*
WASHINGTON DC, FIVE MONTHS LATER
Ben thought he was beyond the point where anything that took place in, at, or near a courtroom could surprise him. After the trial in Chicago -an emotionally and politically charged hate crime, covered blow-by-blow by the media nationwide-what could possibly be more difficult? He thought he’d seen it all.
He was wrong.
The federal courthouse was swarming with reporters. That was hardly startling. The so-called Glancy’s Glen had established itself in the courthouse parking lot almost immediately after the senator was arrested. Scores of reporters representing all the media were there, making daily, sometimes hourly updates with the majestic stone pillars of the courthouse as a backdrop. According to the experts, the media stronghold outsized the famed O. J. outpost. Every pretrial proceeding, no matter how minor, had been covered in detail: every docket hearing, every pretrial motion, every judicial conference, no matter how trivial. The reporters would deliver their reports in somber tones, usually concluding with a small pivot toward the courthouse and a reference to how “no one would know for sure” what happened to Veronica Cooper until the parties gathered in this building “for a final reckoning.”
What did surprise Ben as he and Christina stepped out of their taxicab was how expertly the area surrounding the courthouse appeared to be organized this morning. Ropes cordoned off the central flight of steps leading to the front doors. There were protesters present, firebrands from the left and the right as there had always been, but somehow they had been pushed far to the rear, far enough that not even the loudest of them would be heard once the minicams started rolling. Ben recognized many of the people standing closest to the ropes-including several of the senator’s staff members and friends, such as Amanda Burton and Shandy Craig. A podium had been placed at the top of the stairs with several microphones already in place.
As Ben gazed at the assembly, Marshall Bressler rolled up beside him.
“Got to hand it to the DC authorities,” Ben said with genuine admiration. “They’ve got things much more under control than their counterparts in Chicago did.”
“Forget the authorities,” Bressler replied. “Congratulate Senator Glancy’s advance team.”
Christina raised an eyebrow. “What’s an advance team?”
“I can tell you haven’t had much experience with politics. These days, advance men-many of whom are women, by the way-are the lifeline of any politician. At least any politician who wants to be one for very long. Ever since Kennedy/Nixon in 1960, the need for specialists to orchestrate and control how candidates are presented by the media has been readily apparent.”
“I haven’t seen any advance men in the office.”
“We’re not talking about paper pushers. We’re talking about highly skilled media consultants who command top dollar-because they’re worth it. They pander to the press, marshal the allies, outwit the enemies, cozy up to the Secret Service, prepare itineraries, arrange photo ops, plan motorcades, hang bunting and banners and, most important, anticipate every contingency. Politics is not immune to Murphy’s Law-anything that can go wrong, will. The advance men deal with all unforeseen developments and overcome them.”
“And they did-” Ben waved his hand toward the general assemblage. “-all this?”
“Of course. Believe me, they’ve been working on it for days-obtaining permits, snuggling up to the courthouse officials, confabbing with Amanda and the rest of the staff on how we wanted our man presented. Remember, most people will be seeing Todd today for the first time in five months, ever since he was incarcerated in the district jail.”
“Your people put up these ropes?”
“Who else? They wanted to make sure the senator could make a dignified ascent, without interference. Why do you think all the protesters and right-wing tub-thumpers-some of whom were bused in from Maryland by the Senate majority leader’s staff, by the way-have been shunted off so far from the action? All the cameras will get are Todd’s supporters.”
“Is this really necessary? The potential jurors are already sequestered.”
“They’re not concerned about the jury, Ben. That’s your job. They’re concerned about the voters, and not just the ones back in Oklahoma, either.”
“Surely Todd doesn’t still think he can run for national office.”
“Our polls indicate that the video hurt us with female voters, but much less so with males, especially those under the age of forty-five. If you can make it look as if Todd has been the victim of political calumny, an unscrupulous plot to entrap him with another woman then frame him for murder, you might well win us back those female votes. Women sympathize with underdogs and martyrs-people they believe have been treated unfairly.”
“Speaking as a woman,” Christina said, “and for that matter one who doesn’t believe Senator Glancy killed Veronica Cooper, I still wouldn’t give the man my vote if he personally kissed my-”
Ben clamped his hand over her mouth. “Minicams, Christina. Big powerful microphones. Talking out loud bad.”
Christina clenched her teeth and remained silent.
A few minutes later, a black van from DC’s Central Detention Center rolled up to the curb and Senator Glancy stepped out of the back. He raised one arm into the air, and all at once the crowd went wild, cheering, calling out his name, whistling and thumping their feet. Ben felt more like he was at a rock concert than a murder trial. At any moment he expected someone to hold up a lighter.
“What did I tell you?” Bressler said, winking. “Advance men.”
Glancy’s intern, Shandy Craig, stepped out of the crowd and tugged at his sleeve. “Hair check.”
She scrutinized him carefully, then minutely adjusted the lie of his salt-and-pepper bangs.
“Teeth.”
Glancy flashed them for her.
“You’re clean. Go get ’em, tiger.”
Glancy jabbed his thumb back toward Shandy. “Is she the best, or what? Love that girl. Are we ready?”
“We are,” Ben answered. “But I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a very pleasant day for you.”
“We’ll make the most of it. Anything’s better than that hellhole where they’ve been keeping me. I don’t know where people get these ideas about politicians going to country club prisons. The DC jail is the pits.”
Having visited him on several occasions, Ben knew this was true. It was a no-perks enterprise operating on a constrained budget. The visitors’ room didn’t even have separated chambers; every time Ben talked to Glancy he had to shout to be heard over the clatter of all the other attorneys and relatives.
Glancy turned toward the crowd and flashed them a grateful smile-the kind of million-watt grin that gets men elected to public office and keeps them there-then moved with calm and grace toward the front steps. As negotiated with the incarceration officials and the prosecution in the spirit of fair play, Glancy had been provided with a freshly pressed suit and grooming equipment, and his keepers remained several paces behind him out of camera range, so he could enter the courtroom looking like a senator-not a murderer. As he passed by, dozens of people thrust out their hands, and he shook a few, though never slowing his advance up the stairs. Ben couldn’t help but admire the style, the savoir faire that allowed a man in such dire circumstances to emerge looking more like a returning astronaut than an accused murderer.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, Glancy started toward the podium.
With a subtle sidestep, Ben blocked his progress. “Wait a minute. We need to move on to the courtroom.”
“I’m giving a press conference,” Glancy said, smiling. “I’m a politician, Ben. It’s what we do.”
“No way,” Ben replied, standing firm. “I told you. You say nothing unless and until we put you on the witness stand.”
“This is a critical moment, politically speaking,” Glancy explained. “The press has been building toward this for months. They expect me to say something. I can’t let them down.”
“Listen to me,” Ben said, keeping his voice down so the mikes surrounding him wouldn’t pick it up. “This is not a campaign. You’re on trial for murder. Under the new federal execution act, the jury has the option to give you the death penalty.”
“But the potential jurors have already been sequestered, right? They won’t be able to hear what I say.”
“True, but-”
“Please excuse me.” His face remained calm. To anyone who couldn’t hear what was being said, it would look as if two close friends were having an amiable chat. He started again toward the podium.
“Todd.” Ben held his arm. “When I agreed to take on this murder case, you agreed that you would follow my instructions. To the letter.”
“As regards the case, yes. As regards my career-well, I think my political advisers are more qualified to make those decisions, don’t you?”
“Todd, if you endanger-”
“I’m not going to say anything that will help the prosecution, or that will even directly relate to the case.” He gently removed Ben’s hand from his arm. “You know how to play your game, Ben, and I respect that. Now let me play mine.”
Glancy squared himself behind the podium. He started to speak, but another round of cheers and applause erupted, drowning him out. Ben wondered what his advance men had done to trigger that. Paid off a wino? Goosed a maiden aunt?
“My friends,” Glancy began. Even in these circumstances, something about the way he said it, his crisp mellifluous voice, the way he looked squarely into the camera as he spoke, made you want to believe it. “I thank you for your support during these troubled times. I particularly thank those of you who have been so kind to my wife, Marie. My lawyer won’t let me talk about the case-and you know how those lawyers act when they don’t get their way.”
The crowd laughed heartily. What was all this “those lawyers” jazz? Ben wondered. Hadn’t Glancy picked up a JD way back when, too?
“Nonetheless, I can assure you that when this is over-and it will be over soon-I will be back to work, doing what I’ve always done: defending and protecting the best interests of my constituents.” The resultant swell of cheers and enthusiasm almost drowned out his closing. “Thank you again for your support. See you on the other side.”
Loving drummed his fingers on the desktop. He circled Jones’s workstation, pacing trails into the burgundy carpet. He checked his watch. He gazed at the view of the Main Mall out the north window of their borrowed office space. He shuffled through his papers and daily reports. And then he sat back down and drummed his fingers some more.
“Would you cut that out!” Jones said, finally.
“Huh? What?”
“Everything! All of it. The pacing, the fiddling, the drumming. You’re driving me insane!”
“Short drive,” Loving muttered. “Why are you so touchy?”
“Because I’m swamped! As you may recall, the trial we’ve been prepping for the past five months began today. I have a mound of motions and other paperwork to deal with.”
“Didn’t Glancy hire a team of big-firm lawyers to do that kinda stuff?”
“Yes, a magnificent beau geste designed to show his gratitude to Ben-that hasn’t helped in the least. A bunch of twenty-eight-year-olds in starched shirts billing three hundred dollars an hour. Give me a break. I’d rather do it myself.”
Loving frowned. “Least you can make yourself useful.”
“You’re the resident hawkshaw. Don’t you have some investigating to do?”
“I’ve been investigatin’ for five months. And I haven’t come up with squat.”
“No theories?”
“Oh, I got lots of theories. The Trilateral Commission runs this town-they’re behind all the big power plays. There’s basically thirteen old men who run the world.”
Jones resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d long since become accustomed to Loving’s endless supply of conspiracy theories. “Got anything Ben could conceivably use in court?”
“Nah. I’ve interviewed all the witnesses. Everyone who might know somethin’ about the case. Looked under every rock. And struck out each time.” He was interrupted by a computer chip rendition of the William Tell Overture. “’Scuse. That’s my cell.”
Jones turned back to his screen. “Probably Ben wanting me to run him over some pencils or something. As if I had nothing better to do.”
“Yeah?” Loving said, as he snapped open the phone.
The voice on the other end was low and whispery. “You the one looking for intel on the Cooper killing?”
Loving’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I am. Who’s this?”
“That’s not important.”
“I gotta call you somethin’.”
“Fine.” There was a short, bitter laugh. “Call me Deep Throat.”
Loving felt his heart race. “Like-in that movie they showed at my brother-in-law’s bachelor party?”
“The-what? No, like in-never mind. You don’t need to call me anything. But I can help you.”
“How?”
“You want Glancy to get off, don’t you?”
“That’s our goal, yeah,” Loving said, not quite answering the question. Having seen that video several times too often, he personally had a hard time getting worked up about whether Glancy was convicted. This was a job he was working for Ben, period. “How can you help?”
“The secret to saving the accused,” the voice continued, “is finding out more about the victim.”
“I’ve investigated the victim. For months. I know where she grew up and what her favorite colors were and what grades she made in junior high science. I’ve talked with her mom. I know everything about the woman.”
The softness of his voice gave his chuckle an eerie hollowness. “No, you don’t. Not by a long shot.”
“Okay, hotshot, tell me what I don’t know.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Oh, puh-lese.”
“Will you meet me? Someplace safe?”
“What is it with you Washington clowns?” Loving said. “Can’t you ever just talk to someone like a normal human being?”
“No, I can’t. If he found out-”
“If who found out?”
“I can’t tell you that. But if you’ll agree to meet me…”
“Fine.” Loving acted exasperated, but in reality he was elated. It was a lead-or at least the promise of a lead. Even if the guy was a kook, which was the most likely case, it would give him something to do. “Where you wanna meet?”
“How about the Reflecting Pool. You’re already near, right?”
“Where exactly? It’s a big pool.”
“I can’t specify a location. I have to remain fluid. To keep watch for people who might recognize me.”
Loving felt his patience draining. “Then how am I gonna find you?”
“You won’t have to. Just leave your office, right now, walk across to the Pool, find an empty bench, and make yourself comfortable.” He paused. “When it’s safe, I’ll find you.”
The courtroom was as silent as a vacuum while all assembled waited for the judge to arrive. It was almost like a wedding: the supporters of the defendant were seated on the right side of the courtroom behind the defense table, next to the jury box. The prosecution, the deceased’s family, and most of the press sat on the left. No cameras were allowed in the courtroom, but there were record numbers of notepads, sketch artists, and laptops with padded keyboard silencers and Wi-Fi transmitters that beamed each word back to a receiving station in Glancy’s Glen.
Ben also spotted a number of Glancy’s fellow senators in the gallery. Presumably they got first dibs on the limited seats, if they wanted them. The Republicans had excoriated Glancy from the moment the body was found. The Democratic support was lukewarm at best: “I’m optimistic that when the truth is uncovered, we will find that Todd did not commit these horrific acts, despite appearances. But let me make it clear that I do not condone sexual harassment in the workplace…” That sort of thing. Although a motion to censure had been brought, it was tabled for the time being. Independent counsel had been appointed to investigate whether any violation of federal law “or Senate protocol” had occurred-but as yet, nothing had been done. They were all waiting to see what happened in the courtroom. Glancy had resisted calls for his resignation; if for no other reason, his replacement would be chosen by Oklahoma ’s current governor, a staunch Republican. Given how close the balance between the two parties was in the Senate at the moment, the outcome of this trial could affect far more than the future of Tom Glancy; it could quite literally affect the future of the nation itself.
No pressure there, Ben thought, muttering under his breath. None at all.
“Judge Herndon should be here soon.” Ben said. “Know him?”
“Ben, I know everyone in this town,” Glancy replied calmly. In dramatic contrast to the nervousness Ben was experiencing, the defendant was maintaining his usual implacable sangfroid. “Herndon is a Republican, alas. Been around a long while. Used to be in private practice, then he helped George Bush the First raise a lot of campaign dough and got himself appointed to a federal judgeship. He’s still active in the Republican machine. I’m surprised he hasn’t moved higher than the district court by now. It suggests several relevant possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Either he likes it where he is, or there’s a reason he can’t get anything better.”
“Heads up, Ben,” Christina whispered. “Enemy at five o’clock.”
Ben’s esteemed opponent, federal prosecutor Paul Padolino, headed his way. Padolino was a calm man, eminently reasonable, quiet and laconic, unlike most prosecutors. To Ben’s knowledge, he had not indulged in excessive gamesmanship and had not held repeated press conferences despite the fact that he reportedly had political ambitions. Nonetheless Ben knew that as soon as the judge’s gavel sounded, they would both relinquish all pretense of civility and begin a titanic struggle, each desperate to come out the victor.
Padolino paused at the defendant’s table, nodded politely to Christina, then looked Ben square in the eye. “Life, incarceration at the upscale prison in Arlington, possibility of parole in eight years.”
“You call that an offer?” Ben said. It was his standard reply to all plea bargains; the only thing it meant was that he needed more time to think.
“I call that the best you’re going to get. The prison I’m offering has tennis courts, for God’s sake. A nine-hole golf course.”
“Sorry, but-”
“Ben, once the trial starts, there’s no stopping it. All offers are off the table.”
Ben turned toward his client.
“No conversation required,” Glancy said, holding up a hand. “I did not commit this atrocity. I will not plead guilty to it, not if your offer was one day of community service at a candy factory.”
“And there you have it,” Ben said.
“I’m not kidding, Ben. This is our final offer.”
“And we’re declining.”
Padolino’s cool melted a bit. “You’re both being irrational. I’m trying to do you a favor!” He stomped back to his table.
Despite Padolino’s protest, Ben suspected he wasn’t all that surprised by their decline of his offer, or disappointed. No trial lawyer who’d come this far wanted to pack it in before it started.
Barely a minute later, Judge Herndon emerged from his chambers, preceded by his bailiff.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the bailiff chanted. The judge took his seat.
The trial had begun.
Leave immediately, the man had said. When it’s safe, I’ll find you, he’d promised. So where the heck was he?
Loving sat on a bench on the south side of the Reflecting Pool, crossing his legs from one side to the other, staring at the passing joggers, watching the squirrels in the trees, bored to tears. He’d never been good at sitting still. The view was lovely, not only the Pool but of the Lincoln Memorial at the opposite end and all the cherry trees lining the perimeter. But he hated waiting, and he hated all the oh-so-mysterious cloak-and-dagger baloney. That wasn’t how they operated back in Tulsa.
He checked his watch. He’d been sitting for more than an hour. Even if he didn’t have any other decent leads-or, for that matter, any indecent leads-this was more than he could bear. The guy obviously wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d give up on the chump and pay a visit to Honest Abe. There was a man you could count on.
He started to push himself to his feet, and just as he did, he felt a pair of hands slap down on his shoulders and shove him back down onto the bench.
“Don’t turn around!” the voice commanded, stifling Loving’s natural instinct.
“Why not?”
“I swear, if you turn around, I won’t tell you a thing.”
“Fine. I won’t look at your pretty face.” At least, not yet. “So whaddya got for me?”
“A name.” He was breathless, making an effort to stay low-key and quiet. But it was definitely a man. “Colleen Tomei.”
Colleen Tomei. Loving ran the name through his cranial database a few times. He’d heard it before, but where? Oh-right. “She was a friend of Veronica Cooper’s. I tried to track her down. Never found her.”
“And there’s a reason for that.” Loving could feel his informant twisting from side to side, as if checking to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. “She’s been eliminated.”
“Eliminated? Whaddya mean?”
There was a long pause. Loving could feel the hands on his shoulders lightening. Was this guy planning to bolt? Because if he did-
“Look, I can only stay another minute. I’ve taken too many risks as it is. If he found out-”
“There you go again. Who?”
The voice behind him barreled onward, ignoring the question. “There were four of them: Veronica, Colleen, Amber, and Beatrice. Four DC girls who liked to party. But they got into some weird stuff. Seriously weird stuff.”
“Like drugs? Bad boys?”
“That’s not the half of it. Just listen, okay? They got in over their heads, seriously kinked, and that’s why you’re never, ever gonna find Colleen. But there’s still a chance for the other two. If you move quickly.”
“And why do I hafta move quickly?” Other than the fact that Ben’s trial had already started.
“Because you’re not the only one looking, idiot. Do you think he doesn’t know? Do you think he can risk them talking? After what happened to Colleen?”
“I’m sorry, man, but you’re not makin’ any sense.”
“I don’t have time to make sense!” Loving felt the hands on his shoulders trembling. “Look, I’ve got to get out of here.”
Loving almost turned. “And suppose I don’t let you leave?”
“Then you don’t get the only lead you’re ever going to get!” he said, raising his voice. “I don’t know where Amber is, but I know how you can find her. And I’ll tell you. If you promise you won’t turn around. Won’t move a muscle, and will give me a full minute to get away.”
“And what makes you think I’d keep that promise?”
“Because I checked you out before I called. You’re a man of your word, that’s what I hear. Is that right?”
Loving didn’t answer.
“Will you keep the bargain?”
Loving sighed heavily. “I’ll keep the bargain. But why are you helpin’ me?”
“Because this has got to stop, man. I mean, it was fun at first. I really went for it. It appealed to my dark side, you know? Made me feel like I belonged. But this-what’s happened now-God. It’s just got to stop.”
“Can’t you stop it?”
The man laughed. “Me? Against him? Jesus!” Loving felt the hands lifting from his shoulders. “Look, I’m making tracks.”
“The lead!” Loving shouted. “You never gave me the lead!”
There was a moment of hesitation. “Martin’s Tavern, after dark. Through the back door, down the alley. Look for an escort service.”
“An escort service!”
“When you get there, ask for Lucille.” His hands rose off Loving’s shoulders. “I’m outta here.”
“Wait!”
“Remember your bargain!” the man hissed, and Loving could tell from the sound of his voice that he was already moving away.
Blast! He should look, he knew he should, any other investigator would. But the man had played him perfectly. He’d given his word. He wasn’t going to break it.
As soon as his watch told him the minute was up, Loving jumped to his feet and looked all around. No trace of the informant. Or, to be more accurate, no one he could positively identify as the informant, given the large number of people surrounding the Pool.
What had the man been babbling about? Who was this person he was so scared of? And what could those four party girls have been involved with that could lead to Veronica Cooper’s murder in the U.S. Senate?
He didn’t know. Didn’t have any idea. But at long last, he had a clue. Or a chance of one. If the man wasn’t totally whacked, or playing him. Or covering up something by leading Loving in the wrong direction. It was impossible to know.
Only one thing was certain. Tonight Ben was going to have to schlep his own gear back from the courtroom. Loving was going tavern-hopping.
E ven though the federal courts gave attorneys far less leeway during jury selection than the typical state court, and even though the questions were screened in advance and were asked by the judge himself, not the lawyers, jury selection was still an unbearably time-consuming process. This was a murder case, after all-potentially a capital murder case, and one involving a very well-known public figure. It was nearly impossible to find a juror who did not know the defendant or who was not familiar with the case. The best Ben and Christina could hope for was twelve people who claimed that they had not yet made up their minds as to his innocence or guilt and who would not do so until all the evidence was presented. Which was how it should be in every case, of course, but Ben wasn’t kidding himself that this was anything like every case.
The stickiest point of discussion, of course, was the video. Everyone had already seen it, but just in case they hadn’t, Prosecutor Padolino was desperate to show it to them during voir dire. Not for evidentiary purposes, of course-that would be wrong. He just wanted to be sure the jury wouldn’t be so shocked by the graphic content-especially when the network pixilated masking was removed-that they would be unable to adjudicate the case without bias. Yeah, right.
Ben did rather like the way the judge conducted the jury questioning. Judge Herndon was a tall man, lean, with a slow, studied expression reminiscent of Gary Cooper in High Noon. He knew Glancy was concerned that the judge would show partisan bias, but as he conducted his measured, careful jury questioning, Ben saw few indications of favoritism. Maybe it was because he knew the press was watching, but he appeared determined to observe each and every punctilio of federal criminal procedure.
Lawyers were forever shading and slanting their jury questions, attempting to preview their case during voir dire. None of that from the judge. He toed the line, never once giving any indication how he felt about any of the parties, the matters at issue, or even the damnable video. He asked his questions simply and for one purpose-to determine if anything in the venireperson’s background, beliefs, or personality would make him or her an unsuitable juror. Did they know any of the parties, object to the senator’s political positions, or have a past experience with romance in the workplace? He let the jurors talk back, even ask questions of their own-something an experienced trial attorney would never risk. Christina took down some of the jurors’ most noteworthy remarks:
“Any woman who wears underwear like that is asking for it. End of story.”
“Will the senator be questioned about his surgeries? Because I think he’s had some kind of surgery. And I’m not talking about circumcision.”
“I’d like to know what time of day it was. If it was during work hours, that means the taxpayer was paying for it. Maybe he was, too, I don’t know. But if it was the taxpayer, I’m angry.”
“Did the senator vote to send our boys to the Middle East? ’Cause if he voted for that one, you better get me off this jury right here and now.”
“Only thing I want to know is where the girl got that outfit. I mean, not that I would ever wear anything like that. I was just, you know. Curious.”
“Way I see it, them boys up in Washington been screwin’ us for years. What’s so special ’bout this one?”
In a few instances, the judge removed prospective jurors sui sponte. The woman who was way too interested in the deceased’s undergarments, for instance. But for the most part, he left it to the lawyers. After each round of questioning, Ben and Padolino approached the bench and quietly informed the judge who they wanted replaced. Ben took most of his cues from Christina-although he was able to deduce that the “angry taxpayer” needed to go on his own. Time and experience had proven to him that Christina had a preternatural gift for understanding people-far greater than his own. By the time he had a juror’s name down, Christina had figured out her age, socioeconomic background, political persuasion, sexual preference, and whether she was a cat person or a dog person. Christina wanted a jury composed principally of ailurophiles-cat people. He had no idea why. But he didn’t argue.
Eventually both sides used up their peremptories. After that, they had to come up with a good reason to remove a juror, persuasive arguments why an answer indicated bias. And they found that Judge Herndon was not easily persuaded. Maybe it was his usual resistance to prolonged jury selection; maybe it was because he knew the eyes of the world were on him and he was determined not to come off as a Judge Ito who let the lawyers push him around. Either way, eventually the questions and the challenges bottomed out and they had twelve jurors and four alternates.
“Opening statements at nine A.M. sharp,” the judge informed them. Then he thanked the jurors for their cooperation and gave them detailed preliminary instructions. They would be sequestered for the length of the trial.
“What do you think?” Ben asked as he returned to the defendant’s table. “Did we get a good jury?”
“I think you did the best you could with what we drew,” Christina said.
“What does that mean?” Glancy asked. “Do they like me or are they going to hang me out to dry?”
“My name’s Christina, not Sibyl,” she replied. “The outcome will depend on what happens when the witnesses take the stand.”
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t ask if the jurors were Republicans or Democrats,” Glancy groused. “That’s the most important question-certainly the most relevant. And the judge never asked it.”
“Because it is totally impermissible, even in this case,” Ben answered. “There are about a hundred cases on point. Courts have to follow precedent-previous rulings on the same issue. Even the Supreme Court.”
“So you’re telling me the Supreme Court followed precedent when they butted into the 2000 election and made Dubya the leader of the free world?”
Ben turned his eyes toward his legal pad. “Let’s stay focused on the case at hand, shall we?”
Of all the two-bit gin joints in the world, Loving mused to himself, this was about the only one Ben hadn’t already sent him to-always in the hope of rooting out the truth by exploiting Loving’s knack for worming information out of the bottom-feeders of society. Ben didn’t like bars, had a coughing fit whenever someone lit up, and couldn’t lie to save his soul, so he needed someone else to handle these assignments. Loving got that. But someday he was going to draw the line. That day would not be today, however. He wasn’t going to pass this one up just because of the décor.
Which was actually quite nice, as it turned out, a step up from the usual haunts he ventured into in search of unfound knowledge. Martin’s Tavern, in Georgetown on Wisconsin Avenue, was a national landmark dating back to 1933. The look of the place appealed to Loving-lots of dark stained wood, very colonial, from the booths to the long oak bar that flanked the north wall. And the waiters wore distinguished green jackets-pretty swank for a tavern.
Loving scanned the clientele as he passed through the building. Looked like a sports bar, except he saw a lot of people who might actually be capable of playing a sport rather than simply watching one on the tube from behind a mountain of six-packs. He wouldn’t mind stepping up to the bar for a quick quaff himself, but not while he was on duty. He had to keep his wits about him. As he’d learned long ago-when you’re working one of Ben’s cases, you should prepare for the unexpected. Which was of course, by definition, impossible.
He found the rear door and the alleyway his mysterious informant had mentioned without any trouble. It was dark and squalid and had a penetrating stench. Loving didn’t know how often the garbage was collected back here, but it wasn’t often enough. He kept tripping over trash can lids or stepping into squishy lumps he couldn’t identify, which was probably just as well. The alley seemed to cut through the better part of a city block, but most of the back doors weren’t labeled, so he had no way of knowing which one might lead to the purported escort service, much less to the mysterious Lucille. He might still be walking back and forth in that alley if he hadn’t spotted a man exiting quickly from one of the doors, hitching and adjusting his pants as he walked, a euphoric smile on his face.
Ah, Loving thought. One of those kinds of escort services.
He knocked on the door, wondering if he needed a secret knock or handshake. Fortunately, that didn’t prove necessary. The door opened a crack. A pair of dark female eyes became just barely visible. “Yeah?”
“I’m here to see Lucille,” Loving replied.
“Does she know you’re coming?”
“Darn! I forgot to call ahead. But-”
“She isn’t seeing any more clients tonight.”
“Are you sure? Maybe if you asked, she-”
“I’m sure. She… had a bad experience. Asked for the rest of the night off. But we have other escorts on duty tonight. What are your requirements?”
“My… uh, requirements?”
“What exactly were you looking for? We have other redheads. Other large-breasted women. Much larger, in fact.”
Loving squirmed. “No, it, uh, has to be Lucille.”
The crack in the door began to narrow. “Try again another night, cowboy. If you want to avoid disappointment, make an appointment.”
Loving thrust his toe forward, stopping the door.
The woman’s face turned cold. “Look, buddy, I’m not alone here. You may think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve got three guys inside just as big as you who’ll rip your-”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Loving assured her. “I just gotta talk to Lucille.”
“Then come back another night. There’s no way-”
“Tell her it’s about Amber.” It was a shot in the dark, but he had to try something. “Tell her I’m looking for Amber.”
The two coal-black eyes in the narrow slit stared at him for a long moment. A good thirty seconds passed before Loving heard the sound of the door chain being released.
“You can come inside. But stay in the lobby. I’ll ask Lucille if she’s up to it.” She held up a finger. “You better not be screwing with us.”
“Gosh, no,” Loving said. “I wouldn’t dream of… trying to screw with someone here. At the escort service.”
She gave him another long look. “Back in sixty seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”
Senator Glancy had recommended the Four Georges at the Georgetown Inn for dinner; he’d even made the reservation himself on Ben’s cell phone and told the maître d’ to put it on his tab. He wasn’t attending himself, since the federal marshals collected him as soon as the jury was dismissed, but Ben and Christina opted to take his recommendation-and his free meal. They were seated in the elegant and somewhat exclusive George II room-apparently senators had pull in this town, even when they were currently residing in a holding cell. The room was decorated in a desert motif: palm trees, or something that looked like them, brick-laid walls painted a sandy hue and ornamented with several variegated mosaics. They didn’t have to sit on the carpet or wear turbans, but the low tables and the belly-dancing music still conveyed the desired ambience.
“Heard anything from Loving?” Christina asked. She had changed into a turquoise dress with a hip-hugging waist that was positively lovely. Even some nice bling-a faux pearl necklace and earrings.
“Barely.” Ben was wearing the same suit he’d had on all day. Of course, he had only three, and the dry cleaning at the Watergate wasn’t that speedy, so he couldn’t afford to be extravagant. “He did leave me a message. Thinks he’s got some kind of lead on Veronica Cooper’s friends.”
“’Bout damn time, as my father used to say.” She flagged the waiter and asked him to refill her club soda. “You know how little we’ve got, and the prosecution has a mound of evidence. Not to mention public opinion-a general populace predisposed to convict. Everyone commentator and quidnunc in the city is talking about this case.”
“Because of the video?”
“Because this is a nation where news has been supplanted by gossip. Because most people would rather think the worst of their elected officials than the best.”
“There is that…”
“And I don’t care what the judge says in court. As soon as the jurors see that video, in its full and unexpurgated form, the burden of proof will be on us.”
“We don’t have to prove he’s a hero. Or even a nice guy. We just have to prove he’s not a murderer. I think we should all but ignore the video, admit the affair. Focus on the murder, the forensic evidence, the bizarre appearance of the corpse in the hideaway. Glancy’s alibi.”
“Padolino will do his darnedest to bust that alibi.”
“Just the same, that’s where we should concentrate our energy. That’s where Padolino has some holes in his case. We should make the most of it.” He fidgeted with his fork. “Did I mention… that’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing tonight. Have I seen it before?”
She flashed her usual fulgent smile. “This is what I always wear when we go someplace nice.”
“So that would mean…”
“You’ve seen it twice.”
“Well… it looks… particularly nice tonight.” He wanted to slap himself. Ben, you smooth talker. More talk like that and she’ll be putty in your hands.
“You’re sweet. But I’ve had it for years. It’s getting worn. I should go shopping.”
“Well, we are in DC. After the case is over…”
“Maybe if we win. And you actually collect a fee this time.”
“Christina…”
“Just joshing, partner.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You know I care nothing about monetary gain. Why else would I work with you?”
“I think our only danger is that Glancy will spend too much on associated counselors. How many people are technically a part of this defense team now?”
“I think we’re up to ten, counting the local counsel that have been assisting on the paperwork and document review, the DNA expert, and the appeals expert.”
“Both of whom are totally unnecessary at this time.”
She nodded her agreement. “My theory is that Glancy wants to have more lawyers than O. J. and Jacko combined. It’s an ego thing. And if he can afford it…”
“Whatever. Just so they’re invisible in the courtroom. I don’t want the jury to get the idea Glancy is trying to buy his way out of trouble.” He glanced at the list in the center of the table. “Did you want some wine?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Does this mean the Four Georges doesn’t stock chocolate milk?”
“Très amusing. I just thought you might like a little stress-reducer.” And as a matter of fact, yes, the waiter had whispered to him earlier that there was no chocolate milk, but she didn’t need to hear that. What she needed to hear… well, he knew perfectly well what she needed to hear. So why wasn’t he able to say it? “You know, Christina, I really… really appreciate your help on this case. You were invaluable in the courtroom today.”
“That’s what partners do.”
“Read jurors’ minds?”
“They complete each other. Make a whole greater than the sum of the parts. That’s true for… all kinds of partners.”
Well that was unsubtle, even for Christina, the Queen of Blunt. Ben cleared his throat and fiddled nervously with the menu until the waiter blessedly reappeared.
The menu selections were extremely rarefied for Ben’s taste, but he managed to order something he was pretty sure involved beef; Christina had the grilled salmon. After they’d given their order and the waiter poured the Beaujolais, Ben pitched various approaches to his opening statement to Christina. She didn’t like any of them. Too defensive, too exculpatory. The trick was to remind the jurors that this was about murder, not sex; to direct them to disregard the video without appearing to make excuses for it. “If I were you,” she advised, “I’d just come straight out the first time I addressed them and say-”
“Excuse me.”
Ben looked up and saw a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee standing next to the table beneath one of the pseudo-palm trees. He was staring at Ben with a crazed, walleyed expression. Ben didn’t know who the man was, but he was certain he’d seen him in the courtroom earlier. “Yes?”
“Are you two the lawyers defending Thomas Glancy?”
“We’re the lead trial counsel, yes.” Ben pondered. Reporter? Police officer? Autograph hound? “We’re working in affiliation with a number of-”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Uh, I’m… sorry, no.”
“Maybe this will refresh your memory?” Before Ben had a chance to react, the man had grabbed Ben’s wineglass and flung the drink into his face.
Ben reared backward, blinking, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. Great, he thought, now I’m down to two suits. Christina started to rise, probably planning to slug him, but Ben waved her back into her seat. The last thing they needed was salacious publicity on the eve of trial.
“So,” Ben said, looking up at him, “you’re… my dry cleaner?”
“I’m Darrin Cooper-Veronica Cooper’s father, you son of a bitch.” He spoke with such venom that spittle flew from his teeth. “Isn’t it interesting that you didn’t know? You’ve spent months looking for anything that might get that goddamn rapist off the hook, but you never bothered to talk to the victim’s family.”
“Actually,” Christina interjected, “I did contact Ms. Cooper’s family almost immediately after we took the case. I spoke to her mother; her sister declined to be interviewed.” She paused. “I was told that Veronica was raised in DC by her mother-that her parents were divorced and her father lived on the other coast and hadn’t seen her for years.”
“What the hell difference does that make?” He glared at Christina, bitter and angry. Ben not-so-subtly moved her wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “She was still my little girl.”
Ben tried to sound comforting. “Sir, I’ve never had children myself, but I can only imagine how devastating it must be to lose one.”
“Don’t give me that fake sympathetic bullshit. I won’t take it from the man who’s defending my little Ronnie’s killer.”
“Sir, you don’t know that.”
“The hell I don’t. Everyone in the country knows it.”
“If I’ve learned anything in my years of practice, it’s that appearances can be deceiving.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me. You think I don’t know why that monster hired you, Mr. Fancy High-Dollar Lawyer?”
Christina stifled a guffaw.
“You think I don’t know what goes on in courtrooms? Listen to me, buddy. I know the way the world works. I’ve watched Court TV.”
“I can understand your anger, sir. But I have to think that, deep down in your heart, you don’t want revenge. You want to know the truth.”
“I know the truth!” he bellowed, more than loud enough to attract the attention of the guests at the three other tables in the room, not to mention their waiter and the maître d’. Both were hovering on the fringe of the George II room, unsure how to handle the disturbance. “I know that goddamn rapist killed my little girl!”
“Look,” Ben said. He was starting to lose some patience himself. He’d come here to plot strategy, not to deal with importunate relatives of the deceased. “I’m sure you didn’t like what you saw in the video, but there is no evidence that their relationship was not consensual. To the contrary, it was obvious from her attire and manner and language that she was welcoming sex. She just didn’t-”
“You filthy pervert!” He lunged. Ben dove out of his chair. Cooper narrowly missed him, smashing the wicker chair, then crashing to the floor.
That was more than enough opening for the maître d’ to intervene, assisted by two large men who were either bouncers or the burliest guys this classy joint could find on the premises. They laid their hands firmly on Cooper’s shoulders, raised him to his feet, and dragged him away. He was dazed, but not so much that he couldn’t speak. “My little girl would never do that for anyone. He must’ve forced her to dress like that. Must’ve had some kind of hold on her. She would never act that way. Never!”
He continued ranting, all the way through the George III and the George Washington rooms, until happily Ben could hear him no more.
“Think he represents the viewpoint of the general populace,” Ben asked, “or just those immediately related to the victim?”
“Let’s hope the latter,” Christina said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just glad he didn’t meet us in a dark alley somewhere. Which would’ve been the logical thing to do,” he added, pausing thoughtfully, “if his goal really had been to hurt me.”
The inside of the escort service was disappointingly bland-sparse and functional. Where was the red wallpaper, the overstuffed sofa, the piano player with a garter around his upper arm? Bordellos just weren’t what they used to be. Or weren’t what they used to be in John Wayne movies, at any rate. Lucille’s room was equally inadequate-no lace, no vibrating or rotating bed, no mirrors on the ceiling. Resembled nothing on earth so much as a thirty-dollar room at a Ramada Inn. All very disappointing…
Except for Lucille herself. Lucille did not disappoint.
She was, as advertised, a large-bosomed woman, but then she was large all around. Not fat, but no petite supermodel, which was okay by Loving. He preferred women who still remembered how to use a knife and fork. She had huge curly red hair, like Christina’s times three, done up in a sort of B-52 style all on the top of her head. She had wrapped a bathrobe around herself before he came in. Judging from the lines under the terry-cloth robe-or relative lack thereof-he adjudged that there was not much in the way of clothing on her. She was young, maybe thirty, but there was a profound weariness about her eyes. Loving guessed that she’d been plying this trade for half her short life.
For someone who’d “had a bad experience that night,” she was uncommonly friendly. But then, Loving had noticed, girls with freckles were always friendly.
As soon as the dragon lady closed the door behind them, he opened his mouth to frame a question-but Lucille stopped him flat.
“Money up front. Two hundred big ones.”
Loving blinked. “Did she explain that I just wanted to talk?”
“So what else is new? Lot of guys just want to talk. Some of them even come in here and sleep. Doesn’t matter. I get paid by the hour, not the act.”
“And you get two hundred bucks an hour?”
“Is that so much? The lawyers in this town charge more. And don’t provide nearly so much service.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that one. With some regret, he pulled out his wallet and laid the money on the table. He couldn’t wait till he had to explain this expense to Jones.
“Good,” Lucille said, tucking the money into her robe pocket. “Now where’s my girl Amber?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I’m tryin’ to find her.”
“You a cop?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what?”
“Do I hafta say?”
“No. And I don’t have to talk, either.”
Loving frowned. “You heard about the Veronica Cooper murder?” He saw a light in her eyes that told him the answer was in the affirmative. “I’m workin’ for an attorney investigatin’ the case.” He opted not to identify which one.
“So what do you want from me?”
“I… I think Amber and Veronica were friends, right?”
Lucille didn’t answer.
“I was hopin’ Amber might be able to tell me somethin’ about Veronica, somethin’ we don’t already know, maybe even about who did it or why she was killed.”
“Why she was killed? Isn’t it obvious?” Lucille looked at him strangely. “You must be working for Glancy.”
“My boss is, yeah. And he doesn’t believe Glancy did the deed.”
“I’m sure he’s being paid good money to believe that.”
Loving shook his head firmly. “If my boss says he thinks someone is innocent, then he thinks someone is innocent. And he’s usually right.”
“So that’s it? You’re just looking to get your guy off?”
Loving hesitated. Obviously, something more was needed to loosen her tongue. “Well, I’m a little concerned. More than a little.”
“About what?”
“About Amber.” He took a shot. “Are you worried, too?”
Lucille slowly crossed the room, sat on the edge of her high-stacked bed, and crossed her legs, revealing a hint of hosiery. “Yeah. I’m real worried. I told the cops I was worried. But since no one’s found a body, no one seems to care.”
“I care,” Loving said, seizing his opportunity. “And if you’ll tell me what you know, I’ll do my best to find Amber. That’s a promise.”
Lucille nodded. “Fair enough. Where do we start?”
“How do you know Amber?”
“Amber works here. Used to, anyway.”
Loving felt his heart skip a beat. No wonder the dragon lady downstairs let him in. “Amber-worked for the escort service?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“Well-if she was runnin’ with a congressional intern…”
“They were kids. Very nonjudgmental. Too stupid to be judgmental, really. I don’t know how they all hooked up, that whole gang, but they had fun together, and that was what mattered to them. They didn’t care what anyone did to earn their bread. In fact, I suspect some of Amber’s friends had the misguided notion that this was a glamorous and exotic line of work.”
“And it ain’t?” Loving said, unable to resist scrutinizing the line of her figure beneath the robe.
“No, it ain’t. What, were you expecting to see Julia Roberts when you walked through the door? You can forget all that Pretty Woman BS. I’ll grant you, this is not the worst way to make a living. We’re in the service industry, that’s how I see it. We provide a service that is apparently much needed. Facilitating a valuable social exchange between two consenting adults.” She paused. “But it isn’t glamorous. And you’re not going to end up with Richard Gere.”
Loving drew her back to the main subject. “So you knew Amber well?”
“We had adjoining rooms. I was like her mother. I’m-a little older than she is.”
“You don’t look older.”
“You flatterer.” She slapped his knee with well-lacquered fingernails. “I knew we’d get along. I can make people, you know? And I liked you from the moment you walked into the room. Trusted you. I can’t say I get that feeling very often. But in my line of work, you get to know what people are like. Develop an instinct for it. You have to, if you’re going to survive long.”
“I’ll bet. So you knew Amber. And she knew Veronica?”
“They were friends. There were four of them, most nights-Veronica, Amber, Colleen, and… oh, what was her name? The mousy one.”
“Beatrice?”
“Yeah, that was it. Anyway, they liked to do the nightlife thing. But toward the end… I don’t know. I think maybe they were getting into something weird. Kinky, maybe.”
And this coming from a woman who worked at an escort service. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. And I asked, more than once. But Amber never gave me any details. Redecorated her room, though.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Sorry. Boss lady had it all cleared out after Amber was AWOL for two weeks. But it was lots of candles and stars and weird symbols. Used a lot of red paint. Wasn’t good for business-creeped the customers out, at least the ones who were sober.”
“What kinda symbols?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The main one was like this.” Using her index finger, she drew a small loop in the air, then crossed the bottom of the loop with two short lines. “I don’t know what that was supposed to mean. And she had this weird statue that she kept over her bed. Told me it was an incubus. You know what that is?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Neither did I, till she explained it. An incubus is a demon. Supposedly sneaks up on girls while they’re sleeping and has sex with them.”
“And she wanted this in her room?”
Lucille shrugged. “What can I tell you? Weird. I don’t know what it all meant. She started wearing lots of silver, jewelry and stuff. Dark lipstick. Big hoop earrings with an upside-down cross dangling in the center. And she started dressing in black-nothing but black.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Wish I did. The worst was when-when she told me she didn’t want to be Amber anymore.”
“She was gonna kill herself?”
“No. She was going to change her name. Said from now on I was supposed to call her Lilith. Lady Lilith, actually.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say. I didn’t ask. And I never followed her when she went out partying with those girls, though now I wish to God I had. I’d go get her myself if I knew where to look. Amber was such a good girl-so bubbly, happy, concerned about others. So full of life. But something happened to her. It’s like someone-or something-sucked all the energy out of her. The light in her eyes faded. She became dull, listless. She didn’t seem to care about anything anymore-including herself. She’d turned into a whole different kind of person.” She brushed her hand across her eyes. “May sound stupid but-I loved that girl. She reminded me of myself when I was a little younger and-you know. A little smaller.”
“Doesn’t sound stupid to me at all.” He reached forward and laid his hand gently on Lucille’s shoulder. To his surprise, she pressed her hand down on his.
“You’re good people.” She looked up, and Loving saw tears in her eyes. “Do you really think you can find my Amber?”
“I can’t promise nothin’. But I’ll do my best. And I’m not too shabby at findin’ things. Do you know the names of any of these clubs they frequented?” Lucille was still holding his hand.
“I know one. Found a matchbook in Amber’s room when I helped clean it out. Place called Stigmata. I think I heard her party girls mention it once or twice. I don’t know where it is.”
“I’ll find it.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, you just let me know, understand? And if you do find her-” Loving felt her hand press even tighter. “Would you bring her back here? Or have her call? Even if she’s moved on to some other life, which I wouldn’t blame her if she did. She had so much talent. Not like me. She could do better.”
“I think you’re sellin’ yourself short.”
“And I think you’re way too sweet. So would you do that for me? Make sure I know she’s okay?”
“It’s a promise.”
“Thank you.”
She wasn’t releasing his hand, and just standing there was getting somewhat awkward, so Loving sat beside her on the bed. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Depends on what the question is.”
“What happened tonight? Why did you decide… not to work?”
“Oh. It’s nothing that big. Par for the course, really. Tonight’s a big Georgetown party night.”
“Meaning…?”
“You know. Frats. Alumni. Lots of politicos. Come down here for a big whoop-de-do.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Usually it’s okay. And profitable. Lotta the time guys’ll pay for the whole night then fall asleep. They’ll be so drunk or drugged they won’t be able to… you know. Get what they came for. Which is always a pleasant development.”
“I see why you insist on being paid up front.”
“Yeah. But tonight I got some jerk who’d been freebasing. Cocaine. Usually the boss lady spots the druggies and won’t let them through the door. But in all the turmoil and excitement, this guy slipped through the cracks. Started running around the room, screaming that the devil was out to get him. He was gonna die and go to hell. Started breaking things. Hitting me. Nothing serious, but it shook me up pretty bad. Security boys got him out before he did any major damage, but still-”
“Musta scared the bejezus outta you.”
“Well, enough to call it a night.” She smiled. “How come I never get guys like you?”
Loving felt his face turning bright red. “I’m not really a party kinda guy.”
“You’ve got a nice wife at home, don’t you?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Someone let you go? Big mistake.”
“That was how I saw it, but I guess she disagreed.”
Lucille laughed. She brought a finger to the side of Loving’s face, then slowly traced a line down his neck. “You know, if you really don’t have a girl back home…”
“Yeah?”
She shrugged, creating a cascading ripple beneath her bathrobe that Loving had a hard time looking away from. “Well, I may not be as young as Amber.” She leaned closer to him. “But I’m way more experienced. And you seem like the kind of man who appreciates… experience.”
Loving stiffened. “Oh, well, I-couldn’t-”
“You couldn’t?”
“I mean-not that I couldn’t. I could. You’re darn right I could. If I wanted to.”
She appeared crestfallen. “You don’t want to?”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m just sayin’-” He paused, his head turning to one side. “What am I sayin’, anyway?”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, slowly pulling Loving toward her.
“Of that I have no doubt. But my boss wouldn’t approve.”
“Is that your final answer?”
Loving tumbled onto the bed beside her. “Hell, no. Just makin’ a statement for the record.”
She smiled. “I’m glad. After all, you did pay for the whole hour.” She loosened the terry-cloth tie and let her bathrobe fall. “And I would hate to see all that time go to waste.”
The waiter brought Ben a replacement chair, and he had almost managed to sit in it when he heard a familiar voice. “My, but they’ll let anyone in here, won’t they?”
Ben sprang to his feet. It was Marie Glancy. The senator’s wife.
“Are you referring to the guy they just hauled out of here, or me?”
She laughed, a little. Ben was glad to see it. He’d been talking and working with her on a regular basis these past five months, but this was the first time he recalled seeing her laugh, or even smile. “The former, I assure you.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” Ben said. “Would you like to join us?”
“Thanks, but I know you two have work to do. And I’m here with friends. They’re trying to be supportive. As if there was really anything they could do.”
“I appreciate you being in the courtroom today. As I told you, it’s very important that you be present, sitting in the gallery right behind your husband anytime the jury is around.”
“On the theory that, if I’ve forgiven him, then they should, too?”
Ben craned his neck awkwardly. This was not an easy subject to discuss, especially with the betrayed wife. “More along the lines of, what he did was a private matter, to be dealt with by family. Not by the press. Not by the public.”
“Ah. The Hillary defense.”
“Well…”
“Don’t worry, Ben. I understand. Totally. I won’t do anything to jeopardize Todd’s political ambitions.”
Or yours? Ben had heard whispers at the Senate that Marie-a Georgetown political science grad, top of her class-had aspirations that went beyond being a senator’s wife. Or even a first lady. She was not a naturally attractive woman, but she did the most she could with what she had, and Ben wondered if the ultimate result wasn’t the best, politically speaking. She seemed sturdy and competent, not flighty or self-obsessed. She was from a good, well-to-do, old-money, blueblood East Coast family, the sort of whom Ben’s mother would approve. Reportedly her family’s fortune, combined with the considerable riches of Todd’s own parents, gave Todd the stake he needed to build his career. Her reserved, cool demeanor was also a useful contrast to Todd’s more earthy Oklahoma personality. What was it Christina had said? Partners complete each other.
“How do you think he’s holding up?” Christina asked.
“I think he’s doing admirably, all things considered,” Marie replied. “I saw him before I came here, back in the slammer. I think he has been surprised by the harshness of the personal attacks on his character. He knows this is going to be a blow to his future plans. But he’s dealing.”
Ben nodded politely, but inside he was reeling. Since he’d come to DC, these people had never ceased to amaze him. The man was on trial for capital murder! But they rarely talked about the crime, much less the possible penalty. All they talked about were the political ramifications, as if this was just another scandal-the sort of thing every politician had to deal with at one time or another. Most of Ben’s clients were terrified about the potential effect of the trial on their personal freedom. The Glancys seemed principally concerned with the effect of the trial on their approval ratings.
“And how about you?” Ben rejoined. “How are you doing?”
“I’m dealing, too. This isn’t the first difficulty we’ve had. Probably won’t be the last. You learn to roll with the punches. And come up slugging.”
“I suppose you have to.”
“That’s exactly right. So why complain about it?”
“Still, I know these past few months have been… taxing. I’ve often thought criminal trials are harder on the accused’s families than on the accused.” Just as he had for the previous five months, Ben tried to warm up to the woman, but he found himself unequal to the task. Some things just couldn’t be forced, he supposed. He should admire her resolve, her resilience, her legerity and wit. Many a time he had wished the spouses of his clients had more of those qualities. But he never sensed that Marie was masterfully containing the emotions seething inside her. More like she was… strategizing.
“You’re doing a fine job taking care of Todd,” she continued, gracefully filling the gap when no one else had spoken. “He really admires you, you know.”
Ben did a double take. “Todd admires me?”
“Oh my, yes. Even before you came to represent him. He’d read about your cases or see you on television and he was so jealous. He’s often said he’d be happier if he’d remained at the DA’s office and stayed out of politics.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, frankly, so do I.” She winked. “Todd’s a political animal. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it. But you’re not, Ben. Anyone can see that at a glance. I think that’s what he admires most about you. I think that’s why he insisted that you be lead trial counsel. I’m sure you realize some of his advisers wanted him to go with high-dollar locals. ‘Money talks,’ that’s the shibboleth this town lives by. Everyone wanted him to hire better-known DC big-firm big shots.”
“I gathered as much.”
“But he didn’t. He has faith in you. As do I.” The food arrived. She shook Ben’s hand again, nodded at Christina, then left the room.
“Mind if I ask what you think of her?” Ben asked. Maybe Christina could assuage the uneasy feelings he had by offering a second opinion.
“I think she’s biding her time,” Christina said succinctly.
“Until this trial is over?”
“Until her husband’s political career is over. So she can begin hers.”
“So you believe the rumors.”
“It’s more than rumors, Ben. My sources tell me she’s already bought her comfortable but affordable town house in New York. She’s standing by her man now, because it’s the savvy thing to do. But as soon as he’s done playing politics, she’ll start.”
“Well, I suppose it’s none of our business. I should focus on the task at hand.”
“The opening statement dilemma?”
“Yes. I think I’ve figured out a solution to the problem.”
“Which is?”
“You do it.”
“Ben!”
“Don’t fret, Chris. You’ll be great.”
“Ben, you can’t just-”
“You’ll be great. I know you will. And that will give me more time to review the witness outlines. Let’s finish up here and get back to the hotel so you can start thinking it out. Though God knows, for what that hotel charges, they should write it for you.”
“You know, Ben,” Christina said, twirling a bite of salmon on her fork, “it is expensive, keeping two rooms at the Watergate. If you wanted, we could-”
“Move to that Motel 6 across the street? Maybe this weekend. We have too much to do tonight.”
“Ri-i-ight.”
Christina seemed faintly annoyed. Maybe he shouldn’t have dropped the opening on her at the last minute? Well, he couldn’t waste time worrying about it now. He’d been doing his best not to turn into a Valium case, but the immensity of this trial was overwhelming, and as always his insecurities were running high. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? He’d been flattered when Todd asked him to take the lead, but maybe it would’ve been better if he’d declined.
Ben had to put all that out of his mind. His client wasn’t the U.S. government; it was Todd Glancy. And despite everything he had learned these past months, he did not believe Todd was guilty of the crime. He was convinced of that.
Now all he had to do was convince twelve other people.
Loving stepped into the alleyway, hitching and adjusting his pants, a euphoric expression on his face. Well now, he thought, that was a surprising turn of events. Might’ve been the most pleasant surprise in the history of his employment with Kincaid & McCall. Who said a private investigator didn’t get any perks?
Should he go back through Martin’s Tavern, or try to find a street outlet? He had a hunch this alley eventually emptied onto Wisconsin and might well put him closer to his rental car. From there, he could make a few phone calls, then start looking for this Stigmata joint.
He wasn’t sure how much he’d accomplished, but at least he had some fresh information about Amber and one possible lead. He thought he was finally on the right track. And he’d made a new friend. It was always good to have friends.
Loving stopped. Had he heard something in the alley behind him? He turned and carefully scrutinized the darkness. It was hard to say with certainty, as pitch-black as it was here, but he didn’t see anything. Probably his imagination. No one could possibly know where he was-no one but his mysterious informant, Deep Throat. Could they?
He resumed walking. The sounds of traffic whizzed by at lightning speed. Given what Lucille had told him, they were probably on their way to some party. Freebasing cocaine. Jeez, the stupid things people did to themselves. He would never understand that. Or, for that matter, why a sweet girl with a home and a mother and a perfectly good name-
He froze in place. Okay, that time he definitely heard something.
“Who’s back there?” Loving barked. “You need somethin’?”
No answer.
Loving considered himself a solid sort, not easily given to flights of fancy. But this whole situation was starting to get under his skin.
He doubled his pace, just to be on the safe side. He could see the street now, and from there he’d find his car, then get his cell phone, and he’d check in with Jones and maybe even see if that club was open and-
The fist came out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. He had no time to duck, no chance to do anything to lessen the blow. Was it coming from ahead or behind? He wasn’t sure, even as the fist drove into the left side of his skull.
Though groggy, he tried to focus. “What… is it? Wha-”
He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the lid of a garbage can rushing toward his face, battering him on the forehead. The back of his head slammed against the brick wall. He fell to his knees.
“What’s-goin’-?” he mumbled, but it was no use. Consciousness was fading fast. He felt a hand grip the hair on the top of his head and knock him back against the wall one last time. After that, a deep black sleep shrouded his consciousness like fingers snuffing out the flame of a candle.
“L adies and gentlemen of the jury: when all is said and done, this is a case about violation, in all its most repellent forms. Personal, sexual violations, yes. But even more so, violation of the employer-employee relationship, violation of women’s rights. And perhaps most profoundly, violation of the public trust. Because as the evidence will show, the crime committed by the defendant, Todd K. Glancy, a United States senator, in the complex that is the seat, the very heart of our government, not only violated the poor young woman he abused and then murdered. Ultimately, Todd Glancy violated us all.”
Ben was so close to being on his feet he could feel his toes twitch. This was supposed to be the opening statement in a murder trial, not a long-winded exegesis of women’s rights in the workplace. Padolino was right on the line, almost but not quite verging from a permissible melodramatic summary of the crime to an impermissible extrapolation of the crime to unrelated issues-a plea to find the defendant guilty not based upon the evidence but to “send a message.” No doubt he had rewritten and rehearsed this opening endlessly, going just as far as he thought he could without being shut down.
“Let me apologize in advance for the unpleasant nature of some of the evidence I will be forced to present to you during the course of this trial. I don’t want to, but I have no choice. Justice demands it. Much of what you see-some videotaped evidence in particular-will shock you, will tear at the very core of your soul. As well it should. But it is important that you fully understand the relationships of the parties, of the killer to his victim, and his proven attitude and behavior toward her, so that you can see as clearly as I do what led to this twenty-two-year-old woman’s tragic death.”
As Ben had anticipated, even though this was a capital murder case, Padolino was much more interested in talking about the alleged sex crime evidenced by the video. His lurid topic allowed him to avoid the usual bathetic cries for justice, and his considerable speaking skill prevented this lengthy talk from having the soporific effect openings often had on juries anxious to get on to the evidence. Padolino stuck to his strengths-the video could not be refuted, and it was guaranteed to repel anyone who watched it. Proving the senator guilty of murder was a trickier matter.
“Veronica Cooper graduated from the University of Virginia with high honors, receiving a BA in political science. It had been her dream to work in the national arena, so you can imagine her delight when she was hired by the distinguished senator from Oklahoma, a man considered one of the most promising, most up-and-coming members of his party. And then imagine her dismay when she found that her new job, her dream, required more than intelligence and hard work. Imagine her horror when she learned, as the evidence will show, that the senator extracted far more than legislative work from his interns.”
Ben and Christina exchanged a glance. He was in effect arguing evidence of pattern or habit, that Glancy was an inveterate womanizer-evidence that could only be admissible given certain narrowly prescribed circumstances. But the irony was that he was arguing a pattern of sexual misconduct, which was not the crime for which Glancy was on trial. It was the crime for which Padolino intended to hang him, to make the jury despise him before the evidence relating to the murder was ever presented. Most of the opening proceeded in that manner. Ben was relieved when he detected the telltale signs-Padolino’s approach to the jury rail, the lowering of his voice and the lengthening of his dramatic pauses-that indicated he was coming to his conclusion. He knew when it was time to stop-when the jury members understood what you were going to do but were still hungry for the details, before they reached the point of rhetorical satiety.
“As the evidence will show, Senator Todd Glancy met his intern in a secluded part of the Russell Senate Office Building and forced her to perform a repulsive sex act, documented by graphic videotape. The tape was leaked, the man was exposed, and suddenly his entire future, all his political ambitions, rested in the hands of that twenty-two-year-old intern whom he had treated so shabbily. The evidence will show that he met with her and attempted to buy her goodwill, or at least her silence, before the inevitable media deluge descended upon her. And when she refused to cooperate, he met her in his private hideaway and killed her, in a violent, bloody fashion. Once more showing his callousness, his utter lack of respect for her as a person, he tossed her body onto his sofa and left her.” He paused. “And this from a man elected to the highest legislative body in this great land.”
Padolino leaned across the rail, getting as close to the jurors as the judge would allow, looking each of them directly in their eyes. “Does this man deserve to be punished? I should say so. Does he deserve the greatest punishment it is in your power to decree? Again, I must answer yes. Because the magnitude of his crime was great. And the magnitude of his violation was even greater.”
Loving awoke, head throbbing. Despite the darkness and the turbid haze swirling through his brain, he determined that he was affixed to a square-backed chair. He twisted a little each way, testing the degree to which he was bound. Damn tight, as it turned out. As his vision cleared, he was slowly able to make out the faint glint of silver emanating from his midsection.
Duct tape. Wouldn’t you know it. Thanks to George W. Bush, every crackpot in America now had a roll of duct tape handy. Loving himself kept a backwoods survival cabin, a stockpile of fresh water and canned goods, and invested only in gold coins, but even he wasn’t gullible enough to fall for the duct tape malarkey. Among other reasons, he knew that no matter how tightly you were taped, it was always possible to wiggle away-eventually. He could already feel some give around his right arm. There was a gap between the back of the chair and the back of his arm that was just loose enough to allow him to wriggle. Given enough time, he could get that arm free.
He continued twisting back and forth, but less than a minute later he heard the sound of a poorly oiled heavy metallic door opening and closing. The hollowness of the echo, combined with the visible concrete floor, suggested that he was in a large room-a warehouse, perhaps, or something like it.
He heard footsteps approaching. He reduced the wiggling, still doing his best to worm free, but careful not to let it become apparent.
A few moments later, a tall figure emerged from the darkness. He was about Loving’s age, maybe a little younger. Thirtysomething. Black hair, with streaks of brown, tied into a ponytail in the back. Stubble. Wearing a navy-blue jacket over a light blue buttondown shirt. Thin, wiry. Loving sensed a near-palpable tension bottled up, like a soda that had been shaken way too many times.
Loving decided to play it cool. “Thank goodness you’re here. Someone tied me up and left me, I dunno how long ago. Have you got somethin’ you could use to cut this tape?”
Loving was not surprised that the man didn’t rush to help him. But he had hoped for at least a wry chortle. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
“Who says I am?”
The man continued to stare at him. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
Could this be the man Deep Throat had been talking about? The one he was so scared of? “I’m not lookin’ for anyone. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m duct-taped to a chair.”
Loving could almost feel the man’s rage. His nostrils flared; his chest rose. And yet his voice remained perfectly modulated. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Loving said, trying a different tack. “It’s a job.”
“What have you learned so far?”
“Not much. Why d’you care?”
“I need to know everything you’ve learned.”
“And I need to take a leak, but at the moment neither one of us is gettin’ what we want, huh?”
The man stepped forward with such suddenness that it took Loving by surprise. “Don’t toy with me, asshole. I want to know what you’ve found out about Amber.”
“Sorry. That information’s strictly confidential. Rules of professional ethics.”
Like a jaguar finally permitted to pounce, the man sprang forward, lowering himself on one knee. A flash of metal illuminated his hand.
As he inched closer, he pushed the switchblade against Loving’s throat. “This is your last chance,” he growled. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
Christina had to give Padolino credit where due. He was a silver-tongued devil-heavy emphasis on the devil. He had written a magnificent opening, and delivered it to perfection, playing not only to the jury but also to the press corps he knew would carry his words to the millions of Americans following this high-profile case. Padolino was a gifted communicator.
Christina was not. Which was not to say she couldn’t talk to people-she could. But she didn’t have the fancy vocabulary, the silky tone, the square jaw, or even the earnest expression. Her strength was telling people what happened, straightforward and without embellishment. So that was what she did.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, at this point you may well be wondering what this case is all about, so let me help you out. Is this case about a sex crime? No. Is this case about sexual harassment in the workplace? No. Is this a recall election for a U.S. senator? No. This is a murder trial. So everything that doesn’t pertain to the murder-which would be about ninety-three percent of what the distinguished prosecutor just said-is not relevant. We all know about the videotape and we all know that there was an inappropriate”-she immediately wished she had said “illicit,” a stronger word but one that would not stir memories of Clinton and Lewinsky-“relationship. The defense will not even attempt to deny it. Not because we’re proud of it. Far from it. It was disgraceful, as the senator himself would be the first to tell you. We will not discuss or deny that because it has nothing to do with the murder. It gives you no information, not even a clue, as to who killed Veronica Cooper. And that’s what we’re gathered here today to determine. That’s the only thing that matters.”
She paused and took a breath. It was hard to read people at the same time she was speaking to them. That was why she always preferred to let Ben do the big speeches-so she would be free to watch, to observe the expressions on their faces, the tiny twitches, the slight but ever-so-important rise of an eyebrow. She thought they understood what she was saying, that the courtroom should be focused on the crime at hand, the murder. But she wasn’t at all sure they were receiving the subtext-that Padolino was manipulating them, using irrelevant matters to coerce a verdict based upon emotion rather than evidence.
“In his opening, the prosecutor made a great deal of the fact that the defendant is a U.S. senator, and I think perhaps that’s appropriate, although for entirely different reasons. Although I’m sure he did not intend it, Mr. Padolino seemed to be implying that Todd Glancy should be held to a higher standard because he is an elected official. I will suggest to you, ladies and gentlemen, that the man has already been held to a vastly higher degree of scrutiny, and abuse, because he is a U.S. senator. This case is permeated with politics. If, as the prosecutor tells you, Todd Glancy wielded such great power, that is all the more reason why political opponents might want to bring him down, might orchestrate a scandal-or even a murder-to reap the political benefit. This is not mere idle speculation. As you hear the evidence presented by the prosecution, never forget to ask yourself the basic questions that have remained unanswered, that the prosecution still cannot answer. Who leaked that incriminating videotape to the press? Why does such a videotape even exist? The fact that it does, and that it was deliberately planted to incriminate Senator Glancy, tells you that even before the murder occurred someone-or some group-was working against him. And if we know that such a person or group might initiate a sex scandal for political purposes, is it so difficult to believe they might also arrange a murder? Again, ask yourself the fundamental questions. Why was she killed in the U.S. Senate complex-one of the most conspicuous locations for a murder imaginable. Why was the body left in the senator’s own hideaway? Are we to believe the senator is so stupid he couldn’t come up with a less incriminating place to commit a murder and leave the corpse? With all due respect, the theory of the case presented by the prosecutor in his opening statement simply makes no sense.”
She took another deep breath. While not as smooth as the prosecutor, she spoke from the heart, and she hoped that it showed. Regardless of how bleak the case or how unsavory the client, she had never knowingly lied to a jury. She had to make them understand that. Not by what she said with her mouth. By what she said with her eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I fear this is likely to be a long case, a complex one, tiring and confusing and, in the end, difficult to resolve. But I can tell you these two things for certain. First, the burden of proof is on the prosecution, to prove not that the senator was a bad person, but that he committed murder. And I can tell you one other thing. No matter what happens, no matter how bleak the outlook, no matter what evidence is revealed-I will not lie to you. We, the defense, will not lie to you. Not a fib, not a white lie, not an exaggeration, not the slightest little taradiddle. We don’t have to. The prosecution cannot prove that Todd Glancy committed this murder.” She paused. “Because he didn’t.”
“Whoa, whoa, pilgrim, let’s calm down now,” Loving said, staring at the switchblade pressed against his larynx. “No need to get excited. You didn’t tell me this was urgent.”
“Stop messing with me!” The man brought his free hand around and clubbed Loving on the side of his head. It stung-especially given that his head was already pounding-but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it might’ve. “Make no mistake, you pissant, I will cut your throat if you don’t tell me what I want to know. Who hired you?”
Loving answered, but his response was so quiet the man couldn’t make it out. Instinctively, he leaned in closer.
And that was when Loving whipped his free arm around and clubbed the man on the side of the head. He tumbled backward. Loving grabbed his right hand, pressed his thumb down on the pressure point of the man’s wrist. His fingers flew open and Loving grabbed the knife. Before the man had a chance to recover, Loving had cut himself free from the chair. The man tried to scramble back to his feet but Loving, hunched over him and empowered with the knife, held him down with one hand. “Not so fast, buckaroo,” Loving said, shoving his face to the floor. “You know, I don’t mind being questioned. Pretty much comes with the job. Sometimes I even answer. But I do mind having a knife pressed against my throat. Even if you didn’t have the balls to cut me, you could’ve done serious damage just by accident.”
The man squirmed under the weight of Loving’s arm, but he couldn’t get loose. Couldn’t even come close.
“Might as well give it up,” Loving said. “I don’t need duct tape to keep you in line.” He grabbed the man’s collar and jerked him semi-upright. “Now, what’s the big idea-clubbin’ me over the head and tyin’ me up?”
“I-I-I needed to know what you know. About Amber.”
“And for that you were gonna slice me?”
“I needed to know why you were looking for her. I needed to know… anything about her. Everything about her.”
“Why?”
“Why should I tell you?” the man said, finding a sudden reservoir of defiance.
“Because I’m the guy holdin’ the knife now,” Loving replied. “And I’m not afraid to use it. So here’s your last chance, Buster Brown. Why were you pumpin’ me for information about Amber?”
“Because-Because-” The man closed his eyes, swallowed. “Because I’m looking for her, too.”
“And why are you looking for her?”
The man collapsed, his eyes watering up, his whole face transforming from anger to the darkest despair. “Because she’s my daughter.”
“I thought that went rather well,” Marshall Bressler told Ben as he wheeled his chair toward a table in the rear of the courthouse cafeteria. Judge Herndon had called for a two-hour lunch break before the prosecution called its first witness. They had intentionally chosen a remote table at the far end of the room; they didn’t want anyone, press or otherwise, eavesdropping. “I was surprised when you chose to let your partner deliver the opening, but she was a quite effective speaker.”
“I thought Christina was awesome,” Shandy said, her blond hair bobbing with youthful admiration. “Every time I stand up in front of a crowd of three people or more, I fall apart at the seams.”
“Christina is full of surprises, that much is certain. It was a strategy call,” Ben said. And the strategy was-don’t give the opening if you can’t think of one. “Christina has only been out of law school a few years, but she’s light-years ahead of most, including some who’ve practiced longer than I’ve been alive.”
“I don’t doubt it. Pardon me.” Marshall popped two blue pills in his mouth, then took a swig from a Styrofoam cup. “It’s for the pain. Little reminder from my accident. Anyway, I thought the opening was a major success. Made a real impact on the jury.”
“Unfortunately, I have to disagree.” Amanda Burton swirled up to them, a whirlwind with a clipboard. “I just caught the latest poll reports on CNN. They replayed the openings word for word, using actors reading transcripts. Subsequent surveys indicated that while most Americans thought Senator Glancy had hired himself some good attorneys, nothing that was said changed their minds.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said. “No one wants to admit to a pollster that they were swayed by something a lawyer said. Our national cynicism toward the legal profession runs too deep. Nonetheless, in the courtroom, with a real live sequestered jury, it may be a different story.”
Amanda shook her head, making an irritating, disdainful noise with her lips. “That’s not what any of my research data indicate. We’ve seen no movement.”
“Meaning-?”
“Meaning nothing you’ve done so far has changed the opinion of the general populace regarding the senator’s guilt or innocence. And as you well know, every poll taken since the crime occurred has indicated that a plurality of Americans believe he is probably guilty.”
“Again,” Ben insisted, “being on a jury is entirely different from being quizzed by an anonymous pollster. ‘Probably guilty’ doesn’t cut it in the courtroom, especially not when the attorneys are ramming ‘guilty beyond a reasonable doubt’ down your throat. Jurors don’t have the luxury of indulging in cynicism or first impressions. They have to weigh the evidence.”
“If jurors are human beings,” Amanda insisted testily, “and although I did not attend law school, I believe that they are-then they are just as subject to bias and character assassination as anyone. Not to mention stupidity.”
“I think juries get a bad rap,” Ben shot back. “My experience is that whether they’re manual laborers or rocket scientists, most jurors pay close attention and try to do the right thing.”
“And my experience,” Amanda said, now speaking in a tone that could be described as downright nasty, “is that most people are drones with no minds of their own who have to be told what the ‘right thing to do’ is. My sources indicate that we’re not achieving that goal. Your entire approach to this case has been misguided. You’ve got a confused, incoherent farrago of highbrow theories that no one understands. You need to get down and dirty. You need to hit this upcoming cop witness and hit him hard.”
“That would be a major tactical error.”
She pounded her fists against her forehead. “God! I told Todd not to let you run this thing. Why is it he always listens to me-except when it really matters? You cannot go back into that courtroom with some mousy milquetoast cross-examination. You have to come on strong.”
“That is, quite frankly, exactly wrong. The attack-dog approach will turn off the jurors, especially with a police witness.”
“I’m not asking, Kincaid. I’m telling.”
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your boss’s defense?”
“All I’m trying to do is prevent this case from becoming a complete PR disaster.”
“Tell you what,” Ben said, doing his best to retain his cool, “I won’t interfere in your PR work. And you stay the hell away from my trial.”
“Excuse me. What are we talking about?” It was Christina, suddenly appearing at the end of their table.
There was a long pause.
Ben finally filled the gap. “We were talking about what a great job you did on the opening.”
She beamed. “Really?”
Ben nodded. “You were magnificent.”
Amanda buried her nose in her clipboard.
“You’re Amber’s old man?” Loving said, floored.
“Yes!” he gasped. “Robert Daily. I’ve been looking for her for months, ever since she disappeared. The police have been worthless-Veronica Cooper is the only one they care about. So I’ve been searching on my own, every night, going every place she once went, talking to people, asking questions.”
Loving released the man’s collar. “And you heard I was lookin’ for her, too.”
“I have a source inside the escort joint. He told me you were asking questions about Amber.”
“So you bashed me over the head? Kidnapped me?”
“I just brought you here so we’d have a little privacy. It’s a storage locker. I rent it year-round. I just-I just-” His eyes began to well up. “I just want to know what happened to my little girl.”
Loving didn’t have much doubt, but it was always wise to be cautious. “Have you got some ID?”
The man reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet. He showed Loving his driver’s license, a host of credit cards. Sure enough-Robert Daily.
“Amber’s my only daughter. And I’ve always loved her. Even after she ran away from home.”
“When was that?”
“About a year ago. I eventually traced her to the escort service. Found out… how she’d been supporting herself.”
Loving felt a gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
“Tried to get her to come home, but she refused. Claimed she loved her life, partying all night, turning tricks. Then she fell in with those other girls, Veronica and her friends. Then it became even worse.”
“Worse than prostitution?”
“Much. That was when she started wearing all black-never anything but black. Got her tongue studded. Got tattoos, even in places… girls shouldn’t get tattoos. Had practically her whole back done-then started wearing backless dresses so everyone could see. And the tats were all weird stuff-symbols, signs, creepy occult crap. Last time I saw her, she wouldn’t even let me call her Amber.”
“Lilith,” Loving said.
“Yeah, that was it. Lady Lilith. I couldn’t get her to tell me much-she always ran away whenever I tried. Someone was messing with her head. And then one day, a little more than five months ago, she disappeared. Just like that. Not a trace of her. Not at the escort service, not anywhere else. Gone.”
“And you’ve been lookin’ for her ever since?”
Instead of rising, Daily tumbled back onto the concrete floor. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Her mother and I tried to be good parents. We did everything the books said. We didn’t smother her. We tried to stay involved with her life, her friends, and activities. But somehow… it all went wrong. We screwed up.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Loving said. He could see the man was on the edge. Some situations called for something other than his usual smashmouth approach. If Daily broke down, he’d be no use at all. “You can’t explain the things kids do, huh? ’Specially teenage girls.”
“I always told her I loved her. And now-now she’s gone. I’m afraid-so afraid-that-”
“Come on,” Loving said, lifting the man to his feet. “We’re both lookin’ for the same girl. Let’s work together, whaddya say?”
Daily brushed the dampness from his eyes. “Then-you know where she is?”
“No. But I got a lead. I was on my way when you bashed me over the head.” He smiled, then took the man squarely by the shoulders. “Now we can do it together.”
N ormally, in a case of this nature, for procedural reasons and to lay necessary evidentiary foundations, the first witness would be the person who discovered the body. Ben was not surprised, however, to find that Mr. Padolino deviated from standard procedure. The person who discovered the body, after all, was Shandy Craig, a member of the senator’s staff. She would undoubtedly be called in time, and the prosecutor would do his best to use her as an example of how the senator favored putting young and pretty girls on his staff. For his opening witness, however, when he made his initial impressions on the jury, he wanted a witness who was squarely and unquestionably on his team-so he skipped Shandy and went straight to one of the police officers called to the scene, homicide detective Lieutenant Porter Albertson.
Padolino quickly established the man’s credentials, his years of experience, and ran through the many commendations and promotions he had received for his work. The jury tolerated it, but it didn’t really interest them, and Padolino clearly understood that. A cop was a cop-get on to the good stuff.
“When did you arrive at Senator Glancy’s office?”
“About twelve thirty. Took us longer to get up there because of all the security precautions. We had to check our weapons, as well as anything else made of metal-down to the spare change in my pocket. They called back to the station to check us out. I kept telling the Capitol officers that a serious crime had been reported, but they didn’t care. They weren’t letting us in until they were certain we were who we said we were.”
“When you arrived at the senator’s office, what did you see?”
“Bedlam. It was a madhouse. People running like rabbits all over the place. The senator was gone and no one appeared to be in control. I’m accustomed to some disorientation after a major crime, but this was above and beyond the usual.”
“Were all the members of the senator’s staff present?”
“No. Some were at lunch. Some were down at the scene of the crime-the hideaway. And a couple were in their private offices, talking on the phone. Who they could be talking to at a time like that I have no idea.”
Ben watched the witness carefully as he testified. He seemed friendly, open, and helpful, with none of the brusqueness or defensiveness that he had displayed at the crime scene. Was Albertson putting on a show then, or now? He also seemed uncommonly garrulous for a police witness. Ben knew they were trained to answer questions directly and succinctly-without giving the defense any help by adding unnecessary information.
“Did you find the deceased?”
“After a few minutes, yes. I located Shandy Craig, the young blond intern who discovered the body.” Ben wondered if the descriptive term young blond was necessary, or even helpful. No, Albertson had been coached by the prosecutor to insert it, to remind the jurors that the senator was a cradle-robbing pervert. “She was really messed up, barely able to speak. Took forever, but I eventually got her to take us down to the basement hideaway.”
“The door was closed?”
“Ms. Craig had apparently taken one look, screamed, and then-”
“Objection,” Christina said, rising. “Lack of personal knowledge.”
“Sustained,” Judge Herndon said, in a tone that informed the jury that the objection was technically correct but of no importance whatsoever.
“But the door was closed, correct?” the prosecutor rejoined.
Christina didn’t bother sitting. “Objection. Leading.”
The prosecutor sighed wearily. Damn these defense attorneys and their constant attempts to enforce the rules. “I’ll rephrase. Please describe the state of the senator’s hideaway when you entered.”
“The door was closed,” Albertson said bluntly, obviously relieved to finally have it out.
“What did you do next?”
“Well, I opened the door, naturally.”
“And what did you find?”
“The dead, blood-soaked upended corpse of Veronica Cooper.”
There was a susurrous stir in the gallery, quiet, but no less chilling for it. Funny how that always happened, Ben thought, even though everyone present knew there had been a murder and knew how the body was found. When the fact of violent death is announced, a collective tremor runs through the assemblage.
Padolino winced slightly, as if he had not heard all this a hundred times. “Please describe her… position.”
“Her face was between the sofa cushions,” Albertson said, grimacing. “Facing me. She had been positioned so that her body fell behind her, against the wall. Like she was doing a headstand, but not very well. Her skirt was down, obviously, and she wasn’t wearing undergarments, so she was… exposed. Her blouse was torn, two buttons were missing, and it was pulled down below her shoulders. There was a huge bloody gash in her neck. Not that it was still bleeding-the blood was dried and coagulated by the time I saw her. There was a large puddle of blood on the floor beneath her.”
“Did her position seem… natural?”
Albertson looked up at his questioner. “Like she might’ve committed suicide by flinging her head into the sofa? No, it did not look natural. It looked like something I’d be surprised a contortionist could do. Like whoever left her there didn’t care about her in the least.”
“Objection,” Christina said. “The witness is making suppositions and characterizations, not testifying as to what he saw and heard.”
The judge made a dithering motion with his hand. “I think that comes… close enough to describing to the jury what he saw. Overruled.”
As she had been taught, Christina sat down without a frown or protest, as if it didn’t matter, or as if she had actually won the argument. Jurors were so easily confused by legal jargon; if you looked like you won, half of them would think you did.
“Did you find blood anywhere else in the hideaway?”
“No. We did a complete luminol wipedown. But we found no other traces of blood.”
“So it would be reasonable to conclude-”
“Objection,” Christina said, undaunted by her previous loss.
The judge didn’t need an explanation. “The witness will stick to his own personal knowledge. We don’t need any conclusions.”
“Of course, your honor.” Padolino adjusted his tie, then plowed ahead. “Lieutenant, I forgot to ask you earlier.” Sure you did, Columbo. “Was Senator Glancy present when you arrived at the hideaway?”
“No.”
“Was he there when you discovered the body?”
“No. We didn’t see him until perhaps twenty-five, thirty minutes later. Most of the forensics experts were on site by then, and we’d begun searching the place. He’d been paged, but apparently he wasn’t carrying his pager.”
“And how did he react?”
“He took it in stride.”
“What does that mean?”
“He said he was surprised, said he didn’t know anything about it. But he didn’t jump up and down or weep and wail or anything. He was very calm, especially considering the circumstances.” He paused. “Not how I’d react if I found a surprise corpse in my private room, I can tell you that.”
“Objection!” Christina said, turning on just the right amount of outrage.
The judge nodded. “I won’t warn you again, counselor. The witness’s testimony will be restricted to what he has seen and heard.”
“Of course,” Albertson said. “I’m very sorry, your honor.”
“I instruct the jury to disregard the witness’s last statement.” As if such thing were possible.
Padolino continued. “Did Senator Glancy say anything of interest?”
“I thought so. He said, ‘I-’”
“Objection!” Christina said, cutting him off. “Hearsay.”
“It’s an admission against interest,” Padolino replied. “Big-time.”
“Nonetheless, your honor, the circumstances surrounding the statement do not suggest trustworthiness. The senator had just suffered a great shock. He probably didn’t even realize-”
“From what I’ve heard,” Judge Herndon said, “the man still had his head together. And I wouldn’t buy that objection even if he hadn’t. Overruled.”
Christina sat down, expertly masking her disappointment. She hadn’t expected to win that objection, but on something this important it would be negligent not to make an effort.
“What he said was,” Albertson continued, “‘I tried to warn that girl.’”
This time, the reaction in the gallery was one of total silence. Ben preferred the murmurings. They were less ominous.
Padolino continued. “Did you find anything of interest during your search?”
“Yes. The forensics teams uncovered-”
Padolino was smart enough not to wait for the objection. “Excuse me, sir. I’m asking what you yourself may or may not have discovered.”
“Oh, right. The hideaway was pretty clean. Astonishingly clean, actually. Couldn’t even get fingerprints.”
Christina rose, but Padolino jumped in. “But you-Lieutenant Albertson. What did you find?”
“The only item of note that I found was the Gutenberg.”
Padolino wrinkled his forehead as if he didn’t understand. “Could you please explain what that is?”
“Sure. That’s what I soon learned the senator-and everyone on his staff-calls his appointment book. Big thick thing. Like a Filofax, only more so. It’s bound in black leather, and he’s apparently had it for many years, and it shows-it’s very worn. That’s why they call it the Gutenberg.”
“I see. A little joke. Did you find anything of interest in the, uh, Gutenberg?”
“Yes. Naturally, I opened it to the present day. I found that his committee had a meeting starting at nine that morning. A line down the side indicated he expected it to go well into the afternoon. Nonetheless, there was another entry, just below that one. I found he’d had a ten A.M. appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Well, as you’ll see, the book just says: 10:00, V. C.”
Another stir in the gallery, louder than before. This was a detail most of those present probably did not know; it hadn’t been in the papers.
“V. C.? As in Veronica Cooper.”
Albertson leaned back. “Well, I assume he wasn’t visiting with the Vietcong. For that matter, when I thumbed through the past month, I found numerous other meetings with V. C. Sometimes more than one a day.”
Padolino nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the defense table. “Your witness.”
Stigmata was nothing like Loving expected, but of course he’d never been to a Goth club and, for that matter, hoped to God there weren’t any back in Tulsatown. Practically everyone was done up in the manner that Lucille had described-silver jewelry, body piercings, dark hair, pale makeup, ruby-red or ebony-black lipstick. And in the apparel department-lots of black. Black tops, black bottoms. Black fishnet bodices. Black leather.
What bothered Loving most was that, save for the few skimpily dressed women, most of the crowd favored an androgynous style that made it uncomfortably difficult to tell if he was scrutinizing the curves of a male or female. Black was a concealing color, and the silver jewelry and body piercings seemed entirely unisex. Plus, everyone was wearing black mascara, way too much. Was that supposed to be sexy? Loving thought they looked like they’d escaped from Pirates of the Caribbean. Standing there in a white T-shirt and a Casaba baseball cap, he felt like a whitebread turkey in the middle of Harlem.
“So this is a party bar?” Loving asked.
“More like the Little Shop of Horrors,” Daily replied soberly. “And to think my daughter came here for kicks.” He was standing just beside Loving, but the music was so loud he had to shout.
The lighting was low-and most of it came from the blazing torches hanging on the sides of the faux-stone walls, giving the place the ambience of a medieval castle. Chains of human skulls were strung together like bunting across the walls. Loving assumed they were fakes, but still… creepy. Several bright white spotlights periodically shone back and forth across the dance floor, creating a strobe-like effect. It was disorienting, disturbing, and made Loving more than a little nauseated.
“We should talk to folks,” Loving said. “Let’s split up. Meet back here in an hour.”
Daily nodded, then headed off to the right, toward the dance floor. Loving pointed himself in the direction of the bar. Well, that was his lot in life, right?
Loving took a seat on the nearest bar stool. Given his fish-out-of-water appearance, he knew he’d have to work hard to get anyone to talk to him. He ordered a beer-which arrived in a medieval goblet with a pewter base depicting writhing naked figures. Just two stools down, he noticed a shapely young woman wearing-surprise!-black, top to bottom. Or so he first thought. On closer inspection via the mirror opposite the bar, he realized that a vast amount of what he initially took to be a body stocking was in fact black body paint, and that in reality she was not wearing much at all. Just black leather boots, a black sports bra, and, around her pelvis, a black leather thong.
“Howdy,” Loving said. The woman looked up at him, gave him a quick once-over, then returned her attention to her drink.
This could be challenging. He wasn’t going to get her attention with stupid bar glass stunts or by talking about dogs. He rummaged through his overcoat pockets, searching for something that might work in a joint like this. Until he found just the right thing. He pulled the parts out of his pocket, put both ends into place, let a few more minutes pass innocently by, then turned toward the woman in black and smiled.
“Wanna see a trick?”
“What?” she said, in a voice almost as husky as his. “Like you’re going to pull a quarter out of my ear or something?”
“No, no. Somethin’ much more interestin’.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself,” Loving said, but he went right on with his routine, checking out the corner of his eye to make sure she was watching. She was.
He pulled the large nail out of his pocket and pointed it toward his wrist.
“Oh, you might wanna scoot down a few seats,” Loving said pleasantly. “Sometimes the blood kind of splatters around.”
“What in the-”
“Think I can drive this iron spike through my wrist with my fist?”
Loving wasn’t sure how to read her expression, but she wasn’t turning away. “God, no. And even if you could-why?”
“I told you, it’s a trick.”
“Not one I care to see.”
“You never know. Can’t be worse than some of the stuff goin’ down on that dance floor. Here we go.” He poised the nail against his wrist and then, in a split second, brought his other fist down on the top of the nail, hard. The tip of a sharp bloody spike emerged from the other end of his wrist, piercing his shirt sleeve. Blood spurted in every direction.
“Oh my God,” the woman said, leaning away but not, Loving noticed, moving away. “Are you in pain? How can you do that?”
“Like I told you. It’s a trick.” With a swift gesture, he removed the collapsible nail from the top of his wrist and pulled the separate, spring-loaded fake spike tip-triggered by the impact of his blow to poke through the hole he’d already cut in his shirt and split open a bag of red Karo syrup. “Had you goin’, though, didn’t I?”
Despite herself, the woman smiled. “So… that isn’t really blood on your wrist?”
“Nah. Why?”
“Just… wondered.” She turned away. “You are one seriously twisted dude, mister.”
“Why else would I be here?”
“So you thought you’d win me over with that sick circus trick?”
“I dunno. Did it work?” He extended his hand.
Her grip was cold and limp. Loving didn’t get the impression she was trying to be rude. She just seemed to have a body temperature lower than most lizards. “I’m the Duchess.”
“Are you?” he replied. “I’m the Loving. You come here often?”
“Every night. But I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Yeah, it’s my first time. I didn’t know the dress code.” He noticed she had very long nails-not real, he hoped-predictably painted dark black. The red lines and glassiness of her eyes, her mildly slurred speech, her breath, all suggested to Loving that she was operating under the influence. Excessive amounts of alcohol. Or something.
“Actually, I’m here lookin’ for a friend,” he added. “Her name’s Amber. Amber Daily. Do you know her?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard that odd appellation.”
This from a woman who called herself the Duchess. “What about a girl called Lilith? Lady Lilith?”
Even though she tried to suppress it, he saw the flicker of recognition in the woman’s eyes.
“So you know her?”
“I’ve known a Lilith.”
“She’s twenty-two, sandy hair-or possibly black, when she comes here. Look, her dad gave me a picture.” He passed it to the Duchess.
She glanced at it, frowned, then passed it back, facedown. “She’s one of the Chosen.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s permitted up there.” She pointed a long dark nail upward and across the bar.
Just to the left of the central dance area, Loving spotted an interior staircase leading to a room on the second floor. There were wall-sized windows on either side of the door, but drapes pulled across them obscured the view. “And what goes on up there?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never been invited.”
“Is going upstairs a good thing?”
“It must be. Once a girl is chosen, you never see her down here again. You never see her at all.”
Christina came to the podium with a pretty good understanding of what she could get out of Lieutenant Albertson on cross and what she couldn’t. It wasn’t as if he were lying, after all. Slanting things to serve his prosecutorial masters, maybe. But his testimony was essentially accurate. She had to make what few points she could and then sit down.
“Let’s talk about the Gutenberg, Lieutenant. You said it memorialized many appointments scheduled with V. C. And you assumed that V. C. is Veronica Cooper.”
“Well, it stands to reason-”
“Did you investigate the possibility that V. C. could be someone else?”
“Given that I had a corpse bearing those initials right there in the hideaway-”
“In other words, no. You didn’t investigate the possibility that V. C. was anyone other than Veronica Cooper. You didn’t investigate at all.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you consider other possibilities?”
“Ma’am, when you’ve got a dead body right-”
“Are you familiar with Senator Collins of Minnesota?”
“I… think I’ve heard the name.”
“Are you aware that his first name is Vincent?”
Albertson pursed his lips. “No.”
“What about Senator Conrad from Alaska?”
“I… haven’t had the pleasure.”
“His first name is Verne. And he’s on the same Health Committee as Senator Glancy. I would imagine they talk quite often, wouldn’t you?”
“I… suppose.”
“Did you ever ask Senator Conrad if he’d had any of those meetings with Senator Glancy? Oh wait-since you didn’t even know who he was, I guess the answer to that would be no. Am I right?”
“I didn’t talk to Senator Conrad. I saw no reason to do so.”
“Because you’d already made up your mind who the guilty party was, long before you even began your so-called investigation. Probably the instant you entered Senator Glancy’s hideaway. He was the obvious suspect, and it’s always easiest to go with the obvious suspect. Are you by any chance a Republican, sir?”
“Check your coat?”
Loving and Daily whirled around and saw a young twentysomething man in a dark tuxedo and tails standing behind a counter. In total contrast to the rest of the club, he had red hair. And a lighthearted manner that was more twee than Transylvania. He almost smiled.
“It’s hot in there,” the man added, pointing to Daily. “Thought you might want to lose the jacket.”
“Right, right.” He shrugged off his navy-blue jacket and handed it to the man behind the counter.
“Mmm. Yummy, yummy.”
Daily did a double take. “Huh?”
The man pointed. “Blood.”
Daily glanced down and saw a dark red splatter on the right arm of his shirt. “Blast,” he muttered. “Scraped my arm in that alley, Loving. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone down easier.”
“My apologies.”
“Maybe I better keep the jacket.”
“Whatever you say,” the man replied, handing it back. “But you may be passing up your chance to make yourself Mr. Popular in there with the Gothettes.”
“I’ll take the risk.” Loving headed toward the dance floor, while Daily slipped back into his jacket. “Do I detect a certain wry tone in your voice?”
“Who, me?” the man said, pressing a hand against his chest. “Far be it. I just work here.”
“What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Well, in real life, it’s Joe. But in here-I’m Baron Orzny.”
“Pleased to meet you, Baron. So-you just work here. You’re not-”
“A member of this Gloomfest? No. Find me an opening at the Hard Rock Café and I’m gone.”
Daily grinned. “Not your kind of people?”
“Aw, they’re not that bad. Ever been to a biker bar?”
“No.”
“Well, this is better. Certainly more stylish. Just keep reminding yourself it’s all make-believe. Even when some of them seem to have forgotten.”
“How does a person turn into a… Goth?”
“It’s easy, man. Just remember the number one rule.”
“And that is?”
“Become clinically depressed. Or look like you are, anyway. No smiles permitted, except for the occasional throaty growl of sensual pleasure. After that, it’s all easy. Change your vocabulary. Instead of talking about ‘blow’ or ‘wingspan’ or ‘hotties,’ you talk about the ‘ethereal,’ or ‘ectoplasmic dimensions’ or ‘life force’-also known to the Goth elite as ‘psi.’ A name change is equally essential. ‘Heather’ is out. ‘Lucretia’ is fashionable. Long hair is good, especially if it impairs the vision or obscures the face. The dress code-well, that part is obvious enough. The popularity of tattoos and piercings is equally self-evident. The latest rage is to have some body part pierced no one else has yet thought to pierce-and my, hasn’t that led to some delightful spectacles.”
“But-why would anyone want to do this?”
“Evidently it’s fun, dude. I mean, look at them out there, writhing and twisting and doing that stuff they euphemistically call dancing. Mostly they just sort of sway-not in rhythm, but then this minor-key dirge-like music has no rhythm. Of course, they look ridiculous, but most of them are so stoned they don’t know the difference.”
Daily stiffened. “Stoned?”
“Look at the expressions on their faces. Look at their eyes. Do they seem normal to you? Maybe it’s just the booze, but…”
“I didn’t see anyone pushing on the dance floor.”
“You think they want to be arrested?”
“Tell me where it’s coming from.”
“I’m not so sure that would be smart.”
“Tell me!” Daily bellowed. As an afterthought, he added, quietly, “Please.”
Baron Orzny hesitated. “You’re looking for your daughter, aren’t you, man?”
Daily nodded slowly.
The Baron blew out his cheeks, checked to make sure no one was listening. “Thought so. That’s why I started talking to you in the first place. Look, the kind of action you’re talking about isn’t on the dance floor.”
“Then where is it?”
Baron Orzny pointed to the far end to the club, past the dance stage, to a staircase in the rear leading up to a room overlooking the club. “Owner has a private place up there. Very exclusive. Only a few are admitted-just his close buddies, the goon squad, and some very young, carefully chosen girls. Every night his people scour the floor looking for new meat. After a girl goes up there and disappears for a while-she’s like a whole different person. Changed. Personality, attitude, everything. And then they disappear.”
“Amber,” Daily said, under his breath. “How do I get up there?”
The Baron gave him a once-over. “Well, nothing personal, dude, but-I don’t think you do. You’re not really the owner’s type.”
“He’ll have to make an exception.”
“Hey!” He grabbed Daily’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid. He’s got all kinds of security.”
Daily’s teeth were set firmly together. “I’ll find a way.”
A lthough the ropes lining the granite courthouse staircase were still in place, Ben was pleased to see that the podium had been removed. The federal marshals delivered his client at a discreet location out of camera sight, and together they walked up the long steps.
“What,” Ben asked him, “no press conference today?”
Glancy smiled, adjusting the lie of his bright red necktie as he walked. “First rule of politics, Ben. Never repeat yourself. The first post-incarceration press conference is an event. After that, it’s yesterday’s news. Buzz Aldrin was the second man to walk on the face of the moon. You remember what he said?”
“No.”
“Which is exactly my point.” Glancy smiled, waved, even signed an autograph book, all without ever slowing or tempting the marshals to intervene. “I’ve been meaning to say something about your taste in attire, Ben. I gather you’re not exactly… up with the latest fashion trends?”
Ben tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “You think my suit is dated?”
“I think it’s carbon-dated. And isn’t that the same suit you wore on Monday?”
“I only have three. And one of them was stained by an outraged parent.”
Glancy made a tsking sound. “Don’t you realize you’ve been appearing on television constantly?”
“Yup. But I still only have three suits. And one of them was stained-”
Glancy held up his hands. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll talk to Shandy. She’s a wonderful girl, very devoted to me. She’s been organizing my wardrobe. And you and I are about the same size.”
“Thanks, but I’m perfectly happy with the clothes I’ve got.”
“I’m not.”
They passed through the massive front doors and headed toward the staircase. Elevators were too slow, too crowded, and too difficult for the marshals stalking them to control.
“I thought yesterday went rather well,” Glancy said. Once again, Ben was amazed by his serenity, his apparent absence of fear or concern. It was as if they were discussing the progress of the World Series, not his trial on capital murder charges. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes. Christina was magnificent. But of course, the prosecution is just getting started. Once they finish with the technical and forensic witnesses, they’ll bring on the fact witnesses. That’s when we have to be wary of surprises.”
“Well,” Glancy said, smiling, “I have a few surprises of my own.”
“Could you please describe the condition of the body when you first saw it?”
Dr. Emil Bukowsky was the senior coroner for the District of Columbia. Ben gathered that due to his senior status, it was usually one of his assistants, not he himself, who handled courtroom appearances. This time, however, the prosecutor was accepting no substitutes.
“I found the body just as Lieutenant Albertson described-her head between the sofa cushions and the rest of her body bent behind her. No one to my knowledge had touched her or in any way altered the crime scene. And I arrived barely an hour after the police did. I would’ve been there sooner, but I was carrying a kit filled with metallic instruments, many of them sharp, so I encountered the same problems with the Senate security officers that the detectives had.”
Padolino nodded. “Could you tell how long she had been dead?”
“I never attempt to make any precise estimates until the corpse is back in my laboratory and we’ve run a full battery of tests. There were, however, indications that she had not been dead for more than a few hours.”
“And what were these indications?”
Bukowsky turned slightly to face the jury. He was one of the better medical examiners Ben had encountered-in the courtroom, anyway. He could talk to the jury without making it obvious he was doing so, could explain his findings without reliance on jargon or sounding as if he was talking down to them. “The absence of a strong odor, for one thing. Lividity, for another. That’s the purplish skin mottling that occurs after death, when the cessation of heart functioning and gravity cause the blood to settle to the lower parts of a body. Unfortunately, in this case, I found that to be somewhat deceptive, given the position of the body and the fact that so much of the blood, most in fact, had escaped from the body.”
“Were you able to make any findings regarding lividity?”
“Yes. With the corpse in question, there was very little. It was only slightly present in her elbows, on the backs of her legs and around her shoulders-she was upside down, remember. So the time of death was no later than ten thirty that morning. Probably closer to ten.”
“Were you able to make any preliminary observations regarding the cause of death?”
“The blood loss immediately suggested exsanguination. It was only after further examination that I was able to confirm that she had bled to death. We did find unusually constricted vasoconstrictors in the GI tract and the kidneys. Her surface vessels had shut down-that’s caused by the absence of blood volume. She had a greatly heightened level of epinephrine and norepinephrine in the tissue samples we took, which also indicates a sharply reduced blood volume.”
“Was there anything unusual about the blood loss that you observed?”
“Yes. I noticed that much of the blood appeared to have dried from evaporation, rather than clotting.”
“And what did that tell you?”
“It told me that, despite the size of the gash in her neck, she bled slowly. Almost completely, but slowly.”
Ben could see the pained winces in the jury box. He didn’t blame them. Everyone wanted to believe that she had died quickly. It would suggest that she hadn’t suffered much.
“Could you please describe this large neck wound to the jury?”
“It was about six inches long-virtually the length of her right shoulder. And very deep. I even found markings on her clavicle-her collarbone. Marrow had actually seeped from the bone. Granted, her medical records showed the woman had some degree of osteoporosis-rare in someone that young, but not unheard of. Even then-to leave marks on the bone indicates a deep and severe injury.”
“Would you please tell the jury what you did next?”
“After the scene had been thoroughly photographed and searched, I instructed three of my assistants to place the corpse in a body bag for removal.”
“Were there any difficulties?”
“A few. Some of the blood had pooled under her buttocks, causing the body to stick to the wall when we tried to remove her. We had to be careful not to create any new injuries. But we managed it. And once we did, moving her was easy. I doubt if she weighed one hundred and ten pounds when she was alive. After all that blood and other fluid loss, she weighed considerably less.”
Again Ben saw the jury avert their eyes, as if somehow not looking at the coroner would alter what had happened.
“Once I had Ms. Cooper’s remains in my laboratory, I began a full battery of tests. Under magnification, I carefully examined each fragment of tissue from the wound, as well as the wound itself.”
“Could you determine what caused the injury?”
“Yes. I found that the edges of the neck wound were consistent with the use of a wide, sharp-edged instrument. A knife, most likely. Possibly a chopping knife.”
A knife? Ben pondered, not for the first time. How could anyone get a knife into the U.S. Senate?
“Did you discover anything else of note during the course of your examination?”
“I found evidence of recent sexual activity. Unfortunately, we were not able to recover any sperm or other fluids to perform a DNA analysis.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. When I took blood samples, I discovered that the woman had been given a significant dose of warfarin.”
“And what is that?”
“A chemical anticoagulant. It prevents blood clotting.”
“Is this something found naturally in the human body?”
“No. Not even in hemophiliacs. It had to be administered, and it explains a great deal. It significantly increased the likelihood that, absent medical intervention, she would bleed to death-especially given the size of the wound.”
“And-” Padolino actually stuttered as he asked the question. “-would Ms. Cooper have been conscious during this… slow death?”
He nodded sadly. “Almost to the end. Helpless, probably. But conscious.”
“And would she have experienced… great pain during this time?”
“Objection,” Ben said, grateful for a chance to interrupt the flow. “Lack of relevance.”
Judge Herndon nodded. “Sustained.” Whether she felt pain did not in any way relate to the question of who killed her or how or why, but Ben knew this was a Pyrrhic victory at best. Everyone already knew the answer to the question.
“We’ve been here for hours,” Daily said. “Feel at home yet?”
“Feel like I’ve stumbled into Cloud-Cuckoo-Land,” Loving grunted, recalling the book he’d been forced to read in his tenth and final year of schooling.
“Entrance is still guarded,” Daily noted, as he stared up at the two human Dobermans posted at the top of the stairway. “Same as last night.”
“Two on the outside of the door,” Loving observed. “At least two others on the inside.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can tell.”
Daily’s lips tightened. “Hell of a lot of protection just to keep the rabble out of your private suite.”
“I figure there’s somethin’ goin’ on up there other than dancin’.”
“You think-you think they’ve got Amber up there? You think they’ve got my little girl mixed up in some-some goddamn orgy?”
Loving gripped him tightly by the shoulders. “We don’t know. Let’s not let our imaginations go nuts here.”
“Can you get us in?”
“I can try.”
Loving felt eyeballs bearing down on him as soon as he took his first step upward, Daily just a few steps behind him. As soon as he reached the top, the two bulked-up bodyguards converged, blocking his access to the closed door.
“We’d like to go inside,” Loving announced. “Got a message for the boss.”
The two neckless brutes before him shook their heads in unison, left-right, left-right, like choreographed backup singers. “Gotta have an invitation,” the man on the left barked.
“I’ll just be a minute.” Loving started for the door.
They cut him off-forcibly. The sandy-haired hulk on the right put his hand on Loving’s broad chest and pushed him back, none too gently. “Gotta have an invitation.”
While they were talking, a young woman sashayed up the stairs and slid between them. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, if that. Dressed in the requisite black, her top was a sheer webbing, more transparent than panty hose, and her skirt was so short Loving could spot her thong without even trying.
“Do we know you?” the left guard asked her.
“He’s expecting me.”
They gave her a quick once-over and let her pass, then re-formed the blockade before Loving could take advantage of the opening.
“You got a party goin’ down in there?” Loving asked. “That’s cool. But I’m not plannin’ to party. I just-” He considered a moment. “I’m here to see Lilith.”
The flicker of recognition on both sets of eyes was unmistakable. They knew her.
“So she’s here?”
The bodyguard didn’t answer. “You still gotta have an invitation, pal.”
“That chick you just let in didn’t have an invitation.”
“Man, she was wearing her invitation. She’s one of the Chosen, or will be. You’re not. So run along before we have to-”
“Amber!” Daily shot forward, doing an end run around the thug on the left, then lunging for the door. But the guard was too quick for him. He blocked the entrance, catching Daily’s head like a softball and shoving it to the ground. Daily fell, hard.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Loving growled. “All he wants-”
He was cut off by a sudden cry from the guard. Daily had sunk his teeth into the man’s ankle. As he bent to swat his attacker away, Daily grabbed the guard’s leg and pushed him backward. The other guard turned toward him, fists clenched. This was foolish and futile and Loving knew it, but he couldn’t just stand there and let them kill his companion. He intercepted a kick aimed toward Daily’s head, then caught the guard’s fist in midair, squeezing it tightly until the guard backed down. Unfortunately, there was still the other guy, who wrapped his excessively muscled arm around Loving’s throat. Just as Loving was considering how to deal with that, the door opened, and two more bodyguards rushed out.
Just as he had predicted. They were so hosed.
“Whass goin’ down?” one of the new men asked.
“Nothin’ we can’t handle,” the guard with the lock around Loving said. As if to prove his point, he reared back one booted foot and rammed it into Daily’s face. His head whipped around so fast Loving was afraid he’d hear Daily’s neck crack. Blood spilled from his lips.
“Take them out the back way,” one of the new men grunted. He was taller than the others, and Loving got the impression he was in charge. At least of the goon squad. “Hurt ’em a little.”
“With pleasure,” said the sandy-haired one. His arm still wrapped around Loving’s throat, he pivoted Loving around and walked him to a ramp in the rear, forcing him down to the back of the dance floor. The other man grabbed Daily by the hair, lifted him to his feet, punched him again in the kidneys, then followed his cohort downstairs. They wormed their way behind the dance floor to an emergency exit that opened onto a back alleyway. Loving felt a stunning blow to his ribs, and then he was tumbling face-first into the slime and grime of the slick concrete pavement. Daily fell just behind him.
“And don’t come back,” one of them growled. The two guards wiped their hands, then began to laugh, loudly and heartily, as they let the door slam behind them.
“You okay?” Loving grunted, as soon as they were gone. He was checking his teeth. He thought they’d loosened a molar.
“I’ll live,” Daily answered, several beats later, wiping blood from his face.
“Why the hell did you do that? Do you like having your butt handed to you?”
“I need to see my daughter,” Daily said, through clenched teeth.
Loving sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
“We should call the police.”
“No.”
“Why not? The police could get past those jerkoffs.”
“But we’ve got no proof that any crime has been committed-”
“The drugs!”
“-and let’s face it, if the cops start roundin’ up drug users on the premises, they’re gonna get Amber, too. Dependin’ on how deep she’s into this, she might go away for a long time.”
Daily fell silent.
“Even if I rounded up an army of my own, by the time we got in, Amber would be gone. We need to enter without endin’ the party.”
“But how?”
“I’ve got an idea.” Loving pushed himself to his feet, his back complaining all the way. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a local number he’d had the foresight to memorize. “We’re not done here.”
During the break, Shandy Craig pumped Ben for information. Amanda Burton was present also, but after their contretemps of the day before, she’d been keeping her distance, which was okay by Ben.
“Do you think the coroner’s testimony hurt us?”
Ben shrugged. “He said nothing I didn’t expect. And I found some of what he didn’t say quite interesting.”
Shandy knotted her fingers together. “I don’t know how you can stand this. I’m so tense I can hardly bear it. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“You get used to it.” Which was a total lie. He hadn’t slept much the night before, either.
“I’ve been getting offers,” Shandy confided. “Other senators. Don’t stay on a sinking ship, they say. But-I don’t know-it just doesn’t feel right. Todd needs me.”
Todd, Ben noticed. Not Senator Glancy. Todd.
“By the way,” she added, “I brought you some suits.”
“I told Todd-”
“Oh, it’s no sweat. He has more suits than I have shoes. And some of the older ones he can’t wear anymore, anyway.” She lowered her voice a notch. “He’s put on a few pounds lately, as you’ve probably noticed.” Ben hadn’t. “Jail food, you know. Anyway, I think these will fit you just fine.”
“Listen, I neither need nor want-”
“He’ll be delighted to borrow them,” Christina said, appearing out of nowhere. “Such a generous offer. Ben has been needing some sartorial guidance.”
“That’s pretty rich, coming from you,” Ben said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shandy asked. “I think Christina is a very stylish dresser.”
Ben smiled. “You haven’t known her as long as I have.”
Ben rarely crossed hard on the medical witnesses. In his experience, they were usually careful in their testimony, not prone to exaggeration, and frankly too damn smart to mess around with. Dr. Bukowsky was no exception, but Ben had pored over the coroner’s various reports and records and he thought there was just a chance he might be able to do some good for his client. At any rate, in a case this desperate, he had to take every chance he had. It would either be a stunning triumph-or an abject failure.
“If I understand correctly, Doctor, you’ve placed the time of death after the start of Senator Glancy’s committee meeting that day.”
“Objection,” Padolino said. “This witness has no knowledge regarding any committee meetings.” The objection was sustained, as Ben knew it would be. Didn’t matter. He’d given the jury Senator Glancy’s alibi. They would remember it.
Technically, having established the alibi, he could sit down-what did it matter how death occurred, so long as they proved Glancy couldn’t have done it? But Ben knew better than to pass up an opportunity to poke holes in the prosecution’s case.
“You mentioned the large wound on the victim’s right shoulder, Doctor. Why didn’t you tell the jury about the other injury?”
The coroner blinked, leaned forward, as did several of the jurors. Very good. Ben was happiest when he knew people were paying attention.
“The other injury? I don’t recall…”
Ben raised a thick stapled document. “This is your final autopsy report, isn’t it?”
Bukowsky frowned. “Appears to be.”
Ben flipped through the pages. “Here it is. On page twenty-two. ‘Evidence of a small puncture wound barely a millimeter in width on the right jugular vein.’” He looked up. “That is what you wrote, isn’t it?”
“It was a tiny anomaly.”
“Meaning it was something you couldn’t explain.”
“I assume the vein was nicked by the knife-”
“Whoa, now. Let’s rein in the horses. Didn’t you tell the jury the murderer used a great big knife?”
“Yes, but-”
“How on earth could someone make such a small puncture wound with a thick chopping knife?”
“The woman bled to death. I can’t see that this could possibly have any importance-”
“You mean you don’t want it to have any importance, right? Because you can’t explain it.”
“Objection!” Padolino shouted.
Judge Herndon looked down sternly from the bench. “Mr. Kincaid, you will govern your conduct in accordance with the rules of decorum promulgated by this court. That kind of behavior might be acceptable in-” It was impossible to miss the note of derision in his voice. “-Oooo-kla-homa, but I will not tolerate it in my courtroom. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, sir. My apologies.” Jerk. He turned back to the witness. “The fact remains. You can’t explain the puncture mark.”
“As I said, the knife might’ve nicked the vein-”
“Come on, Doctor. Isn’t it far more likely that the vein was penetrated by something smaller than a great big chopping knife?”
“There’s no evidence that another weapon was used on the woman.”
“Sure, not now. Not after she’s been ripped to shreds. But isn’t it possible that there was evidence of another weapon before? Evidence that was obliterated by the slashing of her neck?”
“Your honor,” Padolino said, “I must protest. This is idle speculation.”
“An expert witness is allowed to offer an opinion, based upon his expertise,” Herndon answered. Ben was glad to see the judge wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge. “I’ll allow it.”
“All you have,” Bukowsky insisted, “is a tiny, easily dismissed puncture wound-”
“Is that all I have?” Ben flipped through a few more pages in the report. “I read on page twenty-six that there was a cut on her trachea.”
“Now, that could easily have been made by the knife.”
“Yes, it could have. But my medical experts tell me that if her trachea had been cut with a knife while she was still alive, she would’ve aspirated blood.” Now it was Ben’s turn to lean forward. “Isn’t that correct, Doctor?”
The doctor fell silent.
“I didn’t quite get your response, Dr. Bukowsky. If her trachea had been cut while she was still alive, wouldn’t she have aspirated blood?”
“It’s… possible.”
“Possible? It’s a medical certainty! But she didn’t aspirate blood, did she? Were there any traces of blood in her lungs?”
“No,” the doctor said succinctly.
“And that means-” Ben paused, making sure everyone was with him. “At the time this woman was slashed on the throat, she was already dead or dying.”
Bukowsky clearly was not prepared for this line of reasoning. “But-why would anyone cut her if she was already dead or dying?”
“To disguise the real manner in which she was killed, of course. Whatever it was that caused that puncture. The murderer obliterated the killing wound.”
“I can’t agree with that conclusion.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Your honor,” Padolino began.
Ben continued unabated. “Whether you agree or not, Doctor-you can’t rule the possibility out, can you? It is an explanation consistent with the medical evidence. Right?”
His lips pursed. His tongue slowed. “I suppose it is… possible. But-”
“That’s all I wanted to hear. Thank you for your candor, Doctor. No more questions.”
After several failed attempts, Loving finally managed to get her on the phone.
“Lucille?”
“Well, hello there, sugah. Didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon. But I can’t say that I mind. You wanna come-”
“It’s about Amber.”
Her voice took on an instantly sober tone. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get to her.”
Lucille didn’t hesitate. “What do you need me to do?”
Loving gave her the address. “We’ll meet you out front. And Lucille?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t dress like you normally would. You gotta wear black-like the stuff Amber liked the last few times you saw her. And it needs to be kinda… trashy.”
“Trashy poor, or trashy I-want-you-inside-my-pants-right-now?”
“Uhh… the latter, I think.”
“Can do, sugah. Be there in an hour.” She rang off.
Loving tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket.
“What was all that about?” Daily asked. “Who was that?”
Loving allowed himself a small smile. “Our ticket inside.”
A fter the coroner finished testifying, Padolino filled the day with brief, legally important but essentially uninteresting testimony, and Ben knew why. He wanted the jury fresh when he delivered his big wham-bam slammer. He’d been building up to it since jury selection-before, actually.
The video. Ben unsuccessfully had tried every motion imaginable to get it suppressed. There was no way to convince the judge that it wasn’t relevant-since it so clearly was. To be sure, all but two of the jurors admitted that they had already seen the video-at least the somewhat expurgated televised version-and Ben very much suspected the other two had as well but didn’t want to admit it because they feared it would get them booted. Didn’t matter. To see some lascivious video on television about famous people you don’t know is an event perhaps worthy of comment, but hardly a life-changing event. To see that same video in a court of law, with one of the featured players sitting right before you and the other one dead, is an entirely different matter.
Doing his time-filling belt-and-suspenders routine, Padolino called a barrage of technical experts: two hair techs, a fiber fiend, and a fingerprint specialist. They had all analyzed trace evidence in the hideaway and told the jury the same thing-Veronica Cooper had been killed there, and Todd Glancy had been present, probably on several occasions. Christina handled the crosses and did a fine job; Ben knew from experience that there was nothing on earth harder than crossing an expert. Just when you had them trapped, they hauled out some scientific gobbledygook and slithered to safety. Better to leave the jury confused than admit defeat. Christina kept them all on a short leash, but the only thing she couldn’t do was change the undisputed facts. A clear picture emerged: Glancy arranged a meeting with Cooper in his hideaway to talk about the newly erupted scandal, maybe to pay her off, maybe to buy her silence some other way. When it didn’t work, he killed her. Then he washed up and went back to work. The whole thing could’ve been done in fifteen minutes.
Glancy’s only hope was his alibi. He had been at that committee meeting at the time the coroner claimed the murder occurred. As long as the alibi held, as long as the prosecution couldn’t establish Opportunity, they still got game. But if they lost that, no amount of defense fancy footwork could bail them out.
Padolino called Everett Scott to the witness stand. As the jury soon learned, he was an off-air reporter for C-SPAN and had been for almost eight years.
“Mr. Scott, how did the videotape that has been entered into evidence as Prosecution Exhibit Twenty-three come into your possession?”
“It arrived in the mail.”
“Did you have to sign for it?”
“No. It just showed up in my box with the bills and the advertising flyers.” Scott was a thin man with glasses, long gangly arms, and brownish hair that he combed straight back from his face. A bit of a nebbish, really, Ben thought. But he hadn’t expected a C-SPAN reporter to come off like Tom Cruise.
“Did the envelope bear a return address?”
“It did not.”
“Was there a postmark?”
He hesitated before answering. “It had a DC postmark.”
“An informant, perhaps?”
Scott did not reply.
“Mr. Scott,” Padolino continued, “do you know who sent you the videotape?”
Again the hesitation. “I… do not know for certain who sent me the tape, no.”
“But you have some thoughts about who might have sent it?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Calls for speculation.”
Judge Herndon batted his pencil on his desk. “Well, I suppose that depends on the amount of evidence the witness has in support of his theory.” He swiveled around to face Scott. “How sure are you that you know who sent it?”
Scott swallowed. “Your honor, I must respectfully decline to answer that question, or any other questions of that nature.”
“You’re pleading the Fifth?”
“I’m pleading a journalist’s First Amendment right to refuse to identify his sources.”
“That right, as I’m sure you know, is not one always recognized by the courts.”
“I do know that.” Scott pressed his hands together, wringing them. “But I won’t reveal my sources.”
“But if you’re not certain-”
“Guessing would be even worse. I would be reduced to identifying numerous potential sources and contacts at the U.S. Senate, which would make it impossible for me to continue to do my job.”
Undoubtedly true, Ben thought, in this era in which journalists ran with stories obtained from unnamed sources or insiders who “did not wish to be identified.” Scott would lose more than just his sources if he named one. He’d become a pariah in the journalistic community.
Herndon leaned back and stared at the witness. “You’re not going to back off, are you?”
“No, sir. I am not.”
“Very well.” He turned back to Padolino. “Move on to something else, Mr. Prosecutor.” He paused. “I’ll decide later whether to impose sanctions for contempt.”
Padolino nodded and shuffled on to his next index card. “Did you take any actions to verify the accuracy of the tape?”
“I certainly did,” Scott replied. “I would never recommend airing something like that unless I knew it was genuine.”
“Please tell the jury what you did.”
“We have our own voice analyzer in the C-SPAN office building. So I drummed up some old footage of Senator Glancy giving a speech, then compared the voice print with that of the man speaking in the videotape.”
“And the result?”
“They matched. Perfectly. There was no doubt that Senator Glancy was the man in the tape. And by slowing the tape down frame by frame, we were able to capture a full-face photo of the woman whom he was with. With that photo,” Scott continued, “we were able to confirm that his, um, companion was Veronica Cooper, an intern working in Glancy’s office. At that point, the newsworthiness of the video was unquestionable.”
“And did it bother you that you didn’t know who had sent you the tape?”
Scott shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I would’ve rather known my source, but I’d confirmed that it was accurate information. So regardless of who the whistle-blower was, I realized the American people had a right to know about this… questionable conduct by an elected official.”
“Indeed they do.” Padolino looked up toward the bench. “Your honor, with your permission, may we lower the lights? It’s time to show the video.”
It seemed to take forever. Loving sat at the bar, nursing a 7Up, waiting as patiently as possible. A woman much older than he was sat on a stool behind him in between two girlfriends, all of them decked out in black.
“I was okay when Mark got the tongue stud,” the woman was saying. Loving tried to block her voice out, but she had become his personal mosquito who wouldn’t be swatted. “And then he got the navel stud, the nipple ring. I put up with it. But when he had his thing pierced-I mean, that’s just gross.”
“Why are you so uppity?” one of her friends said. “You had your boobs done.”
“I did not have my boobs done.”
“Oh, you so did.”
“If I had my boobs done, I would’ve had ’em done a hell of a lot better than this.”
“I liked Mark,” the other friend said. “He was cute. Kinda like John Cusack, except fatter.”
“And with a stud in his thing. I’m pretty sure John Cusack doesn’t have that.”
“And how would you know?”
Dear God, Loving thought, his eyes toward the heavens, I know I’ve done some evil deeds in my time, but surely never anything bad enough to deserve this. Where is she?
A high-pitched voice sang into his ear, “Here I come to save the day-y-y-y-y-y!”
Loving whirled around. Lucille.
“Will this do?” she said, patting the back of her head and shaking her hips in her best Mae West imitation.
“I kinda think so,” Loving answered. She was decked out in black-black fishnet, mostly, with a leather skirt and strapless top. As if her hair weren’t red enough already, she’d put on a big Lillie Langtry-style wig. She was wearing makeup twice as heavy as before, dark black lipstick and eyeliner. Some kind of glitter was streaked through her hair, and the black hip boots were a nice touch. She was an ample girl, perhaps not a born beauty, but she knew how to work it. And that was what they needed at the moment. “Man would have to be made of stone to say no to that.”
“Still the flatterer.” She tweaked Loving’s cheek. “Shall we go for it?”
Loving showed her the way to the stairway leading up to the private room. The two guards posted outside were new, not the two who had booted him and Daily out on their first attempt, which was good. It would make this a little easier.
Lucille began sashaying up the stairs, shaking her hips, allowing her already too-short skirt to creep up with every step. Loving and Daily stayed a few steps behind. As before, as soon as they neared the top, the two guards converged in front of the door.
“Gotta have an invitation,” the guard on the right said.
“He’s expecting me,” she said, following Loving’s coaching.
The guard gave her the once-over and shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing you around before.”
“Trust me, sugah. I don’t get dolled up like this for my own amusement. I’m one of the Chosen.”
Apparently she fit the mold. He tilted his head toward Loving and Daily. “What about those two?”
“They come with me.”
“I don’t think so. Not his type.”
“He’ll like what they brought him.”
“And what would that be?”
She singsonged her reply. “A little pick-me-up. Might be enough for you, too. Par-tay time.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed slightly. He turned to his partner. “I don’t know about this.”
Lucille brushed her hand down his chest, stopping just below his belt. “Play your cards right, sweetcakes, and I might have a little something for you, too.”
He frowned, shrugged, then stood to the side.
Lucille opened the door. Loving and Daily followed in behind her.
They were inside.
At least Ben managed to thwart Padolino’s plan to haul in a big-screen TV. He was still certain the jurors had all seen the video before, but no one outside the legal system and the C-SPAN offices had seen it like this-with no deletions from the sound track, without the pixilated blurring of Veronica Cooper’s bared breasts or Senator Glancy’s insistent genitalia. It was almost like a scene out of A Clockwork Orange; the entire room was forced to watch a porn video that was not the least bit sexy, but thoroughly repulsive. When they reached the part where Veronica began making the hideous gagging noises, Ben thought several of the jurors were going to be sick.
The reaction from the gallery was worse. When it was over, Marie Glancy rose to her feet and ran out of the courtroom, her hand covering her mouth. Ben couldn’t fault her for being upset. But showing the jury that she was upset effectively undid what little may have been accomplished by positioning her behind her husband, creating a show of support that all sixteen jurors now knew was a huge lie. Her hasty exit from her husband’s side could be more damaging to their case than the tape itself.
After the proceedings adjourned, Marshall Bressler led the defense team out of the courtroom, wheeling his chair with a fierce intensity. “You’re not going to cross?”
Ben shook his head. “No point. The reporter knows nothing I want the jury to hear. Best to get the damn tape out of their minds as soon as possible and move on to something else.”
“Probably a smart move,” Bressler muttered. “That man has had it in for Todd for years.”
“Who?” Ben asked. “Padolino?”
“No. The reporter. Scott.” He shot a quick glance over his shoulder. “Goes back to when Scott was covering the committee Todd chaired when the Democrats were in power and they were considering that health insurance bill. About seven years ago. You remember the one. Would’ve guaranteed coverage nationwide for anyone in need, mandatory coverage of controversial therapies for terminally ill patients. Scott’s a bleeding-heart liberal and he really wanted it passed. But Todd buried it in committee-it was an election year and he felt he had no choice. Scott’s been biding his time ever since, waiting for a chance to get back at Todd. Hell, he probably made that tape himself.”
Ben’s brow furrowed. He knew that Bressler was inveterately loyal to his senator, but this was sounding a little paranoid-more like one of Loving’s conspiracy theories than anything that could really happen. “Big risk to take just to smear a senator.”
“Compared to what? The push-polls Lee Atwater orchestrated to plant the rumor that John McCain’s adopted Bangladeshi daughter was actually a bastard he sired in Vietnam? The out-of-state thugs Tom DeLay imported into Florida to screw up the 2000 recount? The forged letter Nixon’s people used to push Muskie out of the race? You’re not in Oklahoma anymore, kiddo. This is the big time. People here play for keeps.”
“Hey, Kincaid!”
Ben saw the fist hurtling toward his face and jumped back just in time. His assailant tumbled forward, knocking Ben backward. Ben tried to scramble to his feet, but the man came at him again, this time landing a punch square in his stomach. Pain radiated through Ben’s body. He tried to defend himself, but he was already wobbling and the sudden movement made him lose his balance. He tumbled back onto the floor, landing hard on the seat of his borrowed trousers.
“Defend this, asshole.” The attacker reared back to deliver a swift kick to Ben’s ribs, but before he had a chance, he was knocked to the ground-by Marshall Bressler’s wheelchair. The man flew forward and hit the hard marble floor face-first. He groaned, unsuccessfully trying to push himself to his knees. A few moments later, two security officers arrived at the scene and grabbed him, cuffing his hands behind his back.
Ben rose, clutching his aching stomach. “Nice work with the chair, Marshall. You really know how to make that thing move.”
He smiled a little. “It’s my legs that are shot, not my arms. Who is this creep, anyway?”
Ben took a long look. “Darrin Cooper. We met at a restaurant a few nights ago.”
“Is he…?”
“Yeah. Veronica Cooper’s father.”
“Oh.” Much of the anger drained from Bressler’s face. “Well, that’s different.”
“Yeah.”
One of the security guards addressed Ben. “We’ll take him to our holding cell, sir. But we’ll need you to come in and sign a complaint.”
Ben waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to press charges.”
The guard stiffened. “Sir, this is a federal courthouse. We take any threat to security very seriously. We can’t allow-”
“I’m not pressing charges,” Ben said firmly. “Just don’t let the man in again, okay?”
The guard frowned, obviously not happy. “As you wish, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“This isn’t over, Kincaid,” Cooper snarled, glaring with his weird walleyed expression. “You can’t go on working for the devil forever. There will be a reckoning!”
“With all due respect,” Ben replied, “I think you need some grief counseling. In the worst possible way. I hope you’ll take this chance I’ve given you to get some.”
“Don’t pretend kindness to me. You’re doing Satan’s work. Helping the man who butchered my little girl!”
Eventually the guards hauled Cooper out of earshot.
“Is that smart?” Bressler asked. “Not preferring charges? He doesn’t have to get into the courtroom to get to you. How long till he shows up again to deliver another fist-o-gram?”
“The man lost his daughter,” Ben said simply.
“The man barely knew his daughter,” Christina interjected.
Ben nodded. “And that probably makes it worse.”
Although there were several people in the private apartment, none of them looked up when Lucille entered, Loving and Daily close behind. In fact, no one even seemed to notice. They were in worlds of their own.
Loving heard a stream of air escape from Daily’s lips. “Amber,” he whispered.
There was a long sofa in the center of the room, parallel to a glass-topped coffee table littered with spoons and bongs and all kinds of drug paraphernalia. Various overstuffed chairs seemed randomly scattered throughout the room, most of them bearing men or mostly naked women-correction: girls-sprawled across them, all of the girls bearing heavy-lidded expressions, focused intently on some far-off place. One of them was bent forward over the back of a chair; the man standing behind had her hair in his fist and was pounding her with a steady, nauseating rhythm.
On the sofa, a thin, ashen-complexioned man sat with his legs crossed, a relaxed smile on his face, staring at nothing. Lying beside him, with her head buried in his lap, was a young woman wearing a man’s shirt, naked from the waist down. Loving recognized her from the pictures he’d seen. It was Amber.
“My God,” Daily whispered. He seemed unable to move, barely able to speak.
“It’s like goddamn Reefer Madness,” Lucille said under her breath.
Loving peered across the room, sickened, stunned, wondering what to do first, or next, or at all. The guards posted on the inside of the room were ignoring them, just as they no doubt had been trained to ignore everything that went on in here. But he didn’t kid himself that he could get Amber out. He’d never make it to the stairs.
And the other problem was that Amber so clearly did not want out.
“Goddammit!” shouted the man behind the chair. Apparently he’d finished. “God, Vicky, that’s good. You want some of this, Randy?”
The man on the sofa did not alter his placid expression. “Been there, done that.”
“How ’bout yours? She ready to go again?”
“What do you think, my darling?” He put his finger under Amber’s chin and turned her head to face him. “Ready for some sloppy seconds?”
Loving held Daily back with the flat of his hand.
She squirmed and stretched like a kitten, her eyes barely open. “Don’t… know…”
“Daddy’ll give you a little something more. Just to help you along.”
“Yeah?” She slid off the sofa, curled up at his feet, and began to lick his hand. “Love Daddy.” Chest extended, she shoved her tongue into his mouth. The kiss, if you could call it that, lasted for an eternity. Loving restrained Daily for the duration.
With a twitchy abruptness that made Loving’s heart jump, the man on the sofa adjusted his gaze, apparently noticing the newcomers for the first time. He scanned Lucille, top to bottom, then smiled. “Want some X?” he slurred.
Lucille got her game together quick. She moved forward with an unsubtle body language that made it clear she had come to join the party. “You talkin’ Ecstasy?”
He shook his head. “That’s for the losers out there. We got the real X. The good stuff. Oxy.”
OxyContin, Loving thought silently. A prescription pain reliever, basically morphine. And creeps like this one often mixed it with Spanish fly or other date rape drugs to make sure their prey got high and happy and submissive.
The man on the sofa rolled his hazy eyes. “So you want some or what?”
“I guess I could take a hit,” Lucille answered.
“Hey!” Amber said. She sat upright, exposing herself. “I thought it wasss for me!” Apparently she was so far gone she didn’t even recognize Lucille.
“There’s plenty for everyone,” the man on the sofa assured her.
“Cool,” Lucille said. “Hit me.”
“All you got to do is join the party. Come sit in my lap, beautiful.”
Lucille did as she was told. Loving cringed, but he tried to comfort himself with the thought that she was used to doing disgusting things she didn’t much like. The man on the sofa poured a white powder out of a vial into a spoon, then held the flame of a lighter beneath the spoon. As he stared at the flame, his pupils dilated. “Doin’ a little cookin’, bitchcakes. Gonna let you lick the spoon.”
“You sshould let me go firsst!” Amber said, sounding like a petulant drunk.
The man set down the spoon for a moment and brought the flame next to her face. She screamed.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said flatly. “Just keep your ass on the floor and lick my hand.”
Again, Loving kept Daily in check. The man on the sofa returned to his chemistry.
“What’s with your friends?” the man asked Lucille, glancing toward Loving and Daily.
She tried to smile. “They’re just looking for a good time.”
“Are they cops?” He turned slightly toward Loving. “Are you cops?”
Loving took the succinct route. “No.”
“You have to tell me if you are. Otherwise I can get you for entrapment.”
Loving remained stone-faced. Bless television for the stupid ideas it put into the heads of slugs like him.
The man turned his bleary gaze back to Lucille. “Little old for you, aren’t they?”
“I… think they like younger action,” she replied.
He grinned. “Then they’ve come to the right place.” He looked up, his eyes barely focused. “I can give you some X, for yourself or whoever, but it’ll cost you. I don’t get this stuff for free, you know.”
“How do you get it?” Lucille asked. “You got a doctor?”
“Sweetheart-I am a doctor. I can get all I want.” He handed Lucille the spoon.
Amber was too stoned to be smart. “I sssaid, I want to go first!” She reached for the spoon, but the man grabbed her arm, then slapped her across the face, so hard she fell on top of the coffee table. The glass cracked.
Loving wasn’t fast enough this time. Daily tore across the room. “You son of a bitch. I’m taking my daughter out of here, and if you try to stop me I’ll tear you apart!”
The two bodyguards were on him in a heartbeat. Damn! Loving swore silently. This is wrong, all wrong. But he had no choice. He rushed forward just in time to trip one of the guards before he got to Daily. While he was down, Loving stomped on the nerve center of the back of his neck. One down. The other one, unfortunately landed a roundhouse punch to the back of Daily’s head.
All hell broke loose. The orgy was over; everyone moved at once. Even though most of them were dulled by drugs, they could turn into feral beasts with astonishing rapidity. Daily moved toward Amber, but the remaining guard blocked his way. Lucille tried to help him, but one of the other men swatted her with the flat of his hand. She tumbled to the floor. Then the two bodyguards from outside the door came racing inside.
Loving knew he had to hurry. He jumped over the coffee table and, before the guard pummeling Daily could react, thrust a fist square onto his nose. Blood spurted everywhere. The guard dropped to the floor like an anvil.
The man on the sofa wrapped his arm around Amber’s neck. Loving gave him a chop just below the ribs; as soon as he loosened his grip Loving grabbed Amber by the arm and pulled her up to her shaky feet.
“Run,” he said. “Understand me? Get out of here. Fast!”
He wanted to say more, but was interrupted by a chair busted across his back. Loving fell across the table and onto the sofa, knocking drug paraphernalia everywhere.
His back ached as if it were broken. He could see that Daily had clocked the creep who was doing Vicky, but two of the bodyguards were converging on him, one on each side of the overstuffed chair. Loving forced himself up, his back screaming in pain. He stumbled across the room, grabbed one of the men by the arm, and gave him a quick jab to the solar plexus. While he was doubled over, Loving kneed him in the chin. He went tumbling backward and smashed into the wall.
One left. Loving was in such pain it hurt to move, but he knew Daily wouldn’t be able to take the man out himself. While Daily kept him occupied, mostly by acting as a punching bag, Loving raced behind him. Not very sporting, hitting a man from behind, but at the moment Loving didn’t care. There was no telling how long it would be before one of the goons on the floor got up or more arrived. Loving swiveled his foot around and knocked the man’s knees out from under him. Another blow to the front of the knees and he was down, howling in agony.
Loving leaned against the big overstuffed chair, heaving, gasping for air. He hadn’t fought like that in ages, and for a reason. He didn’t like to fight, didn’t like to put himself into situations where it was necessary. A smart man always has an alternative, that’s what Ben said. But when you’re traveling with an idiot who’s worried about his daughter, all bets are off.
Amber cowered beside the sofa. “Get your daughter,” Loving huffed. “Get her out of here before it’s too late.”
But Daily didn’t move. What the hell-? Loving pushed himself up, his back complaining bitterly.
Daily was pointing behind him.
He’d forgotten about the stonehead jerkoff on the sofa, dammit. He seemed so drugged and weak-
But even drugged and weak can be dangerous when it’s holding a gun.
“Put that away,” Loving bellowed. “You’ll miss, and after you do I’ll rip your throat out.”
The man’s hyperdilated eyes didn’t blink. “Die,” he said simply.
“Randy, no!” Amber threw herself across the sofa and grabbed the gun. “No!”
When the gun fired, her scream was like an ice pick piercing Loving’s brain.
W ith about half an hour to go before the trial resumed, Ben motioned Christina into an empty jury room. She wasn’t surprised. Even though they had been over everything a thousand times, she knew his personal insecurity levels were riding so high that he had an intense need to run through it again-not so much for her benefit as for his own peace of mind. As if there were such a thing as peace of mind when a trial was in progress, much less one of this magnitude.
“We couldn’t just whisper in the hallway?” Christina asked. She had gone the extra mile this morning, perfecting her makeup, her hair, selecting her clothes. The cerulean blue of her jacket matched her vivid eyes and contrasted perfectly with her radiant red hair. No doubt about it-thanks to time, observation, and the Yoda-like influence of Ben’s mother, she had learned how to dress herself up. When she wanted to.
“Did you see how many reporters are in the corridor? Those high-powered microphones can pick up anything. And Marshall told me that Amanda was on the warpath. Apparently she disagrees with our decision not to cross yesterday’s witness.”
“How can we conduct a defense when we have a spin doctor analyzing every decision based upon how it will play on the evening news?”
“By avoiding her as much as possible. I’ve asked the appeals expert Glancy hired to babysit her. It’s not like he has anything else to do.” Ben placed his hand firmly on her shoulder. “So, you understand what you need to do next?”
“Perfectly. Are you ready to cross the distinguished senator for the opposition?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. There’s not that much I can accomplish.”
“You can prevent it from becoming any more lurid than necessary. This case has already had enough luridage. The courtroom should be declared a lurid-free zone.”
“We’re down on lurid.”
“Very.” She paused. “I mean, in the courtroom. In real life, between consenting adults, that’s a different matter.”
She leaned a little closer. Just before her lips reached his, Ben raised his hand. “Christina, we have to stay focused.”
“I am focused,” she said, her lips still hovering a breath away from his. “Oh-you mean on the trial.”
“Yes, I mean on the trial. We have to be at peak efficiency, free of distractions. A well-oiled litigating machine.”
“Right.” She sighed, then drew away. “That’s always been my dream.”
“You know the plan. Let’s get out there and make it happen.”
She nodded, gathering her briefcase and following him out of the jury room. It was just dandy, she thought, that he’d mapped out this wonderful master plan for the case. But what was his plan for her?
Marie Glancy sat in the backseat of the limousine, her hand covering her eyes. Christina climbed in beside her, although given the size of the car they could be two feet apart and still both be in the backseat. Fortunately, the windows were tinted black so none of the countless onlookers staked out in Glancy’s Glen could see inside. Only the chauffeur was in visual range, and Christina could see he had been trained to be discreet. More than discreet, in fact. Invisible.
“I just can’t do it,” Marie said, her voice quavering. “I thought I could. I got dressed and came out here, fully prepared to march into that courtroom and do what you want me to do. But when I arrived, when I saw all those people lined up on the steps, all those cameras circling like vultures, ready to pounce on the slightest sign of weakness-I lost it.”
“Marie,” Christina said, “this is really not a matter that’s open to debate. You have to go back into the courtroom. It’s important that the jury see that you still support your husband.”
“The jury saw me running out of the room in tears.”
“And they will understand that. Any one of them might have done the same. When you return, it will be a sign that you’ve forgiven your husband’s indiscretion. That you’ve reconciled. That you’re still behind him one hundred and ten percent.”
“Which is hogwash. All of it.” Christina noted that the woman was able to cry, even to dab her tears, without ever once smudging her makeup. “There’s been no reconciliation. We haven’t even talked about it.”
“If I may be blunt, Marie, I don’t care about the reality of the situation. All I care about is what those jurors see. And what I want them to see is you, back there, in that courtroom.”
The woman’s eyes were misting. “You don’t understand. You just don’t understand.”
Christina reached out and touched her hand. “I want to.”
Marie shook her head, brushing away the tears. “Did you listen to the news reports last night? Did you hear what they were saying about me? About Todd’s political future?”
“Sorry, I had work to do. But if you don’t come back into the courtroom, I can’t imagine that he has any political future.”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” she said quietly. “Maybe we’d all be happier.”
“Marie, I’m sorry, but we just don’t have time for this speculation and hand-wringing. Court will be back in session in less than ten minutes. And you have to be there.”
“No. I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying and I’m sure you’re right. But I just can’t do it.”
“Do you want your husband to be convicted?” Christina hadn’t meant to shout, but her voice came out much louder than she had intended. The question hung in the cold air between them like a poisonous balloon.
“Of course I don’t.”
“Then get over it already and get in there. Because if you don’t, you’ll do him more damage than any witness the prosecution has put on the stand or ever will.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. As strong as the prosecution’s case may seem, they don’t have an eyewitness. They have to rely on circumstantial evidence and character testimony. But they couldn’t buy character testimony any more damning than what you’ll deliver if you don’t appear in court today. That’s the bottom line, Marie.” She leaned forward, eliminating the possibility of Marie averting her eyes. “If you don’t want your husband to die, you’ll march your fanny back into that courtroom. Pronto.”
“Get an ambulance!” Loving screamed, but no one was moving fast enough for him. He rammed the cell phone into Daily’s hand and punched 9-1-1 for him. After that, he grabbed the gun from where it had fallen, ran out to the top of the stairs, and fired three shots into the ceiling. The crowd panicked; everyone ran for the door. Good. Loving wanted the place clear when the ambulance made the scene. There was a small risk of someone being trampled in the rush to get out the doors, but at this point he couldn’t get too worked up about a decrease in the global Goth population.
When he returned, he found Lucille sitting on a chair, rubbing her sore face, and Daily hunched over Amber, tears streaming from his eyes, blood gushing from her neck.
“My baby,” Daily whispered, breathing in broken heaves. “Please don’t die. Please don’t die.”
In the corner of his eye, Loving saw the creep-Randy, apparently-swivel around and make as if he thought he might split.
Loving raised the gun. “One more step and I’ll kill you dead. And enjoy it.”
Randy slunk back into his chair.
Loving got another towel and tried to stop the bleeding from Amber’s neck, but he couldn’t tie a tourniquet without strangling her. He couldn’t tell how serious it was. It looked horrible, but he knew neck, head, and shoulder wounds always bled profusely.
If Amber died, the only remaining hope…
Even as he was thinking it, he saw her eyelids flutter.
Loving bent down on one knee, nudging Daily to one side. “I don’t know how well you can hear me, Amber. I don’t know if you can talk. But if you can-if you can do anythin’-please help me. Where’s Beatrice?”
It could’ve been his imagination, but he thought he saw a tiny rise of an eyebrow.
“Beatrice?” Randy, the drug addict in the chair, began to chortle. “You mean that mousy cow with the fat ass?”
Loving felt his trigger finger tightening. God give him strength. “Do you know where she is?”
“Hell, no.” He fell back against the chair, still laughing. “She cut out days ago, after we’d all had a turn at her and she’d had so much she couldn’t see straight. You think we’re weird. Now, that slut was into some kinky shit.”
It was an accident, officer, Loving mentally rehearsed. The gun just went off…
So tempting. But he was in enough trouble already.
“Bee… Bee…”
Loving’s eyes went wide. Amber was trying to speak. Blood caked her teeth and dripped from the corner of her mouth, but she was trying to speak.
“Cir… cle…”
Loving leaned in closer. “Circle? Sir Cool? What do you mean?”
“Circle… Thirteen…”
Amber’s eyes closed, and Loving knew they weren’t going to get any more out of her tonight.
“Amber!” Daily shouted. “Amber!”
Downstairs, Loving heard medics rush into the club. He ran to the top of the stairs to show them the way. “Up here! Hurry!”
The prosecution’s next witness was Shawn MacReady, the Republican representative from Arkansas whom Ben had met briefly in the Senate Dining Room. Padolino spent a fair amount of time discussing the congressman’s long and distinguished career, his personal triumphs, bills he’d written or sponsored that had populist appeal and thus might endear him to the mostly lower-middle-class jury. Ben was disappointed, though not surprised, that Padolino was also smart enough to point out that MacReady was a political opponent of Glancy’s, a member of the opposition party and an antagonist on many high-profile pieces of legislation. Better to bring it out himself than to allow Ben to do it on cross.
“Sir,” Padolino asked, “are you familiar with the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions?”
“Yes, sir. In relation to my work on the Appropriations Committee, I’ve had numerous contacts with their work and attended many of their meetings.”
“And who is the current vice chair?”
“That would be the defendant. Todd Glancy. The senator from Oklahoma. He used to be the chair, until his party lost control of the Senate.”
“That would be when Senator Waddington of Arizona shifted his party affiliation from Democrat to Republican.”
“Yes. After twenty years in politics, the man finally saw the light.” There was a mild titter of laughter in the courtroom.
“On September 26, the day that Veronica Cooper was murdered, was this committee in session?”
“It was.”
“For how long?”
“We started at nine and worked straight through to lunchtime. Congressmen get very grumpy if we cut into their lunchtime.” Another round of laughter. MacReady was displaying the charisma that had undoubtedly gotten him reelected so many times. His slight Tex-Arky accent made his quips all the funnier.
“And did Senator Glancy attend the committee meeting?”
“He did. The committee record shows he was present.”
“Was he there the whole time?”
Ben felt his body tense. This was of critical importance.
“As far as I know.”
Ben blinked. The prosecution was helping Todd establish his alibi?
“Would you know if he left?”
“Not necessarily. We were in informal session. People were running all over the place. Aides moved in and out, shuttling drafts and revisions. We were working on some proposed legislation on the government pensions problem.”
“And you never saw Senator Glancy leave?”
“No. I don’t worry much about what the Democrats are doing. Long as there are more of us than there are of them.”
Another burst of laughter, enough to inspire Judge Herndon to rap his gavel and give everyone a stern look. This is as good as it could possibly get from this witness, Ben thought. If only Padolino would leave it alone and move on to something else. And to his great surprise, Padolino did.
Padolino held up a photograph of an attractive middle-aged woman with short-cropped brown hair and a long, angular face. “Sir, do you now or have you ever known a woman named Delia Collins?”
Ben shot to his feet. “Objection!”
Padolino was ready. “Your honor, this testimony is for the purpose of establishing a pattern on the part of the defendant.”
“A pattern of what?” Judge Herndon asked.
Padolino arched an eyebrow. “Three guesses.”
“Your honor,” Ben said, moving rapidly toward the bench, “we briefed this issue in our motion in limine. It’s in your file. You haven’t ruled on it.” Marshall had tipped Ben off about this possible problem in advance.
Herndon shuffled the paper around on his desk. “Oh, yes. Now I recall. Delia Collins.”
“Then you must also know why this testimony is not relevant to any issue at bar, but could be extremely prejudicial to my client. I strongly urge the court to suppress any testimony regarding-”
“Nah.” Herndon waved a hand in the air. “Sounds to me like the prosecutor can get it in as legitimate evidence of a habit or pattern of behavior such as might have been displayed on the day of the murder. I’ll allow it, subject to subsequent reconsideration.”
“But, sir, if we hear it in open court, it will be too late-”
“And if I find ultimately that the evidence is not relevant to the case, I will instruct the jury to disregard it.”
A fat lot of good that will do, Ben thought bitterly as he returned to his table. Once this cat was out of the bag, it wasn’t ever going back.
“Let me repeat the question,” Padolino said. “Do you know a woman named Delia Collins?”
“Yes,” MacReady answered. “She was a witness who gave testimony before the committee something like seven years ago on the MacReady-Friedman bill. That was the one that, among other things, would have invalidated the ‘unproven or experimental techniques’ clause from American health insurance policies in certain cases regarding terminally ill patients. Would have required insurance companies to pay for medical treatments even if said treatments were not yet FDA- or AMA-approved.”
“Did you favor this bill?”
“I wrote it and co-sponsored it. Most of the men in my party supported it. But oddly enough, even though it seemed like something the liberals would embrace with both arms, Senator Glancy did not. And he was the chair of the committee at the time. And his people toed his line. The bill died in committee.”
“Why was Ms. Collins testifying?”
MacReady acquired a more serious expression. “Regretfully, Ms. Collins herself was suffering from a terminal illness. Ovarian cancer, if I recall correctly. She wanted a new treatment developed by a medical researcher in Mexico City, a new drug cocktail that had shown some promise in fighting the disease. But it was new and experimental and expensive, unapproved by the FDA, and her insurance company refused to pay for it. She was not a wealthy woman, so she had no other means of obtaining the treatment. Her very dramatic testimony illustrated how serious the need for the MacReady-Friedman bill was. As far as she was concerned, when her insurance company said no, they effectively signed her death certificate.” He stopped, sighed. “But as I said, the bill didn’t get out of committee. And I believe I heard the poor woman died a few months later.”
Ben could see the jury was mystified. This was all very interesting-but what did it have to do with the murder case? Unfortunately, he knew they would find out all too soon.
“Was that the last time you saw Delia Collins? The day she testified before the committee?”
MacReady cleared his throat. “Uh, no.”
“Really. When did you see her again?”
“A few days later. Before the final committee vote was taken.”
“And where did you see her?”
“In Senator Glancy’s private office.”
“Please describe the circumstances of this encounter to the jury.”
MacReady frowned, shifted his weight, began to look uncomfortable. Ben suspected he was probably actually looking forward to this, but he didn’t want it to show. That would be crass.
“I’d gone into Senator Glancy’s office late at night. It was well past usual working hours, but the congressional clerk told me he hadn’t left the premises. I wanted to take one last stab at persuading him to support the bill. I was even prepared to offer a little pork, let him slip in some appropriations money for another Oklahoma lake or whatever. Hazel-that’s his receptionist, has been for years-wasn’t at her desk. I suppose she’d gone home for the evening. So I just walked into the man’s office. Door was shut, but so what? I never expected-” He stopped, coughed into his hand. “Well, I never expected what I saw.”
“And what did you see?” Padolino prodded.
“The two of them were behind his desk. She was just visible on the right side. He was lying down and she was straddling him. His pants were pulled down and she wasn’t wearing much, just some lacy understuff kind of like-” He gestured toward the television set, still in the courtroom from the viewing of the video. “You know. Like the other girl.”
Ben glanced at the jury. Expressions ranged from small frowns to utter disgust.
“And were these two people engaged in… sexual relations?”
“Well,” he replied, “I suppose that depends on whether you subscribe to the Clintonian definition of sex or the one we use back home in Arkansas.”
“Can you… be a little more specific?”
“In my book, when a woman goes down on a man, that’s sex.”
Several members of the jury gasped-literally gasped. Marie Glancy covered her face with her hands.
“I… see,” Padolino said. He was also wearing his strained expression of disgust, as if he were fighting to mask his revulsion. “They were engaged in fellatio?”
“I think that’s the word for it, yeah. Like in that video. ’Cept he didn’t appear to have forced himself on her.”
“Objection,” Ben shouted. Beside him, Glancy was maintaining a cool, expressionless demeanor. In their pretrial discussions, he had denied the incident ever happened. Even so, Ben was pretty sure he wasn’t enjoying listening to this.
“Sustained,” Herndon said calmly. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement.”
“Did they see you?” Padolino asked.
“Oh yes. Or she did, anyway. She made a feeble attempt to cover herself with her hands. He didn’t move, didn’t even get up. I think he was pretty… you know. Wrapped up in what they were doing.”
“Were you surprised by what you saw?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Can you explain?”
“I knew she’d been in to see Glancy several times, presumably to persuade him to change his vote. I assume she went in that night for the same reason I did-to give it one last shot. Only he demanded a special quid pro quo from her.”
“Objection,” Ben said, even more forcefully than before. “Pure speculation. Slanderous and totally unjustified.”
“The objection will be sustained and the jury will disregard.” The judge turned and looked sternly into the witness box. “You know the rules, Congressman. As I recall, you were once a trial lawyer yourself. One more trick like that and I’ll find you in contempt and have your entire testimony stricken.”
“I’m sorry, your honor,” MacReady said with apparent contrition. “I didn’t mean to say anything improper.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Herndon motioned to Padolino. “If you have any more legitimate questions, ask them. Get this over with.”
“Yes, sir. Just one last question. Did Senator Glancy change his position on the insurance bill?”
“Nope. Didn’t budge an inch, and all his little toadies followed his lead. He single-handedly killed a piece of legislation that might’ve done a lot of people a world of good. But no one could make him change his mind. Not even Delia Collins.”
Which was worse? Ben wondered. If Glancy had changed his vote in exchange for a blow job, or if he took the blow job but still refused to change his vote?
“No more questions,” Padolino said quietly.
The judge turned toward Ben. “Anything from the defense?”
“Oh yeah,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “We’re gonna be here a while.”
Loving stood beside Daily, his hand on the other man’s shoulder, hoping some of his inner tranquility would travel by osmosis into his companion’s consciousness. So far it wasn’t working.
“Please!” Daily insisted. “You’ve got to let me see her!”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” Dr. Aljuwani had a soft, sympathetic voice, not the voice-of-God demeanor Loving normally associated with surgeons. He was carrying a chart and wearing a white coat, all the accoutrements of the typical medical man, but he had also shown an enormous amount of patience. “We have to think of what’s best for Amber.”
“I am thinking about Amber!” Daily cried. “I always have been. I’ve been searching for her for months!”
“And now she is in our care. You have done your job. Please allow us to do ours.”
Loving could feel the tension oozing from every pore of Daily’s body. “Please. You have no idea how important it is that I see her.”
“No, I do not. But I do know that her health is extremely fragile and that it is best that she not be disturbed. She is not conscious, at any rate.”
“I don’t care about that! I just want to see her!”
“And you will, my friend. I promise you that. Her chances for a full recovery are excellent. But she is weak. She has lost much blood. In addition to the gunshot wound, her bloodstream has been infected with excess amounts of a chemical that is, for all practical purposes, the same as morphine. She will likely suffer withdrawal symptoms, as well as severe respiratory problems.”
“You said she would recover.”
“I said that her chances are excellent. But we must take things slowly. Allow her body to recover its strength. For now, for her own safety, she must remain in the ICU. But I promise I will call you as soon as the danger has passed and it is safe for her to receive visitors.”
Loving tried to be comforting. “He’s right, you know.”
Daily’s teeth were clenched. “You have my cell number?”
“Indeed I do,” the doctor assured him. “And I will call it just as soon as the time is right.”
“You won’t wait till it’s convenient?”
“Indeed I will not. As soon as her vital signs are stable, I will call you.”
“And that will be when?”
Dr. Aljuwani hesitated. “Perhaps twenty-four hours, if all goes well. I can’t be certain.”
“All right.” His head hung low. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry if I seemed-”
“Not at all. She is your own flesh and blood. I would feel the same if it were my daughter, I am sure.” Aljuwani excused himself, leaving Loving and Daily alone.
“Hell,” Daily muttered. “What am I going to do with myself between now and then? I’ll make myself crazy.”
“You’re gonna get some sleep,” Loving said firmly. “Then we continue the investigation.”
“What? I’ve already found Amber.”
“But don’t you wanna know what happened to her?”
“Surely that creep from the club-”
“Didn’t you hear what the police officer said?” Loving wasn’t really surprised. The police had grilled them and Lucille for almost three hours, but the entire time Loving sensed that Daily’s head was somewhere else. In that tiny room in ICU. “That creep Randy has already called in his lawyer. To represent him and his boys and girls. None of them is talking. Nor is anyone ever likely to. If we want to know what happened to your girl, we’re going to have to find out for ourselves.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
Loving hesitated a moment, watching the sun set through the wide panoramic hospital lobby window. It was almost sunset, the golden hour, his favorite time of day. Pity it had to be wasted on these tragic circumstances. “By findin’ Beatrice. That’s what your daughter wanted us to do.”
“She was out of her head.”
“Maybe. But did you see the way her eyes lit when I asked her? She may’ve been crazy with drugs, but I still think she was tryin’ to help us. She’s worried about her friend.” Besides, Loving thought, finding Beatrice will be critical to Ben’s case-in the event Amber never recovers.
“But what she said-it was just gibberish.”
Loving shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then what did it mean?”
“Well… I dunno. But if every answer was easy, the world wouldn’t need private investigators.”
“You’ve got nothing to go on! Two words.”
“I’ve had less. Come on. Let’s go see a friend of mine. If anyone can tell us what your daughter meant, he’s the one.”
“Congressman, have you ever thought about running for president?”
MacReady’s head rose. Finally Ben had managed to ask a question he hadn’t anticipated. “I’m happy where I am. But thanks for the recommendation, son.”
“Come now. I’ve heard your name floated as a possible presidential candidate, and I don’t even read the morning papers. There aren’t many Republican senators with more experience or qualifications than you.”
MacReady chuckled. “If we picked our presidents based upon experience and qualifications, the world would be a very different place.”
“I’ve also heard Senator Glancy mentioned as a possible presidential candidate. Or perhaps a vice presidential running mate. Have you?”
“Objection,” Padolino said wearily. “What possible relevance can this have to the case?”
“Goes to bias,” Ben said, explaining what both of them already knew.
The judge nodded. “The witness will answer the question.”
“I believe I have heard my colleague Senator Glancy’s name bandied about,” MacReady replied. “At least before this unpleasantness occurred.”
“And what do you think about the possibility of your colleague Senator Glancy on a presidential ticket?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Well, I prefer my presidents a little more to the right, if you know what I mean.”
“So you wouldn’t want to see the senator on a presidential ticket. And a pretty good way to prevent that would be to present false testimony that gets him convicted of murder, wouldn’t it?”
MacReady’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I’m a liar, son? ’Cause I don’t take too kindly to that.”
Ben ignored him. This was his time to ask the questions. “Tell me, sir-after you witnessed this alleged incident in Senator Glancy’s office, did you tell anyone?”
“Tell anyone what?”
“What you had seen. Glancy and Delia Collins… together.”
“No. Why would I?”
“Well, for starters, it might’ve helped eliminate Senator Glancy’s opposition to your bill.”
MacReady appeared indignant. “I don’t do business that way.”
“Did you file a complaint with the Senate Ethics Committee?”
“I saw no cause for that.”
“No cause? You all but said that you thought Senator Glancy had extracted sex under the promise of changing his vote. If that’s not an ethics violation, what is?”
MacReady shrugged uncomfortably. “I had no proof. I was just…”
“Talking through your hat?”
“Suspicious. That’s all. Suspicious.”
“So even though you suspected a clear-cut ethics violation, and even though it would’ve been to your political advantage to reveal your suspicions, you kept quiet about this incriminating incident for seven years. Let me tell you, Congressman-that’s what I find suspicious.”
“Objection!” Padolino bellowed.
“Sustained.” Herndon gave Ben a harsh look. “Watch yourself, counsel.”
Ben plowed ahead. “Sir, where was the desk in Senator Glancy’s office?”
“Same place it is today. In the rear center of the room, opposite the door, maybe ten feet back.”
“And did you stay in the doorway or did you step inside?”
“Well, I obviously didn’t step inside. You know what they say. Three’s a crowd.”
“And the couple you observed were behind the desk.”
“Yes. But I could see her clearly enough. Just off to the side and above the desk.”
“I don’t doubt it. But since you said the other person involved was lying down on the floor and she was facing him-his head would’ve been behind the desk. How on earth could you see him?”
For the first time, MacReady hesitated momentarily before answering, which Ben took as a personal triumph. “Well, his feet and hands were sticking out the side.”
“Could you see his face?”
“There was no doubt about who-”
“Please answer my question. Could you see his face?”
He sighed. “No, not as such. But it stands to reason-”
“That there was another person there. But you can’t say for sure who it was.”
MacReady rolled his eyes. “You’re right. I suppose it could’ve been anyone in Senator Glancy’s office, behind Senator Glancy’s desk, having sex with a woman who wanted Senator Glancy’s vote.”
“Move to strike,” Ben said, lips pursed.
“That will be sustained,” Judge Herndon said, giving MacReady the evil eye. “Are you done with this witness, Counsel?”
“Very done, your honor.” Oh so done. If he could’ve pulled MacReady off the stage with a hook, he’d have done it.
“Do you have any idea how busy I am?” Jones said, waving his arms in the air. “Any idea at all?”
“What’s his damage?” Daily whispered into Loving’s ear.
“Shh,” Loving muttered back. Loving and Daily had come to Ben’s borrowed office space near the courthouse. “I can handle it.” He laid his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “Jones, buddy, I know you’re buried in paperwork. I know you’ve been fieldin’ three times the usual motion practice. Just yesterday I heard Ben sayin’ how invaluable you were. How he’d be nothin’ without you.”
“He did?”
Loving smiled, hoping Ben hadn’t mentioned that Loving hadn’t been in the office for days. “He did. Problem is-I feel the same way. I could spend days stompin’ around the streets trying to track down this lead. Or you could probably figure it out in an hour. So you see why I came to you. I mean, I’m beggin’ you, Jonesey. I’m on bended knee here.”
“Oh, all right already,” Jones said, his face wrinkling. “What’s the sitch?”
Loving told him.
“Circle Thirteen? What the heck does that mean?”
“That’s what we were hopin’ you could tell us.”
“And that’s all you’ve got? Two words? Two very common words?” Jones turned to face the computer. “Jeez-this could take forever.”
“I know,” Loving said. “But even if it takes days, I’d appreciate it if you could-”
“Got it,” Jones announced.
“Huh? What?”
“I Googled it. Broadband is a wonderful thing. Amazing the stuff you can come up with…”
“Just like that?”
Jones smiled, obviously feeling very superior. “I have tried to show you how to use the computer.”
“I don’t like the computer.”
“Which is why I solved the mystery, and you didn’t.” Jones quickly scrolled down a webpage, scanning the text as he went. “Seems to be some sort of private club.”
“I checked the phone book. There was nothing.”
“I guess it’s a very private club. Besides-Circle Thirteen isn’t the name of the place. It’s the name of a group that meets there.” He continued scrolling. “Spooky-looking place. Spooky-looking people. Lots of black.”
“What a surprise,” Loving said dryly.
“They’re trying to keep strangers from getting past the home page. This site isn’t intended to be public-just a way for members to post messages privately, without leaving traces on someone else’s server. You need a password to gain entry.”
“Can you guess it?”
“I’ll do an end run.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I’m going to sneak past their firewall and bust inside. I’ve got a little algorithm that might do the trick.”
Loving looked at Daily. “Do you understand what he’s talkin’ about? Because I don’t.”
Daily looked back at him sadly. “Amber is the computer whiz in the family. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a big paperweight.”
“I’m in,” Jones crowed.
“Already?” Loving marveled. Jones was fast. Maybe he should consider not making fun of him at every opportunity. On second thought, naah.
“Oh my God,” Jones whispered, his jaw dropping. “Oh my God.”
“What?” Loving said, hovering behind him. “What’s Circle Thirteen?”
Jones took a deep breath. “Well, it isn’t a sewing circle. It’s more like… a coven.”
“A coven!” Daily stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying? That they’re witches?”
“Of course not. That would be ridiculous.” Jones swiveled around and offered Daily his seat in front of the monitor. “They’re vampires.”
A t first, there were no inhabitants in the small dark ceremonial chamber. It seemed like a chapel, despite being entirely devoid of Christian iconography. There was a stained-glass window just above and beyond the altar, but no light came through it, and the images, to the extent they could be discerned, were dark and grisly: portraits of bloodletting, blood sharing, and unholy acts of violence to women and children. The only cross, just behind the altar, was turned upside down, so that it pointed toward the earth rather than the sky.
Slowly, thirteen figures entered the room, single file. They were each wearing black hooded robes that covered them almost completely. Only the slightest traces of facial features were visible. They arranged themselves in the center of the room, lining the perimeter of a circle with a five-pointed star in the center.
A few moments later, another figure entered the room. The contrast was dramatic. This figure was smaller than the previous four, female, and moved haltingly, as if unsure what to do or where to go. Her robe was white. Tendrils of blond hair slipped from the front of the hood.
“Take your place in the pentagram,” one of the hooded men said. His voice was deep and commanding, and the female obeyed without hesitation. She moved to the center of the circle and was surrounded by the hooded figures.
“Are you ready for the ritual to begin?”
Her hood trembled up and down, nodding.
“Speak!”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”
The man who had spoken, the tallest of them, stepped forward. He stood before her, gazing downward. He placed his hand upon her cheek, then slowly pushed the hood away, releasing an ample bounty of long golden hair and a face so young she could barely have been out of her teens. She stared, wide-eyed, as if she were powerless to look away from his piercing eyes. His thin blood-red lips turned upward, revealing a brief flash of incandescent white teeth. The other men began to chant in a low monotone, incanting some strange, numinous ritual in a language other than English.
“Kneel before me, woman.”
She obeyed, lowering herself to the floor.
“Do you worship me with all your heart and soul and mind?”
“I do, my master.” She leaned forward, abasing herself before the man in the black robe.
“Are you prepared to take your place in our brotherhood? To become one with the Inner Circle?” His booming voice reverberated through the tiny chapel.
“I am.”
“Is it your devout desire to become one with the Sire? To enter into Holy Communion with him?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, yes.”
“Very well, Beatrice. You may now disrobe.”
Without apparent thought or reservation, she shook the robe off her shoulders. She was wearing nothing beneath. The folds of the robe gathered around her knees, leaving her entirely naked and exposed.
With such speed that it took everyone in the room by surprise, the man raised his hand and struck her face with the back of his fist. She tumbled sideways, halting her fall with an outstretched arm. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright, then hit her again, even harder than before. A trickle of blood spilled from her mouth. A blue-black bruise began to swell. And then he hit her again.
“You are not ready,” the man intoned, still clutching her hair. He hit her again, and her eyes fluttered closed. He threw her backward and she fell in a heap on the tile floor, her legs askew, her bloody face turned to one side.
“Leave her,” the man said bitterly. “When she wakes, I will talk with her further. She can still be of service to us.”
He left the room, and a moment later the others followed, leaving behind the young woman, her beautiful blond hair now sullied by the caked and sticky blood streaming from her broken nose.
“Bit rough on her, weren’t you?” He removed his robe and carefully placed it on a coat hanger.
“For a reason,” the man with the piercing eyes replied.
“But we need her to talk.”
“Yes. But we also need to know that what she tells us is true.”
“Naturally. But-”
“Complete subjugation of the will requires time. We must strip away her attachments to her former existence. Her world must become me. Her purpose for living must be to serve me, and me alone.”
“How can you know she’ll-”
“I know.” The man had exchanged his dark hooded robe for a jet-black cloak. In the low lighting, he was almost invisible.
“That sounds good, in theory. But this is getting out of control. If she got away and talked to-”
“She will not. Never fear, my friend. Everything is completely in control.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“I am.” He turned, easing out of his chair as if his body had no solidity at all, as if it were pure liquid. “The sanctity of the Inner Circle will be preserved.”
“You can’t know that. What if she refuses to talk?”
He stepped closer to his companion, near enough that the much shorter man imagined he could feel heat emanating from those relentless black eyes. “I am the Sire, my friend. No one refuses to talk to me. No one refuses me anything.”
B en ducked into a side room, hoping to escape the throng of reporters in the corridor begging for a quote, wanting to know if the testimony of the distinguished congressman from Arkansas was “the final nail in Glancy’s coffin.” Ben didn’t like to talk to the press before or during a trial, and he knew he couldn’t come up with any answer that could give the situation a positive “spin.”
He closed the door behind him, dropped into the nearest chair, took a deep breath-and realized he was not alone.
“Like vultures, aren’t they?”
Ben was startled to see his opponent, Paul Padolino, sitting on the other side of the conference table, leaning back in one chair, his feet propped up on another.
“They are when you’re a defense attorney. What are you doing in here?”
“Same as you. Hiding.”
“Don’t you have an office in this building?”
“Yes. Alas, the minions of the Franken-fifth estate know where it is. And by the way, the press doesn’t just hassle defense attorneys. We get our fair share of grief on the prosecution side, too.”
“It isn’t the same. Defense lawyers are treated like pariahs. People assume anyone accused of a crime is guilty-especially if they’re prominent. Which makes us the slime trying to get the guilty people off.”
“Defensive, much?” Padolino asked, smiling slightly.
“Yes. And if you knew how many times I’ve seen the district attorney get it wrong, or take the easy way out, you would be, too.”
Padolino shrugged. “Perhaps. But of course, you come from Oklahoma, where district attorneys hold press conferences to brag about how many people they’ve put on death row and forensic scientists falsify evidence to help them do it.”
Ben cringed and quickly changed the subject. “I’ve noticed that you aren’t going for the press conference routine much. Even though God has given you an incredibly high-profile case and public sympathy-and my informants tell me you have political aspirations.”
Padolino smiled. “Whether I do or I don’t, I believe criminal cases should be tried in the courtroom, not on the evening news. Besides, I could never compete with your boy’s PR machine. Best to just stay out of its way.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. “Care for a smoke?”
Ben blinked. “I thought all federal courthouses prohibited-”
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“A little snort, then?” From the other side of his coat, Padolino produced a silver flask.
“Uh, no. I don’t really drink much, either. Certainly not when-”
Padolino tossed his head toward the kitchenette in the corner. “Cup of jamoke?”
“Ohhh…”
“You’re telling me you don’t even drink coffee?”
“Well, the rumor is, it isn’t actually good for you.”
“Hell, Bressler was right. You are a saint.” His smile made it come off funny, not mean-spirited. “But I don’t think you’re nearly as naïve or as gormless as you seem sometimes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben insisted, then added, “but just for the record, I don’t think you’re the politically ambitious anything-for-a-conviction prosecutor you sometimes seem, either.”
“Hey, have I treated you badly?”
Ben shrugged. In truth, he had not. He’d produced everything as required, at least so far as Ben knew, and had done so in a timely fashion. He’d given Ben access to all his witnesses. He hadn’t engaged in ad hominem character attacks-well, not on Ben’s character, anyway. Despite being given a case with numerous exploitable possibilities and public opinion vastly in his favor, Padolino had played it pretty straight. “No. You’ve been a model prosecutor, far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ve had no reason not to be. Don’t misunderstand-I’m not saying I don’t want to nail your client. But I haven’t got any grudge against you, so there haven’t been any sneaky courtroom tricks, leaks to the press, any of that rot. And I plan to keep it that way.” He pointed a finger. “I do intend to win this case. But I’m going to do it the right way.”
“Fair enough.”
“We’re opponents. We don’t have to be enemies.”
Could I possibly clone this guy, Ben wondered, or take him home with me?
“You’re wrong about the reporters, though. They really don’t have it in for defense attorneys. Despite all the babble about the ‘liberal media,’ I’m not even sure reporters have opinions of their own anymore. All today’s journalists care about is ratings. Circulation numbers. Popularity quotients. Nielsens. It’s ironic, really. They criticize politicians for making decisions based upon poll results. But they do exactly the same thing.”
“That’s a rather heterodox viewpoint. Especially coming from a Republican.”
“Answer me this: who did the press come down harder on? Reagan, during the Iran-Contra scandal, or Clinton, during the Lewinsky affair?”
“Clinton. By a mile.”
“Right. Now let’s weigh their relative importance. The Clinton scandal was about a man cheating on his wife. The Reagan scandal was, well, treason. Conducting secret foreign policy in direct contravention of Congress. And remember, you’re talking to a very right-wing guy here. But the fact remains-the press didn’t batter Reagan one one-hundredth as much as they did Clinton. Why? Because Reagan’s popularity ratings were huge. Everyone loved the man. He was sweet and slightly doddering, like everyone’s favorite grandfather. And everyone was overwhelmed with intaxication.”
“What?”
“The euphoria induced by a tax cut, which overcomes people’s recollection that it was their money in the first place. Anyway, attacking that sweet, senile old man with the dyed pompadour would’ve turned people off big-time. So the media softballed him.”
“To be fair,” Ben said, “Clinton did lie about the affair.”
“Yeah, and Reagan lied about Nicaragua. Dubya lied about having a drunk driving record and he’s been obscenely evasive about his past drug use. Why wasn’t the liberally biased press all over that? Because dumb as the man is, he comes off on television as very likable, a regular guy. Clinton was smart and capable but not necessarily someone you’d want over for dinner; they could beat up on him all night long.” He grinned. “That’s your main problem in this case, you know, Ben. Everyone knows Glancy is smart. Very, very smart. You’d be much better off if you were representing an amiable dunce.”
Ben glanced at his watch. “Fascinating as this is, it looks like it’s time for us to get back to the salt mines.”
“Right.” Padolino swiveled his feet around and stretched. “One more question, though. That partner of yours. Miss McCall.”
“What about her?”
“Are all the lady lawyers in Oklahoma that hot? ’Cause that sure isn’t how we grow them up here.”
Ben couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t insult someone, so he kept his mouth closed.
“My assistants tell me you and she have a thing going. True?”
Ben licked his lips, stuttered. “A-a thing? I don’t know what that means.”
“The hell you don’t. Tell me the truth. Some of my people think you’re working your mojo on that saucy little intern of Glancy’s-”
“Shandy?”
“-but my investigators, the ones I really trust, say you and Christina are the item. One step away from wedding bells.”
“Well, I-I wouldn’t go as far as-”
“So it wouldn’t bother you if I asked her out? Because I really want to ask her out.”
Ben coughed, grabbed his briefcase. “I-I can’t tell you what to do. Your business, not mine.” He hustled toward the door, suddenly feeling more stressed than he had when he came in. “Enjoyed the chat. See you in court.”
Loving sat by himself on the side of the cavernous wood-paneled room, eyes wide. He’d seen some pretty weird stuff in his time, especially since he’d started working for Ben Kincaid. But this joint was setting a new personal best for weirdness. Compared to this, the Goth club was a set from Leave It to Beaver.
The most prominent features of the room, so far as Loving could tell, were inlaid wood, low lighting, cobwebs, and dust. He had the impression that it had once been used for something else, but the former owners had stripped it clean, which explained why there was nothing hanging on the walls-no books on the shelves, no furniture other than the most rudimentary tables and chairs. The dust and cobwebs also signaled a lack of care, or perhaps just a décor that appealed to the members of Circle Thirteen.
As the hour passed, the room slowly filled with people. They were quiet, somber folks; even the ones who entered with a group tended not to interact much. They were here for a reason, Loving surmised, but unlike the habitués of Stigmata, they weren’t here to party. As with the Goths, the attire of the denizens of Circle Thirteen tended to be predominantly black, but Loving saw none of the tongue-in-cheek, campy, Haunted Mansion spirit that he’d spotted at Stigmata. Here it was monotone black suits, even tuxes, floor-length drab dresses, some of them with a long train. There was no music, no dancing. Whatever it was these guys were planning on doing, they took it very seriously.
Loving and Daily had had no trouble getting in. This time they’d had the sense to dress in solid black, head-to-toe-Loving even forked over some cash for a pair of black high-top sneakers. There were no bouncers or bodyguards here, thank God. But if they didn’t worry about security, did that mean nothing of interest would happen? Loving saw no signs of drugs or booze-not even smoking. Not that he was looking for trouble, but if they didn’t encounter any, it probably meant they weren’t on the right track.
“You think they’re okay?” Loving whispered to Daily.
“Sure. They’re clean-cut, law-abiding vampires.”
“They did have a website, even if it was supposed to be restricted. I don’t think they’d have a website if somethin’ criminal was goin’ down.”
Daily scoffed. “Where have you been, Loving? I read in the Post about drug dealers that have their own websites, making deals, transferring funds via PayPal. They use code words to describe the goods, but the transactions are still taking place on the Web. The pushers’ once ubiquitous cell phones have been replaced by instant messaging.” He paused. “You know what instant messaging is, right?”
“Wrong. And I don’t want to, either. Look, let’s split up. We stand out enough individually. Together, we look too much like cops for anyone to talk to us.”
Daily nodded and headed for the opposite end of the room. Loving walked over to a round table large enough to accommodate eight people. If he sat, maybe someone would join him, drawn by his animal magnetism. Did vampires have animal magnetism? he wondered. Well, then they’d be drawn by their sonar. Whatever.
He hadn’t been sitting long before he was joined by a woman who appeared to be in her midthirties. She was very tall, very thin, with a clinging chemise that draped around her feet. Long jet-black hair almost reached her waist. Dark eyes, dark mascara. Since she didn’t introduce herself, Loving decided he would call her Morticia.
“You’re new,” she said. It was not a question.
“Yeah,” Loving replied, trying to size her up as he spoke. What would a nice girl like her… never mind. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger back and forth. “Don’t say that. They’ll ride you out on the rails. Tell them you’re interested in joining the Circle.”
Well, this was going to be easier than he’d imagined. He hadn’t even had to perform any silly circus tricks. “That’s what I meant to say. I’m interested in joinin’ the Circle. Any particular reason you’re helpin’ me?”
“We’re destined to be together.”
Loving blinked. “We are?”
“Yes. I knew it the moment I saw you sitting there. Well, I didn’t exactly know it. It was more something I sensed, a psychic vibration, if you will. But I’ve learned to trust those vibrations.”
That was a line he hadn’t heard back at the Tulsa honky-tonks.
“You seem… more mature than most of our new recruits.” She leaned closer, revealing a voluptuous bosom thinly veiled by her chemise. “I’ve been waiting a long time for some fresh blood. And I mean that in every possible way.”
Loving felt an anxious tingling at the base of his skull. “So, you’re a… a… member of the Circle?”
“I am.”
“And that means…”
“Right.” Her eyes come-hithered him in a big way. “But I assume that’s a turn-on for you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
Loving cleared his throat. “Like I said, I’m lookin’ for someone.”
And she smiled again, even more broadly than before. “You found her.”
The prosecution’s next witness was Steve Melanfield, the Kodiak Oil lobbyist Ben had first met in the Senate Dining Room. Funny how many of the people who were so friendly to Glancy five months ago ended up on the prosecution’s witness list. Nature of the town, Ben supposed. Friends and enemies changed sides in a heartbeat. It was all a matter of who wanted what at any given moment.
Padolino established that Melanfield was a professional lobbyist, that he had been working for Kodiak Oil for nine years, and that because Glancy came from one of the top oil-producing states in the union they had frequent contact with one another. That was to be expected. What was not to be expected was that he might have had contact with Veronica Cooper.
“I’d seen her in Senator Glancy’s office from time to time,” Melanfield explained. He was dressed conservatively-a dark pin-striped suit that did the best that could be done with his outsized frame. “Probably said hi once or twice. I don’t really remember. I never suspected anything was going on between them. Until the night of September 25.”
“What happened that night?”
“I was working late-I’d been pulling double shifts ever since the Alaska wilderness bill left committee. Finished making the rounds about ten, ten thirty. Clerk told me Glancy hadn’t left the Russell Building, so I went to his office. The door was unlocked, slightly ajar. Hazel was gone for the day.”
Ben shook his head. Imagine how much easier this case would be if Glancy had just learned to lock his doors at quitting time. Or hired a receptionist who didn’t require sleep.
“And what did you see in Senator Glancy’s office?”
“Well, actually, I heard something before I saw anything. Two voices. Loud. Didn’t take long to figure out that they were arguing with each other.”
“Could you identify the voices?”
“Yes. But just to be sure, I crept forward a little and peered through the crack in the door. It was Senator Glancy and his intern, Veronica Cooper. Except she wasn’t wearing much. Just her underwear. Black lace. And his fly was unzipped.”
“Indeed.” Padolino lowered his chin, giving the jury a minute to catch up. “Could you make out what they were saying?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”
Padolino didn’t blink. “As per our brief, your honor, if there is hearsay, it is permitted by bona fide exception in the Federal Rules of Evidence. Any statements made by Senator Glancy are, of course, admissions against interest. And since Ms. Cooper is now deceased, her statements would fall under the exception permitting testimony where the declarant is unavailable.”
“The objection is overruled,” Herndon declared. Ben wasn’t surprised. He had briefed the issue in advance, and Herndon hadn’t bought it. But he had to make an in-court objection to preserve the issue for appeal.
“Let me ask again,” Padolino said, picking up the thread smoothly. “Could you hear what the parties were saying?”
“Some of it.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
Ben grimaced. There Padolino went again, being smart. Bringing it out on direct so Ben couldn’t make hay with it on cross. He hated it when prosecutors were smart.
“Look, in my business, information is the coin of the realm. A lobbyist can’t know too much, especially about the people he’s trying to persuade. Don’t get me wrong-I’m not saying listening at keyholes is a great thing. But I genuinely believe my company is doing good, important work for the people of this nation. Securing our political and economic independence. So if I can learn a little something to advance that cause-so much the better.”
Jeez Louise, Ben thought. What a patriotic eavesdropper. The man must’ve rehearsed that speech all night.
“So what exactly did you hear?”
“I heard that Veronica Cooper was very angry. There was something she wanted-I never heard exactly what it was-something Glancy wasn’t giving her. She tried everything she could-she begged, she whined, she got flirty. Nothing would change his mind. So she threatened him.”
The jury stiffened, almost in unison. They were beginning to see where this testimony was going.
“What exactly did she threaten?”
“She said if Glancy didn’t change his mind, she was going to tell everything. She didn’t specify what. But given how she was attired and… you know… the circumstances, I assumed she was going to tell his wife about their affair.”
Technically this was speculation, Ben thought, but there seemed little point in objecting. The jury had undoubtedly already reached the same conclusion.
“Was Senator Glancy moved by this threat?”
“No. Just the opposite. He laughed at her. Right in her face. Said she could tell his wife anything and it wouldn’t matter a damn bit.”
Ben could feel the heat radiating from his client, seated just beside him. But as always, Glancy’s sangfroid remained in place. According to him, this entire incident was a politically motivated fabrication. But that couldn’t make it easy to listen to. Especially not with his wife sitting just behind him.
“He didn’t care what his wife thought?”
“He said she had her own agenda. And she wouldn’t let it be screwed up by-this is a quote-‘some two-bit tramp whose only real talent was something you couldn’t put on a résumé.’”
Padolino paused a moment. “What was Ms. Cooper’s reaction to that statement?”
“She was infuriated. Totally lost what little cool she had left. She jabbed Glancy in the chest and said, ‘If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll ruin you.’”
There was a silence in the courtroom-not a good one.
“Was there any further discussion?”
“If there was, I didn’t hear it.” Melanfield turned to face the jury. “After that last blowup, Ms. Cooper grabbed her clothes and headed toward the door. I didn’t want to be caught playing Peeping Tom, so I ducked out of the office and ran downstairs.”
“Thank you,” Padolino said. He turned to Ben with a sad smile. “Your witness.”
Loving tried to think of a question quickly, something, anything to distract Morticia. She was sitting much too close to him, her bosom was too near his nose, and was staring at his neck in a way that made him supremely uncomfortable.
“So, I guess, all these guys.” Loving waved his hand generally about the room. “All Goths?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” She drew in her breath, her chest heaving. “No, despite the superficial similarities, there are two distinct groups. Goths are children, amateurs. Pretenders. Nothing like us. In fact, sometimes I wear colors other than black.”
“Like what?”
“A very dark midnight blue.”
Loving heard a cracking sound behind him.
“Bend over!”
He turned just in time to see a young woman with a supermodel figure and an endless mass of black curls bend over the back of a chair, which had the effect of hoisting her ridiculously short skirt and exposing her perfectly rounded snowy white cheeks. While Loving stared, a short, stout man-presumably he who had issued the command-brought his hand around and slapped her bottom with a wooden paddle. The woman winced as the paddle made contact-but her ecstatic smile grew broader with each smack.
“You have got to be kiddin’.” Loving turned back to Morticia. “Should I do somethin’?”
“Like what?”
“Like give that creep a taste of his own paddle.”
She brushed her hand against his. “My friend, he’s not doing anything she doesn’t want. Just getting her in the mood for the Ceremony.”
“But-”
“There is a decided correspondence between the Circle and the dark fetish world.”
“You mean-”
“Dominance and submission. Bondage and discipline. Sadomasochism.”
“Right out in public?”
“This isn’t the public. This is the Circle. We understand one another.”
“But isn’t this all a little… twistedish?”
She laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “Don’t ask me. I’ve been into scarification since I was fifteen.”
“And that’s-”
“Hurting myself. Cutting myself. I used a razor blade. Sometimes I’d draw patterns, shapes.”
Loving winced. “Bet that stung.”
“Wonderfully so. After I was done cutting, I’d pour alcohol over the wounds. To prevent infection-but also because it hurt so good.”
Loving’s eyes narrowed.
“Once the welts formed I’d have the image of a raven, an ankh, whatever design I’d crafted.”
“But-why?”
She shrugged. “Who can explain why they like what they like? There’s no logic to it. We’re just hardwired that way. Some say it’s endorphins-the body releases them to help you deal with pain and you get a head rush. A natural high. It’s a deeply spiritual experience. Try it sometime.”
“Mmm… maybe later.”
“It beats living the usual life of quiet, desperate mimesis.”
“Uhhh…”
“Imitation. Doing what everyone else does, just because they do it. Never doing anything to please yourself.”
“Which is what these folks are planning to do, right? Tonight. What’s the Ceremony? Some big orgy?”
She glared at him. “Don’t be absurd. The Circle is not about sex. Sex is nothing. Anyone can do that. Animals do it. The Circle is about true blood intimacy.”
“Blood intimacy?”
“When you offer your own life energy, you give a part of your self, your essence. You need your blood to live. Nonetheless, you share it with someone else to give them pleasure. It’s a beautiful thing. Sex-that’s just selfishness. Two people gratifying their carnal desires. Blood intimacy is exactly the opposite.”
“And this doesn’t seem a little… whacked?”
“Who’s to say what’s whacked? I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink… wine.” She giggled at her little joke. “Most of the people you see in here are perfectly normal citizens who work during the day at perfectly normal jobs. No different from anyone else.”
Whatever. Time to get back to the reason he was here. “Do you know a woman named Beatrice? I think she may be a member of the Circle.”
“No. But we rarely use our real names here. In fact, we rarely use names. What does she look like?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t really know. I believe she may have been blond. She’s been described as mousy-not by me-and as being, um, somewhat large around the hips.”
“Last name?”
“Don’t know that, either.”
“Then how did you expect to find her?”
Good question. He thought for a moment. “Any other places the Circle Thirteen crowd frequents?”
“Well, many of us are members of the Playground. But if you couldn’t handle that little spanking episode, I wouldn’t recommend it to you.”
“Anyone disappeared from the Circle recently?”
“Disappeared? No. Sometimes the minions select recruits for the Inner Circle, but-”
“Where do they go?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in the Inner Circle.”
“Who are these… minions?”
“The minions of the Sire, of course.”
“And these people-what? Take women against their will? Kidnap them for human sacrifices?”
“Don’t be absurd. I told you-we’re perfectly normal citizens who happen to share a common interest. We’re not even unique. There are vampire clubs across the nation. Take my word for it-I’ve traveled. There’s a network of them; the insiders know where they are and how to find them. My girlfriend runs vampire workshops-”
“Workshops?”
“Yeah, at science fiction and bondage conventions all over the country. Did you realize there are at least three hundred and fifty thousand bona fide blood drinkers in this country? Some people believe that we have a genetic quirk that makes us crave satisfaction in a manner… different from other people. ’Course, that’s the same thing they started saying about gay people a few years ago, right? ‘They’re not mentally abnormal-they’re just different.’ The Circle network is not unlike the gay bar world twenty years ago. We’re a minority, so we have to keep a low profile. The middle-class majority always fears anything that’s different. But that will change. Gay bars, gay men and women, gay marriages-they’ve come out of the closet. I think we’re next.”
“So you’re tellin’ me that you folks-every one of you think-” He wasn’t sure he could make himself say it. “You think you’re vampires?”
“Not necessarily. Some of these folks are just batting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pretending. Playing dress-up. Plastic fangs, white makeup, scary contact lenses. It’s like a big role-playing game for them. We let them hang out here, but they aren’t actually members of the Circle. Some girls I know do it just so they can cruise the clubs. You know-Looking for Mr. Goodvampire. They’re in love with the undead mythology but aren’t actually-how to say it?-drinking from the well.”
“And that’s battin’?”
“Right. You know-like in the movies. Where the vamps turn into bats.” She paused. “Of course, real vampires don’t turn into bats.”
“And that’s what everyone else is? A real vampire?”
“No. Many are wannabes-they’re into vampires, they act like vampires. But they aren’t. Some are here for the S-and-M stuff. Some are casual blood sippers-like, from a cup. Only a relatively small fraction of the Circle are actual bloodsuckers who-you know, drink it in the traditional manner. They call themselves classicals or, worse, vampyrs.” She pronounced the last syllable as if it were piers. “So pretentious. True vampires are immortal and dead, or undead, if you prefer. They’ve been made a vampire by another vampire. They have inverted circadian rhythms-in other words, they’re genetically ‘night people.’ They are usually photosensitive-meaning they don’t like sunlight. In addition to those made vampires by another vampire, there are also Inheritors-people born into it, who are either immortal or exceedingly long-lived. They tend to be the bad boys-the ones who earned our community its negative reputation. Nighttimers are regular people who have been altered to become vampires. Like me. Not immortal. Not undead. But we don’t turn to ashes if we go out in the noonday sun, either.”
She stopped, licked her lips. “Enough with the lecture. All this talk and no action is making me hungry. You ready to go yet?”
Loving looked at her blank-faced. “Go where?”
“You know what I mean. You must be curious. What do you say?” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against the side of his neck. “Ready for a little suck?”
“You mentioned the Alaskan wilderness bill, Mr. Melanfield,” Ben said. “Could you explain to the jury exactly what that is?”
Melanfield took in a deep breath, starting a spiel Ben knew he had delivered countless times before. “It’s a bipartisan bill designed to increase our domestic production of oil and thus reduce our reliance on foreign oil.”
“And how does this bill propose to do that?”
“By stimulating production in undeveloped fields.”
“Undeveloped-why?”
A tiny crease spread across Melanfield’s forehead. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Those oil fields you’re talking about haven’t been tapped in the past because they’re located in the federally protected Alaskan wilderness, correct?”
“That would, uh, technically be correct. The purpose of the bill, of course, would be to alleviate the federal protection.”
“And thus allow developers to destroy the last untouched wilderness area in the entire United States.”
Melanfield blew out his cheeks. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I didn’t expect a rational response from you. I know about your past work for the eco-terrorist group.”
“Move to strike!” Ben rang out.
Judge Herndon gave the witness a stern look. “The lawyers are advocates, not defendants, sir. I will not permit any aspersions on counsel in my courtroom.” Especially, Ben thought, since it’s almost certain grounds for a mistrial or an appeal.
“Yes, your honor. I’m sorry. But as I said, I’ve worked with this company for a long time, and this is an issue I feel strongly about. I care about the environment as much as the next fellow. But I also care about this nation. And we need more oil. Our dependence on foreign oil has been disastrous. Fifty years of meddling in the Middle East have made us worldwide pariahs. How many governments have we propped up or torn down? How many times have we sent our troops into combat? And why? It isn’t about Israel, it isn’t about stabilizing the region, and it isn’t about weapons of mass destruction. It’s about oil.”
“That’s a lovely speech,” Ben said, “but you’re not answering my question.”
“I think I am.” Ben knew he was doing a lousy job of controlling the witness-the most important principle of cross-examination. But that was a difficult task when you were dealing with a man who talked persuasively for a living. “Studies have shown that if we could just reduce our energy consumption-or increase our production-by ten percent, we could eliminate our need for foreign oil. Problem is, we can’t. Good grief-Jimmy Carter asked us to drive slower and wear sweaters in the winter and we practically impeached him for it. No politician has had the guts to advocate conservation ever since-it’s considered political suicide. Americans think it’s their constitutional right to drive gas-guzzling SUVs and leave their lights on when no one is in the room. So we must increase domestic production. And the only way we can economically do that is by passing this bill. I regret the inevitable damage to the Alaskan wilderness, too. But I prefer that to sending more troops to die in the Middle East. Or God forbid, seeing a repeat of 9/11.”
“My purpose was not to give you a forum for your canned lobbying spiel,” Ben said. “My purpose was to find out why you haven’t been able to pass the bill.”
“I think you already know the answer to that question. Two words: Todd Glancy.”
“Despite your best efforts, Senator Glancy wouldn’t support the bill, right?”
“Worse. He led the opposition. And as a senator from a top oil-producing state, he had a lot of clout.”
“So it would be fair to say that your job would be a lot easier if Todd Glancy was out of the Senate.”
Melanfield looked as if he were taken aback by the very idea. “If you’re suggesting that I made my testimony up, I can-”
“Just answer the question, sir. Senator Glancy is your political opponent. And your job would be a lot easier if he was gone. Right?”
“I… suppose I can’t deny it.”
“And if he loses this trial, he will be gone. He’ll be replaced by an appointee of the Oklahoma governor, a Republican with deep ties to the oil industry, right?”
“I don’t know what the governor will-”
“What’s more, Brad Tidwell will become the senior senator from Oklahoma. And he already backs this bill, right?”
“He has had the foresight to lend us his support, yes.”
“So a conviction against Senator Glancy is a win-win for you, isn’t it?”
“Objection,” Padolino said. “This is becoming offensive.”
“Overruled,” Herndon said. “But I do think you’ve made your point, Mr. Kincaid. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. After this alleged eavesdropping incident, sir, did you tell anyone what you had heard?”
“No. Why would I?”
“You’re saying you caught a U.S. senator engaging in ethically and perhaps legally improper behavior. Implying that he either was blackmailing her and was being blackmailed. Did you report this to the Senate Ethics Committee?”
“Becoming a tattletale isn’t exactly the key to popularity for a lobbyist.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone? A friend? Your boss? Your wife?”
“No.”
“But now, after all these months of silence, you expect the jury to believe this heretofore unmentioned story?”
“Look, it was one thing when I thought the man was diddling around with his intern. That’s not exactly unprecedented. But when she turned up dead, that was different. Of course I went to the authorities.”
“With what? Did you hear Senator Glancy make any threats against Veronica Cooper?”
“No.”
“According to your testimony, she threatened him.”
“Right. Said she was going to ruin him.”
“I submit, sir, that your testimony makes no sense. We knew from the videotape that, at or around the time you heard this alleged conversation, Veronica Cooper was having intimate relations with Senator Glancy. That she was even instigating the encounter, at least to some degree. That’s an odd way to ruin someone.”
Melanfield smiled. “My guess is she made the videotape.”
All at once, Ben felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room, as if his heart had stopped beating.
It hadn’t even occurred to him, but it made perfect sense. What was more likely, that the tape was made by a political opponent, or by one of the persons involved? She made the tape-and made sure it got out-to bury her boss. To set up a lawsuit that could make her rich for the rest of her life. If she had lived.
“Move to strike,” Ben said, much too late to be effective. “Witness is speculating. His testimony is not based upon personal knowledge.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “The jury will disregard the witness’s statement.” But Ben knew it would make no difference. Whether Melanfield’s theory had any proof was irrelevant. It made sense. It fit. And even the most persuasive lawyer on earth would have a hard time convincing a jury to disregard their common sense.
“You’re tellin’ me you really suck people’s blood?” Loving asked, leaning as far away from Morticia as possible. He wished he’d worn a turtleneck.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” she replied. “Why should I? There’s nothing new about it. Human beings have drunk blood since the dawn of time. Vampires were reported by the ancient Sumerians.” She scooted closer. “All my life, I’ve felt like an outsider. Someone who didn’t belong. But as soon as I was introduced to Circle Thirteen, I thought-I’ve found my tribe! These are my people. I don’t need scarification, now. I have something else to take its place.”
“And that would be…?”
She looked at him levelly. “I think you already know the answer to that question.” She slipped a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and wriggled it down, revealing what was hidden beneath.
Wounds. Several slashes running down her shoulder.
“I-I thought vamps bit people in the neck.”
“Some do. Unfortunately, you can kill someone that way. Shoulder wounds are less dangerous, easier to get to, and easier to conceal afterward. They bleed a lot, but there’s no chance of bleeding to death from a shoulder cut. It’s perfect, really.” She pulled the strap back up. “So I can do all the things my body wants me to do, and still wear hot clothes.”
Loving shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually-”
“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said? Wake up and smell the bloodlust, handsome.” She beckoned toward someone at the other end of the room. A moment later, they were joined by a tall and thin, stubble-cheeked, midtwenties man wearing a leather shirt, leather pants, leather lace-up sandals, and a black cloak. His ears and a good part of his face were covered with piercings, and he wore a thick silver band around his neck. The man had also shaved his head, except for one twisted strand that dangled down in front of his eyes. His face was abnormally white: Loving suspected he used makeup to create the effect. And he was supposed to believe this guy had a normal nine-to-five job?
“Charles,” Morticia said, “show the man your teeth.”
“Why should I?” he replied. His voice was low and guttural.
“So that he can believe.”
“I don’t get ’em out unless I plan to use them.”
“Please,” Morticia insisted. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” She looked at him sheepishly. “Say cheese.”
The man shrugged, then, after a moment’s more hesitation, smiled.
They were properly called canines, Loving knew, or eyeteeth, but at the moment it was impossible to think of them as anything but fangs. They were prominent, long, and extremely sharp. Sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Or anyone.
“I ’m taking you two out to dinner tonight,” Senator Glancy announced, after Judge Herndon ended the day’s session. “Special permission from the judge-don’t have to be back to my cell till ten. So what do you say? It’ll be just the three of us, plus my dear, sweet federal marshals. We need to talk.”
“We could try Stan’s,” Christina suggested. “It’s nearby. It’s mentioned in all my guidebooks.”
Glancy shook his head. “Too close to the Washington Post offices. I don’t want to be spotted by a bunch of reporters. Especially reporters who’ve had too much to drink.”
“What about Two Quail? I hear it’s very elegant.”
“And packed with lobbyists. Who are even worse than reporters. At least the reporters don’t offer to fix you up with women.”
Ben’s jaw lowered. “Lobbyists do that?”
“Ben, they’ve got gorgeous babes standing by to provide a BJ in the bathroom if you’re on their A list. Or they’ll pick up a hottie and deliver her to your place-so you won’t be seen doing it. And as fun as that sounds, we need someplace our privacy will be respected.”
“Then you’d better pick.”
Glancy smiled broadly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“The usual table, Senator Glancy?”
“If it’s convenient.”
“Of course. Right this way.”
Glancy turned back toward Ben and Christina and winked. “You gotta love it. The man acts as if nothing has changed. No shocked expression, no double take. He’s a pro.”
Just as well, Ben thought, because he noticed a lot of double takes from the patrons as they passed through the elegant and exquisitely chic Four Seasons restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. Just a stone’s throw from the POTUS himself, Glancy had said. The Man with the Big O. Which in this case stood for the Oval Office. “I supposed they’re used to scandals in this town.”
“It’s not that they’re jaded,” Glancy replied quietly, as they approached the secluded table in an alcove in the rear of the restaurant’s dining area. “It’s that they’re cautious. A politician can be down one minute, up the next. No way of predicting. One day Newt Gingrich is practically running the country; a year later he’s writing bad science fiction novels and reviewing books for Amazon.com. One day Nixon is humiliated and retired from politics; next thing you know he’s the damn president. In the long run, it’s smart to be nice to everyone of importance. Or who might be. Or ever was.”
“Or,” Christina said, “you could just be nice to everyone. Period.”
“You could. But you’ll never get yourself elected to the U.S. Senate that way.” He took the menu from the waiter and smiled. “Thanks for humoring me. I get the impression this fancy-schmancy haute cuisine isn’t your usual bill of fare. But I wanted to make the most of my night out.”
“Not at all,” Ben said, as he gazed at the menu. The prices were not listed, which was never a good sign. “If I don’t eat this way often, it’s not by choice, it’s because… um, because…”
“Food allergies,” Christina said, bailing him out. “Has to be very careful or he gets heat flashes. Believe me, it’s a mess.”
Glancy smiled. “You shouldn’t have any problem here. The original owner set a standard for quality that has never been compromised. The four-star chef is probably the best in DC. Get this-the filets are dry-hung to age for four weeks before serving. Four weeks! And this is top-grade USDA-prime triple-plus beef. The best there is.”
Christina gazed at the menu. “Despite hailing from Oklahoma, I’m more of a fish person.”
“Of course you are.” Glancy flashed a quick smile. “Fish is brain food.” He reached across, brushing her hair with his hand, pointing at her menu. “Let me recommend the terrine of baby coho salmon with truffles and pistachios. It’s better than sex.”
“Really?”
“Well, no. But you know. It’s a thing people say.” He grinned again, the high-wattage smile that got him elected.
Was it Ben’s imagination, or did it seem as if everyone in this whole damn case was trying to hit on his partner?
“We should have brought Shandy,” Ben said, trying not to be too obvious.
“Oh, she’s been here before. And she pretends to enjoy it, for my sake. But she’s a girl of simple tastes at heart. A good girl, loyal. Not a dishonest bone in her body. But more the quarter-pounder type, if you know what I mean.”
“And Amanda?”
“Amanda gets off on work. It’s all she knows, all she loves. Spinning a PR disaster into a triumph, that’s her natural high. Nothing I could give her could ever compete with that.”
After they ordered, Glancy predictably wanted to discuss the case. “Don’t take this as criticism, Ben. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but-are we getting creamed?”
Ben took a long draw from his water crystal. “It’s much too soon to predict-”
“It’s slaughtersville, right?”
“Things always look bad when the prosecution is putting on their evidence,” Christina said.
“Naturally,” Ben added. “I mean, we knew they had a case. If they hadn’t, they never would’ve gone to trial. Not against you. We’re just going to have to tough it out until Padolino finishes.” He paused. “I am sorry about the trouble with your wife.”
“Marie?” Glancy waved his hand in the air. “Don’t worry about her. She gets it. She knows how the game is played.”
“She looked pretty upset…”
“Well, that’s the best way for her to play it, don’t you think?”
“I’m not quite sure I follow…”
“Then let me spell it out. If she didn’t cry or act distraught, people would say she’s a coldhearted bitch, Little Miss Iceberg, which is the stereotype every woman in politics has to fight against. If she acted as if she didn’t care what I did, it would suggest she didn’t care about me, which would lose her the support of the middle-American housewife-the stand-by-your-man crowd. And her being supposedly shocked about my affair isn’t going to do me any harm with the jury-this case isn’t about whether I slept with the girl, it’s about whether I killed her. No, I’d say Marie played it very smart.” He grabbed a roll and slathered it with butter. “Don’t worry about my Marie. She’s a smart woman. She’ll always be on top.” He blinked, then quickly turned to Christina. “I didn’t mean that in a sexual way.”
Ben grimaced. As if anyone thought he had-until he raised the suggestion. To Christina.
“And once Padolino has done his worst and rested,” Glancy continued. “Then what?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Then we put on our defense. Start turning the jurors’ minds around.”
“And how exactly do we do that?”
“My investigator, Loving, has been tracking the friends of Veronica Cooper. Last time I was able to talk to him, he thought he was onto something.”
“But he hasn’t been able to find them.”
“He found one-but she’s in the hospital, unconscious.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, the main point we’ll be making is that the prosecution evidence really only shows that you and Ms. Cooper were, um, you know-” He coughed in his hand. “Involved.”
Glancy smiled at Ben’s discomfort. “That would be one way of putting it.”
“But they have precious little that suggests you committed the murder. Sure, Padolino’s created a motive for you. But he hasn’t proven Opportunity. In fact, just the opposite. One of his own witnesses said you were in a committee meeting at the time of the murder.”
“I’m sure the prosecutor has some way around that.”
“Even if he does, it won’t prove you murdered Veronica Cooper. What he has is entirely circumstantial.”
“As I recall, aren’t most murder convictions based upon circumstantial evidence?”
Ben fidgeted with his fork. It was harder to comfort a client who was so blisteringly smart. “True. Eyewitness testimony is rare-murderers don’t normally commit their crimes while third parties are watching. But these days, science has made forensic evidence the star of the show. And juries are actually listening. Thanks to TV shows like CSI, the parts of the trial that used to be the most boring and least persuasive have become what jurors give the greatest credence. And Padolino has precious little forensic evidence against you.”
“He can trace me and the corpse to my hideaway.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that cuts against him,” Christina opined. “I mean, after all, if you really were the murderer, would you leave the corpse in a place so obviously linked to you?”
“If I was desperate,” Glancy answered. “If I had no other choice-no time to find another hiding place. Which is undoubtedly what Padolino will say.”
“We can also put on character witnesses who will tell the jury that given your upright character you couldn’t commit possibly a murder.”
“After that video? You’ll never convince the jury I have any character. They think I’m capable of doing anything.”
“I think maybe you’re being a little-”
“No, I’m being a lot. But I have to be. My entire future is on the line.” He buttered his last piece of bread. “Sorry to be Mr. Funsucky, Ben, but I’m doing it for a reason. I suspect you’re not planning to put me on the witness stand.”
Ben and Christina exchanged glances. “There are obvious dangers in calling you. Especially after the video. With any public figure, there’s always plenty of grist for cross-ex character assassination.”
“I get that, but you have no choice. Moreover, I want you to put me on.”
Ben shook his head. “Todd, I’m not sure you appreciate how dangerous that is.”
“I can handle myself.”
“We’re not talking about a press conference. We’re not talking about reporters tossing out softball questions from which you can pick and choose. We’re talking about cross-examination by a very experienced, very determined attorney who will not give you any quarter.”
“I repeat: I can handle myself.”
“And there are other dangers,” Christina added. “Some forms of evidence the prosecution can only bring in if you take the stand. Prior bad acts or convictions. Propensity for truth telling. You don’t want to deal with that.”
“If it saves my career-not to mention my life-I do.”
“Senator, I know you’ve had a lot of experience here in Washington, but when it comes to the courtroom, you’d be wise to listen to Ben. He-”
Glancy held up his hand. “You don’t have to tell me about Ben. I know everything there is to know; I wouldn’t have chosen him to represent me if I didn’t.” Ben felt his face reddening-it was awkward being talked about as if he weren’t there. “I remember when he won the National Moot Court Championship back in law school, whipping all those private school butts for good ol’ OU. Brilliant argument, great command of the material. Hell, I remember seeing you at all those hideously boring debutante parties our parents forced us to attend back in Nichols Hills. I remember admiring you.”
“M-me?”
“Yeah. Because while I was off trying to be everyone’s friend and bed every girl on the list and making a fool of myself drinking Everclear tornadoes-you didn’t.”
Ben squinted. “And the point of this is-”
“I must be losing my touch. I thought I’d already made it.” He smiled pleasantly at the waiter, who had just arrived with the food. “The point is, when it comes to smart, you win hands down. I got no bones about that. But when it comes to understanding people, I’ve got the edge. Because while I was making a fool of myself getting to know people, how they think, what makes them tick, you were off by yourself being smart.”
Glancy inhaled deeply, absorbing the ravishing beef-and-pecan aroma arising from his plate. “Isn’t that magnificent? A perfect sensual experience-it almost spoils it to take a bite.” He picked up a fork and began to slice. “I will be testifying, Ben. Count on it.”
Loving masterfully maintained a straight face. “So you’re tellin’ me you use those big sharp fangs of yours to suck blood?”
“Yes,” Morticia answered, her voice gurgling with excitement. She rubbed her tummy with one hand. “’S yummy.”
“Like liquid energy,” Charles added, lisping slightly, no doubt due to the inch-long teeth protruding from the front of his mouth.
Loving shook his head. “I’m assumin’, even if you’re an Inheritor, that you weren’t born with those. Otherwise your mommy would’ve signed you up for some serious orthodontic work.”
“’Course not,” Morticia explained. “He had ’em filed.”
“And where do you find a dentist who would do somethin’ like that?”
“We’ve got connections. The Sire takes care of us.”
Loving’s chin rose. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him. Who’s this Sire?”
“He’s the leader of the Inner Circle.”
“Did he get you a nice set of fangs, too?”
Morticia opened her mouth wide, smiled, and sure enough she had a more petite but still discernible pair of fangs. “The difference,” she said, mouth still open, “is that mine can be removed.” She reached up and snapped off her front row of teeth like a pair of fake fingernails. “Acrylic. Snap-ons. Cost me seventy-five bucks. But that’s a lot less than Charles paid. And I have the option of not wearing them to work-unlike him.”
“I work at home,” Charles explained, still lisping.
Just as well, Loving thought. “And you really drink blood?”
“With gusto. The commingling of bloodlines is the ultimate gratification, the sharing of life force. There is no greater stimulation than that derived from walking the narrow tightrope between pleasure and pain. Just thinking about it gets me-”
“Thanks for sharin’,” Loving said, cutting him off. “But I notice all your pals are gatherin’.” The rest of the Circle was congregating in the center of the room, hands joined, facing one another.
“Time for the Ceremony,” Morticia explained.
“And that is…?”
“You’ll see.”
“I can participate?”
“Sure. Open to all comers.”
And why was that? Did visitors become the human sacrifice? Loving was willing to do a great deal for Ben, but becoming a walking, talking blood bag for a coven of vampires was pushing it.
They finished their meals, which all three agreed were fabulous. Glancy assured Ben that the dinner was going on his running tab, which was a considerable relief, and Glancy was in the process of talking them into dessert (“The crème brûlée is like ambrosia in a baking dish, but I prefer the cheese plate, being a devoted turophile”) when they were visited by Brad Tidwell, the junior senator from Oklahoma.
Tidwell seemed genuinely surprised to see Glancy, even though Ben thought it was virtually impossible that anyone could’ve spotted them in this alcove if he hadn’t already known they were there. “Glad to see you were able to get out for a night, Todd. You know, we’re all rooting for you.”
“Oh, I rather doubt everyone is,” Glancy said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “But thank you.”
“I meant everyone from Oklahoma,” Tidwell corrected. “We Sooners stand by our own.”
“About that,” Glancy said. “I did notice that your name is on the prosecution’s witness list.”
“Doesn’t that beat all? I don’t know what the deal is.”
“I don’t, either,” Ben added. “And I interviewed you as soon as I saw the list.”
“I guess it’s because I’m on that committee with you, Todd. Did you know I have the best attendance record of anyone in the entire group?”
“Is that a fact,” Glancy said quietly.
Tidwell slapped his hand on Glancy’s shoulder. “I do wish you’d think about reconsidering your position on that Alaska bill, though. I know Melanfield’s an ass, but I think he’s right about this one.”
“It’s our last untouched wilderness area, Brad.”
“I know, but we’ve got to get ourselves out of the Middle East. It would be the best thing for the country.” He hesitated just the slightest second. “I think it would be the best thing for you, too.”
Glancy turned his head slowly. For a long, protracted moment, the two men stared into each other’s eyes.
“I can’t do that, Brad. The price is too high.”
Tidwell nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to hear that, Todd. I really am.”
Glancy did not reply.
“But no hard feelings, right?” Tidwell outstretched his hand. “You just remember that, no matter what happens, I’m behind you all the way, okay? You can count on the delegation from Oklahoma.” He shook Glancy’s hand vigorously, then strolled away.
Christina stared at them both, lips parted. “Did what I think just happened just happen?”
Glancy turned to her. “Now I understand why you’re such a good partner for my friend Ben. You get the subtext.”
“Subtext?” Ben said, turning from one to the other. “What are you two talking about?”
“Opportunity,” Glancy said. “I think I know now how that will be established.”
“And that handshake?” Ben asked. “That promise of support. That wasn’t a peace offering?”
Glancy shook his head gravely. “The Judas kiss.”
Not that Loving was looking for trouble. He really wasn’t. But when you’re hanging with vampires, and someone announces that the Ceremony is about to begin, you form certain expectations. Visions of kidnapped babies being drained. Vestal virgins thrown to the flames. Lucifer the Goat conjured from the netherworld.
Anything but this. Because this was nothing but a glorified AA meeting where all the attendees have the same bad fashion sense.
“I tried to talk to my parents,” a young man in a dark sweater said. “But they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t understand. They said-get this-‘Have you ever tried not being a vampire?’”
Several sympathetic hands were laid upon his shoulder.
“We feel your pain,” the others chanted together.
More likely they cause his pain, Loving thought. With their teeth.
Daily whispered into Loving’s ear. “How much more of this are we going to endure? I’ve talked to everyone in the room. None of them knows a Beatrice.”
“Did you learn anythin’ about the girls that disappear? The ones the Sire’s minions select for the Inner Circle?”
“No one seems to know much about that.”
Loving grunted. He was equally stymied. He hated to give up on a promising lead, but this was getting them nowhere. “Amber’s last words before she fell unconscious-”
“She was out of her head. Probably didn’t know what she was saying.”
Another member of the Circle was speaking. “And then she threw the engagement ring back at me, screaming, ‘You said you were going to be a lawyer!’ And I told her, ‘I can still be a lawyer, honey. I’ll just have to stick to night court.’”
“Okay, let’s get outta here.” Loving headed out, but to his surprise Morticia left the group and ran in front of him just as he passed through the outer door, blocking his way.
“You can’t just leave. I told you. We’re destined to be together.” She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Just let me take a little nip. You won’t be disappointed. I promise you.” Once again she was all over him, her heaving bosom pressed against his ample chest. “It would be an experience you’d never forget.”
“That I don’t doubt. But-”
“Give it up, you gorgeous infidel.” All at once, she lurched forward, placed her acrylic teeth against his neck, and bit down hard.
Loving pulled away. “Stop that!”
“Why? Afraid you might like it?” She wiped her mouth dry. “You shouldn’t withdraw prematurely. Haven’t you heard? Women don’t like that.”
“Be seein’ you.” Loving started for the door, tugging Daily as he went.
“You know you want it. Deep down,” Morticia called after him. “You’ll come back. Wait and see. I’ll still be here. When you’re ready.”
Loving ran down the front steps and breathed in the night air. Strong with carbon monoxide, but refreshing, just the same. It was a relief to be outside, away from that pack of nutcases.
Vampires. Jeez Louise. What next? It can’t possibly get any weirder than that…
A voice emerged from the darkness. “Freeze, or I’ll stake you where you stand, you unholy beasts.”
Loving and Daily both pivoted at once. There was a woman standing behind them, emerging from the shadows of a side alley. She was young, slender but sturdy. She had long blond hair and a tanned complexion. Her eyes were fixed intently upon her targets.
She was holding a crossbow. Not a gun. A crossbow.
“Now you’re going to do exactly what I say,” she said, moving forward but never blinking, never moving her finger from the trigger. “And if either of you so much as takes a baby step toward me, you’ll get a bolt through your undead heart.”
B en was not surprised when the prosecution called Brad Tidwell, the junior senator from Oklahoma. Padolino made a great show of explaining in open court that Tidwell was a “hostile witness,” and was appearing only because he had been subpoenaed-probably a condition of his agreement to testify. Tidwell opened with several stories of how he had once admired Senator Glancy and how helpful the man was during his early days in the Senate, despite the fact that they were from opposite parties. Together, he and Padolino did everything imaginable to dispel the idea that this testimony had partisan motivations.
“On September 26 of last year, did you attend the morning meeting of the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions?” Padolino asked.
“I did, sir. I’m proud to say I have the best attendance record of any member currently serving. I’ve never missed an entire day. I even attended when I had strep and a temperature of one hundred and four.”
Well, I bet the other committee members appreciated that, Ben mused.
“And was the defendant present on September 26?”
“He was, sir. He’s still vice chair, and I believe he handled some of the parliamentary rigmarole at the opening.”
“And did he remain in the committee chambers for the entire morning?”
Ben wondered if he had been coached to pause at this dramatic juncture, or if his political experience had given him sufficient instinct to work these things out for himself. “No, sir. He did not.”
A small stir from the gallery. Not quite enough to get Herndon’s gavel rattling, but close.
“At what time did Senator Glancy leave the room?”
“I can’t be certain. I was very busy, and I didn’t know then that it would be important. But it was in the first hour or so of the session.”
“Say around nine thirty?”
“Objection!” Ben rushed in. “Leading.”
“Sustained.”
“I really didn’t notice the time,” Tidwell continued. “But it was early. Before ten, certainly.”
The earliest time the coroner said the killing could have occurred, Ben noted. How terribly convenient.
“Thank you. I have no more questions.”
But Ben did. More than a few.
“Could we possibly get some specifics on this previously unmentioned absence?” Ben thought it was an appropriate time to allow some indignation to show.
“What would you like to know? I told you as much as I can about when he left.”
“How long was Senator Glancy gone? According to you.”
“I really couldn’t say. I had other things to do than monitor his comings and goings.”
“Give me a ballpark figure.”
“I can’t.”
“Was it a bathroom break? Or was he gone a good long time?”
“It was more than a bathroom break. I was trying to float a redraft by him, but he wasn’t anywhere in the chamber. I searched the whole place, waited, finally had to move on to something else. It was at least ten minutes before I saw him in the chamber again. Maybe as much as twenty.”
More than enough time, Ben realized. He played the best card he had. “Senator Tidwell, I interviewed you two days after the murder occurred, along with every other member of that committee. You told me you were working on a new formulation of a bill and couldn’t remember whether Senator Glancy was present the whole time or not.”
“And that was true. At the time. But I’ve had a long while to think about it since then. Time to reflect and to review my notes. Now I distinctly remember looking around for Todd, and not finding him.”
The man was so smooth he could make anything sound reasonable. Ben had one last impeachment card, a pretty feeble one. But he had to play it.
“Despite being from the same state, you’re not a member of the same political party as Senator Glancy, are you?”
“I think I made that clear.”
“The current Senate has only a bare Republican majority. You’d probably like to see a few Democrats replaced by Republicans, right?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Answer the question.”
“Well…” He grinned a little. “I wouldn’t object.”
“And you’d probably enjoy being the senior senator from your state, wouldn’t you?”
That got a rise out of him. “If you’re trying to suggest that I’m making this up just to get Senator Glancy out of the Senate, you’re wasting your time. I wouldn’t do that. We may be political opponents, but we’re still brother senators. Politics is one thing, but loyalty is another. I put loyalty first.”
“So you say,” Ben rejoined. “But that didn’t stop you from testifying today, did it? No more questions.”
Padolino would try to patch that up on redirect, Ben well knew. But at least it gave him an exit line.
As Glancy had predicted last night, Opportunity had arrived. Coupled with Motive, the prosecution had made their case. They’d given the jury everything they needed to convict. For all intents and purposes, the burden of proof was now on Ben-and if he failed, Todd Glancy was a dead man.
It was overkill, Ben thought, and the flaw with overkill was not just that the jury would get bored but also that eventually some witness might make a mistake that would undermine everything. Padolino had made his case; the only sensible thing to do was rest. But instead, he opted for the anticlimactic introduction of character assassination. For what purpose? Ben wondered. What character was there left to assassinate?
Ben did his best to exclude all such witnesses, but Herndon ruled that it went to the issue of both motive and the likelihood that Glancy might leave a meeting to engage in “inappropriate relationships.” So it came in. Padolino put a succession of three women on the stand-all of them young, all of them pretty.
The first, a senatorial aide, claimed that during a meeting of the Atomic Energy Commission, Glancy put his hand under the conference table and between her legs. According to her, when she looked at him, shocked, he whispered, “My dear, you’re as cold as ice. Would you like to conduct a little science experiment? Let’s see if we can generate some spontaneous combustion.” The second, a member of the Senate secretarial pool, claimed Glancy had stumbled into her elevator late one evening, drunk as a skunk, belched, put his hand on her breast, and slurred, “Sssorry. I missstook you for a doorknob.”
Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Am I the only one who’s like, ickk?”
“No, I’m pretty sure there are others,” Ben whispered back. “Sixteen of them, to be exact. And they’re all sitting together.”
Glancy remained quietly impassive throughout the testimony.
The most damaging was the third, which was undoubtedly why Padolino had saved her for last. She claimed to have been interviewing for an intern’s position in Glancy’s office, the position later held by Veronica Cooper. This put it in the realm of employment-related sexual harassment, which was not only contrary to federal law and actionable in civil court, but also grounds for immediate expulsion from the Senate, as Senator Packwood had learned several years before.
“He kept saying, ‘Hiring is so difficult. You can’t make an informed decision unless you’re aware of all the candidate’s talents.’ And then he unzipped his fly.”
“Did he… make a request?” Padolino asked.
“He didn’t have to. It was obvious what he wanted. I told him I wouldn’t have sex with a stranger just to get a job. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Hey, it’s not like it would be real sex.’” She pursed her lips. “Obviously, he was a Democrat.”
Ben didn’t bother asking his client if any of these incidents actually happened. They didn’t directly pertain to the murder. And Ben didn’t really want to hear the answer. He was much more concerned about what was going on at the prosecution table. Padolino had effectively completed the day with what at best could be called filler witnesses. Damaging, perhaps, but not that damaging.
If this was the best he had left, he would’ve ended with Tidwell. Which led Ben to an inescapable conclusion. There was something more. Someone more. Some killer witness Padolino had saved so he could end with a bang. But who could it be? What could there possibly be left to say?
The question troubled him deeply. Because as every good attorney knew, the key to a successful defense was anticipation. No matter how bad the testimony, if you can see it coming, you can come up with some way to deflect it, to undermine it, to deflate it, to make it seem less than it at first appeared to be.
But if you didn’t know what was coming, you were like a floundering fish waiting to be speared. Dead in the water.
Loving stared at the young woman bearing both the determined expression and the crossbow aimed at his chest. “Have I… uh… done somethin’ to offend you?” he asked.
“Your very existence offends me, Dracula.”
Loving furrowed his brow. “I think you may be confused.”
“Am I?” She was so close now the tip of the crossbow bolt was barely a foot away. “How do you figure?”
Loving pointed to Daily. “He’s Count Dracula. I’m Renfield.”
Daily spun around. “Now wait a minute-”
“You think that’s funny?” She pushed the tip of the bolt to his chest, right over his heart. “You won’t be laughing once I send you into instant cremation.”
Loving held up his hands. “Look, lady, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not vampires.”
“I suppose you were in there just for the free crudités.”
“I was in there as part of an investigation. That’s my job. I’m a private investigator.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I was watching you. I saw that rouged-up Vampirella bite your neck.”
Ah. Now Loving was beginning to understand where the woman was coming from. “And why do you care?”
“Because that’s my job,” she spat back. “I’m a vampire hunter.”
Loving and Daily exchanged a look. “Did you say what I think you just said?”
“Don’t get smart with me!” She jabbed him with the tip of the bolt. “I won’t take any crap from a reanimated corpse.”
Loving held up his hands. “Lady-do you have a name?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’d just like to know who I’m talkin’ to before you, uh, slay me.”
She hesitated, her narrowed eyes spewing anger. “You can call me Shalimar.”
“And you’re a… vampire slayer.”
“Hunter! Not slayer!”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is this is real life, not some TV show.”
“Fine. Vampire hunter.” He paused. “Do you need a hunting license for that?”
Her teeth clenched together. “Wiseass undead hellspawn. I’m taking you down.”
“Look, Shalimar, I’m not a vampire. You fire that bolt, you’ll be committin’ murder.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove it? How do I prove I’m not a vampire?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’ll follow you home.”
“What? Why?”
“If I can sneak into your place without an invitation, that means I’m not a vampire, right?”
She raised the crossbow higher. “I warned you-”
“Or we could get Italian. After you see how much garlic I put on everythin’-”
“Cut it out!”
Loving tried another tack. “You got a cross on you?”
She hesitated. “Several.”
“How did I guess? Gimme one.”
“Why?”
“So when I don’t burst into flames or cower or hiss or anythin’, you’ll know I’m not undead.”
Slowly, Shalimar reached inside her Windbreaker and produced a small wooden cross. She held it out to him. Loving took it into his hand…
And screamed. “Aaaaaah!” He dropped the cross and pressed his hand to his chest.
Shalimar jumped, crossbow at the ready. “What? You monstrous-”
Loving held up his hands. “Jokin’, jokin’.” He picked the cross up off the pavement and squeezed it. “See. Nothin’. I’m not a vampire.”
Shalimar pursed her lips, furious. “Him, too.”
Daily took the cross, didn’t joke around, didn’t turn to flames.
Slowly Shalimar lowered her crossbow. “I guess you’re clean. You should be more careful about who you make out with.” She shrugged. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“Think nothin’ of it,” Loving replied. “Happens every day. But lemme tell you-there’s nothing in there but a lotta pathetic whack jobs tryin’ to convince themselves they’re special by copyin’ scenes from bad horror movies. I didn’t see anyone who didn’t reflect in the mirror over the hearth.”
“More pretenders.” She released the bolt from her crossbow and slowly edged it back into the quiver on her back. “Damn.”
“Lady, they’re all pretenders. There’s no such thing as vampires.”
“You’re wrong. They do exist.”
“Where? Universal Studios?”
“History is replete with documented vampires. The novel Dracula was based on a real vampire. Lady Caroline Lamb, the Victorian poet, was a vampire. There have been many books written on the subject.”
“Ma’am,” Loving said, “with all due respect, I’ve been known to buy any number of off-the-wall theories. But even I don’t believe some lady poet was really a vampire. Know why? ’Cause there’s no such thing!”
She looked at him with a sad, pitying expression. “That’s what they want you to believe.”
“Oh, for Pete’s-”
“Are you familiar with Rousseau?”
“The actress?”
“No, the eighteenth-century French philosopher and writer. One of the smartest men who ever lived. He said-and this is an exact quote-‘If ever there was in the world a warranted and proven history, it is that of vampires: nothing is lacking, official reports, testimonials of persons of standing, of surgeons, of clergymen, of judges; the judicial evidence is all-embracing.’”
“The man was cracked. With all due respect, Miss Shalimar, people don’t rise from the dead, no matter who they’ve been suckin’ on.”
“Do you know the disease porphyria? It’s a genetic disorder that causes receding gums-which can make people look like they have fangs-and also creates hypersensitivity to sunlight and an enzyme deficiency that can cause people to crave blood.”
Loving pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, you’re… what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? You should be in a sorority or the Junior Service League or somethin’. When did you get started chasin’ vampires?”
Her eyes narrowed to a dull pinpoint of light. “After they took my sister.”
A synapse fired somewhere inside Loving’s brain. “What was your sister’s name?”
She looked at him for a long while, as if trying to evaluate whether she could trust him, before finally answering. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. Why do you ask?”
B en waited quietly, wringing his hands under the defense table, desperate to know who the prosecution’s pièce de résistance would be. He’d pored over their witness list, but that was no help-there were at least thirty uncalled witnesses remaining, and as far as he knew none of them had anything sensational to say. He’d tried to wheedle the information out of Padolino, who wouldn’t give up anything but kept pestering Ben for Christina’s phone number. His associates were apparently under threat of bodily injury not to talk. Ben had scanned the courtroom, the hallway outside, even the men’s room, but hadn’t been able to spot anyone who wasn’t normally present.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” Christina said, with an attempt at solace that was painfully unavailing. “Maybe there is no killer finale. They’ve already put on enough to make their case.”
“But possibly not enough to win it.” Ben shook his head. “No, if this was all he had, Padolino would’ve closed with Senator Tidwell. Or the video. There has to be something more.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Glancy grunted. “My staff is equally clueless.”
“Not for want of trying.” Amanda Burton stood behind her man, the usual unpleasant expression on her face. “I’ve called all my connections in the Senate and the law enforcement world. They haven’t been able to tell me anything.”
Shandy, her blond hair tucked behind her ears, nodded. “Marshall’s come up dry, too. And if Marshall can’t find it, it isn’t available. Oh-I almost forgot.” She pulled a sealed envelope out of her satchel. “This is for you, Boss.”
Glancy held the letter between his fingers. “Should I read it now, dear? Or in private?”
She smiled. “It can wait till later.”
“Thanks.” He tucked it into his coat pocket. “It’s a comfort to know I have such dedicated people taking care of business while I’m stuck in this trial.”
“Speaking of which,” Shandy said, turning toward Ben, “you look cute as a bug in Todd’s navy-blue Brooks Brothers.”
Ben glanced at the suit he was wearing. “What, this old thing?”
Shandy laughed. “Fits you much better than that blue rag you were wearing twice a week. What’s ‘Dillard’s,’ anyway?”
Ben stiffened slightly. “Dillard’s is a first-rate Oklahoma-based chain of department stores-”
“But Ben doesn’t shop there,” Christina interjected. “He shops at a consignment store and buys the hand-me-downs of people who shop at Dillard’s.”
Ben adjusted the knot in his necktie. “Nothing wrong with a little frugality.”
Judge Herndon’s clerk entered the courtroom, closely trailed by the man himself. The judge greeted everyone, gave the usual admonitions to his sequestered jury, then got down to business. “I especially want to remind the members of the press in the audience that no disturbances, outbursts, or unruly behavior will be tolerated. And that goes for the nonpress personages in the gallery as well.”
Herndon had never started the day with anything like this before. Did he know something Ben didn’t? Was there some reason he foresaw the possibility of an outburst?
“Mr. Padolino,” the judge said, leaning back in his chair, “please call your next witness.”
“With pleasure.” Padolino rose, smoothed the crease in his jacket, then addressed the court. “The District calls Miss Shandy Craig.”
“What?” Ben hadn’t meant to say it aloud, wasn’t really even conscious he was speaking. He turned, along with everyone else sitting at counsel table, to face the rear of the gallery. Sure enough, lovely Shandy rose to her feet.
She was not surprised.
“I don’t believe it,” Glancy said, under his breath.
Christina, Marie, the rest of Glancy’s staff, and everyone in the gallery who knew the players seemed equally stunned, including a few of the people sitting at Padolino’s table. Well, that’s the best way to keep a secret, Ben thought grimly. Tell no one.
Shandy started down the nave of the gallery, composed, her chin slightly raised, moving without hesitation. Marshall Bressler was seated in his wheelchair toward the front on the defense side. As she approached, he turned his wheels outward slightly, blocking her progress.
Shandy stopped. The two made eye contact. Even without telepathic powers, Ben felt confident he knew what message was being communicated by the senator’s administrative assistant to his young protégée.
You traitor.
Shandy calmly sidestepped him, passed through the swinging doors, and was sworn in by the bailiff.
Ben had assumed-had hoped, really-that Shandy’s testimony would focus on the discovery of Veronica Cooper’s body. Unfortunately, he was incorrect.
“Was there anything unusual about the hiring process?” Padolino asked.
“Well,” Shandy replied, “I couldn’t help but notice that all the other applicants for the vacated intern position-there were four of us-were about my age, and I don’t want to seem egotistical, but no one there was hard on the eyes.”
“During the interview process, were you asked any… unusual questions?”
Ben and Christina looked at each other. Here we go again.
“It wasn’t so much his questions as the remarks he made in between. I didn’t get the joke some of the time. But I did think he was making remarks that were sexually suggestive. He’d laugh and his eyebrows would dance up and down.”
“Perhaps he was just trying to learn a little something about you,” Padolino suggested. “So he could assess your qualifications for the job.”
“Well, at one point he asked if I was wearing a thong. You know, underwear. I had a hard time seeing how that fit into a congressional intern’s job description.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. I think he wanted to talk to me more, but he was pressed for time. As you know, the video had just hit the airwaves the day before. He had reporters practically beating down his door, he had a committee about to go into session and, he said, ‘many other important meetings.’ So he gave me the job and I went to work. I was in the committee room when the meeting began at nine.”
Ben slowly released his breath. That wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t good, but they could survive it. If that was where it stopped.
“Could you please explain to the jury why you were at the meeting for the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions on the day in question?”
“Of course.” Shandy shifted slightly to face the jury, adjusting her skirt to keep her knees covered. Now that Ben thought about it, she was dressed much more conservatively than she had been in the past. Padolino had coached her well. “As I said, it was my first day on the job, my first day working for Senator Glancy. He told me to follow him around all day long, just to get the lay of the land. That didn’t last long-his office was so overrun by the media that the senator’s PR adviser, Amanda Burton, paged me and instructed me to return to the office. But I was at the committee meeting for a good long while.”
“And were you there between the hours of nine and ten?”
“I was.”
“A previous witness, Senator Tidwell, has testified that he saw Senator Glancy leave the conference room during that time.” He paused, making the jury wait for it. “Did you?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
Ben closed his eyes. There it was. The clincher. Verification from Glancy’s own staff member, albeit a new one. Ben had interviewed Shandy after he took the case, of course, as he had every member of Glancy’s staff and everyone else on the prosecution’s witness list. She had given no indication of any sexual misconduct by the senator, during her job interview or later. And she certainly had said nothing about seeing the senator leave the committee meeting-even though she knew that meeting was key to his alibi.
“Did you see where he went?”
“I did not. I just looked up one moment and he was gone. But I had a hunch.”
Ben tensed, ready to spring. This wasn’t speculation yet, but it sounded as if it might be on the verge.
“And what was the basis for this hunch?”
“I knew how Senator Glancy got to the meeting. Because he brought me along. We didn’t come the usual way, through the marble corridors like the other senators. We took what he called his ‘secret passageway.’”
“And that was?”
“A back stairwell. Through a rear door in his private office he could enter the emergency stairway, wind through some maze-like hallways, and end up in the committee room, without ever once emerging in any of the public areas of the building. He said it was very exclusive-only a few of the senators even knew about it. He also told me about his hideaway and how you could get to it via these back passageways without being spotted.”
Ben felt Christina kicking him in the shins under the table. She knew where this was going as well as he did.
“Did this behavior strike you as… unusual?”
“He said he wanted to avoid the press, which under the circumstances I could understand. So when he disappeared during the meeting, I assumed he went the same way he had come.”
“What did you do?”
“I followed him.”
Ben felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. Was it possible? Could Padolino finally have what he needed most? An eyewitness?
“What did you do?”
“I entered the stairwell through the door we had used to get to the committee room and tried to thread my way to his hideaway. But remember-this was my first day, and I’d only been in this place once. I got lost. There are very few exit doors. So I wasted a lot of time wandering around, not really knowing where I was.” She paused. “I probably never would’ve found them-if I hadn’t heard the noise.”
“The noise? Could you please be more specific? What did you hear?”
“I heard two voices, a man and a woman, even though the door was closed. But that wasn’t the main noise.”
“What was the main noise?”
Shandy took a deep breath. “The sound of two people… doing it. You know what I mean. Making love.”
Jaws dropped in the jury box. And elsewhere as well.
“What did it sound like?”
“It’s a little hard to describe, but-we’ve all heard it. It’s a pretty distinctive sound. There was… jeez…” She rubbed her brow for a moment. “Rhythmic grunting. Low-pitched. The sound of someone being knocked against the wall at a steady rhythm. Some crying out.”
“Crying out? As in pain?”
“No. As in… you know. Orgasmic ecstasy.”
“Are you sure?” Padolino asked. “The two might sound alike. And if you couldn’t see them-”
“Yes, I’m sure. And no, actually, they don’t sound anything alike. I’m no tramp, but I know an orgasm when I hear it.”
Ben cast a quick look at Glancy, who was remarkably stone-faced. He couldn’t tell what was going on in that brain, but the wheels were definitely turning. And he didn’t want to know what Marie was thinking.
“How long did these… noises go on?”
“Oh, I’d guess around two minutes. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to stay. Part of me wanted to go. I couldn’t decide. Then I heard the man speak.”
“What did he say?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”
“You must be joking,” Judge Herndon said. He was hunched forward over his bench, hanging on Shandy’s every word. “The witness will answer the question.”
“It was more of a whisper, actually,” Shandy explained. “But I could make it out, just barely. He said. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Because it’s the last time for you. Forever.’”
The buzz in the gallery had been growing for the past several minutes, but at this point it reached a distracting crescendo. Herndon banged his gavel several times. “Don’t make me clear this courtroom!”
That quieted the crowd. No one wanted to risk missing what came next.
“Was there anything more?” Padolino asked.
“Yes. I heard the woman give out a little gasp, and then there was this-this-really strange sound, almost like air being sucked in. I heard a sudden thud-as if one of the parties had hit the floor. After that, the room was silent.”
“What did you do then?”
“I turned back the way I had come and found the committee room, in a lot less time than it took me to stumble upon those two. Amazing how much better your brain works when you really don’t want to be caught somewhere. I came back later, trying to get a break from all the chaos upstairs. I assumed they would both be gone but… that was when I found her. Veronica Cooper. Dead.”
Padolino nodded sympathetically. “Thank you, Miss Craig. Pass the witness.” Padolino looked pointedly at Ben.
He wasn’t the only one in the courtroom looking that way. Ben had learned to watch the expressions on the jurors’ faces surreptitiously and frequently-and what he was reading now he didn’t like at all. What he was reading was that every juror on the bench thought Glancy was a murderer-and a disgusting, perverted, cradle-robbing, sex-addicted murderer at that.
“Will there be any cross?” Judge Herndon asked.
Ben rose to his feet. “Oh yeah.”
Once they got Shalimar to put away the crossbow, Loving and Daily escorted her to a nearby Georgetown all-night coffeehouse so they could exchange notes.
“Why do you think vampires were responsible for Beatrice’s disappearance?” Loving asked.
She drank deeply from her coffee cup-almost an entire cup at once. If Loving had done that, he’d never get to sleep, but it didn’t seem to be a problem for her. Or maybe vampire hunters didn’t sleep nights. “I was going to school in Philadelphia-Bryn Mawr-but I have friends in DC, and they kept an eye on my little sister for me. Told me she was changing, going out almost every night, dressing in black, wearing turtlenecks even though it was hot as blazes out. Then she started disappearing, not coming back to her apartment, sometimes for days. At first I just assumed she had a new boyfriend. But one of my friends managed to get a look under the collar of her sweater-and found two unhealed puncture wounds. Bite marks.”
“And before that you had no hint that your sister was… gettin’ into some seriously weird stuff?”
“None at all. Last time I saw her, she was an All-American straight-A student. The next-she’s Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Except without the laugh track.”
“So what did you do?”
“What choice did I have? I came up here as soon as possible. But it was too late. She was gone. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“My daughter disappeared, too,” Daily said, clenching his fists. “Now she’s in the ICU unit of the hospital. If I’d only been smarter. Moved a little faster.”
“I kept saying the same thing. Blaming myself. But that didn’t help. So I dropped out of school and started spending all my time looking for Beatrice, learning about these vampire cults. I went from one vamp club to the next-gay vamp bars, straight vamp bars-places where they actually serve blood over the counter, like it was a cocktail. You wouldn’t believe how many of them there are. No one ever wanted to talk to me-so I had to get tough. That’s when I became a vampire hunter. Whether they’re real vampires or pretenders, the mythos of the vampire hunter-Van Helsing, Captain Kronos, Kolchak, whoever-terrifies them.”
“And that’s what brought you to Circle Thirteen tonight?”
“Took me forever to get a lead on that place. But I was told there were some vampires in there.”
“Some? It’s a regular Vampapalooza. But it’s all up here.” Loving tapped a temple. “I mean, they’re not really hell demons or ‘vampyrs’ or whatever the politically correct term would be. Undead Americans? They’re just basket cases trying to convince themselves they’re special by affecting this Bela Lugosi fetish.”
“You mean… they’re normals?”
“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna see any of them on the cover of Sanity Fair. But I’m pretty damn sure they’re not walking corpses.”
Shalimar’s chin sagged. “Then it’s a dead end.”
“Maybe not. Someone I talked to said women sometimes disappeared-said they were chosen by the minions of someone called the Sire for… the Inner Circle. She also mentioned a place called the Playground.” He paused. “Shalimar, I think we should team up. We’re all looking for the same girl. Maybe if we pool our knowledge-”
He was interrupted by the sound of Daily’s cell phone ringing. “Yes?”
Less than ten seconds later, Daily snapped it shut. “It’s Amber. She’s awake.”
Loving hurriedly tossed some money on the table, pulled a card out of his wallet, and slid it across the table to Shalimar. “Here’s my number. Call me tomorrow.”
“You’ll ask Amber if she knows anything about Beatrice?”
“Promise. I’ll tell you anything we learn.”
Daily was obviously anxious. “I’ve got to go.”
“I know. I’m coming with you.” Loving slid out of the booth. “Thanks for talking with us.” He gave her a wink. “Look forward to working with you, Buffy.”
Despite the fact that Loving was already halfway across the coffeehouse, Shalimar rose to her feet. “Don’t call me Buffy!”
Even though it broke protocol as well as one of his primary rules for courtroom decorum, Ben had to talk to his client. He leaned over and whispered into Glancy’s ear. “Is any of what she said true?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Glancy shot back. “I’ve told you before. The only time I left the conference room was when I went to the restroom. And I wasn’t gone more than ten minutes.”
“Just asking.” Ben rose. He wondered if Christina might not be a better choice to cross this witness. He would be forced to tread the line between being firm and appearing to beat up on a helpless young woman. But thanks to his prior objection, the witness was his now, whether he liked it or not.
“Point of clarification, Miss Craig. Did you ever see the faces of the two people who were allegedly in the hideaway?”
“I never saw their faces, no, but I think it’s obvious-”
“To be blunt, ma’am, I don’t care what you think. I want to hear what you know. Did you see their faces?”
Shandy grasped that the tone of the questioning had changed and resigned herself to answering questions succinctly. “No.”
“Were you able to positively identify either of them?”
“I’d never met Veronica Cooper. But I thought the male voice sounded a lot like Senator Glancy.”
“Whom you had just met that morning, right?”
“Well, yes.”
“And what does that mean exactly, when you say you ‘thought it sounded like him’?”
“Well, the voice was low and deep. Kinda slow talking.”
“That would be true for half the men over thirteen on this planet.”
“It’s not just that.” She began fidgeting with her well-shaped fingernails, which Ben could only take as a good sign. “I thought he had sort of an Oklahoma accent.”
Ben wasn’t giving any ground. “And what exactly would that be? Like how I talk?”
“Well… I don’t really hear it in your voice.”
“Why not? I’ve lived in Oklahoma almost my entire life.” Of course, he was educated at a private school in a big city, but for that matter so was Todd Glancy.
“No, it was more like the senator talks. Kinda slow and… you know. Drawn out. Lots of extra syllables.”
“Give me an example.”
Shandy glanced toward Padolino, obviously hoping he could bail her out, but there was nothing he could do. “Well… like when he said ‘forever.’ It was more like he was saying, ‘Fuhr-eve-uhhhh.’”
“And that’s supposed to be Oklahoma? It sounds more like Gone With the Wind.”
“Your honor,” Padolino said. “He’s badgering this poor girl.”
Herndon shook his head. “They don’t call it cross-examination because it’s supposed to be fun. You may continue, Mr. Kincaid.”
“It would be fair to assume that anyone engaged in an intimate encounter might speak slowly and dramatically, don’t you think?”
“Well…”
“And you said you could barely hear the voices. The fact is, you couldn’t positively identify either of the two people involved. Not then and not now.”
“But I’m sure it was Senator Glancy and that poor girl. Why do you think I followed him in the first place?”
“Good question. Why did you?”
“Because I knew Veronica Cooper was in the building.”
Now Ben was confused. “I thought you said-”
“I said Senator Glancy told me she hadn’t come in that day. But he was lying. I’d asked the front desk clerk about her when I entered the building and he told me she was there. Well, that’s no surprise-we all know she was there now. But why would Senator Glancy lie about it? Unless maybe he was planning to meet her in secret.”
“Move to strike,” Ben said. “Supposition without foundation.”
Herndon inhaled heavily, then said, “Sustained.” Which was surely his way of saying that although Ben was technically correct, he couldn’t see that it made much difference.
“You use the word lie in pretty cavalier fashion, ma’am. Is it possible that Senator Glancy didn’t know she was in the building? That she didn’t report in to his office?” That was what Glancy had told Ben.
“Then why would she come?” Shandy asked, exasperated. “She couldn’t work for him if he didn’t know she was there.” Her voice dropped a notch. “And she couldn’t blackmail him or have sex with him, either.”
“Your honor!” Ben protested, but the judge was already on it.
“Miss Craig, you know what is and is not permitted on the witness stand. You will confine your testimony to what you have seen and heard.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“I won’t tolerate any more such remarks, particularly not with testimony of this importance. Do that again and I’ll have you removed from the courtroom.”
“Yes, your honor. Sorry.”
Herndon leaned back, obviously still angry. But there wasn’t much he could do to such a contrite witness. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement. You may proceed, Mr. Kincaid.”
Ben tried to salvage what little he could. “You keep saying you ‘followed’ Senator Glancy. But that isn’t really accurate, is it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, you said yourself that you didn’t see him leave. You only guessed what door he exited through. You can’t ‘follow’ someone if you don’t actually know where they are.”
“I thought I knew. And I proved I was right when I found him.”
“Found someone,” Ben insisted, but even to himself he was sounding increasingly desperate. “All you can say for sure is that Senator Glancy left and you found someone in his hideaway. If he in fact just went to the men’s room, you weren’t following anyone, right? You discovered someone.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened,” she said sullenly.
Ben decided to let it drop. He’d made his point, and she was never going to agree with him. “Miss Craig, why didn’t you say anything about this when it happened?”
“I did.”
Ben did a double take. “Miss Craig, I’ve probably seen you almost every day for the last five months, and you never once-”
“I’m not talking about you. Why would I tell you? You work for-” She looked at Senator Glancy with such contempt it was palpable. “-him. I went to the police.”
Ben turned slowly toward Padolino. “You told the police all this? Months ago?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But you continued to work for Senator Glancy.”
“They asked me to. Just in case I might see or hear something incriminating.”
“You were-you-” He looked back at Christina, searching for help. He’d never encountered anything like this in his entire career. “You were an undercover mole in the senator’s office?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
Ben looked at her harshly. “Miss Craig, did the police-or anyone in the prosecutor’s office-instruct you to withhold what you knew from me?”
“Absolutely not. They said I didn’t have to volunteer anything. But they told me that if you asked, I had to tell what I knew.” She paused, her eyebrows rising. “As it turned out, you never asked. Neither you nor your partner nor any other member of the defense team asked if I knew anything about Senator Glancy’s relationship with Veronica Cooper.”
And why would we? Shandy had just started work the day of the murder. Padolino had calculated this perfectly.
“For that matter,” Shandy continued, “I was told not to eavesdrop on any conversations between Senator Glancy and his lawyers, and that if I did by chance overhear any communications between them, I was not to repeat the information to the police.”
So Padolino had covered his ass perfectly. Small wonder he always knew what Ben was doing, that he never made any decent plea offers. He had a mole in Glancy’s camp the whole time.
“Let me ask you one more thing, Miss Craig. Do you have a conscience?”
Padolino rose. “Your honor, please.”
Shandy held up her hands. “No, let me answer that. I don’t mind. Mr. Kincaid, helping the police capture a murderer does not in any way offend my conscience.”
“Move to strike,” Ben shot back. “You don’t know-”
“Sure, I’ve had to pretend to be Senator Glancy’s friend. I’ve had to put up with him staring at my boobs when he thinks I’m not looking, dropping things on the floor and asking me to pick them up, asking me to adjust his tie so he can press up against me, finding accidental excuses to paw me one place or another. But I put up with it-waiting for this moment. The moment when I could help put away the man who killed Veronica Cooper.”
There was more cross-examination after that, more redirect, lots of shouting, many arguments before the judge, and several carefully drafted instructions to the jury on exactly what they could and could not consider as evidence. Ben filed a motion to suppress based on the prosecution’s withholding of information, but given that he’d had complete access to Shandy during the pretrial period-more than Padolino, in fact-he knew it wouldn’t fly. In the end, none of it mattered, because the true bellwether of a trial was written on the faces of the jurors-and when he looked into their eyes he could see exactly what they thought. They thought Todd Glancy was a murderer, and they were ready and willing to give him the punishment he deserved. Barring an unforeseen miracle, this case was over and Glancy was going to death row.
“You don’t understand. I have to talk to her!”
Loving and Daily stood outside the Bethesda ICU, as they had been for the last twenty minutes, arguing with Dr. Aljuwani.
“I understand your pain,” the doctor answered, “but I believe it is you who does not understand the situation.”
“You said she was awake.”
“Her eyes are open, yes, and she is stable. But she has not spoken or in any way indicated that she is aware of her surroundings. She is breathing through a respirator. She cannot talk and you cannot talk to her. She would not understand what you were saying.”
“I don’t care about that. I just-” His voice choked. Tears began to form in his eyes. “Please. I need to see my little girl. Just-just to know that she’s safe. I’ve been looking for her, waiting for this, wanting it, for so long. Please.”
Aljuwani blew out his cheeks. “You will not attempt to question her? Not even talk to her?”
“No. Not if you say I shouldn’t.”
The doctor was obviously conflicted. But Loving could also see a great deal of kindness and sympathy in his eyes. “Very well. But only for five minutes. And only you. I will not have a crowd in there.”
“Understood.” Daily turned to Loving. “See you in five?”
“I’ll be here. Give Amber my best.”
Daily entered the private room in the ICU alone, as the doctor had instructed. No one else was present, not even an attending nurse.
“Amber?”
Her eyes were open, as the doctor had said, but there was no light in them, no indication that she heard him.
“Amber?” he repeated, but still there was no sign of recognition, no indication of consciousness.
He walked to the side of her bed. “Good.” He switched off the respirator unit, then removed the plastic cup from her mouth. Almost immediately, her breathing became strained, irregular. Her body heaved. She gasped for air.
“And just in case that isn’t fast enough…”
He pulled the pillow out from under her head and shoved it down on her face. She began to convulse, to thrash back and forth on the bed. Her arms flailed and grasped at the air, as if some subconscious spirit was struggling to get free. But he held the pillow down tight. And less than a minute later, the thrashing stopped. The heart monitor flatlined.
“Guess you weren’t immortal after all,” he said, smiling to himself. He put the pillow back where it had been under her head, then started quietly for the door. “Farewell, my princess of the night. Sweet dreams.”