CHAPTER 8

I sent a car to pick up Scott Damiano at Honolulu International, then drafted a written statement on behalf of the governor’s office for release to the media in connection with the ongoing investigation into Oksana Sutin’s death. I cautioned the press not to jump to conclusions and reminded the public that Wade Omphrey, like any sitting governor, had made powerful political enemies while fighting for the citizens of the state of Hawaii. I promised further comments would follow the FBI press conference scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

Then I placed a call to the houseplant, aka Assistant US Attorney William F. Boyd. “My client Turi Ahina and I would like to come in for a chat.”

“Smart decision, Counselor.”

“Thanks for the compliment. Name the when and we’ll be there.”

“How about right now?”

I glanced at my watch. “A little late in the day, isn’t it?”

“You can stand to miss one happy hour, Counselor.”

“Let’s not make this about me and you.”

“If this were about me and you, Counselor, I’d tell you to go to hell and I’d begin prepping for trial so that I could nail your ass to the wall. But I’m willing to speak to your boy. As you may know, one of his codefendants drew Clyde Harris, and I expect a call from Clyde in the morning, in which case I won’t need you or your client anymore. So it’s now or never, Counselor. What’s your call?”

“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” I said quietly.

“Smart decision.” Then the line went dead.

A little over an hour later Turi and I were seated alone in a small room with no windows at the Federal Detention Center, and I was sweating, itching from the Percocet, yet trying to maintain my calm. Turi didn’t appear to be much better off, his legs shaking beneath the table, his hands taking turns wiping the perspiration from his brow.

“This document is called a Queen for a Day agreement,” I said, pulling a form out of my briefcase.

“I don’t think I like the sound of that, Mistah C.”

I set the form in front of Turi on the table. “Don’t worry, Turi. It doesn’t mean you have to dress in drag. This document is meant to protect you, and I won’t allow you to say a word before I have a fully executed copy in my briefcase.”

“How does it protect me?”

“This agreement provides that no statements you or I make this evening can be used as evidence against you in any criminal proceedings. But the government may use your statements against you for the purpose of cross-examination or impeachment should you testify at any proceeding contrary to this proffer. In other words, don’t lie because lies can come back to haunt you.”

“No lies,” Turi said as though instructing himself.

“No lies. Remember, in addition to the charges already filed against you, you can be prosecuted for perjury, giving a false statement, or obstruction of justice if you knowingly provide false information.”

“What’s the government promising me in return, eh?”

“Nothing,” I said flatly. “In return for your willingness to talk, if you provide the government with useful information during this debriefing, you may receive some form of leniency such as a plea to a lesser charge or ideally, immunity from prosecution. But they’ve made no promises so far. You have to make it worth their while to make you a promise. The better the information, the better the deal they’ll cut.”

Turi filled his large lungs with the stale air of the sealed room. “What do they want to know?”

“Everything.” I stood and removed my suit jacket, hung it neatly over the back of my chair. “One more thing. The government lawyer will be gauging how well you handle yourself to determine what kind of witness you’ll make. Be certain of what you say, maintain eye contact, and speak loudly and clearly. Understand?”

Turi nodded to me just as the metal door creaked open and AUSA William F. Boyd stepped in, followed by a man and a woman. Turi and I shifted our chairs so that we were seated side-by-side, ready to address our adversaries. Boyd took a seat on the opposite side of the table, flanked on either side by the man and the woman. The woman looked strikingly familiar.

“Mr. Corvelli,” Boyd said, “thank you for coming.” Boyd completely ignored Turi in an effort to show my client how insignificant he was. “Seated to my left is Special Agent Michael Jansen of the Drug Enforcement Administration. And seated to my right is Assistant US Attorney Audra Levy.”

Audra. I peeked at her slender left hand; no ring. She somewhat resembled a brunette I graduated high school with, but her last name had been Karras. Audra Karras. A tight-ass who had once turned me in for smoking a joint in the faculty parking lot.

Boyd presented a fresh copy of the proffer agreement and reiterated what I’d already said to Turi, then he pushed a silver Montblanc across the table to me and I handed it to Turi, indicating where to sign. After adding my John Hancock, I passed the document back to Boyd and stuffed the Montblanc into the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

“All right,” Boyd said. “Let’s get started. Mr. Ahina, why don’t you begin by telling us everything you know about Orlando Masonet.”