by K. T. Tomb
“Remember last time?” Storm asked him, following a hunch. The young man nodded. Storm sat down and began perusing his file. The file had increased in size since the previous visit, though it did not contain anything more relevant. He cast a sideways glance at his client and saw something different about him. There was something different about his neck. He kept perusing the file and then kicked John under the table. John shouted out in pain. Storm shot up. Storm looked at the guards, but they simply grabbed the man and pulled him through the door again. “This interview is over.” The last guard through the door snapped at him.
In light of his recent experience on 895, on the drive back he took a massive detour via Washington itself and Philadelphia. He made sure to stick to busy roads and to never be out of sight of anything. He felt watched, just as much as he felt betrayed. What had happened was too strange for words. The man he was defending and whom he could not talk to, could talk. He had been assured the injuries had rendered it impossible for the man to talk and only his written statement could be brought before a jury. But this man could suddenly talk.
He still felt watched when he entered New York. But the feeling began to disappear as the traffic thickened on the roads of the huge metropolis. He ran his hand through his hair as he drove the car into the garage underneath his apartment building. And there it was again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He knew someone was watching him. Again.
He took the elevator up, dropped his bags and picked out some clean clothes. Then he called his office and dictated a press statement, to be released immediately.
“I, Storm McCoy, attorney at law, and defense lawyer of John Bainbridge, the man suspected of robbing the Federal Reserve Bank in New York City, have been denied proper access to my client. Furthermore, I have reason to believe the man introduced to me as John Bainbridge, is not, in fact, John Bainbridge.
The man who was introduced to me as John Bainbridge earlier this week had absolutely no ability to speak, where the man I met yesterday was capable of speaking. This fact comes on top of the prison management and staff actively preventing me from talking with my client in confidence. This is a grave breach of standard legal practice and forces me to conclude the authorities are actively trying to prevent John Bainbridge from being fairly tried for crime he may, or may not, have committed.
At present, a fair trial, with proper legal representation, is being denied, John Bainbridge. As his lawyer, I am filing a complaint against this. I am also appealing to the American public, as I am wholly confident this is not something they want to see. Under our laws, a man is still innocent until he is proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt. I am sure that whatever else, the citizens of these United States of America want to see justice done, rather than witnessing a fake trial, a show of justice put on for the camera.”
He told his secretary to send it as an open letter to the New York Times and the Washington Post as well. Then he went back to the place where it had all happened in the first place; Liberty Street.
He took to the street walking, wanting to be among the people. The streets of Manhattan were always busy enough, and he did not want to run the risk of being attacked again. It would be easier to spy on him in the crowd, but it would also be more difficult to make another attempt on his life.
When he arrived on the block, the first thing he did was look at the Federal Building entrance. It was still closed down. The bank had been moved to a single wing of the building, which had remained relatively unscathed. The rest of their operations had been relocated to other reserve banks. The damage was supposed to have been repaired months back, the president and Congress had both promised the funds and some building material had been moved to the site, but nothing had happened so far.
“It’s Katrina, all over,” he muttered, looking at the building. “Never get anything done, not with all the money in the world.”
“Been like this since the break-in,” a man remarked, stopping by his side. “I was here when it happened.”
“Like here, here?” Storm asked him, looking to his side. The man was shorter than him, with blonde hair and a thick, red nose. His clothes were disheveled, dirty and old. He obviously lived rough. “Because I was in the city, but not here.”
The bum nodded. “Yeah. Saw the whole thing happen. Funny thing.”
Storm frowned. “What’s funny about it?”
The man at his side shrugged. “There was a lot of activity. And I never saw anyone in that car that supposedly hit the place.”
“You mean, you didn’t see their faces?”
“No, I mean there was no driver.”
Storm’s eyes widened. It was a stroke of luck beyond belief that he had found this man and heard this. “You’re homeless?”
The man nodded.
Storm instantly reached for his pocket, drew out a notebook and his wallet. He wrote down his office address and gave it to the man. He also drew a hundred dollars out of his wallet and handed it to him. “If you’re willing to give testimony in court to that extent, I’ll put you up in my place in the Hamptons for a while. I’ll make sure my secretary helps you find some new clothes and keeps you well fed. Any medical treatment you need as well.”
The man took the money without a second thought. “Hamptons, eh?”
“If you want.”
The bum shrugged. “Sure. I’ll tell them what I saw. Be a change, nobody ever asks me anything anyway. I'm Ben Jones, by the way.”
Storm smiled and shook Ben's hand, “Storm McCoy.”
Having said his goodbyes to Ben and feeling slightly more confident about the case than he had, Storm turned around and made straight for his office. His encounter with the homeless man had gotten the gears in his head moving and now he felt like he was on a roll. He picked up his paperwork and climbed into the rental car, drove directly to Washington DC and checked into a hotel. He felt good. At least there was a chance now.
Chapter Seven
Storm McCoy had an informal meeting with the Supreme Court judge he had contacted about the case that afternoon.
The man was an old family friend and had always been more than willing to help Storm out with cases. He had invited Storm around to his home for a late lunch that day, when Storm had called him earlier. He had not been very accommodating in giving information then, but Storm hoped it would be different if they could talk face to face.
The judge’s home was on the outskirts of Washington DC, in one of the leafy suburbs where there were perfect lawns, no old cars or druggies, and nothing but smooth lawns behind white picket fences. His house was perfectly white, built in an old style and Storm was always impressed when he walked up to the house. He instinctively compared it to his Hamptons home and to the family home in upstate New York. It was not as old, but it was certainly impressive with its Victorian frontage behind the carefully maintained lawn.
Storm rang the doorbell and a butler opened the door, letting him into the wide hallway. He was brought through to the dining room, where a great spread of food was already on the table. Supreme Court Judge Tom Claridge was sitting at the head of the table, a mug of coffee in his hand. Storm walked straight through to him and shook his hand, before the old man even got up from his seat. “No need for that, Tom.” Tom Claridge sank back into his chair.
“You wanted to discuss your latest case?” he asked, motioning to a chair on the corner next to him.
Storm sat down and shook his head. “Shall we eat something first?”
Tom leaned forward and grabbed a piece of toast with smoked salmon and parsley, biting a piece off. “Fine by me,” he mumbled while chewing. “I was getting hungry anyway.”
Storm laughed at that and grabbed a piece of toast as well. He helped himself to some coffee and the two sat eating lunch and talking about work and their families for a while, exchanging the customary banalities. Eventually though, Storm did bring the conversation back to the purpose of his visit, something he had been trying to avoid while they ate.
<
br /> “So what is going on with this isolation of John Bainbridge?” he threw in casually.
Tom Claridge smiled at the blunt attempt to bring the case before his attention. “You’re being stopped from talking to your client?”
“How do you know that’s the problem?”“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”Tom shrugged.
“How so?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Isn’t what obvious?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Don! Use your head man!”
Storm just looked at him, not quite understanding what Tom Claridge was playing at.
Tom Claridge shook his head. “He’s never supposed to get anything but the death penalty.”
Storm frowned. “You’re joking.”“I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s a political game behind the scenes here. They need this conviction. No matter what the evidence.”“Surely, even if that was the case, they could fake the evidence instead?”
Tom looked at him with narrowed eyes. “For some reason, whoever is behind this is not confident in that.”
“Hold on.” Storm leaned forwards, leaning his elbows on the table. “You’re saying this was faked?”
Tom Claridge shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what happened that night. But I know there’s a narrative being played out as well.”
“How do you mean?”
Tom took a big sip of coffee and cleared his throat before explaining what he meant. “What happened at the Fed, I don’t know. But I do know something of what happened after. I know they had a lot of trouble finding out what happened and who did what.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I spoke to the police commissioner at the time. They were running around like headless chickens. They had no idea what was going on until the FBI told them they had something on these kids. They’d been following them for a while. Local, Felons, possibly radicalized. They had been on to them and it seems they were planning to run the moment the police got to them to arrest them.”
“They were about to run when the police got to them?”
“I didn’t say that. I said it seems like that. They had packed up a lot of things and were heading across the border in an RV.” Tom Claridge shrugged. “If you ask me, there’s every chance they were just on their way to a camping trip. But nobody asks me until they are at the very end of the judicial line.”
Storm had to take that in for a moment. “You think they might not be the people behind this then?”
“All in all, I’m pretty sure that a good chunk of the whole narrative that was built is bogus.” The Supreme Court judge sank back in his chair, holding his hands tight around the mug of hot coffee. His old, arthritic fingers liked the warmth. “I don’t know what happened and who did what, but what I do know is that they were about to head out at the time this big manhunt started. And the police somehow got it into their heads that it had to have been these guys and they began hunting them down. They must have panicked, understandably, and it got worse for them from there on in. One of the poor guys was killed, police say he got run over by his brother; then the other one runs and gets himself shot in the gizzard, so he can’t talk now and it’s going to be almost impossible to even hear his statement. Meaning he will probably be convicted on the confession he gave in writing, which nobody knows whether or not he wrote it, or if he was coerced to sign it. And, of course, he will be tried under federal law, so the death penalty is a possibility.”
Storm nodded at that. “Yeah. I think the charge is going to be multiple felony murder, grand larceny and carrying out an act of terrorism against the United States Government. They are yet to decide whether he will be tried as a civilian or under military law as a combatant and all that.” He looked down at the table’s gleaming surface for a moment. “Tom, there’s something else. When I first met John Bainbridge, I kicked him in the shins under the table and he really couldn’t make a sound. But when I met with him the second time, I did the same. Not sure why I did, but I did. And he screamed this time. While his medical file clearly states he will never be able to talk again.”
Tom Claridge frowned. “That is odd.” He did not say anything more than that for a while. “You’re sure it was the same man though?”
Storm nodded. “He looked exactly the same... apart from the scar on his throat.”
Another frown from Tom followed. “Scar on his throat?”
“There is the shot wound on his throat, but the first time, there was a scar that looked like it came from the surgeon’s knife. I couldn’t see it the second time.”
There was another long silence from Tom.
“Maybe someone replaced him.” he said eventually.
Storm just looked ahead. “Why would they do that? And it would require plastic surgery to make him look that much alike.”
Tom shook his gray head. “I don’t know. There’s something going on. You’d best be on your qui vive, Don.”
Storm felt disturbed when he left. There was so much going on with this case, his head was in a tailspin. Whatever the circumstances, he knew he’d have to take some action to protect his client, and his best interests, very soon. But at the same time, Storm was painfully aware of the danger that was lurking just under the surface should any of his suspicions turn out to be the truth. Caution would be paramount in the near future.
Next day he would be in court, where he would hear under which code his client would be tried, and he would probably hear the charges the very same day. But what Tom Claridge had said was disturbing. If a man like that thought John Bainbridge might not be behind the attack, and his own gut feeling had always told him the media story that was being presented the very moment the attack happened was bogus. But that this would all be a made-up story was hard to comprehend. It would also mean the extent of that story was enormous. Yet, it did not explain why there had been an attempt on his life. It would have been easy enough to dig up some dirt on him and try to blackmail him first, or to offer him a bribe in return for keeping his mouth shut. But instead, someone had tried to kill him.
He was back at the hotel that evening, having spent most of the day wandering around the city, trying to find more clues as to what may have happened that night. There had been little enough to find. In fact, there had been next to nothing. He went back to the files and started calling the listed witnesses. One police officer was willing to talk about that night and about the long chase, but he had not been anywhere near the two suspects. He had been at the site of the accident the elder Bainbridge brother, Timothy, had met with. He had been driven over by his brother, according to the police, but, the officer said, he did not think the car could have backed over him. He reckoned someone deliberately drove over him. There had been the marks of a severe beating on the man’s head and torso when he got there. His colleagues had either taken out their frustration on him after his demise, or they had driven a car over him to conceal their beating of him.
That statement by the police officer gave Storm hope. But the officer took that hope away the moment Storm asked whether he would testify in court to that extent. The man said he wouldn’t take the risk of losing his job and placing himself and his family in harm’s way if he was thought to have betrayed the police force or the prosecution. And that was the end of the matter.
Storm went back to the bar and sat down, ordering himself a cognac, a cappuccino and a Stroh rum. “Of course, Mr. McCoy,” said the bartender. Storm recognized the voice and he smiled at the man. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Things still going strong here?”
“You know me, sir. Can’t keep me out of this bar,” the bartender joked.
“Now, I know you’re lying there.” Storm nodded. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what would keep you away from this bar?”
The bartender ignored the question as he made the coffee and poured the drinks. He set down the Stroh rum first and politely waited until Storm had slammed the drink down.
“I only do this job to fund
my musical ambitions, really.”
“Your musical ambitions?” Storm asked curiously.
The bartender nodded. “I’m a classically trained baritone. But it’s hard to find consistent work.”
Storm frowned. “If you’re good, surely it’s easy enough in that field. Can’t be too many.”
The bartender shook his head sadly. “There’s not too many opportunities these days.”
He kept looking sad, so Storm changed the topic. “How’s it been since I was last here?”
The bartender had a sudden twinkle in his eye. “Would have been quiet here, were it not for two things.”
“And what are those?”
“Well, first of all, a friend of yours was here…well, at least she claimed to be. Said you told her to ask for me if she ever was in D.C. It seemed she might be in for a grand old time with another guest, but she blew it at the last minute. Whole drama ensued in which she punched him in the schnoz. Alex, she said her name was.”
Storm grinned. “That sounds like Alex.”
“I was quite surprised. She had no qualms about his advances during the course of the evening, so her change of heart seemed a bit of a strong reaction.”
“Things have changed a bit recently.” Storm nodded to him. “What was the other thing?”
“All these big shots coming into town for stuff regarding that trial. The whole story sounds a bit odd, including that stupid “NYC Strong” cry, but there you go. There’s loads of police and FBI and judges and lawyers and experts coming in for it. I’d have sworn he’d be tried in New York for sure. I didn’t hear anything about a change of venue in the news.”
“No way it could have happened in NYC, dude. D.C. was the best place for everyone involved. The Feds want him close to home too.”
Not long after that, Storm sat down outside to smoke again. He looked out over the garden the whole night. He remembered a similar hotel garden and where he had been when the robbery had happened. He also remembered the two people in the bed behind him that night. He grabbed his phone and called up his new neighbors.
