“I wouldn’t want to have to talk about that stuff in open court, under oath, on the stand, with reporters in the front row working their pencils to a nub taking notes,” says Harry. “Hell, a single word, an unintended inference, or maybe just the wrong inflection in your voice-on a sensitive subject like that, you could fall on your own sword, kill a career in full bloom right there in front of the world.

“And we haven’t even gotten to the bad stuff yet,” says Harry, “whether Bonguard and Scarborough ever had conversations about all the violence that seemed to be following them around on tour. You know, I’ll bet if we subpoenaed the publisher’s sales records on that book and plotted them against newspapers in the cities where the fire tour visited, you would see a direct correlation between the flames on the front page and the spikes in sales. Scarborough wasn’t an author, he was a firebug.”

To listen to my partner, you’d think that whoever murdered the man didn’t commit a crime, just simply killed a pyromaniac before he could burn another city. If we can’t spring something loose on the letter, this may become our best defense.

“Give me an hour with Bonguard,” he says. “No. No. Forty minutes,” says Harry, “tops. Before we get to dessert, he’ll tell me everything he knows about that letter, whether he saw it, and how many times. Believe me, he’ll be anxious to get on the stand as long as he can talk about anything except that book and how they marketed it.”

“And even if he didn’t see the letter, he’ll swear he did. Right?”

Harry starts walking again, trudging with his head down, hauling his heavy briefcase. “Hey, if he doesn’t tell me he’s lying, how am I supposed to know?”

19

The subpoenas, all three of them, went out this morning, for Richard Bonguard, Trisha Scott, and Jim Aubrey.

By 9:00 A.M. the subpoenas aren’t even on our radar screen any longer. Harry and I have moved on to trying to put out the next fire. We are back in court, but not in front of the jury.

The judge has given them the morning off. Instead we are gathered in Quinn’s chambers, where Tuchio is scrambling to account for the late disclosure of an FBI agent on his witness list.

He tells the judge there was nothing he could do. According to Tuchio, he disclosed the existence of his witness and the entirety of the man’s statement given to police the moment the D.A.’s office received the information. All this was turned over to the defense as required by discovery.

“The fact that this witness was an agent of the FBI, working undercover, I did not know until later,” says Tuchio.

“How much later?” Quinn wants to know.

This morning his office is crowded. Besides Tuchio and his assistant, Janice Harmen, and Harry and I, there are two other men present, sitting on the couch against the wall behind us. One of them is the agent in charge of the FBI’s San Diego office. The other gentleman is a deputy United States Attorney from the Justice Department in Washington. Apparently the matter is of sufficient importance that Justice sent its own man out from D.C. instead of simply handing it off to the United States Attorney in San Diego.

Trying to answer the judge’s question, fixing the precise date when everything was known, Tuchio looks like a one-man band, juggling his notes, riffling files in his briefcase, and whispering out of the side of his mouth to his assistant. Then they both huddle with the FBI agent. When the prosecutor finally turns back to the judge, he says, “About ninety days, Your Honor. We knew with certainty about ninety days ago.”

“Three months!” says Quinn.

“Yes. About ninety days.” For some reason this seems to sound better to Tuchio.

“And you disclosed the existence of the agent when?” says the judge.

Tuchio coughs a little, covers it with the back of his hand, and says, “Friday, Your Honor.”

“Last Friday?”

Tuchio nods.

Quinn nearly blows a fuse. “There are cases on point,” says the judge.

“Not with regard to collateral crimes, Your Honor. We’ve checked the cases.” Tuchio wants to split legal hairs with the judge, who looks as if he’d like to lean across the desk and smack him.

“I see,” says Quinn. “So you want to make a new law and have me reversed on appeal in order to do it, is that it?”

“No, Your Honor. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Lemme get this straight,” says Quinn. “You have a law-enforcement officer, part of the government-albeit the federal government, not somebody playing under your own tent-and he’s in the middle of your case.”

“By sheer circumstance, Your Honor. The D.A.’s office had no idea.” Janice Harmen tries to draw some of the heat off of Tuchio.

“I appreciate that,” says the judge. “But just so I understand, you have statements made by the defendant, statements against penal interest made in the presence of this agent. You want to bring those statements before the jury to show the defendant’s state of mind prior to the commission of the crime.”

Tuchio is nodding.

“And you failed to disclose the fact that the witness is a federal agent until three days ago?” says the judge.

“That’s it,” says Tuchio.

“Not in my courtroom,” says Quinn. “What do you have to say to this, Mr. Madriani?”

Why should I interrupt Tuchio’s train wreck? I’m about to tell Quinn that I second his motion, that he shouldn’t sully his courtroom, but Tuchio cuts in before I can say anything.

“First of all, Your Honor, all the defendant’s statements were made prior to the commission of the crime. There is no question of Miranda here, no need to caution the defendant, because there was no focus of suspicion. The crime had not yet been committed.”

Quinn looks at him, that death stare again. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he says. “What I’m concerned about, Mr. Tuchio, is the fact that the witness carries the mantle of government on his shoulders, a material fact withheld from the defense in the preparation of their case.”

Tuchio finally tells the judge that while the witness Walter Henoch’s name appeared on the prosecution witness list, and while his statement was disclosed, the consent of the federal government for the witness to actually testify, to appear at trial, had been granted only four days earlier, on Thursday afternoon, the day before the prosecutors delivered the disclosure to our office.

Both Justice and the FBI, seated on the couch, confirm this. They tell the judge that the witness was part of an active, ongoing undercover investigation and that disclosure was hampered by serious concerns for the personal safety of their agent.

Harry was right. It’s an eleventh-hour deal.

This takes some of the edge off the judge. Though Quinn is still not completely mollified, his sense of indignation goes back in the box.

“I can appreciate that,” says the judge. “Still, there are questions of fundamental fairness that have to be discussed.” He turns to me. “Did you have any idea that you were dealing with an agent of the government?”

“We had no formal notice of any kind until Friday,” I tell him. This is not exactly responsive to the question he asked. Harry and I had guessed that there was too much polish to Henoch’s typed statement, so that there was little doubt that somebody was wearing a wire, but as to the FBI we were blind.

“Well then, I guess we’re down to the question, what do you want to do about it?” He puts this to me.

“I would move to suppress the witness’s statement, Your Honor, and request an opportunity to prepare points and authorities.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Tuchio is jumping up and down arguing that suppression is an overkill, given that the witness and his statement were disclosed.

As Tuchio argues, my gaze wanders the room. It doesn’t require clairvoyance to pick out the man in the middle, the one with the occasional pained expression like a sudden attack of gas whenever the prosecutor turns a new argument, the guy with his head in a vise.