by Chris Knopf
“I learned to live with it. I sublimated my feelings, as I had already learned to do. Do you know what that word means? It means to turn something evil into something sublime. That’s what I’ve done with my life. I’ve sublimated with a vengeance.”
Speaking of vengeance, I wondered if he knew Billy was out of prison, though I was afraid to ask. He immediately solved my problem.
“I have studied all the major religions, and a few minor ones, and all preach some form of forgiveness, though Christianity more than others. I was brought up a Catholic, which might have saved my life, since my priest was the one who brought me to the Sisters of Mercy. But I can no longer be a believer, because I will never forgive the bastard who was there that night, no matter what his role. The only reason I didn’t kill him the week he got out of prison was this belief that he hadn’t acted alone. My conscience can bear a loss of faith but not a murder I cannot fully justify. However much I would delight in committing it.”
This comment should have been more disturbing, but while my body still sat at his table, my mind had already fled the scene and was racing back to Southampton.
“I have to go,” I said. “I’m really sorry. This is fascinating, but I’m already late for an appointment.”
Kindness and indulgence swept over his face as he rose from the table and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me to my feet.
“You must be a fine attorney,” he said.
“You think so?” I asked as I gently pulled my hand from his.
“Don’t you have to be skilled at getting people to talk? I just told you things I’ve hardly told anyone, and we’ve only just met.”
“Shucks,” I said as I let him escort me to the front door. I half expected him to bow as I made my good-byes.
“Do you have a card?” he asked. “I would love to continue the discussion when more time allows.”
I pretended to search my pockets, passing over the stack of cards in the back pocket of my jeans.
“Golly, you know, I don’t. But I’ll e-mail you as soon as I get back to my office. Then we’ll go from there.”
He awarded me one final, all-embracing smile, and one more lingering handshake.
“I do consider myself a lucky man,” he said, before I could turn to leave. “How many can claim that the worst thing that ever happened to them was also the best?”
14
I spent the rest of the day reading Clinton Andrews’s brochure, which would be better described as a dissertation on the full realization of one’s life potential, at times a little wacky, but on the whole filled with fairly decent advice, which if followed would likely make for a healthier, happier person. But unhappily, I knew that would never happen for me.
As predicted, there was almost nothing on the robbery of his store in North Sea, the Peconic Pantry, except for his noting that he’d started on his quest after suffering a serious injury.
That night I tried to dig up more information on the Web about the robbery itself, looking for any mention of more than one perpetrator, but I’d already thoroughly mined what little was there, given that it all happened long before news was automatically stored in digital files. It was a miracle anything had been scanned in at all.
It’s like me to keep wringing a stone as long as I think there might be a molecule or two of blood stored inside, but I eventually gave up and went to bed, traveling the few feet from my desk to the bathroom, and then to the pull-out sofa, where once again I cuddled up to my deadly Austrian pal and slept the sleep of the conflicted and obsessed.
———
Ross Semple woke me up with a call to my cell phone, theatrically requesting the honor of my presence at ten that morning. The cell said it was already eight thirty, but there was time enough to ease wobbly into the day.
Hm, a surprise interrogation by Homeland Security. What to wear? I went with the most litigious-looking plain-Jane suit I’d retrieved from my house, the one that went with the blouse with the ruffled front that reminded me of the fruity things worn by judges. I went easy on the makeup, with just a tinted lip gloss, and wrestled my hair into a ponytail, which on me is more like the tail of a raccoon. I also brought along a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with clear lenses, since I still have twenty-twenty vision. I only wore them on professional occasions like this, just to round out the look of a former clerk to an originalist Supreme Court justice.
My co-interviewees were more flamboyantly attired, Sullivan in his best African mercenary outfit, Ross looking like he’d just rolled out of bed after sleeping off a two-week bender, which is actually how he usually looked. I was glad to see him smoking, since it meant I could steal one of his Winstons to go with my coffee. Sullivan sat with us stoically, trying not to breathe.
“Any thoughts before they show up?” asked Ross.
Sullivan shook his head.
“Could be anything,” he said. “No sense wasting energy on speculation.”
“Mind if I give you guys some friendly advice?” I asked.
They both looked like they wanted to be offended by that, but not enough not to listen.
“Is it free?” asked Sullivan.
“On the house.”
“Okay.”
“There are only four correct answers: Yes, no, I don’t know, and I don’t remember. If you have something that might help you remember, say you’ll need to go through your records and get back to them.”
They looked at me with blank faces. I thought Ross was smart enough to know that already, but then again, even smart people can get themselves in legal trouble when interviewed by federal agents. Just check the histories of Martha Stewart, Wall Street, and Washington, D.C.
“If it’s possible to prove that you did know, or should have known, but claimed the contrary to a federal authority, they can toss you almost directly in the can for lying. If you should have known something because it was your job to know, that’s also a problem. That’s why you say you need to get back to them, so that we have a chance to regroup. Blowing that one is the difference between keeping the life you have and seeing it evaporate before your eyes.”
They still were at a loss for words until Ross said, “She’s right. Goddamned hell of a thing.”
“You guys can also say, ‘I think I have that information, but I’m not sure if I’m legally able to share it, even with federal authorities. I need to check with legal counsel. Is that okay?’ I can say that to them too, but only if it involves the possible violation of client confidentiality, and as you know, since you routinely challenge me on this, the law there is somewhat unsettled.”
They absorbed this as well as they could. It wasn’t easy to be on the receiving end of a lecture after all those years of doling them out.
“And no swearing. It’s in the federal penal code. And no unauthorized use of profanity in the presence of duly commissioned federal agents or their designates.”
That really killed the mood.
“What the fuck?” said Sullivan.
“I’m kidding, for chrissakes. Designates? Where’s your sense of humor?”
Ross looked amused. Sullivan, not so much.
“Thank you for that advice,” said Ross. “It’s appreciated.”
A few minutes later, Janet Orlovsky’s voice came through Ross’s intercom.
“There are some people here to see you, sir. Should I admit them?”
United States federal government, meet your match.
Ross pressed the button.
“Bring ’em to Lawyer Room A, facing the mirror. Turn on the recorder. No coffee or water.”
He looked up at us.
“Hey, home-court advantage.”
We walked like a funeral procession through the squad room and to the front of the building, where the recently busted could presumably have a confidential meeting with their attorneys, one of whom was often me. I knew, like everyone, that these conversations could be recorded, but I trusted the cops to not do it, if for no other reason than
it could mean the ignominious end of a career if they got caught.
In Lawyer Room A sat a tiny Asian woman who’d somehow managed to outdowdy me. Next to her was a bald white guy, about her height but easily twice her girth. And twice her age. They each had a yellow pad, unwritten on, and a Bic pen poised to remedy that. I’d seen scarier-looking people running the reference desk at the Southampton library. I tried to send telepathic messages to my colleagues: “Beware. Looks deceive.”
“What’s this all about?” I asked firmly as I dropped my briefcase on the table, just to break the ice.
They slid cards across the table. Anne Li, Investigator, DHS, and Jeff Fells, the same. I passed the cards to Ross and Sullivan and kept my own card in my briefcase.
“We’re curious,” said Sullivan. “Like the lady said.”
“Ms. Swaitkowski, thank you for joining us,” said Fells.
“I didn’t knowingly. In fact, I’m not joining you until you tell me what this is about, or I call in my own attorney. Burton Lewis. Know him? He knows your boss.”
“Please, Ms. Swaitkowski, sit down,” said Fells. “We’ll explain.”
Ross pulled out a chair and waved me into it. I sat down.
“Chief Semple and Detective Sullivan assured us you can be trusted with confidential information,” said Fells.
“Depends on who thinks it’s confidential.”
“Your government, in this case.”
I folded my arms.
“I’m listening.”
“Once I share this with you, you have implicitly agreed to the terms of confidentiality,” said Fells. “This is legally binding, making any breach prosecutable to the limits of the law.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but bluster aside, I really wasn’t up on current constitutional protections, except to know that they’d lately been seriously challenged. If he was full of shit, he sure made it seem like he wasn’t. More compelling, of course, was that dangling hook—an offer to share interesting information. It caused my curiosity, always a nagging itch, to break out in hives.
“Yeah, yeah. Show me what you got. We are on the same side, right?” I looked at Sullivan, who looked only slightly less happy than Ross, who looked pretty unhappy.
“Christ, Jackie,” he said. “Play along a little, will you? It won’t kill you.”
“Okay, I swear to keep my trap shut. As long as you aren’t asking me to participate in an unlawful act,” I added for the sake of the tape recorder.
“We aren’t,” said Investigator Fells as he magically came up with a manila folder from somewhere under the table. He placed it in front of himself.
“It’s come to the attention of domestic intelligence sources that a person or persons is attempting to transfer sensitive technological information to parties who have the potential to further transfer this information to entities unfriendly to our national security.”
Okay, I thought, that’s not what I expected.
“Okay,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“I am going to show you four photographs. I want you to give us your opinion as to which of these individuals you believe most likely to be involved in such a transaction.”
I felt my heart rate speed up and my bravado leak out of my ears. He started to open the folder, but I reached across the table and stopped him.
“Whoa, hold the phone. First tell me why you’re asking me this.”
Fells looked over at Li, who gave a faint nod. He looked back at me.
“The aforementioned intelligence sources place you at two out of three of the locations where these individuals were also present. On each of these occasions, coded communications were intercepted that connected one of them to this illegal enterprise. We just don’t know who. We know it wasn’t you; we’re simply asking your opinion. As an attorney and a responsible citizen.”
He started to open the folder, and I stopped him again.
“Okay, one more question. Are they in it for the politics or the money?”
“You know of a distinction?” Fells asked, then smiled. “Levity. I apologize. Money, as far as we can determine. Industrial espionage is the likely objective, but unfortunately, such activities can have wider implications. The people selling the information have no way of knowing that the buyers are free agents who merely sell to the highest bidder, be it a foreign corporation or sovereign nation. Or extranationals.”
“Terrorists,” I said.
“That’s always a possibility. That’s why we’re sitting here with you,” he added, with a gentle smile.
He looked down at where my hand rested on his folder. I took it away. He pulled out four photographs and placed them in front of me like a dealer laying out playing cards. My heart, already racing, almost buzzed right out of my chest.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, sticking my finger on Skitch’s shot of the Children’s Relief Fund summer drive.
“You find it significant?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
Fells gently moved my hand out of the way and pointed at Kirk Lavigne.
“This is one of the individuals.”
“Bullshit.”
“Jackie,” said Ross.
“Not Kirk. Doesn’t need the money. This I know and can prove conclusively, but only after I talk to Burton Lewis.”
Fells shook his head.
“Not necessary. We’re here to obtain your opinion. That’s what you’re giving. What about this individual?” he said, pointing at someone I’d never seen before.
“I don’t remember ever seeing him,” I said, catching the looks from the two cops. I said the same thing about photo number three, this time a dark woman.
“That’s Jud Hinkle,” I said, pointing to number four. “He’s mayor of Southampton. I see him all the time, though I don’t know him very well. His day job is running a restaurant in the Village. If he’s into industrial espionage, he’s got the world’s best front.”
“You’re certain about two and three?” asked Fells.
I looked at them hard and pushed my memory, but nothing appeared.
“Sorry. No go.”
Fells didn’t seem disappointed. Neither did the Asian sphinx sitting next to him.
“Does she ever say anything?” I asked him.
He looked at her.
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe she ever has.”
“Number two is Rodney Burnham,” said Ross. “He used to coach basketball at Southampton High but found he could make a lot more money dating rich old ladies. We used to call guys like that gigolos. Now they’re male escorts. I’ve had some complaints after he dumped a few of his dates, but nothing illegal turned up, or at least nothing provable. The other’s Natalie Koshi. She sells custom and imported clothing. All one of a kind. I heard she rolls with some heavy out-of-towners. Way out of town, like the Middle East. Just hearsay, but that’s where I’d start. I agree with Jackie on Lavigne. Richer than stink and a serious patriot. All four of these people are big into fund-raisers; that’s the common denominator,” he said, looking at me. “But you knew that already,” he added, looking back at Li.
“But not me,” I blurted out. “I hardly ever go to those things.”
“But not never,” said Fells. “You were there on one of the aforementioned occasions. A call was made from that fund-raiser to a disposable, untraceable cell. A code was punched in with the keys.”
“How the hell do you know that?” I asked.
Fells looked at Li again, who again gave a nod.
“Because the call to the disposable came from your phone.”
I love my country, though I’m not a thoroughly trusting supporter of my country’s government, even though I love our system of governance, however flawed. I think this makes me a mainstream American. I admit, I haven’t had a lot of experience with big doings outside my tiny, albeit overwrought, world of the Hamptons. None, actually. But most people can sense what it feels like to be in the proximity of things much bi
gger than ourselves. You feel like a mouse trying to seek warmth from the side of an elephant who’s about to roll into a more comfortable position.
“Is this headed where I think it’s headed?” I asked the investigators from the DHS.
Fells shook his head.
“I told you. You are not a suspect. We believe you are an unwitting victim.”
“And you can’t tell me why you think that.”
He shook his head again. He took back the photographs and put them in his folder, which disappeared again back under the table.
“Thanks for sharing your thoughts,” said Fells. “It was very helpful.”
Li bowed at me.
“If you say so,” I said.
“I do.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “For now.”
Then the two of them stood up and walked out of the room. Sullivan, standing next to the door, moved out of their way, then closed the door behind them.
“Okay,” he said, “how weird was that?”
“We didn’t ask about the drugs,” said Ross, jumping out of his chair and pacing around the room. “We should have asked about the drugs.”
Sullivan and I agreed we should have asked about the drugs. And also about who killed JFK and what they actually found in Roswell, New Mexico. We’d learn as much.
“It’s still a drug case to me,” said Ross.
“We’re not talking about the same case, boss,” said Sullivan. “This is way over my pay grade. And yours, too. No offense.”
Ross sat back down and lit cigarettes for the two of us. Sullivan sighed.
“Sorry, Jackie,” said Ross. “I had no idea. I can’t believe I’ve apologized to you twice in as many days. What’s the fucking world coming to.”
“You don’t think it’s a little odd that he had Eugenie’s fund-raiser photo?” I asked both of them.
“Dumb luck. Got it off the Web just like she did,” said Sullivan.
“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” said Ross.
“That’s Sam’s line,” I said. “And there were fifty photos of that event on Skitch’s Web site.”
