The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  “Nobody gets away with anything, Charlie. Eventually we all have to answer for our actions.”

  “I wish he had to answer here.”

  “Maybe he will.”

  “No,” Jenkins said, shaking his head. “He knows where the bodies are buried, and likely has the documents to prove it. The CIA doesn’t want to have those secrets come out and embarrass them. It’s easier for them to sacrifice Goldstone and me.”

  69

  Maria Velasquez’s closing stuck closely to her opening statement. Jenkins was a man in a desperate financial situation who sold out his country to the Russians to pay his bills.

  “He sold what he had—his honor, his oath, and classified information,” she said.

  Sloane told Jenkins the most important thing was to keep his closing argument integrally related to the opening, and to keep his promises. Sloane had promised to prove Jenkins’s innocence. Without any documentary evidence, that had been a difficult promise to keep, but they’d caught a break when Judge Harden called Carl Emerson to the stand. Emerson had admitted a connection between the CIA and TBT Investments and between TBT and LSR&C. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t seen or spoken with Jenkins since Mexico City, but Sloane did his best to refute that testimony with the card bearing the phone number. If nothing else, it gave Sloane something to argue.

  Sloane brought a schoolhouse blackboard and chalk from home and placed the chalkboard in front of the jury. Tina had once used the blackboard to teach Jake. Several jurors sat forward, curious about what he had in store. Judge Harden also looked interested.

  “On the first day of trial, I told you the defense would accept the burden of proving that Charles Jenkins is not guilty of the charges brought against him. I told you there would be no signed confession, though the prosecution contends Mr. Jenkins confessed. There is no signed confession. I told you we would prove the CIA was involved with LSR&C. We proved that. I told you Charles Jenkins had a phone number we traced to the company TBT Investments. We’ve proven that also. We’ve also proven that Carl Emerson was in Seattle in November 2017, and that Mr. Emerson continued his employment with the CIA until terminated at a later date. How would Charles Jenkins have known that Carl Emerson was in Seattle in November 2017 unless he’d met with him? How would Charles Jenkins have received a card with TBT Investments’ number on it unless Carl Emerson gave it to him before LSR&C’s offices were closed down and cleaned of every scrap of paper?”

  Jenkins thought both were legitimate questions, and he noted several jurors furiously scribbling in their notebooks.

  “Now, here’s the reality,” Sloane said. “Here’s what this case is really all about. In the winter of 2018, the CIA pulled the plug on two companies in Seattle that it was using as CIA proprietaries, and Charles Jenkins got left out in the cold. The government has charged him with two counts of espionage, one count of conspiracy, and two counts of selling US secrets to the Russians. The law says the burden of proof is on the government. But they haven’t proven a thing.

  “I am going to list the issues the government has failed to prove. Write these down with me in your notebooks so you don’t forget them.”

  Sloane took the fat piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard as he ticked off each item. Sure enough, the jurors wrote right along in their notebooks.

  They have not denied that the CIA had ties to LSR&C.

  They have not denied that Carl Emerson was working for TBT Investments, an LSR&C subsidiary.

  They have not denied that Carl Emerson had a Seattle phone number that rang at TBT Investments or that Charles Jenkins had a copy of that number in his possession.

  They have not denied that Chris Daugherty, a Seattle FBI agent, told CJ Security’s receptionist that he knew Charles Jenkins worked for the CIA.

  They have not produced a single piece of paper to substantiate their assertion that Charles Jenkins confessed to his crimes.

  The list went on. When Sloane finished writing, he said, “These are the facts, and the government hasn’t denied them. Unless they explain these facts, they must be true. And if these facts are true, then we have proven that Charles Jenkins is innocent.”

  Sloane pointed to Velasquez. “I challenge the government to answer any of these. Now, the government has one more chance to make their case. But we don’t have another chance. You have to accept what we’re telling you right now, because this is it for us. This is the last chance we get to speak to you. The government gets one more chance, and I’ve given them a list of questions they need to answer. If they can’t answer even a single one of these questions, then your duty is to find this man not guilty.”

  Sloane set down the chalk and wiped his hands of the dust. “Sometimes, with all the gadgetry that is now used in a courtroom, with all the testimony from experts, computer graphics, and expensive photographs, we lose sight of one fundamental principle. Your ultimate responsibility is to find the truth, and sometimes, the truth is not complicated. It doesn’t require fancy graphs and diagrams or computer technology.” Sloane looked to the blackboard. “Sometimes, the truth is simple and straightforward. Sometimes, it is staring us all in the face. Sometimes, the truth is in black and white.”

  Velasquez did not take Sloane’s bait. Her second closing was a forty-minute tirade intended to incite juror emotions. She pounded on the lectern and raised her voice, but she never addressed a single point Sloane had written on the blackboard.

  “I do agree with Mr. Sloane on one thing,” she said. “The truth in this case is very simple. I stated it in my opening and I am reiterating it now. This man sold his honor and his integrity and his knowledge. It was a straight trade—information for money. He had the information. He traveled to Russia. And fifty thousand dollars materialized in his account shortly after he returned. The defense attorney and I agree, at least on this one fundamental principle. The truth sometimes is easy to see. And the truth in this instance is that Charles Jenkins is guilty.”

  It was a powerful response.

  The only thing left to do now was to wait.

  70

  Sloane told Jenkins he expected the jury to be out deliberating for four to five days, and the longer the better. In a criminal trial, the longer a jury debated a matter, the more likely it meant one or more of the jurors could not reach a verdict without reasonable doubt. Harden told both sides he wanted them to remain in the building, in the event the jurors had questions during their deliberations. He offered the defense a jury room in one of the vacant courtrooms to wait.

  Near five o’clock, Alex and Jake cleared half-eaten sandwiches and wrappers from the table and tossed the uneaten food into the garbage.

  “I imagine the bailiff will come to let us go for the night,” Sloane said. “That’s a good thing.”

  Minutes later, Jenkins heard footsteps outside their door, followed by a quiet knock.

  Sloane looked at his watch. “Time to go home.” He slipped on his jacket as Jake answered the door.

  The bailiff stood in the hallway. “We have a verdict.”

  Jenkins’s heart sank. David Sloane looked equally stunned. The jury had been out less than five hours. They all gathered their belongings. No one said a word.

  As they stepped into the hallway, people streamed toward Judge Harden’s courtroom, and as the defense team approached the courtroom doors, an overflow crowd, including reporters and television crews, stood in the hall. The reporters shouted questions. Jenkins ignored them. He felt numb, uncertain even how his legs were functioning. He felt his right hand shake.

  Then he felt Alex take hold of his hand.

  As they neared the courtroom doors, officers created a wedge so the defense team could enter.

  “David?” someone called. A familiar voice. Jenkins turned and saw Carolyn.

  “She’s an expert witness,” Sloane said to one of the marshals, who allowed Carolyn through. She stepped beside Alex and they locked arms.

  Velasquez and her team already sat at the couns
el table. They looked ready to celebrate.

  With everyone assembled, Judge Harden quickly retook the bench and asked the bailiff to escort the jury into the courtroom.

  The nine women and three men entered without looking at Jenkins, also not a good sign.

  When the jurors were seated, Harden addressed them. “Have you reached a verdict on all five counts of the indictment?”

  Juror number four, a mother of two who ran her own business, stood. “We have, Your Honor.”

  Jenkins’s chest gripped.

  “Will the bailiff please hand the verdict to the clerk of the court?” Harden said.

  The bailiff did. The clerk handed Harden the verdict. Harden read through the pages without giving any hint of the jury’s findings. Jenkins could hear his breath rattling in his chest. The rest of the courtroom was deathly quiet. He thought of what he would miss—the birthdays and the holidays, reading to CJ, feeding Lizzie, holding his wife in bed.

  Harden returned the document to the court clerk. “The defendant will please rise and face the jury.”

  Jenkins needed Sloane’s assistance to get to his feet. He put his hands on the table to steady himself. His heart pounded and his ears rang. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder to the first row in the gallery. Alex gave him a small smile, but he could see she was fighting back tears. So, too, was Carolyn.

  The jury foreman took the verdict.

  “The jury foreman will now read the verdict,” Harden said.

  “On the first count,” the woman began, “we the jury find the defendant, Charles William Jenkins, not guilty.”

  Jenkins felt Sloane’s hand on his back. He took a breath to keep from hyperventilating, then a second and a third. He looked to Sloane for confirmation. Sloane nodded, smiling. Behind him, it sounded as if the entire courtroom had exhaled.

  “On the second count,” the foreman said, her voice growing stronger, “we the jury find the defendant, Charles William Jenkins, not guilty.” This time the foreman allowed herself to glance over at Jenkins. Other jurors also looked at him. Some smiled. Several women had tears in their eyes.

  Jenkins felt Sloane reach around and hug his shoulders. On the remaining three counts, the foreman’s verdict was the same. “Not guilty.”

  The courtroom gallery erupted. Harden banged his gavel to restore order, thanked the jury, and excused them. Velasquez and her team looked stunned by the verdict.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Judge Harden said.

  Jenkins turned to face the bench. Harden didn’t smile, but there was a glint in his eyes. “We’re adjourned,” he said. “And you, sir, are free to go.”

  Epilogue

  In the days, weeks, and months following the verdict, Jenkins’s life slowly returned to normal. For a period of time he was asked to give interviews and to appear on television programs. He didn’t want to do any of it, but Alex had persuaded him that it was important he do so. She said that being the first agent found not guilty of espionage by a jury was a story other agents needed to hear, first and foremost as a precautionary tale about how quickly things could go wrong, and how an agent could be left out in the cold.

  They also needed the money.

  In interviews, Jenkins told reporters he continued to love his country and always would, that it wasn’t perfect, but he still considered it the best place in the world to live.

  Several jurors also did interviews. Their statements were more pointed. The majority indicated they didn’t have the same confidence in the government that other generations once had. They’d become much more skeptical of politicians and government agencies. One had said, “Where there is smoke, there is usually a fire, and this trial had a lot of smoke.”

  David Sloane couldn’t have scripted it any better.

  When the euphoria of his not-guilty verdict finally evaporated, and Jenkins no longer warranted coverage, he returned his family to Camano Island, to his farm. His reception in the small town of Stanwood was cordial. At school and on the sidelines of CJ’s soccer games—CJ had improved dramatically from his one-on-one training with his tutor—one of the other parents would occasionally stop to congratulate Jenkins, and to tell him they had been pulling for him. He thanked them. He also didn’t believe them. He knew, human nature being what it is, that they had condemned him the moment he had been arrested, and they had absolved him only after the verdict. Some anyway. Others would always consider him a traitor who had managed to dodge a bullet.

  Jenkins didn’t care. He knew the truth, and the truth had set him free.

  He entertained a six-figure book deal and spent most of his days taking care of his baby daughter while Alex worked in Jake’s classroom. He’d have to eventually look for a full-time job, or write that book, but for the time being he was happy doing part-time work for Sloane again, and being a househusband.

  When Elizabeth turned six months, they drove down to Three Tree Point to celebrate news that Jake had passed the Washington State bar exam. No one would say it, but the gathering had another purpose. They’d never celebrated the verdict.

  Alex worked in the kitchen making tacos while Lizzie slept. Jenkins, seeing an opportunity to spend time with CJ, slipped out the back door with his son, and they walked to the water’s edge with fishing poles and the tackle box.

  CJ had become a patient and skilled fisherman, having already caught three kings and multiple silvers. The other fishermen had come to know him by name. If they knew him as the son of a man acquitted of espionage, they didn’t say it. When it came to fishermen, they had a single purpose with each cast.

  Jenkins handed CJ a fishing pole, and the young boy cast. Jenkins prepared his pole, noting that his right hand no longer shook, and hadn’t since the verdict. He cast and began to reel.

  Fifteen minutes into their task, Jenkins’s cell phone rang. Caller ID did not identify the caller or the number. Jenkins almost ignored the call, thinking it was another person seeking an interview, or a writer calling to ask whether Jenkins was interested in telling his story. He wasn’t, not yet.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins recognized the accent. “Viktor,” he said.

  “You are a hard man to track down.”

  “I’ve had to screen my calls.” Jenkins stepped away so CJ would not hear his conversation. The young boy glanced at him, still not completely trusting that his dad would not be taken away again. Jenkins smiled and gave CJ a thumbs-up, and the boy returned his attention to reeling in his lure.

  “I followed with great interest the news of your trial. It seemed as though I was reading about a trial here, in Russia, where the truth would never be allowed to come out. I am happy you were found not guilty.”

  “Thank you,” Jenkins said.

  “So you see, again I say that your country and mine are not so different.”

  Jenkins smiled. “How do you like working for your brother?”

  “I decided is not for me. There is too much red tape, and that is coming from someone who worked for the government.” Viktor laughed.

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m private detective,” Federov said. “So far I have one client. I thought you might like to know about my first case.”

  “Why is that?” Jenkins asked.

  “Because I believe you know the man I tracked down.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “He served as your station chief in Mexico City, and more recently he worked in Washington, DC. Your trial helped me to find him.”

  Jenkins felt a lump in his throat.

  “You see, Mr. Jenkins, though I joke, Russia is not United States. In Russia, we have long memories, and justice is always served, if not one way then another.”

  “What do you mean, Viktor?”

  “Follow your news. I assume they will cover it soon.”

  Jenkins thought of his statement to Alex, that he wanted Carl Emerson to pay for his crimes here and now, rather than in the afterli
fe.

  “Do you have pen or pencil and paper?” Federov asked.

  “Why?” Jenkins asked.

  “I want to give you some numbers.”

  “Hang on,” Jenkins said. He went to the tackle box, found the back of a lure package and the stub of a pencil.

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  He expected ten digits—a phone number—but he got more than that.

  “What is it?” Jenkins asked. “Not a phone number.”

  “It is the number to a Swiss bank account. I opened it in your name.”

  “In my name? Why would you open an account in my name?”

  “Because you were my client.”

  “Me?”

  “Okay, so I have two clients—you and me, and I thought you deserved the money almost as much as me. I decided on sixty-forty, because I did all the work.” Viktor again laughed.

  “Viktor, if this is the money Carl Emerson stole, I can’t keep it.”

  “No, Mr. Jenkins, I didn’t think you would. I believe you are a man of much integrity. But the money was not stolen. It is money paid by Russia.”

  “Emerson was the leak.”

  “Leak? I know nothing of leak unless it is below my sink.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Jenkins said, curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Enough,” Viktor said. “Enough for everything our two governments have put us through. No?”

  “I can’t take that money,” Jenkins said. It was blood money. It was money given to Emerson that had cost three of the seven sisters their lives.

  “It is there, Mr. Jenkins. What you choose to do with it is your business. And now I must be going. I fear our meeting again will not happen.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jenkins said. “We both know lives can change in an instant, and in ways neither of us ever could have imagined.”

  Viktor laughed long and loud. “Then until we meet, I will be drinking to your good health. Boo-deem zdarovov.”

  CJ yelled, “Dad! Dad! I think I have a fish.”