Russell Atkinson's Blog, page 104

The Bionic Chef by Cheryl Douglass

The Bionic Chef: Cooking With or Without Hands by Cheryl Douglass

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What an inspiring book this is! I’m no chef and no foodie, either, but you don’t have to be either to appreciate this book. The author suffered a devastating infection which resulted in the amputation of both hands and both feet. She now has prosthetic limbs. Many people in her situation would totally give up and descend into a spiral of self-pity and depression. Instead, the author has accepted what she could not change and has found myriad ways to cope with her situation and resume a normal lifestyle, including cooking.

The first section of the book is the fascinating story of her illness and recovery and is well worth the price of the book just for that. But the book is neither self-congratulating nor an appeal for sympathy. Rather it is a practical guide for others with similar disabilities on how to get on with your life, especially in the kitchen, but elsewhere, as well. I was intrigued by the ingenious adaptations and workarounds she has developed that enable her to cook. She identifies numerous implements (including brand names and photos!) that work for someone with prosthetic hands, especially myoelectric limbs like hers. She even tells you where to buy them and how to modify them if necessary and where to store them. She can chop onion, garlic, or meat and peel those sticky labels off produce with the right tools. This book is as much about attitude as it it about cooking. It’s lighthearted and upbeat throughout. Her story can help anyone with a disability learn how to cope and have a positive outlook on life.

Most of the book consists of recipes, and anyone who enjoys cooking can benefit from those, as the author has a reputation as very good cook. I don’t cook and can’t attest to those, but if they are anywhere close to the quality of the rest of the book, I’m sure they’re excellent. One last note: followers of my blog know how picky I am about grammar, spelling, and writing style in general. This book was a joy to read for its clarity and fine writing, too.

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Autocorrect Fail

I love getting 5-star reviews of my books on amazon.com but they’re probably better done with a real keyboard and without autocorrect turned on. This one of Cached Out made me smile for more than one reason:

“As a geographer it was fun to read a book with eye-catching intertwined into the storyline!”

For you muggles out there, that’s “geocacher” and “geocaching”.

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Cached Out – Kindle

GUT SHOT – Episode 21

Gut Shot – Episode 21

© copyright Russell Atkinson 2015

Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.

John le Carre

Chapter 10

I arrived twenty minutes late at the bar Connie Jefferson had mentioned. Traffic was even worse than I’d imagined. Thank God I had a Prius with a carpool sticker. I’d have been even later if I hadn’t. I entered the bar and had to stop for a minute due to the dim lighting. When my eyes adjusted, I spotted Connie sitting on a stool at the bar. She was drinking some kind of fruity concoction in a highball glass and laughing flirtatiously at the man on the stool next to her. He was about thirty with a beefy build and with well-muscled arms, which were on prominent display since he wore one of those muscle shirts you see at the gym. I pegged him for a construction worker from his rough hands and dirty nails.

I walked up to Connie, stood with my back to the guy, and said, “Hi, Connie. Sorry I’m late.”

I felt an iron grip on my right forearm and a gravelly voice say, “The lady’s talking to me.”

I turned, put my left hand on his shoulder, dug my thumb into the pressure point just above the clavicle, and pressed hard. He yelped and jerked back on the stool, almost falling off. I replied calmly, “Not anymore.”

Connie took the cue, stood, smiled at the man and said, “Gotta go. Thanks for the drink, Vasily.”

Without waiting for a response from Vasily she walked briskly to the far end of the room calling out in a cheerful voice, “Hi, Cliff. There’s a booth over here.”

I followed her there as Vasily glowered at my back. At least, I assumed he was glowering. I wasn’t looking his direction, since Connie’s backside commanded my attention. I reminded myself that I was a married man as I sat in the booth across from her, although the thirty years difference in our ages would have been more than enough to put the kibosh on any notion that I could ever have hooked up with her.

Now that my eyes were fully adjusted and I was looking at her from close range I understood what Maeva had said about Connie’s beauty. I’d seen her picture on her LinkedIn page but it didn’t do her justice. She had a flawless chocolate milk complexion. Either that or she was very skilled with makeup because I saw no signs it was artificial. Her eyes, a golden brown color, had an exotic Eurasian slant. The word willowy was invented for women like her. She wore a pink tank top under a form-fitting sleeveless blouse in a floral pattern. Although I could no longer see her lower half, I still carried a vivid picture of the painted on mini-skirt that adorned the upper stretch of her mile-long legs. Her ebony hair was long and lustrous, a genetic gift from her mother. I could well imagine men fighting over her.

“Sorry about that,” I began. “Do you know that guy?”

“No, he just bought me a drink. Happens all the time.”

I believed this as well, although it led me to wonder whether she would be an asset or a liability to the case.

“Do you come here often?” I asked.

She laughed a hearty and surprisingly low-pitched laugh. “Is that the best you can do?” she finally replied.

“No. I meant that literally. Do you frequent this place? I’m curious about how it would look to the court if you look like you’re … well, in the market, as it were.”

“Really! You’re quick to judge aren’t you?”

“I’m not judging at all. It’s just that I’m experienced in how the press can portray things. I’ve been falsely accused myself and the victim of that kind of bad publicity. I’m just trying to protect Woody.”

She didn’t say anything at first. She took a long sip of her drink through the slim red straw before replying. “I want to do anything I can to help Woody. We love each other. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life. I’m just an investigator. You should listen to Bert Breen, though, Woody’s lawyer. Giving advice is his job.”

“Mm. Breen. I got a message from him but I haven’t called him back. I didn’t know who that was.”

“So, Connie, let’s start with what the AUSA said in court, that you were dumping Woody in favor of Jermaine. Where’d she get that?”

“I have no idea. Woody’s my man.”

“Great. Just so I’m clear, you never told Woody you were breaking up or anything like that?”

Again, she didn’t answer right away. Another long sip and she replied, “That wouldn’t be good for him if I had, now would it?”

My stomach tightened up at this response. “No, it wouldn’t,” I answered. “So did you or didn’t you?”

“People sometimes say things they don’t mean, you know,” she said dismissively, as though the question was meaningless. “I never told him I was breaking up or wanted to break up. That’s what you want me to say, right?”

“I just want to know the facts. So how did the AUSA get the idea you had? Were you interviewed by anyone about your relationship?”

“No, never. Nobody until you.” She was already starting to sound irritated.

I realized from body language and difficulty holding eye contact that she was holding back on me. “Connie, please help me out here. It’s not helping Woody if you don’t tell the whole story. Somebody must have said something to the AUSA. You work in an office of FBI agents. Someone there must have overheard you on the phone, or talking at a party, or maybe you’ve shared something with a girlfriend. I need to know who is going to be put on the stand and what they’re going to say.”

She thought about this even longer than before. “I have a friend Kaneesha, but she wouldn’t tell anyone. We were just joking around.”

“And what did you say when you were joking around? Word for word, if you can remember.”

“I told you, it didn’t mean anything.”

“Dammit, Connie, you could be put on the stand and asked that question by the AUSA. The judge would order you to answer it and you’d go to jail if you didn’t. They could do that to Kaneesha, too. The words are going to come out one way or the other, so quit screwing around.”

“Jeez, lighten up already. One time I was talking with Kaneesha when Jermaine came up to me and started talking too, you know, sort of …”

“Hitting on you?”

“Not really, but I could tell he was interested. Kaneesha could too. She bowed out for a bit and when he left she came back and said something like ‘You go, girl.’ It was nothing.”

“Was Woody there? Did he know about this?”

“He wasn’t there. He didn’t see this.” She took another sip. She was now down to the bottom of the glass and began to make slurping sounds through the straw.

“Connie, don’t make me drag this out of you. Did Woody know?”

She sighed. “I never told him, but one time Kaneesha and I were having lunch in the break room. She came down to Hayward to help with some of the typing backlog. Woody stopped in to see me. He told me he’d have to cancel going to a concert that weekend with some lame excuse. She was right there so of course she heard it. She told him he’d better think twice about that because Jermaine would probably be happy to take me. Like that. She was just teasing.”

“What did you say then?”

“Woody just laughed and said he wasn’t worried, that I’d never dump him for that sorry ass. You know how guys like to talk.”

“I repeat. What did you say?”

“I was teasing. I just said maybe I would. I said Jermaine’s cute. That’s all. Are you happy now?” She sounded disgusted.

“I am. I needed to know that. Let’s go back to when Jermaine talked to you. When and where did that happen?”

“At the Oakland R.A. There was an all-employee conference up there a couple of months ago. I rode up with one of the Hayward agents for that. I used to work in reception there before I transferred down to Hayward. That’s where I got to know Kaneesha. That’s where Jermaine works. Worked. After he talked to us, the SAC was going to go down to San Jose to make the same speech. Woody would’ve stayed there to hear it.”

“And what exactly did Jermaine say?”

“He handed me some routing envelope he said needed to get down to Hayward, but that was obviously just an excuse to talk to me. He could have handed it to one of the agents or stuck it in the office mail. Then he said he liked my perfume. I don’t wear perfume, but my hair conditioner has a scent. I told him ‘Thank you, my boyfriend likes it too.’ He got the hint and left.”

“I’m going to have to talk to Kaneesha. I don’t know her. She works in Oakland, I take it?”

“Yeah. Kaneesha Lambeau. But she wouldn’t tell anyone about that. She wouldn’t try to hurt Woody.”

“No? Even if she thought he killed Jermaine? She worked with Jermaine didn’t she? He was assigned to Oakland. Did she like him?”

Connie thought about this a long time and sucked on her straw absently until she realized she was just getting melted ice. Then she scowled and muttered, “I’ll kill her.”

“Be careful what you say,” I warned. “I know you didn’t mean it literally, but you can see how things get twisted or exaggerated by lawyers or reporters. This is a murder case.”

“So what should I do?”

I had to be careful. I couldn’t tell her not to talk to the FBI investigators because that too would be obstruction of justice. I knew she shouldn’t if she wanted to help Woody, but this was especially difficult because she worked surrounded by FBI agents. “Like I told you, listen to Bert Breen. Call him back as soon as you can. Have you visited Woody?”

“Not yet. Should I?”

“Not unless Bert okays it. Remember, you don’t have attorney-client or spousal privilege. Whatever you say at the prison will be recorded and used against Woody.”

“Okay.” Her voice had a quaver now.

I questioned her some more about whether Woody had said or done anything to suggest he might want to kill Jermaine and about Kaneesha and Jermaine, but she didn’t have anything else of value. I offered to buy her another drink, but she said one was her limit. She had to stay in shape. When she said she was ready to go I walked her to her car. Vasily gave me the evil eye as we passed by but didn’t give us any trouble.

It was creeping up on eight o’clock when I got home. Ellen was fit to be tied. I’d called her to let her know I’d be late but she chewed me out anyway. She’d had a horrible day with Tommy and I was being inconsiderate again in staying out late trying to avoid doing my share of the work with Tommy. She broke down in tears before I even had a chance to reply. I thought we had just settled this. I had to work to support the family. I was defending Woody, which was something she had wanted me to do. Now I was the bad guy again.

I had planned to tell her about the interview with the animal control deputy, but now it felt like I’d look like I was trying to get sympathy myself to one-up her. I reached out to hug her but she pushed me away. Tommy started crying in his crib at that moment. Before I could say anything she snapped that it was my turn and threw the diaper at me that she’d had over her shoulder. I caught it, said sure, and went in to pick him up. Ellen went sobbing back into our bedroom.

I shed my jacket and picked up Tommy. As soon as I cradled him in my arms he began to suck on my biceps. He obviously wanted food, so I went to the refrigerator to see if Ellen had left me some milk, but there was nothing. I debated whether or not to take him in to Ellen but decided to leave her alone. This outburst was totally uncharacteristic of her. It had to be postpartum depression. As if I didn’t have enough worries already, I now grew seriously concerned. I knew the syndrome could be dangerous, even deadly. Suicides and even infanticide were known consequences in severe cases.

My cell phone rang. It was Bert. I couldn’t deal with him right then so I let it go to voicemail. I walked into the kitchen and saw dirty dishes in the sink. Ellen had obviously already eaten, which meant I was on my own. I hadn’t had anything at the bar, even a drink, and I was starved. Still holding Tommy, I opened the refrigerator, but there was nothing I could make a meal out of in there. I put him down in his playpen, which caused him to start crying again, while I opened a can of pork and beans. I dumped it into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave to heat. I opened a beer and got out the ketchup, a spoon, and a box of saltines. When the microwave dinged, I took out the beans, poured ketchup all over it, and began to shovel the mix into my maw. I finished off the whole can of beans and most of the stack of crackers. Needless to say, the beer, too. Tommy cried the whole time, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I dumped my dishes, such as they were, into the sink, and picked up Tommy again. He began to suck on my arm again, which at least kept him quiet for a bit. I peeked in on Ellen. She was lying on the bed with her back to the door. I couldn’t tell whether she was still crying or was asleep. I tiptoed in to get a better look and Ellen rolled over my way. She must have heard me. I could see she’d stopped crying.

“Here, give him to me,” she whispered. “He’ll give you an arm hickey.” She smiled wanly.

I handed Tommy to her and he quickly latched onto her breast. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine. I’m sorry. It’s just … so … so hard, you know. Being a mother. He won’t let me rest.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

“And my body. I’m still so fat.”

“Your body is beautiful. You always wanted a bust like your sister’s. Now you’ve got it.”

“You’re sweet.” She reached over and squeezed my hand.

I just sat on the bed holding her hand for as long as I could, neither of us talking, but eventually I knew I had to get to the bathroom or burst. When I came out, mother and baby were both asleep. I picked Tommy up carefully and carried him away. Ellen was snoring before I was out of the room. I put him down in his crib and this time he stayed asleep.

I changed into sweat pants and a T-shirt and cleaned up the dishes. Exhausted, I flopped onto the sofa and vegged out for a half hour, digesting the beans and beer and thinking about the day. Tommy stayed asleep, thank god.

I called Bert back and summarized the interviews with Jefferson and Mossberg. He seemed unsurprised but uttered a few oaths when he heard the explanation about Jefferson’s comments. Whether she meant it or not, she had said in front of Woody that she found Jermaine cute and might go out with him. The prosecution could use that to show motive. The Mossberg interview didn’t provide much new, although it fleshed out some of the details of the day.

“We still don’t know for sure who put that SWAT bag in the barracks,” Bert commented when I was done.

“I know. I’ll see if Bobu can tell me. Obviously, the AUSA is going to say it was Woody, but so far no one saw him put it in there. That’s something.”

“There’s still a chance Woody is telling the truth.”

I said nothing. I considered it a slim chance. Woody had the keys to his car on him the whole time. It was possible he’d left it unlocked, but he was adamant that he’d locked it and kept those keys. Bert understood my silence for what it was.

“I’m going to ask to have Woody’s car dusted for prints,” Bert went on. “Especially the rear hatch and the interior hatch release button. And the SWAT bag, too.”

“Don’t forget the gun, too. Look, it’s late and I’m beat. Let’s call it a day. I’ll get Maeva started on the photos and video in the morning. We know Sheila has the 302s now. Get me those to review before I do the interviews on those people. I’ll try to interview Kaneesha tomorrow.”

“I confronted Sheila with our knowledge that she got those last week and she sent them over to me this afternoon. They’re in paper form only. I’ve already faxed them to you.”

“All right. I’ll read them first thing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Play Dead by Harlan Coben

Play Dead by Harlan Coben

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

It’s never a good sign when the author begins with a foreword apologizing for the quality of the book. Coben’s re-release of his first novel was apparently some sort of eye-opener for him. Until he went back to review it he didn’t realize how amateurish it was. That said, it was pretty typical Coben, in my opinion. He didn’t get much less amateurish in his later books.

The lead character, Laura Ayers, is apparently the most beautiful woman in the world, a supermodel and business/fashion whiz. Virtually every man, and most of the women, are dumbstruck or driven to overwhelming lust upon laying eyes on her. Her body is mentioned about 4,000 times (although not graphically described, so voyeurs need not bother). Her love interest, David Baskin, a Boston Celtics forward, is the best basketball player in the history of the game. Laura’s sister, mother, aunt, and lead model are the 2nd through 5th most beautiful women in the world. Just your routine everyday group of pals and family, right? Baskin’s brother Stan is also handsome, but a sleazy con man and gambler. On Laura’s and David’s honeymoon in Australia David goes missing, apparently drowned in the surf. Or was it suicide? Or homicide? Or is he really dead? (Hint: did you notice the title? That’s how obvious his “mysteries” are.)

The book is horribly overwritten, but as I said, that’s typical Coben. He seems to have a thing for basketball players, or at least really tall people. His main characters in his later books are also very tall men. I’m guessing the author played some B-Ball or at least is a big fan.

The convoluted plot sets up several mysteries, all tied somehow to what happened 30 years earlier. There’s something going on between Laura’s mother and aunt and the Baskin men. David’s money goes missing. His best friend, a cop, seems loyal but a bit shady. Mysterious threats and break-ins occur. It’s all resolved in what is supposed to be a shocking twist ending, but it’s all rather predictable because the author telegraphs the twists so far in advance. Still, the action moves along fairly smartly and if you’re a high-school dropout you won’t have any trouble with the vocabulary or style. If you dislike the pottymouth style, avoid this one. I listened to the audiobook, and Scott Brick’s overacting didn’t help it any. I can’t recommend it, but it was okay to play solitaire by.

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Fatal Dose is free today!

Fatal Dose is free today on Amazon! There was such a positive response to the free day of Cached Out that I have done the same for Fatal Dose, the third book in the Cliff Knowles Mysteries series.  Please spread the word. Share or repost the link to this page, or to the Amazon page: click for free copy of Fatal Dose.

Today’s the only day! I ask one favor: Please write a review on Amazon.com when you’re done reading it. Authors make books free primarily to get reviews (which help get the book noticed and open up more promotional opportunities). Just a short “Really enjoyed it” is fine if you don’t like to write long reviews.  Even if you don’t think you’ll read it, download it anyway. It’s free, and the more downloads, the higher “sales” ranking it gets, which helps get it more visibility. You don’t have to have a Kindle. Android, Apple, and Microsoft devices all have free Kindle apps.

Free today, 9/26/15

Here’s the book description:

X-rays can kill cancer cells and save lives when administered properly. They can also kill people when things go wrong – a fact learned the hard way by retired FBI agent Cliff Knowles. Hired to unravel the cause of some mysterious overdoses, he gets too close to the truth and finds his own life on the line.

Inspired by actual cases he worked as an FBI agent in Silicon Valley, the author weaves an absorbing tale of greed, technology, and terrorism in this high-tech legal thriller. After reading Fatal Dose you’ll never look at an X-ray machine the same way.

This is a book that should appeal to mystery fans and also to science fiction fans who enjoy medical mysteries like Coma or The Andromeda Strain.

GUT SHOT – Episode 20

Gut Shot – Episode 20

© Russell Atkinson 2015

I decided to try Fitzhugh next. If he refused to talk to me, that was probably the best I could hope for. That could always be used to challenge his credibility, his impartiality, on the stand later. I called the FBI San Francisco office once more and asked for him. His secretary went through the same kind of great-to-hear-from-you-again routine I’d gotten from Kim in San Jose. When I asked to speak to Fitzhugh, she put me on hold and within seconds came back and said he was too busy talking to a reporter. I left my number and said goodbye. Two down.

I checked the social media again. I realized I should have asked Woody for his passwords. He was on Facebook, but I hadn’t seen him on any other sites. I’d ask him next time. I started a list of questions I’d need answered. He was already a Facebook friend, so I could see what other people were posting on his page. There were dozens of people posting there, some accusatory and obscene, but most supportive, saying things like “hang in there” or “I’m praying for you.” I recognized a lot of Bureau employee names in the mix. If nothing else, this would give Bert a list of people on Woody’s side, but at this point I didn’t have access to Jermaine’s Facebook account, assuming he had one, and for all I knew these same people were posting there, too. I realized Bert would be expecting me to tell him which sites Jermaine and the other instructors were on so he could subpoena those records from the providers. I asked Maeva to step in and gave her that assignment.

I had almost forgotten about the forum for police firearms instructors, but I checked in there, too. There had been no new activity by Bobu that I could find. I looked at his profile page and it showed that he hadn’t “checked in” since the email exchange with my fake identity as Huntress, the Canadian woman. Nothing new there.

I realized it was almost noon and I was ready for a break. I told Maeva I was going out to the gym and lunch. She barely heard me, she was so engrossed in trying to find accounts for all the people on the list. When I got back an hour later she was still hard at it.

I had turned my phone off while I was working out and hadn’t turned it back on until I got back into the office. When I did, I saw that Dawson had returned my call and left a message. I called him back and was able to get through. He was a new ASAC and I didn’t know him at all other than to have shaken his hand at the last FBI Christmas party. He said he was too busy for a sit down interview, so I had to resort to another phone interview. He confirmed what Barney Chatman had said, that they were out on the range when Garcia came running up to the SAC and Fitzhugh had told him to stay back while he went to deal with the issue. He didn’t know what was going on until later. He didn’t see or hear anything of use. The SAC has kept him out of the investigation, probably because Woody was one of “his” agents and Dawson wouldn’t be neutral. ASACs always thought of the agents under them as “their” agents but the agents seldom thought about it the same way. ASACs and SACs came and went, jumping from lily pad to lily pad on the way to the top. For most agents, their squad supervisor was the only management they cared about, and a lot of those are hopping the same lily pads.

I tried to get him to open up about the period prior to the incident, either before or during the gun safety movie, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He cut me off saying he really didn’t see or hear anything, that he had thought well of Woody until now, and certainly hoped it had been an accident. Then he said he had to take another call. My efforts to keep him talking were in vain and the call ended. At least he hadn’t said anything incriminating about Woody.

I still didn’t want to do interviews without the 302s from the firearms instructors in the scenario, and Fitzhugh hadn’t called me back so that only left Mossberg as someone on scene but not involved in the shooting. After my experience with the two ASACs, I decided not to telephone him. He’d just try to put me off the way they had. He was an instructor and would have more knowledge about how the scenario was designed or supposed to go than the executives. He’d be more likely to hear scuttlebutt from the other instructors, too. In other words, his was a more important interview and I wanted it to be face-to-face. I decided to drive to Oakland and show up unannounced at the R.A. there. I knew that was where he worked, his regular case work, that is, but I wasn’t sure if he was instructing out at Santa Rita today. Most firearms instructors do that duty on a part-time basis and carry a regular investigative case load as their main duty. That how it was with me: full-time agent and part-time Legal Advisor.

This plan would have the dual advantage of allowing me to pick up the thumb drive from Bert and put me in the East Bay late so that I could go to meet Connie Jefferson by five-thirty without having to fight cross-bay commute traffic at rush hour. Using my cell phone, which wasn’t listed to my business, I called to the Oakland office and asked for Mossberg. After a few rings he answered, but I hung up without saying anything. I had just wanted to verify he was in the office today, but I didn’t want to give him any warning I was coming.

It was still early afternoon and I was trying to decide what else I could do before heading over there. If I got shut out by Mossberg and picked up the thumb drive quickly, there would still be a couple of hours before I could meet Connie. I could do a bit of other business by phone, but it would mostly be a waste of my time, unbilled hours when my backlog of work was piling up. As I was contemplating this, the phone rang. Since Maeva was busy with the social media sites task I’d given her, I picked it up myself. It was a detective with the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office. I asked what I could do for him and he said he needed to talk to me. He asked if I would be in the Dublin area any time soon. When I asked what it was about, he said he’d rather not discuss it over the phone. I said I’d be in Oakland today and he agreed to meet me at the Sheriff’s main administration building in Oakland. This was a tad unsettling, but all in all, it sounded like a good thing, solving my slack time problem, and I might catch a break on my investigation. I guessed that he had some information about the shooting, since, after all, it had happened on the Sheriff’s Department’s property there in Dublin. He must have gotten my name from Bert, or possibly from someone in the FBI. Now that I’d told Gina and the two ASACs that I was working for Woody’s defense, I assumed my name had gotten around.

I called Bert to let him know I would be coming by to get that thumb drive with all the photos and told Maeva where I was going. I got in the rented Prius and headed for Oakland. I tuned the radio to the twenty-four hour news station to see if there was any more on the case, any misinformation Bert would have to correct. As I was crossing the Dumbarton Bridge I was rewarded for my effort with a news flash, although it sure didn’t feel like a reward. The announcer said that a “source close to the investigation” confirmed that the gun used to slay FBI agent Jermaine Logan was owned by and registered to the defendant, Sherwood Braswell.

My heart sank. The source had to be Fitzhugh. His secretary had told me he was talking to a reporter when I called, which, of course, she shouldn’t have done, but she hadn’t known I was working for the defense. That meant the information was reliable. There was nothing I could do about it now, and it wouldn’t change the damning fact that Woody had used his own gun. It would, however, taint the jury pool, which was no doubt Fitzhugh’s motive in leaking. The SAC would look bad if Woody turned out to be innocent, or even managed to skate on a hung jury or mistrial since he’d authorized the arrest. More important, though, was that it was looking like Woody had lied to me about one more thing. I was on the wrong side of this one and didn’t like it one bit. I’d spent my whole professional life putting the bad guys in jail and didn’t want to keep them out. I knew Woody was a decent guy at heart, not really a dedicated scumbag the way most of the defendants in my FBI career were, but even if he’d killed in a fit of jealous rage, not by planning an ambush, it was morally and legally wrong. I spent the rest of the drive gnashing my teeth and wondering how I was going to get out of this one gracefully.

I pulled into the Oakland Office of the Sheriff’s Department for my appointment with a few minutes to spare. I had to wait a few minutes for the detective in the rather impressive lobby. This was not a substation but where the high muckety-mucks worked. The detective appeared and introduced himself as Leo Schmidt. He apologized for keeping me waiting but explained that his regular office was in Dublin, so he had to find meeting space here. I told him no problem.

He started to ask me the usual questions about my personal identifiers as though I was reporting a crime, not as one investigator to another, so I stopped him. “Look, I’m retired FBI and I’m investigating the killing myself. I’m afraid I don’t have time for a long interview. You can find me easily enough if you need to. Why don’t you just tell me what this is about.”

He looked at me as though I was the one being odd. Then he reached into a paper bag he’d brought with him and pulled out a bloody piece of cloth. For a moment I thought the sheriff’s department must have found a piece of Jermaine’s clothing that the FBI forensic team had somehow missed at the scene, but I didn’t see how that could be possible.

“Do you recognize this?” he asked me.

“No, not really,” I replied. “Can I look at it more closely?”

He handed it to me. When I saw the Hugo Boss label on it, the light bulb finally dawned on me. It must be my jacket, the one the pit bull had gotten the previous week.

“Oh, is this my jacket? It looks like mine.”

“A Mrs. Leung provided it to us. She said these business cards were in the pocket. Are they yours?”

“Yes, those are my cards. That must be my jacket. Are you from Animal Control?”

He hesitated. “Yes, I am,” he answered slowly.

I still didn’t see it so I stupidly babbled on, “But I told her I didn’t need the jacket back. Look, the dog was vicious, but I don’t want to press charges. It was locked in and I hopped the fence. It was my fault. I suppose that might have been a trespass, but …”

“So you were trespassing?”

“Uh, right, I guess. Although I had to.”

“Why was that?”

I told him about the two punks who were trailing me. He nodded appreciatively as I told the tale.

“Did you report the attack to the police?”

“No, it wasn’t necessary. I got out of there without any serious harm and I didn’t want to get involved in a police investigation.”

“Hugo Boss. That’s an expensive brand, isn’t it?”

“Very. But like I said, it wasn’t Mrs. Leung’s fault. I don’t want to make any trouble for her.”

“That must have made you very angry.”

“Well, I wasn’t happy about it,” I said, thinking this was taking a strange turn.

Schmidt was making extensive notes and I could see a small smile creeping up from the corners of his mouth. I recognized that smile. It was the one I couldn’t suppress when I knew I’d nailed a criminal during an investigation. Too late the danger klaxons started blaring in my brain. He wasn’t investigating the attack on me. It was something else.

“Wait a minute!” I demanded. “What is this about? Are you investigating the attack on me?”

“I’m investigating the killing of the Leung dog. Is that what you did, Mr. Knowles? I can understand how mad you must have been. We all lose control sometimes.”

The tactic was obvious, but I hadn’t seen it coming. What an idiot! I had just admitted to trespassing and being involved in an attack with the dog, which had my jacket in shreds. The punks must have killed the dog and left me to take the blame.

“No, no. I didn’t know the dog was killed. The two guys I told you about must have done it. The one had a switchblade.”

“Yet you told me you were investigating the killing before I ever told you what it was about.”

“Not that killing. This is the first I heard that the dog died. I was talking about another killing. I’m an investigator for an attorney here.”

“Mm-hmm. What killing is that?”

“The FBI agent who was killed. Jermaine Logan. I’m working for the defendant’s attorney.”

“You were an FBI agent and now you’re working to free the guy who killed a fellow agent?” he asked scornfully. “You make a lot of money doing that kind of work, do you?” He fingered the Hugo Boss label.

“No, of course not. I worked with the defendant. He’s an FBI agent, too. I’m …” but I stopped. I realized that I didn’t have to justify my choice to take the case to this bozo, but I also realized that in his position I might have had the same reaction. I wasn’t getting on his good side, that’s for sure, and as the old saying goes, when you’re in a hole, stop digging. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t kill the dog. I didn’t know the dog was hurt. Check the DNA of that blood on the jacket. It’s not mine. I jumped out of the yard before he got me.”

“The dog was skinned alive before it was killed.”

He waited for my reaction. I was sickened by the news but I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react. “That’s terrible, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Go looking for those two punks.”

“You don’t seem to be too upset by the news.”

“Of course I’m upset.” Finally I knew I was still digging and just had to get out of there. “Look, I’m leaving. I have another appointment. Find the muggers.” I stood.

“Sit down. We’re not done. You haven’t given me a description of the two men you say are responsible. How can we go after the ‘real killers’ if you don’t describe them.” He put air quotes around the words “real killers” in an obvious reference to the O.J. trial, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“We are done. Either arrest me or I’m leaving.” I was still standing.

He made no move to stand or show me out. “So you aren’t going to help identify the men you say followed you and tortured and killed a family pet?”

I realized he was going to keep questioning me until I said the magic words, so I said them. “I want my attorney. His name is Bert Breen. Arrest me or let me out of here.”

Schmidt snorted with a sort of satisfaction, like I’d just proved he was right about me. He took his time jotting some more notes as I stood there. I thought about just walking out of the room, but I knew we’d taken several turns and wasn’t sure I could find my way out on my own, and I didn’t want to be put in a position of disobeying a lawful order or entering some space I wasn’t supposed to. I took a few steps toward the door, but I was bluffing. I wouldn’t have walked out. Schmidt called to me as I got to the door.

“You can’t go out there,” he declared ominously.

I turned to face him and held my arms out close together. “Cuff me then.”

He made no move toward me but made another note on his pad. I pulled out my cell phone, which I still had on me and hit the speed dial number for Bert Breen. Schmidt, still looking down as he wrote, hadn’t realized what I was doing as I dialed. When I connected with Bert’s secretary and told her to have Bert meet me at the sheriff’s office since I was being arrested, he looked up and told me to put the phone away. I didn’t.

He gave me the dirtiest look I’ve seen anywhere off a movie screen and stood. “I’ll walk you out,” he finally conceded.

I made it back to my car a few minutes later, shaken to the core. Why me? I seemed to have a knack for making people think I’m a killer. When I was in the FBI it was the opposite. I was a white collar guy, thick in the middle and bespectacled, a lousy shot, the butt of jokes from the SWAT team and other more studly male agents. I looked like a nerdy accountant, although I’m not sure why accountants are the ones always picked for that cliché. I’d handled some violent crime cases, but only briefly between assignments working foreign counterintelligence and white collar. They would have laughed at the notion of me being a born killer. But since I’d retired I’d been suspected more than once of homicide. Now it was the torture of an animal.

Unknown to the deputy, I had pushed the End Call button when I was talking to Bert’s secretary so she never got the word for Bert to come to my rescue. I didn’t have to call back and cancel. I drove over to Bert’s office, found a parking place, and went up to his office. When I entered his office he was viewing video taken by the FBI at the shooting scene.

“Cliff, thanks for coming by. I was just skimming through the photos and video.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not yet. I think this is not a good use of my time and Woody’s money. You or your girl can do this at a much lower rate.”

“Maeva,” I corrected him. “Not ‘my girl.’” For a former civil rights prosecutor, Bert could sometimes be pretty insensitive about women’s issues. It also ticked me off to hear he was charging Woody a lot more than I was. So far I hadn’t been paid a dime and was expecting my bill would never be paid in the end, anyway, so his remark made me wonder if he’d been paid.

“Right. Maeva. So I copied the files onto my hard drive. You take the thumb drive and see what you can do.” He handed me the drive.

I took the drive and gave him a brief summary of my interviews with Chatman and Dawson. It wasn’t relevant to the case, but I couldn’t help myself from telling him about the grilling I got at the sheriff’s office.

“Torture of an animal?” he exclaimed. “That’s a felony. They take that seriously around here. For Christ’s sake, you were an FBI agent and you sat there and admitted trespassing and being attacked by the dog?”

“I know, I know. But I didn’t realize what it was about. He said he worked in Dublin, so naturally I thought it was about the shooting. I asked if it was about the killing and he said yes. I thought it was Woody’s case, and he thought I meant the killing of the dog.”

“Animal control is in Dublin. They work all such cases countywide, like cockfighting, dogfighting, any kind of animal cruelty. So you admitted to knowing about ‘the killing’ before he told you, too.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what he thought. Look, I didn’t do it and the blood on the jacket should prove it.”

“Unless it’s all dog blood, which it probably is. You better get behind this, buddy, before it gets out of hand.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t do it. They aren’t going to prosecute me without some actual evidence.”

“You obviously haven’t ever been a defense lawyer. It happens all the time. And anyway, you should know that what they have is ‘actual evidence’ even if it’s not solid proof. This is the kind of crime that inflames a jury and they’re likely to convict anyone brought up on charges, even with weak evidence.”

“I don’t believe this. What can I do about it? If they don’t believe me, they don’t believe me.”

“You already gave him my name. I know some people over at the D.A.’s office. Let me talk to someone over there and see what I can do. Animal cruelty’s a crime of moral turpitude. If they file felony charges against you, you could lose your bar license, even if you never get convicted. Your P.I license, too.”

I was beginning to freak out, but I managed to keep my cool. “So what can you do?”

“I have some ideas. Let me handle this.”

“How much is this gonna cost me?”

“I pay you, you pay me; it’ll all work out. Let’s worry about that later. You can’t afford to let them file charges, that’s for sure.”

After shaking my head in disbelief, I nodded my assent and gave him the go-ahead. I took the thumb drive and headed to the FBI office to try to interview Mossberg. It was within walking distance so I got to walk off some of the stress. I stepped out of the elevator at the Webster Street office on the fourth floor and entered the lobby. The receptionist was a young black man I didn’t recognize, sitting behind a bullet-proof Plexiglas partition. I identified myself as a retired agent and asked to speak to George Mossberg. He asked me if George was expecting me. I told him no, but said he knew me from when I used to be an agent. He picked up the phone and called a number, then told me to have a seat.

I took a chair and waited. There was no one else in the lobby. I tried to remember what I knew about Mossberg. We’d never worked closely and I didn’t know him well at all. I knew he was a tech agent and was assigned to that squad. Tech agents are the ones who do all those things the right-wing paranoids think the FBI does – wiretapping, planting tracking devices or microphones, you get the drift. Of course everything they do is authorized by warrants, consent of the parties being monitored (victims, usually), or other legal process, but don’t try telling that to the Tea Party wackos. The left wing, either. FBI-phobia seems to be the one thing uniting the two. Tech agents make a point to dress for the surreptitious nature of their duties. They usually look rather scruffy, often wearing coveralls or utility uniforms, or just jeans and a T-shirt.

I’d been watching through the Plexiglas for George when he surprised me by entering the lobby from the elevator bay behind me. I learned he worked on a different floor and it was faster for him to come down the elevator than the stairwell. When he stepped into the lobby behind me he called out “Boo!” loudly, causing me to start. He laughed at my reaction.

“Gotcha! Hey, Cliff what brings you here?”

“George, I see you haven’t changed,” I said after recovering my breath. I was referring to the prank, not his appearance. Mossberg had the reputation of a being a bit of a cut-up and a gossip, although I hadn’t been around him enough to have personal knowledge of that. He had helped out on a couple of cases when my squad had needed electronic monitoring of one kind or another and he’d always been all business then. I’d considered him competent and professional despite his appearance, which, as I said, tended to the unconventional. Today he was wearing jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt. His belt had metal studs along its entire length and he sported a bushy, dark brown beard showing gray hairs invading here and there.

“I need to talk to you George,” I went on. “Can we go inside?” I knew it was a lot easier for him to terminate the interview here in the lobby. All he had to do was use his employee badge to re-enter FBI space and I’d be stuck out here. If I could get him inside, it would be psychologically harder for him to kick me out or walk away.

“What’s this about?” He was smiling but made no move toward the door.

“I’m working for Woody’s defense team on this shooting thing. I’m just trying to find out what happened. I understand you were there.”

“Ahh, I see. I don’t know what I can tell you that will be of any use, but come on in. Are you armed?” he asked.

“No.” I knew there was a metal detector built into the doorway.

He made eye contact with the receptionist and stepped toward the door, which made a loud buzz as he approached and opened it. I followed him. He could have taken me into an interview room right off the lobby. Those are separated from the main office space by yet another secure door, but he walked past those to the next door and used his ID badge to open that, holding it for me. This was a good sign. He was taking me into the agents’ working space, treating me like a fellow agent.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” he commented as he showed me into a conference room. My name had been in the news quite a bit over the last couple of years on some controversial cases.

“Not in a good way,” I replied.

“So how can I help you?”

I asked him to walk me through the day as he remembered it. He answered without hesitation, describing his arrival about eight fifteen and asking Chris Bobu what he wanted done. Bobu had the target shed open and wanted Mossberg to check to see if there were enough targets and to put out the cleaning supplies. He’d moved all the coffee cans out to serve as brass collection buckets. After the agents shoot they have to police up the lanes for spent brass, the shell casings that get ejected, which go into the coffee cans by their lanes and are then emptied into a big box for recycling. He’d placed the cans out and the brass box, and by the time he was done Bobu was starting the lecture so he went into the classroom and sat in the back for that. The lecture was a short recitation of some routine administrative matters pertaining to new protective gear and such. Then Bobu started the safety video. While that was going Bobu had asked him to finish setting up the gun cleaning table, so he left the classroom and did that, putting out the brushes, solvents, rags, and the rest of it. When he’d finished that he went back into the classroom until the video was over. When it was done he took the SAC and two ASACs over to the range for their qualifying while everyone else went over to the barracks area. This was all consistent with what Chatman had told me.

When he got to the point where Garcia came running over to talk to the SAC, I finally got something new. Mossberg had overheard Garcia say that Braswell had shot Logan. He’d also told Fitzhugh that an ambulance was on its way. Fitzhugh had told the ASACs to stay there and finish qualifying while he dealt with it. Mossberg had to stay on the range and oversee the shoot. Mossberg ran the ASACs through the final course and told them not to bother scoring the targets. He wasn’t about to make them reshoot, so he told them on the spot they both qualified, even though he never bothered to score their targets. By the time they’d finished retrieving their targets and picking up the brass Fitzhugh had come back. Fitzhugh said something to both Chatman and Dawson, who left promptly after that, without going over to the barracks area. Fitzhugh had then told him to help Bobu arrest Braswell and transport him to the Oakland office for processing.

I broke in at that point and asked if Woody had said anything. He told me that Woody had said it was an accident and asked how Jermaine was. Bobu had read Woody his Miranda rights and told him to be quiet. They sat him in the back of Mossberg’s car. Logan was still alive, he thinks, but Mossberg was standing near the car keeping watch over Woody and couldn’t see what was going on in the barracks. The ambulance showed up about that time. Then he drove Woody back to the office to process him with Bobu in the back with Woody. Woody was cooperative the whole time and didn’t talk. Nobody said anything the entire drive. He and Bobu processed Woody for photos and fingerprints then took him over to the city jail until he could be taken for his initial appearance before a magistrate.

“Why didn’t you take him directly to the federal courthouse for his initial appearance? The magistrate’s available in the afternoon.”

“The SAC’s orders. I think he wanted to consult with the U.S. Attorney to see whether they were going to prosecute. If they’d said no, we would have sprung him loose. At least, that’s what Chris told me. We thought about leaving him cuffed in our holding area, but Chris said that would be too humiliating for him, with him knowing his fellow agents were working just on the other side of the door knowing what he’d done, so we took him over to the jail. Nobody knew him there. It took longer than usual to get an opinion from the AUSA. I suppose it was pretty controversial, one FBI agent shooting another, and they had to consult all the way to the top. I guess the evidence was strong enough to satisfy the prosecutors, but by the time we got the word it was too late so he was held over till the next morning.”

“What about his car? Did you see him or anyone else going into it or around it?”

“How do you mean ‘going into it’?”

“Did you see anyone open the rear of his car, or the passenger area?”

“I didn’t know what car was his until later, so I wouldn’t have noticed. He arrived after me and I was busy in the target shed, so I didn’t pay attention to his arrival. I was in the office around four doing my 302 when Chris told me he needed a ride back out to the range to get his car. He said the county needed the range the next day and wanted us to get all our vehicles and crime scene stuff out of there if we could. He said the ERT had finished so we would need to get Woody’s car, too. Woody’s keys were in evidence by that point, so we couldn’t touch those, but the spare keys had been brought over to the scene by one of the garage guys at the SAC’s request so the ERT could search it. The mechanic was still there at Santa Rita, so he drove back to Oakland and then took me and Chris back out. The ERT was just finishing up. I checked to make sure they didn’t need the car and they said they’d photographed and searched Woody’s car. That was the first I learned which car was his. Chris told them we had to get everything off the range and they said it was okay to take his car back but to keep it stored in case they needed to dust for prints or anything, so I drove it back here to Oakland. It’s down in our garage now. Chris drove his own car back to San Francisco, I assume. I stayed late to finish my 302 and went home.”

“What about the next day? Did you transport him to court as the arresting agent?”

“No. Bobu did that.”

“So did Woody say anything at all during processing or any other time?”

“No, other than what I told you. Maybe he nodded or said okay a couple of times when we told him we were going to have to take him to the jail or gave him some instruction. He cooperated the whole time.”

“Woody had an Explorer, didn’t he?”

“Yes.

“Did you open the rear or look inside it?”

“Sure. After I got it to Oakland. Woody was a firearms instructor and former SWAT guy. I knew he owned several guns. Agents with multiple guns usually bring them all to the range on qualifying days and shoot them all on the same day so they don’t have to come back a second or third time. Since there were only a few people there that day, it was ideal for that. We all knew it would be a short day and we could shoot all we wanted after the front office left. Even though the ERT had told me they’d searched the car and photographed it, they didn’t tell me whether they had taken any guns out of it, so I had to make sure he didn’t have any other guns in it.”

“And were there?”

“No. Not when I looked. Maybe the ERT took something before that.”

“How about a SWAT bag?”

“No, Woody wasn’t on SWAT any longer, I don’t believe. I know he used to be.”

“Are you on SWAT, George? Or were you before?”

“No, never. I’m a tech agent, you know that. We don’t go out in public, even covered up in SWAT gear. They don’t even like us coming through the lobby here. I usually come and go from the fifth floor employee entrance, which is unmarked.”

“So you never had a SWAT bag?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know if any of the other agents there that day were ever on SWAT? Or had SWAT bags?”

“I’m sure several firearms instructors are or were on SWAT, but I’m not sure which ones have SWAT bags. Chris would have those records, if any records were kept.”

“Did you ever see anyone in the area other than the FBI personnel?”

“Nope. There was something going on over at the bomb range, but I don’t know what it was. That’s way over to the west. I’m sure if any of those folks were to come into our area they’d be challenged and shooed away. Nothing like that happened.”

“Did you or anyone else you know of put a SWAT bag or revolver in the barracks area?”

“No. I mean, I heard there was a bag, so it must have been one of the people there, so it must be someone I know, but I never saw who put it there. I assume Woody brought the gun on him, but I didn’t see it.”

“Did you see Woody or anyone else go over to the barracks area prior to the arrest scenario?”

“No.”

“George, is there anything else you can tell me I should know, anything at all?”

He hesitated again and dropped eye contact for a few seconds. “I guess I should tell you that I overheard Braswell and Logan talking before we went into the classroom. I heard Jermaine say something like ‘That’s bullshit.’ That’s all I overheard. I don’t know what they were talking about.”

“Was he angry? Was either one of them angry or showing any signs of unusual … emotion?”

“I don’t know. Agents talk and swear all the time out there, especially when there are no women present. It seemed pretty normal at the time. I didn’t even look their way. I was busy laying out the ammunition boxes on the tables.”

I looked at my watch and realized it was getting late. I knew the Nimitz was the busiest freeway in the Bay Area and I had to get down to Hayward to meet with Connie Jefferson. I thanked him for his time and left. I hadn’t been sure any of the instructors were going to talk to me, so I felt good that I’d gotten one decent interview in. Added to Chatman’s information, I was getting a pretty good picture of the day, but nothing so far looked good for Woody. Quite the opposite.

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Big Bills Only – hilarious, shocking, and a total must read

Big Bills Only by Jerry Webb

My rating: 6 of 5 stars

This non-fiction account of a horrendous crime that occurred in Dallas, Texas, by the FBI case agent who led the investigation is an absolute must read. It is neither politically nor stylistically correct, and thank God for that. It is, instead, at times hilarious, gut-wrenchingly shocking, frightening, unbelievable, and at all times both true and thoroughly entertaining. It is written in the inimitable and indescribable voice of one of those guys who for 22 years kept your father from being beaten to death and your daughter from being raped and all the other things street agents do in the FBI. This is no gloss-over love-me from a suit. The author has never wanted more than to throw bad guys in jail and he succeeded admirably. He could also be a stand-up comedian, but thank heavens that he chose to protect us instead.

Fair disclosure: I’m a retired FBI agent, too, so I’m thoroughly biased, but I’m not exaggerating when I say I absolutely loved this book. I literally could not put it down. Okay, that’s a lie. I did put it down when I got to the end of the story and reached the copy of the appellate court opinion appended onto it. Even that is entertaining, but I’m a retired lawyer, too, so take that with a grain of salt. So I ate dinner and cleaned up the dishes in the break and then read the appellate opinion, but considering that the book came in the mail at 4:00 o’clock and I’m writing this at 7:30 PM, you can see that I totally devoured this. If I could give it six stars, I would. It’s not polished. The font is wrong, the page justification is wrong, and the photos are almost useless. It’s raw and disrespectful and did I mention politically incorrect? It is also absolutely, totally, wonderful. Read it. You’re an idiot if you don’t. In fact, you should read it at least twice. The stuff at the beginning is twice as funny after you’ve read what happens at the end.

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GUT SHOT – Episode 19

Gut Shot – Episode 19

© Russell Atkinson 2015

Trust ye not in a friend, put ye not confidence in a guide: keep the doors of thy mouth from her that lieth in thy bosom. Micah 7:5

Chapter 9

Sunday morning we slept in. Ellen left me enough milk for the baby and went out shopping for clothes and more baby stuff. I wanted to play with my son but, really, there isn’t much playing you can do with them at that age. Peek-a-boo gets old after a few minutes and babies that age tend to just sleep, eat, and poop. Still, I was enjoying the day off. I’d forgotten about the case until two o’clock. The phone rang. It was Maeva.

“Cliff, I did it!” she burbled, excitement echoing through every syllable. “I got her to talk.”

It took me a beat to realize what she was talking about. Of course, the race with Connie Jefferson. “Good work,” I replied encouragingly, although I didn’t yet know whether it was good or not. “So what did you get?”

“You know that picture of her at the Napa Marathon you showed me? Well, I recognized the shoes she was wearing and I went out and bought the same kind. I can expense that, right? So I went up to her at the race and remarked how we had the same shoes. She said they were the best brand and we started talking.”

I didn’t need all this detail, and I certainly hadn’t planned on reimbursing for new running shoes. Knowing what I did about Connie Jefferson, I figured they were probably at least two hundred bucks for the pair. Maeva was so excited at completing her first undercover assignment, though, that I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her. I’d eat the cost of the shoes.

“So then I said my boyfriend was supposed to run the race with me but he hadn’t shown up. I asked if she was running it alone. She said she was. I kept it going and after a while we were talking about our boyfriends. She told me hers couldn’t be here today. She didn’t say why, but if she’d been talking about the Jermaine guy, I figure she wouldn’t have said it that way. She’d probably have said, like, my boyfriend died or something. So I figured she meant Woody, you know? So I think Woody’s telling the truth about them being solid.”

“Okay, that’s good. That’s good.”

“Um, yeah, but …” and there was an ominous tone creeping into her voice. I could hear bad news coming. “See, I told her how my boyfriend would flake out on me sometimes and how mad I was at him right now. She told me I should make him jealous. That would keep him straight, you know. I said, like, what do you mean, and she said I should just tell him I’m going to dump him for another guy. She said it works like a charm. I asked her would she really do that and she said, and these are her exact words as close as I can remember, ‘Trust me, it works every time. If he thinks you’re ready to dump him for another guy he’ll do anything to get back in your good graces. He’ll kill for you. I mean that literally.’ She was almost preening, you know what I mean. It was like she thought Woody killed Jermaine for her.”

“She said that? ‘He’ll kill for you. I mean that literally.’”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Great, that’s all we need. Did she say anything else, anything specific, like did Woody tell her he was going to get Jermaine, anything like that?”

“No, that was it. Except when I asked how she knew that, had it happened to her, she just said ‘Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I know how to control men.’ You should have seen her. She was strutting around like a queen. I was ready to kill her, but I pretended to be in awe of her. With her looks I can believe men would kill for her. She looks like a fashion model and Olympic athlete all in one.”

I was totally deflated with this news. I was about to hang up when I remembered to ask Maeva how she did in the race.

“Are you kidding? You think I can run ten kilometers? I ran about a mile, stopped, went off to sit on a park bench, and joined back in when the leaders came running back the opposite direction at the end. I made sure to wait until after Connie had run past me. She was the second woman and was gaining on the leader.”

I chuckled. “You pulled a Rosie Ruiz?”

“Who’s that?”

“Never mind. Good work. Write that whole thing up in a report while it’s fresh in your mind. Mark it Attorney-client confidential. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Okay. Thanks, Boss,” she replied and hung up. She never called me boss. I knew she was still jazzed about going undercover on a murder case. I would have been happy with a one-page report, but I guessed I’d have a twenty-pager on my desk in the morning.

Now I sensed that the outlook for Woody was dismal. It meant he was almost certainly lying to me about Connie. It sure sounded like she had told him she was dumping him for another guy, presumably Jermaine, in order to make him jealous. Whether she really was interested in Jermaine didn’t matter. If Woody thought she was, that gave him motive. More important to me, if he was lying to me about that, then I couldn’t trust anything he said.

When Ellen got back she was happy about all the stuff she’d been able to get done. I helped her carry in a ton of baby supplies and groceries. After a bit she picked up on my mood and asked if anything was wrong. I told her no, but I don’t think she believed me. She didn’t press me on it, though. I think she didn’t want to hear any bad news about Woody and knew I couldn’t tell her anything anyway. She fixed me a nice dinner that evening: waffles with plenty of bacon and fresh strawberries.

* * *

Monday morning back at the office I had a lot of email to go through. I’d postponed a lot of client meetings and other work for Woody’s case and I had to make some calls to assuage those clients’ concerns. As I’d predicted, I had a long report from Maeva waiting for me, although it was only eight pages, not twenty. The receipt for the shoes was there, too. Sure enough, Mizuno Wave something or other: $209.99. The report didn’t tell me anything she hadn’t already told me on the phone. I told her again it was a good report and wrote her a check for the shoes. I managed to suppress a sigh.

By ten I’d put out all of the fires so I gave Bert a call. He thanked me for the photos of the scene and appreciated the list of names of the film crew. Even if none of them had any useful information, he had evidence that the FBI hadn’t done a thorough job of investigating. He could use that during cross-examination of the investigators. He told me not to get the video footage from them, at least not yet. He said that if he got physical evidence pertaining to the crime, he’d have to turn that over to the prosecution in discovery. If he did that, then they wouldn’t be surprised on cross. I told him that I couldn’t get it without a subpoena anyway. It was at the studio and being preserved, but if I tried to get it, they’d find out I wasn’t FBI. I also pointed out that he’d have to turn over the photos I’d sent, and at first he didn’t get the point. Then I mentioned that those included the pictures of the employee list from the film crew. Sheila Morrissey would realize the oversight when she saw that.

Bert mulled that over and said I was right. He probably would have to turn those two shots over eventually, but he’d try to finesse it. Maybe he could delay that. There was no current court order on him for discovery. The longer he could keep it from the prosecution, the worse it would look at trial for the FBI. They’d run out and interview these witnesses as soon as he turned over the list, but if it was weeks after the shooting, they’d look bad, like they had been trying to pin it on Woody and ignoring other eyewitnesses at the time of the shooting.

Then I told him about Maeva’s encounter with Connie Jefferson. Bert cussed a blue streak and then questioned me rigorously about whether Connie had specifically said that Woody had killed Jermaine or had said anything to indicate that he was going to. I assured him that she hadn’t. He asked if she had specifically said that she had told Woody, or implied to him, that she was breaking up or that she had any interest in Jermaine. Again, I said no and told him I was sending over Maeva’s report.

“Shit, Cliff, I don’t think we can use Jefferson now. I was planning to put her on to say she never told Woody she was breaking up with him, that he never had any reason to be jealous of Jermaine. Listen, I need you to interview her now. I need to know how she’s going to answer those questions under oath. Did she tell him she was dumping him or not? Did she ever mention Jermaine to him or not? Woody told us no. You know what to ask. I just hope she hasn’t told anyone else the same things she told your investigator. We might still be able to salvage her as a witness.”

“I will, but don’t you think we ought to pin Woody down on this? I didn’t have time to explore that with him on Saturday. He just said they were ‘solid.’ That part seems to be true, but if it’s only because Jefferson thinks he killed for her, that doesn’t help us.”

“I’ll consider that, but not yet. I can’t put a witness on knowing they’re going to commit perjury. I need to know exactly what she’s going to say first. If it’s good, then I don’t want Woody to tell me something that might prove to me she’s lying.”

This kind of lawyerly logic always escaped me. Attorneys do have ethics, but they seem based on some bizarre, arcane written rules, not common sense. It’s not okay to put on a witness who lies if you know they’re lying, but it’s okay to keep yourself ignorant of the truth so that you can put them on to lie in your favor. That wasn’t the way I rolled. My near certainty that I would drop the case at the end of the week had cranked up another notch.

“Okay, I’ll interview her. Based on what Maeva said, I think she’ll be glad to talk to me. It sounds like she wants Woody to go free. Have you gotten any other discovery yet?”

“Yes. I got the digital photos in a USB drive this morning. I’ve got them here. Sheila was right that they’re too big and voluminous to email. I copied them onto my office computer but I don’t want to put them on the cloud. That’s not secure. I need you to come over here and review them or get the drive and take them back to your office. I’m going through them but maybe you’ll spot something I didn’t or be able to explain some things.”

“If you’re going through the photos, it may be a poor use of my time to have me duplicate that now. I only have three more days after today on this. Don’t you think I should be doing interviews?”

“Oh come on, Cliff, you aren’t going to give up so soon, are you?”

“I told you I’d put in a week. That was Thursday. I’ll work through this Thursday and that’s it. I have a business to run.”

“I know you’ll come around. You aren’t going to abandon a friend.”

“I told you to stop trying that guilt trip crap, Bert. My family comes first.”

“Okay, well, get out there and start interviewing then. Oh, and one other thing. I got a list of the personal effects that Woody had on his person at the time of arrest. I’ll email that over to you. And the list of personnel who were out there that day, that sign-up list you told me about. Thanks again for the heads up on that. I’m sending them to you now.”

“All right. I’ll be in touch.” I hung up and looked up the phone number of the Hayward Resident Agency. I knew that’s where Connie Jefferson worked.

I called. She answered the phone, which wasn’t surprising since she was the only support employee there. I gave her my name. She recognized it immediately.

“Oh yeah, Cliff Knowles. You just connected with me on LinkedIn. The lawyer who used to be an agent.”

“That’s me.”

“Let me guess. You need a good legal secretary,” she said cheerfully, and I knew whom she had in mind.

“Fortunately, I already have one, but if she ever quits, I’ll be thinking of you. Connie, I need to talk to you. I’m working with Bert Breen, Woody’s lawyer, on his defense. Can we get together right away.”

“Oh.” She sounded taken aback, almost disappointed. “Um, I can’t just leave here. It’s my job. I want to help him, of course.”

“I didn’t mean right this minute. How about after work tonight? Woody really needs this, Connie, and you need to know what to expect if this goes to trial. You’ll probably be a witness. You must have heard by now that the prosecutor said in court last week that Woody killed Jermaine because of you.”

“I don’t watch the TV news, but someone tweeted me about that. That’s ridiculous. Woody loves me and I love him. He’s no killer. It must have been an accident.”

“Okay, Connie that’s great to hear. Can you meet with me this evening? Wherever you want.”

“Okay, there’s a spot a block from the R.A., The Doghouse. Do you know it?”

“I’ll find it. What time?”

“Five thirty okay?”

“Fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Okay.”

I turned back to my computer and saw the email from Bert in my inbox. There were two attachments: the list of personnel at firearms that day, and the list of personal effects taken from Woody.

I looked at the list of effects first and nothing caught my eye as significant. Wallet, car keys, chapstick, belt, holster, gray polyester slacks, gray polyester shirt, pen, credentials, and credential case with badge. Agents were supposed to wear grays for firearms. Those were issued at Quantico during New Agent Training and agents kept them when they went into the field as agents. Many agents didn’t follow the rule, but most did because the grays were loose-fitting and had big, strong, seamless pockets that were perfect for holding extra ammunition. When you had to reload under time pressure, those tight-fitting jeans that made your ass look so good were a disaster.

I scanned the list of things in the wallet but didn’t see anything of note. I wished there was a better description of the holster. Was it an ankle holster or a belt holster, a five-shot revolver holster or Sig Sauer semiautomatic pistol holster? And no gun. No bullets. The gun would have been left at the scene and taken into evidence there. There would have been no reason for Woody to have any bullets on him during the scenario. The car “keys,” actually a keyless fob with a house key and desk key on the ring, confirmed what he told me about that. I was hoping he was wrong there since if his keys had been found at the scene, that would open up the possibility that someone else got into his car and put the SWAT bag in the barracks.

I turned to the list of personnel. It turned out to be everyone I knew about already plus one more:

Theodore Fitzhugh III
Barney Chatman
Carl Dawson
Chris Bobu
George Mossberg
Rodney Watkins
Ricardo Garcia
Jermaine Logan
Sherwood Braswell

Trey Fitzhugh was the SAC, the jerk who’d driven me out of the Bureau. I was not expecting cooperation from him. Chatman was the senior Assistant Special Agent in Charge, or ASAC. He was the one I didn’t know about until now. He was a squared away guy and I thought he might be friendly. Dawson was the ASAC over San Jose; Gina had told me he was there at Santa Rita that day, but I didn’t know much about him. Bobu, of course, was the PFI in charge of the scenario and all the training out there. Mossberg was the instructor who had been running the brass through qualifying when the incident happened and the one who helped Bobu on the arrest. The other four were the ones in the scenario.

I didn’t have the 302’s, the investigative reports from the agents, but I didn’t want to waste time. I decided to start my interviews with the people who were not in the arrest scenario since they wouldn’t have much of interest to say, or so I assumed. It wouldn’t be likely I’d need to find discrepancies between what they said in the reports and in person since neither would be harmful to Woody’s case.

I called Carl Dawson, the ASAC in the San Jose Resident Agency. His secretary, Kim, answered. Kim was the squad secretary on one of the squads I served on years ago, so I knew her well. She expressed delight at hearing from me and insisted I come to the R.A. for lunch one of these days. I agreed that it would be great, but was able to avoid committing to a particular date. I really didn’t have time right now for pleasure lunches. I told her I needed to talk to Dawson. She said he wasn’t in but she’d give him the message.

I thought about calling Fitzhugh next, even though I considered that a futile gesture, and an unpleasant one to boot. Instead, I called Barney Chatman, the Administrative ASAC in San Francisco, the senior ASAC in the division. In addition to Dawson in San Jose, there were two other ASACs in San Francisco and one in Oakland, all subordinate to Fitzhugh. I was on hold for several minutes, but then Chatman came on the phone.

“Cliff, how are you?”

“Good, Barney, and you?”

“Doing well. I still can’t afford my mortgage, but my house has doubled in value.”

“I laughed. That’s sounds right. You’ve been here, what, four years?”

“Close enough. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been hired by Woody Braswell’s attorney to investigate the shooting. I was hoping to interview you, along with everyone else who was out there that day.”

“Have you interviewed anyone else out there that day?”

“Just Woody.”

“What did he say about the shooting?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. I’m surprised at you Barney, fishing like that.”

“We all want to know what the hell happened. Woody clammed up. All we have as an explanation from him is the statement by his lawyer in court that it was accidental.”

“He was smart to have done so. It’s hard enough for a black man to get a fair trial. You of all people should know that.” Barney is a plus-size African-American himself, rather menacing in appearance to the average white citizen I would suppose, but I knew him to be a fair and gentle soul.

“Don’t try to play the race card with me, Cliff. Jermaine was black, too, and it wouldn’t matter to me anyway.”

“I know that. I also know that you’re scrupulous about civil rights. A defendant has a right to investigate the alleged crime. So how about it? Will you let me interview you?”

“You have my 302. There’s nothing to tell you, really.”

“I don’t have your 302. The AUSA hasn’t sent them to us yet.”

“That’s odd. We sent them all to her on Friday.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Sheila Morrissey isn’t known for being forthcoming with discovery.”

“Okay, I’ll give you the official version. I went to firearms qualification. While I was out on the range shooting, SA Ricardo Garcia came running over shouting at SAC Fitzhugh, who was shooting two lanes over from mine. I didn’t hear what he was saying because of my ear protection and the gunshots. I saw the SAC remove his ear protectors and engage in conversation with SA Garcia. SAC Fitzhugh instructed me and ASAC Dawson, who was on the lane next to mine, to remain there on the range while he went over to the barracks area to deal with whatever was going on there. He left with SA Garcia and SA George Mossberg, who had been instructing us on our qualifying shoot. About five minutes later he returned and said that SA Jermaine Logan had been shot during the arrest scenario going on there and that SA Sherwood Braswell had been arrested. He said that he would take personal charge of the investigation. He told me that SA Bobu had already called for an ambulance, which was on the way. He asked me to call the Evidence Response Team (ERT), to come to the scene, which I did. Then, at the instruction of the SAC, I departed the Santa Rita facility to return to San Francisco to take charge of the division and press matters while the SAC was tied up.”

“That’s it? There’s not much there. You said that’s the official version. Is there an unofficial version?”

“Just hang on. I had to give you that much. That’s my entire 302, word for word. It’s entirely accurate. That’s all the boss wants us to say.”

“The judge ordered the SAC to lift the order not to talk.”

“I know that, and the SAC did lift it, but we all know what he wants. We haven’t been ordered to talk; we’ve just been told we can talk to the defense if we choose.”

“Barney, spit it out. Are you saying that’s all you’re going to give me because you’re afraid of the SAC’s wrath?” I realized my voice had risen beyond a civil level. If Fitzhugh was still obstructing my investigation I’d have to go to Breen to seek more judicial enforcement.

“Calm down. I didn’t say that. Now that I’ve read you my 302, I can tell the SAC that I told you exactly what was in my 302, just as he wanted. So now that that’s done, what else do you want to know?”

This whole case was not like the normal FBI case and that was causing confusion. In the typical case, a crime occurs, such as a bank robbery, kidnapping, or fraud. The victims and perpetrators are all non-FBI personnel. The FBI does investigation and writes up the interviews and other results on reports, the 302s. Those are later turned over to the defense in discovery. The agents who did the investigation are not interviewed by the defense before trial, although they may be cross-examined if there’s a preliminary hearing. It’s normal for the FBI to refuse to talk to the defense, since the agents are not eyewitnesses to the crime. The defense is always free to talk to the victims and witnesses, the people who are likely to testify about the actual facts, assuming those people are willing to talk to the defense. In other words, the defense is free to talk to the same people the FBI talked to. Here, all the witnesses and the defendant were FBI agents. The defense must be given access to the witnesses, but the instinct of all the agents was going to be not to talk. Still, they had to be careful because if they were too recalcitrant, the defense might claim they didn’t get a fair trial. They had to at least appear to be reasonably cooperative.

This interview was not going the way I had hoped. I wanted an in-person interview, but Chatman was trying to satisfy me over the phone. I realized he didn’t want to be seen with me in the office and I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance with him. I weighed my options and decided just to go ahead and do it by phone while I had him talking.

“Barney, let’s start from the beginning. When did you arrive at Santa Rita?”

“A little before nine.”

“Who was there?”

“I think everyone except the SAC, but I’m not positive.”

“Was Woody there?”

“Yes, I saw him when I arrived.”

“What car was he driving?”

“I don’t know, at least not from first-hand observation. There were several cars there in the lot. I didn’t pay any attention. I believe I found out later he was driving an Explorer.”

“Did you ever see anyone else around his car or going in or out of his car?”

“Everyone was in and around the parking lot, which would put them near his car. That includes me. I never saw anyone entering or exiting his car, including him.”

“No one opened his trunk?”

“Not that I saw, or at least not that I remember.”

“Okay, so what did you do after arriving?”

“I’d picked up a coffee on my way in, so I stood around finishing the coffee and chatting with the others, mainly with Carl.”

“With Carl Dawson? Anyone else.”

“I think with Bobu. I asked him what we’d be doing and told him I had a lot of work back at the office. He said we’d watch a short film in the classroom, then do the qualifying shoot. He promised me I’d be out by noon.”

“Did you talk to Woody?”

“No.”

“Did you see or hear him talking to anyone?”

“I think he was in a circle of three or four agents, the other instructors.”

“Was he angry, strange, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not that I noticed. It just looked like a bunch of guys shooting the bull. There was some laughter, but I can’t remember by who.”

“Did anything happen that you now realize was significant?”

“You mean before the shooting? No. We went into the classroom, watched the movie about gun safety, went outside and collected our ammo for the shooting. The instructors all went over to the barracks area except for Mossberg, who was the one designated to run our course.”

“Do you know why he was chosen?”

“I was under the impression that he’d already been through the arrest exercise.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Well, Bobu said ‘We’re going to run the instructors through an arrest scenario.’ Since he and Mossberg were the only two instructors who weren’t being taught the scenario, I assumed the ‘we’ referred to him and Mossberg. Also, I remember signing off on an in-service about a month ago for those two. Bobu and Mossberg went back to Quantico for a firearms instructors’ refresher course. I assumed they learned the scenario back there.”

“Did you see them, or anyone, go over to the barracks before the whole group left the classroom?”

“Not that I remember. It probably wouldn’t have stuck in my mind. The instructors are always going all over the place.”

“How about during the film? Did anybody get up and leave, even briefly?”

“Probably. We’d all had coffee, so some of the agents had to take a leak. I think Woody got up once and left during the film, now that you mention it, but I couldn’t swear to it. ”

This is not what I wanted to hear. That meant he had opportunity to get the bag out of his car and place it in the barracks unnoticed. At least Chatman had said he couldn’t swear to it. I underlined that phrase in the notes I was taking.

“Anyone else?”

“Probably. I’m afraid I don’t keep track of other agents’ potty breaks.”

I forced a chuckle. This was actually a good statement. If Chatman testified, Breen could use it to suggest that anyone else could have gone out and placed the SWAT bag in the barracks without anyone noticing.

“Good to know. How about Bobu and Mossberg during the movie? Did they stay in the classroom or set it going and leave while the rest of you watched.”

“Both, I think. They were in the back, running the video. Once it got going, I remember Bobu pausing it and pointing out something about one of the safety practices. It was something about a police officer here in the Bay Area who hadn’t locked his gun safe and his six-year-old son got a hold of one of his guns. He wasn’t hurt, fortunately, but we were supposed to take that as a lesson. So anyway, he was there watching with us at times. I saw Mossberg back there at least once, too, but I was facing front. I remember Mossberg being outside the classroom setting up the cleaning table for us while we were watching. He was making noise that was disruptive; that’s why I remember.”

“So would you say that either Bobu or Mossberg could have been outside setting up for firearms during the movie at least some of the time.”

I could almost hear the wheels grinding in Chatman’s head. “Those are your words,” he finally said. “Not mine. I definitely saw both of them in the back of the classroom some of the time and Mossberg outside setting up the cleaning table at one point during the film.”

“Can you swear Bobu was in the classroom the whole time the movie was playing?”

“No. I can’t swear any of the agents were there the whole time. Like I said, I didn’t keep track of potty breaks.”

“Sure. So when the movie was over, did Bobu and the large group all go over to the barracks area together, or did some go over there ahead of the others?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Which of the agents there is on SWAT or has been on SWAT?”

“I don’t know from first-hand knowledge. I don’t supervise SWAT, but I think that they all were except Watkins and Garcia. Woody isn’t now, but he used to be.”

“Did you see anyone carrying a SWAT bag at any time during that day?”

“No. Not before the shooting and not after. I left before they took the bag from the scene and I never went over to the barracks.”

“Do you know whose gun it was that fired the fatal shot?”

“No. I’ve intentionally stayed out of the investigation. I’m sure someone has checked the serial number and determined the owner. You’ll have to ask Fitzhugh or wait for discovery.”

“What about Woody’s car? Do you know what happened to it?”

“I don’t. Maybe it’s still out at the range.”

I was tempted to tell him that it wasn’t, but I would have trouble explaining how I knew that. He hadn’t mentioned my Saturday foray out to Santa Rita, so I assumed there hadn’t been any complaint about me, at least not one that made it to Barney’s ears.

“Do you know if it was dusted for prints?”

“I don’t. Again, ask Fitzhugh.” I could tell from his voice that Chatman was getting tired of the questioning. I didn’t particularly care about his comfort level. Sometimes that worked to the interviewer’s favor, but I was afraid he’d soon stop answering questions and I wanted to get in any critical questions I had left.

“Do you think he’ll talk to me? You know our history.”

“I wouldn’t expect much. If he talks to you, it’ll be only the bare minimum he thinks he has to. Maybe a short 302 paragraph like I started with.”

“I appreciate your candor. Can you tell me if there’s an OPR investigation going on this?” I knew that the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s equivalent of Internal Affairs, was always called in on any case of agent serious wrongdoing.

“I was wondering when you were going to get to that. You know our policy, Cliff. I can’t comment on internal personnel matters.”

“And I know FBI policy is to have an OPR investigation. If they’re doing interviews of the agents involved, we have a right to see those write-ups. They could contain exonerating information. That’s Brady material.”

“Woody’s lawyer can make that argument to the judge. We’ll obey any court order. Are we done here?”

I didn’t have any more questions I wanted answered off the top of my head, and I didn’t want to antagonize him. He’d given me a few things to work with and I wasn’t sure anyone else would. I might have to come back to him.

“Sure, Barney. I’ll let you go. Thanks for talking to me.”

“No problem. And if you do talk to Fitzhugh, tell him I read you the exact words off my 302, which is the truth. You don’t have to tell him about the rest of our little talk.”

“You got it. Thanks again.”

I hung up. One more lead checked off the list. I sent Bert a quick email saying I’d spoken to Chatman and that the eyewitness 302s were in Sheila’s possession. I thought a bit more about what I’d learned from Chatman and sent a second email telling him that Bobu and Mossberg had attended an in-service at Quantico recently and that the arrest scenario may have been taught there. He should ask for any documents describing the scenario or how it should be conducted and a list of all personnel present in the class that Bobu and Mossberg attended.