police.”
“We plug all of it into my supercomputers,” Chuck said with a wave of his hand. “We run the same kind of searches I run for Homeland Security when they ask for help finding terrorists. And we find this fucker.”
Mays’ emphasis was on finding the killer, but Jack was hung up on the first point. “Wait a second,” said Jack. “You run searches for the government?”
Mays chuckled. “No offense to my friend Vince here, but do you think the government has this kind of capability? The fires were still burning in the World Trade Center when the FBI came calling on the major players in information technology for clues about the nineteen hijackers and their accomplices. For a stretch, half my company was on it, all on my own dime.”
“Are you still doing national security work?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Is that what Project Round Up is about?”
“I said it’s none of your business.”
Jack glanced at Paulo. With a cop for a best friend, Mays was already connected to law enforcement. Jack probably shouldn’t have been surprised that the ties ran deeper than the Miami Police.
“I believe there’s a proposal on the table,” said Vince.
“Let me say a couple of things,” said Jack. “First, I have tremendous respect for you, Vince, even though it may not have seemed that way in the courtroom.”
“I’m over that,” said Vince. “You did what you had to do. I understand.”
“It’s important to me that things are cool between us.”
“We’re cool,” said Vince.
“Good,” said Jack, and then his gaze swept across the computer center. “But I have to be honest. This business gives me the creeps. Not just your company. I’m talking about the whole information revolution. Call it a Big Brother complex. There’s a bias in me, and that bias makes it hard for me to trust guys like Chuck Mays.”
Mays was completely unfazed, as if he’d heard that speech before. “You probably weren’t whistling that tune on September twelfth. But that’s another debate. Does your client want to find out who killed her son or doesn’t she?”
“I understand what you’re saying. And I will speak to Maryam about your offer.”
“You do that. And here’s something to sweeten the pot. Tell her that if she agrees to my proposal, I’ll pay her five hundred thousand dollars.”
Paulo looked surprised, which Jack noted.
“You’re actually going to write a check to Maryam Wakefield?” said Jack.
“Not exactly,” said Mays. “I would sign over my rights as beneficiary under Jamal’s life insurance policy.”
Jack did another double take-but it was mild compared to Paulo’s visceral expression of disbelief. Like a smart cop, Paulo had the good sense to hold his tongue until he and his friend were alone. Jack felt no such constraint.
“Are you saying that you took out a half-million-dollar life insurance policy on Jamal Wakefield?” said Jack.
“Actually, it was a million. But I’ll give his mother half, and I’ll keep half. That’s fair.”
“Chuck, let’s talk about this later,” said Paulo.
“What?” said Mays. “I have life insurance on everyone who works for me.”
Jack said, “A million dollars on a nineteen-year-old employee who also happens to be dating your daughter? That strikes me as a little
… awkward, shall we say?”
“A lot of companies have life insurance on their employees. It’s cheap, especially on the young guys, and it pays a nice benefit. What’s the big damn deal?”
“No big deal at all,” said Jack, his stare tightening. “So long as you had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance and murder of the man who was accused of killing your wife and daughter.”
Mays narrowed his eyes with anger, and Jack got the distinct impression that, had Paulo not been in the room, Mays would have grabbed him by the throat.
“My offer is good for twenty-four hours. Get me an answer from your client-before I change my mind.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Neil Goderich spent all of Thursday in court and ate a microwaved frozen dinner at his desk in the office. Long days were the rule for him. Friends often asked him what his tiny salary came out to on an hourly basis, but he would just smile and shake his head. People didn’t get it. There was no minimum-wage law for lawyers at the Freedom Institute.
“Can you please turn on the air-conditioning?” asked the doctor.
The day had been unusually warm even by Miami standards, and Neil was in a windowless room with a new client: the doctor who had come to Ethan Chang’s aid on the Lincoln Road Mall, and who feared he had been exposed to the same deadly toxin.
“Sorry,” said Neil, “there’s no budget for AC after five P.M.”
The doctor dabbed his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “I’d sure hate to be in here in the summertime.”
“You get used to it,” said Neil, and he meant it. In twenty-eight years, the run-down house on the Miami River that was the Freedom Institute had changed little. Four lawyers shared two small bedrooms that had been converted into offices. The foyer doubled as a storage room for old case files, one box stacked on top of the other. The bottom ones sagged beneath the weight of denied motions for stay of execution, the box tops warped into sad smiles. Harsh fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor/outdoor carpeting. The furniture screamed “flea market”-chairs that didn’t match, tables made stable with a deck of cards under one leg. The vintage 1960s kitchen was not only where lawyers and staff ate their bagged lunches, but it also served as the main (and only) conference room. Hanging on the wall over the coffeemaker was the same framed photograph of Bobby Kennedy that had once hung in Neil’s dorm room at Harvard.
The other lawyers had gone home, and Neil was with Dr. Spigelman at the kitchen table. The old refrigerator made a strange buzzing noise, which Neil silenced with a quick kick to the side of the appliance. It didn’t exactly convey the image of powerhouse legal representation, and Neil could hear the concern in his client’s voice.
“Are you sure you’re equipped to handle this case?” the doctor asked.
“Absolutely,” said Neil. “Granted, our typical client is not a retired physician.”
“Unless that retired physician is also a murderer, I presume.”
“Accused murderer,” said Neil. “But let’s get beyond that. Jack Swyteck steered this case in my direction because he thought it was a cause I would want to fight for. And he was right. You were a doctor for forty years. You witnessed a man die with your own eyes. You’ve clawed for information as to the cause of death, and in your professional opinion, the medical examiner may be covering up evidence that a synthetic toxin was released in one of the most famous outdoor malls in the country.”
“In a nutshell, that’s it. But hearing you repeat it back to me gives me some pause. Do I sound paranoid?”
“A little. But you came to the right place.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We know things about Ethan Chang that lend credence to your concerns.”
“Like what?”
“The night he was killed, Chang was on his way to see Jack Swyteck. He was going to hand over photographs about a government secret that would help us defend a man who was held overseas as an accused terrorist. When you’re talking about government secrets and accused terrorists, there are any number of entities, foreign and domestic, that could have access to nerve gas or a similar toxin.”
“Holy cow,” said the doctor. “I really could be at risk.”
“I don’t mean to diminish your personal right and need to know if you should start taking an antidote. But if
