The other factor insuring our legal defeat is that the law says that witnesses can be exempt from testifying, with their prior statements being admissible, if that witness is legitimately unavailable.
When you’re wrapped in cellophane and missing your head, that’s about as unavailable as it gets.
Hike and I discuss this new development. As big a pain in the ass as Hike can be, he’s got a brilliant legal mind, and I’m hoping that he can come up with something we can use.
“Anything at all you can think of?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Thanks, Hike.
The more I think about it, the more I see a silver lining, albeit not in any legal cloud. The only reason I opened this investigation at all was that I believed Noah when he said he didn’t confess the arson to Butler, and wouldn’t have been able to supply the details of the crime even if he wanted to.
So, assuming Butler didn’t wake up one day and decide for no reason to randomly pick Noah as the person to lie about, then he was put up to it.
His subsequent murder, which I refuse to believe is a coincidence, confirms the existence of an evil third party here. The people that used Butler decided they didn’t need him anymore, and that his knowledge of their involvement could be risky for them. Killing him put another nail in Noah’s legal coffin, and shut Butler up in the process.
A twofer, wrapped in cellophane.
I call Becky Galloway. It’s easier to get in touch with her than with Noah, since Noah is behind bars, which are in turn behind walls.
“Has Noah ever been to Vegas?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Why of course?”
“He was born there. That’s where he grew up.”
I’m talking to Becky, but I can hear Dylan salivating. He’s going to talk about how Noah knows people there, people with whom he learned to do drugs, and they killed Danny Butler at their friend Noah’s behest.
He won’t have any evidence of it, or at least I hope he won’t, but he’ll have one advantage. It will sound true, and the jury will think it makes logical sense that it’s true.
And unfortunately, as trials go, that’s all that matters. Because the idea that trials are a search for the truth is just a myth. Trials are a search for that which the jury will believe is the truth.
“Senator Ryan, this is Brett Fowler. Thank you for taking my call.”
“You told my assistant it was urgent,” Ryan said, though the truth was he would have taken the call anyway. Fowler was very well connected in Washington, and though Ryan never used him in his role as consultant, he was always worth talking to.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Fowler said. “I’m afraid it is.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, please understand that I am simply acting as an intermediary here, but I have some instructions for you.”
“Is that right?” Even though Ryan was worried about where this could be going, he wasn’t about to let a political flack start issuing instructions to a senator of his stature.
“Yes, sir. When you leave the office tonight, you’ll find a package on the passenger seat of your car. Don’t open it until you get home, but when you do please examine it carefully.”
“What is it?” Ryan asked. “What the hell is this about?”
“Please, Senator, just do as I say. Believe me, it’s better for both of us if you do. After you are familiar with the contents of the package, we will need to meet.”
“I don’t like this,” Ryan said. “I don’t like the mystery, and I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”
“Senator, it is what it is. You’ll see that soon enough. Just call me when you are ready to meet.”
The package was waiting in the car, just as Fowler had said. But Ryan was not about to wait until he got home to open it, and he did so before he even pulled out of the parking lot.
It was a DVD, unmarked, and the thought of what might be on it made Ryan sick to his stomach. And with no DVD player in the car, all he could do was as he was told-to go home and play it.
When he arrived home, he realized that he had forgotten that his daughter and future son-in-law were over for dinner. After saying hello to them and his wife, Linda, he said that he had to make an important call.
He went into his office, locked the door, and watched as his worst fears were realized. There he was, in the Amsterdam hotel, having sex with a prostitute and ingesting cocaine. He was looking at the end of his career, his marriage, and life as he knew it.
He called Fowler, who answered the phone with a calm, “Hello, Senator. Thanks for calling.”
“You stinking son of a bitch.”
“I see no reason for name-calling, Senator. For instance, I didn’t address you as a cheating, cocaine-snorting pervert, even though the evidence certainly would support such a characterization.”
“What do you want?” Ryan asked.
“I’ll tell you at breakfast tomorrow. Believe me, it won’t be nearly as bad as you think. By next week this can all be behind you.”
They met at the restaurant in the Madison Hotel, on Fifteenth Street Northwest, a perfectly normal spot for a senator to be having breakfast. Fowler was already there when Ryan arrived, which was to be expected considering their relative status.
An outside observer would never have thought there was anything wrong, or that Ryan was not in charge of the meeting. But of course to Ryan something was very wrong, and he most definitely was not in charge.
Fowler tried to make small talk at first but Ryan was having none of it. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.
“It’s not what I want, Senator. But the people I represent do have a request.”
“Who are those people?”
Fowler laughed. “I’m afraid that’s privileged, Senator. Very, very privileged.”
“I’m waiting,” Ryan said.
“You have a bill coming out of your committee this week. I believe it is number D427967, regulating certain mining activities. It is not a terribly significant piece of legislation, and is expected to be passed easily by both houses and signed by the President. No controversy at all, which in this political climate is remarkable, don’t you think?”
Ryan obviously knew of the legislation, and knew that Fowler was characterizing its certain passage accurately. “What about it?”
“Certain amendments, also enjoying widespread support, will be added in the next two days. There is an additional amendment that you will add in your capacity as ranking minority member. It will seem insignificant, and in fact is of little importance, and should sail through by acclamation.”
“And what if I don’t?”
Fowler shook his head, as if saddened. “Senator, please… don’t embarrass yourself.”
“Then what if I do as you ask?”
“When you do,” Fowler said, leaving no doubt that “if” was not the correct word for this situation, “then the content of the video will never be disseminated, and you will not be called upon in this manner again. You have my word; I work for honorable people.”
“What is the amendment?”
Fowler took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to him. “It’s in here.”
Ryan did not want to wait to see what was in there, so he opened the envelope and took out the piece of paper. It was four paragraphs of legislative language, so he read it closely and carefully. Then he turned to Fowler.
“Done,” he said.
Sam Willis has spent three days online learning as much as he can about the victims.
In my experience, three days is enough time for Sam to fully chronicle every event that has happened in the history of the world, with special attention to New Jersey.