Murder at Ford's Theatre

by Margaret Truman

  Millander addressed Jeremiah, who was prodded into standing by Smith. “If you are released to the custody of your father, Mr. Lerner, you understand the conditions of that release. You are to live with him, live by his rules, and otherwise stay out of trouble. Do you agree to those terms?”

  There was silence at the defense table as Jeremiah hesitated before responding. Finally, he said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Judge Millander. “Work out a date for the hearing.” He slapped the gavel on the bench, stood, and left the courtroom.

  “My car is outside,” Senator Lerner said angrily to Jeremiah. “Come on, before he changes his mind.”

  “We’ll need some time with you,” Smith said. “Mr. Becker has agreed to handle Jeremiah’s defense—and let’s not forget the police want to speak with him about the Zarinski murder.”

  “Whatever you say, Mac,” the senator said. He handed him a card with his home number written on it, shook Becker’s hand, and said, “Your reputation is well known to me, Mr. Becker. I know Jeremiah is in good hands.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Becker said.

  Smith and Becker watched the father fairly push his son away from the table and in the direction of a doorway held open by the bailiff.

  “Touching family scene,” Becker mumbled.

  “No father likes to see his son in trouble,” Smith said, “and doubly so when the father is a U.S. senator.”

  Klayman approached. “Professor Smith,” he said.

  “Hello, Detective. This is Yale Becker.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” Klayman said.

  “I’ll see you Saturday,” Smith said.

  “Yes, I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to it.” He walked away and left the room with his partner.

  “What’s Saturday all about?” Becker asked.

  Smith told him about the second section of his course on Lincoln the Lawyer.

  “Uncomfortable about having one of the detectives in the case sitting in your classroom?”

  “No. All we’ll be talking about is the honesty of Abe. Drop in. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  “Another time. We need to meet with the senator and his son as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll set it up.”

  “And the mother, too.”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “And we should check on the two people who’ve allegedly confirmed that the kid was dating the murder victim.”

  “Maybe having the detective in my class isn’t such a bad idea. The professor might learn something from the student.”

  Becker laughed. “You wouldn’t take advantage of him, would you, Mac?”

  “Of course not. Speaking of classes, I’ve got to get to the university. Faculty meeting. Too damn many of them.”

  “Call me the end of the day?”

  “Of course. Good being with you again, Yale.”

  “Yeah, I like it, Mac. I really didn’t know how much I missed you.”

  NINETEEN

  “HE’S STAYING WITH BRUCE,” Clarise Emerson said to Bernard Crowley.

  It was seven-thirty on Friday morning. Clarise had come to Ford’s Theatre especially early to prepare for a luncheon meeting with the finance committee from the theatre’s board of trustees, and was surprised to see Crowley already there, in shirtsleeves and sweating, putting final touches on a financial report for the meeting.

  “Did you see him?” he asked.

  “No. But I spoke to him. He’s not happy, of course, and claims the police beat him. God, to imagine it happened at the Millennium Arts Center when I was there. I mean, a few minutes before I arrived.”

  “Horrible,” said Crowley. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Clarise removed her beige linen jacket and draped it over her chair as he filled two mugs and rejoined her at the small conference table.

  “You say Mac Smith handled his defense,” Crowley said.

  “Yes, bless his heart. He didn’t want to—I can’t say I blame him—he and Annabel have forged a pleasant, quiet life together. But he’s such a good friend. He brought along a former law partner, Yale Becker. At least Jeremiah is in capable hands. What I can’t deal with is why the police want to talk to Jeremiah about Nadia Zarinski. He didn’t even know her.”

  “Why are they interested in him, Clarise? They must have a reason.”

  “Jeremiah wouldn’t discuss it with me. Bruce tried to explain, but he’s so damned preoccupied. Evidently, someone has told the police that Jeremiah knew Nadia and had dated her. What rubbish! Had you ever seen them together, Bernard? I mean, had you ever seen Jeremiah hanging around the theatre?”

  “No. Never.”

  “You said Nadia helped you out on a couple of mailings. Did she ever say anything, hint at knowing Jeremiah?”

  He shook his large head.

  “It’s all a mistake, I’m sure. I talked to Mac last night after speaking with Jeremiah and Bruce. He wants all of us to meet as soon as possible. How do I find the time? The hearing is days away, it’s the busy season here at the theatre, and there just doesn’t seem a spare minute. How do the numbers look?”

  “Excellent. I think the finance committee will be impressed.” He handed her a file folder containing checks to be signed.

  “Speaking of numbers,” she said, “my dinner with the AT&T contingent went especially well. I’m sure they’ll underwrite one of next year’s shows.”

  Crowley’s mouth tightened and his brow furrowed; there was something he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure he should.

  “Yes?”

  “I know this isn’t my business, Clarise, and if I’m treading where I shouldn’t, please say so.”

  “All right.”

  “I think you should find a way to spend the necessary time with Jeremiah, even if it means letting things go here at the theatre for a few days. We’re in good shape. Festival at Ford’s is falling into place—it should be the best ever, I’m told, thanks to all the preliminary work you did in conceiving its program—the president and first lady and the veep and his wife have confirmed, along with anyone who’s anybody in Congress. And look at this.” He handed her a fax that had been in the machine when he arrived. It was from a New York talent agency confirming performers committed to that year’s Festival at Ford’s, the annual gala televised nationally by the ABC television network.

  “. . . Tony Bennett. Diana Krall—I really like her—Alan King, Placido—is he bringing others from the Washington Opera?—Natalie Cole—impressive.” She handed the fax back to Crowley. “About taking time for Jeremiah. Yes, I agree with you. Damn him! Don’t children realize that when they misbehave, they wreak havoc with their parents’ lives?” She laughed. “I don’t really mean that. He needs me, and I’ll be there. And I appreciate your concern for him, Bernard. And for me. Thank you.”

  “Heard from Bancroft?” Crowley asked, trying to sound as though he didn’t care whether she had or not.

  “No.”

  “The teen show is Saturday. Sydney, who’s supposed to be directing it, hasn’t been putting in a lot of time. “

  “I’ll check on it,” she said, standing and stretching.

  He got to his feet and helped her on with her jacket. “No,” he said, “I’ll check on it. Why don’t you go back home for the morning? I’ve put together a complete presentation for the finance committee that’ll knock their socks off. Go home and get things in order with Jeremiah, Mac Smith, anyone else you need to confer with. Come back, have a pleasant lunch, and enjoy the presentation. You’ll feel better having that other problem in tow.”

  Clarise drew a breath, smiled, and kissed him on his cheek. “You are absolutely right, Bernard.” How pasty his face was. If he didn’t lose weight soon, she’d be going to his funeral. “See you at lunch,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” he called after her as she walked from the room and headed downstairs.

  Clarise’s home was a nondescript, narrow gray town
house in Georgetown. It was three storeys high, and had a small enclosed backyard with a studio at the rear. She’d purchased it shortly after moving to Washington from Los Angeles, and had decorated it in a slapdash manner, filling the space with hotel-like furniture and accessories, creating the look of temporary housing for a traveling executive. She seldom entertained there; when she did, it was small gatherings, dinner for six, sometimes eight, or cocktails and hors d’oeuvres with friends before going out for dinner. There were times when she would look around and wish she’d taken the time to apply a more caring hand, or perhaps had used a professional decorator, or just plain looked longer and harder for a couch or chair or wall hanging. Time. There never seemed to be time for such reflection. A housekeeper occupied the third floor and kept things running, serving breakfast each morning to Clarise in a cramped solarium at the rear—always fresh fruit, dry toast, and tea—and picking up after the lady of the house, who seemed always to be in perpetual motion, clothes dropped and shoes kicked off as she passed from room to room, papers and files piled up on the desk to be filed another day, a cellular phone permanently cradled between jaw and ear.

  She’d no sooner entered her home and waved to the housekeeper, who was vacuuming the living room, when her cell phone sounded.

  “Hello, Mac,” she said. “Your timing is good. I just walked in.”

  “Good,” Smith said. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Yale Becker. A source has told him that a student at American University is the one claiming that Jeremiah dated Nadia Zarinski.”

  “Why would he lie like that, Mac?”

  “We’ll have to find that out,” Smith said. “There’s evidently a second source about Jeremiah’s relationship with the deceased, but we don’t know yet who that is.”

  “This is all so preposterous,” Clarise said.

  “It’ll get sorted out. Have you spoken with Senator Lerner?”

  “Last night. Briefly. I spoke with Jeremiah, too.”

  “I hope he understands, Clarise, that he’s got to behave himself while living with his father. Judge Millander won’t tolerate any misbehavior.”

  “You sound as though you expect Jeremiah to act badly. Why?”

  “Just based upon my brief time with him, Clarise. He seems to be an angry young man, a defiant young man.”

  “Aren’t they all these days?”

  “He didn’t seem happy being told he’d have to live with his father.”

  “Of course he isn’t happy. He and Bruce have been estranged for a long time. At least he’s stayed close to me.” She shook her head. “Mac, I’m sure this business with Ms. Zarinski is all one great big stupid mistake. My concerns are the charges against him for—what was it?—assaulting an officer and—”

  “Resisting arrest,” Smith filled in. “The resisting arrest charge will probably be dropped. I’m confident of that, and so is Yale. As for hitting the detective, I—”

  “They beat him, Mac. He told me that.”

  Smith realized it was futile to continue to try to present the reality of the situation to her. She was reacting the way most parents do when confronted with criminal charges against a son or daughter. It must be a mistake. Their child’s rights were violated. Just make it go away, they tell their lawyers.

  Instead, he said, “Yale and I need to meet with you, Senator Lerner, and Jeremiah, and we need to do that quickly, if possible today. I tried to reach the senator, but no luck. One of his aides said he’s tied up in meetings at the Senate all morning, but thought he might be free at lunchtime. Will you be available to meet then?”

  Her sigh was prolonged and anguished. “Lunchtime? No, I’m not free, Mac. I have a luncheon with the board’s finance committee. I can’t miss it.”

  Smith’s silence said much.

  “Please, Mac, try to understand. This is an especially trying time for me. How about later today? This evening?”

  “Maybe,” Smith said. “Whether you’re free or not, Yale and I need to sit down with Jeremiah and get the whole story from him. I’ll let you know when we set that up.” He tried to keep pique from his voice at her lack of cooperation, but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. He hadn’t.

  “Mac,” she said, “I must admit a certain disappointment that you don’t seem to understand the situation I’m in.”

  “Your son is in trouble, Clarise,” he replied. “If there’s any truth to his alleged relationship with the murder victim, his troubles are just beginning.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not thinking clearly. Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive.”

  “Set up your meeting with Jeremiah whenever it’s convenient for you and Mr. Becker. I don’t want to impede the process. I’ll try to free myself up to be available whenever you need me.”

  “Good. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Best to Annabel.”

  She clicked off the phone and went to her bedroom, where the bed was still unmade. The housekeeper hadn’t gotten to it yet. How many times have I told her to start with the bedroom? she thought, closing the door and sitting atop the rumpled bedclothes. She suddenly felt cold, and wrapped her arms about herself. Don’t let this happen now, she thought, referring to the feeling of confusion that was beginning to envelop her. It was a sensation she seldom suffered, and when such episodes struck, she was usually capable of controlling it, willing it away, negotiating with her emotions: Think it through, Clarise. Don’t allow yourself to be overwhelmed. Compartmentalize. There’s nothing you can’t handle.

  What she hated at that moment was her lack of control over events. The police, the lawyers, and the courts would control Jeremiah’s fate. Topper Sybers and his Senate Committee on Labor and Human Resources would determine whether she became the new head of the NEA. She’d managed to control her destiny since the time she left the family farm in Ohio to attend college in California, and to forge what had been a winning and rewarding career, first in television, and now in the nation’s capital as head of Ford’s Theatre Society. She’d made all the decisions during her transformation from teenager to successful businesswoman. They weren’t all good ones, she knew. Marrying Bruce Lerner, which had seemed a dream come true at the time, had been a mistake, and her sense of relief and freedom after the divorce was palpable. Giving birth to Jeremiah was—no, she would never label it a mistake—hadn’t filled her with the sort of joy other mothers experienced when having a child.

  She preferred to not dwell on memories of the day Jeremiah arrived in the world, the tiny, helpless infant handed her in the hospital by a beaming nurse, her emotions clashing, joy tempered with fear, exultation sliding into resentment at what having a child would mean to her career and life. She was almost afraid to love this son born to her, and a keen sense of responsibility became the overriding commitment.

  Her husband, Bruce, wasn’t there for the birth. He’d been on the road campaigning for weeks leading up to the day, and learned he had a son from a phone call from an aide. That night, he called Clarise at the hospital.

  “So,” he said brightly, the sound of a party in the background, “little Jeremiah Lerner has officially arrived. Is he as handsome as his father?”

  She laughed and confirmed that he was. They chatted for a few minutes. As they did, Clarise’s cheerful mood deteriorated into bitterness toward her husband. That he wasn’t there, that he seemed to be discussing the arrival of a new car or delivery of a rug, said to her—promised to her—that he would not allow the child, their child, to impact his career and schedule. And she grimly, silently pledged to herself that she would not allow that to happen, either.

  The housekeeper knocked on the door.

  “In a minute,” Clarise said, getting up from the bed and going into the bathroom, where she was surprised to see that she’d welled up, and that two teardrops had run down her left cheek, streaking her makeup. She made the necessary repair, opened the door for the housekeeper—“Please, do the bedroom first!”—and went downstairs, where s
he sat on the patio in the yard, enjoying the sun’s warmth on her face. She dialed her ex-husband’s house. The call was answered by an aide.

  “This is Clarise Emerson. Is the senator there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is my son there?”

  “Please hold on.”

  It seemed an eternity before Jeremiah picked up the phone.

  “It’s Mother, darling. Are you all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He snickered. “Just hangin’ out. Nothing else to do here.”

  “Jeremiah, has Mr. Smith talked to you today?”

  “Just a little while ago. He and the other guy are coming here this afternoon.”

  “I spoke with Mr. Smith this morning. Can you tell me about this claim that someone has told the police that you dated the poor girl who was murdered?”

  “He’s a liar.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “No. I just mean that whoever said that is a liar.”

  “Of course. Have the police spoken with you again?”

  “Uh-huh. They’re coming here.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. That’s why the lawyers are coming.”

  “What did they say when they called?”

  “I don’t know. They want to ask me questions again.”

  “About the murder?”

  “I guess so. Why don’t you tell Smith and the other lawyer to sue the city for police brutality? That’s what they ought to be doing.”

  “I’m sure they’ll consider that in due time. Now listen to me, Jeremiah. It is vitally important that you do what the lawyers tell you to do, and that you not do anything wrong. Your father and I cannot have you doing things that put us in a bad light. Do you understand?”