in the same place.”
He looked a little familiar, but in truth all FBI agents look alike to me, even the women.
He asked me, “What brings you here?”
“What brings
“I asked first.”
“Are you asking officially?”
Mr. Griffith recognized a little verbal trap when he heard one. He replied, “I’m here as a private citizen.”
“Me, too.”
He glanced around, then said to me, “I guess you’re here with your wife.”
“Good guess.”
We both remained silent for a while and stared at each other. I love these macho-eyeballing contests, and I’m good at them.
Finally, he said, “Your wife, as she may have told you, has never been fully satisfied with the final determination of this case.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “The government is satisfied. She-and you-work for the government.”
“Thanks for the hot tip.”
He looked at me and said, “Sometimes the obvious needs to be stated.”
“Is English your second language?”
“Okay, hear me on this-the case is closed. It’s enough that we have private groups and individuals questioning the government’s findings. That is their right. But you, me, your wife-all of us in Federal law enforcement-cannot lend credence to those who have alternative and perhaps paranoid theories about what happened here five years ago. Understand?”
“Hey, pal, I’m just along for the ride. My wife is here to honor the dead and comfort the families. If there’s any paranoia here, it’s yours.”
Mr. Griffith seemed to take offense, but kept his cool. He said to me, “Perhaps the point I’m making is too subtle for you to understand. What happened here, or didn’t happen here, is not the issue. The issue is your status as a government agent.” He added, “If you retired-or got fired-tomorrow, you could spend all the happy hours you want looking into this case. That would be your right as a private citizen, and if you found new evidence to reopen the government’s case, then God bless you. But as long as you work for the government, you will not, even in your off-duty hours, make any inquiries, conduct any interviews, look at any files, or even
I keep forgetting that nearly all special agents are lawyers, but when they speak, I remember. I said, “You’re making me curious. I hope that wasn’t your intent.”
“I’m telling you the law, Mr. Corey, so later, if it comes up, you can’t plead ignorance.”
“Hey, pal, I’ve been a cop for over twenty years, and I teach criminal justice at John Jay College. I know the fucking law.”
“Good. I’ll note that in my report.”
“While you’re at it, note, too, that you told me you were here as a private citizen, then read me my rights.”
He actually smiled, then switched to good cop and informed me, “I like you.”
“Well, I like you, too, Liam.”
“Take this conversation as friendly advice from a colleague. There’ll be no report.”
“You guys don’t take a crap without making out a ten-page report.”
I don’t think he liked me anymore. He said, “You have a reputation of being difficult and not a team player. You know that. You’re the golden boy for the moment as a result of the Asad Khalil case. But that was over a year ago, and you haven’t done anything spectacular since then. Khalil’s still free, and by the way, so are the guys who put three bullets in you up in Morningside Heights. If you need a mission in life, Mr. Corey, look for these people who tried to kill you. That should be enough to keep you busy and out of trouble.”
It’s never a good idea to coldcock a Federal agent, but when they use this condescending tone, I should go ahead and do it. Just once. But not here. I suggested to Mr. Griffith, “Go fuck yourself.”
“Okay,” he said, as though he thought that was a good idea. “Okay, consider yourself on notice.”
I replied, “Consider yourself gone.”
He turned and went away.
Before I could process the conversation with Mr. Griffith, Kate came up beside me and said, “That couple lost their only daughter. She was on her way to Paris for a summer study program.” She added, “Five years hasn’t made a bit of difference, nor should it.”
I nodded.
She asked me, “What was Liam Griffith talking to you about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Did he want to know what we were doing here?”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He works with us, John.”
“What section?”
“Same as ours. Mideast terrorism. What did he say?”
“Why don’t I know him?”
“I don’t know. He travels a lot.”
“Did he work the TWA case?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“I meant to. Right before I told him to go fuck himself. Then the moment was gone.”
“You shouldn’t have said that to him.”
“Why’s he here?”
She hesitated, then replied, “To see who else is here.”
“Is he sort of like an Internal Affairs guy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Did my name come up?”
“He said you weren’t satisfied with the government’s final determination of this case.”
“I never said that to anyone.”
“I’m sure he deduced it.”
She nodded, and like a good lawyer not wanting to hear any more than she’d be willing to repeat under oath, she dropped it.
Kate looked out over the ocean, then up at the sky. She asked me, “What do
“I don’t know.”
“I
I took her hand, and we began the walk back to the Jeep. I said to her, “I think we need to explain the streak of light. Without the streak of light, the evidence is overwhelming for a mechanical failure. With the streak of light, we have another very credible theory-a surface-to-air missile.”
“And which way do you lean?”
“I always lean toward the facts.”
“Well, you have two sets of facts to pick from-the eyewitnesses and their testimony regarding the streak of light, and the forensic facts, which show no evidence of a missile strike and do show some evidence of an accidental center fuel tank explosion. Which facts do you like?”
I replied, “I don’t always trust eyewitnesses.”
“What if there are over two hundred of them who all saw the same thing?”
“Then I’d need to speak to a lot of them.”
“You saw eight of them on TV the other night.”
“That’s not the same as me questioning them.”
“I did that. I interviewed twelve of them, and I heard their voices and I looked into their eyes.” She said to
