Private Heat (17 page)

Police officers in the hallway, both in uniform and civilian attire, stopped talking and stared at us.

“Let's discuss this outside,” said Finney.

We walked silently through a sea of glowering faces to the side door that led to the parking lot, the one that Randy and his squad had used the previous night. I opened the door and found the press photographer lurking next to the steps. He wore a gray windbreaker and a white dress shirt with the tie loose and at half mast. The top of his head was bald but he combed the hair from the sides over to cover it. His eyes darted about while he waited for the door to bang shut behind us.

“Can you give me a quote?” he asked.

Wendy started digging in her purse for a cigarette and I stuck my hand out for one. “At this point, I could wax eloquent,” I said.

Finney mocked a cough. “You don't have to,” he said.

Wendy found her pack. She offered one to Ron, but he shook his head and dug out his own red-and-white pack of smokes. Finney also refused.

“The menthol is worse than the tobacco,” said Finney. “My clients give me enough headaches.”

I lit Wendy's cigarette.

“How about it?” asked the photographer. He had fished out a pocket-sized notepad and a stub of a pencil.

I lit my smoke, took a deep draft, and stared at him for a long second.

“How about,” I said in a cloud of exhaled smoke, “I'm disappointed that the police department wasted time pursuing professional jealousies with such a serious matter at hand.”

“Jesus, Art!” said Ron.

“I think I am going to my office,” said Finney.

“I only promised to be nice to the feds.”

“You said, ‘for the rest of the day.'”

“They said that your fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” said the photographer.

“Who said?” asked Finney. He glowered at the reporter.

“I don't have to reveal my sources,” said the man as he scribbled my comment into his pad.

“I'm serious,” said Finney. “Was it someone from the police department or the prosecutor's office?”

The photographer looked up and shook his head. “You know who our attorney is,” he said. “Call him if you have a problem.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “this is better.” I waited for the reporter to look at me. “Try this—‘It wouldn't be responsible for me to reveal the details of this matter at this time.'”

“There's a quote you can use,” said Finney.

“Can I get a couple more frames?” asked the photographer.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “This is a public street. It's not like it would do any good to say no.”

The photographer smiled, fished a business card out of the pocket of his windbreaker, and handed it to me. “If you want some stills give a call,” he said and backed himself up to the bumpers on the line of cars on the other side of the lot.

I held my hands out to Wendy. “Madam, may I have this dance?” I said. Wendy smiled and stepped up. We waltzed a few circles into the police department parking lot while the news reporter snapped away, and I sang badly about Casey, the Strawberry Blond, and how the band played on.

The Gerald R. Ford Federal Building—a seven-story pile of oblong floors with a stairwell on either end and an elevator in the middle—looms over Michigan Avenue one block east of the Hall of Justice. On the north side of the building, a broad stone stairwell rises from Michigan Avenue to a wide porch set before a bank of entrance doors. Security concerns have denied the public the use of these doors.

Entrance to the building is granted only at the south door, where the Marshal Service operates a metal detector. From Michigan Avenue you must walk around the east end of the building, past a horseshoe drive that is barred with a heavy steel cable. Parking in the curb lane is denied by cement barriers.

We loitered outside the south door to finish our smokes. Pete Finney said, “The U. S. Attorney's Office has made it clear that they are ‘bored' with your involvement in this matter.”

“Look around you,” I said. “This place looks like the sandbagged bunker of an occupying force. These are the people who wanted me to leave Karen in a smashed and burned house. If I had, Officer Talon's corpse wouldn't have been the only one found in that hot tub.”

“You lied to the police and you were pointlessly rude to a very important man.”

“I never lied to the police and Neil Carter is a political hack.”

“Why did you bother to call me?”

“I need your advice.”

“Good. Set your politics aside and eat a little crow.”

“Art, you took money to protect Karen,” said Wendy, “and you're not done until noon tomorrow.”

“You didn't like her last night,” I said.

“I didn't know her last night,” said Wendy, “and I'm always snotty when you come home late.”

“Aha, an admission!” I said. “I have witnesses.”

“Karen is in federal custody,” said Finney, “and the marshals are eminently qualified to provide her with protection.”

“Yes they are,” I said and dropped my smoke into the sand urn. “Let's go make nice.”

One of the marshals, posted on the metal detector, escorted Ron and me up to the fifth floor, where the Marshal's Service operates a lockup. At the lockup they have gun lockers for visiting, nonfederal “firemen.”

We found Pete and Wendy leaning on the wall in a narrow seventh-floor corridor. Pete had set his satchel on the floor. “We didn't want to announce ourselves until you were here.”

The door opened and two great-looking young women in smartly tailored suits stepped into the hallway. I knew them. Both were Special Agents of the FBI. The blonde was Matty Svenson, and the brunette was Maria Sanchez, Matty's rookie partner.

“Hey, Art,” said Matty, “why are you lurking about the hallways?”

“I've been summoned to stand in the corner until my attitude improves.”

Matty laughed. “You need a lawyer for that?”

“These days you need a lawyer to sign out a library book.”

Matty looked at Ron. “What's your excuse?”

“I'm supposed to keep him out of the library,” said Ron.

Maria's eyes scanned the group, but she kept a stoic face. Not so with Wendy. Her eyes got green, then hot, and they were focused on me.

“Counselor,” said Matty, “you keep such bad company.”

“I think of them as charming and colorful,” said Pete, “but never so charming as you and Maria.”

Wendy gave me a nudge.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This is my wife, Wendy. Wendy, this is Matty and Maria, FBI.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” said Wendy, “but I'm not too thrilled about being described as ‘bad company.'”

“Sorry,” said Matty, “I meant no offense. Mr. Finney is a felonious flirt, and I was trying to put him off his stride.”

“Wade on in,” summoned a voice from the office through the still half-open door. Matty and Maria took their leave and we filed into a small and cluttered anteroom with a secretary's desk. Harlan Johnson, the marshal who had taken my measure with a fat nine at the hospital, sat at the secretary's desk. Pete and I traded sidelong glances.

“Go ahead in,” said Harlan with a nod at the inner door, “Mr. Carter will see you now.” Pete pulled the door open. Ron and Wendy headed for the short settee. “Nope,” said Harlan, “everybody inside.”

I caught Pete's eyes. He nodded in the affirmative. We filed in, Harlan bringing up the rear. Neil Carter was barely thirty, maybe not as old as my son Jim. I wondered what he was doing when my son was down in Honduras with the 82nd Airborne.

He sat enthroned amongst marble and mahogany littered with furry vegetarian-pizza boxes and plastic bottled water empties. His office windows revealed a panorama of the city and the Grand River Valley, but he had his chair and desk arranged so that his back was to the view.

Carter wore a pullover shirt and khaki trousers. “Don't bother to sit,” he said, “we have to keep this short. I have a tee-time at Stony Brook.” He spoke with a reedy voice pinched through a Boston accent. “Mr. Hardin, I feel that I need to remind you that while you currently enjoy some limited license assigned by the State of Michigan, you no longer have any license whatever with the federal government.”

“So my attorney has ably advised me,” I said and then fell silent. Ron and Wendy, both accustomed to the normal cadence of my speech, made a little nod at the same time. When they heard nothing, their eyes snapped over to me.

I raised my eyebrows and asked, “Is there anything else?”

“There certainly is,” said Carter. “You had a good deal to say this morning.
Perhaps you would like to enlighten me in person. Maybe all of these people would like to hear how bright and clever you are?”

“I was far too brisk this morning,” I said, “and I hope that you will accept my apology.”

“Not that easy, Hardin,” said Carter. “You challenged me to arrest you and threatened to sue me if I did.”

“Again, sir, I apologize. I have nothing but the highest respect for the office you hold.”

“So?” said Carter. “If I have Marshal Johnson arrest you right now, are you going to sue me? Do you have any idea how lame that kind of threat sounds? I think that it would be good for this country if you, and a lot of people like you, learned the consequences of trying to intimidate people in authority.”

“All I can do is apologize.”

“Answer the question.”

“Only as a direct answer to—”

“Mr. Hardin has been duly contrite,” said Finney. “He just told you that he had the greatest respect.”

“The question was—”

I didn't let him finish. “The answer is, yes. If you arrest me, here, today, I will have my day in court and then you will have yours.” Pete glowered at me. “I like to sit next to the jury, too, and I think it would be best for this country if people in authority learned that they cannot enforce the law by breaking it.”

“Marshal Johnson,” he said, “take this man into custody.” The marshal put his hand on my shoulder. Wendy let out a sigh. Ron made a snort. Finney put his hand up.

“Wait,” said Finney. “Is it my understanding that you intend to arrest Mr. Hardin because he refuses to relinquish his right to file a civil action if he believes that you have violated his rights?”

“Not at all,” said Carter, “I'm having him arrested for harboring a fugitive.” The marshal had his handcuffs out.

“Mr. Hardin never concealed the whereabouts of Karen Smith. To the contrary, he telephoned to inform you of her whereabouts.” Marshal Johnson snapped the cuff on my right wrist but went no further. He held the unengaged cuff in his right hand and rested his left hand on my shoulder.

“We can argue about the details at trial,” said Carter. “But I am curious. Will you be taking his proposed civil suit?”

“That's not my usual area of practice,” said Finney, “and I doubt Mr. Hardin would engage me to represent him in such a matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because he uses Jack Freeman to sue public officials.”

Carter rocked his chair back and rested his chin on his chest. “I know Jay,” he said. “I see him in the hallway on his way up to the bankruptcy court. How long has he been dabbling in constitutional law?”

“Jack, not Jay,” said Finney. “Jack Freeman, the retired federal jurist and college professor—‘Houkum versus the United States'—
that
Jack Freeman.”

The marshal took the loose cuff in his left hand and used his right hand to retrieve his keys from his pocket. Carter looked at me and then back at Finney. He said nothing but his face was one large and astonished question mark.

“I don't know,” said Finney. “They're friends and professional associates—have been since I've known Mr. Hardin.”

“Marshal, what are you doing?” said Carter.

“Taking the cuffs off, sir.”

“Why?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said. “You shook your head there, and I thought that you meant for me to take them off.”

“Fine,” he said. “Doesn't matter. I accept your apology, Mr. Hardin. Just remember, if we are working on it, you
are not.”
He started rearranging the folders on his desk.

I stuck my hand across the desk. He looked up and took my hand tentatively. “Thank you for being so gracious,” I said. “The last thing that I want to do is interfere with the important matters that concern your appointed office.”

“Sure,” he said, and dropped my hand like a rotting banana.

“Along that line, my client has retained me to provide physical security for Karen Smith. I take it she is still under the protection of the marshal service.”

“Karen Smith is no longer a federal matter, and when I was at the hospital with her, her uncle told me that he fired you.”

Finney started tugging on the sleeve of my jacket. We left and made a silent single-file parade down the narrow hallway to the elevator. I pushed the down button and asked the marshal if Karen Smith was still at Mount Hollowview.

“Carter called us off—said she winked out again right after she was interviewed,” Harlan Johnson said. “He's going to dismiss the charges against her, pending some definition of her health status or ability to aid in the investigation.”

“That seems particularly generous,” said Finney.

The elevator arrived. “The staff out at the hospital wanted to watch Karen Smith a few more days, but I understand her uncle is arranging for long-term private care,” said Johnson.

On the fifth floor, Ron and I exited the elevator in the company of the marshal. “We'll wait for you outside,” said Wendy. “See if you can make it all the way downstairs without getting arrested.” Finney smiled.

We picked up our hardware and Marshal Johnson stood with us at the fifth-floor elevator until it arrived. “Try not to shoot the place up on the way down,” he said, “and don't dally—the SWAT team is in the coffee room.”