"So? And what is the document?"

"You have asked Mr. Byrd to continue to push on this agent, and I suspect you intend to try use him or his 'document' in trial, if your case comes to that. You need to assure me that you won't ask this witness about what he has or saw, and you won't try to dig any deeper about it."

"Are you serious?" I said, outraged. "What he knows could be the key to the entire accident."

"It isn't. That's the point," Thompson said. "The meeting at Camp David had nothing to do with the accident. The helicopter went down because of faulty balancing of the blade and the tip weights."

I stared at him, barely able to contain my annoyance. "Are you telling me the NTSB knows who was at the meeting and the document that Secret Service agent has?"

"Of course they do."

"Why wasn't that part of their press conference?"

"Because it has nothing to do with the accident, and if someone discusses it and the contents get out, it will cause an international incident."

"How would it cause an international incident?"

"You need to stop pursuing this agent."

"I can't do that."

"You have to."

"No, I don't."

"If you pursue it, we will make it very difficult for you."

"Now the threats."

"These aren't threats. If you push, we will push back."

I glanced at Tinny, who was silent. "I'll just subpoena the agent to trial."

"No, you won't. And if you did, it wouldn't matter. He no longer has a copy of that document. He was kind enough to give it to me. Any testimony he might have would be hearsay and not admissible, I'm told. So any such efforts on your part would be futile. And Mr. Byrd here," Thompson said, looking at Byrd, "gave the agent his word that he would never tell you what the agent's name was. We all know at least one thing: Mr. Byrd is good for his word. Right, Mr. Byrd?"

I stood up. "Thanks for coming, but I'm going to keep going just like I have been. I need to find the truth."

"No, you don't. Even if you find out, it won't help you. Lay off. For your own good."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Thompson lowered his voice to almost a whisper and stood to look me right in the eye. "Meaning you have no idea what you're dealing with here. You're out of your league. Just let it go. Leave the Camp David angle out of it. It's a dead end."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"No, you won't. I am, and I'm telling you to lay off."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing. I wouldn't threaten you. That would be… wrong. But the secretary of state is very concerned about the others who were at that meeting. They would be very unhappy if the fact or the purpose of the meeting ever came out." Thompson looked around my office in silence. His sidekick stood up with him as if they were about to leave. Thompson said, "There are very many people who have the same interest-that you never find out or disclose anything about that meeting. If you continue what you and"-Thompson turned-"Mr. Byrd are doing, they may take steps to stop you. I have no control over them or what they do. I don't know what they might do. I'm just looking out for your interests." Thompson opened the door to my office. "Look, this is a product-liability case. Don't be a hero. Settle it. Make it go away. Don't embarrass yourself and your client."

"So you would help these 'people' out by directing them to me, but of course you would never do anything yourself."

"I don't have to direct anyone to you. Everyone in the country knows who you are. Your name is everywhere. I might only tell certain people that you are intent on disclosing the content of this certain meeting. Just know that many of the people who would be angered by what you are doing are outside our government, and many would have diplomatic immunity. They couldn't even be charged with a crime."

"I think you need to leave."

"Not quite yet." Thompson put his hands in his pockets. "I know you and Byrd like to play the Marine-brotherhood angle. Well, Mr. Nolan, if you continue to press this, this will come back to bite you. You see, I've read your Marine Corps file. And you know what's in there." He waited for a reaction. "If you don't do as I've asked, certain people will learn about what happened in Iraq. And," he said, watching the anger rise in my eyes, "I suspect you wouldn't want that to happen."

"There's nothing in my file."

Thompson smiled. "That's what you wish were true. Even though most of it is gone, the copy of the file at Headquarters Marine Corps tells the whole story, Mr. Nolan. And you definitely don't want that out. It would jeopardize everything you've built. You'd be thrown out of the Marine Reserves. And your ability to practice law would be in trouble, wouldn't it? You see, I've seen your application for membership in the Maryland bar too. And it is notably silent about what happened in Iraq."

"It wasn't called-"

"I'm sure you'd have a chance to explain it. But you might just lose your license and never be able to practice law again. So think about it."

"I may just go right to the press and tell them about your threats. About everything that has happened tonight."

"No, you won't, because then I'll tell them everything you don't want out. And when I got here, I asked you if you had a recording device. But you never asked me. If I did have a recording device, and if I felt like it, I could have all these digital sounds duplicated and rearranged to have you say anything I want. So don't press it."

"I don't scare easily."

"I don't expect you to be scared, Mike, I expect you to be smart." Thompson smiled and walked out of the office.

I said nothing as I heard them walk down the wooden steps of my building and close the outside door behind them. I walked over to my office window and watched them as they disappeared down the street. "Well, that was disturbing."

Byrd stood next to me at the window. When they were out of sight, he turned. "So what happened in Iraq?"

"Nothing."

"Really? Nothing?"

"Drop it."

Byrd stood silently.

I said, "What document is he talking about?"

"That's my question too. Now they've gone and made me curious."

WHEN YOU GET sued in federal court, you have to file an answer denying the claims made against you. In Annapolis, when you file it, you quickly learn that you have stepped onto the six-month conveyor belt that will take you to trial no matter how much you thrash or complain. It's like a melodrama where the heroine is tied to the moving belt in a sawmill heading toward the large, spinning blade.

Since most court filings are now electronic, things happen in hours, or minutes. Fifteen minutes after I filed our answer, we received a notice by e-mail from the court for the Early Neutral Evaluation conference to be held that same week. The purpose of the ENE before the magistrate was to see if the case could quickly be settled, or if it would go to trial. We had drawn the magistrate I knew best, Barbara Norris. She was competent, did not aspire to greater office-unlike many magistrates-and didn't inject her personality into the case. She just tried to do what was right, get the case resolved if she could, and if not, help the parties get to trial quickly. You couldn't ask for anyone better.

The day for the conference came. Rachel and I got there early, but not earlier than the press. It looked like a rehearsal for the trial they suspected was coming. Satellite vans were everywhere, cables and cameras running back and forth, and an amazing amount of activity for a hearing they wouldn't be invited to. ENEs are generally held in the magistrate's office, not in the courtroom.

After we made our way into the courthouse, we were ushered into the magistrate's courtroom. Margaret, Norris's clerk, closed the doors behind us, keeping the press outside in the hall. As Rachel and I entered, we saw that Hackett and his entourage were already there. Hackett was standing with his back to the judge's bench, looking at us as we walked in. Waiting for us. When he saw me, he said nothing and did nothing. He just stood there holding his briefcase in front of him with both hands. His feet were spread slightly apart, and I was suddenly aware of his size. He had to be at least six feet four and had graying blond hair that he combed back. To his right was another partner that I recognized from Hackett's firm's Web site. Gregory Bass-pronounced like the fish, not the guitar. Bass was about forty with a closely buzzed haircut. He was known in all the articles I had read as Hackett's "bulldog." Their word. He didn't try cases, he just chopped up the other side in motions, depositions, and generally being as tough as he could get away with.