64

The FBI didn’t show up Friday afternoon, and Paige began to wonder if she was overthinking this. Wyatt’s paranoia had her worried, but in her calmer moments, she reminded herself that the only thing Solberg really cared about was who had released the Marcano deposition. All the other stuff on her computer had nothing to do with that.

Still, she couldn’t sleep Friday night. Instead she patched together a plan that would preserve her options, though it felt a little too much like something Wyatt would cook up. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy the videos, her hard drive, or documents that might somehow be relevant to the case or to an FBI investigation down the road. But she knew that the FBI could get a warrant for her condo, her car, Wyatt’s RV, or anyplace else that Paige might think to store her computer and phone in the short term. Plus, it would look more than a little deceptive if they found the computer stashed away someplace.

She wanted to hide the items somewhere that the FBI wouldn’t consider. She wouldn’t lie about their whereabouts, but she could refuse to answer their questions. That way, if she needed the evidence later, she would have it.

And so, at 5 a.m. on Saturday, she dressed in her running gear, loaded up her backpack, and drove to First Landing. It was still dark when she walked down the Cape Henry Trail, a path she had run dozens of times, perhaps hundreds, and stopped at a place marked by a large cypress tree on the right. According to her GPS, it was 1.4 miles from the start of the trail. She used the flashlight on her cell phone to navigate past the cypress tree, into the woods, through the briers and brush and fallen limbs. She counted an even one hundred steps. It was a good distance from the trail, but she knew she could find it later, using a metal detector if necessary.

She put her phone in the same garbage bag that contained her computer and the documents. She had wrapped them in three layers of plastic and tied the top in a secure knot. She dug deep with the small shovel that she had brought along for the trip. It took her nearly thirty minutes to bury the items, fill in the hole, and rearrange the leaves and pine needles so that it didn’t look like anyone had been there. She stumbled back to the path in the dark.

When she returned to her car, she stayed there until the sun started peeking over the eastern horizon. She needed a long run this morning to clear her mind and conscience. She told herself that she could always go back and get these things whenever she wanted.

After her run, and before she left the park, she threw the shovel in a large trash bin. She understood forensics well enough to know that they could study the dirt and narrow down the location. She wasn’t worried about her sneakers—they would expect to see the swampy soil of the Cape Henry Trail on them. Later today she would buy a new cell phone and computer. She had saved almost everything she needed on a single thumb drive.

Everything, that is, except for evidence that might link her to the Patriot. She prayed she was doing the right thing.

When Paige returned to her condo, they were waiting for her. Her running clothes were still sweaty, and she hadn’t yet settled on answers to all the questions she might be asked. But now she was out of time.

Unfortunately, she didn’t see them until she had parked. A man and a woman in a black sedan a few rows over, sipping coffee, watching her.

She tried to act normal as she walked to the elevator, knowing the agents were staring at her back. She pushed the button and the man called her name.

“Paige Chambers?”

She turned. They were walking toward her and pulling out their badges.

“Yes.”

“FBI Agents Vaughn and Diaz. Mind if we ask you a few questions about the Marcano deposition?”

They made it seem as if it were natural to show up at a lawyer’s condo at 8 a.m. on a Saturday. The timing concerned Paige.

Agent Vaughn looked like he was several years past retirement. He was thin, his leathery face wrinkled and worn, and he limped as he approached her, keeping his left leg relatively straight as he swung it around.

Diaz was young, petite, and pretty. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she exuded energy and confidence.

Paige shook their hands and noted the smell of smoke from Agent Vaughn. “No problem,” she said, hoping they wouldn’t notice how cold her hands were.

They rode with her in the elevator, making small talk, asking her about her run.

“Where do you run?” Diaz asked.

“The oceanfront.”

“On the boardwalk?”

“Sometimes. Other times I just run Atlantic Avenue.”

“What about today?” Vaughn asked.

“Mostly the boardwalk,” she said, stepping off the elevator. It was her first lie, though she didn’t consider it an official part of the interview.

She wondered if they were looking at her shoes.

They followed her into the condo, and she knew that she had now consented to their entry, meaning they could ultimately use anything in plain sight against her. Man, she hated being on this side of an investigation!

“Is it okay if I change?” Paige asked.

“Of course,” Agent Diaz said quickly.

She must be the good cop.

“Make yourselves at home,” Paige said.

She hustled into her bedroom and pictured the agents walking around her condo—checking out her study, the living room, the kitchen. She changed quickly into another pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She wanted to seem as casual as possible.

The agents began by explaining the reason for their visit. They had been asked by the U.S. attorney to determine who had leaked the deposition of Director Marcano. As one of the few people present at the deposition, Paige was a person of interest. But she shouldn’t be worried. They knew her background and didn’t think she had anything to do with it. Still, they had to ask their questions—a matter of formality, you understand.

“Technically, this is a criminal investigation,” Agent Vaughn said. “So I’ll have to read you your Miranda rights.”

Paige said she understood, but she found it odd that they had called it a criminal investigation. Nevertheless, she affirmed that she was willing to speak to them without a lawyer. Diaz pulled a form out of a thin manila folder.

“We need to get it in writing,” she said, flashing a quick, apologetic smile. “Paperwork.”

Paige pulled a book from a nearby stand to write on as she signed the Miranda waiver. She braced the heel of her hand against the book so they wouldn’t notice it was shaking. She handed the document back to Diaz.

“You don’t mind if we record this, do you?” Vaughn asked. He placed a digital recorder on the small table next to Paige and flicked it on.

“No problem,” Paige said.

Vaughn did an introduction for purposes of the recording, describing the time, who was present, and the purpose of the interview. Then he and Diaz took turns asking Paige questions.

The first ten minutes were friendly enough as the agents probed how Paige had handled Marcano’s transcript—whom she had shared it with, how she stored it on her computer, and similar issues. They seemed particularly interested in whether she had shared it with Wyatt Jackson.

“Where is your Microsoft Outlook hosted?” Diaz asked.

Paige named the company that hosted her Outlook e-mails in the cloud.

“What security protocols do they use?” Diaz asked.

“I’m not sure. I could check.”

“Did you send a copy of the transcript to anybody via e-mail?”

“I don’t think so. If I did, it would only have been Wellington.”

Diaz had a little black book, and she made some notations. “What kind of security firewall do you have to keep people from hacking into your computer?”

Paige shrugged. She had no idea. “My password?”

Diaz furrowed her brow. “No. I mean . . . you’re handling classified information, right?”

“Not really. I didn’t consider the deposition transcript to be classified. It was subject to the confidentiality order, but—”

“You don’t have any classified information?” Diaz cut in.

Paige scowled. And this was the good cop? “I’m not handling classified information,” Paige said.

“Well, good. Because it doesn’t sound like you have any kind of security to prevent others from hacking into your computer,” Diaz said.

Paige didn’t appreciate the snarky attitude, but it wasn’t an area where she felt comfortable fighting back. “I mean, I’ve got the usual antivirus and spam protections.” She knew she sounded defensive, but this was a stupid line of questioning. She was sure her computer had not been hacked. “Wellington is my go-to guy for IT issues, and he thought we were pretty secure.”

“Yeah, we intend to visit him later today,” Vaughn said.

“But a copy of the deposition is on your computer, right?” Diaz asked.

“Yes, the court reporter sent it to me via e-mail.”

“Oh, so it’s on your e-mail system. And you don’t know what the security protocols are for that server, either?”

“I said I’d find out for you.”

A certain iciness had developed over the last several questions, and Paige was getting a little fed up with the haughty attitude of these guys. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and frowned at Diaz. The FBI agent was too busy taking notes to notice.

“You mind if we take a look at your computer to see what kind of security protocols are in place?” Diaz asked after scribbling a few notes.

Paige needed to be careful here. “I told you I would let you know.”

“Does that mean no?”

“Yes. That means no.”

Diaz and Vaughn exchanged a glance.

“What about your cell phone,” Vaughn asked. “You mind if we look at that?”

“Yes, I mind.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“No.”

“Is it in your car?”

“No.”

“Do you always go out running in the morning without your cell phone?”

“Not always.”

Vaughn shook his head, frowning his disapproval.

“Would you mind giving me your administrative password so that I can check out the protocols for your home Wi-Fi network?” Diaz asked.

“I’ll let you know that as well,” Paige said.

“I take it that’s another no,” Vaughn said.

“That’s right.”

Agent Vaughn shifted in his seat. “You understand that we’re not working with the CIA or anyone in the executive branch who are on the other side of this lawsuit. Anything you tell us or show us cannot be shared with anyone outside the context of this investigation.”

“I understand that.”

“Then why don’t you want to let us see your phone or computer?”

Paige had been trying to avoid directly taking the Fifth, but now she felt boxed in. “I just don’t.”

“Are you asserting your Fifth Amendment rights?” Diaz asked.

“If that’s what it takes, yes.”

Vaughn slid forward on his seat. “The U.S. attorney is also concerned about your team’s access to classified information,” he said, his voice foreboding, as if invoking the specter of the U.S. attorney should provoke great fear. “So I need to ask you a few questions about that as well.”

“What’s that got to do with Marcano’s deposition?”

“The judge asked us to look at the Marcano deposition issue. But the U.S. attorney is also curious about a few other things, and so are we. So let me get right to it: Has anybody from the government provided you with classified information?”

Technically, Paige didn’t know whether the Patriot was a government employee. But she knew better than to play word games with these guys. “That exceeds the scope of the investigation authorized by Judge Solberg. I’m not going to answer questions about that.”

“Are you asserting the Fifth?” Vaughn pressed.

“Yes.”

“So you think answering questions about whether someone has provided you with classified information might incriminate you?” Vaughn asked.

There was no longer a pretense of this being a friendly interview. Paige was determined to shut it down.

“I’m asserting my Fifth Amendment rights.”

“But I thought you said there was no classified information on your computer,” Diaz said.

Paige could feel her face turning red. This was why attorneys always told their clients not to talk to investigators at all. “I said I’m not answering any questions about this.”

Diaz flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Here it is, right here. I asked whether you had any classified information on your computer and you said, ‘No.’” She looked down at the digital recorder. “Do you need me to play it back for you?”

“I think this interview is over,” Paige said, standing. “I’ve answered your questions about the Marcano deposition. I’m not talking about anything else.”

Vaughn let out a big sigh. “Paige, please. . . . Sit down. We didn’t come here to give you a hard time. There’s nothing in your background to suggest that you would intentionally violate the law. But you’re running with some guys that have a—how shall I say this?—a more checkered history. Wyatt Jackson is not going to have your back if somebody has to take a fall.”

Paige stared at him for a moment. Everything in her—all of her law enforcement background—was screaming that she should cooperate.

“Work with us, Paige. You’re in over your head here, and we can help. We’re talking about some serious felonies and, at the very least, a violation of Judge Solberg’s protective order.”

Paige took a deep breath and ignored her instincts. “I have worked with you,” she said, her voice more resigned now, though she was still standing. “I’ve answered every question about Marcano’s deposition as fully and honestly as I know how. These other questions are invading attorney-client and work-product privileges, and I’m just not going to answer them.”

“If you received classified information from a third party, that’s not covered by attorney-client privilege or the work-product doctrine,” Diaz insisted.

“I’m done answering questions.”

Vaughn pulled himself up by the arms of his chair and limped over to the recorder. He dictated the time that the interview was ending based on the decision of the witness to invoke her Fifth Amendment rights. He shut the recorder down and placed it in his pocket.

Diaz pulled another document out of her manila folder and handed it to Paige. “This is a search warrant for your condo and vehicle,” Diaz said. “You can see the things we’re after.”

Paige pretended to study the document, though she couldn’t focus on the words. She wanted to call Wyatt or another defense attorney but knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop the search.

“Have at it,” she said.