wasn’t exactly the most truthful thing to do, but I did it.”
“But there was no other job.”
Sidney slumped back. “No.”
“So, being his wife and all, do you have any idea what he was actually
going to L.A. for? Any suspicions?”
She shook her head.
“That’s it? Nothing else? You’re sure it had nothing to do with
Triton?”
“Jason rarely talked about company business with me.”
“Why’s that?” Sawyer craved a cup of coffee. His body was starting to
go down on him after the late night with Hardy.
“My firm represents some other companies who might be perceived as
having competing interests with Triton. However, any potential conflict
has been waived by the respective clients, including Triton, and we’ve
constructed Chinese walls from time to time when necessary–”
“Come again?” This was Ray Jackson. “Chinese walls?”
Sidney looked at him. “That’s what it’s called when we cut off
communications of any kind, access to files, even shop talk, shooting
the breeze in the hallway, about a particular client’s matters if an
attorney of the firm represents another client with a possible conflict.
We even maintain secure computerized databases with respect to pending
deals we’re handling on behalf of clients. We also do it to ensure that
up-to-the-minute negotiation terms are accurately maintained. Deals
change fast, and we don’t want clients surprised about what the
principal terms are. People’s memories are fallible; computer memories
are a lot better. Access to those files is restricted by use of a
password known only to the lead attorneys on the case.
The theory is that a law firm can carve itself up, upon occasion, in
order to avoid problems like that. Hence the term.”
Sawyer leaned in. “So what other clients does your firm represent who
could possibly have a conflict with Triton?”
Sidney thought for a moment. A name had come to mind, but she was
unsure of whether to give it. If she did, the interview might be
hastened to a conclusion.
“RTG Group.”
Sawyer and Jackson exchanged quick glances. Sawyer spoke up.
“Who at your firm represents RTG?”
Sawyer was sure he caught a twinkle in Sidney Archer’s eyes before she
answered. “Philip Goldman.”
In the front yard of the Archers’ home, the cold was beginning to eat
through Paul Brophy’s very expensive gloves.
“No, I have no clue as to what’s going on,” Brophy said into the
cellular phone. He jerked his head away from the hand-held unit when
the speaker on the other end unleashed a blistering response to Brophy’s
professed ignorance. “Wait a minute, Philip. It’s the FBI. They carry
guns, okay? You weren’t expecting that to happen, why should I?”
This deference to Philip Goldman’s superior intelligence apparently
calmed the man down because Brophy now held the phone normally. “Yes,
I’m sure it was him. I know what he sounds like and she called him by
name. I’ve got the whole thing on tape. Pretty damn brilliant on my
part, wouldn’t you say? What? Yeah, you bet I plan on sticking around,
see what I can find out. Right, I’ll check back with you in a few
hours.” Brophy put the phone away, rubbed his stiff fingers together and
went back in the house.
Sawyer was watching Sidney Archer carefully as she slid her hand back
and forth on the armrest of the sofa. He was debating whether to drop
the bombshell on her: to tell her that Jason Archer was definitely not
buried in a crater in Virginia. Finally, after much internal conflict,
his gut won out over his brain. He rose and offered Sidney his hand.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Archer. If you think of anything
that might help us, you can reach me day or night at these numbers.”
Sawyer handed her a card. “That’s my home phone on the back. Do you
have a card with numbers where you can be reached?” Sidney picked up her
purse from the table, rummaged through it and produced one of her
business cards.
“Again, I’m sorry about your husband.” He truly meant the last part. If
Hardy was right, then what the woman was going through right now would
seem like a day in the park compared to what was ahead for her. Ray