False Witness (28 page)

“You did what?” Snead snapped when Isaiah told him about the meeting with Parcelli. “If I told the state bar about that, they probably wouldn't even let you sit for the exam this summer.”

Isaiah ignored the dig as he and Jamie tag-teamed the story, a strategy they had planned in advance. By the time they finished, Snead had already turned two shades darker and snapped a pencil that he had been fingering as the students talked.

Jamie cleared her throat and prepared to offer a solution. “We think we should file suit for specific performance of the memorandum of understanding,” she explained. “That agreement specifies that the government will provide the Hoffmans with new identities if the Hoffmans' true identities are discovered through no fault of their own. We should petition the court to enforce that promise by providing a court-approved supervisor to ensure that only a limited and highly selective number of people in the marshals' office are involved this time.”

“If the Hoffmans breached the memorandum of understanding, they can't ask for specific performance,” Snead growled. “It's black-letter law, Ms. Brock.”

“According to what Stacie Hoffman told us, there is no breach of the agreement,” Isaiah interjected. “Her husband didn't receive the algorithm until forty-eight hours after Kumari died. By then, the Hoffmans had already given the police taped statements, taken a lie detector test, and signed the memorandum of understanding. The statements they made about not having the algorithm were truthful at the time. Later on, during their grand jury and trial testimony, nobody asked them if they possessed the algorithm. From the government's perspective, the less said about the algorithm at that point, the better.”

Snead did a quick little head shake, and the jowls jiggled. Up close, Jamie was struck by the dark and baggy circles under the man's reddened eyes—the toll of a life under constant pressure. “Even if you can prove that the Hoffmans didn't lie about the algorithm, you're still not out of the woods,” Snead lectured. “How can you say the Hoffmans aren't at fault when the entire reason they were discovered was because they tried to sell the algorithm on the black market?”

Jamie prepared to answer, but Isaiah jumped in again. “Because they
didn't
try to sell it, Walter.” She saw Snead bristle at the use of his first name, but Isaiah just kept talking. “Stacie swears they didn't contact Johnny Chin. Maybe there's a mob informant inside the marshals' office who gave the mob Hoffman's location and then sent the letter, hoping the feds would blame Hoffman for revealing his own location. Maybe Chin heard that the mob had found Hoffman, and so Chin comes up with this brilliant idea of writing himself a letter that appears to be from Hoffman. Chin gives the letter to the authorities, hoping they'll knock some time off his prison sentence and also believe that Hoffman caused his own downfall.”

“Pretty far-fetched,” Snead growled. He turned to Jamie. “Who do you think sent that letter?”

Isaiah nudged her foot, but she ignored him. “I honestly don't know, Professor. I want to believe the Hoffmans didn't send it, but these other scenarios that Isaiah threw out leave a lot of questions. Why would a mob informant write such a letter? Why not just tell the mob where Hoffman is living and be done with it? And how would Johnny Chin know that the Hoffmans had the algorithm?”

“Why are we working so hard to talk ourselves out of this?” Isaiah interjected. “Right now, David Hoffman is a client of the legal aid clinic. It's our job to defend him and his wife, not second-guess what they're telling us. You've called it the red-faced test, Professor. Make every argument possible in favor of your client unless you turn red from embarrassment while making it. And in case you hadn't noticed, that test can take me a long way.”

Snead thought about this for a moment, looking past the students, over their shoulders, as if trying to discern what to do by looking at his own picture on the office wall. What would Walter Snead, Supreme Court advocate, do?

Eventually he turned back to Isaiah. “I'm impressed with your
passion
for this client,” he said. His voice was a low rumble emanating from a cigarette-damaged voice box. “Something I wish you had more of in my class. And I'm impressed with Ms. Brock's candor. . . .”

Jamie winced at the backhanded dig intended for Isaiah.

“But I can't let you risk your careers on a case like this. We're not dealing with a hypothetical moot court case here. This client has the feds frustrated with him and the mob after him. Ms. Brock has already been threatened. You both have promising legal careers. I won't allow you to jeopardize them this way.”

Snead pushed back from his desk a little—a sign the meeting was over. “Ms. Brock, prepare a motion for state court withdrawing from the representation of Mr. Hoffman.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Jamie could see the storm clouds on Isaiah's face.

“Good day,” Snead said.

The students stood. “That letter,” Isaiah said, pointing to the handwritten note framed on Snead's wall, “is that from one of your first tobacco clients?”

“Yes.” Snead gave it the look of a proud papa. “She lost her husband to cancer at age thirty-eight. She was left alone to raise twins—three-year-olds—and a baby. We didn't bring him back, but we got the widow 5.8 million.”

“I wonder how many people tried to talk you out of that one,” Isaiah said. “Nobody beat big tobacco back then.”

Snead hesitated for a moment, taking in the point. “That didn't involve the mob, Mr. Haywood. This case is different.”

In the hallway outside the office, Isaiah sarcastically thanked Jamie for her help. “I thought you wanted to take this case, too,” he said.

“I did. But not if I had to mislead my own supervising attorney in order to get permission. Everything I said in there, Snead would have eventually figured out. I didn't want him pulling the plug on this thing just before we went to court or something. It's better to put everything on the table now.”

Isaiah frowned, shook his head, and walked away. His silence hurt Jamie more than any argument would have. Still, she felt she had done the right thing.

Ten minutes later, the same woman who couldn't tell a lie to her law school professor was doing a pretty good job misleading her brother. “I'm into kind of a complicated situation with the condo right now,” she said. “I'm getting it all straightened out and should be able to have a pet again soon. Could you possibly keep Snowball for a few more days?”

“No problem,” Chris said.

It wasn't a total lie. She
was
having some complicated problems. What bothered her most was the feeling that she couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys in this endeavor. Jamie viewed the law in simple terms. Black-and-white. Crime and punishment. But in the witness protection program, especially with a client who seemed like a con artist, all the world could be painted in shades of gray.

Why should she put her life on the line for that?

47

Snead was in another foul mood for Thursday's class—as berating and hostile as Jamie had ever seen him. As class began, Jamie thought that either she or Isaiah would be first on the chopping block since they had both passed when called on in class the last two weeks. Despite her chaotic life, this time Jamie was ready.

But Snead ignored them both, even when Jamie twice raised her hand to help out the stumbling student who had been chosen. It was as if Jamie didn't exist. It dawned on her that Snead might not call on her for the rest of the semester, thereby ensuring that she could never make up for the bad class participation grade she had earned on Tuesday.

When class ended, Jamie could feel the hypercharged tension seeping from the room like air out of a punctured tire. Jamie's own neck and back muscles began to relax. How could a teacher she didn't even respect have that much effect on her? Most of the students quickly packed their books and computers, anxious to leave this class behind, but a few of the usual brownnosing suspects made their way to the front so they could ask Snead a few impressive questions.

“Ms. Brock and Mr. Haywood!” Snead's voiced boomed over the bustling classroom. “I would like to speak with you for a moment before you leave.”

Jamie looked at Isaiah, who gave her an I-don't-know shrug. They both sauntered down to the front of the classroom and waited patiently as the other students asked Snead their questions and acted interested in his answers. Well, at least Jamie waited patiently. Isaiah made a big show of looking at his watch and, after a few minutes, asked Jamie if she knew when they might be done because he had another class to study for.

Not to be rushed, Snead waited until he had answered every question and then waited a while longer as the other students left the classroom. By then, Isaiah was a bundle of nerves and energy, shifting from one foot to the other, checking his watch, even text-messaging a few of his friends.

“Thank you for waiting,” Snead said in his normal monotone drone. The students nodded. “I've decided that your idea of petitioning the court for injunctive relief in the Hoffman case might have some merit. I will act as your supervising attorney. As our clients are in danger and time is therefore of the essence, I will expect you to have a motion for preliminary injunction ready to file tomorrow. We should ask that a hearing be scheduled for Monday. Mr. Haywood, I will leave it to you to obtain the clients' permission.”

Jamie couldn't believe what she was hearing! This same man, just hours earlier, had pooh-poohed this idea. Now here he was—not only acquiescing to the case, but affirmatively directing it.

What happened?

“There is, however, one condition.” Snead looked directly at Isaiah. “I want Mr. Farnsworth to work the case with you.”

“Wellington Farnsworth?” Isaiah was incredulous.

“Do you know another Mr. Farnsworth?” Snead asked.

“Why do we need
him
?”

Snead placed his books under his arm and started toward the steps. He stopped and turned long enough to get the final word. “Mr. Farnsworth is the best writer I have in any of my classes this year. He has matriculated at Southeastern for two years and received only one B, the rest As. He graduated from Old Dominion with a perfect 4.0 as a math major. If the nature of this algorithm becomes an issue—for example, the government claims that national security is at risk, a student like Mr. Farnsworth could prove invaluable. Of course, since he is not yet a third-year, I would expect the two of you to handle all courtroom proceedings.”

Snead turned and started limping up the steps. “Good day.”

Isaiah and Jamie returned to their seats and packed up their backpacks. Neither spoke until Snead left the room.

“What was that all about?” Jamie asked.

“I don't know,” Isaiah answered. “But the law firm of Haywood and Brock is open for business.”

“I think you mean Brock, Haywood, and Farnsworth.”

Isaiah snorted. “Snead said that Farnsworth had to be on the team. He didn't say we actually had to give him anything to do.”

Later that afternoon, in another small library conference room, Jamie met with Isaiah and Wellington to lay out a game plan for their case. Wellington showed up in blue dress shorts, sandals, and a button-down Hawaiian shirt that should have been a size or two bigger. He had on thick reading glasses and hadn't bothered to comb his blond hair all day, as far as Jamie could tell.

Isaiah took it upon himself to dish out assignments. “I'll handle the witnesses. Jamie, you can handle the legal arguments and closing statement. Wellington, why don't you draft the complaint and motion for preliminary injunction?”

With only twenty-four hours to get the initial pleadings filed, Isaiah had apparently reconsidered whether Wellington should be given any assignments, at least insofar as grunt work was concerned. Maybe his new plan was to make Wellington work all night.