Tracy knew Kins hated traffic, and with the explosion in Seattle’s population over the last decade, and resulting traffic nightmares, it had become his pet peeve. He voiced his objection frequently to her, and the focus of his blame was usually the DOT, which he said stood for “Dunces of Traffic.” Then he’d recite the evidence to support his diatribes—projects like bike lanes and free-bike programs had failed miserably, and designated toll-commute lanes had only made traffic worse. Tracy listened, though she considered complaining a waste of time and energy. It was like Stan Fields voicing his displeasure about the weather and Dan yelling at the television when a referee or umpire made a bad call. She figured it was a man thing and she humored them to keep the peace.
Kins’s pet peeve, however, meant they had been in the car since the crack of dawn. Tracy had protested the early hour, pointing out that the heavy commute along the I-5 corridor was in the opposite direction, north, into Seattle. That had not been Kins’s concern. “I don’t want to hit Portland morning traffic,” he’d said.
They hadn’t entirely avoided Portland’s traffic, but as they crossed the rust-colored Broadway Bridge spanning the Willamette River, Kins wore a smug expression that begged for a compliment.
“Go ahead,” Tracy said.
“What’s that?” Kins said, playing dumb, though not convincingly.
“Go ahead. Say ‘I told you so.’ We avoided the morning commute.”
“Did I say that?” Kins said.
Tracy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“We made good time,” he said. “I will say that. Not my best, but . . .”
“So sue me because I made you stop for a bladder break.”
“Did I say anything?” Kins said, his smile widening. “I don’t think I said anything.”
“Yeah, you didn’t have to. You’re smiling like you had sex this morning.”
Kins laughed. Then he said, “So you think this guy will talk to us?”
“He’d better if I’m up this early,” Tracy said.
She’d called Graham Strickland the prior afternoon when they’d learned they weren’t going to surprise him, not with Maria Vanpelt “breaking the story,” as she so often liked to proclaim. Strickland had directed Tracy to speak to his attorney, Phil Montgomery. She’d debated just showing up at Strickland’s residence. She didn’t need to go through his lawyer, but three hours was a long way to drive for nothing. So she’d played nice and called Montgomery, who’d agreed to make Strickland available.
Montgomery’s law office was located in a renovated brick building not far from Union Station. They found parking on the street. A cherry-red Porsche sat parked in a loading zone in front of the building entrance. The personalized license plate said “Genesis.” The car said “Ego.”
“Hang on.” Kins took out his cell phone and snapped several photographs of the car. “This would have been hard to miss if he showed up around that Renton motel.”
Inside the building lobby, Tracy noted software, investment, law, and design firms on the building directory. They took an elevator to the second floor and found the suite for the Montgomery Group. The reception area was what Tracy would call modern, with uncomfortable-looking furniture, low tables, and distinct prints hanging on brick walls. She informed the receptionist they had an appointment with Phil Montgomery. After a phone call, the young man escorted them to the conference room in the northwest corner of the building. Montgomery greeted them in the hallway. Tracy estimated him to be midsixties, with silver-gray hair and sturdy-frame glasses. Dressed in slacks and a black sweater, he looked more like an accountant than a criminal defense lawyer.
“Is my client a suspect?” Montgomery asked.
Most Americans were familiar with their Miranda rights; they’d heard the words recited so often on the plethora of police and detective shows populating television, they could recite their Miranda rights from memory. What most didn’t know was their right to an attorney was guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment, but only during a criminal interrogation, and only if the person was taken into police custody—the right was intended to prevent coercion and intimidation. Even fewer knew the Sixth Amendment embodied a second constitutional right to counsel when a prosecutor commenced a criminal prosecution by filing a complaint, or the suspect was indicted by a grand jury. The fallacy most Americans harbored was that they could simply shout, “I want a lawyer!” when confronted by a police officer, and the officer couldn’t talk to them. Not so. In fact, in the absence of a criminal charge, and so long as they didn’t take Strickland into custody, Tracy and Kins could talk to him until the cows came home. For now, however, Tracy was content to humor Montgomery.