by Rick Pullen
Ford Patten needed a way out. No scandal was sabotaging his shot at the presidency. The Democrats were already threatening impeachment if Bayard became the next vice president, and the ticket was starting to lose traction in the opinion polls. Patten had an eight-point lead before the scandal broke, but now he was just four points ahead in one poll and two ahead in another. A third even had him in a dead heat. And he had just weeks left before Election Day.
But Bayard wouldn’t budge. He went on Fox News and denounced the news media for liberal bias. “I’ve done nothing wrong. The voters have spoken,” Bayard said. “The liberal media don’t like it that a majority of Americans will elect Ford Patten as their next president.”
Patten watched the interview on the television in his Cleveland hotel room as he readied to tour a roller bearing plant and then make an appearance at a campaign barbecue near the small town of Bucyrus. By the end, he was fuming. Bayard had kidnapped his campaign.
“That ass has got to go,” he told his campaign manager. “I never liked the jerk. I wish I hadn’t needed New Jersey. I should have just picked the woman from Florida for my running mate. We need a way out of this.”
“Tell him privately that, if he does not resign, you will take the nuclear option and call for his resignation and a full-scale investigation,” said his manager. “Tell him we will pull whatever strings necessary to ensure he keeps his senate committee chairmanship as long as he pulls out.”
“We’ve got two days then to get it done. You call him. Tell him we won’t go public with his resignation until after the hearing about the source of his scandal story. Maybe somehow, that hearing will save his ass. I can’t see how, but we owe him that much. We must wait to be sure.” “We need to vet a replacement quickly.”
“I’ll take care of that personally,” Patten said. “It’s time I started making some calls.”
“We can announce a replacement on Monday. That will give us a two-week campaign. We will poll voters about the effect of a new vice presidential candidate. Thank god most people don’t care.”
Patten shook his head and placed his hands on his hips. “They care enough that my lead in the polls has shrunk. We’ve got a lot of repair work to do and little time to do it.”
53
Beck stuffed the burner phone in his coat pocket. He took Fahy’s advice to heart and now carried it with him everywhere. As he prepared to leave his condo for work, he felt the rumbling vibration in his breast pocket and heard the familiar buzz.
“Listen carefully,” said Fahy. “No matter what I ask you about your source tomorrow, deny it. Got that?”
“Deny it,” Beck repeated.
“That’s right.” Fahy’s voice was stern.
“Okay. Can you tell me why?” Beck felt uneasy.
“No, but be very, very careful. Pay attention. Ask me to repeat a question if you’re not sure what to say, and stall if you need to. Remember, you are not in a hurry. Think before you speak. Speak slowly and deliberately. That will give you a little more time to think.”
“What happened? Why are you prosecuting the leak?”
“I managed to slip the information about Oliver into the judge’s secretary’s in-basket the day before the hearing while she was in the ladies’ room. As head of the public integrity section, however, I should have realized he would hand the case to me. But he didn’t say anything until the session before the bench, which you saw. I was caught off guard when he appointed me to prosecute. My error. I should have set it up better. My only excuse is I had too little time.”
“What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“Can’t talk now. Stick with me, kid. Remember. Deliberate. Talk slow. Think it through. Stall if you need time to think. And number one:
deny everything—every accusation against you. Deny it ever happened. Even the smallest detail.”
The phone went dead. Beck was confused. Exactly what was he supposed to deny? He was more determined than ever to get back in the fight on his own terms. He hated being a pawn in a game of chess between two lawyers. But at least Fahy’s advice gave him a smattering of hope.
THE MEDIA AGAIN GATHERED outside the federal courthouse. As Beck stepped out of the cab, they pounced. It felt like a television perp walk, but he had not been arrested—at least not yet—and he hadn’t done anything wrong, at least in his mind.
The reporters yelled over one another with outreached hands, extending microphones in Beck’s direction and trying to get his attention and comments. Curtiss, the Walrus, fended them off. Fortunately, he used his mass again and easily pressed his way through the crowd, and Beck and his editors followed. Beck laughed, envisioning Moses parting the Red Sea, as the swarm of reporters and cameramen jostled Curtiss and Beck but allowed them all to pass.
The commotion stopped as soon as they stepped through the federal courthouse door. Baker closed it behind them, and there was silence. The lawyers, clerks, and paralegals standing in the lobby looked up to see what the tempest outside was about. Embarrassed, Beck felt the weight of everyone’s gaze. They made their way through security and the awkward stillness toward the elevators that led to the courtroom.
As soon as the judge gaveled the closed hearing to order, Curtiss asked that the subpoena be quashed and the case be thrown out.
Judge Savage’s expression said otherwise. “Mr. Curtiss, this hearing is about a government employee possibly giving classified information to Mr. Rikki. Your arguments bear no consequence on the merits of this case. We will proceed.”
Fahy called Beck Rikki as his first witness. The silence of the room roared through Beck’s head as he rose from the table and walked awkwardly toward the witness chair. He raised his right hand to be sworn in as the room whirled around him like a carousel. He took his seat, then watched Fahy fumble with some manila folders strewn across the prosecutor’s table.
“Mr. Fahy?” Judge Savage appeared eager to begin. Fahy still stood with his head down, leaning over his table and juggling papers.
“Mr. Fahy?”
Fahy turned. “Sorry, Your Honor.” “Are you ready to begin?” “Yes, Your Honor.”
Dressed in a charcoal-gray power suit, white shirt, and red tie, Fahy approached Beck. Beck was dressed almost identically. It was only the second time he had worn a tie since the party at Ellen Elizabeth’s, when he met Geneva.
“Mr. Rikki,” Fahy said, “I don’t want to insult you. So I’ll just ask. Will you reveal your source inside the Justice Department?” “I never said I had a source in the Justice Department.” Beck saw the corners of Fahy’s mouth turn upward slightly. “You didn’t?” “No. I didn’t. You did.”
“Then how did you come to know about the Justice Department probe into Senator Bayard’s finances?” “A source told me.”
“But not someone in the Justice Department?”
“I never said I had a source in the Justice Department. I never said I didn’t.” Beck grinned. He was getting the hang of this. He slumped slowly in the witness chair, beginning to relax.
“Are you denying you have a source in the Justice Department?”
“No, sir. Nor am I confirming it. If I were to tell you my source is in the Justice Department that would only help you track down my source. If I were to tell you my source is outside the Justice Department, that too would help you track down my source. I promised my source that if he— or she or it, for that matter—told me the truth about Senator Bayard, I would never reveal his or her or its identity. I plan to stick to that promise.” Beck felt he got a bit carried away with his answer, but it felt good to take the reins again, even if only for a moment.
“No further questions at this time, Your Honor. I reserve the right to recall the witness.”
“Mr. Curtiss, do you wish to question your client?” asked Judge Savage.
“Yes, Your Honor.” He stood and lumbered across the room to within a few feet of Beck.
“Now, Mr. Rikki, you’ve been accused of receiving classified information from a Justice
Department employee. Just what classified information did you receive?”
“None that I’m aware of. And I never said I received any from a Justice Department employee.”
Curtiss smiled. “Did you ever publish any classified information involving the Lamurr Pentagon bid on unmanned aircraft—so-called drones, if you will?”
“I not only never published any, I’ve never seen any.”
“So if you’ve never received or published any information the federal government deems classified, why are you here?”
“I have no idea.” Beck appreciated the way Curtiss was positioning his questions to make his case.
Curtiss looked at Judge Savage.
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Curtiss,” the judge said. “Now move
on.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.” “Very well. Next witness, Mr. Fahy.”
Beck looked at the judge. That was it? Judge Savage, sensing his confusion, nodded to him and said softly, “You may step down and return to your seat.”
Just like that, Beck’s part of the performance was over. His adrenaline rush dissipated. He slowly rose from the witness chair and stepped gingerly down from his stage. His ankle gave way, and he stumbled slightly before recovering. It was okay. He had no audience.
The walk to the defendant’s table seemed to last forever as he reviewed his performance in his head. He was quite pleased with himself.
Then he heard Fahy call out to the court, “The prosecution calls Mr. Casper Agee.”
Beck sat in his chair next to Curtiss at the defense table and tried to refocus. Everything seemed to be swirling around while he was locked in place.
A bailiff led the aging Grand Cayman real estate agent through a side door. Agee eased into the witness chair and was sworn in. He stroked his bald head and wild fringe and looked toward Fahy, awaiting his questions. Beck remembered their encounter in Grand Cayman and thought it odd Fahy would bring this forgetful old man to Washington as a witness.
Fahy told Agee to identify himself for the record. Agee did and then explained how he met Beck in Grand Cayman a month ago when he visited his office and asked about real estate.
“What did you tell Mr. Rikki?”
“He asked about Mr. Bayard’s property. I told him it was leased by Sunrise Marshall—no—Sunrise Mabel. No, that’s not right. Excuse me. It was Sunrise Meridian. He said he and his wife were interested in renting the place on the ocean. I told him there was a long-term lease on the property, but he wanted to look into leasing it anyway, so I sent him to Mr. Kincaid—excuse me—Mr. Kindred, the attorney who handles the lease. Sorry, at my age the names sometimes slip through the cracks.”
“What is Sunrise Meridian?”
“It’s a development company on Cayman island. Bought a lot of property and sold a lot of it to Mr. Bayard.” “And you told Mr. Rikki that?”
“If I remember correctly, he already knew,” continued Agee. “Mr. Rikki had looked at land records before we ever met. That’s right. He asked about the oceanfront house, a condo, a shopping center where
Mr. Kindred’s office is located and—what else—oh, some acreage at the other end of the island.”
“A development owned by Mr. Bayard?”
“I believe so. That’s right.”
“Mr. Kindred’s office. It’s located in the shopping center owned by Senator Bayard?”
“Yes. Mr. Kindred was also the attorney for Mr. Bayard and Sunrise Meridian.”
“How so?”
“I think he incorporated both. Oh, not Mr. Bayard. Mr. Kindred incorporated Mr. Bayard’s company, Jersey Shore Ltd.”
Fahy stepped back to his table to review his notes. He picked up a piece of paper.
“Mr. Fahy?” Judge Savage asked.
“One moment, if you please, Your Honor.”
“We haven’t got all day.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Beck watched Fahy. He couldn’t make out what he was up to or why he had called Agee as a witness. Beck couldn’t fathom what evidence Agee had that Fahy wanted so desperately that he would fly the old man nearly two thousand miles to Washington.
Fahy turned back and crossed the expansive courtroom to within five feet of Agee, this time with a piece of paper in his hand.
“Did you talk with anyone else about Mr. Bayard’s property?”
“There was this guy. He said he was from the FBI. He had a lot of questions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Agee. No further questions.” Fahy quickly sat down.
Beck was surprised the FBI had been in Grand Cayman. He had suspected it after the murder, but not before.
Curtiss leaped to his feet. “Mr. Agee. You said you talked with an FBI agent. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And this FBI agent talked to you about Senator Bayard’s property?”
“That’s right, he did.”
“Did he mention the government was investigating Senator Bayard?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he did. I thought the investigation was all about Mr. Oliver. You know, that Justice Department fella. But I later realized it was an investigation of Mr. Bayard. You see, Mr. Oliver and Mr. Kindred, the lawyer for everybody, are brothers.”
“You’re talking about Mr. Jackson Oliver of the US Justice Department?”
“I believe I am.”
“And his brother handled all of Mr. Bayard’s Grand Cayman real estate deals?”
“I do believe so. Yes.”
“Did you and Mr. Rikki ever discuss Mr. Oliver?”
“I think so, but I’m not really sure. You see, I got Mr. Oliver and Mr. Bayard mixed up.”
“But you did mention the FBI investigation to Mr. Rikki when the two of you talked?”
“I believe I did.”
“So Mr. Rikki learned about the government’s investigation of Senator Bayard from you? Is that correct?”
“Well, I do believe so. We discussed it.”
Beck couldn’t believe his ears. They hadn’t discussed the FBI. Where was this guy coming from?
Curtiss faced the judge. “Your Honor, it’s clear from this testimony that word of the investigation leaked out as part of an FBI investigation. There is nothing sinister here. My client got the information, not from a government employee, but from doing his job as a reporter and talking with a citizen of Grand Cayman island. In light of these facts, I would ask the court to dismiss the subpoena for Mr. Rikki’s source.”
Wow, thought Beck. Curtiss ain’t so bad after all.
Judge Savage sat in silence. He looked at Fahy and back at Curtiss, then stared at Agee. Finally, he lowered his reading glasses from his forehead and glanced down at the paperwork in front of him. Savage sighed and shook his head.
This was taking forever, Beck thought.
“The court must agree with Mr. Curtiss,” the judge finally said. “There is ample evidence from Mr. Agee’s testimony to refute the government’s assertion that someone employed by the Justice Department leaked information—classified or otherwise—to Mr. Rikki.”
The judge paused again. Finally, he looked directly at Beck. “Mr. Rikki, you have my profound apology that you’ve been put through this judicial and media circus.” Savage waved his arm in the air as he spoke, as if pointing to the reporters standing outside the courthouse. “The Justice Department should have had enough trust in its own employees, or at least have done some due diligence, before assuming one of its own would break the law and give information to you about an investigation. There is no evidence to prove the disclosure of the government investigation ever came from a Justice Department employee—an employee sworn to keep the status of such investigations privileged. Mr. Rikki, you are free to go. This hearing is adjourned.”
Beck breathed an audible sigh and slumped in his chair. His long national nightmare was over. This was a better-than-sex moment—the feeling he got when he finally published a major investigative piece. Then he leaped to his feet
and grabbed Curtiss’s hand and shook it hard. He looked over his shoulder at Fahy, who busied himself filling his briefcase with papers, not looking Beck’s way.
Nancy reached over from the bar from the visitors’ section and slapped Beck on the back. “Way to go, champ.” They eyed each other a moment longer than normal. It was an acknowledgment. Only three people knew the truth, and all stood in this room. Fahy had pulled it off, and Beck was elated.
Baker triumphantly nodded to him, the unlit brown cigarette in his hand gesturing congratulations.
“Excuse us for a moment,” Curtiss said to Baker and Nancy. “I need to confer with my client.” He grabbed Beck by the arm. “This way.”
He pushed Beck through a doorway at the side of the courtroom and into an empty witness holding room. Then he closed the door, dropped his briefcase on the table with a deliberate thud, and turned to Beck. “Now, if I was a law professor—which I’m not—and I saw what I just witnessed in any moot courtroom in any law school in America— which this was not—you know what I’d do?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Beck replied.
“I’d flunk the goddamn prosecutor.”
“Really?”
“Now how does a prosecutor with as much courtroom success as Mr. Fahy screw up a case so badly?”
“He did? I thought he was doing fine.” Beck suddenly felt dread. Curtiss must be on to them.
“Fahy served up Agee on a silver fuckin’ platter. It’s as if he wanted to lose this case. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s exactly what he wanted. Now why do you think a prosecutor would do such a thing?”
“Beats me. Did he have a weak case? I don’t know the law.” Holy shit. He’s figured out what just happened, thought Beck.
“I’m sure you don’t. And it’s a good thing too. Because if someone aided someone who intentionally lost this case, that would be obstruction of justice. You know what that is?”
“Not really.”
“That’s some real deep shit that person would be standing in. That would make one helluva story for the Post-Examiner. Know what I mean?”
“You’ve lost me.” Beck was beginning to feel panicky.
