Authors: Tim LaHaye
John Gallagher had received the message from the Roundtable that Abigail needed his help. So he flew to the East Coast, having just arrived at the Dulles airport, west of D.C. He used his ex-fed-agent contacts to get a big SUV with tinted glass, hoping that would limit facial-recognition systems from getting a peek at Abigail, who was now sitting in the backseat. The license plates had special reflective plastic covers that made them unreadable from intersection cameras.
In a matter of minutes he would have to pass through the Dulles Toll Road. As part of the BIDTag program, the highway folks had discontinued the quick-pass system. Now, all drivers had to stop at the tollbooths and hold out the back of their hands to the scanners. He half-turned around to alert Abigail. “Okay, tollbooth ahead. We’re about to see if I’m Mr. Clean with the feds or not.”
Abigail leaned forward with her forearms resting on the seat in front of her. “John, this is the only route that will get me to the federal courthouse in time for my argument. We both heard the traffic report on I-66. The Dulles Toll Road is our only hope. So, friend, you do the driving up there, and I’ll do the praying back here.”
When they arrived at the booth, Gallagher held out his hand so it could be examined by the scanner housed within the little plastic hood that jutted out toward the driver’s side.
The tollgate stayed closed in front of him and the red light was illuminated.
Gallagher waited, shifting in his seat. He could hear Abigail’s voice softly Speaking behind him. He raised his eyes to catch the reflection in his rearview mirror. He saw Abigail in the rear seat, hands clasped, head bowed, praying.
Come on, come on
, Gallagher thought.
Then the gate lifted and the light turned green. Gallagher rolled to the tollbooth. A clerk sat in her little window. He took out a couple of international CReDO coins — the only ones that were accepted at tolls, and handed them to the woman. She counted the coins. The final light was still red ahead of them. The toll woman seemed to be studying her BIDTag scanner screen. Gallagher shifted in his seat, staring at the red light. Another half minute passed. Finally, the red light turned green and Gallagher eased his car forward, and then immediately merged into the crush of traffic on the Dulles Tollway heading toward downtown Washington.
In the Security and Identification Administration headquarters, Jeremy was working the same Rubik’s cube he’d been working on all day. And he was about to twist the last colored square into place.
He reviewed the footage from the cameras at the Columbus commercial hangar. It showed someone — obviously Abigail Jordan, he now knew in retrospect, dressed as a pilot and walking from the Citation X into the hangar. Then, shortly after that, Victoria McHenry, also dressed as a pilot, left the hangar and then headed back to the Citation X.
Jeremy asked the obvious question: Where was Abigail Jordan now?
He was more than a little embarrassed and nervous to have to put in yet another apprehension request. This was his third request for the same violator, and now he had to get the approval of the director. He ran upstairs to the executive level and waited outside his door in the lobby. This particular apprehension was giving him heartburn. After fifteen minutes he stepped over to his secretary and asked her to move things along. Five minutes later, the director stepped out. Jeremy had
the order for apprehension on an e-pad and a digital pen in his hand. The director scribbled his signature on the screen, gave him a look of disappointment, and reentered his office.
This was Jeremy’s last chance — and he knew it. He returned to his database and tried another search. This time, the computer revealed just the information needed. Abigail Jordan, attorney-at-law, was scheduled to present an oral argument that morning at the U.S. federal court building in Washington, in the case of
United States v. Jordan
. Jeremy typed the courthouse address into the notice and hit Send, delivering it electronically to “all available law enforcement personnel within the District of Columbia.” Then he crossed his fingers.
Abigail was as ready as she would ever be.
She clutched the brown expandable case file in her hand as she rode in the back of Gallagher’s SUV. During the flight, she had changed into a dark blue suit and white silk blouse — the one she had stored in the flight case that she had carried off the Citation X and onto the commercial delivery plane. It was the outfit she often used for appellate arguments back when her law practice had her appearing in court regularly. That was when she would be able to jog several miles a day and would log three days a week at the gym. She giggled to herself in the jet’s cramped bathroom when she put on the suit, skirt, and blouse and realized that they all, mercifully, still fit. Life had become so complicated recently. Almost no time now for the gym or running or so many other seemingly mundane things she used to take for granted. Sometimes she yearned for them.
As she buttoned up the suit, she wondered,
When, exactly, did the journey of life transform itself into such a hair-raising mountain climb?
She used to chuckle when friends would talk about slowing down and preparing for a future of relaxation and recreation. For her and Joshua, the days had sped up, not slowed down. The risks were more dangerous, and the stakes had become almost too high to calculate. In a short time she would be trying to enter a U.S. courthouse with a forged BIDTag to defend her husband in court. It was as if a spider web with the tensile strength of steel had entangled them both.
As she continued to get ready in the SUV, now brushing some lint
off her sleeve and trying to work the wrinkles out of her suit jacket, Abigail looked ahead at the traffic on Constitution Avenue. Just a few more minutes and they would be at the courthouse.
She thanked God for the miracles that had popped up every step of the way. That ride from Columbus to Dulles airport on the commercial transport plane had been arranged courtesy of Rocky Bridger, retired Pentagon general and devoted friend on the Roundtable. Rocky knew the president of Rapid Air personally. He hadn’t filled them in about all the details of Abigail’s desperate plight, but Abigail and Cal had researched the law and knew that Rapid Air employees couldn’t get into any criminal trouble by helping her avoid the SIA surveillance. Another Roundtable member, Judge Fort Rice, also checked out the BIDTag authorization act hurriedly passed by Congress. Because of a glitch in the law he had come to the same conclusion. Of course, none of that affected the ability of the U.S. government to come after Abigail.
Gallagher slowed the SUV and pulled into a parking spot reserved for “authorized vehicles only.”
“Okay,” the ex-FBI agent said, turning off his car. “I’ll get a parking ticket here, so I’ll have to send you the bill.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But it avoids all the cameras and scanners in the public parking area. Also, here’s some good news for you. I checked and the facial recognition cameras inside the courthouse had to be yanked out. Got some kind of computer virus. Come on, Abby. Follow me.”
Gallagher and Abigail moved along the perimeter of the courthouse building until they arrived at a rear service entrance. Gallagher hit the speed dial on his Allfone. “The agent is outside,” he announced into his cell and clicked it off.
“So I’m an agent now?” Abigail asked.
“I know the courthouse security guy. Did him a few favors when I used to be a frequent government witness here in D.C.. Anyway, I told him you’re operating undercover. You are, aren’t you?” Gallagher half smiled. “Anyway, this’ll get you past the front door X-ray machines and cameras, but it won’t get you past the BIDTag scanners they’ve set up on every floor. Which courtroom are you heading to?”
“Courtroom 11, fourth floor.”
“You remember the back stairway leads up to each of the floors?”
“Yes.”
“It should be smooth sailing to your floor. But from that point on, SIA agents are at the scanners. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. You’ll be on your own.”
Abigail nodded, then checked the time. Ten minutes left. She hurried to the stairwell.
A bailiff and a court clerk with her hands full of files stepped into the stairway, then passed by her, complaining about the crowded elevators.
Abigail tried not to look too rushed as she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Arriving at the door that led to the open hallway, she prayed,
Lord just give me the chance to argue Josh’s case — I will accept whatever happens after that
.
She opened the door. Fifteen feet ahead was the SIA security station, blocking the hallway leading to Courtroom 11, which was halfway down the corridor on the left. Two SIA agents were in position, one on each side of the scanner, which was a larger and presumably more sensitive version of the one that was in the tollbooth on the Dulles Toll Road.
A lawyer with a fat briefcase was standing in line ahead of her. He placed his right hand into the scanner. Ten seconds later the bulb on top flickered green. The SIA agent nodded, and the lawyer strolled ahead, briefcase in hand.
Abigail stepped up. She smiled. “Good morning,” she said brightly.
“Right hand please,” one of the agents told her.
Abigail inserted her right hand into the open space in the big square scanner, palm down. She was glad it was only a BIDTag scanner and not a facial recognition camera. But that was only cold comfort now as she waited to see if Chiro Hashimoto’s substitute BIDTag was as good as he had claimed.
The SIA agent squinted at his screen. A few seconds passed. The light on the scanner was not lit. “Withdraw your hand please,” he barked.
She did as she was told, but her heart was racing.
“Reinsert please,” he said bluntly.
Abigail placed her hand in again, palm down. Two seconds passed. The SIA agent staring at his monitor gave a nod toward the screen but seemed surprised when he looked over at the unlit bulb. He reached over and tapped the bulb with his finger.
The bulb lit up green.
Abigail, still clutching her file, strode between the SIA agents and picked up the pace. Courtroom 11 was only thirty feet away, but there was a sudden noise behind her in the hall. An FBI agent and an SIA official had just blown into the hallway from the stairwell.
“Stop her!” one of them shouted.
At the opposite end of the hallway, at the other SIA station, the two agents posted there left their position and started charging toward Abigail. She broke into a flash of speed, sprinting with legs churning.
I haven’t come this far …
She skidded to a stop at the open doorway of courtroom 11 and dodged in. A court clerk with an electronic clipboard was standing just inside the courtroom. Abigail could see that a dozen other lawyers were already seated in the benches, waiting for their cases to be called.
“Abigail Jordan, arguing for the defendant.
United States v. Jordan
,” she said hurriedly to the man.
An instant later, one of the armed SIA agents grabbed her by the arm.
“What’s this?” the bailiff said with a stunned look.
“Illegal entry into the building,” the agent barked, “and an outstanding SIA warrant.”
Abigail stretched forward, getting as close to the bailiff’s ear as she could, and whispered, “Sir, I am an attorney, and I need to argue my husband’s case today.
Please
.”
The court officer held up a hand and looked at the SIA agents. They were immediately joined by the FBI agent, who grunted, “No offense buddy, but you’re just a court bailiff. We’re federal agents with a warrant. So step aside.”
The bailiff’s eyes lit up. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”
The SIA agents ignored him and began to tug Abigail out of the courtroom.
The bailiff was fuming. “You may be federal agents, and I may be
just
a bailiff, but you have just stepped inside the courtroom of the United States Court of Appeals. The judges are in charge here — not you. And those judges have delegated authority to me — that’s right — to
me
— to exercise absolute control over the conduct of all persons entering this place. So I say to you, gentlemen, please unhand this attorney. Take your seats quietly in the back if you wish, but you’ll have to wait until after her case has been argued to execute your warrant. If that’s not acceptable, I’ll call the U.S. Marshal’s office downstairs, and you can have it out with them.”
The SIA agent loosened his grip, and Abigail quickly pulled away, striding up to the counsel table in the front of the courtroom.
The opposing attorneys from the Department of Justice were already in their seats. All three government lawyers were bug-eyed, having just witnessed the spectacle in the back of the courtroom. Abigail pulled her notes out of her file and laid them on the table with precision, trying to calm the thumping in her chest. She turned to the three opposing attorneys.
“Counselors,” she said with a nod of greeting. She turned to face the door where the three judges would soon enter.
Lance Dunny, the lead prosecuting attorney at the other table, returned her greeting. “Counselor,” he replied. And then with a twisted grin added, “This is perfect. A criminal for a lawyer, comes in to defend her criminal husband.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Abigail, and she turned back toward her abrasive opponents to share it. “As John Adams once argued in the most famous case of his career — ‘Facts are stubborn things.’ And just for the record, Mr. Dunny, so am I. I trust you’re prepared for both.”
Lance Dunny was the government’s choice to argue against Abigail. A smart move, Abigail knew. The DOJ lawyer who was standing at the lectern addressing the three judges was the head litigator in the government’s criminal division, and when Dunny won — which was often — he didn’t just edge out the opposition by a nose. He would usually crush them. His argument that day in
United States v. Jordan
had been commanding and elegant in its simplicity, perfectly attuned to the three judges, two men and one female, who sat, black-robed, in front of him and peered down from the bench.
Of the three appellate judges assigned to hear this case, none had been appointed by President Tulrude. Abigail considered that a plus. On the other hand, all three had reputations for pro-government toughness when it came to criminal prosecutions. Rarely did any of them vote for reversal of criminal convictions. Agnes Lillegaard, the chief judge on the panel, had been a former federal prosecutor, as had Judge Turkofsky, who sat to her right. Judge Preston on her left had a stint, before appointment to the bench, as counsel to the Senate judiciary, where he helped draft stringent anti-crime legislation.
In his oral presentation, Lance Dunny did an artful job pulling apart what he expected to be Abigail’s chief arguments.
During her own opening argument, Abigail made two main points. First, that the “material witness order,” which the trial judge had imposed against her in Joshua’s case, was improper. That order, she pointed out, prevented her from leaving the United States while
Joshua’s case was pending, supposedly on the basis that she was an important witness for the prosecution, and that without such an order she might be a flight risk, leaving the country to join her husband overseas and thereby placing herself beyond the jurisdiction of the court. This, she said, violated due process, constituted cruel and unusual punishment for a witness, and further violated the constitutional right to travel.
Dunny called those arguments “absurd.” At one point Judge Agnes Lillegaard, nodding as Dunny continued to denigrate Abigail’s reasoning, added her own comment: “Some wives might feel that being forced to join their husbands would be the real cruel and unusual punishment —” The courtroom broke into cordial laughter.
Then Judge Turkofsky asked, “Mr. Dunny, isn’t it a fact that the defendant, Mr. Jordan, has already been residing overseas, placing himself outside of the jurisdiction of the United States?”
Dunny nodded vigorously. “Precisely, your honor. In Israel. And he has successfully avoided extradition back to America. So we have already been stonewalled by a criminal defendant who has committed acts of treasonous interference with the U.S. government. It is outrageous that his wife is trying to get this order overturned so she can flee this country too.”
Abigail then argued her second point, that the case against Joshua had been based on false and contrived evidence, which, she said, she would soon reveal.
At that point, Dunny’s invective became white hot. “Mrs. Jordan comes into this courtroom, telling us that honorable, high-ranking members of the Department of Justice have deliberately manipulated a witness into presenting false testimony. This is astonishing! Does this woman have no shame? But look at what she has produced — an affidavit from a former low-level assistant U.S. attorney, clearly a disgruntled former prosecutor who — for whatever reason — has invented this tale of prosecutorial misconduct. This attorney, Mr. Collingwood, by the way, has now joined one of the most well-known criminal-defense firms in Washington. His affidavit admits that. Apparently, now that
he’s defending criminals rather than putting them behind bars, Mr. Collingwood is showing a different side of his character — a side that doesn’t blink at defaming the very legal agency he once worked for.”
But Dunny saved the hardest blow, the punch in the solar plexus, for last. He argued that Abigail was ethically disqualified from even appearing in front of the judges as her husband’s attorney “in light of the clear ethical rule prohibiting a lawyer from representing a client in the same case where the attorney is called as a witness. The material witness order recognizes that the government intends to call Abigail Jordan as a witness against her husband,” Dunny said. “Case closed. Mrs. Jordan’s appearance here is an insult to the rule of law.”
When Dunny sat down, Abigail approached the lectern for her rebuttal. As she took a moment to collect herself, she felt the volcano of emotions threatening to be loosed within. She knew the risk she had taken in even defending her husband in the appeal — trying to argue with cold analytical precision a case that had so torn their lives apart and had separated Joshua from her by the full expanse of an ocean. But now she had no choice. She had to become someone else — Lady Justice herself, dispassionate, objective, and truthful.
“As to counsel’s argument,” Abigail said, “that I am a material witness in the case against my husband, and am therefore disqualified from appearing here, note that the word
material
implies relevance and materiality, that I have something relevant and significant to say in court that would tend to incriminate my husband. Where is that materiality? Where is that relevance? I have filed an affidavit proving that I have nothing whatsoever to say that could possibly show my husband — a true American patriot and hero — to be a criminal. Curiously, the government has failed to advise you judges exactly what they would expect to elicit from my testimony that could possibly be helpful in their case, which leads us to two conclusions: either the government lawyers are sloppy — or they are devious. Sloppy in mistakenly assuming that I have something to add to their empty case. Or, the more likely explanation, devious in deliberately obtaining a material witness order against me just to keep my husband and me separated,
thus applying psychological pressure to get Joshua to return to the United States to face a wrongful and contrived prosecution.”
Judge Preston, who had been quiet during oral argument, now came to life. “Mrs. Jordan, those are serious charges. Why should we believe you and not the United States government?”
“Because, Your Honor, as I’ve often said, facts are stubborn things. They call out to our sense of justice and reason and appeal to our moral conscience. So let’s look at the following facts. First fact — a respected assistant United States attorney has signed an affidavit — under oath — indicating that the assistant attorney general coerced a witness — a lawyer no less — into making false allegations against my husband, allegations that are the core of the government’s case. Fact — the government lawyers have failed to counter that affidavit with one from the assistant attorney general disputing those allegations. Now that is truly astounding. Another fact — Mr. Collingwood, in his affidavit, implicates the Tulrude administration in trying to railroad Joshua into prison for purely political purposes. And a final fact — the government has refused to produce a single piece of evidence disputing those facts.”
Judge Agnes Lillegaard took her reading glasses off her nose and stared directly at Abigail Jordan. “You are asking this court to dismiss this case against your husband before it ever gets to trial, based on a single affidavit. As long as I’ve been on this court we have never done such a thing, Mrs. Jordan. You are asking for something extraordinary here.”
Abigail’s voice quivered. “This case
is
extraordinary. We live in extraordinary times, when extraordinary injustice has taken place. And in this courtroom we have presented extraordinary evidence of political and legal corruption of the most astonishing kind.”
As she prepared to collect her papers, noticing the red light on her lectern, Abigail finished. “There is a reason that in the familiar statue, Lady Justice is always blindfolded,” she said. “That is so she will not be dissuaded — not be tempted — by the faces of high and powerful figures, even those in the attorney general’s office, and the Oval Office,
those who would wink at her, suggesting slyly that their corruptions be overlooked so that they might continue persecuting those who expose their corruption.”
Abigail gathered up her papers and walked back to the counsel table. As she did, she saw the contingent of armed federal officers in the back of the room who would soon be placing her into custody.