appointment to see him. Third, to Clapper’s office to arrange to have Katrina hired and paid, and for her Top Secret clearance to be restored.
When I walked out, a second desk had been added for Katrina, and both wall safes had their drawers opened and emptied. Imelda and Katrina had battened down the hatches, preparing for an onslaught of evidence. Smart girls.
Looking surprisingly chummy, they were seated at a makeshift table, empty Starbucks cups between them, and a crumbcake that had been reduced to its namesake.
I shrugged and started heading for the door. Imelda asked, “Where you goin’?”
“To the CIA, then to see Golden. I’ll be gone most of the morning.”
“You forgettin’ something?”
“Let me see… briefcase… pen… underwear… No, I have everything.”
“Like your co-counsel?”
“Oh, I didn’t forget. They’re introductory meetings. She can wait here.”
“My ass. She an attorney, ain’t she?”
“I might even surprise you and be useful,” said Katrina, looking amused. “Hard to believe, I know.”
Did I really need to explain the problem here? Other issues aside, first impressions are important in this business, especially when your first stop is the most tight-assed place on the planet. She was wearing a loose blouse, tight bell-bottoms, clogs, and a spiked collar around her neck. But on second thought, it might be worth bringing her along for the shock value. Maybe her nose bead and belly-button ring would set off the metal detector at the CIA. Wouldn’t that be a thrill?
Three minutes later we were racing down the GW Parkway. Wanting a better angle on this woman, I said, “So tell me about yourself.”
She chuckled and replied, “ ‘Tell me about yourself’?” like, What kind of asshole would phrase it like that?
“It’s just a question. Answer however you choose.”
“However, huh? Herpes-free single white female with a law degree from a third-rate school. Likes Chanel Premier Rouge lipstick, stands in long lines for U2 concerts, and would really appreciate less condescension from her boss. Does that work?”
“Fine.” However, I believe I detected a veiled message.
She said, “Quit jerking me off and tell me what you’re interested in.”
“It’s called getting acquainted. Familiarity breeds teamwork. Says so in a management book I once read.” Of course, this was the same management book that told me how to conduct interviews, so its validity was highly suspect at this point. I said, “You mentioned your parents were Russian. How come they ended up here?”
“I didn’t say they were Russian, I said they taught me to speak Russian. My father was Chechen; my mother was the Russian. When they got married… well, the Communists didn’t like Chechens or mixed marriages, and things became uncomfortable. They were smart. They came here.”
“And you grew up in New York City?”
“TriBeCa, before the yuppies discovered it. It used to be a nice neighborhood before all the condo associations converted it into high-gloss hell.”
“And college?”
“That would be CUNY and four years of humping dishes in Broadway restaurants with horny tourists groping my ass as I tried to balance a tray over my head. College sucked.” She paused a moment, then said, “Are we done yet?”
“Almost. Why law school?”
“As in, What’s a girl who looks like me doing in your profession?”
“Hey, that’s a good question, too.”
“If I had a rack of power suits and a Dooney amp; Bourke briefcase, you wouldn’t ask. Meet me in court someday and I’ll bust your nuts.”
“I’ll bet you would,” I replied. Of course we both knew I was lying. “Why criminal law?”
“It’s my turn.”
“Who said we were taking turns?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she persisted. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“I was an Army brat. We were migrants. As soon as the bill collectors figured out where we lived, we moved on.”
“Then this is legacy work for you, huh?”
“I don’t think of it that way, no.”
“How do you think of it?”
“As a worthy trade inside an honorable profession.”
“Wow. You actually said that with a straight face.” She regarded me a moment, then asked, “Why law?”
I flashed my ID to the guard at the gate of the big CIA headquarters, and said, “Because back when I was an infantryman, I had the misfortune to stand in front of a few bullets. When the docs were done putting me back together they’d made a catastrophic wiring mistake and turned me into a lawyer.”
“That sucks. I hope you sued their asses off.”
“Well, you know how doctors feel about lawyers. They all shot themselves.”
We pulled into a guest parking space and walked over to the entrance. A young man with a sour expression met us, handed us temporary building passes, actually showed us how to put them on, and then escorted us to the elevator. You have to love these people. We went up four floors and were then deposited at the office of the general counsel, where a secretary with the face of a dried prune eyed Katrina with a disapproving stare, then starchly told us to sit and wait. For all I knew, she had a gun in that desk. We sat and waited.
A minute or so later, a guy in a nice suit poked his head out of his office and in an unwelcoming way said, “Come in.” We did that, too.
It wasn’t a big office, but few government offices are. He had his J.D. diploma from Boston University hanging on his wall, as well as your typical rogue’s gallery of photos that showed him shaking hands with or standing beside a whole array of impressive and recognizable faces.
I took one peek at those photos, realized with a sudden, overwhelming shock how outclassed I was, stood up, and fled. Just kidding.
His name was Clarence O’Neil-he was somewhere in his late forties, and well along that road of regression from being a fairly fit, reddish-haired young man to becoming a florid-faced, stout, broad-nosed Irishman. His eyes lingered radioactively on Katrina for a few brief seconds, then he and I traded pugnacious glares, as we opposing attorneys are inclined to do. One way or another, Clarence was going to be in the background of this case, and probably was going to call a lot of the shots.
He finally leaned back into his chair, ran a hand through his unruly, thinning hair, and asked, “What can I do for you, Major? Miss Mazorski?”
I said, “We thought it might make sense to come over here and get acquainted. Maybe create some joint ground rules.”
“I’m afraid I’m confused. This is a military case. It has nothing to do with this office.”
I just love getting jerked around. “Let’s not go there. Your Agency headed up the task force that arrested my client. You’ve got vaults filled with information I need. Order your people to share what the law says I’m entitled to see, or I’ll walk out of this building and convene a press conference.”
A nasty half-smile popped onto his face. “Every defense lawyer makes that threat. We’ve weathered it before, and we’ll weather it again. And frankly, ever since the World Trade Center, the courts are much more sympathetic to us.”
I half smiled back. We were making progress. Pretty soon, we’d half smile each other to death.
“How many of those lawyers attended press conferences wearing Army green? How many had Top Secret clearances? How many knew exactly how to embarrass this agency to get what they want?”
He stood up and walked around his desk to position himself in front of me. He got less than a foot away and looked down at my face. It’s the oldest intimidation stunt in the book. You either stare at his groin like a pervert or
