“Almost. Why law school?”
“As in, What’s a girl who looks like me doing in your profession?”
“Hey, that’s a good question, too.”
“If I had a rack of power suits and a Dooney amp; Bourke briefcase, you wouldn’t ask. Meet me in court someday and I’ll bust your nuts.”
“I’ll bet you would,” I replied. Of course we both knew I was lying. “Why criminal law?”
“It’s my turn.”
“Who said we were taking turns?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she persisted. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“I was an Army brat. We were migrants. As soon as the bill collectors figured out where we lived, we moved on.”
“Then this is legacy work for you, huh?”
“I don’t think of it that way, no.”
“How do you think of it?”
“As a worthy trade inside an honorable profession.”
“Wow. You actually said that with a straight face.” She regarded me a moment, then asked, “Why law?”
I flashed my ID to the guard at the gate of the big CIA headquarters, and said, “Because back when I was an infantryman, I had the misfortune to stand in front of a few bullets. When the docs were done putting me back together they’d made a catastrophic wiring mistake and turned me into a lawyer.”
“That sucks. I hope you sued their asses off.”
“Well, you know how doctors feel about lawyers. They all shot themselves.”
We pulled into a guest parking space and walked over to the entrance. A young man with a sour expression met us, handed us temporary building passes, actually showed us how to put them on, and then escorted us to the elevator. You have to love these people. We went up four floors and were then deposited at the office of the general counsel, where a secretary with the face of a dried prune eyed Katrina with a disapproving stare, then starchly told us to sit and wait. For all I knew, she had a gun in that desk. We sat and waited.
A minute or so later, a guy in a nice suit poked his head out of his office and in an unwelcoming way said, “Come in.” We did that, too.
It wasn’t a big office, but few government offices are. He had his J.D. diploma from Boston University hanging on his wall, as well as your typical rogue’s gallery of photos that showed him shaking hands with or standing beside a whole array of impressive and recognizable faces.
I took one peek at those photos, realized with a sudden, overwhelming shock how outclassed I was, stood up, and fled. Just kidding.
His name was Clarence O’Neil-he was somewhere in his late forties, and well along that road of regression from being a fairly fit, reddish-haired young man to becoming a florid-faced, stout, broad-nosed Irishman. His eyes lingered radioactively on Katrina for a few brief seconds, then he and I traded pugnacious glares, as we opposing attorneys are inclined to do. One way or another, Clarence was going to be in the background of this case, and probably was going to call a lot of the shots.
He finally leaned back into his chair, ran a hand through his unruly, thinning hair, and asked, “What can I do for you, Major? Miss Mazorski?”
I said, “We thought it might make sense to come over here and get acquainted. Maybe create some joint ground rules.”
“I’m afraid I’m confused. This is a military case. It has nothing to do with this office.”
I just love getting jerked around. “Let’s not go there. Your Agency headed up the task force that arrested my client. You’ve got vaults filled with information I need. Order your people to share what the law says I’m entitled to see, or I’ll walk out of this building and convene a press conference.”
A nasty half-smile popped onto his face. “Every defense lawyer makes that threat. We’ve weathered it before, and we’ll weather it again. And frankly, ever since the World Trade Center, the courts are much more sympathetic to us.”
I half smiled back. We were making progress. Pretty soon, we’d half smile each other to death.
“How many of those lawyers attended press conferences wearing Army green? How many had Top Secret clearances? How many knew exactly how to embarrass this agency to get what they want?”
He stood up and walked around his desk to position himself in front of me. He got less than a foot away and looked down at my face. It’s the oldest intimidation stunt in the book. You either stare at his groin like a pervert or up at his face like a supplicant.
I opted for the supplicant option, in case you’re interested.
“Listen, Drummond, your client betrayed this country in ways too horrible to contemplate. Sure, you’re only doing your job, and believe it or not, I admire that. But when you learn everything your client did, you’ll want to strangle him. He’s responsible for more havoc than you can imagine. We’re still trying to assess the damage, but it’s probable we’ll add murder to the crime of treason.”
In an outraged tone, Katrina said, “Murder? That’s bullshit.”
He pinched his nostrils and stared over at her. She was shrewdly trying to provoke more information from him. Smart girl… nice move… very commendable.
Unfortunately, Clarence didn’t get to this level by being stupid. He went across the room and stared out his window. “William Morrison not only gave the Russians the names of agents and turncoats, he also exposed the inner workings of our foreign policy deliberations and helped shape our responses to Russian acts that would turn your stomach. In the history of espionage, there’s never been one like him.”
When neither of us responded, he continued, “Your client’s a master of duplicity. He worked right under our noses for over a decade and fooled everybody. For three years Mary Morrison headed up the task force responsible for finding the traitor. He slept beside her every night, so forgive me if we seem reluctant to share sensitive information. There’ll be no orchestrated effort to stonewall you-hell, I’ve already assembled twenty attorneys to cull through the evidence, but don’t you get on your high horse, Drummond. It won’t sell.”
I tried to listen to his every word but was having some difficulty coming to terms with that one nasty zinger he’d let slip. Mary Morrison had been in charge of the molehunting task force-she’d been sleeping with the man they were now convinced was her prey. If Morrison was in fact a traitor, she’d been cuckolded in ways that almost defy the imagination.
I stood up and Katrina followed my lead. “Mr. O’Neil, thank you for your time, and I look forward to getting your team’s products at the earliest possible date.”
A self-satisfied smile erupted on his face and remained there as I fled out his door. Score: Clarence one, Drummond zero.
Back in the car, Katrina said, “Gee, you handled that well.”
“Thanks.”
“I wasn’t serious.”
“I know.”
“Am I missing something here? What was that about his wife?”
“Mary Morrison was the CIA station chief in Moscow. You know those Washington power couples you always read about? Bill and Hillary. Dole and Dole. The Morrisons were all that in the world of supersecret agencies. Oh, and incidentally, I had a fling with his wife in college.”
Sometimes, say things quickly enough and it doesn’t register. She frowned, however, and remarked, “A fling, huh? She wasn’t the one who talked you into defending her husband? Tell me this isn’t so.”
“The relevant point is that he asked for me,” I said, partially answering her question, and partially not.
“Then you and he are acquainted also?”
I nodded, and she asked, “How well acquainted?”
“More than I want to be.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“He’s a jerk?”
“You’re right. Let me amend that. A social-climbing, ass-covering, arrogant, self-serving, mealy-mouthed jerk.”
“Are we having objectivity issues?”
“What’s not objective? The subject’s a jerk and all else flows from there.”