“So you appealed me did you, Wittenberg? McSheffrey, did you know about this?”
“No, and it’s outrageous.”
“Mr. Penn-Garrett, did you have any involvement with this?”
“Yes, I was counsel at the Court of Appeal,” came Penn-Garrett’s raspy voice.
“Making trouble like usual, I see,” snorted the judge. “This is an ex parte motion. Why did you not notify the gentlemen at counsel table that you were bringing this on? This is a bit of a sneak attack, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Judge Mordecai, it is an ex parte motion. We needed it immediately. Before Inspector Singh finished testifying. The learned gentlemen at counsel table had all disappeared. I needed to get to the Court of Appeal while there were still judges around. My learned friends can bring an application before the Court of Appeal and show cause as to why the order should be vacated. They can do this at any time. They can do it now, at this very instance, if they wanted to.”
“I ought to report you to the Law Society for meddling in a trial that’s none of your business,” rebuked the judge.
Penn-Garrett had a long history of edginess under fire and had never been intimidated by any judge, or any lawyer. “I have done nothing inappropriate, m’lord. I am simply lending an assist to a junior lawyer who is outgunned four to one. You, on the other hand, with your ridiculous rulings and riding Ms. Wittenberg unmercifully, you ought to be reported to the Judicial Council.”
As Mordecai was trying to figure out a way to get the sheriffs to slam Penn-Garrett, wheelchair and all, into cells, McSheffrey, the lead prosecutor, stood up. “We’ve been blindsided here. We need at least a half hour adjournment to consider our position with respect to this order.”
“M’lord, this trial is dragging on,” Dana said. “They can sort it out over the lunch break.”
“You’re telling me that the trial is dragging on? After you spend at least three-fourths of any questioning looking at the ceiling or at your stupid computers? After your request for dozens of unnecessary breaks you don’t want to give one to the prosecution, especially after you sandbagged them with an ex parte motion? Seriously?”
“I would like to continue. I want to go back to where we were yesterday, and ask about a meeting between the RCMP, the FBI, and TTIC.”
“I made my ruling. You are not going there.”
“But m’lord, the Court of Appeal has now said that I can.”
“On an ex parte motion. You are going to apply to those idiots in the Court of Appeal to vacate their order, aren’t you?” Mordecai looked at the prosecutors’ table.
“Of course we are,” McSheffrey replied. “But we need some time to put the paper together.”
“You’ve got it,” ordered the judge.
He turned to Dana, his complexion a dark, unhealthy purple. Dana had never seen Judge Mordecai so angry. “We don’t like ex parte orders, Ms. Wittenberg, especially coming from the Court of Appeal. And for you to complain about ‘dragging on’ is completely ridiculous. You’ve been dragging your feet through endless pauses, gaps, and adjournments. You think you’re allowed to drag and they’re not? This court is adjourned for ninety minutes.” With his gavel in pieces, he picked up a paperweight and slammed it down so hard that its head broke off and flew forward, almost clipping the court clerk’s right ear. He stormed off the bench before the startled clerk could say, “Order in the court.”
It was Thursday morning. The following Monday was a holiday— Canadian Thanksgiving—and the Tuesday and Wednesday thereafter were impossibly overbooked at the Court of Appeal. The full hearing on the application to allow the questioning on missing documents was put over until the following Thursday. Justice Mordecai had had enough, and adjourned the Leon Lestage trial until after the Court of Appeal hearing on Thursday morning. Just when Dana felt she would disintegrate into dust with the unrelenting stress, she was given seven days off.
Everyone associated with the trial breathed a sigh of relief. Court and counsel were becoming murderous in their frustration and endless disagreements and a respite was called for.
33
Several days later, Turbee was twiddling with a complex formula on one of his computers when a banner scrolled across the top of his screen: INCOMING MESSAGE FROM GOLDBERG COMM-LINK.
Turbee nudged George, who was sitting to his right, and motioned to Khasha, to his left. “Open it,” said Khasha.
Turbee furtively looked around to see who else in the TTIC control room might be paying attention. No one was. He clicked on the banner. TURBEE, PLEASE MESSAGE BACK WHEN YOU GET THIS.
I’M HERE, Turbee responded. WHAT DO YOU NEED?
WE ARE APPROACHING JAKARTA. JIMMY KNOWS OF THE LOCATION OF AN INDUSTRIAL SHIPPING AREA WEST OF THE CITY. WE NEED TO REFUEL AND THE ONLY WAY WE CAN DO THAT IS TO USE THE KDDEA MERICAN EXPRESS CARD ON BOARD. ARE YOU ABLE TO CHANGE THE ORIGIN OF THE POINT OF SALE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN? Turbee messaged back.
WITH ALL OF THE SIGINT BEING TRACKED BY THE NSA THE FEDS WILL BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR OUT OF THE WAY CHARGES ON KDDE OR RELATED ACCOUNTS. CAN YOU MAKE IT LOOK LIKE THE POINT OF SALE CAME FROM SOME DIFFERENT AREA? LIKE WHERE?
SOME AREA IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION. SOMEWHERE ALONG THE EASTERN COAST OF AFRICA. CAN YOU MAKE IT LOOK AS THOUGH WE PURCHASED FUEL THERE AS OPPOSED TO WHERE WE PRESENTLY ARE?
RICHARD, I WILL TRY. STAND BY.
“Can you do that?” asked Khasha.
“I don’t know,” Turbee replied, feeling like a serial digital burglar. “This is tougher than simply freezing an account. Anyone can do that. But to change a point of sale, that’s very different.” “How so?” asked George.
“You cannot do a lot of damage by freezing an account. That is a common occurrence with any credit card company.
