On the appointed day, ten minutes before the appointed hour, Al joined his sleepless client outside the federal building. He obviously had something on his mind, because he didn’t even say “how are you doing?” Perhaps the answer appeared too obvious.
“I’ve learned that Bernard Kilroy himself will be conducting the grand jury examination.”
“Well,” he said, his eyebrows jumping, “his handling of the questioning of a grand jury witness is quite unprecedented. Very rare.”
“Even for a guy who’s talking about running for Attorney General?”
“Yes. This is not explainable by ordinary assumptions. Do you know this man?”
“I’ve never met him. Who is he?”
“Bernard Kilroy is a shrewd, ruthless prosecutor who will stop at nothing to get a conviction.” That is not the type of guy you want questioning you.
“Yeah. Whatever you do, don’t call him ‘Bernie.’”
Al rolled his eyes. “Don’t really know, but he’s maniacal about it.”
“Sounds like a well-grounded fella.”
“Look, I’m telling you. Just keep your testimony truthful and within the bounds of your proffer letter — Stackhouse and Stackhouse only — and you’ve got immunity. And don’t make any wisecracks. Floyd told me about you.”
I’d never had much cause to contemplate the meaning of “immunity,” but I decided that it was a fine word indeed. The rest of what he said, I didn’t hear.
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