Executive Privilege (27 page)

“We have other evidence that I’m not prepared to reveal at this time,” Evans bluffed.

The lawyer stood. “This has been very entertaining, but Mr. Hawkins and I have busy schedules.”

“I understand, but you should understand this. I really want Mr. Hawkins. The only reason I would even think of cutting a deal with him is my belief that the president may be involved. If he is, the only way your client is going to come out of this alive is by cooperating, and I’m not going to wait very long for your call.”

“I’ll let you know Mr. Hawkins’s position as soon as we’ve had a chance to confer,” Bischoff said as he ushered his client out of the office.

“What do you think?” Evans asked Maggie Sparks and Gordon Buss as soon as the door closed.

“I wouldn’t wait by the phone,” the AUSA answered. “You’ve got as much of a chance of cutting a deal with Hawkins as I do with Osama bin Laden.”

“Do you agree, Maggie?” Evans asked.

“I think the next time you talk to Hawkins he’ll be sitting in the witness box in a federal court.”

Evans sighed. “You’re probably right. I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.”

Roy Kineer wasn’t in, so Evans couldn’t report on his meeting with Hawkins and Bischoff right away. Instead he went back to his office and read over a report he’d received from Oregon that morning. Clarence Little’s pinkie collection had been printed. Laurie Erickson’s pinkie was not a part of it, but Peggy Farmer’s was. The report concluded that it was highly improbable that Little would have been able to kill Farmer and her boyfriend in Central Oregon and return to Salem in time to kill Laurie Erickson. The report cheered up Evans, who felt that the interview with Hawkins had been a complete bust.

Shortly before noon, Kineer’s secretary told Evans that Justice Kineer was back and wanted to be briefed about the meeting. Evans spent an hour with the judge before his boss left to have lunch with several members of the House Judiciary Committee.

Evans had his secretary pick up a sandwich for him, which he ate at his desk. He was halfway through it when the receptionist buzzed to tell him that Gary Bischoff was on the phone. Evans was surprised.

“What’s up, Gary?”

“Are you busy?” Bischoff asked. Evans thought he sounded upset.

“No, why?”

“We need to talk. Can you come to my office?”

“When?”

“Right now. Hawkins wants to cut a deal.”

Evans was stunned. “Okay,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“And come alone. This is between the three of us.”

“I’ll be there.”

Bischoff hung up without saying good-bye. Evans stared out the window, but he didn’t see a thing. He had to believe that Hawkins was thinking of pleading guilty against the advice of his counsel, but he couldn’t think of what he’d said that would have frightened a man as powerful as Hawkins into negotiating a guilty plea.

Gary Bischoff ’s law office occupied part of the first floor of an elegant red brick Federalist-style house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Georgetown. The stately home had been built in 1826 by a wealthy merchant, but Keith Evans was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the antiques, oil paintings, and period furniture that Bischoff used to furnish the place.

Bischoff ’s secretary showed the agent into an office in the back that looked out through leaded windows on a beautifully maintained garden where a very attractive woman was sunbathing in a lime bikini. Evans remembered reading that some years ago Bischoff and his first wife had been involved in a bloody divorce. He guessed that the woman in the backyard was Bischoff ’s trophy wife, which would explain Bischoff ’s rigorous exercise routine. She was at least fifteen years younger than the lawyer, who appeared to have aged since the morning meeting.

“I want you to understand that I’ve advised Mr. Hawkins against this course of action,” Bischoff said, straining to maintain a professional demeanor, “but he’s the client and he makes the ultimate decision on how he’ll proceed.”

“Okay, Gary, I understand.”

Evans studied Hawkins, who was sitting in a high-backed armchair, one leg crossed over the other, looking calm to the same degree that his attorney was agitated.

“Can I speak directly to Mr. Hawkins?”

Bischoff waved a hand at Evans, signaling that he wanted nothing to do with what was going to occur.

“Mr. Hawkins, may I record this conversation?” Evans asked as he took a cassette recorder out of his jacket pocket.

Hawkins nodded. Evans stated the date, the time, the place where the interview was being conducted, and the names of all present. Then he gave Hawkins his Miranda warnings.

“Mr. Hawkins, why are we here?” Evans asked as soon as Hawkins acknowledged the warnings.

“I want to plead guilty to the charges.”

“All of them?” Evans asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“I’ll have to see the indictments before I can answer that. But I’m prepared to accept responsibility for the crimes I committed.”

“You understand that conviction for some of these crimes can carry a death sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Gary says that he’s advised you that this meeting is not in your best interest. Is that true?”

“He told me that you don’t have much of a case. It’s his opinion that it would be very difficult for a prosecutor to get a conviction.”

“So why do you want to confess?”

“I’m Catholic. I have a conscience. I’ve done terrible things, and I want to atone for them.”

Evans didn’t buy the religious angle, but he wasn’t going to stop Hawkins if he wanted to confess.

“I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” the agent said, “so why don’t you tell me what crimes you believe you’ve committed?”

“Chuck, don’t do this,” Bischoff begged. “At least let me try to negotiate some concessions from the government.”

“I appreciate your concern, Gary, but I know what I’m doing. If the authorities want to show me mercy, they will. I’m in God’s hands now and I’m prepared to accept whatever He sees fit to give me.”

Evans got the impression that the attorney and his client had debated Hawkins’s position many times before his arrival, with Bischoff losing the argument every time.

“You were right about everything,” Hawkins told Evans. “I killed Rhonda Pulaski, Tim Houston—”

“That’s the chauffeur who saw President Farrington having sex with Pulaski?”

Hawkins’s features tightened. When he spoke his tone was as cold as his eyes.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m guilty of many things, but disloyalty to Christopher Farrington is not one of them. He’s not responsible for my actions and I will not discuss him. If you insist on asking about the president of the United States this meeting will end.”

“Okay, I accept that. Go ahead.”

“I killed Mr. Houston. I also murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh.”

“Why did you kill Erickson?”

“She was going to make false accusations against the president. She demanded money. Even though the accusations were false his career would have been ruined.”

“How did you kill Erickson?”

“I left the papers for Chris’s speech in my office in the mansion on purpose to give me an excuse to return. She was very slender. I knocked her out, wrapped her in sheets, and sent her down the laundry chute. I bound and gagged her in the basement, smuggled her out the basement door, put her in the trunk of my car, and returned to the fund-raiser. I’d read the police reports of Clarence Little’s crimes. Later that night, I duplicated his modus operandi.”

“Was Laurie Erickson alive during the fund-raiser?”

Hawkins nodded, and the image of the terrified girl, bound and gagged in suffocating darkness, made it difficult for Evans to maintain his composure.

“What about Charlotte Walsh?”

“Cutler sent me a voice mail telling me where she’d parked. I disabled her car and waited until she came back to the lot. Then I knocked her out, bound and gagged her, put her in my trunk, and drove to the farm to meet with the president.”

“Was Walsh in your trunk while you were at the farm?”

Hawkins nodded.

“She was alive?”

Hawkins nodded again. “As soon as I could get away I killed her, duplicating the Ripper’s MO. Then I left her in the Dumpster.”

“Why did you have Dale Perry hire Cutler?”

“I didn’t trust Walsh. I knew what had happened with Pulaski and Erickson. Those girls were a threat to the president’s career. He’s a great man. The country needs him. I couldn’t let those whores bring him down.”

For the first time, Hawkins’s voice trembled with emotion. Evans might have some questions about Farrington’s involvement, but he had no doubt about the depth of Hawkins’s commitment to the president.

“If you already felt that Walsh was a threat, why did you need to have her followed?”

“I don’t think you need to know that.”

Evans could see that there were problems with Hawkins’s story, but he decided that he wouldn’t pressure Hawkins now. He’d let him talk himself out, put him behind bars, and hit him again when he’d had a nice taste of jail.

“Did Dale Perry commit suicide, did you kill him, or did you order Oscar Tierney or someone else to go after Cutler?”

“I don’t want to discuss Dale Perry’s death.”

“We’re going to cut Tierney a deal, so it won’t hurt him.”

“I may not have made myself clear, Agent Evans. I will tell you what I did but I will not implicate anyone else in a crime. I’m prepared to die for what I’ve done, but I won’t take anyone down with me. And don’t waste your time trying to persuade me to change my mind. I’m going to be executed, so there really isn’t anything you can use to threaten me.”

Evans saw nothing that convinced him that the president’s aide could be moved.

“Mr. Hawkins, based on what you’ve told me I’m going to place you under arrest on kidnapping charges for taking Charlotte Walsh across state lines. We’ll sort out all of the charges and the jurisdictional disputes later. Would you please stand and place your hands behind your back.”

Hawkins did as he was told, and Evans snapped on a pair of cuffs.

“Maggie,” Evans said into his cell phone, “I’m at Gary Bischoff ’s office. I need you and Gordon down here. Charles Hawkins has confessed to several murders.”

Evans paused while Sparks said something.

“I’ll go into it later. We need to book Hawkins, and I have to brief Justice Kineer. Can you get him back to headquarters for a meeting?”

Evans hung up and turned his attention back to the president’s aide.

“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Hawkins, but I think your loyalty to the president is misplaced. Your loyalty shouldn’t be to the man but to the office and to the country Christopher Farrington swore to serve. If the president conspired with you to commit the crimes to which you’ve confessed he has betrayed his oath and he has betrayed the American people.”

Justice Kineer had deserted his congressional lunch companions in the middle of their meal after telling Maggie Sparks to have a war council assembled by the time he returned to the office. When Keith Evans, Gordon Buss, and Maggie Sparks returned from booking Hawkins into jail they found the conference room packed with lawyers and investigators waiting to hear what had happened.

“Give me your best shot about what’s going on here,” Kineer asked Evans when the agent finished his summary of his meeting with Hawkins and Bischoff.

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Hawkins is falling on his sword to protect the president.”

“Convicting Hawkins will be a hollow victory if Farrington is involved in the death of those girls and he skates. Can we do anything to prevent that from happening?” Kineer asked.

“Hawkins is the key,” Evans said. “I can’t think of anyone who can nail Farrington if Hawkins clams up, and believe me I’ve been thinking of nothing else since Hawkins told me he wouldn’t talk about Farrington.”

Kineer looked around the conference room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we all give this our undivided attention because our mission is to determine what involvement, if any, President Farrington has in these murders. If he’s innocent, so be it. If he’s guilty, we have to prove it. We need to decide if we can do that without Hawkins’s cooperation. Does anyone have any bright ideas?”

After forty-five minutes of unproductive discussion Kineer shooed everyone but Evans out of the room.

“I notice you didn’t have much to add to our discussion,” the judge said.

“I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“Is Farrington guilty, Keith?”

The excitement Keith had felt when Hawkins confessed had died away and the agent looked depressed.

“My gut tells me he is, but I don’t think we can touch him if Hawkins won’t talk.”

“Can he be made to talk?”

“It’s going to be tough. Hawkins is fanatically loyal. He’s idolized Farrington since his college days, and he feels that he owes him his life. He has no family. He has acquaintances but no friends except for the Farringtons. Everything in his life revolves around the president and it has for a long time. I think he’s going to say that he committed all of these crimes on his own. Everyone will believe him because he’ll come off looking like a crazed killer who deluded himself into believing that the murders were necessary.

“But say he changes his story and implicates Farrington. The president’s lawyer will crucify Hawkins by reading back all of the statements in which he exonerates Farrington. I think he’s got us, judge.”

Brad got back to his apartment just before three after spending the morning and early afternoon at a law firm interviewing for a job. As soon as he checked for phone messages and e-mail, he changed into running gear. Now that all he had was free time, he was finally able to keep his resolution to exercise.

Working out hadn’t been easy right after the shoot-out. Every time he left his apartment he had to run a gauntlet of reporters who wanted to know what had happened at the Erickson house. Television vans crowded the parking lot at his apartment complex and reporters tied up his phone lines at all hours. Brad wanted to tell everybody what he knew about the Clarence Little case, but Keith Evans had explained that the independent counsel’s investigation could be compromised if he talked to the press, so Brad had been forced to stick to “no comment.”

Shortly after the last reporter called him about the shoot-out, a reporter from the
Portland Clarion
, Portland’s alternative newspaper, phoned to ask Brad to comment on Paul Baylor’s report, which had concluded that Peggy Farmer’s pinkie was in with the rest of the fingers, but Laurie Erickson’s was nowhere to be found. Brad knew about the report because Ginny had used her feminine wiles to get information out of the associate Tuchman had assigned to take over Little’s appeal, but he had no idea how the reporter had learned about the pinkies. When the reporter said that a confidential source had given him the information Brad suspected immediately that the leak originated with Ginny. His suspicions grew stronger when the reporter told him that the anonymous caller had suggested that Brad had been fired for pursuing the
Little
case too vigorously because of Susan Tuchman’s ties to the president.

A few days later, a scathing editorial in the
Clarion
condemned Tuchman for firing an associate who’d gone above and beyond the call of duty to try to prove that a client had been unjustly convicted of murder. The editorial pointed out that Brad had put principle above public opinion by risking his life to see justice done even though his client was detestable.

Brad showered when he finished his run. Then he called Ginny to discuss their plans for the evening.

“Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.”

“Ginny Striker, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?’

“Jeremy Reid of Penzler Electronics.”

“One moment, please.”

Brad waited for Ginny to answer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Thank goodness you were smart enough to use an alias. You have no idea how persona non grata you are around here since the
Clarion
published that editorial.”

“Tuchman deserves everything she gets.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but it would mean my job if anyone found out we were dating.”

“Is that what we’re doing? I thought I was bartering food for sex.”

“Pig. So, how was the interview?”

“Good. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Will you want to go to the movie straight from work or will you have enough time to go home, change, and come back downtown.”

“I’m not certain I’ll have time for a movie and dinner. I’ll call you when I’ve got a handle on my workload. Are you going to be at home?”

“That’s where I am now. I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Okay. Let me try to clear my desk. I’ll see you soon.”

Brad felt a little guilty that Ginny had to work while he spent his days as he pleased. Besides running, he’d hiked in the mountains and at the coast and had gone to an occasional movie. Then there were the pleasant afternoons sitting on his deck reading a book and sipping a cool drink. The life of leisure sure beat toiling away in the bowels of Reed, Briggs, but Brad knew those days were numbered. He’d have to get a job soon if he wanted to feed himself and keep a roof over his head.

Ginny joined him on the weekends when work permitted and he’d been spending his nights at her place when she wasn’t too tired. Brad was a fair chef. On two occasions he’d spent an afternoon working up an elaborate menu for their evening meal. Ginny had paid him back with some of the best sex ever and all the office gossip she could dig up.

Another way Brad spent his time when he wasn’t hiking, cooking, or looking for work was by keeping up with the independent counsel’s investigation. He’d absorbed every piece of information about it in
Exposed
, the
New York Times
, and other media outlets. He knew more about the case than most. While they were driving to Marsha Erickson’s house Dana Cutler had told him what had happened after Dale Perry hired her to tail Charlotte Walsh. Most of that information had been in
Exposed
, but Brad had learned about the shoot-out at the motel, which had happened after she’d given Patrick Gorman the story.

Keith Evans checked in on Brad from time to time because Brad was a witness. When they talked, Brad pumped the FBI agent for news, but Evans was tight-lipped and Brad rarely got any information that the media didn’t have.

To kill time until Ginny called, Brad read about new evidence against Charles Hawkins that the
New York Times
had unearthed. A photographer had snapped a shot in the meeting room at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. The photograph showed Hawkins off to one side answering his cell phone as the first lady finished posing with the last contributor in front of President Roosevelt’s clock. The clock read 9:37, which was around the time Dana Cutler said she’d phoned her mystery client with the news that Charlotte Walsh was returning to the Dulles Towne Center lot from the farm.

Something about the photo bothered Brad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it out on the deck. While he watched the traffic on the river he sipped from his cup and worried the problem, but nothing came to him. He was still stumped when Ginny called.

Brad was lost in a swamp, fighting his way through mud that sucked at his shoes and vines so thick that he could barely see where he was going. The heat was unbearable—a heavy blanket that wrapped around him, making it hard to move or breathe. From somewhere in the swamp two women begged him for help and he despaired that there wasn’t time to rescue both of them. He wanted to give up but he couldn’t.

In the dream, Ginny stood next to him. Instead of offering encouragement, she calmly informed him, “It just can’t be done. There isn’t enough time to go one place then get to the other.”

Brad shot up in bed, his heart pounding. He knew what had bothered him the day before. When he spoke to Ginny after returning from his run Brad had asked if she had enough time to go home and change before coming downtown or if she was just going to go to the movie straight from work. Ginny had told him that she might not have time to go to a movie and eat dinner.

Brad groped for the light on his nightstand and turned it on. He was bathed in sweat, and his breathing was labored. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to calm down. The important thing was to hold on to the dream. In it Brad was panicky because there wasn’t enough time to be in two places at one time. His subconscious was trying to point out that on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder Charles Hawkins had been faced with the same predicament. Had everyone been going at this case the wrong way?

The clock on Brad’s nightstand said it was 5:58. He knew there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he went into the bathroom and prepared to face the day. While he brushed his teeth, Brad made a plan of action. He would eat breakfast then reread everything that bore on the time element. Just as he ducked under the medium hot spray in the shower a sudden thought distracted him. He paused, the bar of soap in his hand and water cascading down his face and chest. There had been something in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report that had made no impression on him when he read it. Now the memory triggered a really scary idea.

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.”