Jake stood staring at the FBI badge. He’d spent enough time with police and military to know these two standing at his door were the genuine item. Right down to the formal politeness, the air of respect in addressing him as “sir,” and even the use of the word imperative. Still, he wasn’t going to let them intimidate him. His mentor Leonard once told him, “Show me someone with respect for authority and I’ll show you a lousy reporter.” Jake was not a lousy reporter.
He stood there silently, studying their eyes, assessing the situation, as they grew more uncomfortable. Good. They were probably genuine, but it would be stupid to let two strange men into his apartment. Yet if these guys wanted to take him, he knew they could. He could see the outline of their holsters strung under their suits, and it was obvious both of them put in their time in a weight room. He decided the best approach was to go along with them, but on his terms.
“Where’s your office?” Jake ushered his best I’m-not-intimidated voice, as if Feds were always dropping by on the weekends and he was getting a little bored by it.
“The Federal Building on Fourth Street. Seventh floor.”
“All right, I’ll go. But I’ll drive separately and follow you.”
“No problem, Mr. Woods.” Agent Sutter seemed gracious enough.
“Okay, give me ten minutes to take a shower and change.”
“Sure. We’ll wait outside.” Jake wasn’t about to offer them his living room, but it was nice of them to back off on their own.
Jake’s adrenaline rushed as hot and hard as the shower water. Obviously these guys were on the case. What did they know? How much would they tell him? What did they want from him? He’d heard Feds often didn’t let local police in on what they were doing. Did Ollie know about these guys? Jake was out of the shower and in his jeans and sweatshirt in five minutes. The whiskers would stay. On weekends Jake never shaved until his face itched, and it didn’t. Besides, it would remind these guys he was a civilian, with all the rights and privileges thereto.
Jake grabbed a spiral notebook and pen and stepped out the door. Sutter and Mayhew were pacing on the apartment’s front lawn, looking about as inconspicuous as two guys in full suits and trench coats could look on any Saturday afternoon outside an apartment complex.
“Ready,” Jake said. “I’ll pull out my car from that driveway over there.” He pointed to the driveway exiting from the secured parking lot. Jake saw Mayhew eye his spiral notebook uncomfortably. This could actually be fun.
The car with federal plates pulled into one of many open spaces in front of the building, Jake following. The federal building looked unoccupied today. Agent Sutter ran a card from his wallet through a scanner to gain entry to the front door, then nodded to the security officer manning the desk at the entry way. Sutter signed the log book. The officer looked bored, as though pulling the weekend shift was effortless but tiresome.
The three men entered the elevator and quietly rode to the seventh floor, where they turned to the right and snaked down a hallway to a room marked FBI. Sutter stuck in another coded card, a light turned green, and the door unlatched. The three walked in, past an office that said “Special Agent Sutter,” and into a small conference room with a fancy tape recorder set up on the center table.
“Sit down, Mr. Woods.” The chairs seemed new, virtually unused, and surprisingly comfortable for government issue.
“Coffee?” Sutter asked.
“Okay,” Jake shrugged. Little did he know when he got up that morning he’d be served his third round of coffee by the FBI.
Agent Mayhew got the three coffees while Sutter sat down and took out a large notebook, which seemed to be a procedure manual of some sort.
Jake watched Sutter take a sip of coffee, coal black, from his transparent mug. Jake tried his own, which wasn’t hot enough. Viennese. Been in the pot too long.
He studied Sutter’s every move, trying to gain any advantage he could in a situation where the advantage was clearly not his. Trying to look more at home than he felt, this time he took a gulp of coffee. Way too long.
One deep draught of his own and Sutter moved the coffee aside like a man who wouldn’t be coming back to it. He turned on the tape recorder second naturedly, like he’d gone through this routine before, then opened the clasps on a large bulky manila envelope. Without looking at the contents, he flipped them across the table to Jake.
“These may interest you, Mr. Woods.”
He looked at the photographs. A five-by-seven of Jake entering the front door of his apartment. Another five-by-seven of him standing by the Mustang, plugging a meter on Morrison. An eight-by-ten of him jogging in the park. Another buying milk at the convenience store. Having lunch with Ollie at the deli. Standing by Doc’s Suburban hoisted up at Ed’s Garage. Jake felt his ears turn red. These were professional close-up photos any Trib photographer would be proud of.
“So much for the right of privacy. I suppose my phone’s tapped too?”
“Nope. Could have, but I didn’t think it was necessary.” Sutter turned toward the microphone extending from the tape recorder. “Let the record indicate we are discussing the surveillance photos of Mr. Woods.”
“Didn’t think it was necessary? That’s considerate of you to give some nominal recognition of constitutional rights.”
Both sides knew this was more than a citizen who felt violated—it was the classic adversarial relationship between government authorities and the press.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit, Mr. Woods? It’s perfectly legal to drive around the city and take photographs of people without their knowledge or permission. In fact, your newspaper does it all the time. You call it journalism, I believe. Have I heard you say something about the first amendment?”
“It is different and you know it. But why do I have the feeling it wouldn’t make much difference to you whether it was legal or not?”
“We’re a legal agency, Mr. Woods. We’re here to uphold the law, not to break it, no matter what you’ve read about us. Or wrote about us, for that matter. Okay, I know it’s unnerving to find out you’ve been followed. But I didn’t have to tell you about this. I’ve laid the cards on the table. I’m being honest with you, in the hopes you’ll be honest with me.”
There was still one picture he hadn’t shown Jake yet. It was face up but mostly covered by the envelope. Jake sensed Sutter was debating whether he should show it to him. Jake reached across the table, under the envelope, and pulled out the photo. Sutter didn’t object. Jake saw a line of people in front of a coffin. Of course.
“You were at Doc’s funeral, both of you. I saw you there.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t respect much of anything, do you?”
“Just doing our job, Mr. Woods, like you do yours, even when people don’t understand or like it. One of our associates took dozens of pictures at the funeral—it was a disguised camera with a silent shutter, so it didn’t bother anyone. It’s not uncommon for a murder to be committed by an acquaintance who makes a point of being at the funeral, either out of propriety or some twisted sense of curiosity or smugness. Like he wants to take one last look to be sure he did his job, or to congratulate himself. We studied the pictures to identify who was there, who should have been but wasn’t, who shouldn’t have been but was.”
“What did you discover?”
“I’m not free to discuss with you, at least not now.”
“You can’t talk to me, but you want me to talk to you?”
“Look, Mr. Woods … Jake. We’re on your team. Whether or not you believe it, that’s the truth. We’ve been watching you partly for your own protection.”
“Really?” Jake didn’t hide his skepticism.
“Obviously you can guess some of the reason. We know you’ve been talking with Detective Chandler. We know everything he knows, and more. We also think you’re in greater danger than you imagine.”
“Danger? From whom?”
“That’s where this gets a little tricky, Jake.”
“How?”
“We can’t divulge more information to you without some assurances of full confidentiality and cooperation.”
“Forget it. I’m not going to agree to anything until I know exactly what’s going on.”
Agent Mayhew, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms.
“You don’t agree and you might have to live with letting the boys who wasted your friends get away.”
“Boys? As in more than one?”
“You get nothing else without agreeing to some conditions.”
“Tell me what you want me to agree to. Maybe I’ll think about it.”
“Okay. Most of it’s standard. It includes a commitment that you put nothing about this in print without our prior approval.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, this is going to be easy, then. I won’t agree to that. You can’t tell me what I can write and what I can’t.”
“Spoken like a true reporter. But you have to play by the same rules everybody else does in this situation. You don’t agree, then you head on home. We’ll leave you alone, and you’ll never figure it out. If we withdraw completely, you may not live to write again. We’re under no obligation to tell you anything. It’s a question of how much you want whoever killed your buddies. We’re taking a big risk by talking to you. Signing the document is nonnegotiable.”
Jake stared blankly. Inside he was starting to give a little, but wasn’t about to show it.
“Look, Jake, on the confidentiality thing, I’m just talking about information you receive from us, or as a direct result of what we give you. If it’s something you know without us, we have no control. You can do what you want with it. But if it’s something we tell you, we’re taking you on as a major security risk. You were in the army. You know how it works.”
Jake had to admit it made sense. They were in the driver’s seat. Without their information he might waste weeks going down blind alleys.
“Here’s the paperwork. Sign it and we’ll give you some info that should prove very helpful. We’ll also ask you for some information and hope for your cooperation. You don’t have to agree, but for your friends’ sake we hope you do. Don’t sign it and we can’t do business. It’s up to you.”
He took a deep breath, as if putting his last card on the table. “Now here’s the thing that’s going to bug you the most. We’ve got a very important reason for it. You can’t say anything about us to anyone, including the local police. That includes Detective Chandler.”
“Ollie? Why not? I’d trust him with my life. Which is more than I can say for you guys.”
Mayhew didn’t seem to appreciate the comment, but Sutter handled it in stride.
“As far as we know, Detective Chandler himself is no problem. But he has superiors he’s obligated to report to. And if they became aware of some of this information it could compromise our investigation, maybe result in more people being killed. And the lowlifes who killed your friends could just disappear, and I don’t mean with their throats cut, which wouldn’t make any of us shed a tear. I mean disappear to some Caribbean island for the rest of their lives, sipping margaritas, or whatever they drink down there.”
“You’re saying you don’t trust the police?”
“I’m saying there’s good cops and there’s bad cops. Most of them, maybe 98 percent of them are good cops, but it only takes one bad one to ruin this whole operation. If it was just Chandler we’d probably bring him in. He seems straight enough. But he’s obligated to talk to his superiors. For everything Chandler learns there’s a few sergeants and lieutenants and deputy chiefs and all kinds of people in the chain of command that are going to know, and probably a few assistants and secretaries, maybe even a custodian who looks over what’s on the desks. There are leaks over there, Woods. We know that the hard way. Leaks that relate directly to our situation here.”
“Look, I’m working with Ollie. He trusts me, and I trust him. If I can’t talk to him about this, forget it. What’s going to keep me from walking right now and telling him the whole thing?”
Agent Mayhew squirmed.
“Nothing, Woods. You can do that very thing. In fact, we know it’s a chance we’re taking. But if you do, the only thing you’ll know is the FBI is on this. You won’t know what we know. All you’ll know is because you refused to cooperate, the chances will be much better that your friends’ killers will live to be a ripe old age while all that’s left of your buddies is food for the night crawlers.”
Sutter’s insensitivity rubbed Jake the wrong way, yet had its desired effect. What did he have to lose? Better to have info he couldn’t directly give Ollie than have no info at all.
“Okay, Sutter. Let’s see what your document says.”
Agent Sutter passed over a single paragraph, typewriter style Courier, about thirteen point. It was stuffy but surprisingly jargon-free, as if written by a reporter rather than a lawyer. Still, any editor would have pared it down, shortened the sentences and cleared away some of the fog:
Special Agent Colin G. Sutter of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation has been authorized to reveal classified information to Jake Harvey Woods. It is understood that Mr. Woods’ revealing of this information to any person or persons could severely compromise an ongoing criminal investigation. After being given this information Mr. Woods is free to choose not to cooperate in the investigation, but he is not free at any time to divulge, in print or in conversation or in any other way, any information released to him by federal agents pertaining to said investigation. In signing this document Mr. Woods agrees that if he does divulge any such information to anyone for any reason—including officers of any other legal agency—he would be interfering with a criminal investigation and violating section 793 of Title Eighteen of the National Security Act. In the event of such a violation he understands he will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Jake leaned back. “I take it this means you don’t want me to talk?”
Sutter smiled. Mayhew didn’t.
I may not be free to divulge this information, but nothing tells me I’m not free to act on it. And if at some point Ollie sees me act on it, well, that’s not the same thing as telling him, is it?
“I don’t suppose you’d let me consult my attorney before I sign this?” Actually, Jake didn’t have an attorney. The truth was, he’d started despising lawyers twenty years before it became popular to despise them.
“I am not authorized to divulge any information to your attorney, Mr. Woods. Chances are you don’t trust your attorney. Why should we? It’s the ‘need to know.’ As a former army officer you understand that, don’t you?”
The need to know. The cornerstone of military intelligence and security. But why did these guys need Jake to know any of this? What was their angle? There was always an angle.
“All right.” Jake picked up Sutter’s pen and signed the paper on the line above his typed name, Jake Harvey Woods. “But I’m adding a little note.”
Jake scribbled out a final sentence at the bottom: “Agent Sutter and I have agreed this contract does not apply to any information which has already come to my attention, or which comes to my attention independently of that given to me by the FBI.” He handed it to Sutter.
Agent Sutter read it, smiled and mumbled, “Very good.” He initialed his approval, then set the document aside.
“I don’t suppose I get a copy of anything?” Jake pointed at the document and the tape recorder, still rolling.
Sutter looked at him to see if he was joking. “I’m sure you can understand we don’t make triplicates and run these things up flagpoles? If you had any documentation of today’s meeting it could compromise all of us.”
“Right, sure. I don’t suppose Agent Mayhew is a notary public?”
Mayhew made a point of not smiling.
“All right, Jake. Here’s our situation. We’re going to tell you certain things and ask you certain things. We’ll lay our cards on the table first. I hope our show of good faith will convince you full cooperation is in all our best interests.”
Jake gave his best you’ll-have-to-convince-me look.
“For fifteen years, my specialty with the FBI has been organized crime. The last two years Agent Mayhew has been my partner.”
Your silent partner, Jake mused.
“For eight months we’ve been investigating a new strategy of organized crime in this city. It parallels similar movements in at least eight other cities, probably as many as fifteen. We have every reason to believe these movements will continue to grow. The more entrenched they become, the more difficult it will be to deal with them.”
Jake’s casual front vanished. He made no pretense of disinterest as Sutter continued.
“One of our divisions maintains constant surveillance at major airports. Simply by tracing arrivals and departures of known figures in organized crime, we can tell when and where something new is brewing. These guys don’t trust communication over the telephone. We’ve often got them tapped and they know it. Obviously, they can’t use letters or faxes or telegrams, because those are easily intercepted and copied. Besides, these are hands-on guys, not just figure heads. They maintain a legal distance from everything, which is why they’re not behind bars, but to keep in control they have to see their people working on site. That sends them the message they’re not in the dark, and they can herd them into line if necessary, remind them who’s boss. Anyway, eight months ago something new started brewing in this city. We didn’t know what, but departures and arrivals told us it was big. So big I’ve gotten a few calls from the director himself.”
The director of the FBI?
“We don’t know everything, obviously, or we wouldn’t be talking to you. But we do know it involves pharmaceuticals and medical facilities, including certain physicians. It appears to involve your friend, Dr. Lowell.”
Jake flashed a disgusted look at Sutter. “Doc? Organized crime? Come on, Sutter. What kind of fool do you take me for? Doc working for the Mafia? Give me a break!”
Sutter studied Jake’s reaction with some interest. He sat back as if preparing to give a lecture he’d had to give before.
“Mr. Woods, I thought with your background as an investigative journalist, you’d have a better understanding of organized crime. Perhaps I need to give you a thumbnail sketch to show you what we’re dealing with here.”
“Please do.” Jake’s voice carried more than a hint of sarcasm.
“The most common misperception of organized crime is the image of Al Capone or the Godfather. Guys who look like Marlon Brando, with raspy voices and Italian accents, surrounded by muscle men named Vito, carrying submachine guns and planting horse heads in people’s beds.”
Mayhew snorted, in apparent disdain for ignoramuses like Jake. Sutter sent Mayhew a stiff look intended to remind him they needed to show respect for their “guest.”
“What you have to understand about organized crime is that gangsters and racketeers of that sort are dinosaurs. They really existed, but now they’re nearly extinct. So people think organized crime is extinct too. Well, it isn’t. Organized crime isn’t a function of one place or segment or era in society, it’s a simple function of human nature. It goes where the profits are. And it does it in the most effective way, which today is quiet, low profile, infiltrating and expanding, never identifying itself as what it is. It never looks like Chicago in the twenties. If it did, it would be recognized and derailed.”
Sutter stopped, as if wanting Jake to show he was interested.
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“What it looks like today is just another money-making opportunity some entrepreneur came up with on his own, with no ties to anyone or anything else. It presents itself as a lucky chance to make some money on the side without really hurting anybody. It thrives on the guy in the opportunity seat thinking he’s been given the shaft by the system, that he deserves this break, that he’d be a moron to pass it up. Besides, he tells himself he’s really doing it for the wife and kids and grandkids, so he can give them what they want and retire earlier and spend more quality time with them.
“The point is, organized crime has diversified, and it doesn’t have one single kingpin nationally or even regionally. It has competing segments. And there’s all kinds of entrepreneurs that don’t have a long history in organized crime, maybe no history at all. They just see a money-making opportunity and organize what amounts to their own little syndicate with them in charge. So organized crime is really just an umbrella term for every attempt to generate and control profit in the context of legitimate enterprises, by moving out into fringe areas, gray areas, illegal or borderline legal involvements. The grayer the better.”
“So what does that have to do with—”
“I’m getting to your friend, Dr. Lowell. Bear with me. You need to hear this.”
“Okay.” Jake sounded skeptical, but not as skeptical as he was trying to sound.
“During prohibition, the profit was in bootlegging. But alcohol isn’t much of an opportunity now. Gambling and prostitution are still big bucks, so organized crime’s still there. There’s big money in professional sports, so they’ve managed to fix some fights, have an occasional game thrown, but it’s rare because sports are too much in the public eye. Drugs, now that’s been a real windfall. Easily processed, easily transported, tremendous value in small packages. But what you have to understand about organized crime is, these guys are always looking for something new, and something clean. They prefer to stay away from the illegal stuff. Some of them are community leaders, family men, church-goers. They just want the money and the power. They’d rather be associated with respectable stuff. These guys don’t wear pinstriped suits and call each other Bugsy and Babyface. They wear business suits and call each other Bob and Jim and work out next to each other at the health club.”
Jake looked at Sutter, wanting to challenge him, but realizing this agent knew a great deal more than he did in this area. It made him feel good to know he was being trusted with important information, that he was being “brought in” to an FBI investigation. Still, he wasn’t going to buy into it that easily.
“So, you’re saying these guys appear respectable enough that people can get involved without realizing who they are?”
“Exactly. It all goes back to Meyer Lansky. Know the name?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Lansky was a businessman. He proposed a working agreement where territories were laid out so the gangs could stop hassling each other and there’d be more profits for everyone. That became the Syndicate. The Syndicate realized prostitution and gambling and bootlegging and other criminal activities were too confining and dangerous. So it moved into the labor movement. Then into food products, taverns and bars, restaurants, securities, real estate, vending machines, garment manufacturing, produce, garbage disposal, securities, the Waterfront, you name it. They’re always looking for something new where they can flex their muscles. Something where there’s big money.”
Sutter checked out Jake’s expression. The cockiness had melted. He was listening intently.
“So where you gonna go today that’s new, Jake? Where’s the big money? Big salaries, big facilities, big grants? Unlimited future, yet change and uncertainty that spells opportunity?”
Jake gave a questioning look and shrugged. Agent Sutter was in the driver’s seat and clearly knew where he was going. Jake didn’t.
“Medicine. Health care. Look at today’s upper class. I don’t just mean the really wealthy, I mean the country club set, the people who live in the three-thousand-square-foot houses in the suburbs and drive the BMWs and give their kids private tennis lessons. What do they have to worry about? Primarily, just their health, right? How do they spend their discretionary income? Health foods and vitamins and exercise equipment and health club memberships. And when they get sick, they’ll pay anything to get the best medical care. Everybody’s concerned about their health, right? I mean, your health is all you’ve got. That’s what opened the door to pharmaceuticals.”
“What do you mean?”
“Specialized drugs are big money. The latest medical technology is always big money. So, naturally, unscrupulous people are getting in on the edges, buying some research, manipulating some results, pumping up certain companies, deflating others. But the inroads in medicine didn’t used to be as strong as they were in other legit enterprises. There’s been something about the medical community that didn’t make it as vulnerable as the waterfront and trucking. It’s had kind of a moral wall protecting it. Sacred oaths to protect life and all that. And because health care’s been relatively uncorrupted in the past, it just leaves more room for the flood-tide.”
“Flood-tide?”
“The wrong kind of people moving in. Making some tempting offers. That’s where your friend comes in. He met with some people, outwardly respectable people, but with known links to the bad guys. We’ve been tailing them for months, seeing who they spent their time with. And guess what? One of them made at least three contacts with your friend.”
Jake started to say, “That doesn’t prove anything,” but instead asked, “What did they talk about?” He felt he’d betrayed Doc by his choice of responses.
“We don’t know yet. We were hoping you might be able to tell us.”
Sutter studied Jake’s face like a palm reader examining a palm. “First, we need to know if you’ve ever seen or heard anything that substantiates what I’ve just told you.”
“That’s easy. It’s all brand new to me. I don’t think I believe it, but I’ve certainly never seen anything that makes me think it’s true.”
Even as he said it, Jake realized he was lying. He was believing a lot of this, and he had been aware of what seemed like a large windfall of money Doc had been spending the past year. He’d wondered about it several times. Doc seemed under more pressure at work, often complaining about unfair medical regulations and health care revisions and how they were “trying to cut doctors off at the knees.”
“So there’s nothing you’ve come across related to the car wreck that points the finger to organized crime?”
“No.”
“Okay, I just have to be clear on this. Second, we know you’re working on this case too, and no one knew your friend as well as you. We’d like you to tell us what you know, or at least what you suspect.”
Here it was, finally. The FBI had a lot of puzzle pieces, but they just weren’t fitting together. They needed him.
“If you want anything official on the investigation, you’ll have to go to Detective Chandler.”
“I’ve already explained why we can’t do that.” Sutter looked exasperated. “Look, twice in the last year the FBI has talked with ranking police personnel in this city, and twice vital information has leaked to organized crime. There’s either a collaborator or somebody with an awful big mouth. We just can’t take the chance of them even knowing we’re on their tail. The director himself called that shot. No contact with the police. So, what can you tell me?”
“Well, maybe you can tell me what you know I know, so I don’t bore you.”
“We know about the yellow card. We know about the car, the tie-rods. We know a lot more, but please, bore us, will you? We want you to bore us.”
Jake hesitated, but figured they’d been honest with him and it couldn’t hurt to help them. This wasn’t like giving a scoop to another newspaper. He wanted Doc and Finney’s killer nailed, and these might be the pros to help nail them.
“Well, I can tell you there’s a lot of other people who could have had motives. A right-wing fanatic, opposed to Doc because he’s done abortions or promoted the abortion pill.”
Even as he said it he thought of “pharmaceuticals” and noted Sutter’s slightly raised eyebrow.
“It could be somebody else with a personal vendetta against him. You know, someone unhappy with a surgery he did on them.”
“They’d have to be awfully unhappy. I mean you don’t kill somebody because your stitches show.” Now Sutter was skeptical. “More likely because you’ve crossed them or threatened to squawk.”
“It’s even possible someone was going after my other friend, Finney, or me.”
“We’ve thought of that. Our surveillance on you was originally for information, but we’ve told our agents to give you protection too. Other people are tailing you, we know that. But if they wanted you dead, they’ve had ample opportunity. We give it a 95 percent chance that Dr. Lowell was the sole target. The kingpins probably ordered a hit by an out-of-town trigger man who’s long gone, although I’ve got to admit using a hacksaw isn’t their style. Who knows? Anyway, you’re probably not in danger. But we’d hate to be proven wrong by a bullet in your head.”
“Yeah, I’m not real excited about that either.”
“Who else have you talked to? What else have you found out?”
The photos and the surveillance told him they knew exactly where he’d been, so he figured he’d better tell them the general stuff. He told them about talking to Sue and Mary Ann. That he’d be talking to some of the abortion protesters next week. He even told them about the possibility of betrayed husbands or women scorned. He decided it was a little late to be protecting Doc’s reputation.
After another forty minutes of probing and note taking, Sutter put down his pen.
“Jake, we appreciate your honesty. I’d like to ask your ongoing cooperation. We’re going to be contacting you periodically. We’ll update you on our investigation, tell you everything we’re authorized to. In return, we’d like you to update us on what you know. You could come across exactly what we need to put these guys away.”
“So, do I just drop by to chat? Or do I wave a red hanky to your surveillance guys?”
Sutter smiled. “It’s essential you don’t come by here, or you could blow the investigation. You didn’t ask about the other people tailing you.”
“I was working up to it.”
“Our surveillance agents, Mayhew’s been one of them, have noticed some of the same bystanders happen to show up around you in different parts of town. Not a coincidence. Today they weren’t around, I don’t know why, so we made our move. They didn’t tail us here. We have ways of knowing. Bottom line, I’m not even going to give you our phone number. It’s just too risky. We’ll call you regularly, at your office usually. Until then, be careful. And, please, remember your agreement. We wouldn’t want to prosecute you, but we would if you forced our hand.”
Mayhew nodded, as if doing so put real weight behind Sutter’s threat.
“Remember, we’re on the same team, Jake. We want to get the guys that took out your friends. We want them as bad as you do.”
Somehow Jake doubted that, but he was sure Sutter meant it anyway.
“Okay. Am I free to go?”
“Of course. We’ll escort you out.”