Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Then there was the problem of the police. The locals would never believe that the president had sent the men she’d shot. They would consider this a burglary gone bad. If Mrs. Erickson turned on them the police might even arrest her and Brad. Dana decided to take a chance. She fished out her wallet and tossed it to Brad.

“There’s a card in there with the number of Keith Evans, an FBI agent who’s working for the independent counsel. Call him, then give me the phone. If I black out, tell him that we have the man who shot at him from the speedboat. Tell him to get someone down here fast to take over from the local police if he wants witnesses who can tie the president to Charlotte Walsh’s murder.”

Brad dialed the number. Evans answered after three rings. Brad handed Dana the phone. She laid the gun by her side and took it.

“Agent Evans, this is Dana Cutler. Brad Miller, an associate with a Portland law firm, is with me. I just shot two men who were trying to kill Marsha Erickson, a witness who can prove the president was involved in a murder in Oregon when he was governor.”

“That’s not true,” Marsha Erickson yelled.

Dana covered the cell phone. “One more peep and I’ll have my friend tape your mouth shut.”

Dana uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want you to send some agents here fast because the local police are on the way. Brad will tell you the hospital they’re taking me and Marsha Erickson to. Get guards on our rooms and the room where they’re taking the survivor. He’s the guy who shot at us from the speedboat.”

“Where are you?”

Dana gave him the address and how to get to it. Then she had Brad read her Erickson’s home phone number. She repeated it to Evans.

“I’m ready to cooperate,” Dana said. “I want protection for me, Miller, and the witness.”

“Are you okay?” Evans asked. “You sound funny.”

“No, I’m bleeding from a shoulder wound and I might pass out. But I hear sirens and I think I’ll be okay. Now stop talking and get some agents here fast. And make certain that you can trust them, because, at best, the president is going to try and take control. At worst, he’s going to try and kill us all.”

Brad was pacing the fifth-floor corridor of the St. Francis Medical Center waiting to learn how Dana Cutler’s surgery had gone when the elevator doors opened and Susan Tuchman stormed out. Her eyes lasered in on Brad, and he could almost see the red dot marking the spot on his heart where Tuchman was going to shoot her death ray.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you mucking around in the Little case?” Tuchman said as she bore down on him.

Brad faced the onslaught with utter calm. Until this moment, Brad’s encounters with Susan Tuchman had either unnerved or depressed him. But the verbal bullets of the furious attorney lacked the power to frighten someone who had just survived a shoot-out featuring live ammunition.

“Did you hear my question, Mr. Miller?” Tuchman asked as she halted inches from him.

“Why are you here?”

“Instead of worrying about why I’m here, you should be worrying about where you’re going to be working tomorrow. So let me put your mind at ease. You don’t have to worry about your tenure at Reed, Briggs anymore. As of this moment, you are no longer our employee. You’re fired.”

“Good,” Brad said coolly. “I don’t think working at your sweatshop is that great.”

Tuchman blinked. This was hardly the reaction she’d expected.

“I’d still like an answer to my question,” Brad persisted. “Why have you suddenly appeared in this hospital in the middle of the night?”

“That is none of your business, Mr. Miller.”

“Did your buddy at Kendall, Barrett tell you to shut down Marsha Erickson?”

“This conversation is over,” Tuchman said as she walked by him.

“Mrs. Erickson would be dead if I’d paid any attention to your unethical order to ignore the possible innocence of a Reed, Briggs client,” Brad yelled after her, but Tuchman paid no attention and kept walking toward the nurses’ station.

Brad wished he had the power to make Tuchman answer, but he didn’t. His job was gone along with his salary and any prestige that being an associate at Reed, Briggs might have conferred. He’d been fired, which could have an impact on his future as an attorney. Brad didn’t care. He had his dignity and his integrity, and truth be told, he was relieved that he would not have to toil fourteen hours a day solving boring problems for unappreciative egomaniacs.

The elevator doors opened again to reveal a large man with thinning sandy hair who matched the description of Keith Evans that Dana Cutler had given him. A very attractive woman sporting wicked-looking stitches on her right cheek accompanied him.

“Agent Evans?” Brad asked.

The man stopped. “Brad Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. This is my partner, Margaret Sparks. We flew out as fast as we could. How is Dana Cutler doing?”

“She’s in surgery. She was shot in the shoulder. The doctor told me that she lost a lot of blood but she’ll recover. He just doesn’t know how badly her shoulder was injured.”

“Can you fill me in on what’s been going on out here?”

“That can wait until we head off Susan Tuchman. She’s a very powerful attorney who works for Reed, Briggs, the state’s biggest law firm. I’m certain she’s going to Marsha Erickson’s room to try to get her to stonewall you.”

Evans smiled. “She may have a problem.”

When they arrived at Marsha Erickson’s room, an irate Susan Tuchman was berating a solid young man who stood in front of the patient’s door.

“I do understand that you’re an attorney, ma’am, but my orders are to admit no one except medical personnel,” Erickson’s guard said.

“Give me the name of your superior,” Tuchman demanded.

“Hi. I’m Keith Evans, and I ordered the guard for Mrs. Erickson. What’s the problem?”

Tuchman’s anger turned to confusion when she saw Brad standing beside Evans, but she recovered quickly.

“I am Susan Tuchman, Mrs. Erickson’s attorney, and I have a right to speak to her.”

“You might, if she was under arrest, but she’s a victim, so she doesn’t need a lawyer.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tuchman said.

Evans smiled patiently. “Not in this case, Ms. Tuchman. A real judge will have to decide whether you can see Mrs. Erickson. But I’m curious. Have you represented Mrs. Erickson in the past?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think you’re Mrs. Erickson’s lawyer?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged.”

Evans nodded. “I respect that. But I’m still confused. I’ve been in contact with the police, the agents I sent to Mrs. Erickson’s house, and the hospital. According to my information, Mrs. Erickson hasn’t phoned anyone tonight. If you’ve never represented her and she didn’t ask you to come here, why should we let you see her?”

Tuchman looked unsure of herself for the first time since Brad had met her. She didn’t appear to know what to say. Evans smiled again.

“I’m sorry you had to lose sleep, Ms. Tuchman, but there’s not much you can do here.”

“I was contacted by Morton Rickstein of Kendall, Barrett, a Washington, D.C., law firm. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“I certainly have,” Evans said.

“Kendall, Barrett represents Mrs. Erickson, and Mr. Rickstein asked me to stand in for him until he arrives. I hope that satisfies you, Agent Evans. Now, please let me speak to my client.”

“We still have a problem. If Mrs. Erickson didn’t phone for help, she didn’t ask Mr. Rickstein to represent her either. So, we’re back to square one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”