reluctant he’d been to return to the unit full-time.
Baldwin began to pace, wondering where in the hell his lawyer was. He looked at his watch. The hearing was supposed to start in less than five minutes, and Reever still hadn’t shown. He flipped open his phone to call, again, but heard a flurry in the hallway. Reginald Harold Beauchamp, known as Reever to his friends and clients, came bustling around the corner.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The third kid barfed on me as I was kissing her goodbye. I had to change, then I got stuck behind a tractor, and then I got waylaid by a train. This has not been my morning. Sorry.”
He skidded to a halt and stuck out his hand.
“How ya doing, Baldwin?”
“Better, now that you’re finally here. I thought I was going to have to dust off my license.”
“Ha-ha. Like that would ever happen. I wouldn’t desert you in your hour of need.” Reever tugged his arm, pulled him away from the wall. They walked a few steps together, heads bent conspiratorially. Baldwin smelled a variety of odors coming off of his lawyer, baby shit mingled with a subtle splash of cologne, sweat and an underlying note of sour milk. Great. That was going to be fun to sit next to all day.
“I’ve seen the charges, and it’s gonna be fine.”
“So says you. I’m screwed, aren’t I?” Baldwin asked.
Reever’s brown eyes were full of concern. “Listen, Doc, I promise you, this is all just a formality. There’s no real danger to your career. They’re going to make you squirm, and make you admit how sorry you are. Probably throw a suspension at you, something temporary. Then we’ll all go back to work happy. Okay? In and out, lickety- split.” He snapped his fingers.
“Yeah. Got it,” Baldwin said, not believing a word. Reever was infamous for his pep talks, but the FBI didn’t convene disciplinary hearings for their good health.
Baldwin heard shuffling inside the corridor, and a door opened. A man he didn’t recognize said, “We’re ready for you, Dr. Baldwin.”
Reever clapped him on the back. “Let’s do it.”
He hid an overwhelming sigh, straightened his back and, eyes ahead, marched into the room. His heart was pounding harder than it should. Stop it, Baldwin. You knew this would come up sooner or later. There’s nothing to hide. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not completely wrong, at least.
The room they entered was empty, devoid of personality, decorated only with FBI and American flags on golden stands, the oversize FBI seal framing the back wall, and a large picture of the president next to a photograph of the director himself. There was a wooden dais-similar to a small-scale Senate hearing room, all American oak-and-brass fixtures. Three men were waiting for them, their faces stern and forbidding, facing a table with two microphones. A clerk sat to one side, fingers poised over a stenotype machine. Just a subtle reminder that this hearing was on the record-the transcripts would be in his personnel jacket for life.
He got settled at the table, Reever at his side, pulling out pads of paper for them both, pens, basically making a show of it. Baldwin didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Reever was one of the best counsels in the FBI, and a good friend. Baldwin was very happy to have him on his side, helping him through this hearing. The fumbling around was a ploy, something to disarm the men sitting in judgment upon them. They all knew the farce for what it was. After an interminable few minutes, Reever nodded toward the dais.
“We’re ready,” he said, his dirty-blond hair falling into his eyes. He shoved it back and grinned.
“At last.” The man at the center of the dais, Supervisory Special Agent Perry Tucker, motioned to the clerk, who began typing.
“Dr. Baldwin, please raise your right hand. Do you swear that your forthcoming testimony will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“Yes, I do.” Baldwin didn’t shift, kept his eyes focused straight ahead. The disciplinary procedures at the FBI had been recently scrutinized and revamped to make sure the higher-level executives and the lower-level workers all got a fair shake. Which meant your peers decided your fate, and the executives and SES-level agents were taking it on the nose in an attempt to show how impartial everything was.
All employees of the FBI, agents at every level, were required to serve their time on the disciplinary committee in six-month shifts. Baldwin had sat on the board just last year, and he knew this was far beyond a fact- finding mission. The committee had the power to chastise, censure and otherwise make an agent’s life miserable, but it took seriously egregious actions to be stripped. He hadn’t done anything that warranted losing his status as an agent, not yet. Not that they knew about, at least.
Regardless, the pallor of suspicion hung expectantly in the room. It was going to be a rough couple of days.
Tucker’s chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back and rocked, staring Baldwin down. After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward, steepled his fingers against his chin and looked over his tortoiseshell reading glasses like a principal disappointed with the school quarterback.
“As you are aware, we are here to determine the truth in the matter of U.S. versus Harold Arlen. As a result of new information that has come to our attention, there have been allegations of wrongdoing specific to your involvement in this case. The charges filed include falsifying evidence, neglect, and involuntary manslaughter, conduct unbecoming an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and fraternization with a subordinate. The charges have been leveled by former Special Agent Charlotte Douglas, who is sadly not with us to lay claim to her indictment. Her computer, as you know, has been the source of a great deal of information on the Arlen case. The accusations of misconduct were included in her copious notes.
“The main focus of our hearing today is to determine your culpability in the deaths of Agents Caleb Geroux, Jessamine Sparrow and Olen Butler. According to the files, Agent Douglas made it clear that their deaths were the direct result of your actions during the Arlen case. The panel takes these charges very seriously.”
Baldwin was about to say something, anything, to defend himself, but Reever came to life. “We take these accusations very seriously, as well. We all know what kind of agent Charlotte Douglas was, sir. She was a liar on her best days, and made a mockery of this entire department. We can’t trust that anything she claims has any validity. And may I say, for the record, that any charges of wrongdoing against my client are ridiculous. Dr. Baldwin is one of the most decorated agents in the Bureau. His character is above reproach, and we have a multitude of witnesses willing to testify on his behalf.”
Tucker harrumphed, and the other two judges shifted in their chairs. Everyone knew that this was highly unusual. Charlotte Douglas wasn’t exactly a trustworthy source. Baldwin felt some semblance of calm steal into him; while Tucker looked hell-bent on his destruction, the other two were obviously uncomfortable. A dead agent didn’t make a very good witness, especially when her record was as sullied as Special Agent Douglas’s.
“Be that as it may, we have to look at the entire case. Charges of this magnitude cannot go without scrutiny.” He shuffled his papers. “Dr. Baldwin. Since this matter is one of the highest delicacy, I think it would be best for you to start at the beginning, and walk us through the details of the case. Let me caution you-spare nothing. We will know if you’re obfuscating. If you’d please start by answering this question. What exactly was your relationship with Dr. Douglas?”
Baldwin couldn’t help himself, his jaw clenched and his fists tightened. Just the mention of Charlotte could do that to him. Lying, conniving bitch that she was, this last echo from the grave was the ultimate slap in the face.
He cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. Not for the first time, he was glad of his attentiveness to detail.
“We were…close.”
There weren’t many shocked faces on the panel-this wasn’t the first time two agents had gotten together.
The inquisitor raised an eyebrow, made a note on the sheet in front of him and continued.
“‘Close.’ Could you expand on that, please?”
Reever nodded at Baldwin, his head moving almost imperceptibly.
Expand on that. Sure he could. He could give them gritty details all day long, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he referred to his notes, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.
“It started on June 14, 2004. The day the fifth body was found.”
