Executive Privilege (20 page)

When Charles Hawkins drove through the east gate of the White House, Travis “Jailbreak” Holliday was under a blanket, lying on the floor in the back of Hawkins’s car. This wasn’t easy. The Texas attorney was six four and weighed thirty pounds more than the 254 he’d packed on his big-boned frame when he’d starred at linebacker for the Longhorns.

Holliday had been given his nickname by a columnist for the
Dallas Morning News
, who had written a story claiming that hiring Holliday was like drawing a “Get Out of Jail Free” card in Monopoly. The columnist was upset that the defense attorney had just gained an acquittal for a wealthy rancher charged with killing his wife after branding her. Word was that Holliday’s closing argument was so confusing that a team at the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton was still trying to figure it out.

Earlier in the evening, the lawyer had flown his private jet to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, where Air Force One is housed. Hawkins had been waiting in a drab Chevrolet, a make not used by the White House staff or the Secret Service and so less likely to be noticed. The guards at the east gate had been warned about the unorthodox method Hawkins was going to use to get the criminal defense attorney to his meeting with the president, so getting by them was easy. It was the reporters camped outside the west gate who worried Hawkins. In some circles, hiring Travis “Jailbreak” Holliday was the equivalent of an admission of guilt. News that Holliday had entered the White House would generate more bad press than an actual indictment.

After the guards at the east gate waved him through, Hawkins rode along the horseshoe-shaped driveway until the Rose Garden and the Oval Office came into sight. He parked in back of the mansion and helped Holliday out of the car. Then he directed the lawyer through a door that stood between the Oval Office and the State Dining Room and up a flight of stairs to a study in the private residence, where Christopher Farrington was waiting.

Holliday had not worn his trademark string tie, Stetson hat, and snakeskin boots for the White House meeting. He’d chosen a plain business suit to avoid attracting any more attention than his height and bulk usually did.

“Mr. President,” Holliday said, “it’s an honor.”

Hawkins noted that “Jailbreak” had lost a lot of the Texas twang that dominated his courtroom speech.

“Thank you for coming,” Farrington said as he crossed the room. “I apologize for the dramatics.”

“Not a problem,” Holliday answered with a wide smile. “Made me feel like I was in a James Bond movie.”

“Well, I’m pleased I could add a little excitement to your life. Mine has certainly been an adventure for the past few days. In case you didn’t hear the news, Senator Preston, one of Maureen Gaylord’s toadies, is demanding the appointment of an independent counsel to look into my connection to the murder of that poor young woman. Of course, Maureen is pretending to stand above the fray, saying that no one should rush to judgment. But her tone implies I’m another Ted Bundy, and there’s enough innuendo in every word she speaks to fill an edition of that rag
Exposed
.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through this, sir. Especially seeing as how you’re in the middle of an election and with everything else you have on your plate.”

“Thank you. Has Chuck gone over the business side of our relationship?”

“Yes, sir. The retainer was mighty generous, so let’s you and me forget about everything except how I’m going to help you out of the unfortunate situation in which you find yourself. And before we start talking, I’m going to ask Mr. Hawkins to leave us alone.”

He turned toward the president’s aide. “Anything the president tells me as my client is confidential, but he can lose the attorney-client privilege if a third party is sitting in on our conversation.”

“That’s not a problem,” Hawkins said. He started to leave but Farrington stopped him.

“I’m being a poor host,” the president said to Holliday. “You must be starving. Can I offer you something to eat?”

“A medium-rare steak, a side of fries, and a Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks would be mighty nice.”

“Chuck, ask the kitchen what they can do,” Farrington said.

“Can you tell me what I’m facing?” Farrington asked as soon as the door closed behind his friend.

“Well, sir, I did a little reading up on this independent counsel thing. It seems that until 1978, your predecessors appointed special prosecutors to look into scandals in their administrations. Grant started it in 1875 when he had General John B. Henderson investigate the so-called Whiskey Ring. Then you had Garfield, Teddy Roosevelt, Truman, and Nixon appointing special prosecutors. Trouble was if the president appointed the fellow, he could also unappoint him, like Nixon did when he fired Archibald Cox in the Saturday Night Massacre. So, in 1978, Congress passed the Ethics in Government Act and left the selection of the independent counsel up to the Special Division of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, a panel of three circuit court judges created specially to handle independent counsel matters. This independent counsel is charged with investigating and prosecuting certain designated high-ranking executive branch officials, including you.

“The Act is triggered when the attorney general receives information of possible criminal conduct by a covered person. The AG conducts a preliminary investigation. If credible evidence of criminal conduct is found or if it’s determined that the AG has a conflict of interest an application is filed with the court asking for appointment of an independent counsel.”

“I hired you to take care of this problem. Do you think you’ll be able to do it?”

“I usually can, Mr. President, I usually can.”

“God damn it, Chuck, the situation is getting out of hand,” the president complained two hours later when Hawkins walked into the third-floor study after making sure that Travis Holliday would be returned to Andrews Air Force Base without being seen.

“Didn’t you hit it off with Holliday?”

“No, no, Holiday is fine. That’s not what concerns me. The latest polls show I’m dropping like a rock. Holliday says the investigation by the independent counsel can drag on for years. That means it will be front-page news with no clear resolution long after the election. We’ve got to get the FBI to clear me of killing Walsh or hiring someone to do it.”

“There’s still the Ripper.”

“He was arraigned. Every channel covered it. He made a point of claiming that someone was trying to frame him for Charlotte’s murder.”

“What about Cutler?”

“What about her?”

“You’ve read her file. She’s an ex-mental patient. She was following Walsh. She knew where she was parked.”

“What possible motive would she have for killing Charlotte?”

Hawkins shrugged. “That’s for the FBI and the independent counsel to figure out. Don’t forget, Cutler is on the run. That’s what guilty people do.”

“No, no, Chuck. We can’t send an innocent person to prison.”

“We’ve done it before.”

“Clarence Little is a mass murderer.”

Hawkins leaned forward and stared directly into his friend’s eyes. “Your son and unborn child need you. Claire needs you. This country needs you. If Cutler has to be sacrificed it’s a small price to pay.”

“I don’t know, Chuck.”

“I do. You run a strong campaign and steer this country to greatness. Let me handle this.”

The president found the first lady in the sitting room that adjoined their bedroom sipping a cup of tea while she read a novel. When he entered the room, Claire placed her book next to the tea service that rested on the small walnut end table at her elbow.

“How did everything go?” Claire asked. She was calm, and none of the fury that had greeted his confession of infidelity was in evidence.

Christopher sank onto a chair on the other side of the end table.

“We’ll be okay,” he said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “Holliday is smart and he knows what he’s doing. He had all sorts of ideas.”

“Good. Maureen is behind this scandal. The voters will see she’s trying to smear you, and her plan will backfire.”

“I certainly hope so. My God, the press is calling the investigation
MurderGate
. Every time I try to talk about my platform all I get are questions about Charlotte Walsh.”

“Are you and Clem working on your speech?”

“Yeah. It sounds pretty good. God willing, I’ll nail Maureen at the press conference and we can put this inquisition behind us.”

Claire reached across the small table, and Chris held her hand.

“I love you,” Claire said. “I have complete faith in you. You will crush Maureen Gaylord. On the day after the election, you will still be the president of the United States and our baby will be born in the White House.”

“I hope you’re right,” Christopher said in a voice that lacked conviction.

Claire squeezed his hand hard. “I know I am,” she said.

“Jake Teeny?” Keith Evans asked the suntanned man in the T-shirt and jeans who answered the door of the suburban ranch house.

“Yes?” Teeny answered, eyeing the agent suspiciously. The photojournalist was five nine with wavy brown hair and hard brown eyes. Evans judged him to be in his midthirties, but he still had the thick chest and narrow waist of someone who stayed in top shape, and his skin had the rugged, leathery look that comes from being baked by harsh suns and blasted dry by cruel winds.

Evans flashed his credentials. “I’m with the FBI, Mr. Teeny, and I’d like your help in an investigation I’m conducting.”

Teeny looked confused. Evans smiled.

“Don’t worry. You’re not involved as far as we know, but your name came up and—like I said—I’d appreciate your help. May I come in?”

“Sure,” Teeny answered as he stepped aside to clear a path for the agent. “Excuse the mess. I’ve been out of the country on assignment and I just got in twenty minutes ago.”

Camera equipment and traveling bags were strewn around the entryway. Evans walked around them and followed Teeny into the living room.

“So, what’s this investigation about?” Teeny asked when they were seated.

“Have you heard of the D.C. Ripper?”

“Sure.”

“And do you know Dana Cutler?”

“Dana? What does she have to do with the Ripper?”

“We came across her name in connection with one of the Ripper’s victims. We’ve tried to find her, but we’ve been unsuccessful. One thing we did get was her phone records, and we found numerous calls to your number.”

“Dana and I are good friends. We call each other frequently.”

“And she stays over?”

“Yeah, on occasion. How did you know that?”

“Her car is parked two houses down. I thought she might be here.”

“She might, but I just got in so I can’t say one way or the other.”

“Could you look through the house to see if she’s staying here?”

“Look, Dana is a good friend. What do you think she’s done? I’m not going to help you if it’s going to get her in trouble.”

“Have you read the article in
Exposed
?”

Teeny smiled. “They don’t sell
Exposed
in Afghanistan.”

“Is that where you just were?”

Teeny nodded.

“Okay. Well, I’ll fill you in. A young woman named Charlotte Walsh was murdered by the D.C. Ripper. Miss Cutler works as a private investigator on occasion, doesn’t she?”

Teeny nodded.

“We think she may have been following Miss Walsh around the time she was killed. We know she took photographs of her with President Farrington shortly before Charlotte Walsh died.”

“The president?”

“The story has been front-page news. We want to know what Miss Cutler saw, but we can’t find her. Can you please look around and see if she’s been staying here?”

Teeny led Evans to the bedroom first. “She was supposed to housesit for me while I was away and it looks like she did,” he said, pointing to the women’s undergarments and clothing strewn around the room. Teeny smiled. “Dana isn’t the neatest person. I’m always after her to straighten up.”

In the bathroom, Teeny pointed out Dana’s toiletries.

“She’s probably coming back because her toothbrush and hairbrush are here.”

“Does Miss Cutler have more than one means of transportation?”

“You mean besides her car?”

“Right.”

Teeny suddenly remembered something. “I have a Harley. I let her borrow it the night I went away.”

“So she might be riding the Harley.”

“That would be my guess if her car’s outside.”

“Can you give me the license number of your bike and check to see if it’s here?”

Teeny rattled off the number while he led Evans to the garage. The bike was gone. Teeny had just finished describing the Harley when Evans’s cell phone rang.

“I’ve got to take this,” he apologized. Then he opened the phone and went outside so Teeny couldn’t hear him. Roman Hipple, his supervisor, was calling.

“How soon can you get back to headquarters?” Hipple asked.

“Half hour, maybe less.”

“Well get back here. Justice Roy Kineer has been appointed as the independent counsel in this Charlotte Walsh thing, and he wants you seconded to him because you know all about the Ripper case.”

Evans returned to the garage, thanked Teeny for his cooperation, and promised the worried boyfriend that he would do his best to find Cutler. As soon as he was in his car Evans put out an APB on the Harley.

Roy Kineer looked more like the fifth Marx Brother than a towering legal genius or one of the most powerful men in the United States, which he’d been when he was the chief justice of the Supreme Court. He was partially bald with a fringe of long gray-flecked black hair that always looked uncombed. His Coke bottle glasses and overbite gave him a goofy appearance, and he was always grinning, as if he’d figured out a joke no one else could understand. All in all, Kineer was not someone who was taken seriously unless you knew his biography.

The judge had been born in Cleveland to working-class parents who had been slow to recognize their son’s genius. In fact, they suspected Roy was not too bright, because he was poorly coordinated and didn’t speak until he was three. Once he did speak there was no denying that their child was special. Roy had been first in his class in high school and first in his class at MIT, where he’d majored in physics. After a year at Oxford, Kineer chose law over the sciences and finished a predictable first in his class at Harvard, where he was the editor of the
Law Review
. After a clerkship at the United States Supreme Court, Kineer surprised everyone by going to work for an organization that handled death penalty cases in the Deep South. Kineer argued three successful appeals before the court in which he’d clerked before joining the faculty at Yale Law School.

Never one to sit on the sidelines, Kineer became actively involved in politics as the legal advisor to Randall Spaulding, the United States senator from Connecticut who went on to become the attorney general of the United States. As soon as he was appointed attorney general, Spaulding asked Kineer to be his solicitor general and argue the position of the United States before the Supreme Court. When the justice for whom Kineer had clerked resigned, the president appointed Kineer, the finest legal mind in the country, to take his place.

The ex-justice’s professional credentials were perfect, and his personal life was without blemish. He was a grandfather of four, father of two and happily married for thirty-five years. No scandal had ever touched him. In other words, he was the perfect person to investigate a president of the United States who was suspected of being a murderer.

“Come in. Have a seat,” Kineer said enthusiastically when Keith Evans walked into the small, windowless conference room at FBI headquarters that Kineer had chosen for their meeting.

“Mr. Chief Justice,” Evans answered nervously as he shook the legend’s hand.

“It’s Roy. We’re going to file the honorifics away for the duration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kineer laughed. “No ‘sirs’ either. Please sit down.”

Evans had expected a meeting with a lot of people, but he and the judge were alone in the room and there wasn’t a scrap of paper on the conference table. This didn’t surprise Evans, who knew Kineer was supposed to have a photographic memory.

“Do you know why I’m meeting with you before I meet with anyone else, Keith? You don’t mind if I call you Keith instead of Agent Evans, do you?”

“I guess I can do away with the title if you can.”

Kineer grinned. “Good. So, do you know why you’re the first person I selected for this project?”

“No.”

“I’ve been told that you know more about the Ripper investigation than anyone in D.C.”

“That’s probably true.”

Kineer nodded. Then he leaned back and fixed his eyes on the FBI agent.

“Is Christopher Farrington a murderer?”

Evans thought for a moment before answering. “If President Farrington was a plumber or a doctor, no one would raise an eyebrow if we considered him a suspect. He and Walsh argued shortly before she was murdered. If they were sleeping together we have the mother of all motives. Have you seen the polls?”

Kineer nodded.

“An angry teenage mistress and a popular pregnant wife equal a politician’s worst nightmare. Of course, I don’t think Farrington did the deed himself. But I don’t doubt that he could find someone to do it for him.”

Evans paused to compose his thoughts, and Kineer waited patiently.

“What I’ve just told you is what anyone who has read
Exposed
would know, but I was looking into the president’s involvement with Charlotte Walsh before
Exposed
broke their story.”

Kineer’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Evans with new respect. The respect increased as Evans told him about the tip that led him to Andy Zipay, the cover-up of the shooting at Dana Cutler’s apartment, and his belief that Eric Loomis—the man he’d arrested for the Ripper killings—had not murdered Charlotte Walsh. Then he told Kineer about the connection between Dale Perry and Dana Cutler.

“Now that’s interesting,” Kineer said when Evans was done. “What do you think we should do next?”

“I’d like to talk to the Secret Service agents who were with President Farrington when Walsh visited the safe house so we can eliminate the president’s direct involvement in the murder. I also want to eliminate Eric Loomis as Walsh’s killer if I can. I’ve put out an APB on the motorcycle I think Cutler is riding. Cutler may be the key here. She told Patrick Gorman that there have been two attempts on her life since she photographed Farrington with Walsh. I want to know what Cutler saw that makes her so dangerous to someone.”

“You said that Agent Sparks has been working with you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she a good investigator?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’ll have her assigned to my office. Put what you’ve told me in writing then set up interviews with the Secret Service agents. If you need a subpoena, or anything else for that matter, see me.”

“There is one thing. I’ve tried to get Dana Cutler’s file from the D.C. police, but it’s classified, and they’re making me jump through all sorts of hoops.”

“I’ll see if I can expedite the process.”

“Thanks.”

“This will be an exciting project, Keith. If we conclude that the president was involved with Charlotte Walsh’s murder we’re going to be part of history, and people will be reading about our exploits long after we’re gone.”