Steve Martini - Double Tap

“I’ll allow it for that purpose,” says Gilcrest.

The older lawyer with the gray hair is on his feet now, standing near his chair and looking but saying nothing. Boring holes into the witness.

“At the time you overheard the conversation, what was your understanding of the term spyware ?”

“As I understand it, it is special software designed to attach to people’s computers in order to mine data, collect information from their hard drives.”

“So you had heard the term before?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

“Engineers. Software-design engineers at Isotenics.”

“And, to your knowledge, did Isotenics make spyware?”

“No, not that I’m aware of.”

I reach into the pile of papers in front of me on the rostrum. Moment of truth. I slip out the copy of the telephone message from the box of documents collected from Madelyn Chapman’s desk the day she died. The bailiff delivers a copy of this to the witness and the judge. Harry drops one on the table in front of Templeton.

The government lawyer leans over his shoulder. When he sees the words looking glass penned in an elegant hand in the middle of the slip, he puts a hand on Templeton’s shoulder, and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to strangle him from behind. He has his face down at Templeton’s ear. Templeton is shaking his head. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“Ms. Rogan, is that your handwriting on the form that is copied on that sheet of paper?”

“Yes.”

“Did you write that note?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Can you tell the court what it is?”

“It’s a telephone message slip, taken by me and directed to Ms. Chapman.”

“And what’s the date on that slip?”

“September thirtieth.”

“This last year?”

“Yes.”

“Three days before Madelyn Chapman was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“And who was this phone call from?”

“General Satz.”

“Did you take the call personally on behalf of Ms. Chapman?”

“I did.”

“So you talked to the general on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“And can you tell the jury what he wanted?”

“Your Honor.” I hear the voice from Templeton’s table, but it’s not Templeton. “Excuse me, Your Honor. My name is Edmund Yost.”

Gilcrest looks confused, not sure that he is actually hearing some stranger interrupting proceedings in his courtroom. “I am senior counsel at the Department of Justice, representing the Department of Defense, Office of Intelligence.” He reaches behind him without even looking.

One of the other lawyers hands him a stapled sheaf of papers.

“I have an order in my hand issued earlier this morning staying these proceedings indefinitely, signed by the senior judge of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court of Review in Washington, D.C.”

“Let me see that.” Gilcrest holds out his hand.

The lawyer hands the papers to the bailiff, who takes them to the judge. Gilcrest looks at them, flips a page, and reads. The document appears to be only a few pages long.

“Mr. Templeton, did you know about this?”

“Your Honor, I just found out,” he says. “I haven’t seen that document. In answer to your question, no. I didn’t know. Not until just now.”

“It appears to be in order,” says Gilcrest. “I don’t see any date for the lifting of the stay.”

“There is none, Your Honor.” This from the gray-headed counsel from D.C.

“This court has no authority to supersede a federal court order. By the same terms, the defendant is entitled to his day in court. I cannot hold the jury indefinitely. What do you propose I do?” Gilcrest puts this to the government lawyer.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. The United States government takes no position regarding the outcome of this trial.”

“Other than to stay the proceedings of it indefinitely,” says the judge.

“Your Honor, perhaps a brief continuance until we can sort this out,” says. Templeton.

“No,” says Gilcrest. “I may have no authority to override a federal court order, but I surely have authority to control the proceedings in this court. Based on this order, which will become part of the record, this trial is now over. I’m declaring a mistrial. The jury is released. The defendant Emiliano Ruiz is discharged. This court is adjourned.”

There’s an uproar in the courtroom.

I look over at Larry Templeton. It is the first time I have ever seen him at a loss for words.

Harry is sitting there looking at me, dumbfounded.

“You son of a bitch.” He is laughing, smiling at me. It has finally dawned on him exactly what I meant that day in our office when I told him that if we were lucky we might not have to deal with Templeton at all-or, for that matter, the jury.

The judge is off the bench.

“You, of all people, shouldn’t be surprised,” I tell him. “You are the one who’s been telling me all these years that I can always count on the federal government to screw things up.” Harry is up grabbing me by the shoulders, giving me a hug.

“What else could I do?” I’m saying in Harry’s ear. “Instinct told us he didn’t do it. This was the only sure way out.”

“I don’t believe it. Sonofabitch.” This time it comes out as one word. Harry can’t contain himself, slapping me on the back. He turns, pulls Ruiz up from his chair, and lays a hug on him.

Emiliano seems dazed, stunned by the speed of what has just happened. “I’m free.” I can read his lips, but I can’t hear the words over the mayhem in the courtroom. Reporters are leaning over the railing as the guards hold them back.

While the uninitiated might censure me for failing to establish Emiliano’s innocence, to clear his good name, under the circumstances this would have been a fool’s errand. Unfortunately the criminal law was never equipped to prove innocence. It was crafted to establish one thing only: guilt. In the eyes of the public, which holds the collateral to all of our reputations, the absence of guilt is seldom seen as the equivalent of innocence. In Emiliano’s case, even a jury verdict of acquittal would leave half the world wondering if Ruiz didn’t in fact murder Madelyn Chapman. Weighed against the possibility of a death sentence, only the feebleminded would have elected to go to a verdict as opposed to the certain result of a mistrial. But one thing is certain. The state will never try him again. They would face the same impediment: a federal government intent on protecting the mysteries of state under the rubric of national security.

In the confusion of the courtroom, I fail to notice that Rogan is leaving until I see her in the center aisle, merging with the audience heading for the doors.

I go after her before she can disappear into the mob outside. Out in the hallway it’s a madhouse, reporters with notebooks pushing and shoving. Within minutes they open the doors and allow them to clear their cameras through the security line downstairs. Crews are staking out space, setting up lights to get the doors leading to the courtroom with the department number on the wall next to them as good background shots.

I see Nathan holding forth with some of the reporters. The fledgling congressman from another city whose office in Washington, when it is finally assigned a week from now, is likely to be a coat closet a mile from the Capitol, is establishing his credentials as the resident political expert on IFS and what Congress will do now.

Several of the reporters are hanging on me, asking questions about IFS, what information we have. The flashes from cameras and the heat of the lights of the Minicams make me put my hand up in front of my eyes.

Templeton comes out of the door behind me, heading as fast as he can in the other direction. They chase him and Templeton starts running.