“Still,” I said, “this sounds like a smokescreen, Rich. If they can’t prove you have the discs or that you even know about them, then sooner or later, some judge is going to say they don’t have a legal leg to stand on.”

“But we have to find that judge,” Richie said. “Which means filing appeals, maybe going to a federal superior court. Which takes time. Meanwhile, I have to run around and independently substantiate everything on those discs by using other sources. They’re eating up a clock on us, Patrick. That’s what they’re doing. And they’re succeeding.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. And I also don’t know how they got onto me so quick. Who’d you tell?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

“Richie,” I said, “I didn’t even tell my client.”

“Who is your client, by the way?”

“Rich,” I said, “come on.”

There was a long dead pause on the line.

When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “You know what it takes to buy a federal judge?”

“A lot of money.”

“A lot of money,” he said. “And a lot of power, Patrick. I’ve been looking into the alleged head of the Church of Truth and Revelation, guy by the name of P. F. Nicholson Kett—”

“No shit? That’s his full name?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just, what a dorky name.”

“Yeah, well, P. F. Nicholson Kett is like a god and guru and high priest all rolled into one. And no one has seen him in over twenty years. He transmits messages through underlings, supposedly from his yacht off the coast of Florida. And he—”

“Florida,” I said.

“Right. Look, I think the guy’s bullshit. I think he died a long time ago and he was never much to begin with. He was just the face someone put on the Church.”

“And the face behind the face is?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But it ain’t P. F. Nicholson Kett. The guy was a moron. A former advertising copy editor from Madison, Wisconsin, who used to write porno scripts under an assumed name to make ends meet. The guy could barely spell his own name. But I’ve seen films and he had charisma. Plus he had that look in his eyes of all fanatics, part fervent belief, part comatose. So someone took this guy with good looks and charisma and propped his ass up to be a little tin god. And that someone, I’m sure of it, is the guy who’s suing my ass at the moment.”

On his end I heard the sudden eruption of several beeping phone lines.

“Call me later. Gotta run.”

“Bye,” I said, but he was already gone.