The Hearing Read Online Free PDF Page A

Monday, John Harrington, a member of the defense team, appeared in Gus’s office. He was from Washington, with a million-dollar
     reputation and a smile to match. “Just wanted to introduce myself.”
    They chatted, Harrington as warm and friendly as they come, grinning out at Gus from under thick black eyebrows. It took him
     less than twenty minutes of small talk, offhand as could be, to mention what a terrific job Gus had (“Used to be an assistant
     U.S. Attorney myself, loved the work”), and the great career advantages it offered.
    Harrington said, “They asked me to run for the House, but I turned it down. Who wants the hassle?”
    He never mentioned money. He didn’t have to. The reputation and the smile did that, as well as the wealth, power, and political
     clout of his client.
    When Harrington left, Gus felt sick. He knew why he’d been there. Suppression hearings were so easy to lose. There were so
     many technicalities, so many ways the agents could have screwed up the search. And the loss never reflected badly on the prosecutor.
     Lose this one, the sky’s the limit. That was what Harrington meant. So easy. So profitable. It made Gus sick—sick and angry.
    Two days later Gus received a brown manila envelope in the mail. Heavy, something loose inside. He tore it open and found
     two keys. Serrated edges on four sides, four-digit numbers on the plastic ends. Luggage locker keys.
    Gus called Carl and they drove to the airport.
    On the way, Gus said, “How’s Esther?” Carl’s wife wasa tiny blonde firecracker. A very
loving
firecracker, but a firecracker nevertheless.
    “The same. ‘You work all day, all night, you’re the SAC, make someone else work for a change, what’ll happen to your children
     when you get blown away, I thought this job, finally we’d have a normal life, no more up all night bang-bang,’ et cetera,
     et cetera, et cetera. She’s consistent, I’ll say that for her.”
    “You’ll say a lot more, too.”
    “Yeah, I love her. She says I oughta have a nice, safe nine-to-five job like you.”
    “Yeah, right. Nine-to-five.”
    “She loves Michelle. ‘Look at Michelle,
she
doesn’t stay up nights wondering where her husband is, dead in some alley.
She
leads a normal life.
She’s
beautiful.
She’s
not haggard, old before her time, bitching at her husband.’”
    Gus laughed. “You’re lucky, Carl.”
    “I know, I know. Great wife. Two terrific kids.”
    For five minutes, they rode in silence. Then Gus said, “So what do you think?”
    “Someone wants you to find something. I just hope it’s not ticking.”
    “I thought of that.”
    “Don’t worry. If it was a bomb, there wouldn’t be two.”
    The lockers were in the south concourse, side by side on the bottom row of a three-tiered stack about fifteen lockers long.
     Gus put a key in the one on the left, turned it, and swung the door open.
    Two large black shell-back Samsonites, side by side.
    He dragged one out. They stared down at it, sitting on the gray tile floor.
    “So,” Carl said, “the bomb squad?”
    Gus laid it on its side and pressed the latch. It snapped open. He lifted the top. Inside, layers of paper-banded bundles
     of hundred-dollar bills.
    After a moment, Gus put his hand into the suitcase, counted the layers.
    “How’s your arithmetic, Carl? Ten thousand per bundle, thirty bundles per layer, five layers.”
    “One and a half million.”
    “One and a half million. Well, well, well.”
    Gus gave the lid a touch and let it fall closed. He dragged out the second bag, opened it.
    Carl said, “Another one and a half.”
    Gus said, “Let’s check the other locker. We’re on a roll.”
    He turned the key, swung the door open.
    Carl said, “Empty.”
    “Not quite.”
    On the floor, in the center of the locker, a piece of paper. On top of the paper, precisely in the center, standing upright,
     two shiny brass bullets. Gus reached in, picked them up, held them in the palm of his hand.
    Carl