Marine One (17 page)

I
HADN'T SPOKEN
to Marcel in a couple of weeks so I wasn't expecting his call at 6 AM. He sounded far less confident than usual. When we had been in Paris for the depositions of the WorldCopter officers and workers, they had of course checked on and produced the documents that showed when the blade was balanced against the Golden Blade. We already knew the blade that was lying in the wreckage at the crash site had been added to the helicopter after its date of manufacture. The previous one had developed a crack and had been replaced ten days before the accident. It had been balanced against the Golden Blade one week before that. Marcel had gone back into the records to check on exactly what tip weights were used and the origin of those tip weights. Theoretically, a shipment of tip weights might have been defective. We doubted it, but we wanted to run that to ground. He said he had found the records of the tip weights that were added to blades in that time period. They were ordinary, and from the usual supplier. The shipment had arrived the week before being added to the blade, but that was normal. WorldCopter used just-in-time supply, which saved money and lessened the need for warehouses full of parts, as items arrived just as they were needed.

Marcel was concerned because they couldn't find any records of exactly which weights were added to the blade that made it to the president's helicopter. No documents specifically showed it. Maybe if we found tip weights at the scene, we could show they fit in the right time frame, but proving the numbers of the weights that were actually installed was proving impossible.

His voice quivered with anger. I asked him the obvious question, whether a blade might be so perfectly matched to the Golden Blade that it didn't need tip weights. He reminded me that it was designed to have them. It was built two to three ounces light at the tip just so you could adjust it. They didn't try to make a perfect blade. He did admit though that it was
possible
a blade could match the Golden Blade without any additional weight, but we both knew that was just wishful thinking, trying to explain away missing documents.

I said, "So we know for sure the blade had tip weights, and they're missing, and now we can't find the records of which tip weights were on that blade."

"That is it exactly."

"Well, shit, Marcel."

"Yes. My feelings are the same. Shit."

I walked over to tell Rachel about this wonderful new development and ran into Braden in the hallway. He handed me his updated memo on paying the mystery witness. As I walked in Rachel's office, she was working at her computer typing in her staccato manner and looked up, then returned her gaze to the screen. I sat in the chair across from her desk, and handed her Braden's memo. "You seen this?"

"Yeah. He gave it to me last night."

"What do you think?"

"I didn't check his research, but there aren't many cases dealing with it."

I read over his memo. "Basically says it's probably over the line. You can make an argument, but it's probably a loser. You could get charged with un-ethical conduct and lose your law license." I looked at Rachel, who seemed uninterested. "What do you think?"

"I think the whole thing is crazy. We shouldn't even call the guy back. It's probably a scam anyway."

"Don't we owe it to our client to find out what this is about?"

"If you're going across an ethical line, you're going without me."

"I'm not going across any line. With you or without you. But what if WorldCopter wants to pay him? They're not admitted to practice law in Maryland."

"Doesn't that sound a little too cute?"

"Maybe. Let's at least see if we can find out what the guy knows."

____________________

The next morning as I was shaving I heard my BlackBerry buzzing on my dresser. I checked the incoming number and closed the bathroom door behind me. "Tinny, what the hell are you doing calling me at five thirty in the morning?"

"You gotta come to D.C. this morning. No doubt about it. You've got to come to D.C. right now."

"Why?" I turned the water off in the sink and listened carefully, trying not to speak too loudly and wake Debbie.

"My friend, the one I told you about that I can't tell you about, that works for a certain outfit that you know about, has some documents he wants us to have."

Byrd was being remarkably evasive. It occurred to me for the first time he was afraid that somebody was listening to our conversation. Easy enough to do. "I got all kinds of meetings this morning. People coming from out of town. You sure?"

"Come. I'll leave my cell on." Byrd hung up.

"Dammit," I said as I hung up. I'd have to call Rachel and ask her to meet with Holly alone, at least for a while. Byrd
never
asked me to come to D.C. I left messages for everybody at the office as I drove toward D.C. As I merged onto the beltway to head into the city and slowed to a crawl, I called Byrd on my cell phone. "Byrd. Where are you? I'm on the beltway. I'll be there in about eight hours at this pace."

"You know that place that we met that one time where you felt really out of place?"

Boy did I. "Yeah."

"Be there at eight o'clock."

He was referring to a cafe in the Northeast section of D.C. called Mercedes' Grill, named after Mercedes Benson, a legendary, larger-than-life woman who owned the grill. It was a popular hangout for D.C. politicians, police, and others in what they liked to call the second society. The first society of course were all the white people who worked on Capitol Hill, at the Supreme Court, and at all the federal agencies, almost all white, who comprised the decision makers in the federal government and who lived in Virginia and Maryland. The real Washington, the second society, were those who lived in and ran the city: the mayor, the city council, the police, the fire department, and local religious and civic leaders. Notably they were all black. It was like two cities. One on top of the other. White on top of black. The white part of the city didn't realize it, the black part of the city did. And those who knew that and understood it hung out at Mercedes' Grill. I had felt out of place the last time I had been there because white people simply didn't go there. Everyone there, from the owners to the workers to the customers, was black. So when I went in, everybody wondered why somebody from the first city had come to the grill of the second city. They fairly quickly realized that I wasn't actually part of the first city. I wasn't a congressman or a staffer or a judge, or anybody in the federal government who longed to be higher in the federal government. I was just the white guy with Tinny Byrd. Pretty soon that was just fine and nobody stared at me. But I still felt awkward. I was going to get another chance this morning. Byrd liked to meet me, or anybody else, there because usually those who wanted to give him any kind of difficulty were white.

I saw Byrd sitting in a booth in the back facing the entrance. He waved at me. I nodded to him and walked back to his booth. I was the only white person in the entire establishment. "Tinny, how you doing?" I said, shaking his hand.

"Sit down, Michael. Coffee?" He gestured to the waitress, who came over with a pot of coffee and poured a cup for me in a heavy porcelain mug.

I thanked her and said to Byrd, "What's this about?"

He was eating a large breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes. "You want something to eat? You know all this bullshit of cholesterol coming from eggs is just a conspiracy by the anti-egg people." He chuckled.

"If you believe Collins, everything's a conspiracy, right?"

He said, "Before I left your office last time, one of your other new attorneys, Lynn Carpenter, told me about Collins's reading list. He sounds like Mel Gibson in that movie with his eyes taped open."

"I don't think he was quite at that level. I don't want anything to eat. I had breakfast before I left."

"Good coffee though, huh? Best coffee in D.C. My opinion."

"No doubt. So why did you make me drive all the way into the dreaded District?"

The waitress delivered Tinny's side of bacon. He had clearly done this before as he had a specific approach to each egg and each piece of toast. Buttered a certain way, placed underneath the egg. "You remember our good Marine friend?"

"The one you been talking to?"

He nodded. "Well, I told you he said that he had some information about the meeting at Camp David. He said there was a document that would, as he put it, 'tell the tale about why the president was heading to Camp David that night'."

"What-"

Tinny put up his hand. "I've been beating on him to get it ever since. Absolutely refused. Wouldn't even hint at the content. So I told him to go back and
read
it again with understanding. Just read it and give me a call. Just tell me that it had
nothing
to do with this investigation and couldn't
possibly
have anything to do with the crash of Marine One. If he did that, and told me that"-Byrd sat back with his hands out palms up-"that'd be good enough for me."

He leaned forward across his plate of eggs. "But I knew that wouldn't be the case. If it's that important, how could he say it had nothing to do with the crash? Unless he just went all NTSB on us and blamed WorldCopter. But he's smarter than that. More honest. More suspicious." Byrd took three bites without saying a word.

I waited impatiently for him to continue. I didn't want to spoil the pace of the story, but this sounded ominous.

Byrd continued, "So this morning, this morning at five AM, he called me. Woke my ass up out of a deep sleep, a very pleasant, very warm deep sleep. I was pissed. I figured my mother had died or something. So I started screaming at the phone and it turned out it was our guy-"

"What's his name, Tinny?"

He went right on as if I hadn't made a sound. "When I finally realize it's him, I ask him whether he's going to tell me that his document had nothing to do with the investigation. He goes icy cold quiet on me, and then he said, 'It may, but I still can't give it to you.' You believe that shit?

"So I'm about to threaten him and he says he can't even talk about that document. But that he has something else for us. I say, 'Talk to me.' He says I'm to meet him in a McDonald's restaurant in the southwest part of the city. So I called you, than went to meet him. He sits down and hands me this folder." Byrd slid it across the table to me. "Go ahead."

I picked it up, but didn't open it. "So that document he can't talk about isn't in here."

"No."

"Damn, Tinny. How does he even have it? He's a Secret Service guy." Plus that Chris Thompson asshole said he didn't have it any more.

"Well, he said he was supposed to get it ready. That's all he'll say. It was his job to get it ready, and guard it. Everybody else was coming to Camp David, but he was already there. Others arrived before the president. But when they heard about the crash, everybody just left. He was still there with this document. Maybe I made a copy and Thompson doesn't know. Hell, I don't know really, it drives me crazy. He wouldn't give me the damn document, at least not yet-I'm not done with him. But he did give me some other stuff that's pretty damn interesting. Look."

I opened the envelope and looked at the contents. They were black-and-white photographs of people standing around. I looked up at Byrd. "What's all this?"

"The White House has numerous security cameras."

"I sure hope so."

"These are photographs from the security videos from the ballroom in the White House where there was a reception for the Japanese prime minister."

"And?"

"Well, one thing that I didn't know is that the commanding officer of HMX-1 is sometimes invited to these receptions. So you can see our boy, Colonel Collins, in these photographs."

"Okay, and?"

"Look at them. Can you think of a reason why the first lady and Collins would be whispering to each other. 'Cause I sure can't."

"Where do you see that?"

"Look on photographs three through seven. It shows them doing just a lot more than a casual greeting. She's talking to him and he's talking back. Now what would they have to talk about?"

That was a really good question. Could just have been casual conversation. Could be that they struck up something of a friendship on various flights. "Could be she's just friendly."

"You don't think Collins was playing around with the first lady, do you?"

"Hard to say. Nothing surprises me anymore. I've seen people do all kinds of stupid things. She's attractive, he's attractive, and the president was an ass. Who knows."

"Even if they were, you saying that would make Collins want to kill the president? Why? He's going to do what? Divorce his wife and marry the first lady? Never happen."

"No, hell, no. I'm not saying that."

Byrd moved forward and said in almost a whisper, "I'm just saying these are interesting photographs. You're the one with the big brain, you figure out what this is. You figure out why they're whispering in each other's ear and touching. I know why I whisper in a woman's ear, and I know why I accidentally brush against her ass."

"That's just impossible. No way."

Byrd sat forward and looked at me hard. "Maybe that's why he's sleeping in the other room. Maybe Melissa Collins is the only other person who knew about this."

"That's impossible," I said, staring at the photos, running through them again and again. They were all from one party. People were mingling around punch bowls and sandwich trays. Waiters and waitresses were scattered throughout carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres. But in six of the eight photographs, there was Colonel Collins standing right next to the first lady, and either she was whispering to him or he was whispering to her. I thought maybe it was because they were close to a source of music or noise. But none of the other people standing near them seemed to be having the same problem.

"When were these pictures taken?"

"Three months before the accident."

I put them back in the envelope. "I can keep these?"

"You can
keep
them, but not use them. You can't show them to anybody or ask anybody about them. But you may use them to lead you to other evidence, if you get my drift."