Harden nodded and Velasquez hit the buttons on her computer as she handed Sloane a document. A timeline with arrows appeared on the courtroom monitors indicating the dates Charles Jenkins had traveled from Seattle to Heathrow Airport in the United Kingdom, and then to Sheremetyevo International Airport outside Moscow.
“The court will note, Your Honor, that the timeline is incomplete. There is no information pertaining to the defendant’s return to this country after his most recent trip to Russia. Yet, here he is. Either Mr. Jenkins is Harry Houdini and he somehow traveled back into this country by magic, or he used a fake passport. The government reiterates that Mr. Jenkins is a former CIA field officer and that he is a flight risk.”
Harden looked to Sloane, his eyebrows raised in question. Jenkins knew Sloane faced a dilemma. He couldn’t very well tell the court the truth, which would only confirm Velasquez’s argument that Jenkins had more than one passport for more than one country.
“Mr. Jenkins can surrender his passport to the US Marshals Service,” Sloane said. “And I will assure the court he will remain in the state of Washington to defeat these charges. As I said—”
Harden cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m going to deny bail at this time and find that the defendant is a potential flight risk. Counsel, you are welcome to brief me on this issue. Is there anything else?”
Jenkins felt weak in the knees knowing he would not be going home to his family, and what that would mean for CJ. Dad, are you going to jail?
“No,” Sloane said.
“Charles William Jenkins, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the US Marshals Service until such further time as the issue of bail is considered or for further proceedings in this matter. Court is adjourned.” Harden rapped his gavel once, stood, and quickly departed. The marshals returned to the table, this time with a belly chain they slipped around Jenkins’s waist, cuffing his hands to it. The chain extended to the floor and two ankle cuffs. Those two were snapped on.
“Get ahold of Alex, will you?” Jenkins said, worried what the news would do to her and to CJ.
“I’ll handle it,” Sloane said. “We’ll file a motion for bail as soon as we can.”
Jenkins knew it would not be soon enough.
54
Jenkins spent the next three days at the Federal Detention Center near the airport in SeaTac. He refused to eat jail food—concerned it could be poisoned. According to Sloane, Mitchell Goldstone had survived, was recovering in a hospital, and was set to be arraigned within the week.
Jenkins tried to sound upbeat when he spoke to Alex and to CJ on the telephone, but he knew the stress his arrest and imprisonment had caused both of them. Sloane had hired a nurse to care for Alex at his home, since he and Jake, who had insisted he be a part of Jenkins’s defense team, if only behind the scenes, would be spending long hours at the law firm. Sloane had also hired a retired schoolteacher to homeschool CJ. CJ had initially protested, until he learned his teacher had been a professional soccer player who had also agreed to privately coach him if he kept his grades up. The boy nearly flipped.
After thirty hours, Jenkins was transferred to the classification section and issued prison clothing, deloused, given a complete physical examination, and otherwise dehumanized. Sloane filed a motion that Jenkins be placed in administrative segregation, arguing that televisions made it a near certainty Jenkins’s arrest, and the charges against him, would be well-known to the other inmates, including military veterans. Harden agreed.
The noise inside the general population—radios blaring rock music and metal banging against metal—was near deafening. The inmates could not see one another and resorted to shouting through the cinder-block walls to keep from going crazy. It didn’t always work.
Jenkins didn’t speak, concerned everything he said was being recorded, which only further isolated him. He needed to get out so he and Sloane could prepare his defense.
If Jenkins was being paranoid, the fifth day proved it was with good reason. Sloane came to the jail and told him someone had broken into his law office, and that only a tripped security alarm had prevented the person from opening Sloane’s safe, which was where he kept Carl Emerson’s business card and the sealed envelope with the typed affidavit from Claudia Baker. Those two items were now the only evidence Jenkins had to argue that he’d been reactivated by the CIA. It wasn’t much.
Sloane had filed a motion for bail, and Judge Harden had set it to be heard the following morning. “He’s pushing us to move this matter quickly.”
“Have you gotten anywhere trying to find Emerson?”
“No, and the government isn’t helping. They say Emerson is no longer employed by the agency, and they don’t know his current whereabouts. It might be why Harden is pushing us. The longer we drag this out, the more time we have to find him.”
“What about getting documents that support the government’s charges?”
“Jake’s working on a motion, but at the moment we’re concentrating on getting you out on bail.”
“How’s Alex?”
“The nurse is taking good care of her. She says the baby’s heartbeat is strong and can be delivered by C-section any day now. Alex is waiting until you’re home.”
“If we lose the motion for bail, tell the nurse to do what has to be done. I don’t want anything to happen to Alex or to the baby.”
The following morning, Jenkins appeared in court, this time to watch Sloane and Velasquez square off on Sloane’s motion for bail. The gallery was full for a relatively mundane motion, indicating again that Jenkins’s arrest was big news in Seattle. When the argument finished, Harden took the matter under advisement and said he’d issue an order late that afternoon. Sloane told Jenkins he wasn’t sure where Judge Harden would fall in his decision. He said that in a fifty-fifty argument, Jenkins would likely lose.
Harden, however, surprised them. In an afternoon conference call, he granted the motion, setting Jenkins’s bail at $1 million, and ordered Jenkins to wear an ankle bracelet that would alert US marshals if he left the Seattle area. Jenkins also had to call into a marshal each morning and each night.
Jenkins didn’t care. He was just glad to be out. “Did you hire a security company to sweep your office and home for bugs?” Jenkins asked as he and Sloane drove from the jail to Sloane’s home on Three Tree Point.
“Every morning,” Sloane said.
Inside the house, Jenkins could tell Alex struggled to hold it together when she saw him. Sloane excused himself and went back to the office.
“How are you doing?” Jenkins asked.
“I’m okay. I’m anxious to get this baby out. The doctor said we can go in any day now that you’re home.”
Jenkins smiled through tears. “Then let’s have a baby,” he said. “Where’s CJ?”
“Where he is every afternoon; he has a serious bug since catching that thirty-pound salmon.”
“Probably a good diversion for him. Does he know anything?”
“He asked me about the men who came to the beach that morning. I told him that he might hear people say unkind things about you, but that those people don’t know you the way we do.”
Jenkins blew out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for days. He knew from the crowd in the courtroom that there was likely a lot of unfavorable media coverage. It didn’t bother him, but he worried about his son. He was glad, at least, that CJ was not in school, where kids could be brutal.
Alex handed Jenkins a small jewelry box. “Open it.”
Jenkins opened the box and removed a sterling silver bracelet.
“Read the inside. I had it inscribed.”
Jenkins turned the bracelet over, and Alex handed him a pair of reading glasses from the counter. He slipped the glasses onto the bridge of his nose and manipulated the bracelet to catch the light.
THEN YOU WILL KNOW THE TRUTH, AND THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE. JOHN 8:32
“Whatever happens, we know the truth. No one can take that from
us. And that’s what we’re going to tell CJ.”
Jenkins slipped the bracelet over his wrist. “I hope the truth is enough.”
55
Sloane and Jake sat across the conference room table from Conrad Levy, a retired CIA operative in his early seventies. In retirement, Levy had become one of the agency’s harshest critics for too often leaving field officers hung out to dry. He’d written a book chronicling how good men and women devoted their lives to serve their country, and how the agency had not reciprocated that same loyalty. Sloane sought Levy’s opinion on whether Jenkins’s story was indicative of the agency’s practice of which Levy was so critical.
Levy looked nothing like the James Bond or Jason Bourne characters from the movies. Short, with a slight build, he had receding gray hair and wore glasses, a well-worn suit, and nondescript shirt and tie—the type of person who could eat in the same restaurant each night and not be remembered.
“Obviously I have some questions,” Levy said, his voice high-pitched. “But I suspect from what you’ve told me that your client won’t answer those questions.”
“You know what we know,” Sloane said.
Levy pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sloane, but I don’t believe Mr. Jenkins’s story for a minute.”
Sloane had not expected this. “What don’t you believe?” he asked.
“All of it . . . For a man who had supposedly played games with the KGB in Mexico City, I don’t think it washes. He’s either the dumbest intelligence officer who’s ever lived, or he’s a liar and a traitor.” That left little room for doubt.
“Even if his story was true, you won’t get anyone at the CIA to back it up.”
“Why not?”
“Because if his story is true, it points to the agency’s inability to adequately monitor the conduct of a top-level employee, possibly for decades. It makes them look incompetent to intelligence agencies all over the world. Beyond that, the CIA will never publicly acknowledge a company working as a CIA proprietary.”
“He told me Carl Emerson was his station chief in Mexico City. Is that not true?” Sloane asked.
“That part is true. But sprinkling a story with verifiable facts is a field officer’s technique to get a person to believe that if some of the facts are verifiable, then the others must also be true, such as that Mr. Jenkins was authorized to disclose the names Alexei Sukurov and Uliana Artemyeva to his Russian contact.”
“What do you mean?”
“The names Alexei Sukurov and Uliana Artemyeva first originated in the Mexico City field office as potential targets that could be flipped to CIA assets. Mr. Jenkins worked in that office.”
“You’re saying that because Charlie worked in that office, he would have been familiar with those names?” Sloane said.
“I’m saying it’s possible he was familiar with those names, and he used them because he thought, again, that it would add a level of credibility to his story.”
“But the government is arguing his disclosure of those names led to the agents’ deaths.”
“My point is, they were two real CIA assets who could be verified. Think about it. If you’re going to say that your former station chief showed up at your farm, unannounced, forty years after you left the agency, doesn’t it make sense to use two names your station chief also would have known and used?”
“Are you saying that he made all of this up?” Jake asked.
“I’m telling you what the government will argue. When your client left the CIA he was upset at the agency. The prosecution will beat this point home to the jury like a drum. They’ll argue Mr. Jenkins needed money, and by selling secrets to the Russians, he could get even with the CIA for whatever perceived injustice initially made him leave.”
Sloane took a sip of water, trying to slow his thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sloane. But look at this from the perspective of a person who could be in a position to convict and sentence Mr. Jenkins. Look at it from the perspective of a juror. Mr. Jenkins gets to Russia and makes contact with the FSB. He offers to provide them information for money, which he desperately needs, and it works the first time. He receives fifty thousand dollars—”
“That money came from his CIA contact,” Jake said.
“But you can’t prove that, and I don’t think you’re going to want to try.”
“Why not?” Jake asked.
“Because I did try to find the source. The funds came from a Swiss bank account, and were deposited directly into CJ Security’s business account. There’s no way to determine where the money originated, whether from inside Russia or from some account the CIA uses to fund operatives. Regardless, Mr. Jenkins got his money for his actions, which, without some corroborating evidence to prove where the money came from, won’t help him. The government will argue that, having succeeded once, Mr. Jenkins determined he had more information to sell, but this time things didn’t go as anticipated. After that first payment, the Russians had evidence that he’d accepted fifty thousand dollars, and when Mr. Jenkins returned to Russia, the FSB blackmailed him, which was very typical of the KGB and, I suspect, is of the FSB as well.”
“You’re saying they threatened to expose him,” Sloane said.
“Yes, and Mr. Jenkins, well versed in the game, recognized what was happening, and he took off running. In my opinion, Mr. Jenkins wasn’t working for the CIA. He’s just a traitor who got caught and is working to get out of it. And that’s coming from a guy who’d like nothing better than to expose the CIA, again.”
After Levy left the office, Jake said, “Charlie would never make this up. I saw men at the airport in Greece who were watching the gate.”
Sloane nodded. “Levy’s right though. Charlie’s story doesn’t ring true, and without some concrete evidence to prove it is true, we won’t get very far trying to convince twelve jurors.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We come up with a better story.”
Jake look pained. “I’m not sure that’s going to be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to be an alarmist,” he said. “But I did some research this afternoon, and as far as I can tell, no CIA agent accused of espionage has ever been acquitted by a jury. Not a single one.”
56
Jenkins and CJ entered the kitchen after a morning spent fishing, without success. As the days wore on, Jenkins felt less and less sure of his own chances of success.
“We need to go over your math. We don’t want you to fall behind.”
“I’ll get my backpack.”
“I’ll check on Mom, see if she needs anything.”
CJ started up the steps, but stopped. “When did you say she was going to have the baby?”
“Two days,” Charlie said. “How are you feeling about becoming a big brother?”
CJ shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of cool, I guess.”
Jenkins thought of the impending trial and what it could mean if he were to be convicted. “Being the big brother comes with responsibilities.”
“I know, Dad.” CJ got quiet. Then he said, “Are you going to be there to help?”
Jenkins nodded. “Sure I will. Why do you ask?”
“I heard some of the fishermen talking. They said you were arrested the morning those men in suits came. They said they were FBI agents and you were a traitor. It isn’t true, is it?”
“Come here for a second.” CJ came down the stairs. Jenkins sat on the arm of the couch and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I was arrested, but the part about me selling secrets and betraying my country isn’t true, CJ. I promise you it isn’t.”
“Then why would they say it?”
Jenkins sighed. “A lot of things that are happening right now are going to be hard for you to understand. But I’m looking you in the eyes and I’m telling you it isn’t true. I want to show you something.” Jenkins removed the sterling silver bracelet from his wrist and turned it over so CJ
could read the engraving. “Mom gave me this. Can you read what she had inscribed?”
CJ moved the bracelet to catch the light, reading slowly. “‘Then you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. John 8:32.’”
“As long as we know the truth, it doesn’t matter what anyone else says. Do you understand?”
CJ nodded. “I think so.”
“Things could get ugly around here. There could be more people saying more bad things about your dad.”
“I won’t believe them,” CJ said.
CJ went to his room to get his math book, and Jenkins walked down the hall to their bedroom and pushed open the door. Alex was not in bed. He heard the bathroom fan humming behind the closed door. Alex had to pee just about every ten minutes.
“Alex?” He walked to the bathroom.
She didn’t answer.
He knocked three times. “Alex?”
When she didn’t answer, he tried the door handle and pushed on the door. Something on the other side obstructed it. He stuck his head between the gap. Alex lay on the floor, her bathrobe bunched about her waist. She looked to have fainted. Beneath her, a pool of blood had smeared the white tiles.
Jenkins watched Sloane and Jake enter the hospital waiting room. Jake stepped to a chair where CJ sat, looking scared. “CJ, what do you say we go find the cafeteria and get some food for everybody?”
CJ shook his head and looked up at his father. “I’m not hungry.”
Jenkins put a hand on the boy’s back. “Mom’s in with the doctors,” Jenkins said. “And they’re taking good care of her. You go with Jake. I promise I’ll call if I hear anything from the doctors.”
Jake wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and led him out of the room and down the hall.
“How’s he doing?” Sloane asked.
“He heard the fishermen talking about me being a traitor. Now this. It’s a lot to ask of a nine-year-old.”
The Eighth Sister Page 29
