False Witness Page 34

  “Professor Snead?” Jamie couldn’t hide her shock. She couldn’t begin to wrap her mind around this. What was he doing there?

  “They apprehended Snead, but he claimed that he had been kidnapped by the mob. Thing is, since he wasn’t restrained in any way when they found him, the agents treated him like a suspect. They had him about twenty or thirty feet away from the building when one of the gang members shot him from an upstairs window. The agents now think that Snead might have been a victim after all and that this sniper was left behind to burn evidence and eliminate anybody who might be able to provide eyewitness testimony. Snead was DOA at the hospital.”

  Jamie felt her systems shutting down. Snead dead. It could have been her.

  “It gets worse,” Lester said, but Jamie couldn’t imagine how.

  “Before the agents could reach this gang member, he apparently detonated an explosive device that killed two other witnesses and a federal agent stationed with them in a van.”

  “Who?” Jamie asked. “Who were the witnesses?” She knew the answer, but she had to hear it anyway.

  “David and Stacie Hoffman.”

  “How? How could that possibly happen?” The incompetence of the feds astonished Jamie. Angered her. How could the mob murder witnesses already in federal custody?

  “Some members of the triad captured David Hoffman last night,” Lester explained. “Hoffman obviously knew these men were after him, and somewhere in the process he had managed to ingest a GPS device so his movements could be tracked by his wife. His wife realized he had been captured but didn’t report it to the FBI.”

  To Jamie, the last statement sounded defensive, the spin doctors at work.

  “Anyway, the mob apparently implanted a device in Hoffman’s neck that acted as a jammer, obfuscating any GPS signal. When Hoffman was freed, nobody realized that this chip might also be an explosive device, one that could be detonated by remote control. Apparently the last man in the headquarters, before he was apprehended, detonated the explosive device and took out the Hoffmans.”

  The car fell quiet as Jamie struggled to take it all in. Witnesses dead. Evidence destroyed. Things weren’t supposed to end this way. She felt an overwhelming sadness, a melancholy. She had only been with David Hoffman on a few occasions, but she had been struck by his zeal for life. She had believed passionately in his innocence. The system had failed him in so many ways.

  “So four people are dead,” Jamie said. “And none of them are members of the triad.”

  “That’s correct,” Lester admitted. “Depending on how you categorize Walter Snead. I think the jury might still be out on him.”

  “Hardly the FBI’s finest moment,” Jamie said. She knew it wasn’t Lester’s fault, but she just couldn’t believe this could happen.

  “The collateral casualties are tragic,” Lester said, and Jamie resisted the urge to add, No kidding. “But on the other hand, this raid broke the back of the U.S. operations for one of China’s most powerful triads. We apprehended their top leadership. Our agents were able to extinguish the house fire quickly and preserve most of the evidence. We’ll have everything we need to put these men away for life.”

  “A rousing success,” Jamie said.

  Wisely, Lester picked up on the sarcastic tone and decided not to answer.

  Three hours after the explosion, Wellington still had not made sense of everything he had seen. For nearly an hour, locked in a sterile interview room in the federal building in downtown Atlanta, he answered every question that two somber FBI agents threw at him. They made him feel like a felon, not a hero who had helped them nail the mob.

  He was already bone weary when Sam Parcelli walked into the room. Wellington recognized him from the hearing in federal court.

  He took a seat directly opposite Wellington and stared vacantly for a few seconds. The man’s eyes were sunken and bloodshot, with large dark circles underscoring them. He unnerved Wellington.

  “I understand you’re not willing to tell us about conversations you might have had with Ms. Hoffman,” Parcelli said flatly.

  “I think they might be covered by attorney-client privilege,” Wellington said, his quavering voice trumpeting his uncertainty. “I just wanted to research the issue first.”

  “What year are you in law school, son?”

  “I’m a 2L.”

  “Can 2Ls practice law?”

  “No.” Wellington rubbed his hands over his face. He forced himself to meet Parcelli’s gaze. “But I was providing assistance to somebody who was practicing law. Therefore, I think the conversations might be covered.”

  Parcelli sighed, signaling his weariness at playing cat-and-mouse games over attorney-client privilege issues when four people were dead. “What are you hiding, Wellington?”

  “Nothing. I’ve already told the other agents everything I know.”

  Parcelli studied Wellington some more, as if the mere act of staring might serve as some kind of truth serum. It almost did. “Isaiah’s already talked to us,” Parcelli said. “Told us all about the conversations you had with Ms. Hoffman. We’re basically just checking to make sure both stories line up.”

  Wellington remembered the holding in Novak v. Commonwealth: law enforcement officers could lie when gathering evidence. “Okay. But I still need to do the research first.”

  Parcelli leaned forward. “Look, Wellington, I’ve got an agent dead. Three witnesses blown away. Your own law school professor is one of them. I don’t have time for games here. You can either cooperate or look at obstruction-of-justice charges.”

  If Parcelli was trying to intimidate him, it was working like a charm. Wellington felt physically sick from the pressure, nearly overwhelmed by a desire to provide Parcelli what he wanted. But still, he had a duty.

  “My duty to my client is not a game to me,” Wellington said, his voice still shaky.

  “Your dead client,” Parcelli reminded him. He let the reality of that statement sink in for a minute. Then he pushed away from the table and took a deep breath.

  “Do you have the algorithm, Wellington?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Let me tell you what I already know,” Parcelli said. “I know the algorithm is coded and doesn’t make sense unless somebody can figure out the key. I know that of all the people working on the Hoffmans’ case, you would be the most likely one to try to decode it. And I know that before the Hoffmans died, they had entered into a deal with the government to provide the encoded algorithm in exchange for one million dollars. I even have the account number of some bank in the Caymans that the Hoffmans were going to use to channel the money to a church in Mangalore, India. Did they tell you about that, Wellington?”

  The young man sat there dumbfounded. Stacie had never said anything about a deal with the government. But the part about the Mangalore church seemed to authenticate Parcelli’s story. Wellington could tell that Stacie had been impressed by the sincerity of the people she met there.

  “She didn’t tell me that,” Wellington admitted.

  “Well,” Parcelli said, “the algorithm seems to have disappeared. If the Hoffmans had a copy with them, it was destroyed in the explosion.” He stood, hovering for a moment over Wellington. “That formula sure has caused a lot of headaches for anyone who tried to hang on to it. A superstitious man might say it’s cursed, what with all the deaths trailing in its wake. I’ll tell you this much: if I had possession of it, I’d probably sell it to the government. Heck, I’d probably give it away. The sooner the better. That’s what I’d do.”

  Parcelli slid a card across the table. “Let me know if you find out anything about who might have that algorithm. The government’s still willing to pay fair market value. Still willing to put a million into that account the Hoffmans set up—” he waited a beat as if to make sure Wellington was listening—“or any other account. Keep that in mind, would you, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wellington said.

  82

  Saturday, April 12


  Most of Saturday, Jamie watched endless news coverage of the event. Since the feds were being incredibly tight-lipped, the coverage contained a lot of speculation and hearsay, as well as a few human-interest interviews with stunned neighbors. They were just living normal lives, they said, and were shocked to discover that organized criminals were operating in that same neighborhood. Jamie could certainly empathize.

  It wasn’t until Drew Jacobsen called on Saturday night that Jamie received any substantive information about the evidence found at the triad’s headquarters. Though Drew didn’t know all the details, he knew enough to be optimistic. “With the federal sentencing guidelines, they could all be lifers,” he said. “The death penalty’s not out of the question if they can make some of the murder-for-hire charges stick.”

  Jamie couldn’t muster a fraction of Drew’s enthusiasm for the outcome of the raid. An FBI agent, Snead, and the Hoffmans had died. Earlier, Snowball had been poisoned. Jamie felt like she had ingested poison as well. Her black-and-white view of the criminal justice system had been destroyed by the gray shadows of the witness protection program and the power-hungry prosecutors and law school professors who might or might not be corrupt.

  In Jamie’s opinion, it was no time to celebrate.

  But Drew had different ideas. “I’ve been asked to interview with the FBI,” he said, trying hard to contain his elation. “I tried to get in about five years ago but didn’t get past first base. I guess some of the agents from this case recommended me.”

  “That’s great,” Jamie said.

  They agreed on a time—7:00 p.m. on Sunday. And a place—Copeland’s Cheesecake Bistro at Atlantic Station, about five blocks from the law school.

  Jamie marked it on her calendar.

  Sunday, April 13

  If the size of the hastily arranged funeral was any indication, the Hoffmans had not trusted many people during their four years as government-protected witnesses in Atlanta. The pastor of a church Stacie had been attending used the occasion to preach a sermon rather than eulogize the dead. There was nearly a one-to-one ratio between the media attending the event and the mourners.

  Jamie sat quietly through the Sunday afternoon service alongside Isaiah and Wellington. She wore a black silk dress and heels, prompting several comments from Isaiah about the Black Widow being back. To Jamie, the comments seemed ill-timed at the very least. Wellington was his normal subdued self, ill at ease in a sports coat and tie. It never ceased to amaze Jamie that this kid wanted to be a lawyer.

  After the service, Wellington pulled Jamie aside in the parking lot. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” he asked, glancing around.

  “Sure.”

  “Um. Not here. Can we go somewhere?”

  Jamie had lived through enough of the cloak-and-dagger routine for two lifetimes, but she agreed to meet him at a local bookstore a few blocks away.

  “Let’s meet in the back of the store, at the coffee shop,” Wellington suggested.

  Over two lattes, Wellington explained his problem. Speaking hypothetically, he wondered what might happen if he had received a copy of the encrypted Abacus Algorithm from Stacie Hoffman and needed legal advice about what to do with it. Could Jamie provide such advice under the protection of the attorney-client privilege?

  Jamie assured Wellington that his hypothetical secrets were safe with her, and he launched into his story. U.S. Attorney Allan Carzak was planning to convene a federal grand jury next week and had subpoenaed Wellington to testify on Wednesday morning. Wellington knew what Carzak wanted. He would ask Wellington whether Stacie or David Hoffman had ever given Wellington a copy of the Abacus Algorithm. Carzak would probably demand a copy as evidence in the case against the Manchurian Triad members. If Wellington refused to answer the questions or provide the algorithm on the basis of attorney-client privilege, Carzak would probably have the judge compel Wellington’s testimony. If Wellington still didn’t comply, he would probably go to jail for contempt.

  As Wellington unburdened himself, his tone got more intense, his face more flushed, and Jamie suspected that a full-blown panic attack was only moments away.

  “The FBI agent in charge, Samuel Parcelli, told me that he made a deal with Stacie before she died. She supposedly agreed to sell the government the algorithm for a million dollars. He said the feds would cut the same deal with me and I could do what Stacie wanted—give the money to the church in Mangalore, India.”

  The first time Wellington took a breath, Jamie jumped in. “Do you think Stacie really agreed to that?”

  “No way,” Wellington said. “She thought the government had set her up. She couldn’t stand the FBI. She believed they would use the algorithm to destroy everyone’s privacy.”

  “How do you know her feelings about this issue so well?”

  Wellington reddened even more. “Actually, I only met her once.”

  “So where are these strong feelings about privacy coming from?” Jamie asked.

  Wellington looked down. “I don’t know. Could be me, I guess.” Then he quickly added, “But I really think she felt the same way.”

  “Do you have the algorithm?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “No, Wellington, in reality. Do you have it?”

  He sighed. “She gave it to me late Thursday night. It’s encrypted, and she thought maybe I could decipher it.”

  “Did you?”

  Wellington’s face dropped, and he shook his head. It occurred to Jamie that the guy probably felt like a total failure. Wellington had never seemed very strong in the self-image department in the first place. He probably blamed himself in some way for how things had gone down.

  “Does the government know for sure you’ve got it?” Jamie asked.

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t admitted anything yet.” He hesitated, apparently unsure of how much he should divulge. Jamie waited him out.

  “Jamie, I’ve also got a separate . . . let’s call it a document—that might help somebody figure out the key,” Wellington continued. “I haven’t discovered how it works yet, but that doesn’t mean the government wouldn’t be able to. If I got subpoenaed to testify, they’d probably ask if I know anything about the key to the encryption method as well.”

  Jamie gave Wellington her best reassuring smile. She had a plan, she told him. It wasn’t foolproof, but it might get him out of testifying.

  “That would be awesome,” Wellington said. He looked close to tears. “This algorithm has already ruined enough lives.”

  83

  Dressing up was not usually Jamie’s thing, but for Sunday night she made an exception. She wore a black, sheer top with a V-neck and bell-shaped sleeves, a short skirt, gold pumps, a chunky gold necklace, and a thick gold bracelet. She purposely left her watch on the dresser. After half an hour using a flat iron on her hair, she was satisfied with the effect of her superstraight, slinky hairstyle. She topped it off with gold chandelier earrings with black accents.

  The Black Widow was ready.

  She arrived twenty minutes late, but Drew didn’t seem to mind. “Wow!” he said. “You look great!”

  Drew looked pretty good too—khaki slacks and a polo shirt, the thick dark hair framing that poster-boy face. He looked like the kind of man most women dreamed about. Jamie remembered how Drew had taken care of Snowball the first time she met him at the police station, how his sensitivity had touched her most of all.

  “Thanks,” Jamie said.

  Though Drew had already put their name on the list, they were told the wait would still be another thirty minutes. After a few minutes of small talk, Jamie asked Drew if she could use his phone. “My battery’s dead,” she explained.

  She dialed her brother’s number in northern Georgia and before long had a nice little family squabble going. She made a face at Drew to show her embarrassment, put her hand over the phone, and told Drew she’d be right back, that she just needed a little privacy. She walked around the corner, ended the call, and a
ccessed Drew’s call history. She scribbled down the numbers, dates, and times, then meandered back to where Drew waited patiently.

  Twenty minutes later, they followed a waiter through a maze of other patrons, winding their way to a small table in the back, next to a wall lined with mirrors. It wasn’t exactly the intimate atmosphere Jamie had planned for this meeting. The ambient noise level seemed just below a dull roar, with the clanging of dishes, background music, and conversation buzz from other tables making it hard to talk at normal levels. Plus, the tables on each side were so close that Jamie could have reached out and held hands with her fellow diners.

  Copeland’s Cheesecake Bistro knew how to pack them in.

  Jamie picked at her food and dodged Drew’s “Are you okay?” questions until the waiter had cleared away the main course. She waited for one more “Are you sure you’re okay?” inquiry before she started her cross-examination.

  “I just can’t stop thinking about the way the triads used that jamming device as an explosive,” she said. “It’s hard to imagine that an explosive small enough to be implanted in somebody’s neck could do that much damage.”

  “It’s those cop shows on TV,” Drew replied, his soft brown eyes watching Jamie intently. “Most people think you’ve got to be strapped with tons of explosives to blow up a building. The truth is, it only took twelve ounces of Semtex inside a terrorist’s cassette recorder to blast Pan Am flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland.”

  “Still, it shows a level of sophistication,” Jamie said. She hesitated, played with her water glass for a moment, then looked straight across the table. “Wonder why they didn’t check me for GPS devices. Wonder why they didn’t use a jammer on me.”

  She watched Drew carefully. The bedroom eyes—sexy, relaxed—glimmered slightly with apprehension.

  “Good question,” he said. “They probably assumed that since they nabbed you unexpectedly in the middle of the day, you wouldn’t be wired.”