False Witness (54 page)

Carzak stopped and turned toward Snead. The man had a look of false bravado, but Carzak saw sweat beads on his forehead. “I knew the marshals and the FBI wouldn't turn Hoffman over to the mob. Heck, we didn't even know he had kept the algorithm. And it sure didn't make sense for Hoffman to turn himself over either.”

“Is there a question in that parade of sentences?” Snead growled. “Or are we all just here to watch you grandstand?”

Carzak gave the witness a pleasant but condescending look. “Okay, Mr. Snead, here's a question. And keep in mind that my computer techs can access
every
document ever created on your hard drive, including ones you thought you had deleted.” Carzak paused to study the witness. Snead glared back. “Did you or did you not create and send the letter to Johnny Chin that purportedly came from your client?”

“I most emphatically did not.”

Carzak smiled. His computer techs had, in fact, searched in vain for the letter on Snead's hard drive. But Carzak wasn't finished. The witness was feeling cocky. It was time for the counterpunch.

“Did you or did you not, on February 14 of this year, exactly twelve days before Mr. Chin received that letter, access the website for the Federal Bureau of Prisons and use the inmate locator function to determine where Johnny Chin was being held?”

“Which proves nothing,” Snead countered without hesitation. He shifted in his seat so he could address the jury directly. “Since the attorney-client privilege does not allow me to reveal the details of any conversations with my clients, allow me to pose a hypothetical. Let's suppose that Mr. Hoffman was concerned that the Manchurian Triad might find out about his renewed efforts to sell the algorithm to legitimate companies. Suppose he expressed that concern during one of our meetings. Wouldn't you expect to see a federal inmate locator search on my computer, not just for Johnny Chin, but for every other member of the Manchurian Triad who had been convicted four years ago as well?”

With the question hanging in the air, Snead turned back to Carzak. “Why don't you tell the jury the total number of names you found associated with that search, Mr. Carzak? Why don't you try telling the jury the
whole
truth?”

Carzak wiped the pleasantries from his face. Snead had indeed been careful—probably typing the letter on some obscure computer, even covering his tracks when he searched for Chin's address. “The whole truth,” Carzak repeated, nodding. “Fair enough. You represented the Hoffmans. You tried to sell the algorithm to legitimate companies but could not because it had been encrypted. At the same time, you started feeling the heat from the Los Angeles investigation. You stood to lose everything—your career, your freedom, your money.” As he spoke, a genuine anger sharpened Carzak's words.

This
was why lawyers had a bad name.
This man
—selling out his client for his own self-preservation. A breach of the nearly sacred trust given to lawyers. A man who treated clients like commodities, justice like a game. And Carzak was stuck with
him
as a witness.

He had to use Snead. But he didn't have to like it.

“Then it dawns on you, Mr. Snead. The feds would probably do anything to get their hands on this algorithm. If you put your own client in harm's way and let the feds know this algorithm was still out there, you could probably work out a deal where you end up getting immunity along with your client. So you send a letter to Chin under Hoffman's name and contact the Manchurian Triad to let them know the general area where Hoffman is living. Then you have the audacity to sue the federal government, committing fraud on the court by claiming that
we
were the ones who sent the letter to Chin. At the first opportunity, you propose a deal that will give you immunity and make you part of the witness protection program. How am I doing, Mr. Snead?”

“
Alice in Wonderland
, Mr. Carzak. You spin a wonderful fairy tale.”

“Do you deny under oath that you contacted the Manchurian Triad, Mr. Snead? Do you deny telling them about a scheduled court appearance by Hoffman?”

It had all come to this—Snead's moment of truth. Carzak's long speech really had just one purpose: to frustrate the witness and rile him up. To throw him off-balance and make him more likely to react. Snead was right—the computer evidence was circumstantial at best. But on this pending question—whether Snead contacted the triad to tell them about Hoffman's location—the evidence was direct. If Snead denied it, Carzak would have him for perjury. And that would only be the start.

How could Snead even make contact with the Manchurian Triad?
Carzak had wondered.
What conduit did he use to inform them about Hoffman's location?
It wasn't through Chin—he had only received the typed letter that didn't say anything about Hoffman's court hearing. It dawned on Carzak late Monday afternoon, after hours of rehearsing Snead's grand jury testimony.

The plastic surgeon—Dr. Silvoso. He had worked with the triad to facilitate Hoffman's first kidnapping. He might know how to get a message through to the mob.

When Carzak squeezed Silvoso, the surgeon squealed. Yes, Snead had recently contacted him. Yes, Silvoso had passed a message on to some members of the Manchurian Triad. The rest of it Carzak had pieced together on his own.

“Do you deny it?” Carzak pressed. “Do you deny that about three weeks ago Mr. Hoffman came to you with a routine legal matter? Do you deny telling him that he could save some money by going through legal aid and you would still oversee the matter? Do you deny not only sending the letter to Chin but also sending a separate message to the Manchurian Triad, through a plastic surgeon named Dr. Silvoso, about Hoffman's scheduled court hearing?”

This time Snead paused, his brilliant mind churning through the possibilities. “I'm asserting my Fifth Amendment rights as a U.S. citizen, Mr. Carzak.” The rage darkened Snead's face as he spoke, his voice a mere growl. “I refuse to answer these ridiculous questions.”

91

Friday, April 25

Allan Carzak, U.S. attorney for the northern district of Georgia, and Eva Salazar, his counterpart for the southern district of California, coordinated their announcements of the groundbreaking indictments under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act and various other federal statutes. An Atlanta-based grand jury had returned multiple indictments against eleven members of the Manchurian Triad, including Huang Xu and Li Gwah. State charges, including crimes punishable by death, were expected to follow. A Los Angeles–based grand jury indicted seven prominent L.A. lawyers and three California state court judges.

For all the hoopla, there was no indictment against Walter Snead. It was Carzak's decision, and despite the protests of Parcelli and several other FBI agents, Carzak was comfortable he had made the right call. Snead had been smart enough not to perjure himself during the grand jury proceedings. Carzak probably could have built a case against Snead for defrauding the government, but an indictment against Snead would divert focus from Carzak's main prosecution of the triad leaders. Even worse, it would give the triad's defense lawyers some ammunition for their arguments and might jeopardize the entire grand jury proceeding.

Plus, Carzak didn't want to set a precedent for prosecuting government witnesses who provided vital information under the witness protection program. Carzak would go after the big fish. He had wanted to put the fear of God into Snead. Nothing more.

Saturday, April 26

Seminole, Florida

Walter Snead celebrated the indictments by gambling the night away at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino Hollywood, a Seminole casino located an hour from his waterfront condo in West Palm Beach. He arrived home a few hours before the sun came up, somewhere around 4:00 a.m. As he climbed out of his three-day-old silver Mercedes, parked in the soft lighting of his own driveway, he took a sniper's bullet to the base of the skull. The coroner concluded Snead was dead before he hit the ground.

Allan Carzak found out about Snead's assassination through a phone call from Sam Parcelli, who didn't seem the least bit distraught as he recounted the events. “One day we discover that Snead defrauds the government so he can get immunity. Next thing I know, somebody shoots him in the back of the head. Clean shot from nearly two hundred yards away. Sounds to me like a professional hit man.”

The casualness of Parcelli's description, the lack of concern in his voice, the way he practically gloated over Snead's death—it was all too much for the normally unflappable Carzak.

“We can't lose witnesses like this,” Carzak said sharply. “I don't care how much you dislike the guy; it's your job to keep him alive. The entire witness protection program is only as good as our ability to protect witnesses. And frankly, Sam, you and the marshals' office have done a miserable job on this one.”

“I hear you,” Parcelli said drily. “I'm all broken up about it.”

“Doesn't sound that way to me,” Carzak fired back. He took a deep breath and calmed down a little. Allan Carzak wasn't the type to lose his cool or hold a grudge. What good would it do? His success ultimately depended on good relations with FBI agents, including agents like Sam Parcelli who happened to be first-class jerks. Carzak hadn't come this far by burning bridges. Instead, he built trust. He couldn't let the death of one crooked lawyer tear down the trust he had spent years nurturing with his counterparts at the FBI.

Carzak lowered his voice and adopted a much more conciliatory tone. “For the record,” he said, “if anybody asks, I reamed you out good on this one.”

“And for the record,” Parcelli said, “this was my response: we haven't lost a witness yet unless he violated the terms of his memorandum of understanding or lied to get the agreement in the first place.”

Carzak wanted to get along, but he just couldn't let that one go. “What's your record on the others?” he asked. “What percentage do we lose if they're careless enough to violate provisions of their agreements?”

“Nobody keeps records on them,” Parcelli said.

“Well, maybe somebody should.”

The phone line was quiet for a few moments, and then Parcelli spoke. This time, he was the one who toned it down a notch. “Look, Allan, I don't like it any better than you. But despite all of its flaws, the witness protection program is still one of the best things we have going.”

“Try telling that to Walter Snead.”

92

Monday, April 28

Clayton, Georgia

The grand jury room in Rabun County was a far cry from the grandeur of federal court. The room was cramped and humid, a large window AC unit working furiously to complement the overtaxed central air system. Even so, Jamie estimated the indoor temperature to be in the low eighties.

The county prosecutor was Rex Stafford, a zealous law-and-order advocate in a county where they still believed in shooting the bad guys first and letting God sort them out later. Rex was a former basketball star for the Rabun County Wildcats and coached at the school as a part-time assistant to help make ends meet. He wore cowboy boots and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His suit coat was flung over a wooden chair. Like everyone in Rabun County, he was a friend of Jamie's brother, Chris.

Rex had agreed to pursue this case for two reasons. First, he didn't like the feds. And second, Chris had called in a favor. But Rex warned Jamie that the evidence was pretty thin even for the low standards needed to get an indictment. “Grand juries up here have minds of their own,” he said.

Jamie settled into the witness stand, slightly unnerved by the stares of the sixteen grand jurors. They seemed intrigued, if a little skeptical, by a third-year law student from the big city. Rex walked her through the background information—how she came to represent David Hoffman, the threat by the mob to herself and Snowball, the hearing in federal court requesting a new witness protection deal for Hoffman. She was careful not to mention anything about the algorithm. The jurors were at least interested, she could tell that much. This was a far cry from the trespassing and disorderly conduct disputes that formed their normal fare.

Interest turned to sympathy when she testified about the poisoning of Snowball. A few of the grand jurors, undoubtedly dog lovers themselves, seemed to be tearing up. Jamie surprised herself by remaining stoic, even when she talked about burying Snowball and placing her favorite pair of Chacos in the grave.

Rex walked to the end of the jury box and stood next to the rail as he considered his next question. This way, it would be natural for Jamie to look right at her audience.

“Did there come a time,” Rex began, raising his voice to emphasize the importance of the question, “when you began to suspect that the federal government, not the mob, had poisoned your dog?”