. The president was the star of a basketball team that made it to the Sweet Sixteen. Hawkins played, too, but he rode the bench most of the time. They both excelled in the classroom, but, from what I hear, Hawkins was a plodder while academics came naturally to Farrington. The biggest difference between the two was self-confidence, which Farrington had in spades and Hawkins lacked. The people who knew them at OSU told me that Farrington had a clear vision of his future, but Hawkins had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, so he enlisted in the army.”

  “I remember reading somewhere that Claire Farrington went to OSU, too.”

  “Hawkins met her there. She was a star on the volleyball team. They started dating their senior year. Claire had met the president when she and Chuck double-dated with him. She and Farrington lost touch after college. During his second year in law school, Farrington ran into Claire at a party hosted by an intern at the medical school where she was studying. By the time Hawkins left the army, Claire and Christopher were an item.”

  “Was he angry when he learned that Farrington had stolen his girl?”

  “Hawkins had bigger problems when he left the military. He was wounded in action, and he returned to Portland depressed and hooked on painkillers. The only people who cared about him were Claire and Christopher. Claire got him into rehab and helped him recover. Christopher represented him for free when he had legal problems with the VA. When Hawkins got out of rehab, Farrington asked him to work on his state senate campaign and to be his best man. From what I hear, Hawkins wasn’t bitter that Farrington ended up with his girl.”

  “Did Hawkins ever marry?”

  “No. You see him with women from time to time at fund-raisers or parties but the rumors are that Claire was the love of his life.”

  “Sounds a little sad, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for Hawkins. He’s got no morals where the Farringtons are concerned. The guy’s got a screw loose if you ask me.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Good morning, Brad,” Susan Tuchman said.

  “Good morning,” Brad answered nervously as he took a seat opposite his nemesis. The Dragon Lady was dressed in a black pants suit and black tu
rtleneck and looked the way a supervillain in a comic book would look if her secret identity was a senior partner in a really big law firm.

  “I’m getting very good reports about your work,” Tuchman told him with a smile that was intended to lull Brad into a false sense of security. “I hear you’re burning the midnight oil and producing high-quality research.”

  “Thank you,” Brad answered as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

  Tuchman leaned forward and smiled brightly. “I hope you don’t feel that we’re overworking you.”

  “No. I expected to work hard when I was hired.” Brad forced a smile. “That’s what associates are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes indeed. That’s why you get the big bucks right out of school when you really don’t know anything about the practice of law. But it looks like you’re earning your pay. I hear that you’re working so hard that you caught up with your caseload.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve caught up,” Brad said, terrified that Tuchman was about to assign him another huge project. “I’ve just made a dent in it.”

  “Enough of a dent to spend Sunday in the countryside,” Tuchman said calmly. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, Brad. Remind me; didn’t I specifically order you to have no further involvement in the Clarence Little case?”

  “Yes.”

  Tuchman leaned back and examined Brad like a bug collector trying to figure out the best place to stick the next pin into a truly pathetic specimen.

  “Have you heard of Kendall, Barrett and Van Kirk?”

  “It’s a big firm in Washington, D.C., isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is. I received a disturbing call from Morton Rickstein. He’s a senior partner at Kendall, Barrett and a good friend. We defended an antitrust suit several years back and got to know each other very well. Anyway, Mort called me this morning. It seems a client of the firm called him. A Marsha Erickson. Do you know who she is?”

  “Yes,” Brad answered as his heart dropped into his shoe.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t she the mother of the young woman Clarence Little was convicted of killing?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was a witness in the case, wasn’t she?”

  Brad was tired of being the victim in Tuchman’s game of cat and mouse, so he just nodded.

  “According to Mort, Mrs. Erickson was very upset, Brad. No, let me be accurate here. Mort said she was very, very upset. It seems an associate from this law firm came to her house and harassed her Sunday afternoon.”

  “I didn’t harass her. I just asked her a few questions. I didn’t know she’d get so excited.”

  Tuchman looked confused. “Let me make sure I understand your position. You don’t think that dredging up the memory of a murdered child on a Sunday morning-just showing up unannounced, out of the blue, and reminding Mrs. Erickson that her lovely daughter was horribly tortured to death-you didn’t think that would upset her?”

  “Well I knew it was possible, but I-”

  Tuchman held up her hand. She wasn’t smiling now. “So you admit that you are the associate who caused Mrs. Erickson so much pain that she called her attorney in Washington, D.C., to complain?”

  “I went out there, but-”

  “Stop. I don’t need to know any more. You were under specific orders from me to cease and desist from any involvement in the Little case. By your own admission you questioned a witness in the case this Sunday. I am very disappointed in you, Brad, and, as much as it grieves me, I will be forced to discuss this matter at the next partners’ meeting.”

  “Ms. Tuchman, you can fire me if you want to, but you should know why I’ve been pursuing the Little case even after you told me to stop. If you’re going to complain about me to the partners you should know all of the facts.”

  Tuchman leaned back and made a steeple of her fingers. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Okay, well, this is going to sound crazy-well, not crazy but hard to believe-but I’m convinced there’s something to it.”

  “You might want to get to the point, Mr. Miller. I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.”

  “Okay, right. I don’t think Clarence Little killed Laurie Erickson. I think the killer used his MO to make everyone think Little murdered her. I also think the same murderer pulled the same stunt in Washington, D.C. There was a murder there recently. You probably know about it. It’s all over the news. Charlotte Walsh was having an affair with President Farrington and the police think the D.C. Ripper murdered her shortly after Miss Walsh had sex with-”

  “Stop right there,” Tuchman said angrily. “You’re repeating unfounded rumors spread by a supermarket scandal sheet about someone who is a close personal friend.”

  Brad figured he had nothing to lose so he took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.

  “I know he’s your friend, but President Farrington may be involved with two murders. I think he was having sex with Laurie Erickson, and Mrs. Erickson was paid off to keep quiet about it. I think someone working for President Farrington murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh and used the MOs of local serial killers to throw the police off the track.”

  Tuchman didn’t look angry anymore. She looked dumbfounded.

  “I know you’re insubordinate, Mr. Miller, but I never suspected that you were also…Well, you’ve left me speechless. I don’t really know how to categorize your bizarre behavior.”

  “What about the independent counsel? The Congress thinks the president may have been involved in Walsh’s death.”

  “Correction, Mr. Miller, one of the two parties in Congress is accusing our president of immoral conduct, and that party doesn’t believe that Chris is guilty of anything. It believes that this witch hunt will help Maureen Gaylord win the presidency.”

  Tuchman’s face looked like a storm front had just crossed it. If she’d seen anything funny in Brad’s theories a moment ago she’d lost her sense of humor.

  “Now get this straight,” she said, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in Brad’s direction. “Your time with this firm is probably over, but you are not to spend what’s left of it spreading gossip about a great man. This firm will not aid and abet Maureen Gaylord’s shameless ploy. Do you hear me?”

  “I-”

  “I’ve wasted enough time. I have work to do. Our meeting is over. I will be in touch with you soon concerning your future with Reed, Briggs.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ginny asked.

  Brad shrugged. He’d walked to Ginny’s office as soon as he left Tuchman, and they were sitting in it with the door closed.

  “I’ve made some friends at other firms. Two of them helped me set up interviews, but I don’t know if anyone will hire me after they read the letters from Reed, Briggs about my job performance that Tuchman is going to write.”

  “Your job performance is excellent. Your problem is Susan Tuchman. She’s a narrow-minded bully.”

  “She’s also one of the most respected lawyers in Portland. I may have to give serious thought about going into some other profession, like shining shoes or running a supermarket checkout.”

  “You’ll be fine. Anyone who’s interviewing you will understand why you got a raw deal. You were fired for representing a client too zealously.”

  “By accusing the president of the United States of murder. You can bet that Tuchman will share that tidbit with any possible future employer who asks for a reference.”

  “You know, getting fired from Reed, Briggs might not be all that bad. You really don’t fit in here. You’re too nice. And you’re smart enough to get another job. I’ve made some friends, too. I’ll give them a call.”

  “Thanks.” Brad stood up. “I’m going back to my office and try to clear my desk so I can go home.”

  “You can stay with me tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Let me think about that. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready to leave.”

  Brad trudged down the hall to his
office with his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if he was expecting a blow. Rumors traveled fast at Reed, Briggs and he imagined that everyone he passed was waiting to whisper behind his back as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “Brad,” his secretary said as soon as she saw him.

  “Yeah, Sally?”

  “A woman has been calling. She says she wants to talk to you, but she won’t leave her name or a number.”

  “Did she say what it was about?”

  “No, she just said she’d call back.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone. In fact, hold all my calls.”

  Brad closed the door to his office, slumped on his chair, and looked at the mountain of work on his blotter. He knew it was his imagination, but the pile seemed higher than he remembered it being when he went to meet Susan Tuchman. Could files reproduce like rabbits? They certainly seemed to. He knew there was no end to them. Legal work spewed from the bowels of Reed, Briggs like rotten fruit from an evil horn of plenty. The only good thing about his situation was the strong odds that he would not be harvesting this paper crop for long. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe moving on was not a bad thing. He sighed. Good or bad, moving on was definitely in his future. For now, he had to get back to the fields if he wanted to keep getting the paychecks he needed for food and shelter.

  Brad walked home from the office because it was the only way he could get any exercise. His vow to work out several times a week had gone unfulfilled, buried under the Everest of paperwork Susan Tuchman had dumped on him. He wished he was walking to Ginny’s place, but he’d taken a rain check. He was so tired when he called it quits at the office that he didn’t have the energy for anything except sleep.

  Brad opened the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and dragged himself into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He paused for a moment in front of the refrigerator to watch a tanker churn its way down the Willamette River toward Swan Island. Brad loved his view, night or day. When sunset made Mount Hood and the Willamette disappear, the glow on the east side of the city and the lights on the slow-moving river traffic brought Brad a feeling of peace. This feeling suddenly changed to unease. Something was wrong. Brad squinted at the darkened living room and realized that part of the view was obscured by the silhouette of a head. He jumped back and grabbed a knife from the wooden holder on the kitchen counter.