Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. I’d start hunting for another job but I don’t have time with my workload. So, do you have a reason for this secret rendezvous or do you just miss me?”

“I do miss you but that’s not the only reason I dragged you to our favorite caffeine salon. Guess what I discovered?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Clarence, does it?” Brad asked, alarmed.

“It does, but don’t worry. I figured a lot of it out online. And I didn’t use a computer at the office.”

“Figured what out?”

“What happened to the teenage client Farrington was rumored to have been sleeping with. You know what the Portland Clarion is, right?”

“The alternative newspaper?”

Ginny nodded. “When Farrington ran for governor the Clarion printed an article about the rumors of sexual impropriety. The client’s name was Rhonda Pulaski, and she was injured in a skiing accident on Mount Hood. Farrington sued the ski lodge operator, claiming they’d incorrectly marked a trail that Pulaski wasn’t skilled enough to ski down. The case was settled out of court for a sum in the high six figures.

“The day he received the check for the settlement Farrington rented a Town Car and picked up Pulaski at her high school. On the way, he showed the check to the chauffeur, Tim Houston, and bragged about the settlement. Houston told the paper that Farrington had been drinking and brought a bottle of champagne to Pulaski’s school. Houston thought that was really inappropriate.

“Instead of taking Pulaski straight home, Farrington had the chauffeur cruise around. There was an opaque window between the backseat and the driver’s seat, so Houston couldn’t see what happened between Pulaski and Farrington, but he claims to have heard them having sex.”

“What did Pulaski say?”

“Her parents wouldn’t let the police or the paper talk to her, and no charges were brought. Farrington threatened to sue the newspaper. The Clarion runs on a shoestring and defending a lawsuit would have bankrupted it, so they printed a retraction. I called the paper. The reporter who wrote the piece isn’t there anymore, but Frieda Bancroft, the editor, is still around. I wanted to talk to Houston, but she said he disappeared. No one knows where he is.”

“What about Pulaski?”

Ginny lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Are you ready for this? She’s dead. The victim of a hit-and-run driver who was never found. The car was though. It had been stolen. The cops think the thief was joyriding, but the car had been thoroughly cleaned so there were no prints, hairs, fibers, nothing to use to trace the driver. So Pulaski is dead and the only other witness is gone, maybe permanently.”

“I get less interested in pursuing this every minute,” Brad said nervously.

“Don’t be a sissy.”

“You’re confusing cowardice and prudence. If we’re right, Farrington is responsible for the deaths of three teenage girls and a chauffeur. I don’t want to add two associates to his total.”

“Farrington doesn’t even know we exist.”

“Yet. If we keep poking around, eventually we’ll appear on his radar.”

“Brad, this is too important to drop. Do you really want a murderer running America? If he’s responsible for all these killings we have to do something. Once we go to the authorities Farrington won’t have any reason to come after us. We’ll turn over everything we know to the police. We’re not witnesses. Killing us wouldn’t help his defense.”

“You forget revenge, which has always been a pretty strong motive for murder.”

“Farrington is too busy to bother with us. We’re the smallest of fry. He’s already worrying about the independent counsel’s investigation of the Walsh murder. If he has to worry about the Erickson and Pulaski cases he won’t have time to think about us.”

“You’re probably right, but do you want to take a chance that you’re wrong when the consequences could be that we end up dead?”

“As I see it, the only thing we’re going to do is try to find Laurie Erickson’s mother. If she doesn’t talk to us, that’s that. If she implicates Farrington, we go to the cops or the FBI and they’ll take it from there.”

“We aren’t doing anything. I told you I’d talk to Mrs. Erickson myself so you wouldn’t get in trouble with Tuchman.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

Brad nodded. “You’re right about how important this is. But talking to Erickson is all we’re going to do, right? After that we forget about the Clarence Little case, agreed?”

Brad stuck out his hand, and Ginny shook it. Brad held on and looked her in the eye. Ginny looked back and didn’t blink. Brad still thought she was lying.

Unlike an incoming attorney general of the United States who starts his tenure with an existing office, staff, and equipment, an independent counsel starts with nothing but the piece of paper appointing him. On an independent counsel’s first day on the job he does not have computers or telephones or desks on which to put them. He has to locate and lease office space then fill it with furniture, equipment, investigators, books, and lawyers. This explained why Keith Evans was using a room in an inexpensive motel on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., to conduct his interview with Irving Lasker, the head of the Secret Service detail that guarded President Farrington at the farmhouse in Virginia.

Lasker was a wiry, stern-looking, middle-aged man with tight skin, sunken cheeks, and bright blue eyes that Evans half-believed could beam death rays. From his crew cut and the way he held himself, Evans guessed the Secret Service agent was ex-military.

Lasker sat stiff backed on a chair with gold casters that was upholstered in imitation red leather. Evans sat on a similar chair. The two men were separated by a round wooden table over which hung a cheap brass light fixture. Cars sped by on a freeway through the window on Keith’s left. To his right were a queen-size bed and an armoire containing a television that showed in-room movies. The room was dark and depressing and smelled of cleaning fluid.

“Sorry about the accommodations,” Evans said, using the apology as an icebreaker. “Justice Kineer’s out house hunting as we speak and we don’t have a big enough budget to rent at the Willard.”

“Understood,” Lasker answered tersely. Keith hoped the interview wouldn’t be as difficult as Lasker’s demeanor suggested.

“Thanks for bringing the log,” Evans said.

“The log was mentioned in the subpoena.”

“Yes, but you could have given us a hard time.”

“That’s not in my job description, Agent Evans. Ask me your questions and I’ll answer them truthfully, as long as they don’t concern protection procedures or security arrangements.”

Evans scanned the log on which were recorded the times and identities of the people who had entered and left the safe house.

“It says here that you brought the president to the farm at eight P.M.”

“That’s right. He was in the car with me.”

“No one else arrived until Walsh showed up?”

Lasker nodded.

“Then Walsh arrives at nine and leaves at nine-thirty-six.”

“That seems right.”

“Who drove her?”

“Sam Harcourt.”

“Is Agent Harcourt here?”

“He’s waiting in the lobby.”

“After Miss Walsh got out of the car did you hear anything that the president said to her or she said to him?”

“Not when she arrived. I was outside. When she left, I heard her yell at President Farrington.”

“What did she say?”

“Threats. He thought he could use her then toss her away. He’d be sorry. Stuff like that. I don’t remember the exact words.”