legal restrictions, however, we’ll be providing you with progress reports.”
He pointed to a reporter from CBS.
“From the very beginning,” the reporter said, “there’ve been rumors that this attack could be related to Islamic fundamentalists. Are you saying this is strictly homegrown?”
Forsyth nodded. “I won’t deny that our first inclination was to look in that direction, but when Mr. Clegg came forward we quickly found out otherwise. This should probably serve as a lesson to us all not to prejudge such things. The world is full of dangerous people, and some of them are in our own backyard.”
Maybe so, Jack thought, but the evidence Forsyth had mentioned was circumstantial at best. And relying on a local witness who hadn’t been allowed on the inside, yet claimed to have inside information, strained credulity. Who was to say he didn’t have a grudge?
As far as the firearms were concerned, if the feds were to ever raid the apartment Jack owned near the Embarcadero they’d find enough legal weapons to equip a marine fire team-a collection he’d amassed over the last twenty years. Did that make him a terrorist?
The maps the feds had found could simply have been preparation for a trip to San Francisco to witness their leader’s trial, and there might even be a logical explanation for the presence of C4 at the compound. A licensed demolitions expert would have the right to possess it, and any number of reasons to use it out there from construction to rock removal to movie special effects work.
Whatever the case, Jack wasn’t willing to choke down any of this without a bit of resistance. Especially knowing what he knew about Leon Thomas’s statement.
More hands went in the air and Forsyth made his choice.
“What about the minor who hijacked the car?” a reporter for the Chronicle asked. “Is he being charged with anything?”
Forsyth shook his head. “Not on a federal level. His involvement had nothing to do with the conspiracy itself, so no charges are anticipated. He’s currently recovering from a busted arm and leg incurred in the crash and is in hospital room custody of the SFPD.”
“I understand his brother has been released,” the reporter said.
“He was arrested for allegedly aiding and abetting the carjack and has been released to the custody of his parents on $25,000 bail. We’ll leave it to the city prosecutor to sort out any crimes he may have committed.”
Jack listened patiently as several more questions were asked and answered, all of them centering on the CDB. He kept waiting for someone to mention what he considered to be the gorilla in the room, but maybe he was the only one who actually saw it.
He raised his hand, only to be passed over several times by Forsyth, and he felt for a moment as if he were the scrawny kid in phys ed who was the last to be chosen for flag football. Back in school, Jack was usually the guy who did the choosing, but he now had a sudden understanding and sympathy for what those poor kids must have gone through.
Finally, when Forsyth had no choice, he called on Jack, saying, “Well, Mr. Hatfield, it’s nice to see you’re still among the living. Professionally speaking, at least.”
The crowd laughed and Jack merely smiled. But it was nervous laughter, the kind you hear when a drunk uncle stands to toast the bride and groom at a wedding.
When they got it out of their collective system, Jack said, “I’m curious to know why there hasn’t been any mention of the Arab reportedly seen by Leon Thomas?”
The crowd buzzed at the remark and there was a subtle shift in Forsyth’s gaze. So subtle that most in the room had probably missed it, but Jack had been carefully watching for the man’s reaction.
“An Arab, Mr. Hatfield?”
“I spoke to one of the first responders at the scene. An Officer Harold Beckman. He told me the carjacker’s brother claimed the Land Rover was stolen from a man of Arabian descent.”
Forsyth smiled. “We have yet to definitively identify the original driver, but we have every reason to believe that he’s one of the men we just took into custody. And I assure you, there’s not an Arab in sight.”
“So you’re saying Beckman was lying?”
“As I recall, Officer Beckman suffered a minor head injury in the blast, so I’m afraid his recollection cannot be relied upon.”
Forsyth was about to call on another reporter when Jack interrupted. “Beckman told me this before the blast.”
More muttering. The FBI agent shifted his gaze back to Jack and Jack could plainly see that he was seething inside. This was not information Forsyth wanted asked about or shared.
“If I remember correctly, you were also knocked down by the explosion. Maybe you’re confused, as well.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack told him. “And my memory’s just fine.”
Forsyth smiled again. It took some effort. “Or maybe you’re just disappointed that our investigation hasn’t turned up any Muslims for you to kill?”
The shot went straight to the heart, and after a split second of stunned surprise, the reporters around Jack laughed uproariously, nodding and shaking their heads.
It was, Jack had to admit, the perfect response. It immediately branded him a crackpot who shouldn’t be taken seriously.
Jack thought of Tom Drabinsky and felt his own anger rising in his chest. He had a hard time believing the story this smug little jerk was selling, and he felt sick at the thought that Drabinsky’s sacrifice might be explained away by a lie.
Something Jack had learned quickly as a combat journalist was that anything the commanding officers had to say should be taken with a heavy dose of skepticism. The soldiers on the ground were the ones who knew the truth, and that’s who he needed to go to in order to find it.
He had no idea why the FBI would lie about this, but could only assume that they’d been unable to make any progress in the case and needed an easy scapegoat. Someone the President could point at to assure the public that the federal government was doing its job.
A quote from Isaiah came to mind: “As for my people, a babe is their master, and women rule over them.” It was to this state America had fallen.
A few more questions were asked, but Jack tuned out the rest of it, knowing that it was just more nonsense. And when the party broke up, he immediately moved toward the podium, approaching Vince McElroy, one of Drabinsky’s crew.
“Vince…” he said, keeping his voice low.
McElroy turned, not quite looking him in the eye. “Hey, Jack.”
“What’s going on here? Do you believe a word that guy said?”
McElroy gave him a halfhearted shrug. “We caught the bad guys. Isn’t that all that matters?”
He started to turn away and Jack grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. “Wait a minute-wait. Are you telling me you’re falling for this crap?”
“They’ve got the evidence, don’t they? Besides, like Tom always said, we’re just the garbage collectors. It doesn’t much matter what we think.”
Then he pulled himself free and walked away.
Jack was headed back to his car when his cell phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and checked the screen: Tony Antiniori.
“That was a load of bull if I ever saw one,” Tony said. “And I’ve been around for a long, long time.”
“You watch from the boat?”
“Yes, and I didn’t much like what I saw. Wouldn’t mind taking that FBI strunze straight up to the drop zone and letting go.”
Jack smiled. “So what do you think we should do about it?”
“I’ve got an old pal who lives up in Higgston,” Tony said. “I already gave him a call and he had some interesting things to say about the government’s star witness.”
“Like what?” Jack asked.
