Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

“If I’d told you the truth, you would have refused to see me.” The facts being what they are, she is dead on. So I try again. This time I get up out of my chair as if emphasizing my moral outrage.

“You come here misrepresenting who you are and what you want. Flying, as you say, under false colors, and you expect me to take time out of a busy day…Get out.” The words come out as if I’m trying to shoo some cat out the door. “Get out of my office. Now! Please.”

There is a moment of silence as she looks at me with a kind of quizzical expression, as if she has gas. It starts with a modest grin, then the laugh lines around her eyes begin to flex. A second later any attempt at composure evaporates in a wave of laughter. It seems my attempt at fury has waddled across the desk, rolled over in front of her, and died.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” she says. There’s a tear running out the corner of one eye. “You should never try to do pompous, angry bastard. You’re terrible at it.”

“Is that so?”

“You lack the paunch and jowls.” She’s still laughing, wiping the tears from her eyes. “If you want to do anger, you should do silent and steely eyed. You know, quiet rage and maybe avoid getting out of the chair. I’m sorry, but the words just don’t comport with the picture. Pompous, angry bastard belongs to fat men. You just don’t make it. Besides, your eyes are all over the place. You’re looking at everything in the room except the object of your fury-me. You were avoiding eye contact. You know what that says to me?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Man with a secret, trying to hide it under a bushel of feigned fury. And your body language…”

“What’s wrong with my body language?”

“It’s dead,” she said. “You’re supposed to be angry. You should be pointing at the door when you tell me to go, and you never, never, never end by saying please. It sounds like you’re asking permission to go to the bathroom. Trust me. I’ve been thrown out of better offices than this. I have a lot of experience. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Thanks for the dramatic critique,” I tell her. “Now you can go.”

“That’s better,” she says. “I mean I’m still not convinced that you’re about to turn the desk over on top of me. But at least you didn’t say please. It’s a step,” she says.

I stand there looking at her. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Now I’ve hurt your feelings,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Listen, it was cute. Really. And I’m flattered that you would do it for me. To take the risk, I mean, to put yourself out there like that. That takes a lot of courage. Let me guess. I’m going to bet that you don’t have a lot of authority with little children or dogs. Am I right?”

“Now I’m starting to get angry,” I tell her.

“Good,” she says. “It has to be real. It has to come from the gut or no one’s gonna believe it.”

“I want you to go.” I point toward the door.

“Yes, but how badly do you want it? I don’t see any real passion.”

I try to hold a stern expression but I can’t. I start to laugh.

“There you go,” she says. “Back to my question now about children and dogs.”

I’m shaking my head as I laugh. She’s destroyed me.

“I thought so. They have a sixth sense for false anger. They can read it in a heartbeat.”

“Is that so?” I slump back into my chair.

“Children just laugh, but dogs will try to take advantage of you. They’ll turn you into a littermate.” The laugh lines come to life deep within her tawny complexion as she smiles at me.

“I’m not your enemy. Believe me. You can call the police and have me thrown out, or have me arrested if it makes you feel better, but do me the courtesy of answering at least one question.”

I would ask her what, but sound judgment tells me not to.

“I want to know why you haven’t told the press or the public what you know about the events in Coronado. Why you haven’t made any public statement about what was on that truck. You see, we already know the device was nuclear. What we don’t understand is why you haven’t said anything. People need to know how close they came. The next time they may not be as lucky.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Acting talent and confidence skills come from the same area of the brain,” she says. “Your gifts must be elsewhere because you don’t lie very well either.”

“Now that’s something you would know about,” I tell her.

“They put pressure on you, didn’t they? The FBI, NSA, the Justice Department? They’ve threatened you, to keep you quiet. What did they say?”

“I’m practicing being silent and steely eyed,” I tell her.

“You can trust me,” she says.

“Of course I can. You come with such sterling credentials.” For all I know she could be working undercover with Thorpe, sent here to test me, to see if I’ll talk. The way she’s holding her briefcase under her arm, pointed at me, it could easily be concealing a digital minicam and a mic. My face might be playing on a television at this moment in the back of a government van parked out in front.

She notices me looking and glances down at her bag. “Ah. I see. You don’t trust me. You’re a careful man,” she says. “That’s good. Here.” She opens the briefcase, pulls out a file, two pens, a yellow notepad, and a small case for eyeglasses. When she opens the case, a pair of glasses fall out and clatter onto the top of the desk. She drops the strap from her shoulder and turns the briefcase upside down, shaking it to show me that it’s empty. Then she slides it across the desk toward me. “Go ahead, check it yourself. I want you to be comfortable. And I’m not wearing any electronics if that’s what you think. You can pat me down. I’ll even take my clothes off if you like.”

“What then? Scream rape? No thanks. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m a criminal lawyer after all. I’m used to being lied to. People lie to me all the time. Some of my best clients lie to me. But then, that’s all part of the lawyer-client thing. You expect a client to lie, at least from time to time. It’s like the husband-wife thing, when one of them tells the other they’re not having an affair. But we’re not married and you’re not a client, so we don’t have a thing. We’re strangers, so it’s much trickier trying to figure out when I’m being lied to and why. Do you understand? I know it’s confusing, but trust me on this.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” she says.

“You noticed. I’m sorry to tell you this, but if you keep asking I’m afraid you’re gonna have to get used to it. I am better at asking questions.”

“Go ahead. What do you want to know?” she says.

“Who sent you here?”

“No one.”

“What makes you think I know anything?” I ask.

“Now who’s lying?” she says. “Okay, I’ll tell you. We don’t think. We know,” she says. “Your name, along with all the details, was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“That I can’t tell you. But I can guarantee you that the information I have is solid-direct from God’s lips to my ear,” she says. “You wouldn’t be revealing any secrets to me if that’s what you’re afraid of. In fact, I suspect we know things you don’t. We know that you were on the truck, along with Mr. Diggs and a woman from Costa Rica whose name we have. We know that the device was of Russian design, gun type, using highly enriched uranium, and that it dated to the Cuban missile crisis, 1962 to be exact. At some point it became a loose nuke in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. We know that a defector from the Russian military with technical skills armed the device either when, or before, it was delivered to Coronado and that this man was shot and killed on the street outside the naval base. We know that you were there when he was shot and that you witnessed it. How am I doing so far?”