Chapter 22
Gretchen had refused — point blank — to allow Dwight Christie to be interviewed further until the amended ‘papers of immunity’ had been couriered to the Justice Department on Broad Street, just down from City Hall the temporary home of the House of Representatives, signed by the US Deputy Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach, and meticulously rechecked by both her and Dan separately, and together.
Finally, around mid-afternoon she was satisfied.
“Dan and I are of the opinion that this document,” she explained to her client, “is as watertight as it is ever going to be. I strongly recommend that you sign it immediately before anybody on the other side of the Delaware River gets cold feet, Mr Christie.”
Both Gretchen and Dan appended their witnessing signatures.
Clyde Tolson thought that was that and rose to go; Dwight Christie’s guards moved forward clanking chains.
Frank Lovell did not move a muscle.
Gretchen coughed daintily.
“The only way that Mr Christie’s constitutional rights can be protected is if his attorneys know what is going on,” she stated.
Tolson frowned angrily. Unused to having to negotiate anything with anybody he was finding the prissy attitude of the rich kid lawyer extremely vexatious.
“You are not cleared to know that, Mrs Brenckmann.”
“Then why have you been wasting my time today, Mr Tolson?” Gretchen retorted. “I am either Mr Christie’s attorney; or I am not. If the latter is the case then that’s that.”
Her tone left no doubt that she considered her time to be infinitely more valuable than that of a humble law enforcement officer like the aging gang-buster.
Tolson’s rising blood pressure was not ameliorated by the expression on Dwight Christie’s face. The former FBI man was grinning broadly. Tolson looked to Frank Lovell for support which was a waste of time because the other man had naturally, but mistakenly, assumed that Tolson and his boss, J. Edgar Hoover had thought through the consequences of the actions which had brought them all to this room.
“Director Hoover,” Tolson spluttered angrily.
“Is a servant of the laws of New Jersey,” Gretchen reminded him before he could get another word out. “As are we all. Client confidentiality has not been abolished in this state in the way it has been under emergency legislation erroneously enacted in other places.” She sat back, clasped her hands in her lap. “I would like to speak privately to my client please, Mr Tolson.”
Tolson wanted Christie manacled again.
Gretchen would have none of it. She had had enough of that nonsense interviewing her ‘Battle of Washington’ clients at various US Army and Marine Corps high security detention camps in Maryland in the last few weeks. She was not, and did not have to put up with that sort of thing in her house. And besides, unlike several of the monsters — notwithstanding she was their defense attorney she still regarded them as ‘monsters’ just like everybody else — she was defending in the forthcoming ‘Washington Rebellion’ trials she honestly did not think Dwight Christie was likely to wish, let alone do her harm. In any event, Dan would be with her.
After Frank Lovell’s intersession Dwight Christie’s hands were left unchained.
Coffee was brought in.
The big room seemed empty, echoing with only three people in it.
“That’s the first real coffee I’ve had in weeks,” the former G-man announced.
Gretchen was all business.
“Have you been mistreated whilst in custody, Mr Christie?”
“No, not really… ”
“Is that ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“I shot another agent in cold blood, Ma’am,” he shrugged. “The guys had a right to feel aggrieved when they got their hands on me.”
Dan Brenckmann looked up from his notebook.
“Have your injuries been attended to?” He inquired.
Christie nodded. “Look, I’ve done most of the things they say I’ve done. I’ve got no beef about that. I was just about ready to put a gun to my head when I got caught. The only thing that stopped me doing it was knowing what would happen to… ”
“The women you were hiding in Matagorda Country?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Christie gazed into his cup, raised it to his lips and put it down untouched. “The guy all this is about is a bad man. A really bad man. He was a bad man before his wife and two of his kids were killed in the Cuban Missiles War. Afterwards, he was an honest to God monster, I reckon… ”
“This would be Galen Cheney, also known as John Herbert?” Gretchen checked, brusquely.
“Yeah, I only hooked up with him because I was investigating a couple of suspicious deaths in Colorado last fall. The Agency was keen on keeping the operation quiet because it involved members of the military… ”
Gretchen’s face was suddenly creased with bewilderment.
“Which deaths?”
“There were several. A guy called Mulders, he was a Captain in the Air Force who was attached to some top secret radar program. Mulders shot his wife in the head before he killed himself. They were both in their night clothes and they had had sexual intercourse shortly before they died. The whole thing was pretty twisted. Then there was the Paul Gunther, the head of security at Ent Air Force Base on the night of the Cuban Missiles War… ”
Gretchen stared at the man like she had seen a ghost.
“What did I say?” Christie asked.
“Nothing,” Dan Brenckmann said definitively.
By the time the older man switched his attention back to Gretchen she had recovered her composure.
“Nothing,” she agreed tersely.
“Gunther was supposed to have driven out into the desert one night and ended it with a Colt,” Christie explained. “Like Mulders, there was no suicide note. Not previous sign of mental instability. Both guys had young kids, spotless marriages. Gunther was on the verge of retiring. The Air Force was particularly sensitive about Gunther’s death because the car from the Ent AFB car pool that he was driving on the night of his death was the one the base CO had had signed out for the previous three weeks. Nobody who knew Gunther bought the suicide; and if it was murder there was the possibility he might not have been the intended victim. Anyhow, there was a partial right thumb print and a left ring finger print on Gunther’s car — the Air Force SIB guys knew what they were doing — and we got a match to a guy who had no reason to be in Colorado.”
“Galen Cheney?” San Brenckmann prompted.
Christie nodded.
“At the time of the October War he was working security down at an uncompleted Air Force SAGE Direction Centre outside San Antonio.”
Dan frowned, unfamiliar with the jargon.
“Semi Automatic Ground Environment,” the former G-man informed him. “One of the string of top secret air defense bases that was supposed to deal with Soviet bombers if there was ever a war. The system cost billions of bucks but nobody told the American people that it was obsolete the moment the Russians launched Sputnik.” He guffawed sadly, mostly to himself. “That’s still top secret by the way because the Government doesn’t think anybody noticed what happened to Seattle, Chicago, Buffalo and Boston… ”
“My kid sister was in Buffalo, Mr Christie,” Dan said quietly.
“Sorry. I was lucky. I didn’t lose anybody close that night. But my point remains; we’re still throwing hundreds of millions of bucks at SAGE even though we know it doesn’t actually work. The country’s going to Hell but a contract is a contract, and IBM and all those other leeching parasitic computer companies are still shafting the American taxpayer.”