Chapter Eleven
Michael
I tossed the binder onto Al’s desk and then pointed at it. “I’ve separated them by who signed them. Take a look at all of the reports signed by Whistledick. The tabs are labeled.”
He let out a sigh, reached for the binder, and opened it. “What am I looking for?”
I hesitated to tell him what I’d found. I wanted him to find it for himself. Maybe in the end, it would be nothing. At least for the time being, I felt that it was something significant.
“Just look at how he signed each of them,” I said. “They’re all the same.”
He took a few minutes to flip through the reports, and then looked up. “They look consistent.”
“Now. Look at the reports signed by agent Black.”
I sat in the chair across from his desk and crossed my legs while he looked at each of the documents.
“His manner of dating the reports is different. Whistler uses a numerical date, a three-letter abbreviation for the month, and then a numerical year. Black uses a numerical day numerical month, and numerical year.”
At least he caught it. I arched an eyebrow. “Anything unusual about the dates he used?”
He tossed the binder onto his desk. “A cryptic phone call and then you drove two hundred miles in what?” He looked at his watch. “An hour and twenty minutes? Why don’t you tell me what you think you’ve found.”
“Prepare yourself,” I said, my tone half sarcastic and half hopeful.
He relaxed into his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
“It looks like both agent Whistler and agent Black interviewed confidential informant 233A, who was Justin Carter. One would interview him one week, and maybe the other would the next week. There’s no pattern to who conducted the interviews, and that’s not important. But, on the day Carter revealed that Anthony had the teeth in his possession, Black was the one doing the interview.”
Both his eyebrows rose.
“Okay,” he said as if not amused by my statement.
“The dates. The date they served the search warrant was 15 October, 2016.” I stood, exhaled, and motioned toward the binder. “The date that Black said the informant gave him the information about the teeth was November 10, 2016. It’s not only long after they served the warrant, it’s after Gino was killed, which makes getting information out of him impossible.”
His eyes shot wide and he reached for the binder. After frantically searching through the pages for a few seconds, he shot up from his seat.
“Dear God,” he said. “This just might do it.”
My heart began to race. “Seriously? Is it enough that we can—”
“It’s enough that I can question the validity of all of agent Black’s reports. As long as Whistler didn’t make specific mention of the teeth in a CI report that has the correct date on it, I’m pretty goddamned sure we can get a hard look taken at the report in question. And, if it’s looked at, I can’t see that anyone would see it as anything other than what it is.”
I gave him a look of uncertainty. “Which is?”
He cocked his head. “A lie.”
“Then what?”
“If the judge sees it as a lie?”
“Yes.”
“If he sees it as such, the report would be tossed out of evidence. Then, the objects obtained in what would be a wrongful search would be tossed along with it. It trickles down. Anything gained as a result of the report would be inadmissible. The indictment, the search warrant, the search, and, my client.”
The thought excited me. “Whistler never made mention of the teeth,” I said. “During that timeframe, all he did was make mention of the informant giving information. There was nothing specific.”
He flipped from one page to the other, and then back. He sat down, laid the open binder on his desk, and reached for the phone. “Have a seat.”
I was too excited to sit and listen to him talk on the phone. After pacing for a moment while he reviewed the documents, I reluctantly sat.
“Yes, sir,” he said into the phone. “This is Al Lori.”
His eyes drifted to the binder. “I’ll be filing a motion to this effect, but I wanted to bring the matter to the Honorable Judge Vincent’s attention prior to the motion being filed. I take exception to the search warrant, the fruits of the search warrant being used as evidence, and to the arrest of my client based on the evidence listed in the indictment. I’ll be filing a motion in limine to dismiss said evidence, and doubted the judge would want such a surprise to cross his desk without warning.” He chuckled. “Consider this my warning.
“It will be listed in the motion. ... No, I’ll have it to you in a matter of minutes. ... Yes. ... Immediately, if not sooner. ... That is correct. I didn’t write the rules, I’m simply forced to abide by them. ... I certainly will. Give him my best. ... Very well. ... Yes.” He looked at his watch. “Within the hour.”
He hung up the phone.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” I asked.
He fought to hide a smirk. “As we speak, it means nothing. Give me a few minutes to type this motion.”
I began to pace the floor in front of his desk. After fifteen nervous minutes of me wearing the carpet down and staring out the window, he printed a document.
“Let me fax this, and then we’ll discuss it.”
“Who uses a fax machine?”
“The judicial system,” he said with a muted laugh. “They require it, along with filing it electronically.”
He faxed the document, walked to the bookcase beside his desk, and pulled out a bottle. “Want a swallow?”
It was 10:00 a.m., but my internal clock was a disastrous mess. A drink sounded good. I gave a slight nod. “Sure.”
He poured two glasses and then slid one across his desk. “Have a seat.”
I picked up the glass, lifted it to my nose, and took a shallow breath. My mouth salivated in response. I took a sip and lowered myself into the chair. Eager to find out his thoughts on the botched date on the report, I met his gaze.
“Well, I heard your end of the conversation,” I said. “Care to explain what all of that meant?”
He grinned, took another sip of his scotch, and then lowered the glass. “Federal agents date their reports no differently than most military personnel. The numerical day, the abbreviation of the month, and then the year. It saves any guessing on where the date and the month are positioned. Their doing so in that manner is to keep what has happened here from happening. I suspect we have an agent who is new and slightly dyslexic. He listed the date as 11-10 instead of 10-11. As luck would have it, the remainder of his dates appear to be correct. He’s also dated all his reports the same—numerically. His consistency shows a pattern, and that pattern will make attacking the report in question rather easy.”
“That’s what you’re going to do? Attack the report? Attempt to get it tossed out?”
“I’m not going to attempt to do anything,” he said. “I’m going to have it and the teeth removed from evidence. The federal rules of evidence are clear. Inconsistencies on the part of federal agents aren’t looked upon lightly. There’s no doubt that they know about the date being transposed.”
“Why do you say that? They might have missed it.”
He shook his head. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Why?”
“A grand jury wouldn’t have accepted that report as evidence to support a search warrant, nor would a judge. That means the ATF provided an alternate report of some sort with the correct date to the grand jury, or to the judge. I haven’t seen such a report.” He raised his glass. “Have you?”
“No.”
“That’s because they didn’t provide it. And, they didn’t provide it because they knew if we had both reports, one with the wrong date and one with the right date, that we’d find the discrepancy for sure. They gave what they had to, and hoped we’d miss it.”
He raised his index finger, reached for the phone, and then dialed.
“Al Lori again. ... Yes, sir. You did? ... I have not, but I certainly will. ... It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. If the judge is going to make a decision, I’d like to see it at his best and earliest convenience. If there will be a hearing, I would prefer that it be placed at the front of the docket. ... Very well. I’ll anxiously wait for the response.”
He hung up the phone, tapped his fingertips against his keyboard, smiled, and then looked at me. “Well, we’ve got their attention, that’s for sure.”
“They sound nervous?”
He shook his head. “The judges are pretty impartial. If the agents fucked up on their reports and falsified one to obtain a search warrant, the judge will want the evidence thrown out. The US Attorney’s office won’t, but the judge will.”
“How long until you find out?”
“A day or so.”
I took a sip of my scotch and nodded. I felt like the wind had been let out of my sails. The two-hundred-mile mad dash to his office had been done with my heart in my throat. His acknowledgment of the botched report, and his immediate filing of the motion filled me with false hope. To have to wait and see if they would consider eliminating the report was going to be nothing short of torture.
“So, for now, that’s it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I finished my drink, set the glass on the corner of his desk, and met his gaze. “I’ll get back to work, then.”
He lowered his chin slightly. “Good work finding that.”
Originally, I was excited about it. Now, it seemed insignificant. I forced a smile. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he said.
Unless it was enough to free Anthony from incarceration, it really didn’t matter. I stepped to the front of his desk, reached for my binder, and extended my right hand. “Call me if you find anything out.”
He shook my hand. “You’ll be my first call.”
“I’ll hold my breath,” I said in a sarcastic tone.
I took the elevator to the parking garage, feeling as if my research was all for naught. An hour into my drive home, the phone rang.
I pressed the button on the steering wheel, answering the phone. “Well?”
“Hearing tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Your thoughts?”
“I think I’d hate to be the US Attorney about now.”
“Chances of actually getting him out of jail?”
He cleared his throat. “Getting results out of a motion in limine is like getting pussy on a prom date. It’s a roll of the dice.”
“Fifty-fifty?”
“Roughly.”
I was excited for the hearing nonetheless, but decided telling Terra anything about the proceeding wouldn’t be wise. “I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t celebrate,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Understood,” I said.
He didn’t have to worry about me celebrating.
I was going to be too busy praying.