The Intern(39)

And now Andrew Martin was at the door. Thank God it was here and not in chambers, where there were spies. But he probably knew that.

“Judge Conroy, I hope I’m not interrupting. Andrew Martin from the Department of Justice.”

“Yes, I know who you are. What are you doing on campus? Teaching, already, so early in your career?” she said, though she knew he wasn’t.

He placed a hand on the back of the guest chair. “No, I’m actually here to see you, Your Honor. May I sit down? This won’t take long.”

“Okay, but could you—”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. He understood the danger. Nodding, he closed the door, then drew the chair close to her desk and kept his voice low.

“I’m here because I’m working on an investigation of an influence-peddling scheme by prominent individuals in law enforcement. We have reason to believe that you might have pertinent information.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed visibly. How much did they know?

“Anything is possible,” she said. “I’ve worked in the justice system for over fifteen years. I know literally hundreds of law enforcement officers. I’d like to help, but you’ll have to be more specific. Who exactly are you investigating?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t disclose that right now.”

“Then I don’t see how I can comment.”

“I’m not asking you to say anything here, or now. It’s not secure. I think you know that. I’d like to invite you to DC for an interview. We can discuss specifics then. I work with Brooke Lee, who was just appointed the new head of Public Integrity at Main Justice. She would very much like the opportunity to sit down with you.”

The blood drained from Kathryn’s face. So the rumors were true. Brooke Lee, all five feet and a hundred pounds of her, had been considered the toughest organized crime prosecutor in the United States. She could’ve gone anywhere from there. Partner in a lucrative law firm. Professor. Judge, like Kathryn. Instead, she took on the single most thankless task in law enforcement—prosecuting your own. And she would be damn good at it.

“You’re asking me to fly to DC for an interview, with no explanation of why or what it’s about? You’ve got nerve, Mr. Martin.”

“I’m simply extending an invitation, which of course you’re free to decline. I wanted to extend it personally, and to let you know that we’re prepared to take every precaution for your safety. We’d do this discreetly, bring you in at night or on a weekend, through a back entrance. Anything you need to feel comfortable.”

“What would make me comfortable is basic transparency. And a modicum of respect. I’m a federal judge. I expect you to share information.”

“No disrespect intended, Your Honor. I’m sure you understand, this is highly confidential. I’ve said all I can for the moment, until you agree to sit down with us under terms of confidentiality. I hope you’ll accept the invitation.”

“And if I decline?”

“We’ll build our case without you. Did I mention that racketeering charges are in play? In a case of this magnitude, other witnesses are sure to step forward to fill in the blanks, and that won’t be to your benefit.”

Racketeering. Other witnesses. Not to your benefit.

She recognized that threat. She’d used it herself back in the day, many times. Looking a mobster or a kingpin in the eye and trying to flip him on his associates, she’d tell him: Be smart, these are serious charges, do yourself a favor and come in before anybody else does. Because the first rat in the door gets the sweetheart deal.

Would she be the first rat?

“Think it over,” Martin said, pulling a business card from his wallet. “Call me any time, day or night, and we’ll make the interview happen at your convenience. Thank you for your time, Your Honor. Have a good day.”

She watched him go in stunned silence, her mind racing. This was a complication she had not foreseen. Could the timing be any worse? She was waiting for documents that were complicated to obtain. The money piece was not yet in place. Nor the medical care for one of the people who’d be escaping with her. The physical logistics of disappearing all three of them at once were already daunting, given how closely she was watched. Now add to the list of watchers Andrew Martin, Brooke Lee, and their FBI cohorts. It felt impossible. She needed more than simply a private office. She needed help. Allies. People who would do her bidding, who’d be discreet. People she could trust. And they didn’t exist.

Spots danced before her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. Her phone was buzzing. If she answered the phone now, she wouldn’t be able to speak. She sent the call to voicemail with eyes brimming. If she got arrested by the feds, the people who relied on her would be all alone in this world, vulnerable, ruined. Possibly dead. Not again.

She had to teach in ten minutes, and she was in no kind of shape. Blotting the tears with a Kleenex before they smudged her mascara, she talked herself down off the ledge. Be logical. Think. She’d been a prosecutor for years. She knew how to analyze a case. One thing seemed clear—they didn’t have the evidence to arrest her yet. If they did, that knock on her door would’ve been the FBI with handcuffs, not Andrew Martin with an invitation to chat. For a sheltered girl like Kathryn, the shock of a jail cell would loosen her tongue faster than anything. The prosecutors knew that. The second they had proof of her involvement, they’d pounce. Which meant they didn’t have it yet. She had a window. There was still time to change her fate. But not much time, and she couldn’t do it alone.