Memorial Day

Fifty

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Skip McMahon found himself sitting in a room with three people he did not like. One of them was a terrorist, despite what the man's attorney was saying. McMahon would bet his entire pension on it, and the smug little prick was sitting in front of him claiming that he was completely innocent, that he was only doing his job, and that he had no idea what was inside the container he was picking up in Charleston. McMahon could tell that he was lying.

It was easy enough to understand why he didn't like the other two people either. They were both lawyers. One of them, the really flashy one, represented the terrorist. His name was Tony Jackson, aka the Mouth of the South, and he was a civil rights attorney, a plaintiff's attorney, and a defense attorney all rolled into one. He was formidable, polished, obnoxious, and very good at his job. Barely fifty, the native Georgian had amassed a small fortune by winning several highly lucrative class-action lawsuits, the largest against a national food chain for race discrimination. Jackson had become one of those ever-available talking heads on the 24/7 cable news outlets. Refusing to leave his beloved Atlanta to go represent the various high-profile misfits in L.A. and New York, he nonetheless felt free to comment often and unhelpfully in regard to said misfits and their persecution and poor legal representation.

The man had style, McMahon had to admit. He would be very difficult to beat in front of a jury. Six and half feet tall, he kept his afro short and allowed a touch of gray to show at the temples. The effect was to give him the appearance of a wise old sage. His suit, tie, and shirt were in impeccable taste, his cuff links and watch expensive. He understood the importance of appearance and exuded an air of complete confidence and competence, even if at times he could seem a bit outrageous and over the top. McMahon had seen it all before. In front of the right jury this man would be extremely formidable.

The fourth and final person in the room was Peggy Stealey, and McMahon was beginning to think that she had aspirations to try this case herself. There were many more experienced prosecutors than Peggy over at Justice. He could think of at least two who would go ballistic if they were passed over for his trial, but such was the unpredictable and often cruel world of Washington. Politics was the lifeblood of the city, and Stealey was the attorney general's golden girl. She lacked the real trial experience that Jackson had, but she was no fool and she was attractive, tenacious, and smart. It would be quite the courtroom battle.

The case, contrary to what Stealey had originally thought, was not a simple slam dunk. McMahon had warned her that the CIA would be loath to share its methods of collection and information in open court. He hadn't even bothered to guess how Rapp would react when he found out that this clown had a lawyer, but he knew for certain it wouldn't be pretty. Stealey had thought they would find all the incriminating evidence they'd need at the trucking company in Atlanta, and at this al-Adel's apartment, but so far they had come up with nothing.

The smug little Saudi immigrant had covered his tracks very well. The only slam dunk so far was holding the other man in the truck on several gun charges. Neither man was cooperating, and as long as the Mouth of the South was their lawyer, he doubted they would start any time soon.

"When are my clients going to be charged?" Jackson asked for the third time.

"If he tells us why he erased the hard drives on his computers, we might just let him go." Stealey looked from Jackson to his client.

Al-Adel looked at her in disgust. "You will stop at nothing to persecute me and my people. What have you done to my computers?"

McMahon shook his head scoffingly at the accusation.

"What are you laughing at, you racist?" Al-Adel stared at McMahon. "You people are nothing but fascists and thugs. You planted that gun on Ali, and you have ruined my computers. I have known him for years. He has never owned a gun and would never buy one. Your people planted that weapon on him, and you know it."

McMahon looked at the terrorist and said, "Ahmed, you and I both know who the liar is, so let's dispense with the theatrics and move on. Now where were you going to take that container?" The federal agent picked up his pen as if he assumed the prisoner would actually answer the question.

Jackson's arm shot out. "Don't answer that question. For the last time, when is my client going to be charged?" The lawyer looked at Stealey. "You'd better say tomorrow."

"There are certain special circumstances surrounding this case." Stealey smiled, knowing there was no way Jackson knew the truth about his clients. Because if he did, he'd already be on a plane headed back to Atlanta. "I'm expecting the arraignment to take place on Tuesday at the earliest."

"You can't do that! That's seven days away!" Jackson bellowed in his deep voice.

"Actually I can. There are national security issues at stake here."

"And there's also the law. I swear, if my clients aren't formally charged before a federal judge by tomorrow at the latest, you are going to have a huge media disaster on your hands."

Stealey knew she had the ultimate ace in the hole. A twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead. There weren't many jurors who would be sympathetic once they found out al-Adel was arrested while in the process of trying to pick up a nuclear bomb.

"Tell me, Ahmed," Stealey said, "where were you planning on taking that trailer?"

"This is over." Jackson waved his hands in the air. "Don't say another word," he warned his client.

"You haven't told him what was in the trailer, have you?" McMahon looked right at al-Adel.

"My client doesn't know what was in that trailer, and this interview is over."

McMahon wanted to give the self-righteous little al-Adel something to think about. He picked up his file and stood. "The CIA wants to question you, Ahmed. Don't be surprised if you get woken in the middle of the night and transferred to a different location."

Jackson was out of his chair like a shot. "You just threatened my client with torture! That's it. I don't want anyone else talking to my client. You people are done, and when I tell the media, let alone a judge, what this idiot just said, heads are going to roll."

McMahon ignored Jackson and kept his gaze fixed on al-Adel. Satisfyingly, he saw genuine fear in the terrorist's eyes at last. In that moment he could tell the Saudi was not a man who could handle pain.

He turned his attention to Jackson and offered him a grim smile. "And when you find out the truth about your client, you are going to wish that the two of us had never crossed paths."