Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

They reviewed the rest of the binder, and then, at Ananberg’s behest, they returned and moved systematically through the entire case, examining the documents and arguing the merits. Finally they voted: Five to two not guilty.

Robert and Mitchell cast the dissenting votes.

Rayner rubbed his hands together. “It seems the shadow of reasonable doubt falls protectively over the defendant.”

The razor edge working Tim’s nerves eased, leaving him with either a keen disappointment or a clammy relief-he was unsure how to interpret the moisture left on his back and neck from the anticipation.

Rayner replaced the binder in the safe. Robert expressed his frustration at the verdict with a not-so-subtle sigh and strenuous reshuffling of paperwork.

Tim checked his watch-it was nearing midnight.

“Next case.” Rayner flipped open an immense binder overflowing with scraps of paper and newspaper articles and announced, “This is a case with which we’re all familiar, I’m sure. Jedediah Lane.”

“The militia terrorist,” Ananberg said.

Robert smoothed his mustache with a cupped hand. “The alleged militia terrorist.”

Ananberg scowled at him, and he threw a wink in Tim’s direction.

The Stork ran a hand over his bald head. “I’m something of a media hermit, so I-I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the case.”

“The guy who walked a briefcase of sarin nerve gas into the Census Bureau downtown,” Robert said.

“Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Know where he left it?” Robert’s eyes were past angry, almost gleeful. “Near the main AC duct on the first floor. Eighty-six deaths. Including a bunch of second-graders on a civics field trip. He just walked in, walked out without a trace.” His flattened hand drifted in a gesture of evanescence, of stealthy malice.

“One of our own goddamned citizens,” Mitchell said. “After 9/11.”

Dumone flipped through the arrest report. “FBI obtained a search warrant for his house after a neighbor came forward and reported seeing Lane exit his residence that morning with a similar metal briefcase.”

“That was enough for a search warrant?” Ananberg asked.

“That and Lane’s history of membership in fringe organizations. The judge went for it, issued FBI a warrant, but wouldn’t grant night-service authorization. The problem was, the investigators were shaking a list of other leads. Everyone and their aunt was calling in with sightings, suspects, theories. They got hung up with a militia guy in Anaheim who was stockpiling M16 ammo. When they finally got back to serve Lane’s warrant, they received no response to their knock and notice. The door was double-barred from the inside. When they went through the door with a battering ram, they knocked over a table in the entry, breaking, among other things, a clock. Do you know what time the broken clock showed?” Dumone set down the binder, flipped it closed. “Seven-oh-three.”

Mitchell grimaced. “Three minutes late.”

“That’s right. Night-service authorization kicks in on the hour. Sharp.”

“Foolish,” the Stork muttered. “Why didn’t they wait till morning?”

“They never checked the warrant. Probably assumed it was standard. Keep in mind, they had a handful of them.”

“What did they find in the house?” Tim asked.

“Maps, charts, diagrams, notebooks, pressure containers holding traces of what was later determined to be sarin gas, lab equipment consistent with the generation of chemical weaponry.”

“Thrown out?”

“All of it. The prosecutor tried to convict based on the eyewitness report and a few beakers later found in Lane’s vehicle, under a valid warrant. It wasn’t enough.”

“Did he take the stand?” Ananberg asked.

“No,” Rayner said.

“Since the acquittal he’s received a number of death threats, so he’s gone underground,” Dumone said. “Some of his fringe buddies packed him off to a safe house.”

“Then he’s probably on a ranch somewhere, barricaded behind a bunch of militia wackjobs,” Mitchell said. “Those boys don’t tend to be short on ammo.”

“Endless civil claims are brewing, but since there’s no way to hold someone in custody on civil charges, there’s a lot of speculation Lane might just Osama bin Laden his ass off into a secret desert enclave.”

“Oh, Lane’s planning to resurface. On his way out of town, he had this to offer the press.” Rayner aimed a remote control at the suspended TV, and the screen blinked to life. Wearing a starched button-up shirt and a sharply pressed pair of slacks, surrounded with a cadre of bodyguards, Lane addressed a pack of reporters on a browning lawn outside his house. He kept his hair military-short and precisely side-parted. Stubble curled from his sideburns, pronounced and patchy on his sallow cheeks, a lapse in his otherwise clean grooming.

“Whoever committed that terrorist act against the government’s totalitarian socialistic agenda is a patriot and a hero,” Lane said. “I’d be proud to have released the sarin gas, because in doing so I would have been championing American freedom and sovereignty against a fascist citizen list-the same kind of list used by Hitler to carry out raids and round up citizens, the same kind of list that propelled him to power. The blood of those eighty-six federal workers will save countless lives and protect the American way of life. While I’m not saying I was or was not involved, I will say that such actions are not at odds with my mission as a citizen of this nation under God against the New World Order.”

A reporter’s adrenaline-high voice cut in as Lane’s men pushed a path through the crowd toward an awaiting convoy of trucks at the curb. “Does that mean your mission will continue?”

Lane paused, his jaw cocked. “If you’d like to know more, watch my interview Wednesday night on KCOM.”

Rayner clicked off the TV.

“He left out the fact that seventeen of those eighty-six ‘federal workers’ were children under the age of nine,” Tim said.

Robert said, “If Motherfucker’s gone underground, at least the interview gives us a when and where we can find him.”

“If the when and where aren’t security cover smoke,” Tim said.

“For someone who claims to loathe the biased, leftist press, he does get his face time,” Dumone said.

“Like most intelligent people seeking to change public policy or make a political statement, he’s a press whore,” Ananberg said. “Even if he wouldn’t admit it.”

Rayner rested a hand on his chest and bowed his head, a self-deprecating grin touching his lips. “Guilty.”

“Lane has already sold his book rights to Simon amp; Schuster for a quarter million dollars, and I believe several stations are vying for TV-movie-of-the-week rights,” Dumone said. “Thus the expert plug for his interview.”

Robert grimaced. “The City of Angels.”

“The money could provide Lane ulterior motive to allude to committing the crimes, even if he didn’t.” Ananberg’s voice lacked conviction, but Tim respected her for raising the point.

She ceded under a barrage of facts and evidence.

After several more hours of discussion, Ananberg led them through the case from arraignment to verdict. By the time they finished, the morning sun was creeping across the hardwood floor of the foyer.

The vote went much more smoothly this time around.

THE STORK BOBBED in the driver’s seat of the overheated Chevy rental van, peering across at the KCOM building at Roxbury and Wilshire. He’d toned down his shirt for the low-profile drive-by, but Tim still wasn’t pleased about having his distinctive mug pointed out the window. The Stork fidgeted continuously, shifting in the seat, polishing his watch face, one knuckle or another endlessly assisting his glasses on their Sisyphean climb up the barely existent bridge of his nose. He was an incessant mouth-breather, and he smelled like stale potato chips. Tim contemplated how he’d come to be here with this bald, lisping man prone to peeling sunburns and too-bright shirts.