34

Henry’s real name turned out to be George Underwood. Within a few days of Underwood’s arrest, Assistant U.S. Attorney Paul Campanella had Mike Patterson on the witness stand before the Springfield Grand Jury, recounting under oath his impersonation of Li’l Sis and the takedown of Underwood at the Ho Jo’s. Campanella was pleased to see that Patterson’s testimony about the duct tape and lubricant had the grand jurors looking sick, scared, enraged, or some combination of all three. After a very short deliberation, they returned a four-count indictment charging Underwood with attempted interstate travel for the purpose of engaging in illicit sexual conduct with a minor, attempted use of a facility of interstate commerce to entice a minor to engage in criminal sexual activity, attempted sexual exploitation of a minor, and possession of material involving the attempted sexual exploitation of a minor. In addition to the chat-room transcripts and the evidence found at the motel, a search of Underwood’s lakefront home in Vermont uncovered a load of child pornography on his laptop and other encrypted material on thumb drives that the FBI’s tech staff was still trying to crack into.

A week after the grand jury returned the indictment, Underwood appeared for his initial appearance before Judge Norcross with his attorney, a Greenfield lawyer named Alan Spade. Campanella wasn’t surprised when Spade did not contest the government’s motion for pretrial detention. Underwood faced a minimum mandatory prison term of ten years and a sentencing guideline range of 324 to 405 months. Spade was no Linda Ames, but he could add two and two. The judge’s body language during Campanella’s summary of the evidence against the defendant made it clear that any effort to get Underwood released now would be a waste of Spade’s credibility. Daniel Webster himself, come down from heaven with the tongue of an angel, wouldn’t be able to talk Norcross into letting Underwood out for five minutes.

After the hearing, as the deputy marshals were taking Underwood away in cuffs, Campanella was pleased to find Spade coming up to him.

“If you’ve got a second, I thought we might chat.” Spade was a pleasant-looking man with wire-rim glasses and thinning red hair who’d picked up his dad’s small-town law practice and had done well in the twenty years since. Reputation in the western Massachusetts legal community counted for a lot, and the word on Spade was basically good. He might not have Ames’s fire, but he was a hardworking, decent guy who was known to use his spare time raising money for the United Way and the local women’s shelter.

Campanella shrugged. “Sure.” He glanced back at Patterson. “Got a couple minutes, Mike?”

“Fine.”

“I was thinking.” Spade turned to watch as the marshals escorted his client from the courtroom down to the basement lockup. He dropped his voice. “I was thinking, since George is here, we might have him join us to talk about a possible proffer. We can’t commit to anything, but, you know …”

Patterson sniffed. “Better be a hell of a proffer.”

Spade gave a short laugh and scratched the back of his head. “He’s up the creek, Mike. I admit that. I’d like him to hear what you might do for him.” He gave another nervous laugh. “Or to him.”

Campanella broke in sharply. “I’m happy to talk, Alan, but you need to know that this is not a case where we’re going to be generous.”

“I understand. But I think George may have some information you might be interested in. He could help himself out here and make life easier for all of us. Problem is, he’s not listening to me much right now.”

Patterson began to say something, but Campanella broke in. “Fine. Like I say, we’re happy to talk.” Campanella snapped his briefcase closed. “I’ll ask the marshals to bring your guy up once they’ve booked and fingerprinted him.”

While they waited in the U.S. attorney’s conference room on the third floor, Campanella used the time to probe just how spongy Spade’s position was. Patterson sat in as a resource, in case Campanella needed reminders about details of the investigation.

After the usual chitchat—an imminent snowstorm and the distraction of the upcoming holidays—Campanella got to the point he was most interested in.

“We know George had an accomplice, Alan.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Somehow he slipped away. What was the vehicle, Mike?”

“Dark Chevy or Ford pickup.” Patterson was wearing an especially ominous version of his game face.

“If your client wants to help himself, the best thing he could do is tell us who this other character was.” When Spade hesitated and looked confused, Campanella pursued. “Look. You’ve got kids. My little guy just turned three.” He tipped his head toward Patterson. “Mike’s got teenagers, heaven help him.” This got a very brief smile from Spade, but no change of expression from Patterson. “Somebody is out there, Alan, somebody local, and he’s still on the prowl. We need to get him off the street.”

Spade looked lost. “This is news to me, Paul. George tells me he was acting alone.” Patterson rolled his eyes at the ceiling, broadcasting his “tell-me-another-one” look. Spade’s voice went up a notch. “I’m not kidding. That’s what he said. I mean I can—”

Patterson blew out a breath. “Well, then, he’s a damn—”

Campanella broke in. “Then he’s not telling the truth, Alan.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “We know he was working with someone else. Mike’s guys found his note in the wastebasket.”

“It wasn’t the cleaning lady.” Patterson glared at Spade. “Your guy’s bullshitting you.”

“And somebody else picked up the key,” Campanella added.

Spade responded a little aggressively. “You check the desk clerk?”

“Yeah,” Patterson said. “And she remembered some guy with a bushy beard, obviously false, and dark glasses. Big help.”

As Patterson spoke, the door opened, and one of the agents from the raid team brought Underwood inside, holding him by his upper arm. It took a minute for the cuffs to be removed and for Underwood to take a seat next to his attorney. He rubbed his wrists and looked nervously around the table.

“Hi.” His eyes struck Patterson and bounced over at Spade. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here.” He nodded at Patterson. “Last time I saw him …”

“Calm down, George. We’re just here to talk.”

The escort agent said, “Jack and I will be outside if you need anything.” He stepped from the room and closed the door.

The truly scary thing about George Underwood was how ordinary he looked. He had a large head, with a prominent slightly hooked nose, and his black hair was slicked straight back. Old fashioned, Clark Kent–style black frame glasses, slightly askew, perched on his nose. About Campanella’s age, he had a moist, flabby mouth like an oyster.

As Campanella stared at him, trying not to imagine the things this guy had been up to, Underwood seemed to notice. He ran a pink tongue around his lips, pushed his glasses up, and looked around. “Well, here we are, I guess.”

Spade put his hand on Underwood’s shoulder, squeezed it, and left it there while he spoke. “George, I don’t want you to do any talking, okay? Like I told you, you’re in a hell of a mess here. You know it, I know it, and they know it.” Spade pulled a pen from his suit jacket pocket and scribbled something on his yellow pad. “I want you to listen to Mr. Campanella. After he talks, I may have some questions, but we’ll need to work out some formalities—okay?—some paperwork, before you start saying anything. So just listen. Understand?” Spade dropped his hand and turned to Campanella and Patterson.

“I got it.” Underwood rubbed his hands together and peered over his glasses at Patterson, still nervous. “At least I’m alive, right? Which is more than he—”

“Okay, George.” Spade gave his client a sharp look. “Enough.”

“Refuse to lose.” Underwood spoke under his breath, half laughing.

“Excuse me?” Patterson sat up and leaned forward.

“Well, okay.” Underwood sighed. “Refuse to lose any more than I have to.”

“George, just listen, okay?” Spade was getting annoyed.

“Sorry.” Underwood pushed his glasses up again, licked his lips, and drew a finger across his mouth. “I’ll zip it.”

Patterson had gone dead still. His face was blank, but Campa­nella could sense the surge coming off him, expanding into the room. Even Spade caught the vibration and looked with a puzzled expression at Patterson, who seemed to be getting larger. Only Underwood appeared oblivious, darting his head around anxiously and squirming in his chair.

“Okay, Mr. Underwood. As I was just telling your lawyer, the first thing we’re interested in is the identity of the man, or possibly men, who …”

Patterson spoke in a growl, hardly moving his lips. “Taisha Steptoe.” Underwood’s head twitched over to Patterson. His mouth dropped open and sagged.

Neither the name, nor what Mike might be up to, made much sense to Campanella, and he couldn’t help resenting the intrusion. They could make some progress here if there were no distractions. Was Patterson trying out some hard-ass interview technique they’d taught him at the academy?

Campanella pushed on. “Now we know from this note”—he pulled the document, which was stored in a plastic sleeve, out of his file and slid it into the middle of the table where Underwood and Spade would be able to see it—“that someone was with you, George. We know that, okay?”

Patterson spoke again, raising his voice only slightly and staring intently at Underwood.

“Allison Wozniak.”

Underwood’s mouth quivered. He tilted toward his lawyer, on the point of speaking, but Spade ignored him and spoke to Patterson.

“What’s going on here, Mike?”

Patterson did not turn his head away from Underwood, still speaking in a low tone, but now with a distinct edge of menace.

“Amber Cohen.”

Patterson was leaning halfway across the conference table toward Underwood. He looked as though he were about to reach out and grab the man around the throat.

“Get me out of here,” Underwood said, jamming his chair back against the wall to stay out of Patterson’s reach.

To Campanella’s amazement, Patterson leaned farther toward Underwood, slammed his open hand down on the table, and shouted, “Where are they, you piece of shit?”

Spade stuck a protective arm in front of Underwood and shouted, nearly as loud as Patterson, “Hey, back off!”

The door opened and the escort agent poked his head in, looking worried.

“Did you throw them in the lake?” Patterson said savagely, gesturing at the north wall. “We’ll drag the lake. Where are they? I’ve got six parents who—”

Underwood clutched at his attorney’s arm. “Get me out of here, Alan.”

Spade stood up. “This conference is over.” He turned to Campanella. “I came here in good faith. I didn’t—”

“Look at his face!” Patterson stood, gigantic, jamming his finger down at Underwood, who was struggling up out of his chair. “Look at him sitting there! It’s written right on his goddamn face. Three girls. Three, at least!”

“We’re done.” Spade grabbed his client under the shoulder, pulled him up, and began hauling him toward the door. Underwood raised two hands up to the side of his face, blocking out the sight of Patterson, muttering, “He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me.”

The escort agent glanced at Patterson and reached around to retrieve the cuffs from his belt.

Campanella now suddenly recalled the phrase “refuse to lose,” and said, “Okay, Mike, I get it. Take it easy!”

But Patterson was scrambling around the table, snatching chairs out of the way, chasing after Spade and Underwood as they retreated toward the door. One chair banged against the wall and fell over. It actually looked as though he was about to lunge at Underwood.

Now it was Campanella’s turn to shout. “Mike! Come on!” He lowered his voice and spoke to where Spade stood in the doorway. “Your pal’s hiding a lot more than the name of some accomplice, Alan.” He pointed to Underwood. “Talk to this guy and tell him to cut the crap, then get back to me if he wants to do anything.” He dropped his hand and looked Underwood up and down with contempt. “He knows what we know.” He pointed his chin at Underwood, almost snarling. “And we know what he did.” The ferocity of his anger was making his hands shake. He kept picturing his son.

Spade didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “I can’t believe this, Paul. I came here …” He turned to his client. “Come on.”

“Just get me out of here.” Underwood twisted away from the escort agent and pressed his hands behind his back to make it easy to apply the cuffs. His eyes were locked on Patterson. “He’s going to kill me. I know it. He’s going to kill me.”

“I won’t have to dirty my hands.” Patterson, subsiding a little, bent over to pick up a chair.

“Is that a threat?” Spade asked.

“No,” Campanella said.

Patterson glared at Underwood. He spoke in a low growl, stepping toward him. “Watch your back, Henry. Every second of every day.”