Next to a doctor shaking his head, a polished attorney stiffening in his seat was as disconcerting as things could get.
“I don’t know how much time we have,” he whispered, “so you’d better talk fast. What window?”
“It was a long time ago, and I thought we were square.” As quietly as possible, he told about the typewriter in the window, his squabble with the pawnbroker, the weapons drawn, and the vandalism and theft afterward.
“Jake!” Ellen snatched away her hand.
“I made it right later, I thought. I paid for the machine and offered to cut him in on The Fence if he let me pick his brain for research. I came through on my promise: I don’t owe him anything.”
Ter Horst scowled. “If you’d cut him in on the advance from Hollywood, he probably wouldn’t be here.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Washington made him a better offer.”
“They pay witnesses?”
“Not in money; at least not in a way it could be traced. But men in his line have been known to deal in stolen property. Once they’re of use to authority, poof! No more outstanding warrants.”
“So what do we do?”
“We profit from their mistake. They shouldn’t have let you see him before you testify. They could have asked if you’d ever committed a felony and if you said no, bring him in to refuse. Then they’d slap you with everything from lying to Congress to the contributing-to-delinquency charge.”
“I’ve been writing about the wrong bad guys.”
“Hold on. Now, you’ll say, ‘Yes, I once committed a felony,’ and explain it as you just did. It might buy you some sympathy as a recently returned veteran who regrets an error of judgment, most likely caused by the trauma of combat.”
“That could work,” Ellen said.
“But if this wasn’t a mistake, and they call him first, all bets are off. It will play like you cobbled up a phony story after you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. You’re condemned before you sit down.”
“What are the odds it’s a mistake?”
Ter Horst’s smile pulled grimly at the corners of his mouth.
“Not great; but it wouldn’t be the first time a politician tripped over his own red tape.”
Please, God, let me be first.
He hadn’t prayed for such a thing since sandlot baseball.
Ellen pressed her hip against his.
“Whatever happens, happens,” she said. “It’s not in our hands.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking I’m some kind of thug.”
“Anyone can be stupid, even an honest man. We’ve known each other a long time, Jake. I know you can be stupid.”
He laughed then, loud enough to draw the attention of all the people in the waiting room; including Pickering, who noticed him for the first time with a start. Jacob pretended he hadn’t seen him. He wiped his eyes on his handkerchief. What she’d said wasn’t that funny, but he’d kept his emotions pent up so long they burst through the first available opening.
Ter Horst grunted.
“I’ve had three wives. I’d trade them all for yours.”
Jacob barely heard him. Please, God, let me be first.
The door to the hearing room opened and the sergeant-at-arms stuck out his square head. “Jacob Heppleman.”
Gilbert Ter Horst smiled.
“Jack Holly, you were born under a lucky star.”