False Witness (37 page)

When the federal agents first told Wellington Farnsworth about the kidnapping, his stomach went into such turmoil, he wondered if he'd ever eat again. He asked a slew of questions about Jamie, said a prayer for her safety, and then realized that he was undoubtedly in danger too. He was nineteen years old, barely old enough to be out of high school, and now a possible target for the mob?

At least his name wasn't on any of the pleadings filed in federal court. Since he was a second year, the only names on the pleadings, in addition to Walter Snead's, were Jamie's and Isaiah's. On the other hand, he had been sitting in court with them all day Monday and had even taken the stand to testify against the government.

He was at grave risk. There could be no rationalizing around that.

Wellington considered the irony. He had always avoided every unnecessary risk life tried to throw at him. Cell phones while driving—80 percent of crashes involve distractions within three seconds of the crash. Roller coasters—according to a German study, the adrenaline rush can speed up the heart, triggering an irregular heartbeat. He almost rode one once but decided not to when the ride operators couldn't produce a defibrillator. Using pens at restaurants to sign credit card receipts—a television investigative report once found that such pens contained more germs than bathroom door handles.

And now this! What were the odds of surviving a mob hit list? This was precisely why he wanted to practice patent law. Scientists, for the most part, were harmless. His nearest brush with crime would be the technology component of home security alarms.

His first inclination was to call home. But he was a law student now. The federal agents had said he couldn't talk to anybody about this except Isaiah and Professor Snead. They had emphasized that
anybody
meant
anybody
. They promised to provide him protection. As if that had done Jamie any good.

After fretting about his own safety for a few minutes, Wellington started feeling guilty. At least he was still safe. Jamie was the one who needed his thoughts and prayers right now.

He decided to start by doing what he did best. Analyze. Research. Eliminate variables. He assumed that Jamie's kidnappers had captured her to get access to Hoffman and ultimately the algorithm. If that was the case, somebody must have told the kidnappers that Jamie was still in contact with Hoffman, that she was part of a team representing him in federal court. The field of possible suspects was relatively small.

When he had drafted the second federal court lawsuit seeking millions in damages, Wellington was told that the only line of communication with the Hoffmans was a connection between Isaiah Haywood and Stacie Hoffman. Accordingly, Wellington had assumed they would have Isaiah run the new lawsuit past Stacie for approval. But when he talked to Snead about obtaining authorization from the client, Snead had answered Wellington cryptically. “I've already taken care of that,” he'd said.

In the back of his mind, Wellington logged away three possibilities. First, Snead had already asked Isaiah to get authorization. Second, Snead never obtained his own client's approval to file a multimillion-dollar lawsuit. That seemed unlikely. Or third, Snead had his own channel of communication going with the Hoffmans.

At the time, it didn't seem to matter which of these possibilities was true. Snead said he had taken care of it, and Wellington took the professor at his word. But now, Wellington was curious.

He sent a text message to Isaiah and learned that Isaiah had never obtained authorization from Stacie Hoffman. Next, he logged on to Westlaw and started searching cases filed by Snead in the California state court system. He first examined the cases that resulted in reported opinions since they were all in one database. No luck. Next, he started reviewing cases filed by Snead that never made it to trial. It was tedious work since there was no statewide electronic database, but Wellington stayed at it, county by county, city by city.

By late afternoon, Wellington's persistence paid off. He sent another set of text messages to Isaiah explaining his findings. Isaiah, in turn, called Snead and insisted on an emergency meeting. He and Wellington agreed to meet together beforehand.

David Hoffman received the gut-wrenching news in a phone call from Snead.
This changes everything.

He sent a text message to Stacie, following the prearranged protocol. Cryptic messages. No specifics:
meet me at 6 instead of 8
.

The reply came immediately:
ok. problem?

His one-word response:
yes
.

63

Wellington nibbled at a fingernail as he waited for Isaiah in one of the overstuffed chairs in the law school lobby. His leg bounced with nervous energy. By the time Isaiah showed up, five minutes and thirty seconds late, Wellington was wound so tight he could barely think straight. They would be meeting with Snead in less than ten minutes.

“'S'up,” Isaiah said.

Wellington stood and awkwardly shook Isaiah's hand. Wellington could never quite figure out how to do the “brother's” handshake. “Sorry,” he said.

As the two students sat down, Wellington glanced around to make sure nobody else was within earshot. He slid forward on the bulky leather furniture and handed Isaiah a stack of papers he had printed out. “Here's what I was talking about,” he said. He waited in silence as Isaiah reviewed the documents.

“Does Snead know you have these?” Isaiah asked.

Wellington shook his head.

“Let me confront him,” Isaiah said. “Play off my cue.”

“Okay,” Wellington said. His heart was saying,
Gladly
.

The two students made it to Snead's office on time, but as soon as Isaiah started talking, Snead held up a palm. He led them into the hallway and explained his fear that the office might be bugged, a prospect that sent Wellington's heart racing and mind reeling.

Snead led the students to the teachers' lounge, a place where Wellington had never before set foot. He had imagined that the place might have a certain mystique to it—the stomping grounds of some of the most brilliant minds in legal academia—but in reality the room was rather boring. It was the size of a large classroom, stocked with vending machines, a microwave, a sink, and an oversize refrigerator. There were a few couches along the outside edges, and several square, restaurant-style tables in the middle. The professors obviously didn't believe in picking up after themselves, littering the place with old newspapers, magazines, and dirty dishes.

The law students and Snead cleared one of the tables and took a seat. It was after 5:00 p.m., so the lounge was otherwise empty. If Wellington had had his preferences, he would have kept the meeting in Snead's office so he could be separated from the intimidating professor by the large oak desk. But he wasn't in charge of logistics, so he simply slid his chair back a little from the table and crossed his legs.

“I hope you gentlemen are being careful,” Snead said. “We don't know for certain that Ms. Brock's disappearance is a kidnapping, but there's no sense taking any chances.”

“Trust me, Professor,” Wellington said, glad for something they could agree on. “We're being careful.”

“We're actually here on a related matter,” Isaiah began. He apparently didn't believe much in pleasantries. “We want to know why you never told us that you previously represented David Hoffman while you were in private practice.”

Wellington watched closely as Snead blanched and then recovered quickly. He had been a trial lawyer for years and had lots of practice at getting ambushed.

“What are you talking about?” Snead growled, his face instantly changing from concerned professor to combatant.

“Do you deny it?” Isaiah prodded.

“I'm not admitting or denying anything,” Snead huffed. “If you have a point to make, Mr. Haywood, it would do you well to make it. If not, this meeting is a waste of everyone's time.”

Isaiah plopped some documents on the table. “All right, Prof, here's my point. You represented David Hoffman in California yet chose to keep that a secret.” He slid the documents toward Snead, who made a point of ignoring them. “Wellington found these through Westlaw.”

Leave my name out of it,
Wellington wanted to say.

“One of these is a breach-of-contract case—Hoffman, who was then known as Clark Shealy, suing because he didn't get paid on a bond. And here's one of your rare forays into representing a defendant instead of a plaintiff in a civil case—Shealy being sued for violating some guy's constitutional rights with an unlawful arrest.”

Snead's face gave nothing away. “Are you suggesting some impropriety because I happened to represent a law-abiding bail-bond enforcement agent?”

“Did you tell the federal agents investigating Jamie's kidnapping about this?”

“I don't divulge my prior representations of clients. That's protected information.”

“Not when it's publicly available,” Wellington interjected. He surprised even himself with the comment, but Snead's claim was so spurious that he couldn't just let it slide.

Snead shot Wellington a withering shut-up look.

“It's also irrelevant,” Snead said, the color rising in his face.

Isaiah gave an incredulous snort. “Clark Shealy, your former client, moves to Atlanta with a new identity under the witness protection program. He just happens to stumble into the legal aid clinic where you just happen to be the supervising attorney. He is represented by Jamie Brock. Stacie Hoffman runs this ruse of communicating through me, pretending she doesn't trust you. And then, after all of this subterfuge, Jamie Brock is kidnapped, and you have the temerity to say it's irrelevant?”

Isaiah pulled out his cell phone as Wellington watched the disintegration of the roles between student and teacher. Isaiah had become the interrogator, Snead the indignant defendant. Wellington found himself siding with Isaiah, though he might end up having a nervous breakdown before the meeting was over.

Snead sighed. He looked from one student to the other, and the anger seemed to drain from his face. “Put the phone away,” he said calmly. “You're entitled to know.”

For the next several minutes, Snead did a passable job at confessing. He had been Shealy's lawyer for a few years in California. They had played cards together. Might have done a little gambling together, truth be known. He had given Shealy some behind-the-scenes advice on his witness protection deal, though Shealy had also hired a seasoned criminal defense lawyer to negotiate the fine points. Shortly after Snead started teaching at Southeastern, about a year and a half ago, Shealy had reinitiated contact under his new name and identity.

At this point in the story, Snead abruptly stopped and refused to go forward without promises of confidentiality from both students. “I'm about to divulge some serious client confidences,” Snead promised. “I'm hiring you both to help me on this case and therefore need your pledge to keep confidential what I'm about to tell you. If you can't make that promise, I can't share this little saga with you.”

Reluctantly Wellington agreed. Curiosity, and the forceful personality of a law school professor, could be strong motivators. Even more reluctantly, Isaiah agreed.

Snead folded his hands and continued—a grandfather regaling the grandchildren with fables and fairy tales. Since the students already knew about Hoffman's prior run-in with the mob, Snead skipped right to the juicy part.

“Before Professor Kumari died, he put in motion some kind of e-mail process that would send Shealy the secret algorithm within forty-eight hours unless Kumari preempted it. Kumari made Shealy promise that he would sell the algorithm to legitimate digital-encryption companies and send the profits to the church in India so that they could use it to help educate the Dalits. Kumari himself was a Dalit who had managed to rise to prominence despite the caste system. Kumari told Shealy that he could keep a 10 percent commission. And because Kumari ended up sacrificing his own life in exchange for Mrs. Shealy's, Clark wanted to fulfill that promise.” Snead paused and shifted in his seat. He looked like he could use a cigarette.