“Well, did you come into possession of this laptop legally?”
“Like I said, accidentally. At the LA airport.”
“All right, so you have someone else’s computer, which is not theft. I mean, it’s mushy. Anyway, that’s not the point, and that’s not my expertise. You are in possession of national-security-classified, top secret documents. And you have given them to a reporter who intended to publish. You leaked it to a journalist. Right?”
“Right. But is it still a leak if the journalist I leaked them to is dead?”
Jamie shrugged a couple of times. “Everything gets complicated when it involves a journalist. And how do you know your buddy Lanford or Landon, or whatever, didn’t give it to a couple of his reporter buddies? Or his editor?”
“I don’t.”
“Exactly. Look, the pertinent law here is the Espionage Act, which dates back to World War I, and the Patriot Act. Then there’s Executive Order 12333. But this stuff hasn’t really been litigated in modern times. It’s all about how far the Justice Department prosecutors feel like going. And, you know, there’s more enforcement when you’re at war.”
“Are we at war?”
“Against terror, sure.”
“Still?”
“It’s the forever war. Anyway, that’s the crux of it. Have you actually taken a peek at the documents?”
Tanner looked away. He took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty, which he handed to Jamie.
“What’s this for?”
“I’m hiring you as my lawyer.”
“And how much of my time do you think twenty bucks buys? I’m fifteen hundred bucks an hour.”
Touché, he thought. “This conversation. Beverages included. Your Diet Pepsi is on me. That makes this a privileged conversation between attorney and client.”
“Okay, okay. As a favor to Sarah. But let me be clear: I’m not representing you.”
“Got it. Yes, I looked at the documents. Most of it went over my head. It’s about some top secret NSA program. Something involving mass surveillance.”
“How? In what way?”
“I think it’s this secret program where the government can switch on cameras on our computers and phones and watch us without us knowing.”
“Jesus.” Jamie shook his head slowly. “Thing is, once you get into legal matters involving the National Security Agency, it’s like we’re on a different planet, where the law of gravity no longer applies. Everything’s backward and upside down. There are secret executive orders; there’s a secret court. And your situation looks bad. The fact is, you knowingly passed on classified information to a journalist who fully intended to publish it. That’s what they’re going to say.”
“How did I know what Lanny planned to do with it? He’s a friend. Maybe I wanted his advice on what to do.”
“Okay, good. But you gained access to classified information. Then you passed it on to someone. If they want to, they can go after you for that. That’s all there is to it.”
“And what would you do? As my lawyer. Theoretically speaking.”
“I wouldn’t take the case.”
“But if you did.”
“Let me say it again: I am not representing you.”
“Got it.”
“Your case would be not only extremely time-consuming but probably unwinnable.”
“I see.”
“If they want to put you on trial for mishandling classified information, you might even be tried in a secret courtroom, represented by a civilian lawyer who basically has his hands tied behind his back. You’ll likely be sentenced to at least ten years in prison, and that means a federal prison. Very few lawyers will want to represent you.”
“Why not?”
“Because the case would take five years and you’re guaranteed to lose. The courts almost always side with the government.”
“Since when?”
“Since 9/11. The world changed. I don’t think most people get how much things changed. Unless you use serious encryption, assume that all of your e-mails are being read. Assume your phone calls are being recorded or monitored somewhere. Just assume the worst and you’ll probably be right.”
“You mean we’re in a surveillance state.”
He shrugged.
“How long has this been going on?”
“In practical terms, it started with W., with the George W. Bush administration after 9/11. But things got worse in the Obama administration. And then the new president took it to a whole new level.”
“News to me.”
“And to most people. Most people have no idea, and that’s how the government wants it. Keep people in the dark and confused. No one’s going to protest.”
“You think I could just be... disappeared... I mean, arrested and locked up somewhere like Guantanamo?”
“It’s possible.”
“It is?”
“I can’t tell you for certain. Just... things I’ve heard.”
“US citizens, imprisoned without a trial. In America.”
“Yep. Don’t tell me you’re disillusioned now. This is the way it is. This is the way the world works now.”
“Like 1984.”
“Orwell was off by about three decades.”
“And what if I just disappear, just go off the grid?”
“What about it?”
“Do you think I can do that and get away with it?”
He shrugged. “I can only give you legal advice. Survival — that’s something totally different. That I can’t help you with at all. I’m sorry. Wish I could help you.”
He didn’t sound like it.
“Why do you think they didn’t arrest me in the first place?”
“That’s easy. They didn’t want you to lawyer up. They want the computer back really badly, and it’s a lot easier if you don’t have a lawyer. And speaking of which, let me say it one more time—”
“I know,” Tanner said. “I got it. You’re not my lawyer.”
56
Tanner walked home from the bar, along Boylston Street, which was noisy and crowded with frat bros and college kids and assorted barhoppers. He sneaked glances at some of the scantily dressed college girls and tried not to be creepy about it. And he thought.
He had come to some clarity, finally. For some reason he trusted this guy Earle. Even if he wouldn’t put a guarantee in writing, Earle gave off a trustworthy vibe, and Tanner relied on his own instincts. It was time to just give the damned laptop to the NSA. They wanted the files; they didn’t want him. And obviously they demanded secrecy about CHRYSALIS. If he never heard the word “chrysalis” again, he wouldn’t mind.
As he sidestepped a couple kissing right in the middle of Boylston Street, he noticed a car pull up alongside him, a black Lincoln Town Car. The rear passenger’s door flew open and someone got out.
“Michael Tanner!” said a short, powerfully built man in his late sixties.
“Do I know you?”
Tanner looked, didn’t recognize the guy getting out of the limo. He took a quick inventory of what this guy was wearing: a black dress coat that flapped open over an elegant gray three-piece suit. Blue shirt with contrasting white collar, red tie. A collar pin and heavy cuff links. He was like a bull that had wandered into Turnbull & Asser. He had the sleek look of someone used to being in charge, maybe a senior partner at a law firm or a CEO.
In a feline purr, the man said, “Oh, I know everybody. I’m Bruce Olshak. Come on, let’s have a little chin-wag. Walk with me, my friend.” He sidled up to Tanner.
Tanner had heard the name Olshak before. He was some sort of major player in legal circles. He remembered hearing the phrase “Mob lawyer” affixed to Olshak’s name.