But Meany was by no means finished or defeated, and he said to me, “But Morris is a different story, Drummond. Isn’t he? The only suspicion we have on him was his possible implication in corporate graft. You gave him a death sentence.”
I said, “He set up the relationship with Grand Vistas.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Yes. He was the guy who told Cy Berger to send Barry Bosworth to Italy for the contract.”
“That’s circumstantial and inconclusive.”
“No, George, it’s ironclad. Morris knew his company’s condition and turned to the devil for salvation. Open and shut.”
“That doesn’t justify a death sentence, does it?”
I could sense Phyllis studying my face throughout this little exchange. She said, “He’s right, Drummond.” She regarded me more closely and asked, “You have no proof about Morris, do you?”
“He set up the partnership.”
“Of course. But regarding the murders…”
“Look, he set this thing up, and-”
“And you gambled,” she suggested. “You assumed he had knowledge about the murders, so you pulled the trigger. Isn’t that correct?”
I wasn’t going to answer her. But, yes; right on the money. In the split second I had to decide which names to give the killer, I threw the dice and included Jason Morris. I was not sure Morris had been behind, or was even knowledgeable about, the murders. My instincts told me he was, and I went with them.
Everyone was looking at me now and trying to see what I was thinking. I had actually considered this issue a great deal over the past twenty-four hours. Agonized over it, really. I knew I could have, at any point, stopped the wheels I put in motion. I could have informed the CIA or Meany about my little plot, and they would have jumped through their asses and found some way to put up a wall of protection around Morris and Merriweather. But the man who plotted Lisa’s murder would’ve been spared.
Genghis Khan was once supposed to have advised, “Kill them all, and you know you get the guilty ones.” American law does not operate that way, nor should it, nor should individuals. The most basic tenet of American law is the presumption of innocence. The protection of innocents is sacrosanct and is what separates civilization from savages.
I had reasoned and rationalized that Morris was the grand architect of the crimes that had caused the deaths of innocents. At the least, his guilt was indirect, and that was enough. But it wasn’t enough. And so I had accepted the bald fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life knowing I might have sentenced an innocent-or, actually, a corrupt man-to death, but for a crime I did not know for certain, and definitely could not prove, he committed.
“Christ, you’re no better than them,” Meany said.
It was an overstatement, but it was not an inaccurate one.
After a long and awkward moment, Phyllis glanced at Jack MacGruder. She said, “Well?”
MacGruder said, “He deserves to live with his decision.”
She said, less certainly, “Do you think so?”
He replied, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We don’t owe him anything.”
“It will cause no harm, Jack. Morris Networks is an artifact of history at this point.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but clearly MacGruder was your typical CIA type, secrets to the grave, tight lips save ships, and all that shit. He did not like her decision and somewhat spitefully confided, “We were tracing Morris. Phone taps, e-mail taps, you name it.” He paused, and then said, “He knew.”
“He knew?” I asked.
Phyllis said, “I’m afraid we had to fib to you and Miss Morrow the other day.” Her spindly fingers toyed with a lovely spider brooch on her collar for a moment, then she added, “In an e-mail about a month ago, Morris was informed by his contact in Grand Vistas of a serious leak that had to be plugged. That was the precise phrase, incidentally.” She then observed, “Don’t you find it peculiar the way all these criminals use plumber’s language that way?”
MacGruder said, “It was too generic to know what it meant. Only after the second death-”
And Phyllis interrupted to say, “I mentioned before that the syndicate is very sophisticated, and cautious about its communications. It would be fair to presume that the matter was discussed in more detail with Morris. Later, of course. And probably at his home in Florida.”
MacGruder explained that comment, saying, “Our FBI friends occasionally see men passing in and out who are part of the syndicate.” Another moment passed, then MacGruder said, “Really, Morris had gotten himself into a tricky pickle.”
I assumed he was referring to the baseball predicament of being trapped between the bases, rather than the ex-cucumber. I said, “You mean, it was him or the women?”
“Indeed. The syndicate could not allow him to survive if this thing became exposed. There would be an explosion of publicity, a trial, and Lord knows what Morris would have confessed.”
I wouldn’t say I breathed a sigh of relief. In fact, I had suspected as much. However, with that confirmed, I could continue walking through life with a halo. Right. I said to Phyllis, very sincerely,
“Thank you.”
She replied, “Think nothing of it.”
So I thought nothing of it, and said to her, “I owe you one, and here it is. I’ll bet you’re also wondering why Sally Westin didn’t figure out it was Merriweather.”
Okay, yes, I was showing off. But sometimes it’s a good idea to let the other side know you’re still ahead of them in the game, and this was one of those times. Also, I had one more point I needed to get on the scoreboard.
Phyllis shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Sally Westin?” But I guess she realized from my expression that it wasn’t selling. Plus, I had piqued her curiosity, so she cleared her throat, then asked, “All right. How do you know about Sally?”
“One, she’s a lousy lawyer. A for effort, F for effect, right? Two, Sally arrived at the firm about three years ago, about when your investigation started, right? And if you’re wondering why Sally wasn’t able to pinpoint Merriweather, go back to point one.” I let them ponder that, and then asked, “Who is she?”
Phyllis nodded at Jack, who then said, “Not Sally Westin, if you’re wondering. The real Sally Westin became a nun and lives in a convent north of Denver. Go figure, right. The woman you know as Sally is a Bureau special agent, and that’s all you need to know.”
Jack studied the carpet a moment, then commented, “Jesus, I thought she had a foolproof cover. We invested a lot of time studying that firm. That whole thing with the Westin family, when we discovered that, I mean, how often does a legend like that land in your lap? We even had her graduate from Duke, because the firm has no Duke grads.”
“It’s a great cover,” I told him. “She’s got them completely fooled.” Then I let the shoe drop. “But for that one little slip, the girl’s a real pro.”
Phyllis’s lower lip twitched. “Little slip?”
“Her affair with Cy Berger. But you already know about that, right? I mean, surely an agent of her caliber would’ve informed you that she was sleeping with a possible suspect.”
Phyllis’s left eyebrow shot up at that one. She said, “You’re sure about this?”
“Ask her.”
“Oh, we will. Most definitely, we will.”
Lisa was surely smiling down on me for that one.
The way I figured it, Sally’s bulletproof legend had one flaw: She was drastically out of her legal league in a top firm. But if she slept with Cy then all her problems were solved. In return for all the free poon he could stomach, he’d slide her past her annual reviews, and she wouldn’t have to return to the FBI with her tail tucked between her legs. Or maybe Cy was just irresistible to the ladies. How would I know? I appear to have a few problems in that department.