Steve Martini - Double Tap

I hook the paper parking pass to my rearview mirror and press the accelerator up the hill. Two minutes later the Jeep crests the top. I swing into the parking area marked Visitors and nose into the first open space. The parking lot, which takes up a good part of the eastern edge of the knoll, is nearly full. In front of me is a large Roman Revival two-story brick building with expansive stairs leading to a broad portico out in front. The roof over this is supported by five large white Doric columns complete with scrollwork and massive masonry pedestals. Rising above the roof of the building like the top layer on a wedding cake is a gleaming white dome supported by smaller columns and sporting round porthole windows halfway up its curving arc from the base. I am guessing that this architectural statement is just a little smaller than the gold dome on the state capitol. If you had a helicopter with enough lift, you could pick the building up and plop it down at the University of Virginia and the entire structure would feel at home, right down to the simulated aged brick with its tumbled edges and manufactured chipped corners.

I gather my briefcase and head toward the terrace of stairs leading to the portico and the main entrance. Climbing the stairs, I enter through the main entrance. Inside, the cavernous rotunda echoes with the click of high heels and shuffling shoe leather on the marble floors, the hum of voices punctuated by the occasional cough and sneeze, all bouncing off of hard surfaces and resonating in the lofty dome.

Careful attention has been paid to every detail so that the interior imitates to perfection the traditional architecture of government. This replication of the architecture of power no doubt has a subtle effect on the customers who visit it, mostly military brass and civilian bureaucrats. Operating as it would at the subconscious level, the design is likely to take advantage of the subservient instincts of those in the employ of the political beast to curtsy and bow in such surroundings.

I am left to wonder whether Chapman may have followed through on this theme upstairs, and if the conference rooms where sales are consummated are designed in the form of congressional hearing rooms, the proverbial political woodsheds for the Pentagon.

A circular counter directly under the dome serves as a public information desk peopled by a small army of scurrying attendants answering phones and pushing paper.

I take my turn in a line behind two other people. When I get to the counter I introduce myself: “Paul Madriani. Here to see Victor Havlitz.”

With the mention of the name I get the distinct impression of being in one of those television commercials where every conversation dies and ears are suddenly tuned in my direction.

“If you’ll wait just a moment. .” The receptionist doesn’t ask for a business card or whether I have an appointment. No doubt she has been primed to expect me by a phone call from the kiosk down the road.

I have the sensation of being a bug under glass: scores of eyes glancing in my direction. The benefit of having your face and name plastered all over the papers and the six o’clock news as the defender of the man charged with murdering the corporation’s founder and chief executive officer.

As the receptionist picks up the receiver and starts to dial, I look around and a dozen sets of eyes suddenly return to what they were doing before I arrived. The drone of voices slowly picks up again until I can no longer hear what is being said on the phone. Whatever it is, it’s brief. She hangs up.

“Someone will be down to get you momentarily. If you’ll just wait over there. .” She points off to my left toward a broad corridor that leads to the west wing of the building. I wander in that direction, briefcase in hand, feeling the gaze of eyes boring holes in my back.

Twice this week news crews have shown up out on the street in front of our office, our turn in the tumbrel with the media spitting questions and pushing lenses in our faces.

Ruiz’s impending trial is now topic one among those who tune in to the courts for their entertainment. There is talk that Court TV may try to cover the trial, something Harry and I may have to weigh in on. I am not an advocate of mass media in the courtroom. In the age of celebritocracy there is nothing more insidious than an ambitious juror or two asserting their dominance on a panel and steering deliberations in order to secure a seat on Nightline . Those who believe it doesn’t happen have a view of reality that borders on the innocent.

A few seconds later I hear a soft voice behind me: “Mr. Madriani.”

I turn.

“Would you follow me, please?”

She is a pretty redhead, fair complexion, dressed in a rust-colored skirt and white blouse, a light silk scarf looped over her shoulders and tied in a loose knot in front.

She smiles as we walk but doesn’t say a word, not even a comment on the weather or to inquire if I had difficulty finding the place. Staring straight ahead, she has an inscrutable expression, like an Irish Mona Lisa .

Halfway down the corridor we stop in front of a bank of elevators and head up. The ride, not far but slow, passes in silence sufficiently taut that if you touched it with a knife, it would snap. As soon as the doors open on the second floor, it is clear that we have entered executive row. Here the hum of voices and the clattery clicking of keyboards is swallowed whole by the thick Berber that carpets the floor.

The space is huge, taking up what I assume is the entire west wing of the building. In the center are insulated partitions offering a modicum of privacy for secretaries and assistants, each in their own cubicled world, surrounded by a plant or two and pictures, small snapshots of loved ones and friends. A few heads look up as we pass down the hall that is formed by the partitions on one side and a solid wall punctuated by office doors with names on brass plates on the other.

I follow her to the end, where we arrive at a set of double doors, polished mahogany with brass fittings. She taps lightly.

“Come in.” It’s a male voice from the other side, almost imperceptible.

As she opens the door I realize I am being ushered into a conference room, mirrored walls and a table, twenty feet of shimmering dark mahogany surrounded by burgundy leather high-back swivel armchairs. All of this is centered under a brass chandelier large enough to accommodate an entire village of monkeys.

I had been led to expect a private meeting with Victor Havlitz, vice president and chief counsel for Isotenics and for the moment Madelyn Chapman’s replacement and stand-in as CEO. Instead it looks like a gathering of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. There are five people gathered around the table, six by the time the woman who has led me here takes her seat. The man at the head of the table is standing, tall and dapper, decked out in a blue pinstriped power suit.

“Mr. Madriani, welcome, I’m Victor Havlitz.” Spider to the fly. The folded French cuffs of his white linen dress shirt peek out beneath the sleeves of his jacket as if they were measured on him where he now stands using a ruler for uniformity. He toys with one of the gold cuff links at his wrist as he smiles at me. His burgundy club tie appears as if it might have been pressed on his body with sizzling steam and color-coordinated to match the leather of the chairs.

“How do you do?” There is nothing I can do but smile back, sandbagged as I am by a group gathering.

He can tell from my expression that I did not expect a crowd. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I asked a few of my colleagues to join us. They may be in a better position to answer some of your questions.” It seems the price of talking to Havlitz is an audience.