‘How do you ask questions and investigate so as not to arouse any suspicions, especially suspicions about something having happened to one of the PJs?’ Holland asked Wyatt as they drove up the 405 Freeway toward the 10 East and the exit for the Los Angeles courthouse.
It was one of those Southern California days when the sky is streaked with thin clouds that look like ribbons of gauze, the blue shining through. The traffic was typically heavy, lumbering along like an overweight caterpillar. Cyclists risked life and limb weaving in and out at high speeds and laden-down pickup trucks were surely in violation of safety and weight regulations. Rules everywhere are bent and broken, Holland thought. She turned to Wyatt again. He either hadn’t heard her or didn’t want to answer.
‘I mean, people have to wonder why we’re asking questions,’ she continued.
‘It’s a challenge,’ Wyatt admitted.
He had asked her to do the driving. As soon as they landed, she saw him take one pill, and then another shortly after. Since he did it in a clandestine manner, she decided not to ask about it.
‘A challenge? Right, a challenge. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’ she said.
‘I just turned thirty.’
‘And you’ve been brought to Washington specifically for this assignment?’
‘I don’t know, as I told you, if it was specifically for this assignment. I believe I told you this was my first assignment at the Washington office.’
She nodded. He had said that. He accused me of sounding like a lawyer, but he parses words like an attorney sometimes, she thought and wondered what sort of an education he had had.
‘Where did you go to school before the FBI Academy?’ she asked.
‘Right after high school, I attended the Naval Academy, but two years in, I was transferred to Roc Shores.’
‘Roc Shores? You were in that program? That’s an accelerated research program or something, isn’t it?’
‘Something,’ he said.
‘But I don’t understand. Why would you be directed to law enforcement? If you qualified for Roc Shores, shouldn’t you be in research, microbiology, nanotechnology or something like rocket science?’
‘I go where they send me,’ he said.
‘They? Who’s they?’
‘My country,’ he said, smiling.
She pulled her head back and looked at him. ‘What?’
‘I’m just kidding. I evaluated well for this sort of work. I was given the opportunity and so I took it.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let’s concentrate on the assignment,’ he added. ‘It’s a lot less complicated than me.’
‘I’m beginning to think you’re right,’ she said.
He laughed, but offered no more information.
They turned on the 10 Freeway and found their exit soon afterward. When they reached the courthouse, Wyatt took out a palm computer and tapped the small screen with the metal pencil. Then he looked at Holland.
‘We’re to start with the security guard at the door. His name is Parson Beale.’
‘When did you get that information?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t on the document you showed me during the flight.’
‘Just now.’
‘Just now? What do you mean, just now?’
He held up the palm computer. ‘It has a built-in GPS so they know we’ve arrived. That information was just transmitted to us and received on my palm computer.’
‘Talk about your need-to-know limitations,’ she said shaking her head. ‘What are they going to do next, tell us what to ask when we confront him?’
Wyatt stared. There was a yes in his eyes.
‘You’re kidding,’ she said.
He opened the small device and tapped its screen again. Then he turned it toward her so she could read.
‘Suggested interrogation? Why bother actually sending us?’ She perused the questions on his screen. ‘They could have done it all over the internet,’ she said dryly.
They stepped out of the rented automobile and started toward the courthouse steps. Holland’s unhappy mumbling raised Wyatt’s right eyebrow. He glanced at her, smiled and continued on.
When they reached the lobby, Wyatt approached one of the security guards and asked if he was Beale. They were directed to another who was seated behind the desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up when they approached.
Wyatt showed his ID and she did the same. Immediately, Beale came to attention.
‘How can I help you?’
‘You were on duty four days ago at the end of a murder trial, correct?’ Wyatt asked.
‘Yes, I was. Halogen, I believe, was the name of the defendant.’
‘You watched all the members of the jury leave the courthouse?’
‘Most of them, yes.’
‘What do you mean, most?’ Holland jumped in.
‘Well, I went to the bathroom so I missed one or two, I imagine.’
‘Did all those you did see get off all right?’ Wyatt asked.
Beale shrugged. ‘Far as I know. Why? What’s up?’
‘We’re doing a routine check of the procedures employed to be sure everything works as it was designed to work,’ he recited, without so much as batting his eyelashes. ‘We need your cooperation.’
‘Oh. Sure.’
‘Well, you know there are six jurors,’ Holland said.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if you saw the last one leave?’ she asked softly. ‘The jury foreman?’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the way Wyatt was studying her. She felt as if she were under evaluation on a training exercise all right, and it was starting to annoy her.
‘Well, since none left after he did, I guess he was the last to leave so I guess he was the foreman. No one ever told me who was or wasn’t the foreman. Nice gentleman.’
‘He’s about five feet ten, one hundred and eighty pounds, forty years old. He has a small mole over his right eyebrow. Hazel brown eyes. He was wearing a dark blue suit, blue tie.’
‘That’s the man, yes.’
‘Maybe you noticed he was wearing a Hotband watch,’ Holland added.
‘Yeah, I did notice that.’
‘You saw him get into his limousine?’ Wyatt asked.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘The usual limousine?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess. I really don’t know what the usual limousine is,’ he replied carefully.
‘How long have you been working at the courthouse?’ Holland asked.
‘Two years.’
‘So you’re familiar with the transportation for the jurors?’
‘I guess.’
‘Well, you’ve seen the jurors get into their limousines. Was the last limousine in any way different from the previous ones?’ she pursued, with a slightly annoyed tone. What, was the courtroom mentality catching? Guard your answers with care? Even courthouse security personnel?
He shook his head. ‘Not that I could see. Why? Was the juror late for something?’
‘Yes,’ Wyatt said. ‘Transportation was ruined and it affected some other things.’
Beale relaxed and then smirked. ‘Seems like they should have better things for you FBI agents to do than check on limousine services. Anyone could do that.’
‘Seems like it,’ Wyatt agreed, nodding.
‘What about the driver?’ Holland asked. ‘Can you describe him for us?’
Beale looked at the other security guard, who was watching with great interest.
‘I didn’t really look at him all that hard. He was a good-sized guy. Pitch-black hair. Not too old. Baker might have more to say about him—he was outside the courthouse around that time,’ he added, nodding at the guard at the door. He sounded anxious to get them off his back.
Both of them turned to look at Baker.
‘Did you notice anything unusual about this last juror?’ Wyatt asked.
‘Unusual? Beale started to shake his head.
‘Did he seem distracted, nervous, upset in any way?’ Holland pursued, unable to hide her frustration with the formula questions.
‘Oh. No. He seemed relaxed, matter of fact. Yeah, relaxed and happy he was done, I guess.’
‘Did he say that?’ she asked.
‘No, but I had that feeling.’
‘OK, thanks for your assistance,’ Wyatt said. He looked like he was afraid Holland would start to claw answers out of the man.
‘Sure. So this juror, he missed a flight or something? How late was he?’ Beale pursued. ‘Traffic can be very unpredictable here, you know.’
‘Yes, we know,’ Wyatt replied.
Beale shook his head. ‘What a waste of your valuable time. Someone could have just phoned.’
‘We’re just agents. We don’t decide who goes where or why,’ Wyatt told him.
Holland nearly laughed.
They approached Baker and Wyatt asked him about the limousine driver.
‘Yeah, I saw the driver,’ he told them. ‘He had black hair and looked about twenty. Well-built guy in the range of six feet one or two. I wasn’t that close so that’s all I can tell you about him. Once he got into the car, he was out of sight. You know, those limousines have tinted windows.’
‘Was there anything unusual about the passenger’s behavior? Holland asked.
Baker shook his head slowly. ‘Unusual? No.’
‘What about the limousine itself?’ Holland pursued.
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Same model automobile far as I could tell. I did laugh at something, though.’
‘What?’ Wyatt asked.
‘The driver nearly leaped in the air to beat his passenger to the car door handle. There’s a guy who aims to please.’
‘OK, thanks for your assistance,’ Wyatt said.
‘No problem.’
They started away. The guard called out to them.
‘Things must be pretty good these days to have you guys come around to investigate a crummy limousine service,’ Baker quipped, and looked toward Beale who was nodding.
‘Believe me,’ Wyatt said, ‘we’re as bored as we look. Thanks.’
He started away and Holland joined him, glancing back at the guards, who were shaking their heads.
‘How did I do?’ Wyatt asked her.
She looked at him. That’s funny, she thought. He thought I was evaluating him, and he does sound as if he really wants to know.
‘I think Landry would be very pleased. The only suspicion you and I raised had to do with the waste of taxpayers’ money paying for our services.’
‘Good,’ he said, smiling.
They got back into their car and Holland waited while Wyatt tapped out a message and sent it on his palm computer. After a moment he nodded.
‘What?’
‘They’ve given us the address of the legitimate limousine service.’
‘Of course we’d go there next. We didn’t need anyone to tell us that. This really is like being led by the hand. It’s as if they think we’re two blind people investigating,’ she complained.
‘Well,’ Wyatt said as they drove off, ‘it’s my understanding that there is no government program as well protected as this one. Much of what gave rise to it stems from the corruption of jurors, bribery and intimidation, as well as the poor quality of the people who sat on juries. The idea of being judged by your peers became quite distorted, not to mention the sophistication with which attorneys went about choosing jurors. I guess it wasn’t exactly what the Founding Fathers had in mind. Cases involving celebrities and race conflicts—they all distorted the process.
‘Most states began drawing their jury pools from driver’s licenses instead of voter registration and the result was less sophisticated, less civic-minded jurors who were often younger people still looking to establish careers, lives. The poor system favored both defense and prosecution at times. When prosecutors looking for a conviction in a murder case used their eliminations, for example, they tried to eliminate anyone who was against the death penalty. People who were for it were more apt to believe their case and not the defense.’
‘I don’t need a history lecture, Wyatt. I’m not disagreeing with any of that. I’m not some purist who’s upset by the improvements to our system and the elimination of much of the corruption. We’re not employed to enforce or support anything political anyway.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, all I’m trying to say is the success of the new system explains why there is all this great care taken with the investigation. There’s a great deal of money involved,’ he said, as if this conclusion were as clear as one and one is two. His tone made her bristle.
‘It doesn’t bother you, this piecemeal way of feeding us information, this obvious distrust of our abilities, our integrity?’
‘I don’t see it that way. I guess I just don’t have the ego.’
She felt herself blanche. ‘Well, I do. Ego isn’t all bad. I have what used to be called self-respect, so pardon me.’
She was surprised at how aggressive and angry she sounded herself, but he said nothing. He stared ahead and looked like he either didn’t understand why she was upset or didn’t care very much. Either reason churned up her insides.
Maybe he really didn’t have the ego. Maybe someone screwed up and he did belong back in some research lab at Roc Shores where his contact with people was as limited as possible. Right now, she thought he had the personality of a metal folding chair.
She glanced at him again. His face revealed little emotion. He had his eyes forward, his jaw relaxed. He was just so damn composed, so measured.
At the moment she wasn’t sure who was the bigger mystery: Wyatt Ert or the missing juror, though she at least knew which was more important to solve.
Or…thought she knew.