Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

by Randy Singer

  She didn’t need to say more. It was the first hearing Brent had allowed her to handle in federal court. The opposing lawyer had accused Rachel of hiding documents and being unethical. Brent had jumped to her defense and almost started a fistfight in the hallway after the hearing.

  “You’ve been a great mentor to me,” Rachel said. “And you’ve given me every opportunity I could ever ask for. So I wouldn’t say you are a terrible judge of all women.”

  “Just the ones I end up marrying,” Brent said.

  “Details,” Rachel said.

  They flew in silence for a few moments, and Rachel started thinking about the what-ifs. Apparently she wasn’t the only one.

  “I wish I’d met you ten years ago,” Brent said. “It might have saved me a lot of heartache.”

  On too many occasions to count, Rachel had wished the same thing. Brent had always been good to her. Protective, encouraging, nurturing. She had endured her own turmoil in the five years since she joined the firm, churning through several boyfriends, one of whom was emotionally abusive. Brent had threatened the man with his life if he ever laid a hand on Rachel.

  “I know what you mean. But you know what I’ve concluded?”

  “What?”

  “I’m just glad I know you now.”

  She reached out and put a hand on top of his. She wasn’t trying to shatter some new barrier; they had grown accustomed to the casual touches that signified something deeper than friendship. But this time it was an unspoken promise. She left her hand there for a long time, and neither of them spoke.

  That evening, Rachel and Brent checked into the hotel, changed clothes, and spent an hour in the workout room. Parker Clausen had his own agenda. He headed to the bar, had a few drinks, and retired to his room to work on the next chapter of his great American novel.

  After their workout, Brent and Rachel went out to dinner. Brent ordered an expensive bottle of wine. He had a case to argue the next day, but in typical Brent Benedict fashion, he had prepared well in advance. Besides, the hearing was the furthest thing from either of their minds. In fact, during the hour-and-a-half dinner, neither said a word about that case or any other. There were more important things to talk about. Personal things. And on the cab ride home, Rachel slid next to Brent and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  In the hotel elevator, she slipped him a key to her room. “Give me ten minutes,” she said.

  He was military, so he arrived right on time. He knocked softly and she let him in.

  They woke together in the morning.

  29

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Maddie woke up early and snuggled in bed with Landon and Kerri. Landon relished these times. Saturday was the only morning left when he could enjoy time with Maddie and lounge around the house. Even on Saturdays, there was work to be done. Though he would usually head into the office later on, Saturday mornings were reserved for father-daughter bonding.

  As usual, Maddie squirmed around in the bed with the never-ending energy of a five-year-old. This made Simba restless, and before long he was determined that it was time for him to eat. Because Kerri had to be the first one up every other morning, it was an unwritten rule that Landon would take care of Simba on Saturdays.

  He took Simba outside, fed the little beast breakfast, and then fixed chocolate-chip pancakes with Maddie. They poured the pancake batter into a metal cutout on the griddle, shaping the pancakes into small Mickey Mouse heads. They used chocolate chips for the eyes and mouth and nose. When the pancakes turned just the right shade of brown, Maddie flipped them from the griddle onto their plates. They smothered the pancakes in syrup and got everything sticky. Then they snuggled on the couch and put in a Disney movie.

  Landon’s cell phone rang at eight thirty, but he let it kick into voice mail. It rang again ten minutes later, and he couldn’t keep himself from checking it. Harry. The man wouldn’t be calling on Saturday morning unless it was something really important.

  When Landon called Harry back, he ran into his boss’s usual reluctance to talk about anything over the phone. “Can you come into the office for a few minutes?” Harry asked. “And if Kerri’s not working, can you bring her with you?”

  Landon hesitated. He wanted to set some healthy boundaries for his family, which was nearly impossible with a guy like Harry. The man ate, drank, and slept law.

  “If I come in, Kerri will have to stay with Maddie,” Landon said.

  “Bring Maddie, too,” Harry replied. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  The matter didn’t sound debatable. So an hour later, Landon dragged his entire clan, absent Simba, into the office. The first thing he noticed was the bright-yellow L.L. Bean bag sitting in the second-floor hallway.

  Harry stepped out of his office to greet them. “Thanks for coming in,” he said to Kerri. “This will just take a minute.”

  The L.L. Bean bag was stuffed full of books, reams of copy paper, and black three-ring spiral notebooks from other cases. There was a scale next to the bag.

  “I need you to help me figure out what this thing weighs,” Harry said to Landon, his voice characteristically gruff.

  “Why do you talk funny?” Maddie asked.

  “Shhh,” Kerri said.

  Harry frowned and asked Landon to stand on the scale first without the bag. Harry put on a pair of reading glasses and knelt down, his nose a foot or so from the readout.

  “One ninety-five,” he said. He pointed to the bag. “Now, let’s see what this sucker weighs.”

  Landon picked it up, using his legs more than his back. It was bulky and heavy, but he managed to get it over to the scale.

  “What’s 318 minus 195?” Harry asked.

  “One twenty-three,” Kerri said.

  “Math wizard,” Harry mumbled approvingly. He jotted down a note.

  They off-loaded some ballast until the bag weighed exactly 120, Erica Jensen’s body weight.

  “You mind trying to pick that up?” Harry asked Kerri.

  “I will,” Maddie said.

  “No, honey. Let Mommy do it.”

  But she had a hard time. She pulled on the straps and could drag the bag a little but couldn’t lift it far off the ground.

  “Those concrete walls on the bridge are about three feet high,” Harry said, his arms across his chest, chewing on his reading glasses. “And at the very least, somebody would have to lift that dead body up there, balance it on the concrete abutment, and put two thirty-five-pound plates into the bag before dumping it in the canal.”

  “Hold that thought,” Kerri said, her hand up. She took Maddie by the hand, shot Landon a What’s wrong with this guy? look, and led Maddie down to Landon’s office and out of earshot of Harry McNaughten. “This is where Daddy works,” Landon heard her say cheerfully from down the hall.

  “Whose body was in the bag?” Maddie’s voice came trailing back.

  “Oh yeah,” Harry said, as if he had just that moment noticed Maddie. “Sorry about that.”

  Landon shrugged. Harry was Harry. There was nothing Landon could do about it.

  “You think your wife’s stronger than Julia King?” Harry asked, after Kerri and Maddie had disappeared toward Landon’s office.

  “By a long shot.”

  “Me too. Meaning that if Julia did it, she didn’t act alone.”

  Landon still couldn’t imagine Julia killing Erica Jensen. But Harry was right about one thing—if she had, she would have needed help disposing of the body.

  “How much can her kid lift?” Harry asked.

  Landon shook his head, dismissing the idea as preposterous. “Jake King did not help his mom dispose of Erica Jensen’s body,” Landon insisted.

  “Yeah,” Harry sighed, sounding unconvinced. “You’re probably right.”

  After ten minutes in Landon’s office, Kerri and Maddie headed home. Harry gave Landon a ride home after a full day at the office.

  “Is every Saturday going to be like this?” Kerri asked that evening.


  “Only until we get this Elias King case behind us,” Landon said.

  But even he didn’t believe it.

  30

  WHEN RACHEL WALKED into Landon’s office on Tuesday morning and took a seat in one of his client chairs, he could tell she was out of sorts. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her skin was marked with small red streaks on the side of her neck. She still had the fresh cover-girl good looks and bewitching figure that turned men’s heads, but her brow furrowed with worry and her mouth turned down in a frightened little frown.

  She would make a terrible poker player.

  “Have you got a second?” she asked.

  Landon normally welcomed interruptions from Rachel, but today he was swamped. Still, she had been kind to him when he first arrived at the firm. He owed her.

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to show you something.”

  Rachel placed some photos on Landon’s desk. She watched intently as he shuffled through them.

  The first was a picture of Rachel and Brent Benedict at dinner, leaning toward each other. It looked like she was mesmerized with what he was saying. The second was a picture of Brent entering a hotel room with number 1217 on the door. The photo was stamped with the time and date. February 20, 10:05 p.m.

  The third showed Brent and Rachel leaving the same room, and it was stamped 7:30 a.m. on February 21—the date of the hearing in front of the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals. They were both smiling.

  Underneath the photos was a copy of Rachel’s receipt for room 1217 at the Hilton Hotel in Atlanta. Landon noticed that all of the documents had been identified with exhibit stickers.

  He also noticed the guilt-stricken look on Rachel’s face and decided not to judge her. She had come to him for advice, not a lecture.

  “I thought this was a no-fault divorce,” Landon said, referring to Brent and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “It is. Or at least it was.” After a few beats, Rachel lifted her eyes to his. “Can I hire you as my lawyer for this conversation?”

  Landon knew she wasn’t serious. It was lawyer-speak to ensure that what they said would remain forever confidential, protected by the attorney-client privilege. “Sure.”

  “Brent has already been deposed several times by his wife’s attorney, who’s basically the Lord Voldemort of divorce attorneys. Yesterday afternoon she took a supplemental deposition, which was supposed to be confined to questions about his assets and how much he made at the firm. Instead, she asked Brent whether he was having an affair.”

  Rachel paused, looked past Landon, and drew in a breath before continuing. “He denied it. That’s when Stacy’s lawyer showed him these.”

  Landon sighed and rubbed his temple. One of the firm’s partners had apparently lied under oath, not to mention the fact that he was having an affair with an associate.

  “Are you sleeping with him?” Landon asked softly.

  Rachel stared at the desk and nodded. People can be so stupid, Landon thought. Even aside from the morality of it, they should have just waited a few months.

  “They’re going to depose me next,” Rachel said.

  The dilemma was obvious. Rachel could either lie under oath to protect Brent or destroy him by telling the truth. “He says we’re the only ones who know what happened in that room,” she continued. “If they had more photos, they would have shown them to us.”

  “But you can’t lie under oath,” Landon said. He made eye contact with Rachel. This was serious.

  She didn’t say a word for a few seconds. When she spoke, her voice registered more resignation than resolve. “I know.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I just needed somebody to talk to.”

  Landon thought about what could be done. Perhaps she could take the Fifth. But was adultery even a crime in Georgia? Maybe they could talk to Brent Benedict and get him to change his prior answers. Not likely.

  He noticed her eyes tearing up. He took a box of tissues from the credenza behind him and placed them on the desk. She took one, dabbed at her eyes for a moment, and straightened her shoulders. She wadded the tissue in her fist.

  “You can’t lie,” Landon repeated. He needed to fortify his witness. “You’ve got your whole career in front of you.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Seems to me like my career is shot either way.”

  ///

  For Sean Phoenix, lying was an art form. You don’t move up the ranks of the CIA without a little misdirection here and there, and you certainly don’t become CEO of Cipher Inc. without learning how to lie as effortlessly as breathing.

  But lying under oath in front of a congressional subcommittee made even Sean Phoenix a little nervous. He was a master at not showing it, of course. He could lie to anyone’s face without flinching, his pulse and breathing constant and unchanged. But it didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He saw it as a necessary evil, an occupational hazard, something to be tolerated for the greater good.

  “No, Senator, our organization has never knowingly participated in the assassination of a foreign official.”

  “No, Senator, we do not torture enemy combatants under orders from the U.S. government or any of our country’s allies.”

  “That’s correct, Senator; I’m denying we even have contracts with the U.S. government.”

  The senators were all such fools. They believed America could play by its self-imposed rules of civility while all her enemies launched terrorist attacks and used suicide bombers to kill innocent civilians. Meanwhile, they argued that those attacks should be answered with United Nations resolutions or economic sanctions to uphold the high-and-mighty principles of democracy and self-determination. But Sean Phoenix was a realist. It was his job to keep the good senators safe so they could live in peace and harass him with these ridiculous questions.

  Such was the world of politics.

  But in the real world—the Machiavellian world of power and ambition—the victor still wrote all the rules. No matter how the victory was achieved.

  So Sean Phoenix sat for hours before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, telling one lie after another. He even feigned righteous indignation a time or two. His denials were firm and unbending and full of the conviction of a man who believed he was making the world a better place.

  He found it ironic that a high-ranking official at the State Department called him less than forty-eight hours later. There was an issue in Iran, and the State Department needed it handled discreetly. The usual procedures for plausible deniability would apply. Cipher’s role in the operation—indeed, the firm’s very link to the government—could never be made public. It wasn’t quite a Mission Impossible “this tape will self-destruct in five seconds” assignment, but it might as well have been. Sean Phoenix and Cipher Inc. would be handsomely rewarded if they succeeded. But they would also be flying alone. The U.S. government would not raise a finger to help them if things went wrong.

  An Iranian pastor had been sentenced to death for apostasy. He had become a cause célèbre among American evangelicals, and the U.S. president’s popularity was taking a hit because there was nothing he could do. The State Department wondered if Cipher Inc. had any operatives on the ground. Perhaps they might engineer a renegade prison break for several prisoners that would, coincidentally, end up freeing the pastor. If the pastor were whisked out of the country, he could be granted asylum in any number of places. But it would be important for diplomatic reasons that the U.S. government never be connected to the efforts.

  This was exactly the type of assignment Sean Phoenix needed. He had been waiting for something noble, something the public would love if the truth ever got out. A good spy covered his own back. If the public forgave Oliver North for lying to a Senate subcommittee, how much more would they forgive Sean Phoenix, provided they knew he was pursuing a higher good—like rescuing Christian pastors from beheadings in Iran?

  He would need a member of the news media he could fully trust to carefully d
ocument his efforts. His media contact would have to agree to embargo the story and not release it without the authorization of Phoenix himself. And that authorization would never be given unless there was a breach of security and his lies under oath were exposed.

  From his office, he dialed the cell number for Kerri Reed. He had already decided that she would be useful for any number of reasons.

  “How would you like the story of your life?” he asked.

  “I’m listening.”

  31

  THE OTHER SHOE DROPPED on Friday, the first day of March. This time it was the Feds—a twenty-three-count grand jury indictment against Elias King for insider trading. Mitchell Taylor, the assistant U.S. Attorney in charge of the investigation, didn’t play games like the General. There was no perp walk. No press conference.

  There didn’t have to be. The eighty-two-page indictment said it all.

  The Feds had received an anonymous tip about insider trading at the law firm of Kilgore and Strobel three months earlier. With the concurrence of the firm’s managing partner, a district court judge had issued a sealed search warrant and secretly appointed a commissioner to review the hard drives of Kilgore and Strobel lawyers. The commissioner’s job was to look for evidence of insider trading while preserving the attorney-client confidences of the firm’s clients.

  It had taken weeks to access the attorneys’ computers without their knowledge and copy all the hard drives. Another two weeks to go through the data. And ultimately, according to the indictment, only one lawyer was implicated.

  The indictment claimed that Elias King had been setting up anonymous offshore companies in the Seychelles Islands and using those companies to conduct stock-option trades from accounts in the Caymans. The trades all involved Kilgore and Strobel clients that were about to participate in a merger or announce some other significant corporate event. To anonymously capitalize on the insider information, Elias had put together a maze of companies and accounts so dense that nobody could have figured it out without the information provided by the anonymous tipster.