The Accused (39 page)

The elderly man asked several probing questions but listened quietly through most of Will's explanation.

Fiona was busy setting the table for the mutton stew she had prepared. After scratching his chin, Angus threw a smile at Will, who asked him what he was thinking.

His father-in-law broke his uncharacteristic silence.

“Will, my boy, I was actually thinking about Romans chapter twelve, verses nineteen to twenty-one. Lately, I've gone back to read it.”

Will chuckled. That was just like Angus—a walking Bible.

“Okay, what's the connection?”

Then the elderly preacher recited the passage from memory:

Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath: for it is written,
“Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,”
says the Lord. Therefore,
“If your enemy is hungry, feed him; If he is thirsty, give him a drink; For in so doing you will heap coals of fire on his head.”
Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

After a few moments of reflection, Will asked, “So let me ask again—what's the connection? I'm supposed to forgive this animal? I'm supposed to let him walk absolutely free, when he was there, participating in Audra's murder? Is that what you would do if that intruder had gotten to Fiona?”

Angus shook his head.

“No, my boy, I'm not saying that. But I'm saying that any right
decision
has to start from a
heart
that's right before the Lord. And if your heart's going to be right before the Lord, you need to lay down any thought, any motivation of personal vengeance. And then you need to ask yourself one important question—how can I overcome evil with good?”

“And what if I were to tell you,” Will responded quietly, “that I just don't know what the answer is to that question. Nor am I sure I even want to ask it.”

“That would make you an honest man. Which is one of the reasons I like you,” Angus said, reaching out and patting his son-in-law's shoulder.

“When you said Romans chapter twelve,” Will began again, “I thought you were going to go to verse one. That's the one I know. You know—“present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God…”

“Yes, that's a great verse. But it's all related. It's all connected, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sacrifice—forgiveness. Those two eternal principles are closely related.”

After a moment of reflection, Will asked, “You mean Christ dying for us—his forgiveness for our sins?”

“Yes,” Angus replied. “But it's part of God's eternal way of dealing with things. There can be no forgiveness unless there's a sacrifice. And the need for a sacrifice comes because there's sin in the world.”

And then Angus leveled his gaze at Will, looking him in the eye.

“Forgiveness of this Damon Lynch doesn't require that he
not
suffer the punishment for his dastardly, terrible deeds. But it does require a right attitude—and a sacrifice. You were the person wronged. You are the only person who can make the sacrifice. I can't do it—and your
precious wife, Fiona, can't do it either. There is something you need to lay on the altar—once and for all. And only you can do it.”

Then Fiona called them to the table. Will was quiet and contemplative throughout the dinner and on the drive home.

“Thanks for suggesting that I talk to your dad,” he finally remarked.

Fiona smiled and scooted closer to him.

As the two of them motored up the long, winding driveway to their log house on the hill, Fiona knew that inside her husband's brain there was a high-speed race going on. It would now just be a matter of time before she found out which of his decisions would hit the finish line first.

62

T
HE OFFICIAL THREE-MAN ENTOURAGE
was striding quickly down the corridor of the Senate office building. In the lead was the Chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee. Next to him was Senator Wayne O'Brien.

Behind them was a congressional sergeant at arms.

As the trio of officials entered Senator Jason Bell Purdy's office, the receptionist smiled at first. Then, when they identified themselves and asked for Senator Purdy, she gave them a startled look, opening her mouth, but unable to speak for a few seconds.

“Please, ma'am, get the senator out here immediately.”

The receptionist closed her mouth, punched Purdy's intercom, and told him he was needed in the lobby right away.

When Purdy strode out into the lobby, the Chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee handed him a packet of papers.

“Senator Jason Bell Purdy, it is my unfortunate duty to deliver formal ethics charges to you relating to your conduct in the United States Senate. Each of the details and specifications of your ethics violations, including but not limited to coercion and blackmail against a colleague, namely, Senator Wayne O'Brien, is enclosed.”

Purdy reached out a limp hand to receive the papers.

Glancing back toward his office, he noticed Linda, his press secretary, approaching him.

“Linda, hey—help me out here, will you? Start making some calls immediately. Round up the troops for me here,” he whispered.

Linda gazed at him, shook her head, and then handed him an envelope.

“My resignation,” she said. “I've been hired by the majority leader's office. Sorry.”

Purdy glumly inched his way up to O'Brien.

“Wayne, friend. Let's talk. You've got to help me out of this deal.”

Senator Wayne O'Brien fixed his fellow Georgian with a stone-cold stare.

“Jason, let me just say this,” he replied. “I can't say I'm happy about this. I would rather have seen you charged with a federal crime. But I can say I'm satisfied. And that will have to do.”

After the threesome had left, Purdy stood, clutching the packet with the ethics charges.

He wanted to say something clever to his receptionist, something bold and confident. But as he glanced over at her, she looked down at the papers on her desk, making herself look busy.

Purdy clicked his teeth together—and wondered how long he would have to wait till he could get himself a stiff drink.

63

T
HE NEXT MORNING WHEN
F
IONA
awoke, even though it was very early, she noticed that Will was not in bed.

She threw on her bathrobe and scurried into the great room. She heard his voice on the telephone. Next to him, on the end table by the fireplace, was his Bible.

He was leaving a message on the voice mail at work for Hilda and Jacki.

“Hilda, please tell Jacki that I want her to send a notice of deposition immediately to Francine Les Forges, the prosecutor in the ICC case. Ask her to schedule a deposition for Damon Lynch—to take place at the Federal Police Correctional Center in Mexico City. And ask her to make sure that we fax the notice of deposition to Les Forges today so she has at least seven days' notice. Lynch is due to be released the day after that, so we have to have the deposition taken on the seventh day. Then arrange for a court reporter we can trust to fly down there with me to transcribe Lynch's testimony.”

“What's going on?” Fiona asked as her husband hung up the phone. “Did I hear right? You're going back down there to get Lynch's testimony? So you're staying on the case?”

Will nodded. Then he walked over to his wife and gathered her up in his arms.

“They've already cleared Tiny in the investigation. I want him here in the house with you while I'm down to Mexico. Are you okay with that?”

She smiled and nodded.

“I'm also asking for the sheriff's department to provide some protection as well,” Will said.

“So, my darling husband,” Fiona asked, “tell me—what changed your mind?”

Will pursed his lips as he thought. And then he answered.

“I'm trying it…to lay something on the altar. And then I'm trying to walk away from it. Once and for all.”

Still in her husband's arms, Fiona put her hands on both sides of his face. “You're the man of God's choosing for my life. I'm absolutely certain of that. And so I want you to know, my precious husband, that I am with you on this decision—with you all the way.” And with that she planted a kiss on his lips.

Fiona fixed a big breakfast for both of them. After that, Will connected with Tiny. He had had some emergency-room surgery on his arm, but otherwise was doing fine, and said he'd be glad to house-sit with Fiona for the few days the attorney had to be in Mexico.

Then Will walked to the bedroom, and after closing the door, retrieved the white card with the telephone number and called the government agent.

“Give me the code word,” said the voice at the other end.

“Coral.”

“What's up?”

“I've scheduled a deposition for Damon Lynch. I'll give you the date and the time. I've got a court reporter who's going to go down there with me. I have no idea what this guy's response is going to be when he sees me—I think I broke his nose—again.”

“Oh, man, that breaks my heart,” the agent said, chuckling. “Listen, Will, thanks for the information. Thanks for coming back on board.”

Then the attorney arranged to have Jacki send out all the files from his office relating to the Caleb Marlowe case. Even though Fiona objected, he insisted on continuing his work on the case from their home, so he could be physically present with his wife.

While he worked in the study for the next few days, analyzing the discovery produced by the prosecution and trying to map out his preliminary strategy for the trial, Fiona was in the great room at the grand piano, plunking out a few new songs she was working on.

A few days after Will's office had faxed the notice of Damon Lynch's deposition to Francine Les Forges, the prosecutor sent back a scathing fax.

Hilda read it over the phone to Will when it came in.

I am in receipt of what purports to be a notice of deposition for a witness—to wit, a Mr. Damon Lynch—in the Federal Police Correctional Facility in Mexico City, regarding the above entitled war-crimes case presently pending before the International Criminal Court. Neither the identity of this witness nor your intent to take his deposition was disclosed to me at the time that we set out our discovery and trial-preparation plan with the trial chambers in The Hague.

Accordingly, and for several other reasons, I
will not
consent to your taking this deposition, and I
will object
to the admission of the transcript of any such purported deposition at the time of the trial. I will fight the admissibility of any deposition testimony of Mr. Damon Lynch coming into evidence at the time of the ICC trial.

Should you be unclear, for any reason, as to my position on this outrageous development, please feel free to contact me.

Les Forges' response did not surprise Will in the least. He also knew that she would not be sending a representative to attend the deposition—because that would undercut any objection she might later make at the trial that she didn't have a fair opportunity to cross-examine the witness. And in fact, in her closing remarks in the letter, the prosecutor indicated that her schedule, and that of her associates, could not be changed in order to attend the deposition on such short notice in any event.

Will had contacted Len Redgrove and advised him of his changed decision—that he would continue as lead counsel in the defense, and that he was going to agree to Lynch's proposal—that in return for his testimony under oath in the deposition, the attorney would not alert the police authorities to the drug dealer's whereabouts upon his scheduled release from the Mexican jail the day after his deposition.

As Will prepared for his flight back down to Mexico City, from where he would again fly directly to The Hague, he mapped out his deposition questions. But two unresolved issues still plagued him.

First, what information did Lynch really have about the inside connection between the AAJ and a high-ranking Mexican official, in
regard to the kidnapping of Carlos Fuego and his family, and the setting of the trap at Chacmool?

And the second issue was equally bothersome, but for different reasons.

He wondered about the reaction of Damon Lynch—a man seemingly possessed with the instincts and savagery of a wild animal—toward his deposition being conducted by an attorney who had just broken his nose and whose wife he may have helped to murder.

Will had never faced a quandary like this before. When he thought it over, he could only shrug.

There's always a first for everything,
he thought to himself the next morning as he sat down next to his court reporter and buckled himself in on the airplane bound for Mexico City.

64

D
AMON
L
YNCH HAD LARGE AREAS OF
black-and-blue under his eyes and on his left cheek, and a large swath of blood-stained bandage on his nose.