“Well, I am sure the Pentagon can wait a few more hours. I doubt that the world will end between now and four o’clock.”
“That is not acceptable, my lord. Here is a writ of habeas corpus demanding the release of Mr. Alexander now. You will note that one of the affidavits in support is sworn by the president of the United States. This must be done now.”
“The president, you say—”
“If I disagree with what the president says in his affidavit, can I move to cross-examine him?” asked Dana.
“You see that, McSheffrey? She’s learning,” said the judge with a grin.
“M’lord, this has become an international embarrassment,” said McPhail.
“Probably it is, Mr. McPhail. The question is who caused this. I don’t see Ms. Wittenberg threatening GUB bombs, or whatever Mr. Alexander was blathering about yesterday. I don’t see our sheriffs intimidating witnesses. I don’t see Ms. Wittenberg or Mr. McSheffrey answering cell phone calls in the middle of this trial. This matter will be dealt with at 4 p.m. today. Neither the president of the United States, nor the Pentagon, nor the director of TTIC, nor our prime minister have any right to come into my courtroom, in the middle of a difficult jury trial, and demand to be heard immediately. That’s not going to happen. You do understand the concept of constitutional separation of powers, don’t you? I mean, you have about 3,000 lawyers working for you, and I’m sure that the president has several thousand working in his Justice Department. I am sure one of them can figure that out.”
McPhail ignored the barb. “M’lord, nuclear missiles could well be flying before 4 p.m. There is no reason for you not to stand this witness down now and hear the habeas corpus application for the release of Mr. Alexander.”
“You seem to have some difficulty in grasping my orders,” Judge Mordecai said. “That I find surprising since the collective rates of the two of you has to be three or four thousand dollars an hour. For that amount of money, you must surely be able to grasp the legal nuances of ‘Be here at four’? Am I correct, or am I assuming too much?”
“There is no need for that, m’lord. We will leave the application, the affidavits, and four volumes of case law for your consideration.”
“That’s very kind of you, counsel. I’ll try to read it between questions and answers, breaks, lunchtimes, etcetera. Sure. I’ll read your fifty-pound pile of paper. Now get out of here. I have a trial to run.” He looked at Dana. “Carry on, Ms. Wittenberg. I doubt that these characters will apologize for intruding, but carry on.”
Dana asked Turbee a few more questions about Lestage’s computers, which he answered with great clarity. Then came a few final bombs to toss. “You know that there was an inquiry into the Glen Canyon Dam explosion?”
“Yes I knew that.”
“Were you asked to testify at that inquiry about the emails found on the Los Angeles cell computers?”
“No.”
“Even though you examined those computers?”
“That is correct.”
“Did anyone testify about those emails?”
“Yes. Two FBI agents did, but they simply read the emails into the record. There was no evidence given by anyone that those emails might not have been legitimate.”
“Do you know why?”
“That you will need to ask Mr. Alexander. He is the director of TTIC.”
“Why him?”
Turbee paused for a moment, magnifying the impact of his answer. “He testified at length at the inquiry. He knew what happened in the Colorado attack. He knew Yousseff and Kumar were the key players.”
“That’s all, my lord,” said Dana. “Those are my questions.”
49
Dana wrapped up her examination and sat down, feeling for the first time in the trial that things were starting to go her way.
“Oh, that was easy,” Turbee said. With a big smile he stepped out of the witness box and headed toward George and Khasha, who were sitting near the top of the gallery.
“Mr. Turbee,” Judge Mordecai said, his voice raised. “There may be a few more questions from this gentleman over here.” He pointed a finger at
McSheffrey. “You’ve got to come back here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I thought I was done,” Turbee said with contrition, walking back to the stand a little less joyously.
McSheffrey stood up and gave Turbee the eye over. Turbee felt the power in those eyes. Sheff, fully gowned up in courtroom blacks, cut a fearful figure.
“So, Turbee, tell us, how many different drugs are you on, right now?”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“I . . . I don’t know what drugs I’m on. Khasha has the bags . . .”
“You’re so stoned that you don’t know what drugs you’ve taken today?”
“I . . . I, I mean, I . . .”
“Why don’t we just bring Khasha and the drug bag up here so we can all have a look?” He turned around and motioned to Khasha to come forward. He took the bag and started to rummage through it. “What’s this one, Ativan?”
“It helps me deal with anxiety. It doesn’t seem to be working right now. Can you pass me one?”
“Sure, Turbee. Here you go. Don’t knock over your water glass now.” The jury did not chuckle.
“And this one, Clonazepam, what does it do?”
“Helps me sleep at night. It hasn’t been working that well lately, either.” “And these. Concerta?”
“It’s a time-release form of Ritalin. It helps me to stay focused and together. Without it, I can’t organize my thoughts, no matter how hard I try.”
“I guess that’s not working so well, either, these days?”
“Not really, sir. I do not feel very together right now.”
“Do you want to take one of those, too? Might help with your testimony a bit?”
“Sure, Mr. McSheffrey. Thanks.” He reached for one and downed it with another splash of water.
“And these two? Paxil and Effexor?”
“They’re both antidepressants . . .”
The first half hour of cross-examination consisted of extracting detailed information about Turbee’s medications. It was obvious what Sheff had in mind for closing arguments. He moved on, eventually, but to even
