She was in the middle of not answering the third or perhaps fourth question put to her by the two extremely unsmiling FBI agents when Terry walked into her office. The agents asked him to leave; he told them politely it was his firm and if they didn’t like his company, they could leave. Or they could remain and meet Allen Snyder, Esquire. The Allen Snyder. Of Hogan and Hartson. The name was familiar? Surely? Friend of the director of the FBI? Well, ha, friend of everyone. The Man to See. Rumored to be on the short list for the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Dist-

“Okay, Mr. Tucker,” said one of the agents wearily. “We get it. Mr. Snyder is an eminent personage.”

The four of them sat around in awkward silence (“Would you two like some coffee?” “No, thank you.” “Water?” “No…”), waiting for the great man’s arrival, which came twenty minutes or so later, to the vast relief of everyone-especially Cass, who was trying not to hyperventilate. How embarrassing is that-passing out in front of your boss and the FBI?

No one likes lawyers until you need one, at which point they assume the raiment of knights. Despite their impatience with Terry’s trumpet fanfare buildup, the agents instinctively recognized that they were now dealing with a lion of the bar. For his part, Mr. Snyder was gentle, courtly, soft-spoken, and professional. There was no “As I said to your boss last night while we were skinny-dipping in the White House pool with the president and the chief justice of the Supreme Court” or any of the usual Washington chest thumping and pecker flexing. Straight to the point, barely above a whisper: “So, gentlemen, how can we resolve the situation?” Brilliant, Cass thought, the way he embeds optimism in the very gambit. It was simply a “situation” in need of “resolve.” Nothing so serious as, say, felonious incitement to violence against persons and property. Nothing of the sort.

One of the agents handed Mr. Snyder a printout of Cass’s increasingly legendary 4:02 a.m. blog posting, explicitly inciting the furious disenfranchised youth of America to visit violence upon the nation’s…golf courses. Well, Mr. Snyder said, that’s certainly very interesting, and we’ll all want to take a closer look, but it has hardly been established that Ms. Devine wrote this. He was no computer expert, but it seemed to him that anyone with rudimentary knowledge of the Internet could hack into a mainframe and send out postings under his client’s name. And even so, under the various statutes of the law, it was very far from clear, from the wording of the posting, that the person who actually wrote it was specifically urging acts of violence. “Actions” here could be understood to mean, well, a number of things, including peaceful demonstrations. Protected constitutionally under the First Amendment to the Constitution, providing for rights of assembly.

The agents had no ready reply to this inpenetrable fog-bank of legalism. Cass started to say something, but Terry shot her a glance that said, This is costing me $700 an hour-shut up.

The agents, perhaps concluding that they were for the time being outgunned and needed to return to the J. Edgar Hoover Building in order to get bigger ones, gave their cards to Mr. Snyder and, with pointed sidelong glances at his somewhat trembly client, stated firmly that she should not leave the city limits of Washington, D.C., until their investigation was completed.

They were almost out the door when the client said, “No, wait.” All heads turned. She said, “Mr. Snyder, thank you. That was really, really great, and I really, really appreciate it. But the fact is, I wrote the posting. I did urge people to, you know, sort of…rise up. I am sorry about the Molotov cocktail. I didn’t ask them to do that. I mean, specifically.…”

Washington legal lore has it that it was the only time Allen Snyder, quintessence of legal probity and cool, ever groaned audibly. Terry was merely speechless.

As the agents led Cass away, she found herself thinking, So this is what handcuffs feel like. Funny what comes to mind in such moments. Fortunately, there were no clients in the reception area.

Chapter 9

Cass’s arrest for “felonious incitement to cause damage to persons and property” had the effect she was counting on: celebrity. But with an agenda. A culture polysaturated with Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, and Lindsay Lohan craves the occasional serving of protein. This Cassandra provided. She was young, she was pretty, she was blond, she had something to say, and it had nothing to do with launching a new fragrance or singing career. By the time Allen Snyder had gotten her out on bail, she was in all the news broadcasts and on the front pages of most of the country’s newspapers. Headlines ranged from the sober:

Blogger Who Called For Social Security

Protest “Actions” Is Arrested by FBI

to the not:

“BOOMSDAY” CHICK TO FEDS: TAX THIS!

Her apartment was staked out by the media, as was, to Terry’s nondelight, the K Street entrance to the offices of Tucker Strategic Communications.

“Well,” he said over the phone in the resigned yet hopeful manner of his breed, the PR operative who knows that not every disaster can be made to seem a misunderstood victory, “maybe they’ll think it’s something to do with the neighbors.” He meant the Society for the Relocation and Assistance of Displaced Muslim Persons one floor down: the CIA unit in charge of “renditions” of suspected Islamic terrorists, whom they grabbed off the streets, tossed into the back of Gulfstream jets, and whisked off to countries where “interrogation” was still an honorable and competitive profession. The society’s actual function had been revealed by The New York Times a month earlier. But, alas, the media were here for Cassandra, not them.

“You might as well hang out at my place until we figure out the next step,” Terry said. “Allen’s kind of confused at this point. He’s generally more used to clients who are trying to stay out of jail.”

“I know,” Cass said. “I’m really sorry. But I can’t urge the people to rise up and then hide behind lawyers.”

“‘The people’? You going Commie on me?”

“No, Terry.”

“It’s that damn Rand broad. Did you see the Times today? That’s what they called you: ‘Ayn Rand of the Blogosphere.’ Oh, Jesus, there’s another camera truck pulling up. There’s gotta be fifty people out front. Wonderful publicity for the firm. Wonderful.”

“Why don’t you have the mink ranchers send over some minks and unleash them.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll see you later. Try not to pour any more gasoline on the fire until I get home.…?Cassandra?…Hello? You listening?”

She returned to her battle station at the computer. CASSANDRA’s mainframe server in Columbus, Ohio, was overwhelmed. They’d had to switch over to higher-capacity servers. When CASSANDRA came back online, Cass saw that she had 2.6 million e-mails awaiting her. The thought of reading them made her suddenly feel very tired.

Her cell phone began to chirrup with calls from bookers for the TV shows. Allen had begged her-instructed her, actually-to refrain from public comment. But she found herself saying yes to the network news, yes to The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, yes to Hardball with Chris Matthews. Yes, yes, yes to everyone-a regular Molly Bloom. What’s the point of starting a revolution, she thought, if you’re going to dodge the spotlight?

When Terry arrived home, exhausted and annoyed after having to use the Dumpster exit of his office building, he called out to her.