The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(92)

They took Jenkins down the elevator to a car waiting in the garage. At the US District Court on Stewart Street, they pulled to the curb and Jenkins understood the reason for the long delay. A crowd of camera crews and reporters stood in the courtyard leading to the glass-and-copper building entrance. The delay had given the FBI time to alert the media and to get out their side of the story about the arrest.

Guilty until proven innocent.

A marshal opened the back door and helped Jenkins step out. A second marshal moved quickly to his right side. Two others filled in behind them. No one stood in front of Jenkins, which gave the cameras an unobstructed view. When they reached the stairs beside the rectangular wishing pool, Jenkins looked down to navigate the steps and immediately heard the whir and click of cameras. The photographers had waited until he’d lowered his head, looking defeated and guilty.

The marshals escorted him into a cavernous courtroom with ample pews already filling with reporters. Behind the railing, David Sloane waited at the counsel table. On the left stood a team of four lawyers—three men and a woman in dark-blue or gray suits.

When Jenkins reached the counsel table a marshal removed his handcuffs.

“How are you doing?” Sloane asked.

Jenkins shrugged. “I’m hungry. These guys are worse than the Russians. They haven’t given me any food all day. You spoke with Alex?”

“She wanted to come. I told her not to.”

“Thanks.”

“I guess we know now why Daugherty didn’t arrest you the other day,” Sloane said. “They were getting the media lined up. You’ve been all over the news and social media. They shipped out press materials before they even arrested you.”

“Do we know what I’m going to be charged with?”

Sloane shook his head. “The federal prosecutor hasn’t told me. I assume we’ll find out in a moment.”

“Just get me out on bail so I can go home to my family.” Jenkins looked to the government attorneys to his left. “Who among the gaggle is the lead?”

“The woman,” Sloane said. “Maria Velasquez. And don’t let her diminutive size fool you. We’ve sparred twice, and both times she put up a hell of a fight. She isn’t dishonest, but she isn’t forthcoming either. If I don’t ask for it in discovery, she won’t give it to us. It gets worse,” Sloane added.

“Better to pull off that Band-Aid just once,” Jenkins said.

“They found Mitchell Goldstone,” Sloane said.

“Dead?”

“He’s alive, but they found him in a hotel room downtown with his wrists slit and a bottle of prescription painkillers. How well did you know him? Would he try something like this?”

Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know him that well.”

“The news is saying Goldstone absconded with money he stole from investors and is facing life in prison.”

“We figured that argument out ourselves, didn’t we?” Jenkins said. “I don’t buy that either. It’s too easy. Too convenient.”

“And Randy Traeger is cooperating with investigators. I called and spoke to his attorney. Traeger claims he had no knowledge of the Ponzi scheme, and his attorney said he has no knowledge that LSR&C was a CIA proprietary, said he didn’t even know the term.”

“He’s washing his hands of the entire sordid affair.”

“Looks that way.”

“Any idea why they waited until five o’clock to arraign me?” Jenkins asked. “Other than the media?”

“Judge Harden was finishing up a trial and the government wants him,” Sloane said. “He’s a former federal prosecutor with a reputation as a hard-ass who does things his way.”

The bailiff entered the courtroom from a door to the right of the elevated bench and called out, “All rise, the Honorable Joseph B. Harden presiding.”

Jenkins thought Judge Harden looked a bit like Abe Lincoln, a tall, strapping man with jet-black hair, graying at the temples. He entered the courtroom in his black robe, sat at his elevated desk, and picked up several sheets of paper, reading as the clerk called out the case number for the United States Government v. Charles William Jenkins.

After a brief pause, Harden said, “State your appearances, please.”

The gaggle of attorneys on the left side of the courtroom started, with Velasquez speaking last.

“David Sloane for the defendant,” Sloane said.

“Has your client had the opportunity to read the charges against him, Mr. Sloane?” Harden asked.

“No, Your Honor. Nor have I.”

“Then I will do so now.” Harden read the arraignment word for word. Jenkins was charged with two counts of espionage, two counts of passing classified secrets to the Russians for remuneration, and one count of conspiracy. The government also charged him with disclosing classified information, including the identities of two CIA assets, leading to their deaths. Though Harden did not say it, Jenkins knew he was facing a life sentence.

“How does the defendant plead?”

“Not guilty,” Jenkins said.

“Very well. Mr. Jenkins, you will be handed over to the US Marshals Service until such time as you are tried.”

“The defense wishes to discuss bail,” Sloane said.