Operation Poison Ivy: The Incredible Story of the FBI’s Bust at Harvard Law, pt.3

Chuck was sitting on the same library step and this time had a previously grilled chicken and cheese sandwich and an orange. He found that if routines were followed, he was able to ponder on subjects more interesting than floor and glass cleaning equipment. Fitzpatrick had been inside the library for the past two and a half hours, hoping he had not already blown his cover or scared the suspect janitor away by coming on too strong, too soon. He smiled as he exited the library and, placing his backpack on the steps, asked the eating Mr. Walquist, “Hey. You mind if I sit by you for a minute?”

“It’s all yours,” Chuck replied with a smile and a mouth half full of his lunch.

“Changing it up, huh?” Sean said as he pointed to Chuck’s sandwich.

“Yeah,” the janitor chuckled as he put the sandwich down and started peeling his fruit, placing every piece of the peel inside the small brown bag he brought it to work in. “It’s Wednesday, and I wanted to celebrate for making it to the half-way point of the week.”

“I was in the library doing more research on people who have been accepted into HLS without aristocratic ancestry and without straight “A” grades form Kindergarten on up.” Fitzpatrick reported. The janitor forced himself to resist and listened to Fitzpatrick’s tirades, but did not reflect any facial gesture which would reveal what his views were on the students and practices of his employer.

“Any luck?” Chuck asked, knowing the answer before he asked, uncannily similar to a technique lawyers use during examination and cross examination.

“Not really. Maybe a non-campus library would help.” Sean almost muttered.

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Chuck replied as he took a drink of the 20 ounce Diet Coke he purchased from one of the law school’s vending machines and offered Sean a slice of the orange.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Chuck started. “I spoke with Bill and he said he couldn’t really remember much about it and only heard some previous students talking about it.”

“That’s too bad.” Fitzpatrick said, as he ate the orange slice and glanced down at the library steps. He could never figure out why the law school had the architecture of some type of wizard training academy — maybe the professors thought they were minting wizards of law, legislation and litigation?

“Yeah. Bill said they sued to use locker 172, but as long as I’ve worked here, I never saw anyone using it other than students.” Chuck said, hoping to deflect any further interrogation, as he put the red cap on top of his empty drink bottle.

Sean, Agent Fitzpatrick, memorized the locker number but couldn’t leave it at that point and hope that in another week, Chuck might divulge more. His chief told him that if more concrete progress was not evident in the next two weeks, the case would be closed and Sean knew that he would not be allowed to reopen it.

“I don’t get it. How would a locker help them? Why wouldn’t they meet somewhere off campus and away from security? That sounds pretty dumb to me. Maybe it’s just a rumor.” Sean said, knowing fully that the system had worked for decades at least and had infiltrated every Ivy League school, hoping to draw more out of Chuck by mocking his intelligence.

“Yeah. Probably.” Chuck said finishing the last bite of his orange, finally refusing to take the bait.

“I can look at the locker after my shift tonight if you think it would help.” Chuck offered, attempting to lift the Agent’s spirits, and inadvertently admitting he had access to all of the lockers.

“Nah. I’m sure there’s nothing there.” Fitzpatrick said without glancing upward, pretending he didn’t catch the implication of Chuck being able to help him get accepted into Harvard Law School after an adequate deposit was anonymously left in the said locker.

Chuck picked up the plastic Ziploc bag and Diet Coke bottle with his left hand and told Fitzpatrick, “Well, I’ll check it a week from now, just to be sure.”

Chuck was getting frustrated at all of the implications the Agent was missing, and proceeded to the double-down technique lawyers and salespeople use when they are not sure if their potential client is confident of their expertise. The Agent walked over to the green recycling garbage can where Chuck tossed his Ziploc bag and plastic bottle. Before he threw away his brown bag, he reached out his hand and said, “You wanna meet here, maybe next Thursday or Friday?”

“Sure,” Sean said as he shook the janitor’s hand as he made another mental note of his recycling since during all of the previous stake outs, Chuck was not one of the janitor’s who supported the global warming movement.