“But he could acquit my client,” said Dana. “Sounds like Lestage had very little to do with it all, other than letting his mine be used for what he thought was another drug shipment. Maybe Kumar will say that Lestage was a bit player. Maybe the jury will believe him.”
“Why would you want to acquit Lestage?” asked George. “The guy’s a creep.”
Dana paused for a few seconds before she answered. “Because it’s my job, George. Distasteful though it might be, I have a role to play in this. That’s how our system works. You know that. From what Zak and Richard say, you’ve had plenty of skirmishes with the law in California.”
“Little skirmishes,” George said. “And if I ever took a shot at a guy in a boardroom or wherever, it’s because he richly deserved it.”
The dinner went on for several hours as information was exchanged, processed, and dissected. It was close to midnight before George, Turbee, and Khasha went back to a suite of rooms they had rented in a large luxury hotel a block from the courthouse. George took pity on Richard and Zak when they described the rat and cockroach infested hotel where they were staying, and he booked two more rooms on the same floor.
Turbee had a successful evening. The hard drives were rich with information.
46
They flipped open their passports as they went through security. Dan Alexander had a red-and-gold diplomatic passport, and explained to the agent that he was, in fact, the director of TTIC, an intelligence agency of the United States of America, and that the two Marines with him were his bodyguards and hence the guns they had strapped in shoulder holsters. He had several lawyers in tow, and some higher-order State Department executives. There was some head-scratching on the part of the Canadian customs officers, but one of them recognized Alexander from news articles and, giving due respect to the diplomatic passport, let them through. They exited the small terminal. The group required four taxis.
“Where to, gentlemen?” asked the cabbie.
“Courthouse, please,” Dan ordered. “How long?”
“We’re half an hour away.”
“Step on it,” Dan said. “This is a national security matter.” Given his last experience, Dan had no tolerance for cabbies.
“Yes, of course sir,” said the cabbie, crinkling up his nose. He was accustomed to people he picked up at the private terminal talking about matters that were of huge importance accompanied by a request for speed. The cab careened out of the parking lot and raced along the main access road toward downtown Vancouver. If the cops nailed him, he would be sure to have the very important people in his cab explain to the cops that this was a national security matter. That might work.
They arrived at the courthouse, paid the cabbie—no tip—and marched into the grand central foyer. They were pointed toward Courtroom 401 and were about to enter when two large sheriffs blocked their progress.
“What is going on, gentlemen?” asked one of the sheriffs. “You have weapons, I see. Do you have a permit to carry handguns?”
Dan Alexander could not tolerate the bureaucracy of lesser mortals. “I am the director of the Terrorist Threat Integration Center of the United States of America. These two gentlemen are my bodyguards. I have business in this courtroom.”
“That is all well and good, sir, but we cannot permit weapons inside a courtroom, especially with a high-profile case like the Lestage trial. You will surrender your weapons now, and then you may enter.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m the director of TTIC and I have business in this courtroom. Let me pass.” He peeked through the narrow glass window in the courtroom doorway and saw Turbee on the stand, testifying. “That man who is on the witness stand right now is disclosing state secrets. He must be arrested and stopped.”
As Dan Alexander was ranting, several other sheriffs and RCMP officers converged outside the doorway to the courtroom. They surrounded Dan and his guards. An RCMP sergeant, a man of immense size, looked down at the three intruders. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” he asked.
Dan resumed his speech about his rank, matters of national importance, his personal importance, and various other topics to impress upon the RCMP officer that this was an issue far beyond his rank. The sergeant let him bluster for a bit and then interrupted him. “Do you have any ID, sir?” he asked.
Dan took out his diplomatic passport and showed it to the sergeant, who scrutinized it with care.
“Fair enough. You may enter, but these two Marines must surrender their weapons to us. No guns in the courtroom, other than the ones the sheriffs are carrying.”
Dan was inclined to push the issue, but the senior Marine, seeing they were outflanked, outmanned, and outgunned, nudged him. “We’ll give them our guns, sir. We should be fine in there.”
Dan relented and the two Marines unhooked their shoulder holsters and handed them to the sheriffs, who promptly opened the double doors for the group of three. A couple sheriffs slipped inside the courtroom as well, ostensibly to provide security, but in reality to see what would take place. They all knew Judge Mordecai’s temperament, and with the director of whatever on a rant, interesting events were sure to unfold.
Judge Mordecai saw the small entourage enter the packed courtroom. He allowed Dana to continue to question Turbee and completely ignored Dan, who was now standing, flanked by several lawyers, in the well of the court. When Dana wrinkled her brow and paused, trying to assess the latest bargein, Dan struck.
“My name is Daniel Alexander the Third and I am the director of the Terrorist—”
Judge Mordecai spoke, not in any way acknowledging the presence or existence of Dan and his supporting armada. “Time
