Authors: RANDY SINGER
“Just humor me. Bella, go ahead and pick out a question.”
Bella and Andrew looked at Jason with matching frowns, but he wouldn’t let it go. A frustrated Bella exhaled forcefully enough to move a small sailboat and turned to the middle of the deposition. “‘Do you know what an illegal straw sale is?’” she asked, her tone registering her protest.
“‘Of course,’” Andrew said.
Bella shot Jason a look, like she’d just seen an impressive card trick. “‘Explain it to me,’” she read.
This time, Andrew stared at the wall for a moment and fluttered his eyelids. “‘Is it my job to explain the law to her?’”
Jason smiled. He remembered the line from the deposition—and his own response. “You don’t have to explain it,” Jason said, “but it might help us get out of here.”
“Actually,” Andrew said, “your precise line was, ‘Not really. But maybe if you do, we can get out of here faster.’ Then Ms. Davids says, ‘A straw purchase transaction is when an eligible purchaser of a firearm buys a gun on behalf of another person who is an ineligible purchaser of a firearm. Let’s say, for example—’”
“All right,” Bella said. “I get it. You can stop now. But let me just check something.…” Like a true skeptical New Yorker, she flipped through a few pages in the deposition and started reading again.
“‘You’re aware that the cities of New York, Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia have filed lawsuits against rogue gun dealers based on guns they sold that were later traced to crimes on the streets of those cities?’”
“‘Yeah, I’m aware,’” said Andrew, playing the part of Melissa Davids. “‘You want my opinion on those suits?’”
“‘That won’t be necessary.’”
“‘Didn’t think so.’”
“Wow.” Bella shook her head, a converted skeptic. “How do you do that?”
Lassiter twitched and looked back to his computer program—game over. “I don’t know. I’ve just always been able to remember things.”
“Un-flippin’-believable,” Bella said. “You oughta go on
Jeopardy!
”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hiring Rafael Johansen was not Jason’s idea. It had been suggested—no, it had been insisted on—by Andrew Lassiter. “What good is a micromarketing program for selecting jurors if we don’t know enough about their lifestyles to match them up?”
According to Lassiter, nobody could do a better job of providing detailed background information for prospective jurors than Rafael Johansen and his investigative team.
“I thought Rafael was employed by Justice Inc.,” Jason said.
“Are you kidding? Robert Sherwood is not about to put Justice Inc. on the hook for Johansen’s actions. Rafael works as an independent contractor. Sherwood gets all the dirt on the real jurors without ever having to know how it came into Johansen’s greasy hands. Plausible deniability. Richard Nixon style.”
Jason eventually agreed to bring Johansen on board but insisted on calling Robert Sherwood first. This caused a heated argument between Jason and Andrew Lassiter, but Jason was not about to back down. “If Sherwood has a problem with it, I’ll find another investigator,” Jason said.
“It’s none of Sherwood’s business,” Andrew replied.
Jason called anyway and learned, much to his surprise, that Sherwood thought it was a superb idea. Jason got the impression that Sherwood was going to put a lot of money on Jason’s side of the case and wanted to see Jason get all the help he needed. “Just be prepared,” Sherwood warned. “He doesn’t come cheap.”
Jason’s next call was to Case McAllister to obtain the client’s approval. Everything was a go until they found out how much Johansen’s services cost. After two days of phone negotiations, they finally talked Johansen into a billing rate of “only” $325 for himself and $200 for his associates. To Jason’s chagrin, his jury investigator was now making more per hour than he was. To secure payment, Johansen required a $50,000 retainer.
Not surprisingly, Bella gave Johansen a cold reception when he showed up at the office a half hour late for his first meeting. He came decked out in black pants and a tight, black, long-sleeved pullover that showed off bulging pecs. His hard eyes and icy stare made everyone around him uncomfortable.
In his office, Jason explained the kind of information he would need for each potential juror and the types of reports he preferred. When he finished his spiel, he handed Johansen a two-page retainer agreement with the terms of the undertaking spelled out in detail.
Johansen looked at the agreement, snorted, and put it back on Jason’s desk. “I don’t do agreements,” he said.
“Then we don’t have a deal.”
“Fine.” Johansen stood and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Jason said. The big man turned around, his face as emotionless as before. “We’ll do it without a written contract,” Jason offered.
Johansen nodded and returned to his seat. “I’m here because Robert Sherwood asked me to help. To me, you’re just another punk lawyer getting paid a lot of money before you’ve proven anything in the courtroom.” Johansen hardened his stare. “I’ll do my job and get you the information you need. But I do it my way and that means we don’t put anything in writing.”
The venom caught Jason by surprise. He didn’t expect to be Johansen’s buddy, but he didn’t appreciate being called a punk by a guy he had just hired at $325 an hour.
“Fair enough,” Jason said brusquely. “Then let’s put a few more things on the table. You work for me on this case. You don’t call the client unless I give you permission. You don’t do any investigative work unless I authorize it, and I want weekly reports on all your activities. Your primary responsibility will be compiling information for each potential juror. You’ll be working directly with Andrew Lassiter.” Jason sat back and let his demands hang in the tense air for a few seconds. Working with Johansen was going to be tiring. “Any questions?”
Johansen shrugged. “No.”
“Then here’s what I need done.…” For the next several minutes, Jason detailed the information he wanted on each jury member. He ignored Johansen’s stare and pretended not to be bothered by the fact that Johansen didn’t take a single note.
“I expect a trial date in June or July,” Jason said, wrapping up. “We’ll have a list of prospective jurors—there will probably be nearly a hundred of ’em—about a month prior.”
“Is that it?” Johansen asked condescendingly.
“For now.”
“You don’t need me to investigate anybody else?”
“No, just the jurors.”
“I see,” Johansen said, nodding. “Then what do you want me to do with the information I’ve already got on the plaintiff, the plaintiff’s attorney, and Judge Garrison?”
“What information?”
Johansen sneered. “Does that mean you want to hear it?”
“How about we quit playing games,” Jason said. “If you’ve got information I need to know, let’s have it.”
Johansen crossed his legs and gave Jason a little smirk. “I thought maybe your curiosity would get the better of you. Let’s start with the plaintiff.”
Instinctively, Jason picked up a pen and jotted a heading on top of his legal pad. He was grinding his teeth, trying to prevent himself from saying something he might regret.
“What are you doing?” snapped Johansen.
“What do you mean?”
“No notes,” demanded Johansen. “You don’t take notes on this stuff.”
Jason shook his head and put down his pen.
As far as Blake Crawford was concerned, it turned out to be much ado about nothing. A guy named Tony Morris, one of Johansen’s top men, had followed Crawford around, managed to hack into a private e-mail account, discreetly asked questions of friends—“and used a few other techniques as well.” The result? Crawford was squeaky clean. No affairs before his wife died; no female companions since. No Internet porn, no drugs, no financial shenanigans. According to Johansen, he was the male version of Mother Theresa. “Good luck ripping into him,” Johansen said sarcastically.
But the judge… there were definitely rumors about the judge. There was talk about an affair with an assistant at his law firm nine or ten years ago. Some questionable rulings in favor of local developers with ties to his father. A young female defense attorney who never seemed to lose a motion in Garrison’s courtroom.
Johansen certainly had Jason’s attention now. The last thing Jason needed was a judge on the take. “Have you checked his finances since this case was filed?” Jason asked. “Any strange spikes in his standard of living?”
“Is that authorized?” Johansen said derisively “I thought I had strict orders to do only what I’m told.”
“Just answer the question.”
“The judge’s standard of living and his known bank accounts have not changed in any dramatic way.”
“Will you continue to monitor him?”
“Of course.”
Jason contemplated this for a moment. Garrison had seemed to play it straight at the Motion to Dismiss hearing. Still, it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on him. Jason had no idea where Johansen got his information—didn’t really want to know—but it was handy data nonetheless.
“What do you know about Kelly Starling?” Jason asked.
“I’m sure you’re aware of her time at Justice Inc.,” Johansen replied. “She was a good trial lawyer—tenacious, uncompromising, a true believer. She’s done a lot of work with human trafficking victims in D.C. We did a thorough background check before she worked for us at Justice Inc. and found no skeletons in her closet. Nothing out of the ordinary during her last five years at B&W. Seems to be quite the workaholic with no time for romance. Typical Justice Inc. alum.”
Jason asked a few more questions, but Johansen had little additional information. After Johansen left, Bella came in and wiped down his chair with disinfectant. It was an obvious ploy so that Jason would ask her opinion on the matter; therefore, Jason tried to ignore her altogether.
“The man’s got issues,” Bella said when it became obvious that Jason wasn’t going to ask. “I know an investigator named O’Malley who could run circles around him.”
“Thanks for your advice,” Jason said.
“I’m just sayin’.… You wrestle with a pig, and you both get dirty. But only one of you likes it.”
“Thanks for the cliché.”
“I’ve got instincts,” Bella said, throwing the paper towels she had used into Jason’s trash can. “And that guy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Noted,” Jason said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do on this brief.”
This was the last place Kelly Starling wanted to be.
The Hillside Clinic was a nondescript medical facility with red brick, lots of glass, trim shrubs, and a small professional sign. It seemed so harmless and sterile. But as Kelly pulled into the parking lot, the memories came back with a debilitating vengeance, like someone had just ripped a fresh hole in her heart.
Kelly backed into a spot in the far corner of the lot and left the car running as she stared at the building.
She had read a few online journals written by other women who had taken the RU-486 pill and later spilled their emotions for the entire world to read. The women featured on the pro-life sites said they thought about their babies every day. How old were they now? What would have been their first words? their favorite toy?
Some wrote about the deception they had experienced at the clinics they used. The women had been promised that the abortion would be like any other period. But some had seen an embryo larger than expected. Some talked about their desire to have a burial.
Kelly’s experience had not been like that. A nurse at Hillside had made it clear that the RU-486 pill was not convenient and painless. She had carefully explained the differences between chemical abortion and surgical abortion with patience and sensitivity. Kelly’s impression, which proved to be right, was that the RU-486 pill would be like a miscarriage with bleeding and cramping and a sense of loneliness.
And plenty of guilt, something the nurse had
not
talked about.
Most women said they chose the pill rather than surgery because it seemed more natural and allowed them to have a semblance of control. These were definitely factors in Kelly’s thinking. She could start the process at home, on her schedule. And it felt like something she did to herself, rather than something somebody else did to her.
But in hindsight, Kelly realized that she had also picked RU-486 precisely
because
it was not easy and quick and painless. In a convoluted way that Kelly couldn’t quite express, it felt right to suffer, as if the process itself should be the beginning of her penance.
Six years old. Her baby would have started first grade this year.
She blinked back tears and forced herself to focus on the job at hand. She had turned this over and over in her mind, always reaching the same conclusion. The leak must have come from someone at the clinic. She would walk in and demand a meeting with her doctor, refusing to leave until he gave her a few minutes of his time. She would tell him that somebody had threatened to disclose the fact that she had been pregnant. She would explain that she had talked to no one outside the clinic about it. She would demand that he investigate.
But even as she rehearsed the conversation in her mind, she recognized the problems with this approach. There was a good chance her doctor would become defensive. Even if he initiated an investigation, it would probably be clumsy and ineffective, serving no purpose other than to make the blackmailer more circumspect. If the doctor brought in outside authorities, it would only increase the number of people who knew about Kelly’s abortion.
Kelly knew she might temporarily feel better if she gave the doctor a piece of her mind, but it would solve nothing. Everyone at the clinic had treated her with kindness and respect. In her heart, it was hard to believe that somebody in there was working with the blackmailer.