by Randy Singer
“Won’t that look bad?” Paige asked.
“Paige, you’re going to be taking the Fifth Amendment to almost every question. It already looks bad.”
Her testimony was scheduled for Tuesday, and she began to obsess over the fact that she might be indicted just a few days before she was scheduled to argue at the Supreme Court on the first Monday in October. How could she stand up in front of the justices as an accused felon?
Wyatt didn’t seem concerned about it, but then again, he would be either out of the country or in prison. “You’re innocent until proven guilty,” he reminded Paige. “If it comes up, show a little righteous indignation. Heck, if it were me, I’d bring it up in court myself to show how desperate the government is to keep the truth buried in this case. Wear it like a badge of honor.”
Only Wyatt would view a pending indictment for obstruction of justice as a badge of honor, Paige thought. The justices certainly wouldn’t look at it that way.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Philip Kilpatrick had created a monster. He’d been afraid that might be the case, but he knew it for sure when he received the phone call from Harry Coburn.
“I got your waiver of the confidentiality agreement today,” Harry said. “Very accommodating of you.”
“Nice of you to call, because I’m revoking that waiver right now,” Kilpatrick said.
This brought a sarcastic laugh from Coburn. “Obviously you didn’t read the document. Wyatt Jackson is pretty clever. Says it can only be revoked in writing.”
“We both know you’ve still got an obligation to protect your sources.”
Kilpatrick didn’t like the way Coburn let the silence linger before responding to the comment.
“I’ll still protect you,” he eventually said. “But not because I have an obligation. It’s just that I always protect sources when I can count on them for future stories.”
“I’ve always sent my best scoops to you, Harry,” Kilpatrick said calmly. But even as he said it, he knew the dynamics had changed. Before, he would send the stories and Coburn would be gracious, almost fawning. Now Coburn had all the leverage.
“I heard something about a grand jury investigating the plaintiff’s lawyers for obstruction. What do you know about that?” Coburn asked.
Kilpatrick knew plenty. But he didn’t want to leak that story to Coburn. The man already had enough to hold over his head with the confidentiality waiver.
“I’ll look into it,” Kilpatrick said.
“If it’s true, I’d like to break the story before the Supreme Court argument.”
“As I said, I’ll look into it.”
“I appreciate your help. And I’m pretty sure they have a term for this new relationship we’ve developed,” Coburn said.
“What’s that?” Kilpatrick asked, somewhat caustically.
“We’re codependent, Philip. Have a great day.”
74
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Tuesday was one of the longest days of Paige’s life. She sat on a hard wooden bench in the marble hallway of the federal court building, just outside courtroom 1, clutching her subpoena to appear before the grand jury. Landon, Wyatt, and Wellington were there as well, and Wyatt did his share of pacing, complaining to Mitchell Taylor every time Mitchell came out the courtroom doors. It was a sign of disrespect to keep them waiting, Wyatt said. Mitchell should have planned things better. When was Mitchell going to call Wyatt and his team? They had lots of things to do, including preparing for a Supreme Court argument.
Mitchell said little and gave nothing away. Paige watched as other witnesses came and went, including some she did not know. Landon approached the witnesses after they testified to see if they would brief him on what they had said. None of them seemed willing to cooperate.
Paige was the first of the three plaintiff’s lawyers called to testify. It was nearly noon when the U.S. marshal came into the hallway and called her name. She wiped her sweaty hands on the sides of her dress, nodded at Wyatt and Landon, and marched toward the door of the courtroom. She entered with her head held high and walked down the middle aisle, staring straight ahead. The marshal administered the oath, and Paige swore to tell the truth.
Twenty-four grand jurors stared at her, gauging her every move. Twelve were seated in the jury box and twelve in the first few rows of the courtroom. There was no judge, and there were no lawyers at the table for defense counsel. The courtroom was empty except for the jurors, the marshals, a court reporter, Mitchell Taylor, and FBI Agents Vaughn and Diaz.
Paige settled into the witness chair.
“Good morning, Ms. Chambers,” Mitchell Taylor said. He looked like a Marine—ramrod straight, hair clipped short, his suit tight and pressed.
“Good morning.” Paige’s voice was high and nervous.
“Please state your name for the record, spelling your last name.”
“Paige Chambers, C-H-A-M-B-E-R-S.”
Many of the jurors were taking notes, and the body language was not good. Some had their arms crossed. Others scowled.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about whether or not you received and used classified information.”
“Okay.”
Mitchell began by establishing some background facts. He questioned Paige about her familiarity with the prohibition against receiving and disseminating classified information. Paige and Landon had anticipated this line of questioning, and she answered his questions, carefully focusing on each one, taking her time before responding. She knew that the pauses made her appear guilty, but Landon had convinced her that there was no way to persuade the grand jury anyway, and the only thing that mattered was the resulting transcript of her testimony. She couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
Mitchell next asked a series of questions to help the jurors understand Paige’s role in the Anderson case and the alleged leaking of the Marcano deposition. Paige answered each of those questions as well—carefully, methodically, like someone trying to hide something.
Then Mitchell shifted to the FBI interview with Paige. He handed her a copy of the transcript from that interview.
“Ms. Chambers, the jurors have already heard the recorded interview between you and FBI Agents Vaughn and Diaz. This is a written transcript if you need it to refresh your memory.”
“Thank you.”
“At the time Agents Vaughn and Diaz interviewed you on Saturday, September 8, you were aware that this office was conducting an investigation into a violation of Judge Solberg’s confidentiality order; is that right?”
Paige wanted to answer the question. She wanted to explain that she had known about the investigation into the deposition leak but hadn’t known they would be questioning her about classified information. But she was under strict orders from Landon not to answer such questions. “Don’t be a hero,” he’d said. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble.”
Paige paused, swallowed hard, and repeated the line that Landon had made her memorize: “I’m asserting my rights under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution not to answer the question.”
Landon had told her to keep it short and simple and to act confident as she asserted the Fifth. Still, she felt sleazy doing it.
Mitchell Taylor feigned surprise. “You’re refusing to answer?”
“I’m asserting my privilege under the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution.”
“So you’re claiming that something about the question might incriminate you?”
“I’m asserting my right under the Fifth Amendment,” Paige said, with more authority this time. But as soon as the words were out, she knew that her tone had been a mistake.
Mitchell frowned for his little audience of jurors. “Okay then, let me ask you this: Did you deny to Agents Vaughn and Diaz that you had received any classified information from any source?”
“I decline to answer the question on the basis of my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution.”
“But the jury
has already heard you say it on the recording,” Mitchell insisted. “It’s right there in black and white in front of you. Are you denying that you said it?”
Everybody in the courtroom seemed to be frowning at her. Mitchell Taylor. The FBI agents. The jurors. “I’m asserting my right under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution not to answer the question.”
Mitchell had been pacing around the courtroom, holding a legal pad full of notes. He now walked over to his counsel table and set the notepad down. He returned to the well of the courtroom empty-handed and crossed his arms, a look of disdain on his face.
“Isn’t it true that you knew an official federal investigation was under way when you talked to the FBI, and you knew that the investigation went beyond the question of who had leaked Director Marcano’s deposition?”
“I’m asserting my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution not to answer the question.”
“And isn’t it true that you received classified information prior to that interview and then obstructed justice by lying to the FBI about it?”
“I decline to answer the question.”
“You used classified information to advance your case, didn’t you?”
“I’m asserting my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”
“And you’re on a contingency fee, meaning that if your client wins a stash of money, you get one-third?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Ah—a question that you can answer?”
Paige shook her head, mad at herself for taking the bait. “I’m asserting the Fifth.”
Mitchell smirked. “Here’s what it has to do with anything,” he said. “You are illegally using classified information to advance a case in which you will personally profit. Isn’t that true?”
“I’m asserting my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”
And so it went for what seemed like an eternity. Mitchell Taylor making accusations, Paige refusing to answer the questions, the jurors scolding her with their body language. Even before he was done, Paige knew for certain that she would be indicted for obstruction of justice and the unauthorized dissemination of classified information.
“One more set of questions,” Mitchell said. “From whom did you obtain the classified information?”
“I refuse to answer and I assert my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”
“Was it Daniel Reese?”
It felt to Paige like she had been hit with cannon fire. Her jaw dropped a little at the mention of Reese’s name, and she scrambled to regain her composure as the blood rushed to her face.
“I refuse to answer and assert my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”
Did they know that she had met with Reese on the Cape Henry Trail? That he had given her background information about the case? What else did they know?
“You’re sure you don’t want to answer that question?” Mitchell asked.
“I’m sure.”
Mitchell made a great display of walking back to his counsel table, leafing through his notes, and shaking his head. “In light of the witness’s invocation of the Fifth Amendment, that’s all the questions I have for now,” Mitchell said.
Paige stood but Mitchell held out his hand. “Wait; one more thing. Did you bring the computer and cell phone that we subpoenaed?”
Paige stared at him. He knew she didn’t have it. “Obviously not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m taking the Fifth Amendment on that, too, Mr. Taylor.”
“I thought maybe you would.”
It seemed to Paige that Wyatt’s and Wellington’s time with the grand jury was shorter than hers. They all huddled up and compared notes afterward. Landon tried to reassure Paige, but his words rang hollow. She was steeling herself to be indicted later that day or at the very least prior to her Supreme Court argument. “Landon, you’d better be ready to go on Monday,” she said.
They were huddled at one end of the hallway when Paige heard footsteps coming around the corner. She looked past Landon’s shoulder and saw him—dressed in his military whites, his shoes shining, his hat tucked under his arm. Daniel Reese was surrounded by a small army of military lawyers, each carrying a briefcase. They formed their own huddle, and Reese avoided looking in Paige’s direction.
Landon turned, took in the scene, and asked Paige if it was Daniel Reese. When Paige nodded, Landon walked over to the group of men. He talked to them quietly, and Paige couldn’t hear a word that was said. When he came back, he told Paige that they weren’t willing to tell Landon anything about why Reese had been subpoenaed or what he might say.
A few minutes later, a marshal came into the hallway and called Daniel Reese’s name. He walked alone into the grand jury room.
When he reemerged nearly an hour and a half later, Landon approached his team again. This time, Reese had a message for Paige.
“Tell her I was just responding to the government’s subpoena to testify,” Reese had told Landon. “I was just doing my patriotic duty.”
75
VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
Daniel Reese was the Patriot. What else could he possibly have meant?
Paige and her team kicked that question around for nearly two hours back in Landon’s conference room. There were still things that didn’t add up. Why had he denied being the Patriot on the day that he snuck up on Paige on the Cape Henry Trail? Why had he risked his job to provide them with classified information? And what had he told the grand jury?
Had Mitchell Taylor and the FBI somehow figured it out? Were they about to indict Daniel Reese along with Paige, Wyatt, and Wellington? Reese had been in that grand jury room for a long time. Maybe he had cut a deal and was going to testify against the others. Was that his “patriotic duty”?
After Wyatt and Wellington left, Landon told Paige his theory. “The government has your computer,” he said. “They probably used some kind of complex voice recognition software to figure out that Daniel Reese was the Patriot. And if they have your computer, they know what he told you.”
The next day Landon called Mitchell Taylor, who did not return his call, and Daniel Reese’s lawyers, who stonewalled him. Landon told Paige he had no idea if the grand jury had returned any indictments or whether they would continue meeting the next week.
After a fitful night of sleep, Paige got up early Friday, put on her sweats, and went for a run at First Landing. When she returned to her condo, she drove by the parking lot twice to make sure there were no strange-looking sedans with FBI agents waiting to arrest her. She finally pulled in and parked, showered and changed, and headed to Landon Reed’s office for another day of prepping for her Supreme Court case. She didn’t want to stay at her apartment during the day, get arrested by the feds, and do a perp walk in broad daylight.
She returned to her apartment after dark and checked around the parking lot again before going inside. Landon had finally gotten through to Mitchell Taylor late Thursday, but Mitchell wouldn’t tell him anything.
Friday night, Paige lay awake in bed, weighed down with worry about the FBI and the Supreme Court. She finally dozed off at 2 a.m., and her cell phone’s alarm startled her to life a mere three hours later.
Under cover of darkness, SEAL Team Nine left for Washington, D.C., early Saturday morning, crammed into Paige’s small Honda. Wyatt had a plane to catch out of Dulles International Airport, and the rest of the team, absent Landon Reed, had decided to settle into a Washington hotel with an extra day before the Supreme Court argument. Paige just wanted to get out of town a step ahead of the FBI, and Kristen seemed excited about having a break from the boys.
The crew was pretty quiet as they left Hampton Roads. Paige was driving and deep in thought. Next to her, Wyatt was sprawled out in the front passenger seat, his mouth open as he snored. Riding in the backseat next to Kristen, Wellington waited until the sun came up and t
hen started rereading cases. Paige had her cell phone connected to the car stereo system, cycling through her most inspirational running songs, trying to get ready for her big day in court.
Paige stopped at a pancake house on I-95 just north of Richmond, and the team came to life. Once they were seated, Wyatt started in with one of his stories, and Kristen laughed along, providing all the audience Wyatt needed. Even Paige loosened up a little, though the sinking feeling came back whenever her thoughts turned unprompted to the possibility of an indictment. If the government wanted to play it out for maximum impact, they would arrest the entire team today, or maybe even tomorrow or Monday, on the streets of Washington, D.C. Landon would be forced to argue the case while Paige and the others waited for their bond hearing.
“If the government has indictments against us, I might just stay in Dubai,” Wyatt said between bites. “I hear it’s nice there.”
“Just keep an eye on the sky,” Paige said. “Now that they have drones, they don’t have to worry about extradition.”
Wyatt laughed. “We’re going to make a defense lawyer out of you yet.”
Later that morning at the airport they were met by Gazala Holloman, who handed Wyatt a handwritten letter for Saleet Zafar. “Make sure he reads this as soon as you see him,” Gazala said. “He’ll like you better after he does.”
Wyatt thanked her and promised everyone he would be in touch. He had packed everything he needed for the trip in his backpack—a computer, a couple of changes of clothes, toiletries, some legal pads, a baseball cap, and a pack of Phillies cigars. He stopped and gave Paige a quick pep talk about her Supreme Court argument before heading through security.
“You’re one of the smartest lawyers I know,” he told her, his arms on her shoulders. “And we’re on the right side of this. Don’t get intimidated. Stare those old geezers down and show them you belong up there. And whatever you do, don’t back down on anything.”
“I won’t,” Paige promised.
“Did I ever tell you the story about James Bowie and the Alamo?” Wyatt asked.
