Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“Is Farrington guilty, Keith?”

The excitement Keith had felt when Hawkins confessed had died away and the agent looked depressed.

“My gut tells me he is, but I don’t think we can touch him if Hawkins won’t talk.”

“Can he be made to talk?”

“It’s going to be tough. Hawkins is fanatically loyal. He’s idolized Farrington since his college days, and he feels that he owes him his life. He has no family. He has acquaintances but no friends except for the Farringtons. Everything in his life revolves around the president and it has for a long time. I think he’s going to say that he committed all of these crimes on his own. Everyone will believe him because he’ll come off looking like a crazed killer who deluded himself into believing that the murders were necessary.

“But say he changes his story and implicates Farrington. The president’s lawyer will crucify Hawkins by reading back all of the statements in which he exonerates Farrington. I think he’s got us, judge.”

Washington, D.C.

Brad got back to his apartment just before three after spending the morning and early afternoon at a law firm interviewing for a job. As soon as he checked for phone messages and e-mail, he changed into running gear. Now that all he had was free time, he was finally able to keep his resolution to exercise.

Working out hadn’t been easy right after the shoot-out. Every time he left his apartment he had to run a gauntlet of reporters who wanted to know what had happened at the Erickson house. Television vans crowded the parking lot at his apartment complex and reporters tied up his phone lines at all hours. Brad wanted to tell everybody what he knew about the Clarence Little case, but Keith Evans had explained that the independent counsel’s investigation could be compromised if he talked to the press, so Brad had been forced to stick to “no comment.”

Shortly after the last reporter called him about the shoot-out, a reporter from the Portland Clarion, Portland’s alternative newspaper, phoned to ask Brad to comment on Paul Baylor’s report, which had concluded that Peggy Farmer’s pinkie was in with the rest of the fingers, but Laurie Erickson’s was nowhere to be found. Brad knew about the report because Ginny had used her feminine wiles to get information out of the associate Tuchman had assigned to take over Little’s appeal, but he had no idea how the reporter had learned about the pinkies. When the reporter said that a confidential source had given him the information Brad suspected immediately that the leak originated with Ginny. His suspicions grew stronger when the reporter told him that the anonymous caller had suggested that Brad had been fired for pursuing the Little case too vigorously because of Susan Tuchman’s ties to the president.

A few days later, a scathing editorial in the Clarion condemned Tuchman for firing an associate who’d gone above and beyond the call of duty to try to prove that a client had been unjustly convicted of murder. The editorial pointed out that Brad had put principle above public opinion by risking his life to see justice done even though his client was detestable.

Brad showered when he finished his run. Then he called Ginny to discuss their plans for the evening.

“Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.”

“Ginny Striker, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?’

“Jeremy Reid of Penzler Electronics.”

“One moment, please.”

Brad waited for Ginny to answer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Thank goodness you were smart enough to use an alias. You have no idea how persona non grata you are around here since the Clarion published that editorial.”

“Tuchman deserves everything she gets.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but it would mean my job if anyone found out we were dating.”

“Is that what we’re doing? I thought I was bartering food for sex.”

“Pig. So, how was the interview?”

“Good. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Will you want to go to the movie straight from work or will you have enough time to go home, change, and come back downtown.”

“I’m not certain I’ll have time for a movie and dinner. I’ll call you when I’ve got a handle on my workload. Are you going to be at home?”

“That’s where I am now. I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Okay. Let me try to clear my desk. I’ll see you soon.”

Brad felt a little guilty that Ginny had to work while he spent his days as he pleased. Besides running, he’d hiked in the mountains and at the coast and had gone to an occasional movie. Then there were the pleasant afternoons sitting on his deck reading a book and sipping a cool drink. The life of leisure sure beat toiling away in the bowels of Reed, Briggs, but Brad knew those days were numbered. He’d have to get a job soon if he wanted to feed himself and keep a roof over his head.

Ginny joined him on the weekends when work permitted and he’d been spending his nights at her place when she wasn’t too tired. Brad was a fair chef. On two occasions he’d spent an afternoon working up an elaborate menu for their evening meal. Ginny had paid him back with some of the best sex ever and all the office gossip she could dig up.

Another way Brad spent his time when he wasn’t hiking, cooking, or looking for work was by keeping up with the independent counsel’s investigation. He’d absorbed every piece of information about it in Exposed, the New York Times, and other media outlets. He knew more about the case than most. While they were driving to Marsha Erickson’s house Dana Cutler had told him what had happened after Dale Perry hired her to tail Charlotte Walsh. Most of that information had been in Exposed, but Brad had learned about the shoot-out at the motel, which had happened after she’d given Patrick Gorman the story.

Keith Evans checked in on Brad from time to time because Brad was a witness. When they talked, Brad pumped the FBI agent for news, but Evans was tight-lipped and Brad rarely got any information that the media didn’t have.

To kill time until Ginny called, Brad read about new evidence against Charles Hawkins that the New York Times had unearthed. A photographer had snapped a shot in the meeting room at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. The photograph showed Hawkins off to one side answering his cell phone as the first lady finished posing with the last contributor in front of President Roosevelt’s clock. The clock read 9:37, which was around the time Dana Cutler said she’d phoned her mystery client with the news that Charlotte Walsh was returning to the Dulles Towne Center lot from the farm.

Something about the photo bothered Brad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it out on the deck. While he watched the traffic on the river he sipped from his cup and worried the problem, but nothing came to him. He was still stumped when Ginny called.

Brad was lost in a swamp, fighting his way through mud that sucked at his shoes and vines so thick that he could barely see where he was going. The heat was unbearable-a heavy blanket that wrapped around him, making it hard to move or breathe. From somewhere in the swamp two women begged him for help and he despaired that there wasn’t time to rescue both of them. He wanted to give up but he couldn’t.

In the dream, Ginny stood next to him. Instead of offering encouragement, she calmly informed him, “It just can’t be done. There isn’t enough time to go one place then get to the other.”

Brad shot up in bed, his heart pounding. He knew what had bothered him the day before. When he spoke to Ginny after returning from his run Brad had asked if she had enough time to go home and change before coming downtown or if she was just going to go to the movie straight from work. Ginny had told him that she might not have time to go to a movie and eat dinner.