Free The Kingmaker by Brian Haig Page B

hear the full charges and see the evidence.”
    “Nice try. Deal with your compatibility issues.”
    “Oh . . . that. Yes, I can represent him.”
    She sipped quietly from her coffee and let that one drop off a cliff. I said, “Can you adequately defend him?”
    “It’s going to be a challenge. This whole world of the Army and espionage is completely foreign. I’ve been handling street criminals.”
    “And what makes you think this is different?”
    “It is different.”
    “Why?”
    “The people I’ve been defending have miserable, hopeless lives. I come from the street and can get into their heads. People who work in espionage are different.”
    “Not really. Just think greed, larceny, jealousy.” I smiled and added, “And since we’re delving into my personal life, what about yours?”
    “What about it?”
    “You’re what—twenty-nine and still single?”
    “And you’re what—thirty-nine and still single?”
    “In the event you’re not aware of it, age is irrelevant with guys.”
    For some reason, this struck her as hilarious. She slapped the pillow and nearly choked to death. “You’re a piece of work.”
    My smile widened. “I just want to know who I’m working with.” Okay, I know. It sounded lame even to me.
    She smirked and said, “Then let me help. Do I have aboyfriend? No. Have I ever? A few. Am I desperately seeking? Not. Did I miss anything?”
    Like I needed this. “No. That’s fine, thank you.”
    “Maybe you want a description of what I’m looking for?”
    “Fine. What are you looking for?”
    “Definitely not some chest-thumping meathead who spends his weekends knocking down six-packs and screaming obnoxious things at the football jocks on his TV. Masculine, but the right kind of masculine—the kind that knows the difference between a flute and a piccolo.”
    This sounded more like a dickless canary than a man to me, although I do know the difference between a flute and piccolo: Spelling.
    She continued, “Good-looking . . . but the right sort. California beach boys are a turnoff. Back hair is a turnoff. I’m inclined toward the dark-haired, worldly, charming types.”
    Now she was talking. Mouton Cadet, ’67, anybody?
    I suggested, “And now I suppose you want to know what I’m looking for?”
    “I already know.” She glanced in the direction of the fireplace and said, “Our client’s wife.”
    That didn’t even dignify a reply, but I gave her a finger in the air anyway.
    We moved on to researching the cases of the Walkers, Ames, and Hanssen. The ever-resourceful Imelda had found a trove of material that covered everything from the trial procedures to some well-written synopses of the strategies used by the prosecutors and the defense. In separate folders were materials on the Wen Ho Lee case, which were vastly more hopeful, from our perspective, since the defense slipped the willie to the prosecutor for the whole world to see. But then, there were distinct differences between the Lee case and ours—like our defendant was white and couldn’t accuse anybody of racial discrimination; he didn’t have a charming daughter to run around and hold free-my-daddy rallies; and in Lee’s case, when forced to put up orshut up, the government suddenly coughed a few times, looked mortified, and admitted it had caught a fairly severe case of evidence deprivation. If O’Neil and Golden were to be believed, the government’s dilemma regarding our case wasn’t an evidence shortfall but a swamp so vast and murky that an army of attorneys could barely slog through it.
    By midnight, drool was spilling out my lips. I stretched and mumbled, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
    Katrina’s beaded nose was stuffed in a big folder. The girl had endurance, having been in the office at six that morning and she was still going like a choo-choo eighteen hours later, while my gas gauge bounced off empty.
    In my bedroom I slipped out of my clothes and was asleep almost immediately.