“Oh, yeah. When I was with the Judge Advocates Corps, prosecuting, I heard all the time about how they’d plant bugs on civilian lawyers. Military doesn’t like civilian lawyers playing in their sandlot, I told you.”
“Bullshit, Grimes. Don’t tell me the prosecution used information they picked up from bugs.”
“Oh, they’d launder it first. Always happens. You find an independent source, attribute it to them. You think I’m kidding?”
“No, I don’t. I just don’t want to think you’re right.”
The meeting with the military judge was held in camera, in the high-security subbasement courtroom. Waldron was already seated, fuming, when they arrived. He shuffled papers as Captain Hogan talked to him. A court reporter was placing tapes in the Lanier recording machine and testing her equipment. The jury box was empty. Tom was seated at the end of the defense table in his uniform.
In time the bailiff entered the courtroom from the judge’s chambers and called out, “All rise!”
A large, beefy, big-shouldered man, with a shock of white hair, entered. Under his black robe he wore a dress uniform. He was carrying a leather portfolio in one hand and a Pepsi in the other. He looked dyspeptic. Claire was sure he was scowling. Leisurely, he made his way to the bench and flicked a finger against the microphone. Satisfied by the amplified thump, he spoke in a gruff and gravelly voice: “This Article 39(a) session is called to order. Be seated.”
When the defense and prosecution lawyers had sat down, he said, “I’m Judge Farrell.” He put on a pair of black-rimmed half-glasses and consulted some papers on his podium. He ran through a few minutes of preliminaries.
Claire’s heart sank. She’d heard voices like this in Charlestown, in all-white neighborhoods of Boston-self-assured, bigoted, thuggish, clannish. For all she knew he would turn out to be a fair man of judicial temperament, but her instinct told her he was a schoolyard bully.
He spoke as if he was already fed up with the trial, even before it had begun, even before the arraignment. “Now, as you all know, the purpose of this pretrial session is to address a complaint lodged by defense counsel regarding alleged bugs or transmitters or whatnot allegedly found on her premises, within her office.” Warren Farrell’s luxuriant thatch of white hair contrasted with his ruddy face, which was spiderwebbed with the broken veins of a serious drinker. He was a former Golden Gloves boxer, Grimes had said, which would account for his broken-looking nose. Farrell had attended night law school.
“Defense counsel,” he growled, “you have somethin’ to say?”
Claire rose. “Your Honor, I’m Claire Heller Chapman. I’m the lead defense counsel.” She held up a Ziploc plastic evidence bag, clearly marked “FBI” and “EVIDENCE,” containing one of the tiny black transmitters. Very buglike indeed, with its slender black body and long filament tail. The FBI had reluctantly loaned it to her, after great pressure from Ray Devereaux.
“Your Honor,” she went on, “I’ve received technical assistance from the FBI, which is investigating this matter right now, and which confirms that my office has been bugged by parties unknown.” She spoke guardedly for the record, careful not to overstep. “I have reason to believe the government is involved. I would like to move for appropriate relief for disclosure of all intercepted conversations collected from my office. I would respectfully request that you direct the government to disclose any and all information regarding wiretaps, overhears, et cetera, and disclose copies of any and all transcripts or tapes made.”
“Trial counsel?” the judge said wearily.
Waldron vaulted to his feet. “Your Honor, we find these allegations outrageous and clearly intended to prejudice Your Honor against the government. There is no evidence whatsoever that we had anything to do with such an egregious penetration of attorney-client privilege, and, frankly, we resent the accusation.”
Waldron spoke so heatedly, with such righteous indignation, that for a moment Claire actually believed him. Certainly it was possible he knew nothing about the whole sordid business. If Grimes was right that information illegally obtained could be laundered through independent sources, wouldn’t they-whoever “they” were-want to keep Waldron in the dark about where the juicy stuff came from?
“You’re tellin’ me you had nothing to do with this,” Farrell said, fixing Waldron with a beady-eyed glare.
“Your Honor, not only did we have nothing whatsoever to do with this,” Waldron replied in high dudgeon, “but I am personally outraged that-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Farrell said, interrupting Waldron’s tirade as if he were already tired of him, too. “All right, look, I’m going to make this short and sweet. Trial counsel, I’m going to issue an order for the government to show cause that defense counsel’s allegations are untrue, and that the government has had no responsibility for these bugs. Now, in the event that the prosecution has had any involvement in this, I’m requiring you to produce forthwith copies of all transcripts or tapes of conversations intercepted, and to show cause why your conduct is not in violation of the law. And on a personal note, I wanna tell you that, if I find the slightest evidence of any monkey business on either side, there’s goin’ to be hell to pay.” He slammed down his gavel. “That’s all.”
Waldron passed by the defense table on his way out of the courtroom, and before he had a chance to say anything, Claire looked up at his thin-lipped face. “You should know I’m going to move to dismiss for outrageous government conduct,” she told him. “You just blew it, Major. Violating attorney-client privilege is a mammoth violation of due process.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “That was really pathetic. Amateur hour.”
Waldron stared back with his lucid blue-gray eyes. “I hope you don’t seriously think we even need to bug your offices.” He shook his head and gave one of his feral smiles. “You really have no idea, do you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The man whose first name and phone number Tom had scrawled on a scrap of paper in the brig met Claire at a yuppie bar in Georgetown-his choice, although as soon as he arrived he announced that he hated it. Too many antiquarian Italian advertising posters, too many twenty-somethings smoking cigars. But neither one of them made a move to go someplace else.
He was short and trim, athletic-looking, about fifty. He was also entirely bald, shiny-bald, as if he waxed his head, which Claire had heard some men did. Upon closer examination she saw he shaved the hair at the sides of his head, probably daily. He had heavy dark eyebrows and would have looked sinister were it not for his morose demeanor. He made Claire ill at ease.
“I’m Dennis,” he said without offering his hand. She did not expect a Dennis; a Dennis did not have a bullet head.
“Claire,” she said, and didn’t offer hers. For several evenings in a row she’d called the phone number Tom had written down for her, but it was never answered. It was the man’s home phone number, and he had neither an answering machine nor voice mail. It just rang and rang, until last night he’d finally answered.
“Who knows you’re here?” Dennis asked. He wore a decent gray suit and an expensive-looking white shirt with a silvery tie and large gold cuff links.
“Why? Are you going to kill me?”
He wasn’t amused. “You tell any of your cocounsel, any of the military guys?”
“No.” She planned to tell Grimes later, but saw no need to get into that now.
“You don’t have a tape recorder on you, I assume.”
“No, I do not.”
“I’ll take you at your word. I could get into a fair amount of difficulty, so, please, no records of our meetings, don’t tell anyone. You know the drill.”