The Puppet Master

by Ronald S. Barak

  Lotello had started to feel a bit … cornered. First by Klein. Then by Maddie. No cop ever liked strangers knowing about his family. Especially coming into contact with them without warning, the way Klein had done. Maddie was right. Klein is kinda pretty.

  He quickly dismissed the thought. “Alright, guys. I wanna see some good play today.”

  * * *

  KLEIN WASN’T THE ONLY one giving some thought to one of her recent meetings. When the meeting between Norman and Klein had ended, his chains were unlocked and he was escorted back to his cell. Norman had also mulled over the session with Klein. That went exactly as I had planned it. I believe I fooled her. I wonder if I’ll be able to fool the jury, too.

  CHAPTER 40

  Monday, February 16, 7:30 a.m.

  HE WAS STILL ALONE, with just his thoughts, and the pain, but everything seemed to be going according to plan. He would outsmart them. He had outsmarted them. They’ll pay. I’m going to get even for what they’ve done to me. I will prevail. I can’t get back what they’ve already taken from me. But I’m not going to let them take any more.

  PART FOUR

  The Criminals

  (Continued)

  July 13–30

  O, that estates, degrees and offices were not derived corruptly, and that clear honor were purchased by the merits of the wearer!

  —SHAKESPEARE

  CHAPTER 41

  Monday, July 13, 8:15 a.m.

  THE DESERT MORNING AIR was crisp, still, and clear, offering up no resistance to the breathtaking view of the mountain range adjacent to the modest Flagstaff, Arizona, home of Paige Norman’s parents, Henry and Alice Rogers. It was in stark contrast to the wall between father and daughter sitting at the backyard table, steaming mugs of coffee in hand contesting the chill in the air, but not the one between Henry and Paige.

  Five months earlier, her life in D.C. all but destroyed, both her financial and emotional reserves all but exhausted, Paige had returned home to the nest, not enthusiastically, but resigned to the hard reality that she had no real choice. She knew her parents only had her best interests at heart, but that didn’t change the fact that their perspective was so different from hers. They managed at first to give Paige her space, to let her try again to find her way. However, when their son-in-law resurfaced and was arrested, and with his murder trial soon to begin, things in the Rogers’s household had become increasingly strained.

  “Paige, how can you possibly be thinking about going to Washington for Cliff’s trial? You’re just starting to get your life back. This is where you belong now, in Arizona, not in D.C. There’s nothing you can do for Cliff anymore. At this point, it’s in the hands of the lawyers. If you go to Washington, you’re just going to get caught up in your grief all over again. The media will never leave you alone. This is Cliff’s problem, not yours. Your mother and I really don’t want you to go.”

  “C’mon, Dad. I know you and Mom just want what’s best for me, but the two of you only talk about Cliff in the past tense. You want Cliff to be in the past. I understand that. But Cliff is still my husband. I won’t abandon him. If the tables were turned, he’d be there for me. He’s sick. He can’t help what he’s become, and what he might have done. I still find it hard to believe that he could have done what he’s accused of. His lawyer wants me there, in the courtroom. I owe it to Cliff to be there. I want to be there.

  “As for the media, my being in Arizona hasn’t stopped the media from hounding me. You’ve seen that. It’s not going to be any worse in D.C. than it’s already been here. If it is, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Paige, this Cliff is not the Cliff you knew. He’s a different person. You don’t know this Cliff. You shouldn’t go. But if you’ve made up your mind, your mother and I will go with you.”

  “If you and Mom are willing to be at the trial—and to give Cliff your support—that would be great. I’d welcome that.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, Paige. Your mother and I can’t be present in the courtroom. We just don’t see this the way you do. We don’t see Cliff the way you do.”

  “Dad, I get it. You aren’t comfortable publicly declaring for Cliff. That’s your call. You don’t have to, but then I need for the two of you to stay home here in Arizona. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. We’ve beat this to death. This discussion needs to be over. Once and for all.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Monday, July 13, 9:30 a.m.

  THE D.C. SUPERIOR COURT system is comprised of 117 courts, each one of them identified as a numbered department. Except for certain system processes administered on a centralized and uniform basis—like human resources, jury duty, court reporters, assignment of cases, claims of judicial misconduct and conflicts, filing deadlines, fees, and procedures—the departments function autonomously of one another. Each department has a presiding judge at the top of the department food chain and conducts its judicial business out of one numbered courtroom located in one of the system’s courthouses. Each judge is assigned two clerks, one known as an administrative clerk or assistant and the other known as a law clerk or research clerk.

  Except when a judge is sitting on the bench in a particular judicial proceeding, or supervising his or her clerks behind the scenes, trial courts are generally run by the judge’s clerks. As most experienced trial lawyers come to know—often the hard way—these clerks wield a tremendous amount of power. The judge’s administrative clerk is his or her gatekeeper and decides who does—and does not—get to see the judge. And when. The judge’s research clerk often greatly influences—if not determines—the law the judge applies in the cases assigned to his or her court.

  Candace Jones was Brooks’s research clerk. She was lucky to have a job. She had graduated from a less-than-stellar law school, and had barely managed to finish in the middle of her class. Those lackluster credentials did not lead to a job at one of the larger or more prestigious law firms, or to a clerkship with an appellate court. Her choices were to hang out her own shingle as a sole practitioner, join a one- or two-person law firm, hire on with the public defender’s office or the district attorney’s office, or clerk for one of the local trial courts.

  Jones didn’t have any clients on the horizon or the confidence to open her own shop. She interviewed with the PD’s office, the DA’s office, and a few small law firms. She received no offers. Brooks needed a clerk. When Jones received an offer from Brooks, she grabbed it. It would pay the bills, and clerking for the well-respected Brooks would help her when she was eventually ready to move into private practice. Moreover, those successful trial lawyers in town who had shown no interest in hiring her, but who had matters pending before Brooks, would now have to pay her a lot more deference. Like many court clerks, Jones had an attitude. She didn’t hesitate to adopt the code that what goes around comes around.

  The Norman trial was scheduled to begin in three short weeks. The final status conference, at which all pretrial motions would be argued and decided by Brooks, was only one week away. Each side had filed hundreds of pages of pretrial motions. Conscientious as he was, Brooks didn’t have time to read all the paperwork. He had instructed Jones to do that, and to give him a memo no longer than five pages summarizing all twenty-eight pretrial motions and setting forth her recommendations for how each of them should be decided.

  Brooks hadn’t looked at the motions and had no idea how long, how numerous, or how complicated they were when he told Jones she had only five pages in which to complete her assignment. But Jones knew better than to ask for more pages. With his crowded docket, it would be all Brooks could do to review her five-page summary.

  Her memo was due in only one day. The day after that, Jones and Brooks were scheduled to meet for one hour to discuss the memo and the various procedures and protocols Brooks envisioned to manage and conduct the trial, most of which Jones would be expected to implement.

  Jones had let this project slide in favor of more pressing matters. She was now under the gun, with only a few hours
in which to read the motion papers and prepare her memo before the end of her formal workday. She could of course also burn the midnight oil to generate additional time, but of course there was no overtime in the budget. Besides, Jones had tickets for the opera this evening. So, three hours it was.

  This was quite often how it went, the accused’s due process, and life, riding on just a few hours’ work of an inexperienced law clerk with less-than-top-tier credentials—and the instincts of a seasoned but overworked judge.

  CHAPTER 43

  Monday, July 13, 10:00 a.m.

  MILT O’HARA DIDN’T RISE to publisher of The Washington Post because he was unwise or insensitive. The job of the press has always been to ferret out the truth, but there are limits. Certain subjects are just … off-limits. Or at least they used to be. When, for example, on occasion, U.S. presidents—Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower, and John Kennedy, to name just a few—had been known to step out on their wives, the press never led. They may have followed, but they never led. It was simply not responsible or judicious for the press to sully the office—and all it stands for—just because of the individual fleetingly occupying that office. There were times when the interests of the country trumped the need to know. And required discretion and restraint.

  Rachel Santana was a tenacious reporter, an absolute pit bull. She’d been selling newspapers like no one else. But at what cost? When Cliff Norman was first arrested, Santana not only took on the D.C. mayor but also the U.S. president. In her uncompromising zeal to shine the spotlight on the government’s failings—and to advance her own career. The mayor was one thing. He was a proverbial lightweight. Taking on the president, however, that was another matter. O’Hara had caught a lot of flak when Santana had done that.

  Now that the Norman trial was about to start, O’Hara was again feeling the heat, from a number of very powerful sources. More than O’Hara cared to battle.

  “Hey, Rachel, thanks for coming in. We need to talk.”

  “Morning, Milt. Let me guess. The Norman trial. Right?”

  “Right. You remember the conversation we had a few months back, after you took on our mayor and the president?”

  “I do. Very well.”

  “You promised to tone it down. With the Norman trial about to begin, I need to be sure that you haven’t forgotten the ground rules we set, that we’re still on the same page. Print media has never been under greater economic pressure. We’re fighting for our very survival. Instant-gratification, twenty-four/seven internet news updates are seriously challenging us, if not outright killing us. In this climate, we have to be sure not to rub the right shoulders the wrong way. We can’t afford to do that.”

  “I haven’t forgotten our discussion, but we didn’t set any ground rules. You did. I just listened and went along because that really wasn’t the time to fight with you. It is now. I don’t know if Norman killed anyone, but that really doesn’t matter. No matter how Norman fares, his trial is absolutely going to blow the lid off all of our self-serving, self-dealing public officials whose only commitment has been to service their own self-interests. The Norman trial is going to bring the story of dishonest, dysfunctional government front and center.

  “You may feel The Post can’t afford to take the lead on this. I feel The Post can’t afford not to. Either way, however, I know that I can’t afford not to. I am irrevocably invested in this, Milt. I am out in front of this and I’m going to remain out in front. I hope I will have your support, that I’ll be able to lead from right here at The Post. But I’ve anticipated the possibility of our not seeing eye to eye, and I’ve lined up my options. I am going to lead on this, Milt, if not from The Post, then from somewhere else.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Rachel. I admire your gumption. If I were younger, and had less to lose, I might do the same. But I have too much to lose at this stage of my career. I hoped you would see it differently, but I’m not surprised by your position.”

  O’Hara reached into his desk drawer. “I have a check here for two weeks’ severance. It pains me to say it, Rachel: You’ve written your last byline for The Post.”

  “No worries, Milt. I understand. I’ve enjoyed my time here, and I’ve learned a lot. It’s simply time for me to move on.”

  “Good luck, then. Although I know you won’t need it. I’ll still be one of your biggest fans.”

  “See ya, Milt.” Santana stood, turned, and without any hesitation marched out of O’Hara’s office.

  CHAPTER 44

  Monday, July 13, 11:40 a.m.

  LOTELLO WALKED OVER TO Barnet’s desk, where he was hunched over his computer. “How ’bout some lunch before the restaurants get too crowded?”

  “Sounds good. Let me save this file and use the john. Meet you out front in a second.”

  Ten minutes later, they were seated at a restaurant across the street, having said their hellos, made the proverbial small talk with friends about the pending Norman trial, and placed their orders. “How are things going with the kids, Frank?”

  “So-so. Maddie and Charlie seem alright, but there’s no way they’re over their mom’s death. Now, with the Norman trial about to get underway, my mind keeps coming back to the loose ends of the case. Even though, at least in theory, there’s no ongoing role in the case for us.

  “I just don’t understand the legal system. I can’t believe that Judge Williams originally issued the subpoena and search warrant for us to chase down Senator Wells’s calendar, but then completely crapped out the minute the Senate lawyers moved to quash his orders. No cojones.

  “What kind of BS congressional privilege prevents us from seeing Wells’s calendar? We both know what’s behind this. Wells was known for screwing everything that moved. How many congressmen were afraid their names would show up in her little black book?”

  Lotello was on a roll. He continued: “And what about public privilege? Doesn’t public interest count for anything anymore? What about the interests of the victims’ families? Don’t those interests count for anything anymore? Without any physical evidence at the crime scenes, her calendar was our only real shot at finding any worthwhile leads. It pisses me off every time I think about it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Barnet asked. “Do you really think Norman isn’t the killer? He’s confessed. Over and done.”

  “We don’t know that Norman knows up from down. That his rants mean anything. How about the new loonies every week who claim they assassinated Kennedy? We don’t even arrest those folks, let alone charge them.”

  “C’mon, Frank. Norman is probably just putting on some big act to look crazy so he can get away with murder. What about all the incriminating stuff we found on the cell phone social services gave Norman? The references to Wells, DiMarco, and Johnson. And how to sanitize a crime scene.”

  “That was enough to charge him, J. It isn’t enough to convict him. Or to convince me. Social services gave Norman a cell phone when they had to turn him loose after his first arrest. The phone also had references to half the members of Congress. Who knows who was using that phone or what those references meant?

  “Look, I get that Norman may well be the killer. Maybe he did know what he was doing. But there are just too many loose ends. We’ve never figured out who made those calls to the police and to Rachel Santana at The Post. Why would Norman have done that? If Norman was the killer, and if he had acted alone, who else would’ve had the information to make those calls? And who would’ve wanted to draw attention to Norman by delivering that envelope to Ayres, with the Santana news story on Norman? Like I’ve said all along, there are just too many loose ends. I can’t get comfortable with Norman as the perp. Not beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Norman could’ve made those calls just to throw us off.” Barnet countered. “Like he could be faking that he’s nuts. Besides, Norman’s got a lawyer—that hottie, Leah Klein. It’s her job to defend Norman. Not yours. We’re the cops. We work for the people. Norman’s a very sad story, b
ut it’s our job to get guys like Norman off the streets. We’ve done that. You really need to give it a rest, Frank. And move on.”

  “Great speech, J. That was supposed to make me feel better? You can pay the check. Maybe that’ll make me feel better.

  “By the way, in case it hasn’t occurred to you yet, I’m sure you’re going to be the homicide inspector who gets to sit in court every day during the trial and who the prosecution will use to testify against Norman. Say all the things you are saying to me. You’ll be very convincing. No way Reilly is going to put me on the stand and then give Klein the opportunity to cross-examine me. She may still try to call me as a defense witness, but that won’t be nearly as bad as it will be if Reilly first examines me and hands Klein a road map to get Norman acquitted.

  “Let’s go on back to the office. Now that you’ve ruined my lunch.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Monday, July 13, 1:45 p.m.

  LIKE MOST LOBBYISTS UP on the Hill—at least the good ones—NAIB Executive Director Pete Foster was in love with himself, and, selectively, with many of the ladies with whom he crossed paths in the course of his job. Unfortunately, that didn’t still include Mrs. Foster.

  “Good afternoon, Office of House Speaker Nancy Jamison. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hey, Margaret. Pete Foster here. How’s the family?”

  “Great, Mr. Foster. Thanks for asking. And thanks for the gifts last week. How’d you know it was my birthday?”

  “It’s my job, Margaret. I always know when the pretty ones have a birthday coming up.”

  “Well, I sure appreciated it. What can I do for you today?”

  “Is she in? I’m returning her call.”