Capitol Murder

by William Bernhardt

  Christina pulled a chair beside Hazel, the receptionist, and tried to comfort her. She was still sobbing, blowing her nose, wailing about “that sweet girl who never wanted to hurt anyone,” a dolorous expression engraved on her face.

  It was really no business of hers, but Christina noticed that no one else in the office was paying Hazel any attention. Certainly not Amanda, who still bore a stony expression and periodically thrust herself into the police officers’ paths for no apparent purpose other than being an irritant. She overheard a conversation between Lieutenant Albertson and his sergeant in the corridor. They didn’t know she was with Ben; neither even looked her way as they talked.

  “What do you make of it?” the sergeant asked in hushed tones.

  “Got no idea,” Albertson answered. “It’s too crazy. But the evidence all points in one direction.”

  “Think he did her in there?”

  “The CSIs haven’t found blood anywhere else.”

  “I guess you noticed she wasn’t wearing panties.”

  “Be hard to miss.”

  “Think Glancy decided to go back for seconds? Maybe she didn’t like it, and-pow.”

  Albertson grunted. “Hard to know. A man who would do what he did in that video is capable of anything, far as I’m concerned. Think we’ve got enough?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Me, too. Let’s do it.”

  Christina raised her arms, not dramatically, just enough to get Ben’s attention. While he was watching, she locked her fingers around each wrist, pantomiming handcuffs. Which probably wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. But they’d been working together for a long time. He’d get the message.

  “Senator Glancy,” Lieutenant Albertson said, as he strolled casually toward the senator and Ben, a friendly expression on his face. “I think I’m ready to ask you those questions now. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course,” Glancy said. “Anything I can do to help.” He glanced at the still-blood-soaked sofa, his eyes filled with regret. “I tried to warn that girl.”

  Ben’s eyes widened.

  “Warn her?” Albertson asked. “About what?”

  “Don’t answer,” Ben interjected.

  The lieutenant and Glancy both stared at him. “Beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Don’t answer.”

  “Well, then let me ask this,” the lieutenant said. “How long have you been in this building today?”

  “Don’t answer,” Ben insisted. “I’m cutting this off now. No more questions.”

  Glancy protested. “But, Ben-”

  “You heard me. Don’t say a word.”

  Albertson frowned. “May I ask on what authority you’re impeding this investigation?”

  “I’m Senator Glancy’s attorney. And he has the right to remain silent, as you very well know, even though you seem to have forgotten to read him his Miranda rights.”

  “It was my understanding you were representing the senator with regard to a civil matter, not a criminal one. As for the Miranda rights, this is not a custodial interrogation. We just want to ask the senator a few questions.”

  “What do you take me for?” Ben shot back. “I’m his attorney in all regards until you hear otherwise. He’s not talking and that’s-”

  “Excuse me, may I be of service?” It was Marshall Bressler, suddenly wheeling up beside them.

  “Where did you come from?” Ben asked.

  Bressler smiled. “The entire building is wheelchair-accessible, Ben. Including the basement. Federal law.” He looked up at the police lieutenant. “I’m the senator’s top aide. His administrative assistant.”

  “All we want is to ask the senator a few questions.”

  Ben jumped in. “And I absolutely forbid it.”

  Bressler gave Ben a stern look. “Failure to cooperate with a criminal investigation is a serious matter. We could get all kinds of bad press.”

  “I agree,” Glancy said. “I don’t see any reason not to assist the police, Ben. If I can help them find the man that did this-”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Todd. They think they already have.”

  “What? Are you suggesting-”

  “No, but they will.”

  Lieutenant Albertson tried again. “It would be very helpful if we could just get clarification on a few points about the senator’s whereabouts and-”

  “He’s not talking.”

  “Is that right?” Albertson said, exasperated, addressing the senator.

  “You heard what I said,” Ben said forcefully.

  “You’re just a counselor, Mr. Kincaid. An adviser. He can take your advice-or not. It’s his call.” He paused. “You know, my uniforms tell me there are about, oh, two billion reporters outside waiting to see what happens next.”

  “What is that supposed to be?” Ben bellowed. “A threat? Blackmail? Any attempt to deny my client his Fifth Amendment rights is impermissible under Miranda v. Arizona and sanctionable by-”

  “Yadda, yadda, yadda.” The lieutenant ignored him. “So what’s it going to be, Senator? Do you come clean, or do we go outside and inform the world that you’re not talking?”

  Glancy paused, pursed his lips, exhaled heavily. It was obviously a difficult decision for him. “It goes against my every instinct not to cooperate with a legal inquiry.” He sighed. “But I suppose I have to respect my attorney’s experience in these matters and do as he says.”

  “Have it your way.” He waved to his sergeant. “Senator Glancy, you are now under arrest on a charge of murder in the first degree. Sergeant Reasor, handcuff the man.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Glancy said.

  “I’m afraid I insist.”

  “Why?” Ben said. “Just to humiliate him on the six o’clock news?”

  “Standard operating procedure.” He leaned into Ben’s face. “I gave you a chance to save face, wiseass. Now your man pays the price.”

  “You’d already decided to arrest him. You were just trying to get a few pre-Miranda freebies and we both know it.”

  The sergeant handcuffed Glancy, then pushed him toward the door and down the corridor.

  “I can run interference for you,” Ben said, as they approached the swarm of reporters waiting at the top of the stairs. “Hold up a newspaper. Keep them from getting TV footage.”

  “Please don’t,” Glancy said, and a moment later he had his television face on while a hundred bright lights shone down on him and a thousand questions were shouted at once. “This is all a terrible mistake,” Glancy said. “I intend to cooperate with the investigation fully, so we can find out who really committed this atrocity. And then I’ll be back to work, serving the best interests of my constituents, in no time at all.”

  But even as he watched the man perform like the pro he was, Ben knew he was wrong. This wasn’t going away anytime soon. If it went away at all.

  Part Two. The Judicial Evidence Is All-Embracing

  *

  6

  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 concludi
ng 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 d
irectly 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.”