The Merchant of Secrets Read online

  Mike, Flumm, Bailey, Keisha, Hugo, Jose, and I sat in the wooden benches in the courtroom to hear the prosecutor and the defense attorneys argue opposing sides of the issue before the judge. David Jones was sitting at the defense table in a short sleeved jumpsuit with hands clasped together and resting his arms on the defense table. His ankles were shackled but hidden under the table, but his wrists were not handcuffed. He looked about ten years older than he did when I last saw him, almost unrecognizable as the same person. His game face had fallen. Jones’ defense counsel wanted the case tried in Florida, where the sentencing might be lighter, and the jury probably would have few, if any, military members on it. To bolster their argument they claimed that any site visits from the jury would be to Dave Jones’ house in Florida, where the property was searched and the information was sent from a local network. Logistically then, it would make more sense to have a trial in Florida where jury would have easy access to the site, instead of bringing a Virginia jury all the way down to Florida for a site visit. That would be costly, and time-consuming. The trial, they insisted, had to take place down there.

  The Prosecutor, counter-argued that the theft of information had occurred at an aircraft manufacturing company in Virginia, and that most of the witnesses-meaning us-were in Virginia. In arguing to keep the case in Virginia, Riley knew that a jury in northern Virginia would be packed with either military people or their families and friends. Almost everyone in that area was in some way connected to the federal government or to the military. They’d be more inclined to fine the accused, “guilty.” Riley argued that site visits are exceedingly rare these days, because of the advancement in other sorts of evidence such as DNA, network logs, and hidden cameras, and a visit to Florida wouldn’t be necessary. So the case should remain in Virginia, where the Complaint was initially filed.

  The Court agreed with the Prosecutor, and ordered that the case be tried in Virginia. Then as if to hint at the ruling to come, the judge looked Jones straight in the eye and issued a scathing dismissal of everything Jones had achieved as a soldier in Afghanistan. In a flash of legalistic eloquence the judge crushed the singular, darkened spirit of what she called “the good soldier gone bad.”

  We took a break, went to lunch across the street from the courthouse before congregating again at the prosecutor’s office. Once we were inside he warned, with an eye glaring in my direction, that Jones’ defense attorneys were going to take special aim at me, to tear my credibility to shreds. I knew exactly what he meant, and so did Mike. He’d bring in that psychologist in the bright red tie, to testify that I was nuts.

  “Caroline,” the prosecutor said, “we’ll have to get you in to see one of our psychologists to testify that there’s nothing wrong with you. When they go on the attack, we’ll be ready for rebuttal with our own witness, maybe two or three. Okay?”

  “There’s not a damn thing wrong with Caroline, Riley,” Mike insisted.

  “I know that,” the prosecutor replied, “but we need a jury to hear from a rebuttal witness. And better yet, two or three rebuttal witnesses.”

  Mike pursed his lips, and looked inquisitively in my direction, checking my reaction.

  “I don’t want to hinder the case, is my testimony necessary for a conviction?”

  “No, Caroline,” the prosecutor replied, “I think we’re going to be able to put on a good case, either way.”

  “Do you think you’ll win?” I asked.

  “Yea,” he nodded, “I think the evidence rises to the level we need it to. It’ll erase any reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. We’ve got the smart phone, the network, the overseas bank accounts, all linked together, and linked to Jones.

  “Okay,” I said in resignation, “that’s it then. I won’t testify.”

  “Oh Caroline, that’s crap,” Hugo blurted-out, looking at me. Then he turned to the prosecutor, “Riley, Caroline started this whole investigation, she led the whole thing and put the team together, she knows more about David Jones than anybody,” he pleaded, hoping that the Prosecutor would let me testify.

  “Thanks Hugo,” I said. “But I don’t want to be there if it endangers the case.”

  “Caroline,” Riley responded , “I guess you have some friends in this bunch,” then for the first time he let himself smile.

  “Riley,” I replied, “they’re the best team I could have ever hoped-for.”

  Everyone smiled in silence for a moment.

  “Okay Caroline,” Riley said gently, “since you’re not going to be part of the trial, you can go now.”

  Relieved of my duties and dismissed from the meeting, I leaned over and picked up my purse from the floor beside my chair and walked out of the room leaving the rest of the team behind to carry-on.

  The next day, after the prosecutor had dismissed me and I was no longer in the case, Mike and I were strolling along the Potomac River talking about the trial and me moving-in with him. The wind started to pick-up and the skies darkened under a heavy canopy of clouds, until finally they let loose a gust of wind and rain upon our heads. As we ran to the shelter of a boathouse, we were drenched by the deluge, and Mike reached out his hand so that I wouldn’t fall down when my high heels got stuck in the dirt that had quickly turned to mud. I was overcome with an impulse to kiss him for helping me.

  Inside the boathouse he looked intently at me. “So have you given any more thought about us?” Mike asked, swallowing hard.

  “Actually I’ve thought about us a lot,” I replied, with some hesitation, not wanting to express myself badly or to be misunderstood. “You know Mike, this is a pretty intense occupation, I mean every day facing the challenges of terrorist attacks….. there’s hardly a second that anyone in this job can relax.”

  It seemed so obvious, especially when talking to a veteran like him who had worked so hard over so many years that it sounded silly when it came from my mouth. Mike was still searching for meaning in my facial expression.

  “You’re not letting Colin coax you back into his arms, with some story that he’s going to leave his wife!”

  “Oh, no Mike. Colin’s long gone, I haven’t spoken with him in months.”

  Mike relaxed and resumed his examination of my demeanor for clues as to the message about to be conveyed.

  “I need some time for myself for a change, just some time to relax, visit my grandparents, go to the beach, read a good book. I need to figure out what I want to do with my life…”. Then he understood and stopped staring at me. He pursed his lips like he regretted bringing up the subject because it was returned with an answer he didn’t want to hear.

  I felt old beyond my years, and exhausted, and couldn’t go on another day. The pressure inside had been building for months and I needed a very long vacation to release it. Probably a permanent one. It was someone else’s turn to join the ranks; someone younger and fresher with an eagerness to fight.

  “Sounds boring doesn’t it?”

  “No, it sounds smart,” he replied sadly, in vague affirmation as he lowered his head to look at his shoes. His attention seemed to be drifting somewhere else. “I might, I might just do the same. Maybe a trip somewhere, maybe Italy….” he lightly shrugged his shoulders and his eyes roamed aimlessly outside the window across the Potomac River, as if he were searching for his future somewhere in the distance. When turned his head again I saw my own anguish mirrored in his eyes.

  “Will you still be here in Washington when I get back?” I asked softly.

  Just then a grin broke across his face and his eyes lit-up from beneath their surface. He realized I was just leaving my old job, not him.

  “I’ll be here,” he replied. “Hurry back.”

  This is a novel inspired by actual events. All names are fictitious.

  copyright@ 2012 by Caroline Lowther

 

 

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