Misdemeanor Trials (15 page)

“'And now Mikee, again, was grabbing me and saying, 'Help me, Johnnie.' But now there was nothing I could do.  Mikee relaxed slowly and lay gently on the ground, and I watched as 19 years of Indiana wheat, 19 years of a mother's love, and 19 years of the molding of the man died that day, and his life's red blood spread over the Normandy ground. 

“'Mikee was a good man.  He deserved a life.  And after that I took Mikee with me wherever I went.  He has given me guidance in my life.  I would wonder what Mikee would have done or what would have made Mikee proud.  Things got tough, once in awhile in my own life, and I remembered what Mikee said.  'If we're going to be killed we might as well go up the cliff.  That's what we were here for.' And I guess it's true.  We die at the end of life, so if we're going to be here until then, we may as well do it right, cause that's what we're here for.  I have won more battles than I have lost, and I still talk to Mikee.  I still look up at the sky on a nice day, or look at the chair next to me when I am alone in the room and I say, 'How yah doin', Mikee.  I love you, guy.' And somehow I would feel I was talking to him, and I would feel a lot better.  I have been talking to him for years.  Now it's time to visit, and say hello in person.'

“About then the bus pulled in and the gas brakes hissed a final bellow as the bus stopped.  The door opened and the passengers began to rise to file out the front door.  I looked at the old guy and said, 'It's been nice talking with you.' He got off the bus and walked straight, and he was tall and strong.  He walked over to a small building to the side of the entrance and went in for a minute.  He came back out of the building with another person who must have been a guide.  The guide pointed through the entrance gate as he kept on talking.  Then his extended arm pointed to the left and the old guy nodded his head that he understood.  And they parted but before they did, the guide extended his hand to the old guy.  The guide put his other hand over their clasped hands and held it there for an extra moment.  I would like to think the guide was saying 'Thanks', something I wished I had said, but never did. 

“I followed him at some distance as he walked into the cemetery with its row upon row of white crosses sitting on manicured velvet green lawns.  It had turned into a beautiful day with rich blue skies and rich white billowing clouds.  He had his eyes to the ground, reading the number of the rows.  Then he stopped and turned left.  He walked in past about ten crosses when he stopped again.  He slowly got down and sat in front of the cross.  He put
his knees up and his arms around them.  I knew he was talking to Mikee.  He stayed there for about a half an hour.  Then he put his hand on the cross and lowered his head.  After that he slowly got up and walked away. 

“On the way back I sat with him again.  He told me that he had brought his family to France, his four children and what he described as his countless grandchildren.  He said his son Michael looks just like his uncle Mike, and laughs the same way too.  He said he was going to bring his family down tomorrow, but today was his day to be alone.  And we said goodbye as the bus dropped me off at my hotel.  And I was a changed person.  This was a real life person, meeting with one of those who sacrificed their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor so that I could breathe free. 

“Now, even I, on a particularly warm and beautiful day, when the sky is a deep and blue and clear, I will look up and say ‘How you doin’, Mikee?  I love you, guy.  And thanks.’

“I think that is when I decided to do something that protected this country.  I became a patriot.  I applied, and after numerous interviews, background checks, lie detector tests, and after lots of time, they took me in.  I passed the background checks, I think, because I had no background.  I was just a vanilla girl from Alabama who hadn’t done much.”

John was sipping his third glass of Pinot Noir as the waiter hovered, waiting for his dinner order.  “I suggest the soft shelled crabs,” said the waiter.  John ordered them.  He looked at this woman and realized he could love her, at least for the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

SIGN ON

The next morning at 9:00 AM John waited on the curb in front of the Hilton wearing his newly pressed suit, laundered white shirt, and the same tie.  A black Chevy suburban pulled up and the passenger window went down.  A fellow, who John thought looked about fourteen years old, said, “Mr. Trader?”

“Yes,” said John.

“I’m your ride.”

John got into the van and asked, “Where is Sarah?”

“I don’t know,” said the driver.  “I’m the driver.  That’s all.”

“What’s your name?” asked John.

“Call me Bob,” answered Bob.

“You can call me Rodney,” said John.

“But that’s not your name,” said Bob.

John did not respond, but spent the rest of the trip in silence, frustrated by the hokey secrecy that seemed to surround this whole sordid affair.  Bob pulled up to the curb on a busy street in front of a nondescript office building.  “Your meeting is on the third floor.  Tell the guard your name, Rodney, and they will let you through.  You are expected.”

John got out of the van and walked into the building.  There was a single security guard sitting at a console looking at display terminals.  John walked up to him and said, “My name is John Trader.”

“Good morning, Mr. Trader.  I will get you to the elevator where you will go to the third floor.  Someone will meet you,” replied the guard.  The guard got out of his chair, walked to the elevator, passed a card key over an electronic reader, and the elevator doors opened.

John turned to the guard.  “You don’t have metal detectors,” said John.

He smirked, “We're safe.  Everyone in this building carries.”

John walked out of the elevators on the third floor into a foyer that had no directory, no signs pointing to the men’s room, and nothing that indicated he was on the third floor.  A young man in a dark suit greeted him and said, “Good morning, Mr. Trader.  My name is Bob, please follow me.” He was packing a Glock.  John was guided to a medium sized conference room with chairs around a conference table in the middle.  Behind the chairs that were at the table, there were chairs lined up against the wall on one side, probably for observers.  John sat down at the table, leaned back in the chair and looked around.  He looked out the window at the view of Washington that was dull without any of Washington's recognizable buildings.  A view of the Nation’s seat of power would probably double the lease rate.  The room could hold probably 20 people.  Moments passed and the door to the conference room opened and two men in dark suits and Sarah came in, all holding files or legal pads.  Sarah was dressed in a dark suit with a white blouse, quite similar to the one he had seen her wearing the day before.  The two men sat at the table.  Sarah sat in one of the chairs lining the wall.  The men were generally nondescript.  The older was about fifty, a full head of salt and pepper hair with no distinctive features.  The younger man was in his thirties, dark brown thinning hair and he looked somewhat geeky.

“I’m Robert Fordham, Deputy Director,” said the older man.  John thought he had met enough people named Bob in Washington.  “This is Agent Davis, and I believe you already have met Ms. Todd.” None of the men extended their hand or expressed any greeting.  John remained silent and a moment passed mildly uncomfortable.  “Mr.  Trader, we need you to identify Darby Rhodes.  You are the only person we know of who has seen and can identify him.”

“Is he here?” asked John.

“No.  In fact we don’t know who he really is.  His name has appeared sporadically and associated with other events that are of interest to us.”

“Who is ‘us’?” asked John.

“There are many and various Security agencies in the government.  We gather evidence to avoid threats to the country.  And that is where Mr. Rhodes comes in.  Mr. Madani has told us that he believes some security breach was in the offing.  His words, though important, don’t add up to solid evidence of a direct threat, although other parts of his story are credible.  However, we connected Mr. Rhodes, or the person who calls himself Rhodes, to the multiple suicide bombers a few years ago that killed around 700 people in New York, Miami, Chicago, St.  Paul, New Orleans, Seattle, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Cleveland.  Don’t ask me why they chose Cleveland.  We have connected Mr. Madani’s brother to the explosion in the Federal Building around the same time.  Mr. Madani’s story of the kidnapping and visits by Mr. Rhodes are backed up by independent evidence and information from other outside sources.  Rhodes passport has been used several times over the last few years, but never to enter or exit the country.  The passport photo we have on file is for a blond woman.  The real Darby Rhodes died about ten years ago.  Most recently the passport was used to rent a vehicle in Canada about ten days ago.  The vehicle turned up at the Toronto Airport after it was returned to the car rental agency, but no outbound ticket was purchased by a Darby Rhodes.  By coincidence, possibly, there was an outbound flight two hours after the vehicle was turned in at the Toronto Airport with two reservations for two Middle Eastern names traveling to London.  Independently, the tickets provide no information, except the accumulation of circumstantial evidence which hopefully is leading in a direction that may allow us to close in on Rhodes.  The London airport surveillance cameras were fuzzy and of no practical value.  We still don’t know what Rhodes looks like.”

“What names were used to book the flights to London?” asked John,

“You don’t need to know that right now, however, they may be real persons who appear very low level in the mid-east terrorist network, although it appears that Rhodes is not low level.”

“So, why am I here if Rhodes isn't here?” asked John.

Fordham responded, “Besides the Madani family, you are the only person we are aware of who has seen and can recognize Rhodes.”

“What is your point?” asked John.  “How am I supposed to see him if he isn't around?”

“Mr. Trader, we have reviewed your military file and you have some solid training, and some interesting talents.  Obviously you are, or seem, familiar with the Middle Eastern culture.  At minimum you spent a lot of time there,” said Fordham.  “It’s clear you have worked with small groups on focused, intense missions.  We will need you to be ready on short notice when, and if, we can find the person who seems to be Darby Rhodes.  We think he is intelligent, organizationally schooled, and has delusions of Islamic grandeur.  He has done some evil and vicious murders in the past.  We would like to ask him a few questions.”

John could see where this was headed.  If this group found out that Rhodes was spending time in a brothel in Tabriz, they would send him there to identify him.  The idea did not fit in with John’s plans.  John was beginning to really dislike this guy Fordham.

John said, “When you find him, the first thing you should ask him is ‘What’s your name?’ And if you email me a photo, I am sure I can help.”

“That’s not possible.  Email from Tehran is attenuated.  To proceed with confidence, hands on, human conducted face recognition is required, no matter where it may occur,” said Fordham.

“Thanks, but I decline,” said John.

“You can’t, Mr. Trader,” responded Fordham.

“What are you going to do? Kidnap me, take me to Tehran, and introduce me to Rhodes?” asked John.

Fordham put his hands together, raised them in a prayer configuration, and rested the tips of his index fingers on his mouth.  He and the two other government employees were silent for an uncomfortable period.  Sarah sat, looking at her notepad.

“I can’t believe this.  Slavery ended in this country in 1865,” said John.

“I know you can’t believe it, John.  And neither would anyone else.  I think you are going to have to adjust,” said Fordham.

“I have other plans.  I have a job.  I have to visit my sick mother at least once a month,” said John.

“Your mother died about five years ago,” said Fordham.  “If you don't help us, you will still have a job, but it probably will be in Uganda with a United Nations peacekeeping force.”

“Oh,” said John.  He knew he was railroaded and had no choice.  “How is this supposed to work?” asked John.

“We’ll send you back to your job.  They will cooperate.  Pack light.  We may need you on short notice.  When that happens, you will be briefed.  I will give you my phone number.  It is an open line, so you will be careful in what you say.  I have your number.  If things break our way, we will have to act quickly.  Immediate communication is important.  If we need to go to a secure line, I will arrange that,” said Fordham.  “None of this may ever happen, Mr. Trader.  In the event the opportunity arises, we have to be ready.  After this meeting, Bob, who met you at the elevator, will take you downstairs to fill out some paperwork, take measurements, photographs, identification, and information you may need.  You can also fill out some paperwork in case we have to put you on the payroll.  I think with your military experience, you know the bureaucratic drill.  It shouldn’t take more than the rest of the day.  We’ll have you on a flight home tomorrow morning.”

John tried to avoid glancing at Sarah.  In a subdued way and at the same time Sarah moved her eyes toward John.  There was a promise in that glance that they both recognized.  They would be seeing each other that night, which for John, almost made the trip worthwhile.

“One more thing, Mr.  Trader.  We would like you to speak to Madani,” said Fordham.

“Is he here? And why me? I’m no interrogator,” said John.

“We have spoken to Madani numerous times.  He knows what we want to learn.  He has refused to speak to anyone but you.  Go listen to him.  The room will be wired.  You will be recorded.”

“If he won’t talk, why don’t you just waterboard him? You don’t need me,” said John.

“He’s an American citizen.  He thinks he has rights.  We are trying to be responsive to the rights he thinks he has,” said Fordham.

“What if he doesn’t give me the answers to that you want?” asked John.

“We’re not there yet,” answered Fordham.

Without any notice, Bob appeared at the door and said, “Mr.  Trader, please come with me.”

“See you,” said John in a sober and insincere way as he left the room.  But inside, he began to whistle. 

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CUSTODY

“I have rights!”

--The uninformed American citizen

John followed Bob to the elevator and did not pay any attention what floor they were going to.  He had a sinking feeling he was getting too involved in the program and was becoming a pivotal player in a scheme he did not want, or know, or understand.  Madani thought he had rights.  John chuckled to himself.  John should have had Madani come to the meeting he had just left.  He would understand that the rights he thought he had weren’t real.  The only rights he had were the ones he could get by force or through leverage.  John knew, after the meeting, that he had no rights, and he thought Madani probably had fewer.  George Washington had a good idea, but in the modern day and age, it wasn’t working too well.

John followed Bob out of the elevator and down a hallway, through a door and down another hallway.  Bob opened a door and in a small room sat Madani, dressed in Khaki’s and a sweater.  He looked comfortable reading a book in a reclining chair.  When he looked up and saw John, he said, “Mr. D.A., boy, am I glad to see you.  I’ve been in some sort of custody since I talked to you last.”

“Where do they have you?” asked John.

“At some buildings about two hours away.  It’s full of guys hanging out like me.  We’re not supposed to talk to anyone about why we are there.  But it is guarded, man.  You can do what you want, but you can’t leave, no phone calls, nothing,” said Madani.

“They tell me you won’t talk to them.”

“No, I won’t,” said Madani.  “They send guys into talk to me who are incompetent.  They swagger in like James Bond, but they look like they have a stick up their ass, and they have the brains of a toad.  They are really stupid.  If these guys are in charge of our security, we are doomed.  To top it off, I’ve got no leverage with these guys.  They could send me off to Gitmo tomorrow and no one would look twice,” said Madani.

“You know they are recording what you say in this room,” said John.

“I know.  That’s why you’re here,” said Madani.  “You are the D.A.  If I get whacked or tortured, or sent to Gitmo, you are they guy who will tell the story.  You can tell the press, or write a book, or do something to get the message out.  You are my insurance.”

“So, tell me,” said John.

Madani spent the next 45 minutes telling John what he knew about Darby Rhodes, his brother’s death and what he thought was planned.  It was clear that Madani knew something was planned for September, and that it involved a lot of people.  He said it was being organized by Darby, and would be devastating to the country; but he lacked the specifics, the contacts, the actual timing and method of attack, although he gave an educated guess from information he received from Darby and the two dead middle easterners that shot Madani.  It was an obvious conclusion that the government needed Darby Rhodes.

Before John left Madani, Madani had John write down Madani's name, date of birth, address, social security number, and the names and addresses of several of his relatives.