basis. If after a trial period it looks like she can handle it, then we’ll go ahead and move her up to Kidnapping and Extortion.”
“What a complete pile of steaming horseshit.”
In my opinion it is a masterly compromise.
“What’s the contingency?” I ask eagerly.
Galloway gets up and goes back to the desk, puts the half-chewed cigar in an ashtray with two other soggy butts.
“I’m going to put you on a drug case. See how you do.”
I’m leaning forward in my chair ready to jump up and sprint for it, whatever it is.
“This came to me through the Director’s office. It’s what they call ‘high profile.’ ”
I can’t tell if Galloway is smiling because he’s giving me a gift or because he finds the words “high profile” particularly amusing, worthy of an ironic twist. In the meantime, Duane’s face is turning so dark it is almost the color of his navy blue suit.
“Jayne Mason is alleging that her physician got her addicted to prescription drugs.”
There is a moment of stupefied silence. We were expecting Colombians, Mexicans, Crips, and Bloods.
“You’d have to be on Mars not to know Jayne Mason was in and out of the Betty Ford Center,” Galloway continues. “Well, now she claims she’s an addict because of this shyster M.D. named Eberhardt.”
Duane: ‘What’s the Bureau’s jurisdiction?”
“She claims the drugs he gave her came from Mexico.” Galloway tosses a file at me.
“Mighty thin,” observes Duane.
“Look at Title 18 of the Federal Code, Drug Abuse Prevention, or maybe 21, Wrongful Distribution.”
I am speechless.
I know perfectly well that I am obligated to tell the Special Agent in Charge immediately of my conflict of interest concerning this case. That my alleged cousin, who died under mysterious circumstances, worked for this very Dr. Eberhardt.
“Sounds like a case of medical fraud to me,” Duane persists, “which would put it under the jurisdiction of the White Collar Crime Squad, am I wrong?”
“Like I said before,” Galloway repeats sternly, “this came from the Director’s office.”
He has made the political significance clear to both of us.
“I will handle it with discretion.”
“Fuck discretion,” Galloway grunts. “Just get to the fucking bottom of this so I can appear halfway fucking intelligent.”
We file out. Duane is already through the doorway when Galloway touches my shoulder lightly. I turn. The cigar is back in his mouth.
“There’s no reason to file that lawsuit now, am I right?”
“I think you’ve been very fair.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Duane is waiting for me in the hall.
“Prestige case,” I say, tossing my hair.
“Dog case,” he replies with a great big happy smile and strolls away.
It doesn’t matter what Duane Carter thinks, this is my chance to advance a dozen squares on the achievement chart or even rocket off the chart—Jayne Mason, it has to be big—and the fact that I have prior knowledge of the players involved has pivoted in my mind from being a conflict of interest to an incredible advantage.
I am thinking about that day in the alley behind the orthopedic office when I saw Jayne Mason and the accused doctor together. She was dressed in red, breaking out of his grasp, striding toward the limousine. Now I remember something else. A fanciful detail. The doctor had been holding a rose. A yellow rose on a long stem. After the limo disappeared, he tossed the rose into the trash and the heavy door snapped shut behind him.
NINE
THE FIRST STEP is to assemble all the information on Randall Eberhardt, M.D., that currently exists on the hard disk and magnetic tape archives of the world.
I run his name through our in-house computer, which will turn up previous arrests anywhere on the globe and discover there are none. I check with the California Department of Motor Vehicles for citations of reckless driving, driving under the influence, or speeding, which are, again, negative. I subpoena the
“What a complete pile of steaming horseshit.”
In my opinion it is a masterly compromise.
“What’s the contingency?” I ask eagerly.
Galloway gets up and goes back to the desk, puts the half-chewed cigar in an ashtray with two other soggy butts.
“I’m going to put you on a drug case. See how you do.”
I’m leaning forward in my chair ready to jump up and sprint for it, whatever it is.
“This came to me through the Director’s office. It’s what they call ‘high profile.’ ”
I can’t tell if Galloway is smiling because he’s giving me a gift or because he finds the words “high profile” particularly amusing, worthy of an ironic twist. In the meantime, Duane’s face is turning so dark it is almost the color of his navy blue suit.
“Jayne Mason is alleging that her physician got her addicted to prescription drugs.”
There is a moment of stupefied silence. We were expecting Colombians, Mexicans, Crips, and Bloods.
“You’d have to be on Mars not to know Jayne Mason was in and out of the Betty Ford Center,” Galloway continues. “Well, now she claims she’s an addict because of this shyster M.D. named Eberhardt.”
Duane: ‘What’s the Bureau’s jurisdiction?”
“She claims the drugs he gave her came from Mexico.” Galloway tosses a file at me.
“Mighty thin,” observes Duane.
“Look at Title 18 of the Federal Code, Drug Abuse Prevention, or maybe 21, Wrongful Distribution.”
I am speechless.
I know perfectly well that I am obligated to tell the Special Agent in Charge immediately of my conflict of interest concerning this case. That my alleged cousin, who died under mysterious circumstances, worked for this very Dr. Eberhardt.
“Sounds like a case of medical fraud to me,” Duane persists, “which would put it under the jurisdiction of the White Collar Crime Squad, am I wrong?”
“Like I said before,” Galloway repeats sternly, “this came from the Director’s office.”
He has made the political significance clear to both of us.
“I will handle it with discretion.”
“Fuck discretion,” Galloway grunts. “Just get to the fucking bottom of this so I can appear halfway fucking intelligent.”
We file out. Duane is already through the doorway when Galloway touches my shoulder lightly. I turn. The cigar is back in his mouth.
“There’s no reason to file that lawsuit now, am I right?”
“I think you’ve been very fair.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Duane is waiting for me in the hall.
“Prestige case,” I say, tossing my hair.
“Dog case,” he replies with a great big happy smile and strolls away.
It doesn’t matter what Duane Carter thinks, this is my chance to advance a dozen squares on the achievement chart or even rocket off the chart—Jayne Mason, it has to be big—and the fact that I have prior knowledge of the players involved has pivoted in my mind from being a conflict of interest to an incredible advantage.
I am thinking about that day in the alley behind the orthopedic office when I saw Jayne Mason and the accused doctor together. She was dressed in red, breaking out of his grasp, striding toward the limousine. Now I remember something else. A fanciful detail. The doctor had been holding a rose. A yellow rose on a long stem. After the limo disappeared, he tossed the rose into the trash and the heavy door snapped shut behind him.
NINE
THE FIRST STEP is to assemble all the information on Randall Eberhardt, M.D., that currently exists on the hard disk and magnetic tape archives of the world.
I run his name through our in-house computer, which will turn up previous arrests anywhere on the globe and discover there are none. I check with the California Department of Motor Vehicles for citations of reckless driving, driving under the influence, or speeding, which are, again, negative. I subpoena the
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