THE U.S. ATTORNEY FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA works for the Attorney General, but his offices aren’t at “Main Justice,” the enormous Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice building on Pennsylvania Avenue. Rather, the federal government rents space at Judiciary Center on 4th St. for DC’s U.S. Attorney.
Brian and I found security at this building to be much more intrusive and thorough than it had been at the courthouse. As I was being frisked and prodded, I wondered if all the increased security worked. I suppose we’ll never know what horrors might have been thwarted, but our daily routines have certainly been altered. I miss being able to walk straight into a building or onto an airplane wearing my shoes. Maybe the terrorists have already won.
The reception area presented a sharp contrast to the Dooley offices. The receptionist’s desk was an old metal desk, the kind you usually see in car repair shops, and the chairs were the cheap metal chairs found in every government building around the country.
The receptionist greeted us with a gravelly voice, “Have a seat. Someone will be with you soon.”
Unfortunately, all the chairs were currently occupied by other lawyers and their clients waiting to meet Mr. or Ms. Someone. Brian found an empty corner, and we stood watching the receptionist at her job. She greeted each person who came to the desk with the same tired, chain-smoking voice: “Have a seat, someone will be with you soon.” As we waited, I wondered how long she’d had this job and whether she had nightmares about arriving at the pearly gates and being told, “Have a seat…”
Just as I had decided that not another soul could fit in the reception area, a young woman opened the door and said, “Mr. Patterson? Please come with me.”
We followed her down a series of winding halls with closed doors until she opened one, and we were ushered into a good-sized room with a walnut conference table, comfortable chairs, and tall windows with a view of downtown DC. Having worked at the Justice Department I knew the government had plenty of windowless conference rooms with scarred tables and wobbly chairs. This conference room was for the big dogs, and I didn’t mean me.
My instincts were proven right when U.S. Attorney George Deacon, two deputies, and a chief deputy from the Justice Department’s Criminal Division strode into the room. I introduced Brian and they introduced themselves, each giving Brian a business card. He gave them one of mine, thus fulfilling the time-honored procedure when well-schooled lawyers meet. Deacon opened the conversation.
“I appreciate your coming here to meet with us. I understand you met with Mr. Ruple. I take it from your presence that you will represent him in this matter?”
I knew exactly who was on his mind: Duke Madigan. “David signed an engagement letter with my firm this afternoon. I will represent him in this matter as well as the civil case. If you need a copy of the letter, we’ll either fax or email a copy to your office later today. I’ll give Mr. Madigan and David’s mother the good news after we conclude our business this afternoon. But let me assure you that my firm alone represents David Ruple.”
The relief on their faces was apparent. “Thanks! That is good news,” said the U.S. Attorney with a grin.
At that point the deputy from Main Justice took over. Although I had never dealt directly with William Stanford, I knew him by reputation. The Attorney General almost always called on him to take the lead in complex criminal cases, especially those involving espionage or terrorism. David’s case was clearly a matter of high priority.
Stanford was Harvard educated, both undergraduate and law. He was known for being tough, thorough, and totally prepared. The phrase “take no prisoners” comes to mind, except that was exactly what he did. The unlucky souls he prosecuted usually spent the rest of their lives behind bars. The government had brought in the “A team” against David Ruple.
He didn’t waste any time. “I take it that you have read the confidentiality agreement that was sent to your office. Are you and your client willing to sign the document?”
I answered, “Yes, we are. But I foresee one difficulty. Until a judge stays the civil proceedings, I must do whatever is necessary to defend that litigation. I met with Jordyn Duarte and her associates this morning and got the clear impression they’re unwilling to stay their litigation. Until we get a Judge to slow her down, I need you to modify your confidentiality agreement so it doesn’t tie my hands.”
Stanford replied, “I feel sure we can come to a compromise with you regarding the civil litigation. Let me give it some thought. We’ll send you a revised agreement tomorrow morning.”
“Brian has told me that you won’t oppose reasonable bail for my client. Is that true?” I asked.
Stanford responded, “That’s correct. If your client signs the confidentiality agreement and consents to reasonable restrictions on the use of computers, I see no reason to be a horse’s ass about bail. I feel sure the judge will want some financial security, and your client will need to surrender his passport, maybe wear an ankle monitor. But as of now I see no reason for him to be held behind bars before trial or a guilty plea.
“We can schedule an arraignment in a couple of days. Once the confidentiality agreements have been modified and executed by you and your client, we’ll provide you with a copy of the indictment. We’re currently examining your client’s computers and bank accounts to determine his source of income. If we don’t discover anything sinister, we’ll release his bank accounts so he can live until trial.”
I returned his genial smile, wondering if we had landed in Wonderland. His reasonable attitude should have been reassuring, but I felt sure the other shoe would soon drop. I decided to push for a little more generosity.
“Thank you. I know David will appreciate being able to sleep in his own bed. While we’re at it, perhaps we should begin a conversation about how to resolve this matter.”
His eyebrows came together in a frown and his tone took on the seriousness of a father’s lecture.
“Mr. Patterson, you are clearly unaware of what your client has done. If I were you, I’d wait until you’ve read the indictment before you start plea negotiations. Please don’t misinterpret my willingness to be reasonable before trial as anything other than a show of good faith. We fully intend to prosecute your client to the fullest extent allowed by law.”