On the way back from the federal building, Gurt and Lang discussed their separate interviews. From the questions asked, it seemed clear the feds were clueless as to the identity of the would-be kidnappers. Lang gathered that, whoever they were, they were being less than cooperative when questioned. But they were in custody and would be indefinitely, hopefully long enough for Lang to discover who had sent them before they tried again.
In the meantime, Lang had to find the would-be assassins. Trying to kill him was real personal. Attempting to harm his new family was even more so.
But first, Lang would be busy with another matter.
IX.
United States District Court for the Middle District of Georgia
Macon, Georgia
A Week Later
The drive to Macon had seemed endless even though only eighty miles of interstate separated it from Atlanta, where Lang and Grumps had become indefinite guests at Francis's rectory. No one followed Lang on a few aimless excursions from the interstate. Before leaving, he had verified his still-unknown enemies were still in the custody of the feds in Atlanta. Whoever they were, they apparently did not have endless reinforcements.
Surprisingly, Gurt had offered little argument when a European vacation-bound friend of Lang's had offered the use of a cottage on the grounds of the High Hampton Inn in the mountains near Cashiers, North Carolina. She would scrupulously avoid the use of credit cards, ATMs or anything else that might leave a record of her presence there. Happily, other than homemade quilts, tacky handicrafts and overpriced junk that every roadside stand proclaimed to be "genuine mountain antiques," there was nothing to buy. The accommodations were rustic at best, the hotel's food wholesome if unappetizing. But the view was magnificent, the climate temperate as compared to Atlanta from June until September. Best of all, a number of young mothers and their broods summered there while their husbands labored during the week in Charlotte, Atlanta, Birmingham or a dozen other southeastern cities. Manfred had more playmates than he ever had and Gurt could watch for strangers who would stand out like a missing plank in a picket fence.
Francis was still trying his Vatican contacts to learn more than the names of the men in the Lear jet but so far without success. Lang got the impression the delay was more attributable to red tape than stonewalling. Not even the Holy Father was immune to bureaucracy and this one had had two millennia to become entrenched, immovable and unhelpful.
Lang eased the Porsche into a parking lot, thankful he had mended enough to manage the car's manual transmission. His two-block stroll to the courthouse reminded him he had also healed enough to resume his regularly scheduled workouts.
Sam "Dusty" Roads, the youthful United States attorney, was already in the courtroom, accompanied by an older man whom Lang recognized as a senior US attorney from the northern division. His name eluded memory's grasp. Dusty's greeting was decidedly less enthusiastic than his previous one.
"What the hell are you trying to do, Reilly?"
Lang put his slim attaché case down on counsel table and smiled. "And a good morning to you, too. What I'm trying to do is to have my client acquitted."
"What you're going to do is get yourself sanctioned," the older man growled. "Subpoenaing a federal agent, demanding sensitive FBI files… In case you didn't know, the bureau isn't involved in this case. The DEA is."
The smile never left Lang's face. His experience was that the greater the government bluster, the better chance he was on track. And a senior US attorney hadn't driven down here for the ride. "Thanks for enlightening me."
"You may think this is some kind of a joke, Reilly, but-"
He was interrupted by the door opening. All three men turned to see Larry Henderson timidly peering into the courtroom like a mouse trying to decide if it was safe to leave its hole.
Lang motioned. "C'mon in, Larry. Us lawyers were just exchanging pleasantries."
Freed of leg irons since he was out of jail on bond, Larry nonetheless traversed the room with uncertain steps and sat next to Lang. He wore a suit with a tie narrow enough to serve as a shoestring, something Lang guessed had belonged to his father. Before the two could exchange greetings, the marshal appeared to herald Judge Carver's ascension to the bench. The judge nodded a no-nonsense "good morning," sat and began to thumb through the case file while the court reporter wound paper into her machine.
After a full minute, the judge looked up. "We are here today at the defendant's special request for an early hearing on the defendant's motion to suppress evidence, specifically any marijuana allegedly taken from the premises of the defendant. Do I have that right?"
Al Silverstein, that was the man's name, the US attorney from Atlanta, Lang recalled as he stood. "Yes, Your Honor."
Silverstein was on his feet before Lang could sit. "Before we begin that, Your Honor, the government has a motion to quash a subpoena served on an FBI agent and a subpoena duces tecum calling for the production of certain sensitive documents from the bureau."
Was that the ghost of a smile Lang saw around the judge's lips? "I am well aware all documents from the bureau are sensitive, Mr…"
"Forgive me, Your Honor, Silverstein."
"Yes, well, what's the connection between a Drug Enforcement Agency prosecution and the FBI, Mr. Reilly?"
Lang knew better than to give the government time to mount a defense by showing his cards before he had to. "The defendant believes that will become self-evident as this hearing progresses."
"But, Your Honor," Silverstein argued, "the very point of our opposition to letting Mr. Reilly proceed with this, this circus, is that both the witness he has subpoenaed and the records he seeks are both irrelevant and potentially harmful to ongoing investigations."
Judge Carver touched her lips with her pen, thinking. "This is a nonjury hearing, Mr. Silverstein. I determine what is or is not relevant. You may object at the appropriate places. If you like, I can order the transcript sealed."
A sealed transcript was not what Silverstein had in mind, but he knew better than to risk provoking the judge's impatience. He sat with a deflated, "Very well, Your Honor."
Round one to the defense.
The judge was looking at Lang. "Mr. Reilly, you have a statement?"
"No, Your Honor, but I would like to make one at the conclusion of this hearing."
"Very well. Proceed."
Lang placed a hand on Larry's shoulder. "We call Mr. Larry Henderson."
Larry went to the witness stand with nervous steps, shoulders slumped as he swore to tell the truth. He sat as if the chair contained thorns rather than a cushion.
After the preliminary questions as to his name and residence, Lang asked, "Do you recall any unusual incident the week before you were arrested?"
Larry nodded. "Uh huh."
"You'll have to give us a yes or no, Mr. Henderson," Lang said gently. "The court reporter can't get a nod or an uh huh."
"Sorry. Yes, I did."
"And that was?"
"Fella came onto the property, said he was lookin' f some kinda woodpecker."