James Grippando - Afraid of the Dark

She disappeared back into the shower, and Jack tasted the wine from his friend’s vineyard. Timing was everything, it reminded him, but for Jack, “no time like the present” was the general rule.

Probably why the wine is Betts amp; Scholl, not Betts amp; Swyteck.

“It just took me by surprise,” said Jack. “You’ve never tried to steer me away from a case before.”

The shower stopped. Jack handed her a bath towel, and Andie stepped out, wrapped in terry cloth. She towel-dried her newly blond hair and then stood before the mirror, speaking as she combed through the snarls.

“Jamal Wakefield is bad news,” she said.

“Well, what does that mean?” asked Jack.

“It means you should stay away from him.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“I’m trying to help you, Jack.”

“Help me what?”

She put down the comb, a little flabbergasted. “Okay, if you were to take this case, you’d find this out anyway. So let me tell you now. After McKenna Mays was murdered, the police got a warrant and seized her boyfriend’s computer.”

“What did they find?”

“Encrypted files.”

“So what?”

“Encrypted files from known terrorist organizations,” said Andie.

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I have friends who don’t want to see you embarrass yourself.”

“You mean embarrass you.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“It’s not? Really?”

Andie glared but said nothing. She grabbed her wineglass and walked out. Jack followed her to the bedroom.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” said Jack. “But none of this makes sense to me.”

“Well, exactly how much of my duty of confidentiality and loyalty to the FBI do you expect me to breach in order to keep you from making a huge mistake?”

“I don’t expect anything. I never asked your opinion.”

Her mouth fell open, and her chuckle of disbelief spoke more than words.

Jack said, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s not that I don’t value your opinion.”

“Can we drop this, please?”

Jack breathed in and out. “I wish I could. But now I’m more confused than ever. This kid spent three years at Gitmo. They fingerprinted him there. Surely they ran his prints through every conceivable database and discovered that he was really Jamal Wakefield. Now you’re telling me that the FBI found encrypted files on his computer with links to terrorism. But no one at Gitmo ever asked him if his name was Jamal Wakefield. And at the habeas corpus hearing two days ago, the Justice Department let him walk for lack of evidence. I just don’t get it.”

“They didn’t let him walk,” said Andie. “They played their ace in the hole: They got the state attorney to indict him for murder.”

“Why play that ace? Why not just have the Justice Department tell the judge about his computer and keep him locked up on terrorism charges?”

“Because if you tell the judge about the computer, someone might want to see what’s in the files.”

“Someone like me?” asked Jack.

“Like any defense lawyer,” said Andie.

“Would that be the end of the world-if someone wanted to find out what was in Jamal’s encrypted files?”

“I don’t know,” said Andie. “But why risk letting that kind of information go public when you can keep an accused terrorist locked up for the rest of his life on a murder charge?”

“It’s all in the interest of national security-is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

Jack suddenly recalled what Jamal had told him about the interrogators’ threats against McKenna in Prague.

“And what if Jamal didn’t kill McKenna? Would it still be in the interest of national security to keep him locked up for the rest of his life and keep his encrypted files secret?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jack took a long breath, then shook it off. “Nothing,” he said.

They stood in silence for a minute. Finally, Andie dimmed the light and turned on some music. The mood slowly changed. Andie walked toward the bed, and Jack ogled her like a sailor on shore leave as her towel dropped to the floor and she slid beneath the sheet. Andie had a telltale way of arching one eyebrow, and it always got Jack’s motor running.

“Are we going to talk all night?” she asked, peering across the room at him.

Jack swallowed the rest of his wine, then smiled.

“God, I hope not.”

Andie was gone by Friday at noon. Jack barely had time to ponder where her undercover assignment might have taken her. At three P.M. he was in Courtroom 2 of the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building.

The media seemed to hover perpetually around the criminal courthouse, poised to capture the arraignment of a federal prosecutor caught biting a stripper, the verdict on a high-priced call girl who claimed that “nymphomania made me do it,” or some other “trial of the century”-Miami style. At the government’s request, however, Judge Flint had closed his courtroom to the public. The prosecution sat at the mahogany table to Jack’s left, closer to the empty jury box. Neil Goderich was at Jack’s side. Together, the defense had almost fifty years of trial experience, and greener lawyers surely would have felt outgunned by such an unusual pairing of government lawyers.

“William McCue on behalf of the state of Florida,” the assistant state attorney said, announcing his appearance for the record. “With me today, for purposes of this emergency motion only, is Sylvia Gonzalez of the United States Department of Justice, National Security Division.”

The judge peered out over the top of his reading glasses. “I must say it isn’t every day that I see a lawyer from the NSD’s Counterterrorism Section in my courtroom.”

Gonzalez rose to address the court. “This case presents special circumstances, Your Honor.”

“ ‘Special circumstances’? ” said Neil, rising. “Gee, and I thought ‘enhanced interrogation’ was the government’s only euphemism for ‘torture.’ ”

Beneath the table, Jack ground his heel into his partner’s big toe, and Neil struggled not to yelp. Gonzalez had been a consummate professional at the habeas proceeding in Washington, and Jack shot his cocounsel a look that said, Tone it down.

“Neil Goderich of the Freedom Institute on behalf of the defendant,” he announced. “With me is Jack Swyteck, who has yet to decide if he has the set of you-know-what to take this case to trial, but he has agreed to assist me at this emergency hearing.”

Not sure what to do with Neil’s remark, the judge simply cleared his throat and moved on.

“I have before me the government’s emergency motion to prevent the defense from pursuing a frivolous alibi-specifically the defendant’s claim that at the time of the commission of the crime, he was held by the U.S. government in a secret interrogation site in the Czech Republic prior to his transfer to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.”

Neil rose, eager to speak, even if he was out of turn. “Before we proceed, I have to say that this motion seems highly premature. We have not even informed the government that my client intends to pursue an alibi defense, and under the rules we are not required to do so until ten days before trial.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to assert an alibi defense?” asked the judge.

“They most definitely will,” said the prosecutor.

Neil smiled thinly, as if the prosecution had stepped into his trap. “I’m not sure how the government would know that, since Mr. Wakefield has never before stated publicly that he was detained in the Czech Republic. Unless, of course, the government knows from its own records that my client was, in fact, held at such a site.”