The Capitol Game

29

Less than twenty-four short hours after Harvey Crintz committed his first burglary, the gang of FBI agents showed up in his office. Three in all, grim-faced men in a mixture of nice blue and gray suits, holding a warrant and arresting Harvey in front of his coworkers. The agents weren’t in a conversational mood.

Harvey’s supervisor rushed out of his cubbyhole and began barking questions but got no answers. They flashed the warrant, pinned Harvey’s arms behind his back, slapped him in cuffs, and marched him out. Harvey tried making noise about calling his lawyer and was rudely told to shut up. He had no right to a lawyer until he was booked, charged, and processed, they told him with menacing frowns. In any event, he was informed, he didn’t need a lawyer, he needed a priest.

An hour later, after the three agents gave Harvey a glimpse of the ten photographs displaying his face and his body rifling through Mia Jenson’s safe-apparently it had been wired and connected to a tiny camera of some sort, a camera he had triggered in his clumsy search the day before-he agreed with them.

A priest was his only hope.

At almost the same instant, another group of Feds conducted a much larger raid on the offices of TFAC. They burst through the entrance, waving subpoenas and warrants, barking at employees to line up against walls and spread them.

Accompanying them was a large forensics team that raced upstairs and jumped on the firm’s computers and preserved everything on the hard drives. After another few minutes, the moving men with boxes showed up and began hauling out loads of papers, spy equipment, virtually anything not nailed to the walls and floors.

Martie O’Neal was hiding in his office when Special Agent Danny Ryan, an old pal from Bureau days, burst through the door.

“Hey, Danny, what’s up?” he asked, trying to stifle his shock. He was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on his desk, trying hard to look and act cool rather than terrified.

“How ya doin’, Martie?” Ryan answered as if they were regular golf partners. Ryan’s eyes shifted around the office-what a dump.

“You tell me.”

“I’d say not well, buddy.”

“I’m assuming you got a warrant or a subpoena to justify this unwarranted intrusion into private premises. I wanta be sure I sue the right folks.”

“Can the big threats, Martie. Makes you sound silly.”

“Like that, huh?”

Ryan nodded. “You’re so totally screwed I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Oh.”

“You remember the procedures or do I need to explain them?”

O’Neal slowly eased out of his chair. In his early days in the Bureau he’d been a field hand; how many times had it been him on the other end of this process, watching the weird mixture of emotions on their faces, often wondering how he’d react in their place. He placed his hands on his desk and bent forward with his legs spread apart. He made a silent vow to himself that he would remain calm and unaffected. There would be no cracks in the hard veneer. He would show his old Bureau buddies how a real badass behaved. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I got the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah. Should I call my mouthpiece now?”

“It’d be a waste of time.”

“Can I least call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for dinner?”

“She knows, Martie. Another van of agents is at your house with a search warrant. I’m sure she gets the message.”

Martie was suddenly fighting back an almost unstoppable urge to cry. His knees went weak, his voice thick and whiny. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, “When will I get home for dinner?”

Ryan understood the question. “Assuming sterling behavior and an Emmy performance in front of three absolute chumps on a parole board, about twenty years. Sorry, Martie, no deals. Don’t need ’em. We got the burglars who hit Jenson’s home. They all talked. We got Crintz and he’ll talk, too. We got a burglary in a private home up in Jersey seven months ago, and… hell, truth is, we got more evidence and charges than we know what to do with. You’ve been a very bad boy.”

As Ryan patted him down, it was dawning on Martie that he had been sucker-punched. All these months, somebody had been pulling the strings, jerking him around like a fool dancing at the end of a long, tight noose.

“At least tell me who turned you on to me,” he asked, almost a croak.

“If I knew the whole story, I still wouldn’t tell. But you definitely screwed with the wrong people. Now shut up and let me finish.”

When the senior agent in charge of the FBI’s Washington field office sends an invitation, even the Pentagon’s inspector general and the director of the DCIS respect the summons.

The meeting was set for five, the witching hour. Both senior Pentagon officials, along with a small retinue of aides, arrived five minutes early in a matched pair of black government sedans at the downtown Judiciary Square field office. A junior flunkie was at the curb and escorted them through security, then up a short flight of stairs to the SAC’s domain.

Special Agent Mia Jenson and a tall man who looked vaguely familiar but none of them recognized were waiting in the hallway. Mia walked directly up to Margaret Harper, director of the DCIS. “Agent Mia Jenson,” she said by way of introduction. “I work for you.”

The eyebrows lowered with curiosity. “I’ve heard your name,” Harper offered, shorthand for, because I recently booted you off the Capitol Group case.

Without hesitation or further explanation, Mia handed her a piece of paper. One page, neatly typed and signed. “My resignation,” she announced without elaboration.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s effective immediately. Approve it and it’s done.”

“What’s this about?”

“You’ll find out in a few minutes. Any possible questions will be answered, I promise. For now, it’s strongly in your interest that you approve this resignation.”

“I’ll do no such thing, Jenson. I don’t know how long your obligation is, or what sort of trouble you’re in.”

“I’m not in any trouble, and my obligation’s irrelevant. I’m about to hand you the biggest case of the decade. Release me, or I can’t.”

The crowd around them was now listening in to this fascinating conversation. Harper pondered this strange request for a minute, then replied, “I don’t make deals with my own agents.”

“That’s the whole point. Release me and I’ll hand you the biggest case you’ve ever seen. Otherwise, forget it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think about where we’re meeting. I’ll hand it off to a different investigative agency and you’ll stand on the sidelines with mud on your face and watch the action. Trust me, it’s strongly in your interest to avoid that.”

Harper shuffled her feet and looked uncertain. “How about this?” she offered. “I’ll grant a temporary resignation, hear what you have to say, then decide whether to make it permanent or rescind it.”

Mia thought about it a second. “All right, that works for me.”

A moment later they marched into a big conference room.

Marcus Graves, the SAC, and three senior agents were already there, seated with serious expressions at the large conference table. “Coffee and tea in the corner,” Graves hospitably announced, pointing in the direction of two matching tables. One held two big urns and some cups, the other a portable tape player hooked to two large speakers.

Nobody wanted. Instead they quickly hustled around both sides of the conference table and took seats. Mia and her friend sat in the middle, side by side, with grim but relaxed expressions.

Notepads came out, pens were propped, the chairs stopped scraping the floors. The moment everybody looked ready and attentive, Mia offered them all a pleasant good evening and thanked them for coming. She continued, “My name’s Mia Jenson. I’m a law school grad, granted the right to practice law in D.C. by the district bar. The past two years I’ve been an agent with the DCIS, but effective two minutes ago, I’m retired and back to practicing law.”

Thomas Rutherford II, the Pentagon’s inspector general, an older gentleman, but also a lawyer, looked at Graves, and gruffly asked, “If she works for us, why are we meeting here?”

“Why don’t you let her explain it?”

“I’d rather hear your explanation first.”

It was a reasonable request and Graves decided to be friendly and cooperative. “Mia came to us about seven months ago. She was looking into possible crimes by a big defense contractor. She became worried about her safety, with good reason, it turned out. Over the past few days, we busted a large criminal ring. Her home was broken into, her office burgled, unsavory people began looking into her background. Now I suggest you listen to what she has to say.”

The inspector general’s hands folded on the table and he stared at Mia. His expression conveyed more confusion than anger, though it was clear he was unhappy having to hear about this on foreign turf. Harper’s look conveyed no confusion, just anger; a junior agent doesn’t carry the dirt outside.

Mia met their stares with a firm expression. “I’d like to introduce my client, Jack Wiley. Until eight months ago, Jack was a partner in Cauldron, a private equity Wall Street firm. It was Jack who brought the deal to buy Arvan Chemicals, with its polymer and patents, to the Capitol Group.”

Jack’s introduction electrified the room. All eyes shifted to his face; more than a few eyes narrowed and the frowns deepened a few notches. Over the past twenty-four hours everybody in the room had learned his name. A few had seen his face on TV or splashed on the front page of their morning paper. He was the subject of a nationwide manhunt, the smiling face on a five-million-dollar wanted poster, and, quite possibly, the culprit behind a twenty-billion-dollar swindle. A few thought how he barely resembled the photo on TV-he seemed so much taller, thinner, less tanned. Jack smiled and nodded pleasantly, visibly unconcerned to be in the midst of so many law enforcement authorities.

Mia waited long enough for the shock to wear off. “On Jack’s behalf, here’s the deal we’re offering,” she continued. “Jack will come forward and offer testimony on one condition. He’s a whistleblower. I’m sure we’re all familiar with the program, but it won’t hurt to review a few important stipulations. Last year the federal government spent over $2.5 trillion. Considering that at least ten percent of that was lost or stolen due to waste, fraud, or abuse, the Congress in its wisdom passed a whistleblower act granting a reward of up to twenty-five percent of whatever the government collects against cheating companies. Now the good news. Jack’s not greedy. He wants a mere ten percent of whatever he saves.”

“Or we can just arrest him,” Harper threatened. “Throw him in our nastiest, most vicious federal prison and see how long he holds out before he talks.”

“You don’t have the grounds,” Mia said, very cold, very lawyerlike.

“How about graft? Theft, bribery, falsification of documents. I’m sure we’ll think up more charges. We can be very creative. Something will stick.”

“Jack’s done nothing wrong. He’s innocent. And we have the evidence to back that up.”

“And that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a defense lawyer make that claim,” Harper snapped back, baring her teeth.

Mia opened her mouth to argue, then abruptly changed her mind. “I’d like you to listen to this tape,” she suggested with a swift nod at one of the agents seated beside Graves. The agent dutifully got to his feet, went to the corner, and pushed play on the tape machine.

During the short interval before the tape kicked in, Mia quickly mentioned, “The first voice belongs to Mitch Walters, CEO of the Capitol Group. He’s talking to Daniel Bellweather.”

Those intriguing names brought everyone forward in their seats.

WALTERS: “So how did it go last night?”

BELLWEATHER: “Splendid. You should’ve seen Robinson’s face when he learned I had the seat beside him.”

WALTERS: “He’s a dumb jerk. Always was. Any administration that would make him secretary of defense is blind or stupid. They really scraped the bottom of the barrel with that clown.”

BELLWEATHER (after a short, derisive laugh): “True enough, but don’t piss in a gift horse’s mouth, Mitch.”

WALTERS: “Think he buys it?”

BELLWEATHER: “Beginning to. We’re not quite there yet. Probably halfway, though.”

WALTERS: “What’s he doing about Jenson?”

BELLWEATHER: “She’s toast. He’ll get her off our ass in the morning.”

WALTERS: “Jesus, that’s great. Just great. You really played him.”

BELLWEATHER (sounding quite boastful): “Yeah, isn’t it? What did you do for the cause last night?”

WALTERS (sounding annoyed and whiny): “Jackson had me slaving all night. Destroying evidence, concocting stuff to pin this mess on Wiley.”

Mia waved a hand and the agent abruptly shut off the tape.

If there were doubts about what Jack was offering, they instantly disappeared, but those doubts gave way to a thousand questions and suspicions.

Mia’s old boss demanded, “Where did you get that?”

“We don’t answer anything until we have a deal. But you’re probably wondering, so I’ll tell you. It’s a sampler, a small taste from a huge banquet. Jack has thousands of them. He’s unearthed one of the biggest frauds in history, and has a fabulous library to prove it.”

Rutherford II unfolded his veiny hands and began rubbing his jaw. “How do we know your client didn’t commit any criminal activity?”

“He didn’t, but you don’t. It doesn’t matter. Jack gets all the immunity the whistleblower act affords. He’s free from prosecution for anything related to this case.”

“It may be the law, but that’s ridiculous.”

“And it’s nonnegotiable,” Mia shot back. “No immunity, no deal.”

The inspector general was a lawyer himself, he knew a smart lawyer when he saw one, and Mia was certainly very smart. And smart lawyers always have a backup. He took a stab and asked, “And if we say no?”

“This is only hypothetical and should by no means be construed as a threat,” Mia responded quickly, obviously prepared for that challenge.

The faces on the other side of the table grew uneasy-of course she was about to threaten them.

“But I imagine,” Mia continued, “that my client has already made arrangements to ship all his files and tapes to some very reputable news organizations. The New York Times and Washington Post come to mind. As you know, both adore big government scandals.”

She paused to inspect the faces across the table. They hadn’t accepted their defeat yet, but they definitely didn’t like what they were hearing.

Mia cleared her throat and turned up the heat a little more. “Again, I don’t want to be too specific at this point, but the tapes will sound even more dramatic on TV. Think of a full hour of 60 Minutes. A three-hour special in prime time isn’t out of the question, or maybe six weeks of one-hour specials. There’s so much to cover, so many embarrassing avenues to go down. Believe me, everyone in this room has an incentive not to let that happen.”

“Like what?” Margaret Harper asked.

“For instance, you might not like to be blamed for failing to stick up for an honest, hardworking agent when you ordered her off this case.” Harper suddenly looked away. In light of the tape she just heard, she suddenly felt ill. How would that look splashed across the front page? Did Mia mention 60 minutes? Mia redirected her eyes at Rutherford II. “Or here’s another bomb. The office of the inspector general was thoroughly infiltrated by the Capitol Group. Only this afternoon one of your employees was arrested for pilfering my files and providing certain very sensitive papers to a private investigating firm working for the Capitol Group. And he wasn’t their only paid plant. Would you care to hear more specifics?” Mia asked very nicely.

Nobody wanted to hear more.

“Believe me,” Mia continued, “I’ve listened to less than a tenth of the tapes. Half the Pentagon directory gets mentioned in one way or another, none flattering.”

“Oh, man.” The inspector general was now rubbing his eyes. A migraine that seemed to have come out of nowhere was splitting his head open. “How bad is it?”

“Nixon and Watergate come off like a bunch of kids playing with matches in the woods compared to this.”

“Who’s implicated?”

“Who isn’t? A lot of people sound absolutely terrible. But at worst most were only stupid, gullible, and careless, not crooked. There’s plenty of those, too, but you know the press and the great American public. They might not be discriminate in their judgments.”

The faces on the other side of the table conveyed a mixture of terror, shock, and disbelief.

Mia decided to push them across the brink and said, “The congressional inquisitions alone will last months. Enough of their own members and staffers are implicated, they’ll need to put on a large public lynching just to tamp down the outrage. And I’m afraid it’s not just the polymer. The Capitol Group has dozens of other Pentagon contracts. Jack’s tapes picked up lots of nasty tidbits about corruption related to other deals.” She paused for a moment to underscore her client’s generosity. “He’s throwing those in free of charge.”

The inspector general asked, “Why are you bringing this to us? Why not your FBI friends here?”

Graves pushed forward in his chair. “It was part of the original bargain when she first came to see us,” he announced from the end of the table, evidently very much on her side. “She fed us a few cases that were important to us. That investigating firm she mentioned, it employs about a dozen Bureau alumni. All retired or otherwise separated, but it’s somewhat embarrassing for us.”

“And the rest is for us?” Harper asked, her eyes moving from Mia to Graves. They were down to bargaining the particulars now.

“She was very demanding on that point,” Graves admitted. “Mia insisted on a clear division of spoils. You’re going to need plenty of perp walks of your own to counter your humiliation.”

“That’s what she said?”

“More or less. Remember, she was a DCIS agent at that time. I’ve heard a few of those tapes. She’s not bluffing. It’s uglier than you can imagine.”

“So the deal is, we get to clean our dirty laundry, you get to launder yours?” Rutherford II asked, suddenly warming to the subject.

“The esteemed members of Congress belong to us, too,” Graves insisted with an uncompromising look.

“Sure, no problem,” answered Rutherford II quickly, actually more than happy to concede that point. Congress funded the Pentagon and Rutherford admitted, “We have no interest in pissing off any of our congressional supporters.” Then the two officials swiftly broke into a comfortable negotiation about indictments and courts and jurisdiction and other legal matters.

It didn’t escape the notice of either Harper or Rutherford II how generous Graves was being. The big foot of the FBI was growing soft, they thought before the truth dawned on them-as Graves said, he had already listened to a bunch of the tapes. The spirit of intragovernmental generosity had nothing to do with this. There were more than enough indictments to keep everybody busy for a very long time, enough that he was worried about overload at this point.

“So we have a deal?” Mia asked at the first pause in their conversation.

Harper and the inspector general exchanged looks. The looks weren’t all that hard to read, the decision not at all hard to make.

Mia calmly placed a paper on the table and slid it across to the inspector general. Rutherford II lifted it up and Harper leaned over his arm; they read it together, a short, precisely worded agreement that listed all of Mia’s conditions, from the ten percent reward, to Jack’s amnesty, to Mia’s permanent separation from the DCIS. The IG scrawled his signature and handed the agreement back across the table.

Mia tucked it in her briefcase, then said, “Now I think it’s time to hear from Jack what you’re buying.”