He does the honors with the two men. The younger one is the bellboy, a deputy U.S. attorney from Howard’s office in San Diego, brought along to carry the bag.
The older one is gray haired and sober, with heavy-lidded eyes over thin lips, one corner of which turns up the slightest millimeter as he shakes my hand. Templeton introduces him as James Rhytag, deputy assistant attorney general. Howard should take lessons from him. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. Everybody’s dead to him.
“Deputy assistant AG, that’s pretty high up,” I say. “Then I take it you’re not from these parts?”
“ Washington.” The lips barely move as he says it.
“What division?”
“We can talk inside.” He means the judge’s chambers. He gestures with his head toward the two reporters who are now leaning over the railing trying to collect business cards, like trained seals slapping for fish.
It seems no one is carrying cards today, so the reporters open their notepads and shoot for full names and correct spellings. They keep pointing to Rhytag, asking for his title, and what he’s doing here. With all the federal firepower, they know they’ve stumbled into something. The only two people in the room who seem to be less informed are Harry and me.
Templeton climbs down off the wheelchair, gets behind it, and starts pushing. He leads the assemblage past the bench, toward the hallway that leads to the judge’s chambers.
Harry and I fall back to the rear. He leans over and says into my ear, “Why don’t you excuse yourself to the men’s room. Let me go in with the judge and find out what this is about.” Harry is worried.
“If Templeton wanted to arrest me, he wouldn’t need the federal government to do it. Besides, we have the luck of the draw.” I nod toward the plaque on the wall outside the door, the one that says HON. PLATO QUINN.
Once through the door and into the judge’s chambers, Templeton pushes his wheelchair right up to the front lip of Quinn’s desk, climbs aboard, and then invites the U.S. attorney and Rhytag to take the two client chairs on either side of him. This leaves Harry and me to share the couch against the back wall with the federal baggage boy.
Templeton tries to chat him up, but Quinn sits there, imperiously waiting until everybody is inside and seated and the door is closed. The judge is tall and angular. He sits bolt upright in his chair behind the desk, sharp-angled beak nose, narrow face, and bald head. Quinn has always reminded me of the eagle on the great seal.
Templeton edges in with the introductions. He starts with the U.S. attorney, but before he can get her name out, Quinn steps all over it. “Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds.” He looks at Harry and me seated on the end of his couch like orphan afterthoughts. “Good to see you both again. I hope everything’s going well.”
“Your Honor, what can I say? We’re back in your courtroom again, so it can’t be too bad.”
He laughs.
A trial judge has not been assigned to Katia’s case as of yet, but criminal pretrial and law-and-motion matters are dished up to only two judges in the courthouse. One of them is Plato Quinn. Harry and I have tried cases before him. Toy with him and Quinn can exhibit the abrasive qualities of a drill sergeant. Do a trial in front of him and survive the experience and a kind of affinity is formed that you see in combat. If, for some reason, the federal government is about to crawl up our back, there is nobody I’d rather hand the scratcher to than Quinn. He is not likely to be pushed around.
Templeton manages to get through the introductions before Quinn cuts him off again. “I guess I’m a little confused. And don’t misunderstand me, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you all, but why are all these people here?” He puts this to the Dwarf. “What I show in the file is a motion to produce under Brady filed by the defendant with no response or opposition, no points and authorities from the prosecutor’s office.”
“That’s correct,” says Templeton. “The district attorney’s office offers no opposition, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, if I may.” With the sound of Kim Howard’s voice, the guy at the other end of the couch has the briefcase open and a thick file out of it.
“I think we can cut through this very quickly,” says Howard. She reaches behind her without looking. Her assistant puts the file in her hand, like a relay runner passing the baton. Howard pulls a sheaf of stapled papers from it, maybe three or four pages, and hands it to the judge.
“I have here a federal court order issued by the federal district court for the District of Colombia removing jurisdiction over this matter, to wit, the motion to produce six identified photographs seized from the defendant in the present case of
“As you can see, the order was signed and filed by the district court three days ago.”
“Mr. Madriani, have you seen this?” says Quinn.
“No, Your Honor. This is the first we’ve heard of it.”
Howard snaps her fingers and her assistant produces two copies from the briefcase, one for me and another for Harry.
“Excuse my ignorance,” says Quinn. “But what exactly is the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court?”
“Perhaps a little background is in order.” This comes from Rhytag.
“Yeah, Jim, I think you’re best to handle that,” says Howard.
“I don’t care who handles it. I just want to know what’s going on.” Quinn doesn’t like being stepped on, even by another judge wearing federal robes.
“The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978 established a special federal court entitled the United States Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. It also established a special court of review for appeals from the FISC, FISC being shorthand for the court. Since that time the law has been amended under the Patriot Act to change the size and composition of the court, but its purpose remains the same.”
“Which is what?” says Quinn.
“To oversee and adjudicate requests from federal law enforcement agencies for surveillance warrants against suspected foreign intelligence agents operating within the United States. They’re called FISA warrants.”
“Excuse me,” says Quinn, “I know Mr. Templeton just introduced us, but exactly who are you?”
“I’m James Rhytag, deputy assistant attorney general in charge of the Justice Department’s National Security Intelligence Division.”
“That’s quite a title,” says Quinn. “In light of the federal district court’s order, I’m not exactly sure what my role is in this matter any longer. I assume I still have jurisdiction over the criminal case.”
“As far as I know,” says Rhytag.
“That’s big of you,” says Quinn. “So you’re telling us that these photographs, the ones Mr. Madriani and his client want access to, are off limits, under some kind of federal seal, is that it?”
“In a word, yes,” says Rhytag.
“You have anything you’d like to say, Mr. Madriani?” Quinn looks at me.
“Yes, I’d like to know where the photographs are.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” says Rhytag.
“Maybe I missed something,” I say. “What you’re telling us is that the jurisdiction of this special federal court is limited to the issuance of these surveillance warrants, for spies operating in the United States, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” says Rhytag.
“What do the six photographs have to do with surveillance warrants?” I ask.
“That’s classified. You’re not entitled to know,” says Rhytag.
“Your Honor, what we have here are two murders with a truckload of unanswered questions. We have questions concerning one of the victims, Emerson Pike, and what his background was, how he managed to expedite obtaining a visa to bring the defendant into the country, a U.S. visa that would ordinarily take months but which he was able to obtain from the United States consulate in Costa Rica in three days. You wouldn’t know anything about that?” I put the question to Rhytag.
“Sorry,” he says, and just shakes his head.
“We know that Emerson Pike was obsessed with the photographs in question,” I tell Quinn, “and that the pictures were taken by the defendant’s mother…”
“Where? Where were they taken?” says Rhytag.
