Guardian of Lies (20 page)

“How did you pay for the drinks at the Brigantine?” says Harry.

“Three guesses. First two don’t count,” I tell him.

“Credit card.”

“Yep. You can bet that Templeton’s had his investigators visiting every place I’ve spent money since I met her, flashing photographs of Katia and me and asking the help if they ever saw us together.”

“So the cops would have already been to the Brigantine talking to the bartender and the waitresses,” says Harry.

“Do you want to go over and ask them?” I say.

“No.”

It entered my mind like an icicle two nights ago as I lay in bed and thought about everything Templeton had said during our meeting. He believes I have taken Katia’s case for one reason, so that I can control her, keep the police away, and keep her quiet. Once she is convicted, who is going to believe her? His invitation across the desk to Harry to talk to his client was Templeton’s effort to save her. He’s not sure about Harry, but he has reason to believe that I’m the devil.

He has no doubt already seen my credit card statements and phone records. He could do that without my knowledge. Unless I’m wrong, he won’t wait long to get his hands on my calendar. Why he is waiting, I’m not sure.

As Harry and I enter the courtroom this afternoon, Templeton is in his special chair that he uses only in court, perched up high at the prosecution-counsel table. He doesn’t need the chair for mobility, but for height. Huddled around him are four other people, one of the homicide detectives, a woman, and two gentlemen with their backs to us. They’re all wearing blue power suits, the men in pinstripes. There is a heavy satchel briefcase on the floor next to one of them. Unless they are carrying this for exercise, it appears to be locked and loaded, ready for action.

“The Dwarf’s brought the entire office,” says Harry. “I thought he said he wasn’t going to oppose this.”

The seats on this side of the railing, for the public, are empty except for two journalists. Arguments over a motion on evidence, even in a notorious murder case, never draw much of an audience. They know the defendant won’t be here. Katia’s presence is not required. I told her I would call her at the jail the moment we’re finished.

Communication with Katia is becoming a problem, especially since eruption of telephone-gate at the county jails. A few weeks ago the sheriff’s department was caught recording lawyer-client conversations on the jailhouse telephone system. Copies of these found their way to the DA’s office on discs. Ordinarily this would be a felony under state law, but to do this you have to prove intent. The sheriff claims the lawyer-client stuff was mixed in with other telephone conversations that the department was allowed to record, a glitch in the computer-operated recording system. Except for lawyer-client communications, jail inmates have no right of privacy. Bugging cells and “accidentally” installing snitches to sleep in the bunk above a target inmate has always been part of the game.

Regardless of what law enforcement does to gloss over this, communicating with Katia is now a problem. Unless Harry or I hop in the car and drive twenty miles, all the way out to Santee, there is no safe method for talking to her.

Harry and I approach, up the center aisle toward the swinging gate at the bar in front of the judge’s bench. The woman at the table turns and suddenly I recognize her. She is Kim Howard, the United States attorney for the Southern District of California.

Harry and I become walking ventriloquists, put on our best smiles and try to suck it up.

“What is she doing here?” whispers Harry.

“I don’t know.”

Apparently one of the reporters is wondering the same thing. Now that she has turned toward him, he’s leaning over the railing trying to engage her in conversation.

She smiles politely and waves him off by shaking her head. If I’m reading her lips correctly, she can’t discuss it right now.

“Maybe it’s the visa,” says Harry.

For weeks now, Harry has been bounced back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball between the State Department and their Consular Services office, trying to get information on Katia’s visa, on how Pike managed to get her into the country so quickly.

With the hushed announcement by Howard that we’ve arrived, the papers spread out on the counsel table in front of them vanish into a manila folder and from there into the single briefcase on the floor. By the time we get inside the bar railing, everything is clean and we are confronted with only smiling faces.

Templeton looks like the bird that swallowed the cat. “I think the judge wants to do this in chambers today.” Having sprung an entire army on us, he does amazingly quick introductions. “I think you know Kim Howard.”

“I do.” We shake hands.

She gives me a smile, then quickly frisks me up and down with her eyes, the kind of appraisal you might expect if you were dead but had somehow misplaced your grave. Templeton has been talking.

He does the honors with the two men. The younger one is the bellboy, a deputy U.S. attorney from Howard’s office in San Diego, brought along to carry the bag.

The older one is gray haired and sober, with heavy-lidded eyes over thin lips, one corner of which turns up the slightest millimeter as he shakes my hand. Templeton introduces him as James Rhytag, deputy assistant attorney general. Howard should take lessons from him. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. Everybody’s dead to him.

“Deputy assistant AG, that’s pretty high up,” I say. “Then I take it you’re not from these parts?”

“Washington.” The lips barely move as he says it.

“What division?”

“We can talk inside.” He means the judge’s chambers. He gestures with his head toward the two reporters who are now leaning over the railing trying to collect business cards, like trained seals slapping for fish.

It seems no one is carrying cards today, so the reporters open their notepads and shoot for full names and correct spellings. They keep pointing to Rhytag, asking for his title, and what he’s doing here. With all the federal firepower, they know they’ve stumbled into something. The only two people in the room who seem to be less informed are Harry and me.

Templeton climbs down off the wheelchair, gets behind it, and starts pushing. He leads the assemblage past the bench, toward the hallway that leads to the judge’s chambers.

Harry and I fall back to the rear. He leans over and says into my ear, “Why don’t you excuse yourself to the men’s room. Let me go in with the judge and find out what this is about.” Harry is worried.

“If Templeton wanted to arrest me, he wouldn’t need the federal government to do it. Besides, we have the luck of the draw.” I nod toward the plaque on the wall outside the door, the one that says HON. PLATO QUINN.

Once through the door and into the judge’s chambers, Templeton pushes his wheelchair right up to the front lip of Quinn’s desk, climbs aboard, and then invites the U.S. attorney and Rhytag to take the two client chairs on either side of him. This leaves Harry and me to share the couch against the back wall with the federal baggage boy.

Templeton tries to chat him up, but Quinn sits there, imperiously waiting until everybody is inside and seated and the door is closed. The judge is tall and angular. He sits bolt upright in his chair behind the desk, sharp-angled beak nose, narrow face, and bald head. Quinn has always reminded me of the eagle on the great seal.

Templeton edges in with the introductions. He starts with the U.S. attorney, but before he can get her name out, Quinn steps all over it. “Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds.” He looks at Harry and me seated on the end of his couch like orphan afterthoughts. “Good to see you both again. I hope everything’s going well.”

“Your Honor, what can I say? We’re back in your courtroom again, so it can’t be too bad.”

He laughs.

A trial judge has not been assigned to Katia’s case as of yet, but criminal pretrial and law-and-motion matters are dished up to only two judges in the courthouse. One of them is Plato Quinn. Harry and I have tried cases before him. Toy with him and Quinn can exhibit the abrasive qualities of a drill sergeant. Do a trial in front of him and survive the experience and a kind of affinity is formed that you see in combat. If, for some reason, the federal government is about to crawl up our back, there is nobody I’d rather hand the scratcher to than Quinn. He is not likely to be pushed around.

Templeton manages to get through the introductions before Quinn cuts him off again. “I guess I’m a little confused. And don’t misunderstand me, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you all, but why are all these people here?” He puts this to the Dwarf. “What I show in the file is a motion to produce under Brady filed by the defendant with no response or opposition, no points and authorities from the prosecutor’s office.”

“That’s correct,” says Templeton. “The district attorney’s office offers no opposition, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor, if I may.” With the sound of Kim Howard’s voice, the guy at the other end of the couch has the briefcase open and a thick file out of it.

“I think we can cut through this very quickly,” says Howard. She reaches behind her without looking. Her assistant puts the file in her hand, like a relay runner passing the baton. Howard pulls a sheaf of stapled papers from it, maybe three or four pages, and hands it to the judge.

“I have here a federal court order issued by the federal district court for the District of Colombia removing jurisdiction over this matter, to wit, the motion to produce six identified photographs seized from the defendant in the present case of
People of the State of California versus Katia Solaz
. Federal removal is grounded on federal question jurisdiction, under statute conferred on the United States Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court in Washington, D.C.

“As you can see, the order was signed and filed by the district court three days ago.”

“Mr. Madriani, have you seen this?” says Quinn.

“No, Your Honor. This is the first we’ve heard of it.”

Howard snaps her fingers and her assistant produces two copies from the briefcase, one for me and another for Harry.

“Excuse my ignorance,” says Quinn. “But what exactly is the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court?”

“Perhaps a little background is in order.” This comes from Rhytag.

“Yeah, Jim, I think you’re best to handle that,” says Howard.

“I don’t care who handles it. I just want to know what’s going on.” Quinn doesn’t like being stepped on, even by another judge wearing federal robes.

“The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978 established a special federal court entitled the United States Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. It also established a special court of review for appeals from the FISC, FISC being shorthand for the court. Since that time the law has been amended under the Patriot Act to change the size and composition of the court, but its purpose remains the same.”

“Which is what?” says Quinn.

“To oversee and adjudicate requests from federal law enforcement agencies for surveillance warrants against suspected foreign intelligence agents operating within the United States. They’re called FISA warrants.”

“Excuse me,” says Quinn, “I know Mr. Templeton just introduced us, but exactly who are you?”

“I’m James Rhytag, deputy assistant attorney general in charge of the Justice Department’s National Security Intelligence Division.”

“That’s quite a title,” says Quinn. “In light of the federal district court’s order, I’m not exactly sure what my role is in this matter any longer. I assume I still have jurisdiction over the criminal case.”

“As far as I know,” says Rhytag.

“That’s big of you,” says Quinn. “So you’re telling us that these photographs, the ones Mr. Madriani and his client want access to, are off limits, under some kind of federal seal, is that it?”

“In a word, yes,” says Rhytag.

“You have anything you’d like to say, Mr. Madriani?” Quinn looks at me.

“Yes, I’d like to know where the photographs are.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” says Rhytag.

“Maybe I missed something,” I say. “What you’re telling us is that the jurisdiction of this special federal court is limited to the issuance of these surveillance warrants, for spies operating in the United States, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” says Rhytag.

“What do the six photographs have to do with surveillance warrants?” I ask.

“That’s classified. You’re not entitled to know,” says Rhytag.

“Your Honor, what we have here are two murders with a truckload of unanswered questions. We have questions concerning one of the victims, Emerson Pike, and what his background was, how he managed to expedite obtaining a visa to bring the defendant into the country, a U.S. visa that would ordinarily take months but which he was able to obtain from the United States consulate in Costa Rica in three days. You wouldn’t know anything about that?” I put the question to Rhytag.

“Sorry,” he says, and just shakes his head.

“We know that Emerson Pike was obsessed with the photographs in question,” I tell Quinn, “and that the pictures were taken by the defendant’s mother…”

“Where? Where were they taken?” says Rhytag.

I look at him. “If you want to share information, give me copies of the photographs and tell me what you know, and I’ll give you all the information I have, on one condition, that it doesn’t place my client in legal jeopardy.”

“Why don’t you just tell me where the photographs were taken,” says Rhytag. “Costa Rica? It was Costa Rica, wasn’t it? Why don’t you just tell us what your client has told you and we can get past this very quickly.”

“I assume you’re looking for Mr. Nitikin.” It’s a gamble, but it pays off. Rhytag’s eyeballs nearly come out of his head as he turns to look at me.

“What has she told you?”

What is even more interesting is the confused look on Templeton’s face as he sits there turned around in his chair, looking first at me, and then at Rhytag. Whatever the feds know, they haven’t shared the details with their friendly prosecutor.