James Huston - Marine One

Judge Betancourt continued, "Mr. Nolan, it's your motion. Do you have anything to add?"

I stood. "No, Your Honor. We will submit on the tentative."

She looked up from the papers over her reading glasses, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

She turned from me. "Mr. Hackett? Do you have anything to add?"

Hackett stood slowly, dramatically. "I think the Court fully understands the implications of eliminating punitive damages in this case when WorldCopter has defrauded the government, lied about its clearances, hid documents about what caused this helicopter to crash, and put parts on the helicopter contrary to the contract, which calls for a verified numbering and precise record of every part. They have violated the direct orders of the United States government and have now killed the head of that same government. With respect, Your Honor, if any case ever called for punitive damages, it is this one." Hackett sat. The former first lady sat quietly.

"Very well," the judge said. "The motion is denied. The tentative is confirmed. I must add for the record that this was not a close question. There is sufficient evidence based on the information developed so far in this case to allow punitive damages to continue and be presented to the jury at trial. Of course if there is insufficient evidence to support that charge in trial, I will reconsider my ruling. But for now, punitive damages stay in the case and the motion is denied. Mr. Hackett, will you prepare the order?"

"Happy to, Your Honor."

The judge gaveled the hearing to a close and walked off the bench. The journalists began asking questions. The Secret Service hustled them out and made an aisle clear for Mrs. Adams to pass through to her limousine, which waited to whisk her back to Washington.

I tried not to show what I was thinking. I looked at Rachel, who immediately became defensive. She said in a low, intense voice, "It said granted. The tentative was to grant."

"No, it didn't. She just confirmed her tentative, and it was to deny . I didn't even get a chance to argue ." I looked at the back of the courtroom and saw Bass, Hackett's hatchet man. "Let's go look."

We exited at the end of the audience and stopped to look at the list of tentatives. I found our motion. "Tentative-Denied." I pointed to it to Rachel.

"I'm telling you, it said granted."

I looked around, then put down my briefcase. I removed the thumbtack and took down the entire sheet. I examined it. It all looked correct, but I noticed two holes in the document where the thumbtack had gone through. The paper had been taken down and put back up. "That son of a bitch."

I turned back into the courtroom and found Bass. "Hey, Bass."

He turned and walked back to me, surprised I was still there, and happy to see me angry. "Yes, Mike?"

"You play some little game with the tentative this morning?"

He feigned confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Like substituting a page in the ruling list changing the tentative for our hearing?"

"Wow," Bass said. "Mr. Hackett said you could be paranoid, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Guess I can't do that anymore." He turned and walked back to the front of the courtroom to Hackett, who stood by the table where he had been sitting.

We left the courtroom and walked down the front steps. Rachel said, "It wouldn't have made any difference. She said it wasn't a close question."

"Probably not. But I would have liked to try. They're showing their colors a little too obviously. Imagine what they're doing that we can't see if they're willing to change an official court document hanging on the wall of the courtroom. These are bad people, Rachel."

"No doubt about it. Maybe we need to be a little paranoid."

"Especially now that someone's reading our mail."

"What?"

We got into my car. "Do you have a home e-mail account?"

"Yeah, Gmail."

"Make another one. With only numbers as your address. Random numbers. I'll continue sending you regular stuff at work and you the same. But anything that's really critical? Send it from your home computer on that numbered Gmail account. I'll set up a new account. I'll give you a number on a piece of paper which will be the Gmail address. Send whatever matters to that account.

"Get a new cell phone too. Different provider, new number, and keep it in the bottom of your purse. Never let anybody else even see it. You will only call me on it, and when I want to talk to you, I'm going to call you on it. So keep it on even when you're at home. I will still call you on your other cell phone and home number and office number, but when I really want to talk to you, I'll call you on your new cell. I'm going to get one myself. Two people are going to have the number. You and Tinny. Maybe Debbie too."

"I'll get one on the way back to the office."

"Try to use text messages. No names, no numbers to call, nothing like that."

She looked concerned. "Do you think somebody's tapping our phones? And listening to cell phones?"

"I don't know. We've got to think defensively."

Rachel went silent as her mind raced.

I dropped her off at her place so she could pick up her car. On the way back to the office I stopped by a kiosk at the local mall to buy a new cell phone. I felt as if I were buying drugs. I kept looking around to make sure nobody could see me doing it. The idea of somebody breaking into our e-mail server and stealing every e-mail sent to me was chilling. Based on what Thompson said I assumed it was Hackett, or one of his bagmen-not that I could really believe Thompson. It was probably Bass. He was an aggressive lawyer and had a reputation for leaning over the ethical lines, but this was criminal.

I got in my car and called Byrd. I again got his voice mail, this time immediately, as if his phone was off. I left a message.

THE NEXT DAY Rachel hurried into my office, her face dark. She pointed to my computer. "Turn on the D.C. news channel."

I went to their Web site and called up the streaming video. The image of the female newscaster quickly filled the screen. Over her shoulder, superimposed on the screen, was a picture of Tinny Byrd. The reporter said, "Repeating our breaking story, the body has been found of the missing private investigator, Tinny Byrd. He had been reported missing by his wife late yesterday. His cell phone had been found in the possession of a homeless man near Union Station. His body has now been found, or I should say his remains. This is a grisly find by the Washington police and was unexpected. They had reports of unusual activity at a warehouse down by the Navy Yard, and when they investigated it, they found human remains in the corner of the dirt lot by the warehouse. The warehouse was guarded by two Doberman pinschers that had displaced some of the remains. The remains had been ground up in a meat grinder and tossed over the fence into the warehouse lot. It is thought that it was the intention of whoever murdered Mr. Byrd that the dogs would consume the remains, leaving no evidence. The dogs were not interested though, and when the owner came to the warehouse early this morning, he called the police. DNA evidence has confirmed that the remains are those of Mr. Byrd. It is unknown if his murder is linked to the work he was doing on one of his cases. He was working on several cases according to his wife, including a couple that involved notorious drug dealers in Washington, and also the investigation of Marine One for the attorney representing WorldCopter, the European manufacturer of the helicopter. The investigation into this brutal murder is ongoing." The reporter went on to another story and I turned off the television. I looked at Rachel, who looked ashen. She turned and ran out of the room.

I felt as sick to my stomach as she looked. Poor damned Tinny. My palms began to sweat as I tried to imagine what had happened. I knew there was no point. I'd never be able to know, and all it did was fill my head with unbearable images and thoughts. I wanted to go get one of my shotguns and find whoever had done this to him. He was my friend.