Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“I’ll follow up. I’ve got nothing to lose. With the way Tuchman feels about me I’ll never make partner even if the firm doesn’t fire me right away. I’d feel awful if I got you in trouble.”

Ginny’s hand was still on his. She looked across the table and into Brad’s eyes. Brad felt his cheeks get hot but he didn’t look away.

“How do you think I’d feel if you were fired and I kept my job? I say we’re in this together, pardner. Think Titanic. I’m Kate Winslet and you’re Leonardo DiCaprio. If we go down, we go down together.”

“Uh, I don’t think you picked the right movie. Kate lived and Leonardo drowned.”

“Oh. Well I never was any good with movie trivia.”

“That’s okay. I get the point.”

Ginny tilted her head to one side and studied Brad. She still hadn’t removed her hand, and he hoped she never would.

“I think it’s your turn to pay the bill,” she said. “Then I think we should go to my apartment and talk about this some more…or not.”

Brad wished he could think of some witty repartee that would show Ginny how cool he was in situations like this, but Ginny had been right when she pointed out that witty remarks were not his strong point. Besides, he was too excited to think straight. He just signaled for the check.

Exposed was under siege. Arrayed behind barriers erected by the D.C. police were representatives of every branch of the media, foreign and domestic, screaming questions at anyone unfortunate enough to enter or leave the building. As Keith Evans drove by at a crawl to avoid running over some of the more ambitious correspondents he had a vision of a medieval siege in which catapults hurled fanatic reporters in feverish pursuit of a scoop through the Exposed building’s windows and brick walls.

A manned barricade stretched across the entrance to the newspaper’s parking lot. Evans flashed his credentials at the bored officer who leaned in his window. The policeman had been told to expect Evans. He pulled back the sawhorse and waved him through moments before a group of journalists surged forward like a school of piranhas lured by the scent of blood.

“I wish I had some raw steak to toss at them,” Maggie said as they got out of their car.

Gorman and another man were waiting in Gorman’s office on the second floor of the converted warehouse. The office walls were decorated with framed front pages displaying Exposed’s most outrageous headlines. Gorman stayed seated when the FBI agents were shown in, but his companion walked over and shook hands. He was a distinguished, white-haired gentleman in his midsixties. If his black pinstripe Ermenegildo Zegna suit and gold Patek Philippe watch were any indication, he was doing quite well.

“I’m Harvey Lang, Mr. Gorman’s attorney.”

“Keith Evans and Margaret Sparks. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lang.” He nodded toward the newspaper owner. “Mr. Gorman. Thanks for taking the time to see us.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“Actually, yes. You could have refused. But then we’d have to come to your house in the middle of the night and make you disappear into one of our secret prisons.”

Gorman’s eyes grew wide, and Evans laughed.

“That was just a little FBI humor. Actually, my partner and I left our rubber truncheons and cattle prods in the car. This whole conversation is off the record. You have enough people bugging you. I just want a minute of your time. Then we’re out of here.”

“What exactly do you want?” Lang asked.

“The name of the person who gave you the photographs you printed in your story about Charlotte Walsh and President Farrington,” Evans said, directing his answer at Exposed’s owner.

“I’m sorry. Those photographs were provided by a confidential source,” Lang said. “I’m sure you’re aware that such information is protected by the Freedom of the Press provision of the First Amendment.”

“What I’m aware of are the reporters who were sentenced to jail for contempt for taking that position, but I don’t think we have to resort to mortal combat for both of us to get what we want. I’m almost certain I know who took those pictures and I think she’s in great danger.”

Gorman’s features flickered from blank regard to concern and back in a heartbeat.

“None of us want to see this person hurt,” Evans continued, “so I have a plan that will let everyone get what they want.”

“Let’s hear it,” Lang said.

Evans focused on Patrick Gorman. “I’ll tell you the name of the person I think took the pictures. All I want you to do is confirm the name if I get it right. I also need to know where she might be. I wasn’t kidding when I said she’s in danger. I think someone may already have tried to kill her for those pictures.”

“What does Mr. Gorman get if he helps you?” Lang asked.

“Peace and quiet. No subpoenas, no grand jury, no time in a cold, damp cell while you run up your billable hours debating the First Amendment with an assistant United States attorney. What do you say?”

“I’d have to advise my client to refuse to cooperate in order to protect his source.”

Evans smiled at Gorman. “Why play games? I’m certain Dana Cutler gave you those photographs.” Gorman’s eyes shifted. “She was following Charlotte Walsh for Dale Perry, a lawyer who allegedly committed suicide a few days ago. We think someone attacked Cutler in her apartment on the evening she took the shots. The people who are after her don’t fool around. If you know anything that will help us find her, tell me. You don’t want her death on your conscience.”

“We met twice.”

“Pat-” Lang started, but Gorman held up his hand.

“They know already, Harvey, and I don’t want her hurt.”

“Amen to that,” Evans said.

“The first time we met she showed me some of the pictures. When I realized how big the story would be I agreed to her price.

“The next time we met I paid her for her story and the photographs. She told me she thought President Farrington was trying to kill her to get the pictures back. She hoped he’d stop once I published them.”

“Why did she think the president was behind the attempt on her life?”

“Two men were hiding in her apartment the night she took the pictures. They attacked her and demanded the photographs. She shot one of them and escaped. Only the president, Dale Perry, and his client knew about the pictures, and she couldn’t think of any reason why Perry or the client would try to kill her when they were expecting her to hand them over.

“When Miss Cutler learned that Charlotte Walsh had been murdered she met with Perry. She wanted him to negotiate a sale of the photographs to the president. She wanted money and assurances that she wouldn’t be killed. When she left the meeting with Perry there were men waiting for her but she got away.”

“Did she tell you the name of the person Perry was representing?”

“No. Perry never told her, and Cutler told me that she never discovered the identity of the client.”

“Where is Miss Cutler, Mr. Gorman?”

“I don’t know. She had no reason to tell me where she was going and I had no reason to ask.”

“Did we accomplish anything?” Sparks asked when they were back in their car.

“We’re filling in the blank spaces. Gorman confirmed that Cutler took the pictures of Walsh with Farrington and she told Gorman that the people who were in her apartment were after the pictures. The only people who would know about the existence of the pictures would be Perry and his client, who were expecting Cutler to give them to Perry, and the president. That’s pretty strong evidence that Farrington sent the people who attacked Cutler.”