"No problem. Take your time," the customer said.

Debra got up and followed me to the safety-deposit-box area. She put her access card in front of the reader, and the glass door opened away from us. We walked in. Debra walked over to where Ronald and Cherie were silently standing. Debra was about forty-five, thin, and homely. I said to her, "My name is Mike Nolan. I'm an attorney involved in the trial over the crash of the president's helicopter. Do you recognize me?"

She looked at me with shock on her face. "Yes, I do."

"I had a private investigator working for me, Mr. Tinny Byrd. You may have heard they found his remains. He'd been murdered and thrown to the dogs. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, I do. That was-"

"This is his wife. She found a note in her home safe from Tinny to me that instructed her to bring me a key to the safety-deposit box right over there in your bank. I have that key and asked for access. That access has been denied by my good friend Ronald here. Would you please tell him to give me, or you can authorize it yourself, access to that box with that key that was given to me by the owner of that box?"

She nodded with immediate understanding. "That should be no problem. Do you have the signature card, Ronald?"

He handed it to her and she looked at it. "Only Mr. Byrd's signature is on the card. So he would have to be the one to sign for the box."

I tried to slow down and take a breath. "Right. He's dead. I just told you that. So is it your belief that no one left on the face of the earth can now open that box?"

She smiled as she understood the implications of my question, but also recognized the simple solution. "Oh, no. It's no problem. His wife can access the account."

I relaxed. "There we go."

Debra continued, "All we need is the death certificate and the documents appointing you executrix of his estate."

I looked at Cherie. She said, "I don't have copies of those on me."

Debra understood. "That's no problem. You and Mr. Nolan can just go get it, and when you get back, then you can have access to the box."

I tried not to scream. "I don't have time for her to go retrieve a copy of the death certificate. I want you to open the box now."

"I can't do that."

I wanted to break something, but then a thought occurred to me. I looked at Ronald. "You said the box was in the name of both Mr. and Mrs. Byrd. Right?"

"Yes, sir. But she never signed the signature card."

"But the other owner can add her signature to the account, to the box signature card, at any time, right?"

"That's true."

"Then give it to her now, let her sign it now in your presence."

Ronald shook his head. "Can't do that. The signature has to be notarized."

"Is there a notary in the bank?"

"Yes, Rikki Carlson is a notary."

"Which window?"

"The first-"

I headed to the glass door, pressed the buzzer, and ripped it open and jogged over to the first window. A customer was talking to Rikki. I took her CLOSED sign, and slammed it down in front of him. "This window is closed. Rikki, please come with me and bring your notary kit."

"Sir, I don't know you."

"Debra, the assistant manager, and Ronald, the gentleman at the safety-deposit-box area have asked you to notarize the signature of one of the box owners. It is critically important and you will be right back."

The customer was pissed. "This is ridiculous. Who do you think you are-"

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, pulled out a $50 bill, and slammed it down in front of him. "Here. Is your two minutes worth fifty bucks? Take it."

Rikki shrugged, turned behind her, grabbed her purse, and followed me to the safety-deposit-box area. Ronald buzzed her through when he saw her coming, and I followed her quickly. We went through the process, the charade, the ridiculousness of her notarizing Cherie's signature on a signature card so she could turn around and sign a piece of paper authorizing herself to have access to her box. We finally stepped into the safe, used our key and Ronald's, and pulled out the long, medium-size box. Ronald said, "Would you like to step into the booth to open it?"

"Yes," I said.

Cherie and I stepped inside the booth, a small wooden structure like a study carrel that had walls that went up about seven feet. We closed the door behind us, turned on the small fluorescent light, and opened the top of the long box. As I lifted it up, I could see two envelopes in the box. I opened the first one with some trepidation. As I laid the contents on the desktop, I just stared at it with my heart pounding. I leafed through the pages to see what they were, then laid them down flat and ironed out the creases gently with my fingers.

Cherie was baffled. "It looks like some kind of government document. What is it?"

"It changes everything." I opened the second manila envelope and pulled out the several pages that were inside. I turned them around so they were right side up and stared at them. "That son of a bitch."

"What is it?" Cherie asked.

"The who, and the why."

I picked up the document and yelled, "Ronald! You got a scanner?"

34

I DROPPED OFF Cherie at her house and told her I would have her car sent to her later that day. I headed back to Annapolis way faster than I should have, trying hard not to kill myself.

I had left my new cell phone out on the seat next to me as I was driving and picked it up immediately when it rang. I recognized Rachel's new number. "How's it going?"

"If you like a mediocre attorney questioning a dull expert, you'd feel right at home."

"Good. I want everybody lulled to sleep because this whole trial is about to blow up."

"Blow up in a good or bad way?"

"I hope a good way, but all I know is that I've got the explosives. Let's see if I can control it."

I could hear the excitement in her voice. "When does it start?"

"Right after lunch. I've got to get Kathryn to let me take over."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get two subpoenas ready. One I want you to serve tonight is on J. Mark Grosvenor."

"Who's he?"

"The Secret Service agent at Camp David. Tinny's source."

"Holy shit. How did you get that information?"

"Tinny's wife showed up on my doorstep this morning. I can't go into it right now, just know that you need to get ahold of Justin and have him prepare a subpoena for Grosvenor. He lives in Maryland so he's under the court's jurisdiction. I want you to drive over and serve him at his house tonight."

"Okay. You heading back?"

"Yeah."

"Who's the other subpoena for?"

"You'll see. You won't have to go very-Shit! An accident!" I exclaimed. I dropped the phone as I slammed on the brakes and tried to keep from hitting the car in front of me, which was skidding to a stop. I could feel the pulsing antilock brakes, then I realized it wasn't an accident at all. The Dodge Caravan right in front of me had just slammed on his brakes. I could see the driver's face in his side mirror watching me. We were in the fast lane, and a concrete barrier was to my left with no shoulder. I looked right to see if I could go around, but a car was stopping at the same rate I was stopping. The driver was wearing a ski mask. Shit. I could see a sedan behind me closing quickly. I was about to be trapped between three cars on the freeway.

They wanted what I had just gotten. They had waited until they were sure I had it and were going to get it, whatever the cost. Because they knew, and I knew they knew, that if I got these documents to court, they'd be exposed. I had scanned the documents onto a flash drive on my key chain; maybe if I gave them the hard copies, they'd let me go… no, they wouldn't. Not if they were ready to risk this kind of open attack.