Page 27 of The Right to Remain
“We will of course respect any witness’s assertion of his right against self-incrimination, even if his lawyer is not allowed in the room with him—which you won’t be.”
Jack was fully aware of the rules of practice that required grand jury witnesses to appear without counsel, so he took the opportunity to reciprocate on the schooling.
“It’s interesting to me the way prosecutors always call it the ‘right against self-incrimination.’ You realize that the wordself-incriminationappears nowhere in the U.S. Constitution, right?”
“That’s not true,” said Weller.
“Look it up,” said Jack.
Weller used her smartphone—certain she was right—to check the Fifth Amendment.
Jack knew it by heart. “It says no person ‘shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself,’” he said. “It’s only prosecutors and the media who make it sound like asserting the Fifth means you’re a self-confessed criminal.”
She put her phone away. The expression on her face suggested that she had little appetite for eating crow.
“I’m sure that would make a very interesting trick question on the bar exam,” she said. “But here’s the bottom line. Owen Pollard wasmurdered. And after the facts are presented to the grand jury, someone is going to be indicted for first-degree murder.”
Jack rose. “Then it sounds like I will see you next at the courthouse.”
The prosecutors rose and shook Jack’s hand.
“See you then,” said Weller.
Beckham showed Jack out and continued with him into the hallway. They stopped outside the open door. Jack glanced over his shoulder into the state attorney’s office, where Weller was again tapping furiously on her smartphone, almost certainly searching for the wordself-incriminationin some AI-generated version of the U.S. Constitution.
Beckham lowered his voice, as if to show friendly concern.
“Jack, I get the feeling there’s something you don’t know about your client,” said the state attorney.
Jack tried to show no reaction, but what he knew or didn’t know about his own client was not a line of conversation he wanted to pursue with the state attorney. “Thanks, Abe. But I got it covered.”
They said goodbye and Jack headed to the elevator, fully aware that it was the second time in one day that he’d heard the same words of caution about Elliott.
Chapter 9
The Dolphin Expressway practically butted up against the Graham Building, and Jack was on it immediately after his meeting with the state attorney. The Dolphin was no place to be for anyone in a hurry, and it didn’t get much worse than four o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday. Jack dialed Elliott’s cell phone number several times while crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and each time it went to voicemail. When expressway traffic literally came to a complete stop, he took the opportunity to shoot a desperation text:Elliott, answer your phone!
It was odd that a client wouldn’t be eager to take a call from his lawyer after a meeting with the prosecutor. Something was off, which only made it more urgent that Jack speak to him, face-to-face, if necessary. He exited the expressway and drove to VanPoll Enterprises.
Compared to his after-hours visit on Friday, the manufacturing plant was a hub of commercial activity. The parking lot was full, delivery trucks were backed up to the open loading docks, and thebeep-beep-beepof forklifts in motion echoed from inside the warehouse. Jack entered through a glass door markedbusiness center,which had been hidden behind roll-down shutters on his last visit. Jack announced himself to the woman at the reception window. She turned her head to inhale from her vape pen and then responded.
“Elliott left early. He clocked out after lunch.”
The news did nothing to ease Jack’s concerns. He asked to see Elliott’s friend, hoping she could help him get to the bottom of things.
“Yeah, Sheila is here. But she’s in the studio with the other martial arts trainees.”
A martial arts studio seemed like a strange use of manufacturing and warehouse space, but Jack assumed it had something to do with CJ’s demonstrations, like the one in Bayfront Park. “I just need five minutes of her time.”
Another long drag on her e-cigarette unleased the scent of berries into the air. “Sure. I can take you there.”
She buzzed him through the security door, and Jack met her on the other side. The studio was at the end of the hallway, and the interior wall was made of glass, offering Jack a clear view. It was as nice as any private martial arts dojo, with a training ring in the center, a floor-mat-exercise area surrounding the ring, and a separate weight training and bag training section. About two dozen demonstrators in training, six rows of young men and women, were bouncing on the balls of their feet, shadowboxing the air in front of them. It was like a dress rehearsal of Saturday’s march—mostly black hoodies, black sweatpants, and black New Balances. Sheila was in the first row directly in front of C. J. Vandermeer, who was leading the instruction. The receptionist told Jack to wait in the hallway, and as she opened the door to go inside, Jack could hear CJ instructing the class while demonstrating a mixed martial arts maneuver on a trainee.
“Remember, you want to go out and away,” he said to the class. “It’s a good tactic for de-arresting yourself.”
The door closed. Jack watched in silence as the receptionist interrupted. CJ said something to the class that had the effect of “take five,” stepped out of the studio without Sheila, and joined Jack in the hallway.
“Do you expect all your employees to be trained demonstrators?” asked Jack.