The Puppet Master

by Ronald S. Barak

  “Good night, Madam Speaker.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Thursday, February 12, 9:30 p.m.

  “DADDY, DADDY, HURRY! PLEASE!”

  “Daddy’s here, baby. Everything’s okay. You just had a bad dream, honey. I’m here. Everything’s fine. Can you tell me about it, little girl?”

  “It was Mommy. Bad things were happening to Mommy.”

  “It was just a dream, Maddie. Nothing bad is happening to Mommy. Mommy’s in heaven with the angels. They’re protecting Mommy.”

  “Daddy, was Mommy a bad person? Did God punish Mommy for being a bad person? I thought Mommy was a good person.”

  “Mommy was a good person, Maddie, the very best. She loved you and Charlie, and she loved Daddy. She took care of all of us. She took care of Beau, too. Mommy was a good person, Maddie.”

  “Am I a bad person, Daddy?”

  “No, sweetie, you’re not a bad person. You’re a very good person. Why would you think that?”

  “Well, God took Mommy away from us. He must have thought we were bad to do such a bad thing to us. If we’re not bad, why would God do such a bad thing to us? Why would he take Mommy away from us?”

  “Baby, I don’t know. Sometimes bad things happen to good people.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, little girl.”

  “Is God going to take you away from me?”

  “No, princess, God’s not going to take me away from you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, baby, I promise.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I think I can go back to sleep now, but will you stay with me?”

  “I’m staying right here, little girl.”

  I guess bad things do happen to good people sometimes, Beth. We all miss you. I’m doing the best I can for the kids, but when Maddie asks questions like this, I don’t know what to tell her. And bad things keep happening to Norman, too. He lost everything he had—his family, his livelihood, his dignity, his sanity, everything that could have mattered to him. Now he’s lost his freedom. I don’t know if he’s done anything more than fall apart. Shoot his mouth off. It doesn’t seem like Norman could have planned all this. Could there be another side to this guy that I’m not seeing? Am I missing something?

  CHAPTER 37

  Friday, February 13, 8:30 a.m.

  THE NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL meeting was over. Its members filed out of the room. “Manny, stick around a minute.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

  “What did you think of the mayor’s press conference yesterday?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to watch it until last night. Quite a circus, a lot of facets to this whole evolving saga, and loads of possible ramifications. I find all of this very troubling.” Reyes glimpsed over at Tuttle to see if he was even coming close to what was on the president’s mind.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s hard for me to put this into words, Mr. President. I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but I think we have an extremely scary storyline brewing here. It may be that public officials are being murdered—sentenced and executed—by someone who blames them for the economic conditions strangling our country on their watch. For not doing their job. Not policing those who obviously needed policing. Specifically, Wall Street.

  “It gets even worse. The perception may be that this didn’t happen just because our political representatives were not particularly adequate at doing their jobs. They might be forgiven for that. But rather that this happened because they’re corrupt, on the take, being paid to look the other way instead of doing their jobs. For this, there might not be any forgiveness. If this happens, Wells, DiMarco, and Johnson might not be the only politicians whose careers come to a sudden end.”

  “That’s some theory. Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” Tuttle looked like he was trying to put up a strong front. But not really convincing even himself.

  “It depends on what you mean, Mr. President. If you’re suggesting that our political officials wouldn’t do such a thing, well, then, I don’t think I’m overstating things at all. You and I both know how it works. Of course, that doesn’t mean the public knows this like you and I do. But so what? It’s not what they know that’s important. It’s what they think.”

  Reyes continued. “On the surface, it looks like Norman is just some kind of a vigilante serial killer. While we don’t yet know exactly what his mental state is, or what he thought he was doing, or precisely why, the fact is that Norman is an absolute lightning rod. Like the poor father who steals a loaf of bread to put food on the table for his children, this is potentially way more complicated than bringing an ordinary murderer to justice. Lots of folks today are struggling to put food on the table. To keep a roof over their heads. To them, Norman presents a sympathetic story, a real grassroots folk hero in the making. Someone who may have done what a lot of people today wish they had the nerve to do.”

  Reyes was still not finished. “Storm clouds are brewing, Mr. President. No doubt you’ve seen the letters to the editor in The Post following up on the Rachel Santana stories. Most of those letters are solidly behind Norman. As are most of the placards and signs being hoisted in any number of demonstrations across the country right now. The media are also playing this for all it’s worth. Rachel Santana didn’t hesitate to take on Mayor Jackson yesterday. Jackson’s not that much of a challenge. But, hey, Tuesday she got right up in your face, too. While you were on national TV no less. The potential is here, Mr. President, for a groundswell of millions of voters across the country looking for someone to champion—and someone to blame—to closely identify with and start rooting for Norman. The underdog David, who has shown the guts to take on Goliath, our political system. Norman could become a poster boy of enormous magnitude. What we’re seeing now may only be the tip of the iceberg.”

  Tuttle’s brave front seemed to be fading. “It’s no accident you’re my chief of staff, Manny. We don’t always get there at the same time or by the same road map, but you and I usually do end up seeing eye to eye. I spent a good deal of time last night worrying about this. I have the same concerns you do. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that Norman could have done all this by himself. I question whether he was mentally able to plan and carry out three murders without somehow being spotted. What’s our plan to control the fallout here?”

  “Mr. President, I think we need to stay as far away from all of this as we possibly can. Sooner or later—probably sooner—you’re going to be pressured by the media to take a position on all of this. You will need to insist that it’s not appropriate for you to address a matter pending in the courts. I think we also need to get word to that empty suit Mayor Jackson and his lieutenants to cool it and to quit holding these fucking press conferences.”

  “I agree, but I do want you to continue quietly minding the store. And keeping me dialed in.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Friday, February 13, 10:00 a.m.

  “PUBLIC DEFENDER’S OFFICE. BERNARD Abrams speaking.”

  “Bernie, Cyrus Brooks calling. How are you?”

  “Fine, Judge. You?”

  “Good. Especially now that my morning calendar’s behind me and I can get some real work done. Which is why I’m calling. Of course, that’s not to suggest I don’t always like chitchatting with you.”

  “I see. So tell me, Judge, why are you calling? Or do I have to guess?”

  “Take a guess, Bernie. Just one. To see if you’re still on your game.”

  “How about Leah Klein, Judge? As much as I know you love shooting the bull with me, my guess—since it’s common knowledge that you came up on the wheel to preside over the Cliff Norman trial—is that you’re calling to get my take on Leah, the deputy public defender assigned to defend Norman.”

  “And they told me you’d lost a step or two. You’re right on, Bernie. I am calling about Ms. Klein. She’s never appeared in my court. What can you t
ell me about her? This one’s gonna be tried under a microscope. I need someone good as money can buy. If Norman had the money. Which he doesn’t.”

  “Leah Klein’s your man, Judge. So to speak. She’s just off a couple of very successful cases. I’d been looking for something juicy to give her. She’s hardworking, smart. Can’t stand to lose. Hasn’t lost a case in the three years she’s been a deputy PD.”

  “I hate to break her streak, Bernie. Frankly, I don’t see how she’s gonna win this one. The case against Norman is purely circumstantial. But old dogs like you and I know that circumstantial evidence is often all it takes. I think Norman’s going down. I’m not so sure the outcome’s going to be what it should.

  “Between you and me, I’d like to congratulate Norman. I’m gonna have to work an extra ten years to recover from what our so-called “leaders” have done to my retirement plan. But two wrongs don’t make a right. It would be even worse if our judicial system were perceived as permitting people to take the law into their own hands.

  “Norman’s the number-one news story across the country today. Lord knows I wish I weren’t personally stuck with the case. But I am. At least it’ll be handled properly. My courtroom’s not gonna be turned into a circus.”

  “It’s going to be interesting, Your Honor. My instincts tell me the outcome of this case is not going to be nearly as certain as you think.”

  “Time will tell, Bernie. I’m pleased to learn of your high regard for Ms. Klein. I’ll look forward to working with her. Take care.”

  “Will do. You too, Judge. Good luck. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”

  * * *

  KLEIN HAD GRADUATED GEORGETOWN Law five years ago, and then put in a couple of years as a judicial research clerk. She finished high enough in her class to get a more prestigious, better-paying job than the one she accepted with the public defender. But she wanted to try cases as quickly as possible. Not spend all her time carrying around some partner’s briefcase, drafting and answering boring interrogatories.

  It turned out just as she had hoped. She’d tried almost fifty cases since graduating. Way more than she would have in private practice. The cases hadn’t all been that significant or exciting. But at least they had been hers. She now knew her way around the D.C. criminal courts. And the procedures involved in trying criminal cases. She was also doing what she wanted. Making sure the system was not abusing the underdog.

  On the other hand, she hadn’t done much else in the last five years. There had been a couple of personal relationships that never got off the ground. Nothing anyone could objectively refer to as a romance. Although attractive, she seemed to intimidate and sometimes even frighten any man who got near her. They always ended up backing off. Her parents had given up asking when she was going to get married and make them grandparents. Now they just wanted to know when she was going to make them grandparents.

  * * *

  AFTER ENDIND HIS CONVERSATION with Brooks, Abrams thought back to his recent call with Klein.

  “Bernie here, Leah. Still looking for some more work?”

  “Always. What’s up?”

  “You heard of Cliff Norman?”

  “Do you know anyone who hasn’t? My God! Are you telling me I get to be involved in his defense?”

  “First chair.”

  “Fantastic. I’m on it. I’m ready. I can do this. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t be thanking me just yet. Wait awhile and see if you still feel that way. I’ll back you all I can. And all you want. But it’s your case. I do, however, expect to hear from you on a regular basis. By the way, you’ll be before Judge Cyrus Brooks. Cyrus is an old friend of mine. No nonsense. Very tough. But very fair. Runs a very tight courtroom. I think you’ll find his bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “Got it. I won’t let you down. I’ll definitely keep you in the loop. Thank you again for this opportunity.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Monday, February 16, 6:00 a.m.

  IT HAD BEEN ALMOST 72 hours since Bernie Abrams had assigned to Klein—on Friday the thirteenth no less—what would surely be her most famous case to date. In the midst of her Monday morning run, she finally had a quiet moment to reflect on what had already transpired since Friday.

  She had never appeared before Judge Brooks. Wasting no time, she had decided to pay a courtesy visit to the court in which Norman would be tried. To introduce herself to Brooks’s staff. She walked into Brooks’s courtroom Friday morning just before eleven, barely an hour after Abrams had broken the news to her. She figured Brooks would already have completed his morning calendar call and that the staff would be tending to their paperwork, and would have some time for her.

  Someone must have alerted Brooks to her presence. To her surprise, he stepped out of his chambers and greeted her. In keeping with his reputation, he was a bit on the gruff side. Formal. One might even say somewhat stiff. Of course, he didn’t discuss anything about the case. He just said he’d be watching to make sure she wouldn’t roll over on Norman. Assume Norman was guilty and just superficially go through the motions. He also made clear he wouldn’t tolerate any frivolous antics in his courtroom.

  After a quick sandwich, Klein paid a call on the District Attorney’s office. They were very forthcoming. At least so far. No wonder. They thought they had a slam dunk and didn’t want to do anything to mess it up. She was told that DA Vincent Reilly would be trying the case himself. No surprise there. Reilly reportedly has high political ambitions. No doubt, he wants to add a plum conviction of Norman to his résumé.

  She saved the first meeting with her most famous client ever, Norman, until first thing the next morning, Saturday. She had wanted to do some preliminary work on the case first. Their visit took place in the D.C. jailhouse facilities, where Norman was being held without bail. The meeting—if it could be called that—had proved daunting.

  “My name’s Leah Klein, Mr. Norman. I’m an attorney with the Public Defender’s Office. I’ve been appointed to act as your attorney. We’re going to be working together. Is that okay with you?”

  Norman just sat there, completely silent, staring down at his shackled hands.

  “Mr. Norman, do you understand what I just said? Would you like me to represent you?”

  Norman’s silence continued. Klein wasn’t sure what more to say. She just quietly sat there with him for a few minutes.

  Finally, Klein asked, “Mr. Norman. Who’s Ryan?”

  Norman immediately became agitated. He seemed to grow hostile. “It’s all their fault. They did it. They killed Ryan. I’m going to get them. Wait a minute. I already did get them. Didn’t I? I’m … confused. Why am I here? Who are you?”

  “Mr. Norman, please don’t worry yourself. I’m going to help you. I’ll come back to see you again soon. I promise. I’m going to help you.”

  There was no sign that Norman understood, or that he’d even heard her. He uttered only one more word before turning silent again. “Paige?”

  Leah wasn’t sure what more to say for now. She stood up quietly and walked out. She had no idea what was going through the man’s mind. If anything was going through his mind.

  She’d also found her chance first meeting with homicide detective Frank Lotello … intriguing. It was also Saturday morning, not long after her visit to Norman. She was jogging in the park near her home. She knew what Lotello looked like because of a recent newspaper story about the pending Norman trial that included photographs of the various “players” in the case. She spotted him close by with a young boy and girl, and a dog as well, apparently there participating in some soccer matches.

  From what little she had gleaned from the newspaper article, Lotello was a veteran cop, recently widowed. A single parent with a couple of young kids and a dog. Hmm.

  She stopped running and walked over to him. “Detective Lotello?”

  He raised his hand. “Please step back,” he asked her anxiously. He dialed it down when she promptly did. “Yes. Do we kn
ow each other? You look familiar, but—”

  “I’m sorry if my proximity to your children startled you. We haven’t met. My name’s Leah Klein. I’m from the PD’s office. I’m representing Cliff Norman. I was jogging and recognized you from a picture I saw in the newspaper the other day.” She hadn’t thought matters through. This was awkward. She tried to make conversation. “Actually, my picture was in the story too. I thought I’d say hello. Are these your two children? They’re absolutely beautiful.”

  Lotello definitely seemed uncomfortable. Not interested in meeting. Not with his children there. If at all. “Uh, yes, they are my kids. Thank you for saying hello, Ms. Klein. It’s nice to meet you. I don’t mean to appear rude, but I’m here for their soccer matches. Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime.” He started to turn back to his children.

  Klein gently persisted. “That would be nice. I really do apologize. I didn’t mean to invade your personal time. I wonder if we might set another time when I could ask you some questions about the Norman case?”

  He stared at her. “I don’t think so, Ms. Klein. Any questions you have about the Norman case should be directed to the DA’s office, and not to me.”

  Their uncomfortable visit had ended.

  * * *

  LOTELLO HAD FELT HER eyes lingering on him as he turned and walked back over to his kids. “Ready for your matches, guys?”

  As usual, Charlie hadn’t really answered. Frank hoped it was just a macho phase he was going through. Even though younger than Charlie, Maddie was always more animated, and often more inquisitive and outspoken. “I’m ready. Who was that lady, Daddy?”

  “Just a nice lady I talked to for a few minutes about one of my cases.” The reference to “nice” had just popped out of Lotello’s mouth.

  “A nice lady, you mean like … Mom?”

  “Not like Mom, but she was still nice.”

  “She was pretty.”

  “I didn’t think about it, but … yes. I guess she was.”