David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

And in the midst of all this, the man principally responsible for the passage of House Bill 1551, lobbyist Samuel Dillon, was found murdered in his lake home just outside the city.

“Ron isn’t going to point at you, Mat.” She says it bluntly, to get it over with.

“I was stupid,” Mat says, perhaps only to himself. “Really stupid.” Mat has a tendency toward self-flagellation when things are rough. He is a tough man but his self-esteem is thin.

“You got away with it.” What he didwas stupid. There is no rationalization, in the end, though Allison has created some. Every politician takes bribes, in some form or another, except they are usually countenanced by the law. No one will ever convince her that a state representative who takes $10,000 in perfectly legal contributions from a company, then supports legislation on that company’s behalf, has not been “bribed” in some sense of the word. There is, in some twisted way, at least some element of forthrightness in simply stuffing the money in a legislator’s pocket. The only difference, in her mind, is disclosure. Legal contributions go on the books, are reported publicly, but who really cares? Who really pays attention to disclosures from the state board of elections?

Which is not to say that what Mat did was okay. But given the murky land of political contributions, and knowing this flawed man for over two decades in a way probably no one else ever has, Allison can at least give some context to what he did. She believes, in her heart, that no good would come from putting Mat in prison for this crime. She can forgive him this transgression. It is not the bribery of three senators that really bothers her, anyway.

It’s the fact that he was too cowardly to do it himself.

McCoy reads over the message sent yesterday, Wednesday the twenty-fourth, by Ram Haroon to the web addresspakistudent@interserver.com. She sees now what she always suspected, that this operation will not be ending as soon as she would like:

The work is nearing completion. It should be ready within six weeks. However, transfer cannot be made until the legal proceeding is completed, or the matter is terminated in other ways. Target of mid-May, at the latest.

She feels a chill down her spine. Haroon is referring to Allison’s trial, the “legal proceeding,” which has a trial date in late April. He is saying that they will not be confident enough to make their move until they are sure that Allison Pagone has said nothing, or knows nothing.

Or until the matter is “terminated in other ways,” meaning, she assumes, the termination of Allison Pagone.

Iam thirteen,” Ram said to his father. “I am old enough to understand whatever it is you are doing.”

His father didn’t respond at first, looked at his son suspiciously.

“I am a carpet merchant,” he insisted.

“You talk about weapons,” Ram said, accusingly. “You talk about the Americans. You talk about bombs and jihad and the Liberation-”

“Enough!” his father exclaimed. And so it went for three weeks. Ram hardly spoke to his father. Ram’s bitterness was not directed at what he was sure his father was doing, but at the fact that he had been shut out. He still missed his mother and Beni desperately, even several years later, and now he was beginning to feel as if he did not know his father, either.

And that, finally-after Ram explained this very thing to Father-was what led to their conversation.

“I will tell you,” Father began. “Because you are right. You are old enough. But I want you to understand one thing, Zulfi.”

Ram recoiled. It was the first time in years that Father had called him by his given name.

“I want you to understand,” he said, “that just because I am doing this does not mean that you should as well.” And then he carefully placed his hand on Ram’s shoulder and sat him down in a chair. When he finished explaining it to Ram hours later, he left him, again, with this same qualification. And then he told him one more thing.

“There are many people who would kill us if they knew,” he warned his son.

Ram Haroon types in the web addresspakistudent@interserver.com and sends off his message:

The work is nearing completion. It should be ready within six weeks. However, transfer cannot be made until the legal proceeding is completed, or the matter is terminated in other ways. Target of mid-May, at the latest.

Ram stretches his neck and decides to go for a run in the cool winter air. Is it late winter or early spring? He doesn’t even know. He pays little attention to such things. Between schoolwork and this mission, he scarcely has had time to enjoy his stay in the United States. He has found the country to be a nice place to live, on the whole. The people are relatively friendly and generous. Yes, there are those who look at him askance based purely on his racial makeup. But that is the small minority of people. The pace is astonishingly quicker here than back home, with considerably more emphasis on material possessions, but Ram has come to the conclusion that the Americans and his people, generally speaking, are not very different at all. He was surprised to learn this upon arriving in the Midwest two years ago. His friends overseas do not see the U.S. as he does, just as the Americans do not see his homeland the way he does. To the Americans, he assumes, his people are camel-riding, gun-toting extremists. The problem with the Americans is that they simply don’t understand the fundamental concept that people-his people and any others-aren’t born to hate. They are bred to hate.

And that is a problem that Ram Haroon simply cannot control. He is just a small part of a greater machine, trying to reconcile competing interests. To some he is evil. To others he is heroic. He will leave the labels to others. He will focus on his task and complete it, like a good soldier. And the only thing he hopes for, after all of this is over, is that he will be alive.

Another thing he cannot control.

Roger Ogren greets McCoy when she gets off the elevator at the county building.

“Agent McCoy,” he says. “Thanks for coming to me. I could have made the trip.”

The trip being a walk of three blocks from the federal building, where McCoy works.

“No problem. And call me Jane.” She follows him into his office. The fact that he has an office separates him from several of the prosecutors on the floor, who are gathered in two large rooms she passes, each assigned a chair.

Roger Ogren’s office is uncommonly neat. There is a tray for incoming mail that has only two pieces of paper in it, folded neatly. Law books-the local court rules, attorney indices, the criminal statutes-are lined up precisely on a row of low, black metallic shelves on the back wall.One of that kind, she thinks to herself. She never trusts someone who cleans up every day. If he sayspardon the mess, she’s leaving. On principle.

Ogren takes his seat behind the desk. Behind him, McCoy sees family photographs that she assumes do not include a wife. Lack of a wedding ring confirms it. It’s her instinct. Look at the finger. She has been hit on by more married men than she can count.

She could see him as single. He’s overweight, not ridiculously so but enough to add a second chin, a puffiness beneath his eyes, a stomach that covers the front of his belt. She can see it in the way he carries himself, too, not the typical authority she sees in most law-enforcement types. This guy has a chip on his shoulder, a wariness to his eyes, like he’s wondering what everyone’s thinking about him. This is not a personality trait she would expect from the man who has been handed this highly publicized prosecution.