Balance of Power

    "He will," Fasano answered. "I know the man, and I'll make sure he does."

FOUR

Trapped in a conference room on the twenty-seventh floor of Embarcadero Three, one of five floors inhabited by her former firm, Sarah watched John Nolan interrogate Homicide Inspector Charles Monk.

    To Sarah, the deposition process was familiar: a court reporter swore in the witness and then, sitting at the end of the conference table, recorded the questions and answers on a stenotype machine, providing a transcript which could be used for cross-examination of the witness at trial. But even more important, a deposition nailed down the witness to a story. Sarah had seen cases won or lost in a single deposition and, plainly, that was Nolan's purpose here.

    He had chosen—quite deliberately, Sarah knew—to sit with his back to the distractions offered Monk and Sarah through the tall glass windows of the conference room: a sweeping panorama of the San Francisco Bay on a sparkling day in late October, complete with a view of Alcatraz, a small flotilla of sailboats, and, at the moment, a Maersk freighter cruising slowly toward the Oakland harbor. But Sarah's focus was on Nolan. His deceptive air of calm could seduce a witness into carelessness, and his questions were unconstrained by the rules of evidence—hearsay, for example—which applied at trial. In a deposition there was no judge; only the witness's lawyer—if present—could direct him not to answer a question. Without judicial supervision, the rules were roughly those of a knife fight—anything goes. In such a forum John Nolan was particularly lethal.

    This witness had no lawyer. A black man of intimidating height and bulk, Monk leaned over the table with his hands folded in front of him, his face impassive and, to Sarah, unimpressed. She had only a sketchy notion of what he might say: in San Francisco a homicide inspector was a busy man, and Monk had been too overworked to talk to Sarah and, she could only hope, to Nolan. In silence, she watched as Nolan began boring in.

    "Did the President," he asked, "ever request police protection for Joan Bowden or her family?"

Briefly, Monk searched his memory. "Not to my knowledge, no."

    "What is your impression of the private security firm that the President selected to protect them?"

    " 'Impression,' " Sarah echoed. "As to what? Their table manners?"

    Nolan did not condescend to look at her. "What is your impression," Nolan asked Monk, "of the firm's ability to adequately protect Joan Bowden from harm?"

    "Objection," Sarah said. "Lack of foundation. There's nothing in the record to suggest that the witness has a basis in knowledge for answering the question."

    Still Nolan did not turn to her. Calmly, he told the witness, "You may answer."

    Monk gave a lazy shrug. "Rent-a-cops are all over the map. From my investigation of the background of the two men killed at the airport, they had no experience in law enforcement or the military. Just the kind of perfunctory training they need to get a license."

    "Would you have entrusted your family to these two men?"

    "Me?" Monk answered with a flicker of irony. "I'd have done the job myself. But then the President doesn't have that luxury, does he."

    Nolan's face, an expressionless mask, betrayed no irritation. "Would you have selected these two men to protect your wife and children?"

    Monk frowned, plainly reluctant to answer. "No," he said at length. "I would not have."

    For the first time, the hint of a smile appeared in Nolan's eyes. "In the course of your inquiry into the murders, Inspector Monk, did you inquire into Bowden's background?"

    "To some extent. Understand, we knew he was the murderer, and he was way too dead to prosecute. So our principal worry was ensuring that he didn't have accomplices. We found no evidence of that."

    "Did you determine motive?"

    "We couldn't interview him, obviously." Pausing, Monk added with some reluctance, "The President did provide us with a letter."

    Nolan reached into a manila folder, and withdrew a copy of a page torn from a spiral notebook. Even at a distance, a glimpse of Bowden's jagged scrawl made Sarah's skin crawl.

    In the same phlegmatic voice, Nolan told the court reporter, "I have a one-page document, which I wish you to mark as 'Lexington Exhibit Three,' " and then slid copies across the marble conference table to Sarah and Fancher's associate. Though she had read the text before, Sarah found herself transfixed.

"Is this a copy of that letter?" Nolan inquired of Monk.

"Yes."

    "And did you determine that Mr. Bowden's motive for the killings was his hatred of the President and First Lady and, specifically, their exposure of him as a spousal abuser on national television?"

    Sarah looked up. "Objection," she said at once. "The letter speaks for itself, and Inspector Monk never spoke to Mr. Bowden."

    "That's correct," Monk said promptly, and placed one large finger on the letter. "All I know is what's in here. To our knowledge, Bowden never told anyone what he was planning, or why."