Double Tap

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Over lunch I tell Harry about the incident. My ribs are still sore where the guy stuck his fingers, trying to do a cavity search where there is no cavity. After telling Harry, we eat. I pick at my salad in silence and think about the comments made by Ruiz at our first meeting; his theory that Dale Kendal, his original lawyer, had been frightened off the case suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

Sore as I am, we don’t have time to dwell on it. Harry wants me to report the incident to the judge, but we have no evidence, not even bruises. The man was an expert with pointed fingers.

In the afternoon Harry and I hit a rough patch in court. It is strewn with rocks and boulders in the form of Victor Havlitz and his lawyer, Wayne Sims. Sims is joined by three other attorneys from his firm. The press and the public remain locked outside, pieces of brown paper taped over the narrow window slots in each door so they can’t see in. I have asked that Ruiz be present this afternoon. The issues in dispute involve business matters that Madelyn Chapman was working on at the time of her death. They are key to our case, and Emiliano has a vested interest. I want him to know what is going on firsthand. Harry and I are getting desperate for something that we can get our teeth into.

The door leading from the courtroom to the holding cells opens and the phalanx of guards leads Ruiz like a dog on a leash to our counsel table. He is wearing an orange jail jumpsuit, something that will not be allowed once the trial starts and we are in front of the jury. His hands are manacled in front to a chain around his waist, and he is jingling from his ankles as he walks.

“Your Honor, I would ask that the restraints be removed from our client, at least while he’s in the courtroom.”

“Your Honor, may we approach?” Templeton is bounding down from his chair before Gilcrest can respond.

The judge tells him he can do it from there, since there is no one in the courtroom.

“I’d prefer it at the bench, Your Honor.”

“So be it.” The judge motions us forward.

Harry and I join Templeton and Sims in front of the judge.

“Your Honor, the defendant is highly skilled in certain martial arts. He has employed these both in training and in combat.” Templeton seems to know more about my client than I do. Ruiz could probably snap him in half by just looking. Maybe this is the reason Templeton wants to do the argument in hushed voices at the bench. More likely it’s because Ruiz knows that Templeton’s information, if not false, is at least overstated.

“There is considerable evidence in the file regarding his aptitude in these areas,” says Templeton. “The man is highly trained.” In whispered tones Templeton is trying out his argument in front of the judge, my guess is to see just how far Gilcrest will let him wander in the theoretical fields of Ruiz as “trained killer.” For months now the cops have been setting the stage for this as part of a major theme in their case.

“Your Honor, there is no evidence that Mr. Ruiz has been anything but cooperative during his entire period in jail.”

“That’s not the point,” Templeton whispers. “What if he decides to become uncooperative? If they take the manacles off, are you prepared to restrain him? If so, I’d like to see your black belt.” Templeton looks up at me, all smiles.

“Give it a rest,” I tell him. “This is a game, Your Honor. They’re trying to paint Mr. Ruiz as a natural-born killer. If they’re allowed to continue with these antics in front of the jury, the defendant is not going to be able to get a fair trial.” I turn it on Templeton: “What are you going to do come trial? Dress him in a suit and bring him in manacled with his ankles chained?”

Templeton gins up a smile and tugs on his bow tie. This is exactly what he has in mind. Even if he loses a pitched argument in front of the court, any hint he can make-even the faintest whiff of ether in the air that the jury might pick up on-that Ruiz is dangerous would put us on a steep downhill slope.

“Mr. Madriani’s got a point,” says Gilcrest. “I don’t want to tell the sheriff how to run his jail, but is there any evidence that the defendant has been a disciplinary problem in the lockup?” Gilcrest has to pull himself toward the front of the bench just to see down far enough to engage Templeton in eye-to-eye contact.

Templeton turns to look at the defendant, an appraising eye followed by an exasperated expression. “Not in so many words.”

“There either is or there isn’t,” says the judge.

“No direct evidence, Your Honor.”

“Then I think in my courtroom we’ll have the restraints removed during proceedings. After all, you’ve got six guards and the doors are locked.”

“They won’t be during the trial, Your Honor.” Templeton always tries for the last word.

“Well, if he can scramble over all those reporters, get through the throng out in the hallway, and hurdle the mass of humanity waiting to get in at the front door, and the guards can’t tackle him or shoot him,” says Gilcrest, “maybe we should just find him not guilty by ordeal the way the Indians used to.” The judge looks up. “Mr. Ruiz,” he intones in full voice now “you’re not going to cause us any problems here in the courtroom, are you?

Ruiz gives him a mystified look, “Sir? I don’t know what you mean by problems.”

“I mean a physical confrontation. You’re not gonna try and escape or anything like that?”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Deputy, I think you can take the restraints off of Mr. Ruiz while he’s in the courtroom. I’m going to take you at your word, son.”

We head back toward the counsel tables. I have known for weeks that Templeton would try to quash most if not all of the subpoenas for documents that I had served on Isotenics. There is no telling what we might find if Harry and I are allowed to root around in the private papers of Madelyn Chapman compiled in the weeks and months before her death. If Kaprosky is right and war was raging between Chapman and the Pentagon over the use of her software-what Harold Klepp referred to as spyware before Karen Rogan shut him down that night in the bar-then anything is possible. What I had not expected was the oblique direction that Templeton’s attack would take, the use of Sims and his client corporation as part of a well-orchestrated ambush.

It takes the guards a couple of minutes to find the keys and work the locks as Ruiz stands by the defense table, taking it all in. He has a kind of bemused expression. The judge up on the bench is paternal in his black robes as Templeton climbs back up on top of his box on the chair to look at papers and confer with Sims and the other lawyers. I can tell by the look on Emiliano’s face that he is wondering who let the prosecutor in without a jester’s cap, bells hanging from the points.

As he takes a seat between Harry and me, he leans my way with a broad grin while looking at Templeton. “That’s the DA?”

Fortunately, at the moment Templeton has his back to him.

I poke him with an elbow and give him a stern look. “Leave it alone,” I tell him. It wouldn’t be wise to give Larry anything more in the form of personal motivation. He has been busy proving himself to the world for forty-three years, and so far he hasn’t come up wanting.

Templeton’s motion to quash is based on arguments that I am off on a fantasy looking for pixie dust, anything I can find to flip in the air in an effort to distract the jury. Templeton would like to cut my legs out from under me and leave us with nothing for a defense but Ruiz up on the stand making bald denials. He would carve Emiliano into tiny pieces.

By now I had hoped for something solid by way of a footing to start building my SODDI-Some Other Dude Did It-defense. As it is, all I have is hearsay regarding heated arguments between Chapman and the Pentagon, and industry rumors that Satz and Company are running Primis and feeding it information in violation of federal law, neither of which is admissible as evidence.

Harry and I huddle over a stack of papers that were dumped on us by Sims as we entered the courtroom.

Templeton claims he had nothing to do with any of this. Still, he makes the introductions while we’re still reading.

“Your Honor, if the court please, there is a motion, not being offered by the state but by private parties seeking to quash the subpoenas duces tecum served by Mr. Madriani regarding his request for documents from Isotenics, Incorporated. As I understand it, the motion is grounded on the fact that most of the documents being sought either constitute or include information that falls in the realm of commercial trade secrets.”

“If you’re not making the motion, maybe we should hear from the people who are?” says the judge.

“That would be me, Your Honor. Wayne Sims of the firm of Hays, Kinsky, Norton and Cline. We represent the petitioner, Isotenics, Incorporated.”

Gilcrest nods. “How is Charlie Norton? I used to try cases against Charlie when he was with the DA and I was with the public defender’s office.”

“He’s fine, Your Honor.”

“Give him my regards.”

“I will do that. I apologize for the tardiness in our application, Your Honor.” Sims is skilled. He anticipates the problem in an effort to deflate it. “You will find our motion along with points and authorities. . ”

Gilcrest looks around but doesn’t see anything on the blotter in front of him. The bailiff hands up a folder bound with half an inch of paper between the covers.

“Mr. Sims, I take it you are aware that local rules require ten days’ notice?” says the judge.

“That’s correct, and we object, Your Honor.” Harry puts our two cents into the pot.

“I’m aware of that, Your Honor, but under the circumstances, we found it necessary to obtain an order shortening time. Isotenics, my client, is not a party to these proceedings. We did not receive notice as to the closing date for discovery.”

“It was on the subpoenas,” I tell the judge.

“One lawyer at a time,” says Gilcrest. “Who’s going to argue this, you or Mr. Hinds?”

Harry looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. We are on an equal footing, both of us equally ignorant and blinded by the lack of notice or an opportunity to read Sims’s papers.

“I will, Your Honor. Mr. Sims was notified as to the date to produce the items requested. It was set forth on the subpoenas.”

“What about that?” says Gilcrest.

“We were told that the parties extended the deadline,” says Sims. “We were told of the extension but we were given no extended date for production.” Sims looks over at me and smiles.

“Your Honor, may I have a moment?” I lean over toward Harry.

“Templeton’s secretary told me they’d notify Isotenics,” Harry whispers.

“Did they confirm it in writing?”

Harry shakes his head, shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t know, but if Harry can’t remember seeing one, chances are they didn’t.

“I’m told, Your Honor, that the people, through Mr. Templeton’s secretary, assured us that they would notify Isotenics as to the extended date for production of documents.”

Sims turns to look down at Templeton in the chair behind him. Templeton raises two empty hands, open palms up toward the ceiling. “That’s news to me. I don’t know anything about it,” he says.

“So apparently nobody notified the company?” says the judge.

“Apparently,” says Templeton.

“I don’t remember signing any order shortening time,” says Gilcrest.

“You didn’t, Your Honor. You were out of town. We had to go to the presiding judge,” says Sims.

They have sandbagged us. Gilcrest knows it-you can see it in his eyes-but for the moment there is nothing he can do. “Very well. You may proceed.”

Sims steps up to the wooden rostrum, situated just in front of and between the two counsel tables in the center of the courtroom. “Your Honor, as you know, the victim in this case was the chief executive officer and chairperson of the board of directors of my client company Isotenics. In those capacities she was privy to extensive amounts of vital information relating to commercial and proprietary trade information belonging to the company. Many of the documents that she prepared and the correspondence that she sent and received included sensitive corporate information. This information, should it fall into the hands of business competitors, would place Isotenics at a serious disadvantage. It is conceivable that disclosure of some of this information would allow competitors not only in this country but abroad to take unfair competitive advantage that might very well destroy the company economically. Because the disclosure of this information would in many cases result in the loss of valuable trade secrets that could be exploited by competitors-which in turn would cause irreparable injury to my client-we are requesting not only that the items subpoenaed by the defense and listed on our schedule be quashed, but that the court issue a preliminary injunction precluding the defense or any of its agents or attorneys from making inquiries or conducting investigations that might invade these areas. We are asking that Mr. Madriani and his associates be kept away and precluded from contacting employees, officers, or agents of Isotenics, Incorporated.”

“Your Honor”-I am on my feet-“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Isotenics is where the victim worked. It is entirely possible, and highly probable, that her interest in the company and her activities at work led to her death.”

“Mr. Madriani, you’ll have an opportunity. You’ll get your chance.” Gilcrest motions me to sit.

Sims then launches into a twenty-minute lecture on the law of business secrets. To listen to him, not since the Medicis ruled Florence has the world of commerce and trade been so threatened by commercial intrigues. According to Sims, it is necessary that virtually every scrap of paper that the victim touched be guarded by an impenetrable wall of secrecy until it can be scrutinized by lawyers and software wizards inside the company. He cites the Uniform Trade Secrets Act. Gilcrest sits attentively and listens as Sims tells him about conclaves of lawyers and lawmakers convening in councils like cardinals in the High Middle Ages, not to hammer out religious dogma enshrined in papal bulls, but to lay down laws in the form of treaties to protect the formula for Coca-Cola and the recipe for Hershey’s Kisses, sacred processes that form the root and stock of multinational corporate fortunes.

Sims then makes the leap. He hoists the defense of trade secrets to cover Chapman’s e-mails, everything sent and received as well as all hard-copy correspondence and internal company memos regarding IFS and the Primis software system. He uses the argument of trade secrets like a shield, trying to push us away, to keep us at bay while Templeton gets at our innards with his short sword from underneath.

“The IFS project and the software that underlies it,” says Sims, “are the economic cornerstone of Isotenics. Mr. Madriani would ransack internal memoranda of the company on a wild-goose chase, the result of which would be to ruin my client’s company.” Sims then makes an offer of proof. He tells the court that he has two witnesses.

Gilcrest waves him on.

Sims calls Victor Havlitz to the stand.

Havlitz has been locked out and sitting on a hard bench in the outer corridor. The bailiff has to unlock the door and call his name.

Not being a party to the proceedings, Havlitz has no legal right to be here other than to testify if he is called. He has ended up on both our witness list and the prosecution’s. As a result, he will be excluded from the guilt-or-innocence phase of the trial in which the name of his company is likely to figure prominently in daily news accounts. For a guy like Havlitz, whose anxiety level is taut as goat gut strung on a violin, waiting to hear the news each day is likely to kill him.

Havlitz is sworn and takes the stand.

Sims moves quickly through the preliminaries.

“To your knowledge, has an effort been made,” says Sims, “to identify and to produce those portions or items of the subpoenaed materials that would not violate the confidentiality requirements of your company or result in the disclosure of trade secrets?”

This has all been well scripted. Havlitz launches into detail, telling the judge that he supervised this process personally. To listen to him talk, Isotenics wore out at least one machine copying pages that were delivered to our office. At one point Havlitz pulls a slip of paper from the pocket of his suit coat and tells the judge that, in all, they copied 1,214 pages that were delivered to our office.

What he doesn’t say is that many of these were copied four or five times and that nearly all of them were documents that had previously been published in corporate reports, materials prepared for the unwashed shareholders and mailed to them or handed out at their annual meetings. If the company were in bankruptcy, its assets had fallen through a crack into hell and burned, and if all of the directors were under indictment for fraud, you would never read about any of it in the pages turned over by Havlitz. In the original, most of these would have been four-color and glossy. One of them showed Havlitz’s smiling face peering out like a flimflam man when I flipped the first stapled page. In all the copied pages, there was nothing about pissing contests and shouting matches on the phone between Chapman and Gerald Satz, not even in the footnotes.

“With regard to the other items,” says Sims, “the materials you deemed confidential. Did these items involve information or data of a sensitive commercial nature concerning proprietary trade matters?” Sims recites the magic words as if they were sacred script. If it would do any good to brace his argument, he would shake a bag of freeze-dried bones in front of the witness to complete the hex on our case-lord high legal shaman.

“They did,” says Havlitz.

“And in your opinion, as the chief executive of Isotenics, would public disclosure or the risk of public disclosure of these materials cause damage to your company that would result in irreparable injury?”

“Absolutely, without question,” says Havlitz.

“Your witness,” says Sims.

Templeton is smiling through all of this, the chance to stick a pike through the heart of our case without even moving his lips. He is taking up half a wooden chair from the row behind the prosecution table just inside the railing. This time he is using one of the courtroom’s metal waste cans turned upside down to rest his feet so they don’t dangle in midair from the platform of the chair. Today he has wound Sims up like a coiled spring and turned him loose in court to see what kind of havoc he can wreak in our case.

I stand with a single sheet of paper in my hand. “Mr. Havlitz, you say you read all of the subpoenas.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember one of the subpoenas that included among the items being sought”-I look down and read from the page-“any telephone directory or list of that company known as Isotenics, Incorporated, that includes the names, telephone numbers, or extensions of employees, officers, or agents of said company?”

“I think I recall it,” he says.

“Do you remember whether you produced such a document?”

“I, ah. . I don’t think we did.”

“Do you consider a company telephone directory to be a trade secret?”

He looks down at the floor, shrugs a shoulder, then looks at Sims.

“Objection: calls for a legal conclusion,” says Sims.

“The witness testified that he supervised the process to determine which documents were produced and which were not. Surely he must have exercised some standard in making that determination?”

“He did so only with the assistance of counsel,” says Sims.

“So is counsel now testifying, Your Honor? If so, I would ask that he be sworn and take the stand.”

Havlitz speaks up before the judge can rule on Sims’s objection. “I had the help of lawyers.”

“Too many people talking at once,” says Gilcrest. “The witness can answer the question.”

I put the question to the witness: “So what was the standard that you applied?”

“I. . I don’t remember. It was written down. But we tried to be fair.”

“I’ll bet. Was the prosecutor, Mr. Templeton, involved in this process? Did you confer with him?”

“I, ah. .” He looks at Sims for help. The lawyer would raise attorney-client privilege, but Templeton is outside the umbrella. Instead, Sims pores through a stack of papers in front of him until he finds the stapled sets he wants. “Your Honor, as a matter of fact, the company’s telephone list does qualify for trade-secret protection. Isotenics has guarded the contents of its internal phone directory for proprietary reasons. While the general telephone number of the company is listed, the individual extensions for divisions and specific employees of Isotenics are not. I have a case in point,” says Sims. He hands one copy to the bailiff for the judge and the other to me. “In this case,” he continues, “the court held that where the company compiled its internal directory, maintained it in confidence, and where the disclosure of names, phone numbers, and divisions or job descriptions included employees who were in the possession of legally protected trade secrets, the telephone list itself was a protected item. And in answer to Mr. Madriani’s question, the court lays out in detail the standard to be applied in determining the existence of trade secrets.”

Gilcrest is nodding. “Yes, I see that in the headnotes,” says the judge.

“Your Honor, we’ve had no time to look at any of this. The motion by Isotenics and its lawyers has been sprung on us like a trap. The witness has not answered my question. Did he or his lawyers confer with Mr. Templeton or anyone else from the prosecution in determining what documents to release and what documents not to release?”

“You can answer the question,” says Gilcrest.

“There were some conversations,” says Havlitz. “Meetings. I was present only at one of them.”

“But your lawyers met and talked to Mr. Templeton, isn’t that correct?”

“Objection. Anything conveyed by counsel to the witness as a representative of the client corporation is privileged information,” says Sims. It may be privileged, but he has just admitted to it.

I may have shown Templeton digging this pit with Sims and Isotenics, but the fact remains that we’ve fallen into it. The company phone directory is not a significant piece of evidence for us, but it is a bad example because of the case in point that Sims is able to put in front of the judge.

“I get the point, Mr. Madriani.” Still, Gilcrest is distracted, reading the case. On the eve of the trial, there is no easy way out. He will have to make a decision on whether to open the door on the company’s records, and if so, how far. The troubled expression from the bench as he reads says it for him-judge on the horns of a dilemma.

Ordinarily a court would have no difficulty balancing the equities-the right to a fair trail, a man’s life-against property interests. But here, Gilcrest is a man from Mars in a field of law that is foreign, and the property interests at issue could be worth hundreds of millions if not billions of dollars. Wearing black robes does not immunize a person from worry. The judge has to wonder. If Havlitz and his lawyers are correct and the court makes the wrong decision, if as a result a competitor takes trade secrets and uses them to crush Isotenics, there is no appeal to a higher court that can undo the damage. Sam Gilcrest may be defense oriented, but he is not oblivious to the fact that Isotenics is one of the largest employers in the county and a huge corporate taxpayer.

For the moment I would rather defer a decision than get a bad one on tactics that go to the heart of our case.

“Your Honor, perhaps there’s some middle ground,” I say.

Gilcrest looks up at me over the top of the decision he is still reading at the bench. “I’d be thankful for any suggestions,” he says.

Sims cuts me off before I can negotiate. “Your Honor, if Mr. Madriani is finished with the witness, I have one more before the court makes its ruling.”

“Mr. Madriani, do you have any more questions of this witness?”

“No, Your Honor.” Not knowing what other trip wires and grenades lie hidden in the pile of papers in front of Sims, I don’t dare ask about other documents they have declined to turn over. All I need is another mind-bending appellate opinion for Gilcrest to get lost forever in the dark forests of business law.

“Call your other witness.” The judge is still busy turning pages, trying to glean the exact dimension of trade secrets from between the printed lines. He motions to his bailiff to let Havlitz out and to buttonhole the other witness outside on the bench.

I am turned in my chair toward the doors at the back of the courtroom when she enters. Karen Rogan’s eyes fall on me for an instant before she fixes her gaze down at the floor. She purses her lips in a kind of pained expression of nervousness. Clutching a small handbag to her side, she looks at me again, but only for a fleeting second after she is sworn and seated on the stand.

“State your name for the record,” says Sims.

“Karen Rogan.” Her voice cracks as she spells her last name for the court reporter.

“You work at Isotenics, is that correct?

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Twe-twelve years,” she says.

“And what position do you hold?”

“My title is executive assistant.”

“And so that we can save the court some time, you worked as personal assistant to Madelyn Chapman, the victim in this case, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve met Mr. Ruiz, the defendant.” Sims points to Emiliano at the table.

“Yes, we’ve met. When he was working, providing security at Isotenics.”

It is clear that Rogan doesn’t want to be here. Unless I miss my guess, this is not just the usual nervous witness. Even with Sims moving between us at the podium, cutting off my view of the stand from time to time, the obvious avoidance of eye contact by Rogan makes it clear that she is being used to drop a rock on us.

“Would it be safe to assume that in that capacity you would have been privy to a good deal of confidential information that passed through you to Ms. Chapman and that some of that information would have included what are described as company trade secrets owned by your employer, Isotenics, Incorporated?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The term trade secret as used by Mr. Sims is a legal term of art. I’m not sure that Ms. Rogan is qualified to answer the question.”

“I withdraw the question,” says Sims. “Isn’t it true, Ms. Rogan, that a good deal of the information that passed through your hands on its way to Ms. Chapman was confidential?”

“I suppose.”

“So confidential, in fact, that some of this information regarding defense contracts is considered highly classified by the Department of Defense, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And in that regard, isn’t it a fact that you were required to undergo a background check in order to obtain a security clearance from the government in order to be employed in your position?”

“Yes.”

“Did you prepare written correspondence for Ms. Chapman as part of your job?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you open her mail and deliver it to her?”

“Yes.”

“From time to time, did you look at e-mail that was posted to her on the computer in her office, in order to respond to it on her behalf?”

“Yes. When I was asked to.”

“And did you place phone calls for her and receive incoming calls that were directed to Ms. Chapman as part of your job?”

“Yes.”

“So, to the extent that information coming to Ms. Chapman in any of these forms might have included confidential company information, that information would have passed through your hands, isn’t that correct?”

“Usually. Not always. There were some matters that Ms. Chapman handled personally.”

“But for the most part the information would have come through you, isn’t that correct?”

“Probably. Yes.”

Karen Rogan, the woman who saw Ruiz and Chapman on the office couch doing heavy crunches-the redhead who became Harold Klepp’s guardian angel-is, as I suspected, keeper of the company secrets.

“Now let me ask you”-Sims turns a little sideways at the podium so that suddenly there is a clear line of sight between the witness and where I am sitting-“can you see the gentlemen sitting at the defense table behind me, just to the right of Mr. Ruiz?”

She nods.

“You’ll have to respond audibly so that the court reporter can hear you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that man?”

She clears her throat. “Mr. Madriani, I believe.”

“That’s correct.”

“And have you met Mr. Madriani previously?”

She nods.

“Speak up.”

“Yes.”

“How many times have you met him?”

“Twice.”

“Can you tell the court when and where you met him?”

“The first time was several months ago, at the office at Isotenics, in the conference room. You remember? You were present,” she says.

“And the second time? Where was that?”

“At a bar. A club about a mile from the office. A place called Crash’N Burn.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I’d gone to meet some friends to have a drink after work.”

“Did you know that Mr. Madriani was going to be there at this club?”

“No.”

“But you saw him there.”

“Yes.”

“Was he with anyone?”

For the first time Karen Rogan looks at me and doesn’t look away, a pained expression. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman I didn’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

“And who else?”

A long sigh and a lot of angst as she looks around for something to say other than the truth. “Harold Klepp.”

“And who is Harold Klepp?”

“He’s the director of research and development for Isotenics.”

“An executive with the company, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Someone who, like you, is privy to a great many pieces of information regarding confidential business matters-information that no doubt includes sensitive trade secrets belonging to your employer?”

“I don’t think he was engaged in corporate espionage, if that’s what you mean,” says Rogan.

Sims ignores her and pushes on. “In fact, isn’t it true that Mr. Klepp, being the head of research and development, would have access to information concerning the very core of the business of Isotenics: the design and programming of computer software?”

“I suppose.” She would like to tell the court that Klepp was on the ropes, outside the loop of knowledge and about to be fired-not that Sims doesn’t already know this-but it wouldn’t do any good and she knows it. My guess is that the only reason Havlitz hasn’t canned Klepp already is the fear that once he lets him go, the R amp; D man might feel free to talk. From what I am seeing, Rogan may now have her own head on the block.

How they found out about my meeting in the bar that night is anybody’s guess. Given that Sims has had to drag it out of her on the stand, it is clear that Rogan was not the source.

“So, from what you saw, Mr. Madriani may have already been at work trying to uncover confidential information regarding the company?”

“I told you before that I have no idea what they were talking about. I couldn’t hear them.”

“So, for all you know, proprietary information may have already changed hands.”

“I don’t know.”

“But you did talk to Mr. Klepp afterward.”

“I did.”

“And did he tell you what they talked about?”

“Objection: hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Did Mr. Klepp tell you that he had planned to meet with Mr. Madriani at the bar that evening?”

“No.”

“According to what Mr. Klepp told you, did he know that Mr. Madriani was going to be at the bar that night?”

“He said he didn’t have any idea that Mr. Madriani was going to be there.”

“So for all intents and purposes Mr. Klepp was ambushed by Mr. Madriani while relaxing and having a drink after work. Is that your understanding?”

She nods almost sheepishly, the bobbed red hair dangling across her face, covering one eye. “I suppose.”

“Your witness,” says Sims.

“I have no questions, Your Honor.”

“I can understand why,” says Sims. “The defense has been caught red-handed delving into areas that they know are protected by commercial law.”

“Your Honor, we were investigating the case on behalf of our client. We not only have a right to do so, but a legal obligation. It’s that Mr. Sims wants to assert commercial interests in an effort to prevent the defendant from obtaining a fair trial. I doubt that I have to shine much light on the subject for the court to make out the shadowed hand of the DA’s office behind all of this.”

“I object, Your Honor.” Templeton is sitting in his chair with his hand raised like a second-grader. “We are not a party to this motion, Your Honor, and I resent any inference by Mr. Madriani to the contrary.”

“You may not be a party, but you’re driving the train,” I tell him.

“Enough,” says Gilcrest.

“Your Honor, we would demand a restraining order against Mr. Madriani, his associates and agents, so that this kind of thing does not happen again.” Sims is back at it. “At least not without notice and court supervision,” he says.

“Fine, we’ll give notice so that we can depose critical witnesses here in court, Your Honor.”

“We would object to that, Your Honor.” Templeton, in one swift movement, is now standing on the seat of the chair so that the judge can see him better. “There is no procedure in the law for that kind of a process, especially this late in the game. We’re on the eve of trial,” he says.

“And who was it who sandbagged us with a last-minute motion to quash?” I ask.

“Not me,” says Templeton.

“I’ve heard enough.” Gilcrest slaps his hand on the bench. “I’m taking the matter under submission. If Mr. Madriani wants to offer written points and authorities in opposition to the motion, he will have until five o’clock this evening to file them. This being Friday, I’ll make my decision Monday morning. Now, that’s it. We’re adjourned.”

Before another word can be said, Gilcrest grabs the papers in front of him, sweeps off the bench, and disappears down the corridor into chambers.

One of the guards already has his hand on Emiliano’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

As Karen Rogan comes down off the witness stand, she finds herself trapped inside the railing by the exiting lawyers, Sims and his cohorts. Standing there, she glances down at Ruiz. In that instant, with the guard’s hand on Emiliano’s shoulder, their eyes seem to meet. She shakes her head. And then, in a voice that is nearly inaudible, she mouths the words “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

He nods.

“Take care of yourself.” She bites her lower lip as she says it.

Emiliano smiles at her.

Then Rogan slips through the gate behind the lawyers, down the aisle, and out of the courtroom.

“Looks like you have at least one supporter out at Isotenics,” I whisper to Ruiz as I load papers into my briefcase.

He ignores the remark. “So what happens now?” he asks. For the first time there is concern written in Ruiz’s eyes, disquiet in the tone of his voice.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Harry and I’ll go to work on it the minute we get back to the office. Find some cases in point. The state can’t just stash the evidence in a safe, turn the key, and lock us out,” I tell him. “And they can’t use Isotenics to do it for them.”

“But you forget,” he says.

“Forget what?”

“You’re not dealing with the state or Isotenics,” he says. “You’re dealing with the federal government. They can do whatever they want.”

I shake my head. “No, Emiliano. They can’t.”

I told him once before that unless we can come up with the evidence, going to trial against the prosecution’s case could end up being a game played only by fools or those who are desperate. As they chain Emiliano up to lead him away, I can tell by the expression on his face that he is beginning to wonder into which one of these two camps he has fallen.