Years of practicing law had made Byron Johnson a dedicated writer. Very few lawyers were Perry Mason, who appeared to live in court and never spent time in his office or even at home. The fact was that even for a lawyer like Byron Johnson, long a big firm litigator with many cases going at all times, the real work consisted of meetings, writing letters and legal briefs, and research. It was almost monastic work.
Byron wrote in longhand. At the end of each day-or in the morning when, as often happened, he spent the night writing-he made two copies of each page on the copier in his apartment. He put the copies in separate envelopes. He addressed one of the envelopes to his post office box on Monhegan Island. He took the other to the bank on West Broadway where he had safe deposit boxes. Each day he shredded the original papers. To prevent people from finding anything in his garbage, he dropped the shredded papers like confetti in three or four garbage cans along the way.
Byron thought of his writing as a testament. It was a testament for Simeon Black. It was a testament for himself. It was also a quarry out of which he intended to send information to people at newspapers, magazines, Internet news services, and television networks whose names Simeon had mentioned to him as reporters he admired.
This was Byron’s Hail Mary pass. His mother was Catholic; he often heard her say when they were together, Hail Mary, full of grace…
Byron paused at eight, after three hours of concentrated writing. He had started just as the winter night was falling, darkening the tall windows of his apartment. When his concentration lifted, he walked around the apartment, stretching.
The television in the living room was on. Displayed on the screen was a vivid scene of a building he knew welclass="underline" the mosque at Raymond Boulevard and Broad Street in Newark. The zipper message on the screen read: Mosque Raided, Floor Dug Up, Thousands of Documents Seized.
Byron noticed at the bottom of the screen the name of the woman speaking before he focused on her. Kimberly Smith, Stanford University, Terrorism Expert. And instantly, Byron recognized the woman. She was the striking blonde whose pictures Simeon Black had displayed on his computer screen. In one of the pictures, Kimberly Smith was with Christina Rosario. In several of the pictures Kimberly Smith was with Jesse Ventura and with Tom Nashatka in others.
In a strong, articulate voice, Kimberly Smith said: “There is nothing wrong, Bill, with the government investigating terrorists to protect this country. It could have been a church, synagogue, cathedral.”
Bill O’Reilly said, “And what about drilling holes in the floor?”
“Look, Bill, nobody drilled holes in anyone’s head, although law enforcement could have found more information in minds than in floors.”
“What about the ACLU screaming foul?” O’Reilly asked.
“They scream over taking off shoes at security gates. We have dedicated law enforcement men and women. Those are the people who need our protection.”
And you are people, Byron thought, who live on fear and hate.
37
“THE ROOM IS SECURE,” Justin Goldberg said, “and the court reporter is on the record. Counsel, state your appearances.”
“Hamerindapal Rana, for the United States. With me are Helen Gardner and Bart Stone, both Assistant U.S. Attorneys.”
“Byron Johnson for defendant Ali Hussein.”
Justin Goldberg was, as usual, crisp and business-like. “Let the record reflect that I initiated this conference. I did so because I received from an anonymous source, by mail, in an envelope with no return address and with postage stamps, a disk containing a video. It is that video’s content that has caused me to call this conference.”
Justin Goldberg held up the disk by its edge. It glinted momentarily. “The video on this disk reflects events involving the defendant.”
Justin Goldberg paused, staring at Hal Rana. Byron had long ago learned that it was often more important to watch than it was to act. He waited.
“I’m disturbed. Let me tell the government, to which I will give a copy of this disk, that I want a written explanation of why this video was not disclosed by the United States to the court so that the court could evaluate whether to turn the video over to the defense or treat it as national security material.”
Hal Rana made a mistake. He said, “I knew nothing about a video depicting Mr. Hussein.”
Curt, icy, and imperious as a god, Justin Goldberg said, “Be careful, Mr. Rana. I will continue to pay careful attention to this. You shouldn’t comment on this until the government investigates and provides the explanation I require. Listen carefully. Who other than the defendant is on the video? What were their duties? Where was this taken. When? Why? Who had custody of the video? To whom were copies given?”
Hal Rana made another mistake. “Your Honor, can we ask Mr. Johnson whether he has seen a video with his client in it?”
“No, no, no,” Justice Goldberg said. “At the moment Mr. Johnson doesn’t concern me. You concern me. Mr. Johnson didn’t make the video. You did. If I have issues with Mr. Johnson, I will reach them soon.”
Justin Goldberg waved his hand as if brushing lint from his suit. It was a gesture of dismissal. Byron Johnson was the first to stand and first to leave. His heart raced. Almost incredibly, Justin Goldberg was showing independence and courage. He had not just tossed away or ignored the disk Byron had anonymously mailed to him.
For the first time in many weeks, he was happy.
38
COLD FOG. THE OLD wood of the rambling house never lost the chill of Maine. The wood-the sea-washed shingles and the broad planks on the outside porches and floors throughout the house-always had the same pine scent as the trees on the island’s rocky soil. Foghorns regularly sounded from the points of the island, the recurring resonance of warning and reassurance. Byron had seen only two other houses on the island with lights on as he and Christina had sat, three hours earlier, inside the stripped-down passenger compartment of the old ferry on one of the three passages it made each week in the winter from the mainland.
“My God, Carlos,” Christina said. “Why do you ever leave this place?”
“I’ve been coming here since I was nine. In the summers the island is hot in the day, cool every night. The sky was always clear. High Maine weather. Those were usually the only times each year when we spent fourteen continuous days and nights together. My father’s father was still alive then. A poetry-quoting Boston lawyer who, of course, loved to sail. Sailing was an addiction of upper-class Bostonians with summer houses on the coast of Maine. As much of an addiction of that class as the gin martinis. I loved him, and loved sailing. I spent more time with him than with my mom and dad. Out on the sea. Sunlight and sea spray. Even twelve miles out you can still smell the pines.”
She embraced him. She wore a sweatshirt with a hood; on the front of the sweatshirt was the word “Bowdoin.” She said, “It’s wonderful how our paths have crossed. When I was in college we used to drive out to Mere Point and light fires on the boulders, cook, smell the ocean, and look out at the small islands that had only pine trees. The same ocean and the same smells you had.”
He kissed her lips. They tasted of salt from the chilly air on the ferry and the short walk from the dock to the house. They had carried their bags on red children’s wagons. The house was a half mile from the wooden dock.
The only other person they saw in the three days they spent in the house was Eben Cain, the caretaker of Byron’s house and several others for more than forty years. He was one of the two hundred year-round residents of the island, probably the last member of the last generation of a family that had been here since the 1700s. Eben kept the furnaces running year-round because Byron, although he rarely came to the island, usually visited on a day’s notice, and Byron’s sons also came unexpectedly and intermittently. Eben-a thin, compact man with that terse Maine accent-hadn’t seen Byron with his sons since they were young teenagers. Eben made sure there was enough oil in the furnace, hot water in the tank, and wood near the fireplaces.