Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

It wasn’t easy.

He had acted so confident in front of Kate. But who was he kidding? Taking on this case, by himself, without talking with anyone at Patton, Shaw was akin to professional suicide. But what good would talking have done? He knew what the answer would have been. Given the choice, his fellow partners would have slit their collective flabby wrists rather than taken on Luther Whitney as a client.

But he was a lawyer and Luther needed one. Major issues like this were never that simple, but that was why he fought so hard to keep things as black and white as possible. Good. Bad. Right. Wrong. It was not easy going for a lawyer perpetually trained to search for the gray in everything. An advocate of any position, just depended on who your client was, who was filling the meter on any given day.

Well he had made his decision. An old friend was fighting for his life and he’d asked Jack to help him. It didn’t matter to Jack that his client seemed to be growing unusually recalcitrant all of a sudden. Criminal defendants were seldom the most cooperative in the world. Well, Luther had asked for his help and he was sure as hell going to get it now. There was no gray in this issue anymore. There was no going back now.

Dan Kirksen opened the Washington Post and started to take a sip of his orange juice. It never reached his mouth. Gavin had managed to file a story on the Sullivan case consisting chiefly of the information that Jack Graham, newly ordained partner at Patton, Shaw & Lord, was the defendant’s counsel. Kirksen immediately called Jack’s home. There was no answer. He dressed, called for his car and at half past eight walked through the lobby of his firm. He passed Jack’s old office where boxes and personal items were still clustered. Jack’s new quarters were just down the hall from Lord’s. A twenty-by-twenty beauty with a small wet bar, antique furnishings and a panoramic view of the city. Nicer than his, Kirksen recalled with a grimace.

The chair was swiveled around away from the doorway. Kirksen didn’t bother to knock. He marched in and tossed the paper down on the desk.

Jack turned slowly around. He glanced at the paper.

“Well at least they got the firm’s name spelled correctly. Great publicity. This could lead to some big ones.”

Kirksen sat down without taking his eyes off Jack. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though to a child. “Have you gone insane? We don’t handle criminal defense work. We don’t handle any litigation whatsoever.” Kirksen stood up abruptly, his long forehead now a shiny pink, his diminutive body shaking with rage. “Particularly when this animal has murdered the wife of the firm’s largest client,” he said shrilly.

“Well, that’s not entirely correct. We didn’t handle criminal defense work but now we do. And I learned in law school that the accused is innocent until proven guilty, Dan. Maybe you forgot that.” Smiling, Jack eyed Kirksen steadily. Four million versus six hundred thou pal. So back off, dickhead.

Kirksen slowly shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Jack, maybe you don’t fully understand the procedures we have in place at this firm before any new matter is undertaken. I’ll have my secretary provide you with the pertinent provisions. In the meantime, take the necessary steps to have yourself and this firm taken off this matter immediately.”

With a dismissive air, Kirksen turned to leave. Jack stood up.

“Listen, Dan, I took the case and I’m going to try it and I don’t care what you or the firm’s policy has to say about it. Close the door on your way out.”

Kirksen turned around slowly and looked at Jack with intense brown eyes. “Jack, tread cautiously. I am the managing partner of this firm.”

“I know you are, Dan. So you should be able to manage to close the goddamned door on your way out.”

Without another word, Kirksen spun on his heel, shutting the door behind him.

The pounding in Jack’s head finally subsided. He returned to his work. His papers were just about completed. He wanted to get them filed first thing before anyone could try to stop him. He printed out the documents, signed them and called the courier himself. That done he sat back in his chair. It was almost nine o’clock. He would have to get going, he was seeing Luther at ten. Jack’s entire brain was overflowing with questions to ask his client. And then he thought about that night. That chilly night on the Mall. The look in Luther’s eyes. Jack could ask the questions, he just hoped he was ready to handle the answers.

He threw on his coat, and in another few minutes was in his car on his way to the Middleton County Jail.

Under the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia and its criminal procedure statute, the state must turn over to a defendant any exculpatory evidence. Failure to do so was a terrific way for an ACA to abruptly derail his or her career, not to mention getting a conviction thrown out and letting a defendant walk on appeal.

Those particular rules were giving Seth Frank a very large headache.

He sat in his office and thought about the prisoner sitting alone in a cell less than a minute’s walk away. His calm and seemingly innocuous manner didn’t trouble Frank. Some of the worst offenders he had ever arrested looked like they had stepped out of the church choir right after they had split open somobody’s skull for a couple of laughs. Gorelick was putting together a good case, methodically collecting a bagful of little threads that when woven together in front of a jury would make a nice sturdy necktie for Luther Whitney to choke himself on. That also didn’t trouble Frank.

What did trouble Frank was all the little things that still didn’t add up. The wounds. Two guns. A bullet dug out of the wall. The place sanitized like an operating room. The fact that the guy was in Barbados and then came back. Luther Whitney was a pro. Frank had spent the better part of four days learning everything he could about Luther Albert Whitney. He had pulled off a crackerjack crime that except for one glitch would probably have remained unsolved. Millions from his heist, a cold trail for the cops; he’s out of the country, and the sonofabitch comes back. Professionals did not do those things. Frank would’ve understood him coming back because of his daughter, but Frank had checked with the airlines. Luther Whitney, traveling under an alias, had returned to the United States long before Frank had hatched his plot with Kate.

And the kicker was this: was he really supposed to believe that Luther Whitney had any reason on earth to check Christine Sullivan’s vagina? And on top of that somebody had tried to kill the guy. This was one of the few times Frank actually had more questions after he had arrested his suspect than he had before taking his guy into custody.

He felt in his pocket for a cigarette. His gum stage had long since passed. He would try again next year. When he looked back up Bill Burton was standing in front of him.

“You understand, Seth, I can’t prove anything but I’m just letting you know how I think it went down.”

“And you’re sure the President told Sullivan?”

Burton nodded, fiddled with an empty cup on Frank’s desk. “I just came from meeting with him. I guess I should’ve told him to keep it mum. I’m sorry, Seth.”

“Hell, he’s the President, Bill. You gonna tell the President what to do?”

Burton shrugged. “So what do you think?”

“Makes sense. I’m not gonna let it lie, I can tell you that. If Sullivan was behind it I’ll take him down too, I don’t care what his justification was. That shot could’ve hit anybody.”

“Well, knowing the way Sullivan probably operates, you ain’t gonna find much. The shooter’s probably on some island in the Pacific with a different face and a hundred people who’ll swear he’s never even been in the States.”