Capitol murder

Chapter Thirty-five

Deputy Assistant Attorney General Terrence Crawford’s square jaw looked as though it had been created by a cartoonist who illustrated superhero comics. His adversaries likened his piercing blue eyes to laser beams, and his shaved head resembled the battering-ram noggins of professional wrestlers. When he wasn’t prosecuting terrorists and the heads of drug cartels, Crawford was training for marathons or in the weight room in the basement of the Department of Justice working on the body he’d been building since junior high.

After being educated at the finest prep schools, graduating with honors from Princeton, and making the Yale Law Review, Terrence Crawford had scandalized his parents by choosing government work over an associate position in Wall Street’s most prestigious law firm, where his father was a senior partner. Since his teens, Crawford had secretly fantasized about being a crime fighter like the superheroes he resembled, and he lived for the opportunity to send bad guys to prison.

When Jorge Marquez knocked on his doorjamb, Crawford was seated behind his desk, reading preliminary reports about the raid. Marquez was wearing a mismatched sports jacket and slacks he’d thrown on twenty-four hours ago, and he had not been home since to change. Marquez was a trial attorney in his fourth year at the DOJ. He’d worked his way up from a barrio in Los Angeles using scholarships to finance degrees from UCLA and its law school. Crawford used Marquez when he could because he respected his diligence and high IQ.

“What have you got for me?” Crawford asked.

“Scary shit, Terry. I ran Reynolds’s prints. His real name is Ron Tolliver, he’s originally from Ohio, and he’s dead.”

Crawford waited for Marquez’s explanation.

“Tolliver was in the Special Forces and was listed as MIA after an operation in Afghanistan. He’s been officially dead for several years. We have no idea where he’s been since he went AWOL. Best guess is Pakistan, because two of the detainees say he’s fluent in Urdu and the FedEx plot probably originated there.”

“What’s he say?”

“Nothing. He hasn’t said a single word since we arrested him. He’s totally mute, not even a yes or a no. If it wasn’t for fingerprints and the stuff we got out of the FedEx bombers, we’d have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

“Do we have a line on his parents, people who know him?”

“His folks live in Upton, Ohio. We have an agent on the way to interview them. From what I can tell, they’re well off. Dad served in Vietnam. He’s a dentist. The wife comes from money. We also discovered that Tolliver has been in trouble with the law.”

After Marquez told him about the rape allegations in Ohio, Crawford stood up and straightened his tie in a small mirror that hung next to the commendations and diplomas that covered his wall.

“Let’s see if I can loosen this traitor’s tongue,” he told Marquez before striding out of his office with the fierce countenance worn by vicious linebackers just before an all-out blitz.

C rawford opened the door to the interrogation room without knocking and studied Tolliver from the doorway. He was no longer wearing a hood, but his legs were manacled to the floor and his hands were cuffed. Crawford walked past Tolliver without a glance and sat down. He didn’t begin the interrogation right away but chose to stare across the table for a while, smiling when his prisoner broke eye contact.

The interview room was small and very hot. The only furniture was the uncomfortable metal chair in which Tolliver was seated, a comfortable upholstered chair Crawford was using, and a government-issue gunmetal desk that stood between the chairs. There was no two-way mirror, but closed-circuit cameras fastened to the wall just beneath the ceiling filmed everything that went on in the room, and hidden microphones recorded every word.

“Hello, Ron,” Crawford said, pausing to see if Tolliver would react. When he didn’t, Crawford smiled.

“Pretty good self-control. Then again, dead men don’t have physical reactions, and, according to our records, you’ve been dead for almost six years. We’re notifying your parents about your miraculous resurrection.”

When there was still no reaction, Crawford continued. “This will be one of those good news, bad news situations. Your folks will be happy to learn you’re not dead, but I’m guessing that they’ll puke when they learn that the fruit of their loins is a traitor who tried to top the body count of 9/11. I wonder how that will go over at the country club.”

Crawford leaned forward and let his eyes bore into Tolliver’s. “If you were my kid, you’d make me sick. You may think you’re a grade-A martyr, but to me you’re just another spoiled, self-centered rich kid. You didn’t even have the guts to try to commit suicide like those poor deluded morons you talked into killing themselves in the name of Allah.

“And we know about the rape. You must be quite a man to have to brutalize a girl before you can get laid. Well, you’ll soon experience the other side of that scenario. Some of the prison gangs are very patriotic, and they love traitors-and I mean that literally. So, realistically, your possible future scenarios are death row or a life of being cornholed. Personally, I hope you don’t get a death sentence.”

Crawford leaned back and watched Tolliver. Not a muscle in his face had twitched. Tolliver was definitely a tough guy.

“There is one way out of this mess, Ron-cooperation. The people who run you didn’t take any risks, did they? They’re safe and sound while you’re chained to the floor, facing a life in hell. There are no female virgins where you’re going, but I bet your handlers are getting laid as we speak. You’re a joke to them, Ron, a dumb-ass American wannabe super-Muslim. They’re probably pissed at you for failing, but I bet you made their day way back when you wandered into their psycho world. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck when they stumbled on an all-American boy deluded enough to buy the bullshit they were dealing out. You think…”

Suddenly, the door opened and an FBI agent walked in. He looked embarrassed.

“What the fuck is this, Leveque?” Crawford barked angrily.

“He has a court order,” the agent apologized.

“Who has a court order?” Crawford demanded.

The agent stepped aside, and a thickset man who was tall enough to look Crawford in the eye strode in.

“Bobby Schatz at your service, Terry,” he said.

“Fuck me,” Crawford replied.

Schatz was dressed in a hand-tailored navy blue pinstripe suit. A blue bow tie with white polka dots graced the collar of his white silk shirt, and the top of a folded red silk handkerchief extended upward from a pocket situated beneath the left lapel of his jacket. Schatz had straight, slicked-back hair so black that Crawford suspected that it was dyed and so heavy with gel that his hairdo resembled a lacquered cap.

“That’s no way to greet a fellow member of the bar,” Schatz said as he flashed a self-satisfied smile.

“You can take your ass out of here right now, Bobby, or I can have you thrown out.”

“Temper, temper.” Schatz held out a rolled-up document. “This is the court order to which Agent Leveque referred, and it says I get access to my client and you don’t.”

Crawford grabbed the papers. The more he read, the redder his face got. Crawford looked ready to explode by the time he finished.

“Satisfied?” Schatz asked.

“No, Bobby. This piece of shit tried to blow up a stadium full of decent citizens, and you’re here to help him get out so he can kill more Americans.”

Schatz was unfazed by Crawford’s tirade. “What happened to the presumption of innocence? Were you absent the day they discussed that silly concept in your Intro to Crim Law class?”

Crawford ignored the jibe. “How did you know where to find this scumbag?” he demanded.

“Now, now, Terry, you’re asking me to violate a confidence.” Schatz handed Crawford a letter. “I am informing you by this letter, which I have filed with the court, that there is to be no further questioning of my client unless I am present.”

Schatz surveyed the room and spotted the camera.

“I want that turned off, along with the mikes.”

For a second it looked as though Crawford might assault Schatz. Then he rolled up the letter and the court order and muttered, “We’ll see about this,” as he stormed out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind the lawyer, Schatz sat in the chair Crawford had vacated and smiled at Tolliver.

“Don’t let Terry’s bad manners bother you. He and I have been butting heads since he was a fledgling prosecutor. He’s never gotten over the fact that I handed him his first defeat in court, and that wasn’t the only time I kicked his ass.”

Schatz laid a business card in front of the prisoner. Tolliver didn’t look at it.

“Bobby Schatz at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m the best defense attorney in Washington, D.C., and this isn’t the only place I practice. I’ve been hired by clients all over the U.S. because I take no prisoners.”

“Did my parents hire you?” Tolliver asked.

Schatz stood up and walked around the desk. When he was next to the prisoner, he bent down and whispered a few words of Arabic in his client’s ear. Tolliver sat up straight. Schatz smiled, walked back to his seat, and sat down.

“I have no idea whether Crawford can go up the food chain and get another judge to block my access to you, so let’s start discussing my plan to win your case.”

T erry Crawford stalked down the hall to the room where Jorge Marquez was manning the camera feed and sound equipment.

“How did Schatz find out that we had Tolliver?” Marquez asked.

“He must have made an educated guess. The big question is, who hired that sleazy cocksucker?”

Crawford looked at the monitor. It was blank.

“Why did you turn off the camera?” he demanded.

“He had a court order.”

“Turn it back on, and the sound equipment, too.”

“But…”

“Just do it. We’re talking national security, Jorge. Did you forget what happened at FedEx Field? This asshole tried to kill thousands of people. I am not going to take the chance of missing information that can help us stop another plot or lead us to the people who are running him.”

“What if this screws up our court case?”

“It won’t, because we are the only people who know the mikes and camera are still on, and neither of us is ever going to tell anyone, do you understand?”