False Witness Page 25

  But that wouldn’t stop Carzak from doing his job.

  “Sam . . .” Carzak paused. He had learned the value of letting a person’s name hang out there for a second—it made your point better than cursing or screaming ever could. “This is getting complicated. We can’t let anything happen to this girl. I’ll put the marshals’ office on her 24-7 if that’s what it takes.” The insinuation was subtle, but pointed nonetheless. If the FBI couldn’t do the job, Carzak would deploy the U.S. Marshals Service.

  “We’ve got it covered,” Parcelli said quickly.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  The drive from her brother’s house in Rabun County to her home in Atlanta was one that Jamie relished during the daylight hours. The north Georgia roads would wind their way to the peak of a Georgia mountain, where a curtain would part on a panoramic view of God’s creation—rolling mountains, the rich greens of pines and oaks, meandering streams gurgling their way down the hillsides. It was here that kayak companies and white-water rafting outfitters dotted the waterways—giving tourists the rides of their lives on frothing rivers with Indian names.

  Jamie could navigate the Class IV rapids just fine but preferred the glassy surface of Lake Lanier on a calm summer morning. She thrived on mastering the technical aspects of flat-water kayaking. Form, efficiency of stroke, stamina, and speed were enough to worry about. White-water kayakers had to yield themselves to the river, riding the unpredictable current the same way a person would ride a wild stallion. Jamie did not love what she could not control.

  At night, the spectacular drive became a harrowing descent. The roads seemed to narrow, the slopes steepened, and the ever-present fog cut visibility to a minimum. Most drivers would clench the steering wheel a little tighter and concentrate on the next bend in the road. Jamie pulled out her cell phone and dialed Drew Jacobsen’s number. She was tired, drained from the emotions of the day. It was late. She needed to talk with somebody.

  Rationalizations, she knew.

  It was the third time that day she had called. The first time was shortly after she discovered the note on her windshield, as soon as she had gotten off the phone with Chris. The second time was after Snowball died and Jamie had regained her composure. Drew told her that he would call the Rabun County sheriff’s office and the FBI, who showed up forty-five minutes after Jamie arrived at Chris’s house. On the way home, as she prepared to call Drew a third time, she wondered if she was wearing out her welcome.

  If she was, she couldn’t tell from the tone of his voice. His concern warmed her. But her emotions, she reminded herself, were on overdrive following Snowball’s death. She couldn’t trust herself right now; she knew that much.

  Drew explained that the feds had asserted their jurisdiction and he had been instructed to stand down. He asked Jamie if the feds had contacted her yet about round-the-clock security.

  They had sent a few agents out to her brother’s house to interview her, Jamie said. They were going to meet her at the condo when she arrived home and check it out. She didn’t think they would be watching her 24-7.

  “Sounds like you need your own private protection,” Drew suggested.

  Jamie started to decline. She was going to be a prosecutor someday; she would have to get used to death threats. But for some reason, she let the thought linger for a moment.

  Long enough, it turned out, for Drew to think she was worried about cost. “I know a guy who’s very good. And very cheap. He’s got a full-time job with the department, but he moonlights under the right circumstances.”

  He paused for a beat. “I think he’s available.”

  “Drew, I don’t need you to do this. I’ll be fine.”

  But Drew insisted, and after an appropriate amount of protesting, Jamie conceded. In truth, Snowball’s death and her own abduction had her pretty well stressed-out.

  “What time are you getting to your condo?” Drew asked.

  “I told the agents I would meet them there at midnight. I don’t know how long they’ll take to check things out.”

  “I’ll be there by one,” Drew said.

  That night, Jamie’s emotions stewed together in a toxic mix that poisoned any possibility of sleep. Anger and hatred. The scums who killed an innocent dog just to make a point. She fantasized about a shoot-out, the Kimber taking them down. Confusion. Who were her stalkers? Did they belong to the triads that Hoffman testified against? Or was this the Russian mafia? How did they know where Snowball was? Fear. Was she next? When? How could she protect herself?

  But mostly, loneliness. As a puppy, Snowball had slept in a crate. The adolescent Snowball earned his own soft mattress on the floor, right next to Jamie’s bed. But then he began the assault. Every few nights he would try his luck, jumping up on the foot of the bed, waiting to see if Jamie ran him off. In less than a month, he had established new turf.

  She drew the line when he tried to worm his way up to the pillows. And she woke up more than once to find he had crowded her over to the very edge of the bed, or forced her, in a half-asleep state, to curl into a tiny ball so he could sprawl across the bottom of the bed.

  And now, tonight, when she was on the verge of dozing off, she could almost feel him nuzzle against the crook in her legs or flop a paw over her foot or make those guttural noises that signified a deep and contented sleep. But then she would open her eyes and see the emptiness at the foot of the bed, and the pain would stab at her heart.

  At three o’clock, she threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a ball cap, and sandals and walked outside to the street in front of her house. She spotted Jacobsen’s car, right where he said it would be, and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “The first night’s always the hardest,” he said.

  59

  Tuesday, April 8

  The rain seemed to be coming in massive horizontal waves and Allan Carzak couldn’t stay dry even under his umbrella. He loved thunderstorms at night—a display of heavenly fireworks and divine percussion, lighting up the midnight sky. At night, thunderstorms were romantic. But when he had a lunch appointment on the other side of town, they were nothing more than a pain in the rear.

  The bottoms of his pant legs were soaked and his shoes squished as he stepped off the elevator at the U.S. attorney’s office after returning from lunch. With a slew of things on his to-do list, the last thing he needed was Professor Walter Snead, clutching a dripping-wet golf umbrella and soggy leather satchel, waiting in the reception area.

  It was all Carzak could do to force a smile and shake Snead’s hand.

  “I only need five minutes of your time,” Snead said. “It’s a courtesy call about a lawsuit I’m filing.”

  Carzak checked his watch. “Five minutes?”

  Snead nodded. “At the most.”

  Snead followed Carzak back to his office. Melanie, Carzak’s assistant, politely asked if Snead wanted anything to drink.

  “Coffee. Black.”

  The men took seats at a small round table in the corner. A few minutes later, Melanie reappeared with Snead’s coffee.

  When she left, Snead unzipped his briefcase and placed a manila folder on the table. Slid it toward Carzak. Took a drink of his coffee. “This is your copy of a lawsuit I’m filing this afternoon,” he said. “Federal Tort Claims Act. It accuses the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the FBI of fraud and gross negligence in violation of their respective duties to protect David and Stacie Hoffman pursuant to the memorandum of understanding.”

  Snead slurped some more coffee as Carzak scoffed at the manila folder, deciding not to touch it. “How is this any different from the lawsuit you just lost? Your request for injunctive relief was premised on a claim that the government violated the terms of the memorandum of understanding. The court didn’t see it that way.”

  Snead let a smirk pull at the corners of his lips. Carzak, as was his custom, sat facing the pane-glass wall formed by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his eighteenth-floor office. The long fi
ngers of water dripping down the window silhouetted Snead and, combined with the round face and hanging jowls of the old man, reminded Carzak of the Davy Jones character in Pirates of the Caribbean. It fit, Carzak thought, because Snead used lawsuits like tentacles, entangling defendants in complex federal litigation until they capitulated.

  Plus, Snead had a charter membership in that modern-day band of buccaneers who called themselves “plaintiffs’ lawyers.”

  “My first lawsuit was to make you honor the agreement from this day forward,” Snead said sanctimoniously. “It assumed that thus far you’ve been playing by the rules. But this lawsuit takes a different approach, seeking damages for fraud and gross negligence based on a violation of your duties as defined by the witness protection agreement.” Snead actually poked the table with his fingers here, accentuating his point. “They’re running for their lives because the marshals’ office leaked their location . . . and we intend to prove it.”

  Snead let the accusation hang melodramatically in the air for a few seconds and then leaned forward, close enough for Carzak to catch a whiff of the man’s soggy wool suit mixed with tobacco and coffee breath. “I’m gonna raise Cain myself this time. No law students and quick preliminary injunction hearings. I’ll take depositions, issue interrogatories, subpoena documents. I’ll raise enough reasonable suspicion in this baby—” Snead tapped the folder containing the lawsuit—“that the court will have to let me pry open the lid on this whole nasty witness protection program. And we both know that won’t be pretty.”

  Carzak opened the folder and pretended to study the lawsuit. He had learned a long time ago that you didn’t argue with bombastic lawyers like Snead—it was a waste of breath. You let them blow off their steam . . . then you annihilated them in court. Carzak was already formulating his collateral estoppel defense, an argument that the court had ruled on this issue in the first lawsuit and shouldn’t be asked to do so again.

  But in the meantime, he needed to appease Snead a little, giving his own team time to react. “I’ll look into it from our end,” Carzak promised. “I can tell you this much: if I find the marshals or FBI played fast and loose with the protection of one of our witnesses, I’ll set up the firing squad and provide the bullets myself.”

  This seemed to set Snead back a little. The big man was aching for a fight, not an ally. But he recovered quickly, his face sagging into a disapproving scowl. “I appreciate your willingness to guard my clients’ safety and constitutional rights,” he growled. “But as the Romans were fond of saying, ‘Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes.’”

  Impressive, Carzak thought. Davy Jones speaks Latin. It was the oft-quoted phrase “Who guards the guards?” But truly smart people didn’t need to prove their worth by speaking foreign languages.

  “I don’t know about all that,” Carzak said, “but like I said, I’ll help you get to the bottom of it.”

  Carzak escorted Snead out of the office and asked his assistant to get Sam Parcelli on the phone.

  “Line one,” the ever-efficient Melanie said a few minutes later. Carzak put in his earpiece so he would be free to pace. Melanie closed the office door.

  “Walter Snead just paid me a visit,” Carzak said. He was walking haphazardly around the office, playing with a rubber band. “Brought me a courtesy copy of a lawsuit that alleges we blew Hoffman’s cover. He’s asking for . . . let’s see—” he picked up the folder and flipped through the pages of the complaint—“ten million dollars, give or take.”

  “Maybe we could split the difference; settle for five,” Parcelli said.

  “Funny.”

  “Relax,” Parcelli said, drawing the word out in a condescending tone. “A wise lawyer once told me that truth is only what can be proven in the courtroom.”

  Carzak hated it when agents quoted him, using his own words as ammo against him. “Snead has a reputation in these things. He’s relentless. We need to be squeaky clean.”

  “I’m on it,” Parcelli said. “And it’s funny you should mention Snead’s reputation.”

  Parcelli pulled in a breath, and Carzak heard the rustling of papers. “Our California office has a file on Snead. They were about six months away from possible indictments when Snead quit practicing law and started teaching. They had traced lots of cash from legal settlements into an undesignated account. Snead would withdraw cash from the undesignated account in chunks slightly less than ten thousand. Never paid a dime of taxes on the money.”

  “He was a tax cheat?” Carzak stopped pacing. Parcelli had his attention.

  “Better yet. They think it was walking-around money for bribing judges. There’ve been rumors of corruption swirling around a few state court judges for years. That’s what started the probe in the first place.”

  Carzak thought for a moment about the possibilities. “Any hint of mob involvement?”

  “Not yet. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Okay,” Carzak said, “let me summarize. We’ve got a dirty attorney suing us for ten million, a member of the witness protection program who has dropped off the face of the earth while trying to sell a dangerous encryption formula to the Chinese mob, an innocent young law student who had her dog killed by stalkers, and the deputy director of the FBI personally involved in this fiasco probably wondering how we could let things get so fouled up.”

  “That about nails it,” Parcelli said.

  “I think I need a drink.”

  Carzak finished the phone call and walked over to the breathtaking view of Atlanta available from the wall of windows on the north side of his office. On a clear day, he could see the Georgia Dome, Philips Arena, the CNN Center, the clogged interstate connector making its way through the downtown district. In fact, on a clear day he could see all the way past Georgia Tech to the new construction around the Atlantic Station area. But today, with the wind blowing the rain in horizontal sheets and streaking the window with a web of interconnected rivulets, the entire city took on a gloomy and foreboding haze.

  Just thinking about his job—U.S. attorney for the northern district of Georgia—used to give Carzak a pinch-me feeling. The smart and extroverted country boy from rural Georgia had made good. Even after he grew comfortable in the job, it still gave him a sense of power. He won at least 90 percent of his cases as a U.S. attorney; he had the full investigative power of the United States of America at his disposal. Trying a case was always a rush, but especially when he started his opening statements this way: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Allan Carzak, and I represent the people of the United States of America. . . .”

  But this afternoon, he felt none of that majesty and empowerment. Instead, he felt helpless. This case, perhaps the most important one he had handled in the last ten years, was spinning madly out of control. If the triad somehow obtained Kumari’s algorithm, it would define Carzak’s career. Isn’t he the guy who let that dude in the witness protection program cut a deal with the mob and jeopardize the security of the entire World Wide Web?

  When Parcelli called back ten minutes later, Carzak was still scrolling through doomsday scenarios in his head.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Parcelli said. “But you’d better sit down before I tell you.”

  “Okay,” Carzak said. He started pacing again.

  “And don’t say no until you hear me out. . . .”

  60

  By Tuesday night, Jamie had grown somewhat accustomed to living under the protection of the federal marshals. They made it clear they couldn’t watch her 24-7, but they were definitely making their presence known.

  Monday night, she had given them her class schedule. They followed her to school on Tuesday, conducting a walk-through as she attended classes, their telltale earpieces and dark blue blazers giving them away. She supposed that was the whole point. They followed her to lunch, these bulky blue shadows. They used a spare key to check out her condo before she arrived home, met her at the door, and told her that someone would periodically make passes through t
he neighborhood.

  “What’s the president doing for protection while you guys keep an eye on me?” she asked, trying to lighten things up a little.

  “That’s the Secret Service, ma’am. We’re with the marshals’ office.”

  It was a joke, buddy.

  Yet despite all the efforts of the U.S. marshals’ office, Jamie didn’t really feel secure until 11:00 p.m. rolled around and her new, unpaid security consultant parked in front of the condo and called her cell.

  “Reporting for duty,” Drew Jacobsen said. “I’ll expect coffee at one and ice cream at three thirty.”

  “How do I fire you?” Jamie asked. “You’re getting too expensive.”

  “You can’t. That’s the whole point.”

  She took a deep breath, and the rationalizations started. It’s nothing personal. I would do this for anybody guarding me, except for maybe the federal marshals, but then again, they’re not staying out there all night. And if I do feel the least bit of attraction for the man, which I’m not admitting I do, then it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that we have been thrown together in the middle of this high-pressure, life-threatening situation. It would be deeper and more substantial than that.

  All of this, and a dozen more thoughts, cascaded through Jamie’s hyperactive brain at the very moment her mouth said, “Why don’t you just come up and keep watch from inside? It would be more comfortable than sitting in the car.”

  Drew started by listing a dozen reasons that wouldn’t be a good idea, including the fact that he might be able to spot any suspicious drive-bys better from his vantage point on the street. But then, to Jamie’s surprise, he switched gears. “However, if it’s not too late, I did want to talk to you about a few things I’ve found.” He sounded formal, official.

  “I’ll start the coffee,” Jamie said.

  They sat at Jamie’s dining room table. She had moved her law books and half-finished course outlines to a corner. She closed her laptop and pushed it aside as well.