The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  “That’s another reason why I’m thinking these guys had military training.”

  “I’m beginning to think that’s obvious, Jack. I have no inkling where that idea can lead us, but we have to come up with as many dots to connect as possible.”

  “Bonnie, another thing. I buy the idea of sound suppressors, but don’t you think it strange that nobody saw trouble until five hours after the event happened? I mean this is a busy TV network. Phones would be constantly ringing. Wouldn’t somebody get suspicious if nobody answered the phone?”

  “Good point, my favorite FBI agent.” She took out her cell phone and called the number she saw on a phone on the table. She put her phone on speaker.

  “Welcome to Al Jazeera America,” said the voice recording. “Everyone is in a meeting and will be tied up for a few hours. Please leave a detailed message and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”

  She looked at Jack.

  “These bastards were careful enough to make sure the correct recording played on the answering machine.”

  “Let’s step out into the hallway for a minute, Bonnie.”

  “Still don’t like the stench of death, honey?”

  “So let’s see where we are, Bon. Al Jazeera, a media conglomerate with strong connections to Islam, gets shot up. The action was carried out with military discipline and a lot of planning, right down to leaving a perfectly accurate recorded phone message. I don’t think this was the act of a rival network. This was a carefully choreographed hit, and I’m starting to have some guesses. You?”

  “Yes, I think we’re on the same page, Jack. We can’t help but think that the NFL is having a busy season, and they just won another home game.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. Al Jazeera isn’t a company run by a bunch of fiery-eyed radicals. It’s a business, a big business, especially since they got into the American market. I study these guys a lot. I have to. So we can’t think of these guys as terrorists. Shit, over half the bodies in that room look American. To get advertisers, which is what the business side is all about, they can’t be too biased. So if it is this oddball NFL outfit, we’d have to assume that they’ve lowered their sights from radical Islamists to people who simply express pro-Islamic political views. We may have to focus on some other possible reason for this shooting.”

  “But Jack, the precision of this operation is just too damn familiar.”

  “I agree, Bonnie. Maybe I’m just engaging in wishful thinking, which is not what I get paid for. But if we think of the NFL outfit as a group of hard-nosed reformers, don’t we have to ask ourselves why a reformer would want to shoot up a roomful of people whom they could hardly consider their enemy? I mean, we’ve been working on the assumption that this NFL crowd just goes after radical bad guys.”

  “Not For Long, Jack.”

  “Okay, Bonnie, you and I have work to do. As usual, we’ll know more when we get the report from the CSU people. I’ve got a desk covered with files that are heating up. I’m going back to Federal Plaza. Wanna watch a funny movie when you’re done? How about Sleepless in Seattle?”

  “Too tame. After this shit I really need to laugh. How about some Marx Brothers flicks?”

  Chapter 30

  “Please come in, James. I’ve ordered breakfast for us,” Bartholomew said.

  Rather than meet at Midtown Metrics, Bartholomew invited James to meet at his condo on 86th Street and 5th Avenue. He did this often, preferring his condo to the office because it afforded more privacy. The apartment was huge, but Bartholomew wouldn’t describe it that way. It’s 3,800 square feet. Data, not opinion. The living room had a commanding view of Central Park. With five bedrooms and four full baths, the place could accommodate a large family. But Bartholomew remained single. After four marriages, he concluded that wedded life was simply bad metrics, and he had the data to prove it. His former wives wouldn’t disagree, he thought.

  “So, James it’s been two weeks since we discussed the growing numbers. Tell me about the growth, and also be prepared to make comparisons.”

  “Yes, Bartholomew, the numbers are growing. In the past two weeks, our gross target was 1,400 and the actual number we hit was 1,471, over 100 percent efficiency. The two-week improvement is 735, and the Alpha Metric, the leadership targets, is equally as good. Our target was 80 and we achieved 81, again over 100 percent. That’s a growth of 43 in raw numbers.”

  “And how about our weapons acquisitions, James?”

  “In the past two weeks we acquired 1,478 small arms, including 457 Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistols, 589 Sig Sauer P226 pistols, and 422 45-caliber automatics. We also count 2,658 M16 automatic machine guns. And, most importantly, we have procured 79 Predator Drones in the past two weeks.”

  “James, please give me details on our ‘associates’ who are helping us with our weapons procurement program.”

  “As you planned, Bartholomew, we have exactly three inside associates at each of our target arsenals, one of whom is in charge of inventory. To avoid any chance of discovery, our inventory insiders are relieved of their duties within days of a ‘procurement,’ and are sent to our facility in Kurdistan.”

  “Can you give me an update on our gold mining operations?”

  “Yes, Bartholomew, it’s a fantastically successful operation.”

  “ ‘Fantastically successful’? Please, James, data, not opinions.”

  “Of course, Bartholomew. We have taken complete control of our two mines in South Africa, under layers of different corporate names.”

  “Can these operatives be trusted, James?”

  “Yes. As you commanded, each mining official as well as the workers have quadrupled their former salaries. With the amount we are paying them, we don’t anticipate any trouble. Also, as you know, key officials in the South African government are being well compensated. In the next six months we expect to have a controlling interest in two gold mines in Zimbabwe. The government in that country can best be described as ‘most cooperative.’ ”

  “And our profit metrics?”

  “From the two mines in South Africa alone, Bartholomew, we have netted $11 million per month for the past half-year.”

  “Well done, James. Keep me up to date on the changing data.”

  Chapter 31

  Waiting to hear about a client’s fate is one of the more aggravating things a lawyer faces. I felt good about my meeting with Rick Bellamy. I think I convinced him that a conspiracy is happening, and that Al Yamani and the other two bombing defendants are caught in the middle of it. Bellamy seemed to get it, and he’s the Secretary of Homeland Security. I know I also convinced Jack Logan, the FBI guy, and his wife Bonnie. Three skeptical people, and they all seemed to agree that my guy and the other two got hosed. But why the hell hasn’t Bellamy called me yet to make it official? He said that he wanted Al and the other two in the Witness Protection Program and out of jail. I was beginning to feel quite smug about my lawyerly brilliance, but I still don’t have the final word.

  And then the phone rang.

  “Matt, it’s Rick Bellamy, got a minute?”

  “I’ve got as long as it takes for you to talk to me, Rick. So go ahead and make my day.”

  “It won’t be that easy, Matt. Let me first give it to you straight. The government isn’t going to dismiss the case against your guy or the other two.”

  “Rick,” I said, “just the other day you seemed convinced that these men were framed. So did Bonnie and Jack Logan. What happened to change your mind?”

  “It’s not a case of me changing my mind, Matt, it’s a case of the government covering its ass. The attorney general took this right to the White House. Here’s the problem. Dozens of American citizens were killed and hundreds injured in the bombings that your guys are accused of.”

  “You used the right words, Rick—‘accused of.’ You know these guys were framed.”

  “Yes, and I still agree that they were set up. But you have to understand that these three ca
ses are the biggest terrorist attacks in years. The Justice Department would have to spend 100 percent of its time explaining to the press why the charges were dropped. And the only way to convince the public that they should be released would be to publicize your arguments and disclose your counter evidence. That would fuck our chances of nailing the people who really did pull off these bombings. But hey, this phone call isn’t all about bad news. It’s actually good news. I’ve convinced the White House and the Justice Department that the three defendants should be put in the Witness Protection Program. The attorney general won’t have to answer questions about that. All he has to tell the press is that it’s for national security reasons. Also, the Justice Department not only wants to protect these men, it also wants to make sure that none of them tries to get away.”

  “Rick, these guys would be nuts to try to escape.”

  “That may well be, Matt, but the attorney general doesn’t want to take chances. Frankly, neither do I. But look at the bright side, Matt. You and your wife were our guests in the Witness Protection Program. Don’t tell me that it’s not a pleasant assignment. Your client will trade a jail cell for nice living quarters and the freedom to move around, within limits, of course. Hey, if I were you, I’d pop a champagne cork and celebrate.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, right. Well, whatever the hell you do to celebrate, just do it.”

  “Rick, besides the obvious political reasoning against springing these guys completely, what did the attorney general find so difficult to buy?”

  “You know the answer as well as I do, Matt. The only good evidence against these three men is pretty solid—the thumbprints and the DNA samples. You gave me a convincing argument that this evidence may have been planted, but unless you can locate that doctor or the nurse who did the physical exams of your guys, the evidence remains uncontroverted. Oh, by the way, the AG assured me that they aren’t going to push ahead with the prosecution—he’s simply putting it on hold.”

  Did you ever finish a conversation and not know how you were supposed to feel? That’s how I felt after my chat with Bellamy. It was a combination of good and bad news, and I suppose most of it is good. But unless I can find that doctor and nurse, Al Yamani and friends may live out their lives in the Witness Protection Program.

  ***

  I went to the jail to personally give the news to Al Yamani. His reaction wasn’t as muted as mine. He let out a shout and a laugh, freaking out the jail guard. I had really begun to like this guy. Over the weeks it came clear to me that Al Yamani and I could be good friends. Al, the guy I used to refer to as Mr. Scumbag.

  “When do I get out of here?”

  “About two hours from now, I’ve been told.”

  “Holy shit,” he yelled, causing the guard to walk over to us.

  “Hey, Al, make sure you understand what I just told you. The government hasn’t dropped the cases; it’s just decided to insert you guys into the Witness Protection Program and put a hold on the prosecution. Technically, you still remain accused of some pretty heavy crimes. But the good news is that you’re going to get the hell out of here. As I’ve told you from my personal experience, the Witness Protection Program isn’t bad at all. The FBI takes good care of the people in the program.”

  “Matt, you’re the most brilliant lawyer God ever created.”

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Al. But I’d feel a lot more brilliant if I could find that doctor and nurse who examined you.”

  Our meeting came to an end. As Al’s attorney I would be allowed to visit him at his secure location. I had to sign all sorts of documents, basically stipulating to a firing squad if I divulged his location to anyone.

  When I got back to my office I told Barbara to patch me into a conference call with Georgi Rice and Jerry Blackwell, the attorneys for Al’s fellow defendants.

  “Hi, my friends, Matt Blake here. I have some excellent news. It’s not great news, but I think you’ll both agree it’s still excellent. To get right to the point, our clients are being released from jail and are being inserted into the FBI Witness Protection Program. You’ll both get a call shortly from the Department of Homeland Security to give you the details. It will happen this afternoon or tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Holy shit,” they both yelled as if they had rehearsed their response.

  “Matt,” Georgina said, “ever since I tried that case against you, I knew you were one of the sharpest lawyers I ever met. But enough of my compliments. How the hell did you pull this off?”

  “Well, it was a little bit of knowing the right people, like the Secretary of Homeland Security, and a little bit of carefully explaining the evidence against our guys and how that evidence is bullshit. Our clients will be well taken care of, as I can personally testify from my own experience with the Witness Protection Program. Secretary Bellamy assured me that the attorney general won’t go forward with the prosecution, but has essentially put the matters on hold.”

  “So let me guess,” Jerry Blackwell said. “The only thing standing between our clients and a complete dismissal of the cases are the identities of that doctor and nurse who examined them.”

  “You hit it on the head, Jerry,” I said. “The thumbprints and DNA evidence are still in the way, and without our mysterious medical friends, we’ll still have a hard time attacking that evidence. Bellamy asked if you two could coordinate everything through me, so if it’s okay with you I’ll call you as soon as I find out the secret location our clients will be taken to.”

  From the reaction of Georgi and Jerry, I felt that our clients were all in good shape. Well, if you can define good shape as having 18 pages of felony charges over your head.

  ***

  Rick Bellamy’s assistant called me on a secure line to give me the information on the secret location from which my client would begin his new life in the Witness Protection Program. It was a six-bedroom, eight-bathroom house in the upscale New Jersey suburb of Tenafly, a short hop from Manhattan. Plenty of room for Al Yamani, Jake Almeth, Mickey Sidduq, as well as three FBI bodyguards. I remembered Rick Bellamy telling me about a horrible experience he had at another place in Tenafly, when his wife was kidnapped by al-Qaeda and almost killed. But, as he explained, the story had a happy ending. I called Georgi Rice and Jerry Blackwell and instructed them to call Homeland Security so they could have a conversation on a secure encrypted line.

  So my client and friend, Al Yamani, is out of jail and living in a nice house in a classy suburb. I’ll take good news when I can get it.

  Diana stopped by my office for a lunch date. When I broke the news to her, I thought her normal enthusiasm would explode into pure energy. She flung her arms around my neck, kicked off her shoes and wrapped her legs around my waist. Did I mention that Dee gets excited from time to time?

  “So tell me, honey,” Dee said. “The only thing between this good news and the case being totally dismissed are the identities of that doctor and nurse/”

  “Yeah, and not just their identities. I need their testimony. Without that, Al Yamani and his friends may be in the Witness Protection Program for a long time.”

  “Hey, Matt, the romantic in me thinks maybe they can meet some nice gals and get married.”

  I laughed. “Just keep in mind that Al Yamani, Jake Almeth, Mickey Sidduq no longer exist.”

  Chapter 32

  I sat at my desk working on a file that was suddenly heating up. The Yamani case had taken up so much of my time and energy that some of my regular caseload had been put on hold. This case was a potential big one. Dormand vs. Sears was a product liability case that involved an exploding propane gas tank. My client, William Dormand, was about to enjoy a pleasant Saturday barbecue in his back yard in Moline, Illinois, when the propane tank nestled under the barbecue grill exploded. A piece of shrapnel from the tank ripped off Dorman’s right arm at the shoulder. Dorman was a dentist, and made a comfortable living. Ever visit a one-armed dentist? The case was worth a f
ortune.

  “Matt, there’s a woman here to see you. Her name is Fatah Alumina, and she says it’s urgent.”

  I’m kind of strict about unannounced visitors. Kind of strict, but not too strict. Not everyone shares my ideas about proper office procedure. I remember Bill Randolph telling me about a guy that just showed up in the waiting room out of nowhere. Bill’s by-the-book secretary was about to tell the man to make an appointment and come back at an assigned time. Bill told her to let the guy in. To make a long story short, it wound up being a $10 million case. So sometimes I allow for a little waiting room spontaneity.

  Barbara escorted the woman into my office. She was quite short, about five feet tall, maybe less. I wouldn’t describe her as pretty, but she had a pleasant, friendly face. Her head and part of her face was covered by a scarf, a familiar appearance for a Muslim woman. She grabbed the scarf and gave it a yank, pulling it off her head.

  “Do you mind if I take thees fooking thing off? Makes me hot.”

  “Please, go right ahead,” I said, stifling a laugh at her rather non-Islamic choice of words.

  “So you are Meester Blake, yes? Matt Blake?”

  “Yes, and you’re Mrs., or is it Ms., Alumina, I believe, Fatah Alumina.”

  “Yes, but you can call me Bootsie.”

  Bootsie? Fucking Bootsie? Of course I didn’t say that, but I came close.

  “Charming nickname,” I said after I bit my lip. “Why do they call you that?”