“Carl Emerson also knew Mr. Jenkins was a skilled agent who spoke Russian, and Carl Emerson knew Mr. Jenkins had the perfect cover for getting into and out of Russia—he had a company providing security services to a business in Moscow. Was it a coincidence that Mr. Jenkins would disclose the identities of two American assets working in Russia who had first started working for the CIA in Mexico City? Of course not. That information was authorized for disclosure by Carl Emerson, who, as the former Mexico City station chief, knew of both operations.”
Sloane paused, watching each juror. He’d told Jenkins that his hope was to make the jurors uncomfortable and hopefully cause them to change their perspective, or at least realize there was another story and withhold judgment. “Counsel asks whether you would believe that an agency of this great government would leave an agent hung out to dry. When you hear the evidence, I’m confident your answer will be: yes, they did.”
Sloane brought his hands to his lips as if in prayer. “Ladies and gentlemen, under American law, the burden of proof that Charles Jenkins is guilty lies with the government. In any criminal case, the defendant is innocent until guilt is proven beyond a reasonable doubt. He doesn’t have to testify.” He lowered his hands, as if what he was about to say was spontaneous. Nothing was spontaneous. He and Jenkins had talked about the risk of this part of the opening for several hours the prior evening. “But in this particular trial we’re going to do it differently. Yes, we are.” He looked to Jenkins and nodded. Then he pointed to the government attorneys. “We’re going to relieve the prosecution of their burden. We are going to assume that burden and we are going to prove to you, beyond doubt, that the defendant did not break the law and that he was a loyal American who believed at all times that he was serving his country.”
Sloane thanked the jurors and returned to the counsel table. When he did, Jenkins noted that the jurors’ expressions had changed, from disdain to curiosity, and he knew that was all he could have hoped for.
62
After lunch, Harden again wasted no time. He spoke as he arranged papers on his desk. “Is the government prepared to move forward?”
Again, it was not a question. Again, Velasquez, already on her feet, didn’t hesitate. “We are, Your Honor.”
“Call your first witness.”
Velasquez called Nathaniel Ikeda, a records clerk at the CIA’s offices in Langley, Virginia. Ikeda was a good-looking Japanese man with graying black hair. After establishing Ikeda’s credentials and his job responsibilities, Velasquez asked, “Did your records check turn up any information that a Charles William Jenkins was employed by the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“It did,” Ikeda said in a confident tone.
“Will you explain to the jury what the records revealed?”
Ikeda faced the jurors, no doubt as instructed, or from years of experience testifying in a courtroom. He held documents in his lap, which the prosecution had turned over to Sloane only the night before, and he explained that Jenkins had been employed from roughly June 1976 to approximately July 1978.
“Do they indicate how his employment ended?”
“Assumed voluntary retirement after unsuccessful attempts to contact Mr. Jenkins.”
“Did your records reveal that Mr. Jenkins was reactivated as a field operative in November or December 2017?”
“No, they do not.”
“Did you search for any records pertaining to a Carl Emerson?”
Ikeda again turned to the jury and said that he had. After Velasquez had the documents marked and admitted, Ikeda explained what those records revealed. Then he said, “Mr. Emerson was deactivated from his position as station chief in Mexico City and was working in Langley, Virginia.”
“Do the records reveal whether Carl Emerson was running an operation in Russia in December 2017?”
“They do not.”
Ikeda explained what records he would have expected to find if such an operation had been initiated, then said he had found no such documents.
“Is there a record of a fifty-thousand-dollar payment being made to Mr. Jenkins or to Mr. Emerson in December 2017?”
“There is not.”
Velasquez then asked Ikeda about the two assets Jenkins had revealed to the FSB—Alexei Sukurov and Uliana Artemyeva. “Do your records indicate whether either of those individuals or their operations were active files?”
“Active in the sense that the files remained open, yes.”
“When were those operations first activated?”
“They were first activated in 1972 and 1973.”
“Out of which field office?”
“Mexico City.”
“Who opened those files?”
“Carl Emerson.”
Velasquez thanked Ikeda and sat.
Jenkins and Sloane had only had the morning to pore through the records, and Jenkins knew that to some extent, Sloane would have to wing his cross-examination. He’d told Jenkins his goal was to establish that Carl Emerson existed, that he wasn’t some phantom figure. He wanted to establish that Emerson ran the Alexei Sukurov and Uliana Artemyeva operations, and that there were no records tying Jenkins to either. He also wanted to establish that Emerson had been fired from the CIA at about the same time LSR&C blew up and Jenkins was charged with espionage. “I hope,” Sloane told Jenkins, “that where the jury sees smoke, they’ll assume there is a fire.”
“Who was the station chief in Mexico City in 1972 and 1973?” he asked Ikeda.
“Carl Emerson,” Ikeda said.
“Do your records indicate whether Mr. Jenkins worked on either of the two operations previously mentioned?”
“I’m not sure,” Ikeda said. “He could have.”
“Please, feel free to consult your records and tell me if Mr. Jenkins’s name appears on any document in either of those files.”
For the next couple minutes Ikeda looked through his documents. Jenkins watched him, and he watched the jurors’ reactions. “I don’t find his name in either file,” Ikeda finally said.
“You have no information in your records that Mr. Jenkins even knew of those operations, do you?”
“Not in my records, no.”
“Do you have records with you today documenting that Carl Emerson worked for TBT Investments in Seattle, Washington?”
“Objection,” Velasquez said, “the question violates the CIPA ruling.”
“Sustained,” Harden said.
“Do you have records with you today that Richard Peterson worked for TBT Investments in Seattle, Washington?”
“Same objection,” Velasquez said.
“Sustained.”
“Were you asked to look for such records?”
“Same objection.”
“Sustained.” Harden shot Sloane a look not to try that again.
“Do you have records—plane reservations, hotel receipts, dinner receipts—from Mr. Emerson seeking expense reimbursement for travel from Langley, Virginia, to Seattle, Washington, between November 2017 and January 2018?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t asked to look for those records.”
“But Mr. Emerson did work for the CIA in November and December 2017 and January 2018, didn’t he?”
“According to the records, he did.”
“Your records don’t reveal that Mr. Emerson traveled to Seattle in his capacity as the chief operating officer of TBT Investments?”
“Same objection,” Velasquez said.
“Sustained,” Harden replied.
“How about records for reimbursable expenses sought by Carl Emerson or a Richard Peterson for that same time period? Did you find any of those records?”
“I wasn’t asked to look for any such records.”
“Wasn’t asked to look for those either,” Sloane said, as if perplexed. He turned as if to retake his seat at the counsel table, though Jenkins knew he wasn’t finished. Sloane wheeled and walked back to the lectern, looking perplexed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ikeda, but just a fe
w additional questions. Do your files provide a termination date for Carl Emerson’s employment with the CIA?”
“Yes. January 25, 2018.”
“He was fired?”
Ikeda looked to Velasquez, who shot out of her seat. “Objection, Your Honor. It misstates testimony.”
Harden shook his head. “Not this witness’s testimony. He hasn’t answered the question. Do you need the question repeated, Mr. Ikeda?”
Ikeda looked uncomfortable. “No,” he said. He looked to Sloane. “He was terminated.”
“Fired,” Sloane said.
“He was terminated,” Ikeda persisted.
“The records don’t say Carl Emerson retired, do they?”
“No.”
“Quit?”
“No.”
“Leave of absence? Sabbatical?”
“No.”
“It says he was terminated, correct? Canned, fired, dismissed.”
“It says ‘terminated.’”
“Do your records say why Carl Emerson, who worked for the CIA since at least the 1970s, was fired?”
“No.”
Sloane paused, as if to give that information some thought. Jenkins knew the jurors would do so as well.
Velasquez took about five minutes on redirect, then excused Ikeda. The remainder of the afternoon was a parade of witnesses from the twenty-seven on the government’s witness list. None were particularly damaging, but by the end of the day Jenkins had started to feel like a piñata.
Early the following morning, after a late night, Sloane returned to his office with Jenkins and Jake and found an unmarked envelope on the floor just inside the glass-door entrance. The exterior of the envelope did not have a stamp or a postmark, which meant it had been hand delivered.
Sloane opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He shook his head and held it up. “Carl Emerson’s last-known address.”
“They’ve had it all along,” Jake said. “Where is he?”
“Santa Barbara,” Sloane said. “See if the address is still good. If it is, get him served with a trial subpoena.”
“It’s outside of a hundred miles. We can’t compel him to appear,” Jake said.
“I understand,” Sloane said. “But if Emerson isn’t at least called, after I’ve brought up his name so often, the jury is going to want to know why not. I want to put that turd in the government’s pocket when I give my closing. I want to be able to say we subpoenaed Emerson, but he wouldn’t come, and the government could have called him as a witness but chose not to. Maybe the insinuation will be enough to cast reasonable doubt.”
63
To start the second day of trial, Maria Velasquez called FBI agent Chris Daugherty to the stand. Daugherty looked the part in a dark-blue suit, button-down white shirt, and solid-red tie. He couldn’t have come across as more American if Velasquez had hung a flag around his shoulders.
Velasquez took Daugherty through the circumstances that led to him interviewing Charles Jenkins and, with prompting, Daugherty explained in detail the nature of each conversation.
Then she asked, “Did Mr. Jenkins ever ask that a CIA representative be present before talking to you?”
“No, he did not.”
“In your experience, would that have been customary for a man telling you of a sensitive CIA operation?”
“In my experience it is customary.”
“Do you have an understanding why that is customary?”
“The FBI is responsible for what happens within the United States. The CIA is responsible for what happens outside the United States. The two agencies can’t and don’t know what the other is working on at all times, so a CIA agent questioned by the FBI will seek a CIA representative to make certain that confidential information is not disclosed.”
“When Mr. Jenkins finished telling you his story, what was your response?”
“I told him that I didn’t believe him. I told him the story was ridiculous.”
“What was his response?”
Daugherty shrugged. “He said, ‘Trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you. I can’t tell you everything. You need to fill in the blanks from the CIA.’ I said, ‘Why can’t you tell me?’ And he said, ‘Because I was told that anything I said could endanger an ongoing, critical operation.’”
“Did you call the CIA and attempt to verify what Mr. Jenkins told you?”
“I couldn’t verify anything he’d told me. The CIA told me they had no record of Mr. Jenkins being reactivated, and they had no record of any operation involving him inside Russia or anywhere else. They also advised that they had looked into the two operations that Mr. Jenkins told me to ask about. They said both operations had been deactivated years before, but that the two assets had recently died in Russia under suspicious circumstances.”
Velasquez paused, as if flipping through her notes. She wanted that information to stick with the jurors. It did. Several looked at the defense table. Then she asked, “What did you do next?”
Daugherty said, “The FBI opened an investigation into Mr. Jenkins’s actions and learned that CJ Security had received a payment of fifty thousand dollars into its checking account shortly after Mr. Jenkins’s return from his first trip to Russia.”
“Did you attempt to determine the source for those funds?” Velasquez asked.
“We asked a forensic accountant to trace the source of those funds.”
Jenkins and Sloane had a copy of the report and had agreed to its admissibility.
“What does the report conclude?”
“The accountant determined that the funds had originated from a Swiss bank account. He was not able to further trace the source of those funds.”
Velasquez led Daugherty through what Jenkins had told him during their second conversation at the FBI’s field office in downtown Seattle.
“Did you tell Mr. Jenkins what you had learned with respect to the two operations he disclosed to the Russians?”
“I did.”
“What was his response, if any?”
“He shook his head and he said, ‘What the hell have I done?’”
Again, Velasquez let that response linger a moment before she asked, “Did you respond?”
“I asked him if he wanted to confess and make a deal.”
“What was his response?”
“He said, ‘This isn’t what you think it is. I didn’t do it for the reason you think I did.’”
With that seemingly damning statement, Velasquez thanked Daugherty and sat.
Sloane rose and slowly walked to the lectern. “Agent Daugherty, you mentioned that you asked Mr. Jenkins if he wanted to confess to having committed a crime, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Would you please produce to the court the confession that Mr. Jenkins signed in your offices that day.”
Daugherty cleared his throat. “I don’t have a signed confession.”
“How about an unsigned confession then?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it be standard procedure, when interrogating a witness who confesses, for you to get the witness to sign and date a confession before the witness leaves your office?”
“There are a lot of different procedures—”
“And wouldn’t one of those procedures be that the FBI agent—you—would get a signed confession before the witness leaves the meeting?”
“It would.”
“You never even pursued a confession, did you?”
“No.”
Jenkins watched the jurors. Two of the men smirked, amused.
“You said Mr. Jenkins told you, ‘This isn’t what you think it is. I didn’t do it for the reason you think I did.’ Is that right?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Didn’t he say he revealed those two names because Carl Emerson authorized him to do so?”
“He said he didn’t reveal any unauthorized information, but I couldn’t find any corroborating evidence to support that it was aut
horized.”
Sloane flipped the pages of the typed document. “You did write in notes that Mr. Jenkins said, ‘That isn’t the whole story. For the whole story you need to go to the CIA.’”
“Yes.”
“And you claim that you called the CIA, and you were told they had no record of any operation in which Mr. Jenkins had been reactivated, as you put it. Is that correct?”
“They said they had no record of it.”
“So, you assumed no such operation existed, right?”
“I suppose that is correct.”
“But you also told this court that the FBI handles what happens inside the country and the CIA handles what happens outside the country, didn’t you?”
“Something like that.”
“You would agree, wouldn’t you, that one agency doesn’t always know what the other agency is doing, and the two agencies don’t always tell one another what they’re doing?”
“Yes, I would agree with that.”
“Wouldn’t it also be true that while the FBI and the CIA’s ultimate objectives might be the same, how those two agencies achieve their objectives are not the same?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me see if I can make it clearer for you.” Sloane had handled an FBI case before. “Isn’t your motto at the FBI, one of them anyway, ‘AIJ—put the asshole in jail’? You’ve heard that among FBI agents, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard that, yes.”
“Black-and-white, isn’t it? Just put the asshole in jail.”
“I’ll agree to that.”
“What’s the CIA’s creed among its case operatives, do you know?”
“I don’t.”
“‘And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall piss you off.’ Have you heard that?”
Daugherty smiled. So did several jurors. “No, I haven’t.”
“Any idea what that means?”
“No.”
“It’s not so black-and-white then, is it?”
Velasquez stood. “Objection, Your Honor, this is speculation. He said he doesn’t know the creed.”
“Overruled,” Harden said.
The Eighth Sister Page 33
