“I got news for you. You probably can outsmart me and wear me down and have your guys take me down in some kind of face-saving way that makes it look like you guys are in control and some third-rate DJ nobody listens to is no match for you. But that won’t erase the fact that you guys didn’t listen to me earlier and people got hurt. It also doesn’t mean you suddenly have a grip on the situation. There’s something seriously fucked up going on. The sooner we can come to simple terms, the sooner you can march me down that pier and we can all figure out the bigger problem.
“You’ve got a lot of people watching us on television right now and listening in on our discussion. You’ve told me twice that you were up to no tricks. There’s no hostage here. You’re not ethically obliged to lie to me to save them. I want to help.
“If you send some Navy SEALs to shoot me or tranq me while my back is turned, all you’ve done is shot the guy who knocked on your door to tell you your house is on fire. I didn’t start it.
“And the more crazy-clever bullshit you try to pull on me, the more people are going to be convinced that the reason you’re trying so hard to not let me surrender the way I’m asking is because you’re the ones who started the fire. Are you the one who started the fire?”
“No, Mr. Roberts. We are not.”
“Do you have any idea who that helicopter belonged to and why they were trying to shoot me and decapitate me?”
“No, Mr. Roberts. We do not.”
“Then please keep your word to me. Let me finish my phone calls and take care of what I need to on my end to make sure everything can go smoothly.” Mitchell stepped out of the boat and walked up to table and sat down. He pulled out the cell phone.
“You got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rookman. “I’d get a hold of that lawyer soon.”
“I agree.” Mitchell hung up with Rookman and got the number of the lawyer from a Google search on the phone. While he assumed the feds could listen to the phone call, he was even more paranoid about them pretending to be the lawyer.
A receptionist answered.
“I’d like to speak with Trevor Smith,” said Mitchell.
“Who shall I tell him is speaking?” she asked.
“My name is Mitchell Roberts.”
“Hello, Mr. Roberts. We’ve been waiting for your call. I’ll put you right through.”
Finally some courtesy, thought Mitchell.
“Mr. Roberts, I’m so glad you called.” The booming voice had a calming effect on Mitchell. “It looks like you’ve had a bad couple of days.”
“Not as bad as the people who got hurt, sir.”
“That’s true. I just want you to know that I’m on your side. Everyone is on your side. Especially after the way the Keystone cops handled it today.” He paused. “Yes, I’m talking to you buffoons listening in. I’d remind you that I’ve got attorney-client privilege if that would make a difference. Either way, they can hear what I’m going to tell you anyways. I don’t want you to step a foot off that pier until they give you full immunity for everything that’s happened.”
“That sounds great. Can you get them to agree to that?”
“My office has already been talking to the attorney general. We pointed out that if they wanted to charge you for acting in self-defense then they would be obligated to charge half the agents on the bridge for attempted murder,” he said.
“Yeah, but they couldn’t help it. There’s some kind of rage virus thing,” said Mitchell.
“That’s exactly the point. Either they acknowledge that there’s something real that’s out of your control and agree to not charge you for trying to save your own skin or they say its hogwash and have to try two dozen FBI agents for attempted murder.”
Smith went over a few more legal points with Mitchell and then got off the phone to speak to the head of the CDC, the governor’s office and the U.S. attorney. He laid out his legal arguments and made the case that for everyone involved it was best to have Mitchell as a willing patient. He pointed out that he could get an injunction against them using any blood or tissue samples without his consent. And without those, they put their investigation into jeopardy.
After they agreed in theory, he called Mitchell back to tell him that the immunity offer was only relating to the events of the past three days. He explained that they wanted to keep legal options available in the event Mitchell was found to be part of some larger plot.
“Is three days going to be enough?” asked Smith.
Mitchell stopped to do the math. “My first encounter was a girl four days ago. She just ran and screamed at me. I just ran away.”
“I’ll include that,” said Smith. “Is there anything else?”
Mitchell realized that Smith, ever the lawyer, was giving him the opportunity to ask for help if he was actually tied into some kind of terrorist plot. “No, that’s fine. If they can give me this and make sure I’m going to be safe, they’ll have my full cooperation.”
Smith called back to say that paperwork was being drafted on the immunity. “The next issue is your care. I’ve asked that you be admitted to a private hospital of your choice, but they’re insisting you be taken to the CDC. I don’t think we can get them to budge much on that.”
Mitchell thought about that. “Wait, what if they can’t cure me? Then what happens?”
“I’m going to have a trustee appointed to make sure that they provide the best care possible for you. They won’t be allowed to just lock you away in some dark room.”
Mitchell hadn’t contemplated the idea that he had something that might not go away. What if people tried to kill him for the rest of his life? The only safe place would be locked away like a virulent disease.
He still didn’t have any answers about who was trying to shoot him. Terrorists trying to cover their tracks? A renegade part of the government?
After another hour, Smith called him, “You’ll be allowed unrestricted use of communications. I’ve got three Nobel laureates who have agreed to act as trustees. Amnesty International and the Red Cross have offered to oversee your treatment.”
Mitchell’s appreciation for the well-connected lawyer grew every time he called.
Behind him the sun was beginning to lower in the horizon. He’d finished the last of his steak an hour ago. The final step was for a courier in a spacesuit to bring him the papers to sign.
A voice came over his radio. “For us to allow the courier to come out to you, we need you to disable your explosive device attached to the gas tank.”
Mitchell still had Smith on the phone. He told him to proceed. Mitchell climbed down to the boat to pull the flare gun out of the gas tank. A sudden wave of paranoia overcame him. He pulled out the phone to call Rookman.
“Rookman, I’ve been in the middle of negotiating and haven’t listened to anything on the news in the last few hours. What have they said?” Mitchell was afraid that it was too good to be true and the pardons and Smith’s smooth tactics were all an act and that he was just talking to an impersonator.
“They’ve been saying that Smith was making a deal for you,” said Rookman.
“Should I go along with it?”
“Listen, kid, I don’t think they’re going to try anything more today. But I wouldn’t put it past them to try to find a new way to screw you later on. When, not if, they do, scream. Make a big noise.”
“Thank you,” said Mitchell.
Mitchell unplugged the empty flare gun from the gas tank and threw it onto the floor of the cockpit. He climbed back up the stairs and sat down.
The voice on the radio spoke. “Please sign the documents as soon as you can so we can get you proper care.”