Free The Hearing by James Mills Page B

day.
    “Can I walk along with you for a minute?”
    If this isn’t a setup that’s not his suit.
    “It’s a request, really. Unofficial, very informal you might say. Just something for you to know.”
    Carl remained silent.
    “It’s about the thing a few years ago at the airport? When all that money was found? The amount of money the police said they
     counted was substantially less than what was really in the bags, and someone thought that maybe you would be willing to help
     clear up the question about why that was. My client—well, I don’t know how to say this. He’s very wealthy, and he wanted just
     to let you know that if you were ever willing to help clear up that question he would be very appreciative, and if—”
    Carl took a step forward and planted his right foot solidly on top of the man’s left instep. As the man looked down in surprise,
     Carl placed his other foot on top of the other instep. Then, applying all his weight to the top of the feet, Carl put both
     hands on the man’s chest, and pushed. The man let out a sharp cry, flailed briefly at the air, and fell stiffly backward,
     his feet still flat on the pavement.
    Carl heard a sound like the snapping of dry Popsicle sticks.
Crack! Crack!
    He left the man in the street, recovered his car from the garage, and met Esther and the kids at McDonald’s for lunch. He
     was starving.
    “What happened?” Esther said. “You look really pleased.”
    “Someone had a difficult question, and I was able to give him an answer.”
    “That’s nice.”
    “Yeah.”
    No one was sure who had designed it—Helen or a predecessor—but everyone liked the Freedom Federation’s conference room. It
     was ostentatious, flamboyant, cocky, deliberately pompous. It mocked itself, mocked Washington, and mocked the people who
     met there. The walls were white, the carpet was white, the ceiling was white, the table was white, the chairs were white,
     the telephones were white, the pads of paper were white, the pencils were white—even Helen, when she hosted Freedom Federation
     meetings there, tried to wear white. Warren Gier once showed up in a white suit and white shoes. He said the room was like
     an albino cat. “A Siberian tiger, I think, invisible against the snow, eyes of burning phosphorus, ferocious. The perfect
     background for spilled blood.” Helen said Warren was probably the only one who really appreciated the self-ridiculing irony
     of all that white. Some other Federation operatives, lacking Warren’s flair, would have preferred the color of mud.
    She said, “Okay. Everyone here?”
    Around the oval table: herself, four other women, Warren Gier, John Harrington, and Isaac Jasper, a political consultant on loan from a lobbying group called the Institute for
     Social Justice.
    “John, we’ll start with you. I know you’re busy. Thanks for coming.”
    Men with John Harrington’s fee structure didn’t usually attend the Federation’s daily anti-Parham strategy sessions.
    “Good to be here.” He slipped several sheets of paper from his attaché case, handed them around. “Let’s start with a look
     at this.”
    Warren read his copy, a smile widening across his face. “Love it.”
    Harrington said, “It’s an affidavit from someone who says Parham stole some of the cash seized at the Montgomery Airport eight
     years back. Question is, what do we do with it? I asked Helen, and she suggested we discuss it here.”
    Becky Yankevich, a lanky young woman with glasses and short black hair who was director of the American Policy Coalition,
     said, “Is this true?”
    Warren turned his smile on Becky. “What difference does that make?”
    Harrington finally offered to deal with the matter personally, and everyone agreed. That had been his intention in the first
     place. The broken ankles had destroyed his resolve. It was not healthy to make insulting suggestions to men like Carl Falco.
     If Vicaro wanted to bring accusations of thievery and