"Does the FBI know about them?"
"Yes."
The room went silent, as Sandy waited for more and Patrick became tight-lipped. Nurses could be heard prattling in the hallway.
Patrick shifted his weight. Three days on his back, and he was ready for a change of scenery. "You need to hurry home, Sandy. We'll have plenty of time to talk later. I know you have questions, just give me some time."
"Okay, pal."
"File the lawsuit with as much noise as possible. We can always amend it later to bring in the real defendants."
"No problem. This won't be the first time I've sued the wrong defendants."
"It's strategy. A little sympathy won't hurt."
Sandy placed his legal pad and the photos into his briefcase.
"Be careful," Patrick said. "As soon as you're identified as my lawyer, you'll attract all sorts of strange and nasty people."
"The press?"
"Yeah, but not exactly what I had in mind. I've buried a lot of money, Sandy. There are people who'll do anything to find it."
"How much of the money is left?"
"All of it. And then some more." "It may take that to save you, pal." "I have a plan." "I'm sure you do. See you in Biloxi."
Chapter 13
THROUGH THE VAST WEB of leaks and JL sources, word came that yet another lawsuit would be filed late in the day, just before the clerk closed her office. The web had already been electrified with the confirmed reports that Patrick himself would be arriving around noon tomorrow.
Sandy asked the reporters to wait in the foyer of the courthouse while he filed the suit. He then distributed copies to the dozen or so bloodhounds gathered and jostling for position. Most were newspaper reporters. There were two minicams. One radio station.
At first, it appeared to be just another lawsuit, filed by another lawyer anxious to see his face in print. Things changed dramatically when Sandy announced he represented Patrick Lanigan. The crowd grew and bunched together-curious office clerks, local lawyers, even a janitor stopped to listen. Calmly, he informed them that his client was filing suit against the FBI for physical abuse and torture.
Sandy took his time with the allegations, then answered the barrage of questions thoughtfully, fully, looking directly at the cameras. He saved the best for last. He reached into his briefcase and removed the two color photos, now enlarged to twelve, by sixteen inches, and mounted on foam board. "This is what they did to Patrick," he said dramatically.
The cameras lunged in for close-ups. The group teetered on the verge of unruliness.
"They drugged him, then stuck wires to his body. They tortured him until his flesh burned because he wouldn't, and couldn't, answer their questions. This is your government at work, ladies and gentlemen, torturing an American citizen. Government thugs who call themselves FBI agents."
Even the most jaded reporters were shocked. It was a splendid performance.
The Biloxi affiliate ran it at six, after announcing it with a sensational lead-in. Almost half the newscast was Sandy and the photos. The other half was Patrick's return tomorrow.
By early evening, CNN began running it every half-hour, and Sandy was the lawyer of the moment. The allegations were just too juicy to downplay.
HAMILTON JAYNES was enjoying a quiet drink with the boys in the lounge of a posh country club near Alexandria when he saw the news clip on a corner TV. He had played eighteen holes, during which he had forbidden himself from thinking about the Bureau and the countless headaches there.
Another headache had just found him. The FBI sued by Patrick Lanigan? He excused himself and walked to the empty bar where he punched numbers on his cell phone.
Deep inside the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue is a hallway lined with windowless rooms where technicians monitor television news broadcasts from around the world. In another set of rooms they listen to and record radio news programs. In another, they read magazines and newspapers. Within the Bureau, the entire operation is known simply as Accumulation.
Jaynes called the supervisor on duty in Accumulation, and within minutes had the full story. He left the country club and drove back to his office, on the third floor of the Hoover Building. He called the Attorney General, who, not surprisingly, had been trying to reach him. A vicious ass-chewing ensued, with Jaynes on the receiving end and being allowed to say little. He did manage to reassure the Attorney General that the FBI had absolutely nothing to do with the alleged abuse of Patrick Lanigan.
"Alleged?" asked the Attorney General. "I've seen the burns, haven't I! Hell, the whole world has seen the burns."
"We didn't do it, sir," Jaynes said calmly, armed with the knowledge that this time he was repeating the truth.
"Then who did?" the Attorney General snapped back. "Do you know who did?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. I want a three-page report on my desk at nine in the morning."
"It will be there."
The phone was hung up loudly on the other end, and Jaynes cursed and gave his desk a hard kick. Then he made another call, the effect of which was that two agents emerged from die darkness and stood before the front door of Mr. and Mrs. Jack Stephano.
Jack had watched the reports throughout the night, and was not surprised to get a reaction from the feds. As the story unfolded, he sat on the patio chatting with his lawyer on a cell phone. It was actually funny, he'd decided; the FBI getting blamed for acts committed by his men. And it was a brilliant move by Patrick Lanigan and his lawyer.
"Good evening," he said politely as he stood in the door. "Lemme guess. %u're selling doughnuts."
"FBI, sir," one said, fumbling for his pocket.
"Save it, kid. I recognize you boys by now. Last time I saw you, you were parked down at the corner reading a tabloid and trying to duck behind your steering wheel. Did you honestly think you'd be doing such exciting work when you were in college?"
"Mr. Jaynes would like to see you," the second one said.
"Why?"
"Don't know. He told us to come get you. He wants you to ride with us to his office."
"So Hamilton is working late, is he?"
"Yes sir. Can you come with us?"
"Are you arresting me again?"
"Well, no."
"Then what exactly are you doing? I have lots of lawyers, you know. Wrongful arrest or detention, and you boys could get yourselves sued."
They looked at each other nervously.
Stephano was not afraid of meeting with Jaynes, or anybody else for that matter. He could certainly handle anything Jaynes could throw at him.
But he reminded himself that there were criminal charges pending against him. A little cooperation might help.
"Give me five minutes," he said, then disappeared inside.
JAYNES STOOD behind his desk holding a thick report and flipping its pages when Stephano entered. "Have a seat," he said abruptly, waving at the chairs opposite his desk. It was almost midnight.
"A pleasant evening to you, Hamilton," Stephano said with a grin.
Jaynes dropped the report. "What on earth did you do to that boy down there?"
"I don't know. I guess one of the Brazilian boys got a little rough. He'll survive."
"Who did it?"
"Do I need my lawyer here, Hamilton? Is this an interrogation?"
"I'm not sure what this is, okay? The Director is at home, on the phone, consulting with the Attorney General, who by the way is not taking this very well, and they call me every twenty minutes and peel off some more skin. This is serious stuff, okay, Jack? These allegations are hideous, and right now the whole country is looking at those damned pictures and wondering why we tortured an American citizen."