Executive Privilege

After finishing in the bathroom, Brad put up coffee and toasted a bagel. As soon as he was done with breakfast, he started reviewing the file in Clarence Little’s case and the articles about the Erickson and Walsh murders he had collected. It was almost eight when he finished reading the item he’d intentionally saved for last, Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report. Brad sat back and stared at the wall across from the couch. A colorful print he’d purchased from a street artist in Greenwich Village hung over the fireplace, but he didn’t see it. His thoughts were elsewhere.

When he’d worked the problem through, Brad went into his bedroom and got his appointment book. A few weeks ago, one of the partners had ordered him to call a doctor at home in the evening after court had recessed in a medical malpractice trial. He’d written the number in his book. The witness was the only doctor he knew in Portland. When the doctor picked up the phone, Brad asked him a question. When the doctor answered it, Brad felt sick. He hung up and sat quietly for a few moments. Then he found Keith Evans’s card and dialed his cell phone. The agent answered after a few rings.

“This is Brad Miller. I’m calling from Portland.”

“What’s up, Brad?”

“I had an idea.”

“Yes,” Evans prodded when Brad hesitated.

“It’s kind of crazy.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Can you answer a question about the autopsy report in Charlotte Walsh’s case first?”

“I will if I can.”

“Is there any evidence that Walsh received a stab wound to her brainstem?”

Evans was silent for a moment while he tried to recall the details of the report.

“Yes, I think there was something about that in the report,” he answered. “Why?”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say but I think you have a problem.”

Chapter Forty-three

The events that followed Brad’s call to Keith Evans would have been very exciting if Brad wasn’t scared to death. First there was the black car filled with very serious FBI agents that spirited him away from his apartment less than an hour after Evans ended their call. Then there was the nonstop flight on the FBI jet to a military airfield somewhere near Washington, D.C., followed by the drive from the airfield to the safe house where Dana Cutler was living and the warning to stay inside and away from the windows so snipers would not have a good shot. And then there was the most terrifying part of the whole affair for someone who was a good but not great attorney-explaining his theory to retired United States Supreme Court Justice Roy Kineer, one of the greatest minds in jurisprudential history.

Brad guessed that Justice Kineer had a lot of practice greeting awe-struck neophyte attorneys because Kineer did everything he could to put Brad at ease when Keith Evans ushered him and Dana Cutler into the conference room at the offices of the independent counsel.

“Mr. Miller, thank you so much for coming,” the judge said as he extended his hand and flashed a big smile. “Agent Evans was effusive in his praise for your deductive abilities, and I’m very anxious to hear your theory.”

Brad couldn’t think of anything to say so he flashed a nervous smile.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Kineer asked. “We have coffee, tea, and soft drinks, and we might even be able to rustle up a latte, or whatever is popular in your neck of the woods? I hear there’s a Starbucks not far from here.”

“Actually, New York is my neck of the woods. I just moved to Portland. So black coffee would be great, if it’s no trouble?”

Kineer’s smile shifted to Dana. “I’m also very pleased to finally meet you, Miss Cutler. Can I get you something?”

“I’m fine.”

“No thanks to Charles Hawkins from what I hear. It seems that you’ve had several close calls.”

The judge sent a young assistant to get Brad’s coffee. Then he turned to the nervous attorney.

“Let’s get down to business, Brad. Can you sit by me? I’m a little hard of hearing.”

Kineer went to the head of a small conference table. Evans sat at the other end with Cutler beside him. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early thirties sat across from Brad. The man had a notepad in front of him. The woman looked intense. Kineer introduced them as staff attorneys.

“So, what do you have for us?” he asked Brad, who suddenly doubted every clever deduction he’d made. It had been one thing to speculate about the case in his apartment and another to explain it to Roy Kineer.

“I could be way off base on this,” Brad hedged.

“Mr. Miller, I respect people who think outside the box. You can get A’s on law school exams by having a good memory, but you can’t ace a real case without exercising a little creativity. So let’s have it. The worst thing that will happen is that you’ll be wrong.” Kineer smiled. “If you are I promise it will not go on your permanent record. And if you’re right-and Agent Evans thinks you may be-then you’ll have saved us all from looking like fools.”

“Okay. We know that President Farrington couldn’t have personally killed Charlotte Walsh.”

“Agreed,” Kineer said.

“Well, Mr. Hawkins couldn’t have done it either. It takes about forty-five minutes to go from the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel to the Dulles Towne Center mall, about an hour to go from the mall to the safe house, and roughly an hour to go from the hotel to the CIA safe house. The picture in the New York Times proves that Hawkins was still at the hotel at nine-thirty-seven.

“We know that Charlotte Walsh was dropped off at the mall around eleven and the Secret Service logged Hawkins in at the farm at eleven-fifteen. If Hawkins got to the mall around ten-thirty and waited to kill Walsh at eleven, there’s no way he could have gotten to the safe house at eleven-fifteen. If he went from the hotel to the farm and arrived at eleven-fifteen, there’s no way he could have killed Walsh after she returned to her car.”

“We’ve already worked that out,” the judge said, “but it’s encouraging to see that you know enough about the case to come to the same conclusion.”

“Okay, well, Hawkins has men who are willing to commit murder for him. He sent them to Dana’s apartment, Marsha Erickson’s house, the hospital, and the motel in West Virginia. So Hawkins could still be guilty of Walsh’s murder as an aider and abettor. But there’s a problem with this theory. The earliest Hawkins could have learned about the location of Walsh’s car in the mall was eight, when Cutler phoned in her report, but there’s no record of anyone phoning to retrieve voice messages from any spot in the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel that’s co

“Also, Tierney denies that he or any of his team killed Walsh. He could be lying, but seeing that he’s already admitted to several murders it wouldn’t make much sense to deny killing Walsh.”

“We’re with you so far, Brad,” Kineer said.

“Once I realized that President Farrington and Hawkins couldn’t have murdered Walsh personally and it was improbable that men working for Hawkins or the president had committed the murder I started to wonder if everyone wasn’t approaching the case from the wrong direction. We’ve been assuming that Rhonda Pulaski, Laurie Erickson, and Charlotte Walsh were murdered because they were a threat to Christopher Farrington’s political career, but they all have something else in common. Farrington was cheating on his wife with each of them, and that gave Claire Farrington one of the oldest motives in the book to kill them. When that thought occurred to me I remembered something I’d read in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report.