“Proceed, Ms. Clintick.”
“Agent Whepson, would you describe the scene when you reached the second floor, the residence of the White House?”
“Again, a great deal of activity. Secret Service. I recognized some of the President’s senior staff. Everyone looked, I would say, grim. There were military personnel, quite senior, I could see from the uniforms. It was very tense up there.”
“That would be consistent with activity following a presidential assassination?”
“Ob-jection.”
Another fifteen minutes of sidebar. Throughout the nation, Americans began to divide into two camps: those who were reassured about their system of justice, and those who thought it was an argument for the Peruvian model, ten minutes in front of a military judge with a hood over his head, the firing squad outside practicing in the courtyard.
In due course, Agent Whepson was allowed to proceed to the President’s bedroom.
“I observed the President in bed. He was lying on his back on one side of the bed. His eyes were open, as was his mouth.”
“And this led you to conclude?”
“That he was dead. Dr. Pierce, his personal physician, was present. He confirmed to me that the President had been dead for some hours, possibly three or four.”
Boyce demanded that the prosecution stipulate—that is, agree—that Dr. Pierce had no qualifications as a coroner. That required twenty minutes of fevered wrangling at the bench.
“Did you observe anything unusual about the President’s appearance?”
“You mean, aside from the fact that he was dead?”
“Yes.”
“I observed a mark, like a bruise, approximately five centimeters above his right eyebrow.”
“Objection. Your honor, this is the United States of America, not”—Boyce said with some distaste—“France.”
Judge Dutch sighed. “Sustained, Mr. Baylor.”
“What would that be in good old American inches?” Boyce said, implying that the metric system was unpatriotic.
“About two inches.” Agent Whepson placed a finger on his own forehead.
“Did the mark appear suspicious to you in any way?”
“Objection.”
Another sidebar. Millions of Americans began to wonder if maybe they would just catch the highlights on the evening news.
“You may answer the question, Agent Whepson.”
“Since this mark was on the body of a dead president, yes, I definitely viewed it with great interest.”
“What else did you observe that alerted your professional instincts?”
“There was a silver object about this size”—he indicated with his hands—“lying on the floor. I did not recognize what it was. It was lying on its side.”
“Did you personally touch this object?”
“No. When I determined—I subsequently directed that the crime scene techs, the technicians, examine it using standard procedure.”
“That is, using protective latex gloves?”
“That’s correct.”
“Was the First Lady present?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And where exactly was she?”
“She was in the bathroom.”
“Did you observe or hear anything that suggested the reason she was in the bathroom?”
“Yes. The sounds I heard coming from the bathroom were consistent with those of a person who was vomiting.”
“Throwing up?” Just in case any of the jurors were unclear as to the meaning of vomit.
“Did you speak with Mrs. MacMann?”
“After she ceased vomiting? Yes. I identified myself to her and asked her to tell me what had happened.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“She said that she had gone to bed at approximately twelve-thirty. There had been a state dinner for the President of Uruguay. She told me that she was woken up by a noise at some point in the night, she did not know when, and had gone back to sleep. She then woke up at six-fifteen, her usual waking time, ordered breakfast in bed. It was when the maid, Ms. Williams, entered with the breakfast that it became clear that the President had been—was dead.”
“Did she describe to you the noise that woke her up in the night?”
“She used the word thump.”
“Did she tell you that she had investigated the source of this thump?”
“I specifically asked her that, and she replied that she had not investigated it. She said she went back to sleep.”
“What was Mrs. MacMann’s state of mind when you had this discussion?”
“Objection. The question is entirely subjective. Agent Whepson has no competence as a psychologist.”
“Overruled.”
“Your Honor.”
“Mr. Baylor. You may answer the question, Agent Whepson.”
“I would describe her as calm.”
“Was she tearful?”
“Objection. Leading, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“How did you find Mrs. MacMann, Agent Whepson?”
“She did not seem upset except for the fact of throwing up.”
“Objection. Inference. Mrs. MacMann might have eaten something that did not agree with her.”
“Sustained.”
“Did she express any emotion to you consistent with that of a woman who had just lost her husband?”
“Objection. Agent Whepson was not there in the capacity of grief counselor. Your Honor, I find the prosecution’s line here troubling.”
“Sustained.”
“Did she say anything to you other than her description of the events of the evening and morning?”
“No, she did not.”
“What did you then do?”
“I made a determination that we—that is, the FBI—needed to examine the premises thoroughly.”
“Why did you make that determination?”
“To see if there was further evidence of foul play.”
This prompted a rip-snorting twenty-minute sidebar in which Boyce and Sandy Clintick could be seen hissing at each other like geese. Judge Dutch’s glasses kept fogging. He instructed the jury to disregard Agent Whepson’s use of the words further and foul play and adjourned for the day.
The TV commentary that night featured detailed analysis by criminologists, gastroenterologists, and psychologists on the subject of vomiting in general and whether doing it in the presence of law enforcement is a reliable indicator of guilt.
Reporters who had covered Ken MacMann when he was governor discussed the fact that Beth had experienced two difficult pregnancies that ended in miscarriages. Mrs. MacMann had thrown up at a state fair during one of these pregnancies. A video clip of the occasion was shown over and over. She was not otherwise known for having a nervous stomach. If anything, she was known for having an iron constitution. This made Agent Whepson’s testimony damning.
Chris Matthews of the show Hardball thundered at a guest who said that Beth was “obviously guilty”: “What was she supposed to be doing? Sobbing hysterically like Mary Todd Lincoln and pounding on her husband’s chest? People throw up when they’re upset. Haven’t you ever thrown up when you were upset?”
“I never killed my husband,” said the guest.
“I used to throw up before the show. Gotta take a break. You’re watching Hardball.”
Boyce’s practice during cross-examinations was to get as physically close to witnesses as he could without sitting on their laps.
Once, in the midst of a particularly withering cross of the owner of a cruise ship that had collided with a tanker carrying liquefied natural gas, Boyce had asked the owner to hold his Styrofoam cup of coffee while he recited to him his conflicting testimony from the court transcript. The man threw the coffee at Boyce’s chest, doing himself little good with the jury.
He stood next to the witness box with his right arm resting on it, facing the whole court and the world beyond, smiling pleasantly. The body language
said: “And now, my friend, you and I are going to tell these folks what really happened that morning, okay?”
The Jeeter printout from yesterday showed that Agent Whepson had scored high with the four white male jurors, so today’s performance would be for their benefit. Boyce’s voice took on a slight folksy twang. Today he was just a good ol’ boy in a $1,400 suit.
“How many years did you say you were with the Bureau, Agent Whepson?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Good for you, sir. In that time I imagine you’ve seen your fair share of action.”
The DAG had told Whepson: Watch out for this guy.
“That would depend on your definition of ‘fair share.’ ”
“Of course it would. Of course it would. Good point. How did you happen to be assigned to this case?”
“I was on duty at the D.C. field office at the time. We received a call from FBI headquarters. They had received a call from the Secret Service.”
“Saying what, exactly?”
“Objection. Hearsay.”
“Your Honor,” said Boyce, “we’re all just trying to get at the same thing here, the truth.”
There was a distinct murmuring from the press section. Judge Dutch glowered.
Boyce continued, “You arrived at the White House with five other FBI agents. What were you expecting to find? A revolution in progress?”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn. You arrived with five agents plus an entire FBI crime scene search crew of four agents. How did you know a crime had been committed?”
“The Secret Service informed FBI headquarters that the President had been killed.”
“And how did they ascertain that? How did they know that he had been killed?”
“You would have to ask them that.”
“I believe we will. I believe we will just do that. So you arrived at the White House already having decided that the President had been murdered by armed revolutionaries—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“You had not even arrived at the so-called crime scene and you had already ruled out that this might have been an accident?”
“I was instructed to bring a CSS team.”
“I see. You were just following orders. That has a familiar ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Objection! Your Honor.”
“Withdrawn. In your testimony you told the court about your experience with the FBI. You’ve been involved in cases of kidnapping, wire fraud, extortion, mail bombing, organized crime, hate groups. A very impressive résumé. Tell us, how many presidential assassinations have you personally investigated?”
“This would be my first, Mr. Baylor.”
“Well, we all have to start somewhere. But then you claim no special competence at evaluating whether a president has been assassinated or died by some other means?”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn. An FBI agent who charges a First Lady of the United States with murdering her husband would probably get a departmental citation—”
“Objection.”
“Move along, Counsel.”
“Yes, Your Honor. And I apologize if that statement gave offense. Agent Whepson, in your wide experience, have you often interrogated freshly widowed women? Women who, for example, have just woken up in bed with their husbands dead beside them?”
“I’ve interviewed the wives of bombing victims—”
“I said interrogated, not interviewed.”
“I didn’t interrogate Mrs. MacMann.”
“What were your first words to her? After identifying yourself?”
“I asked her what happened.”
“You did not condole her?”
“Condole her?”
“That’s right. Telling her, ‘I’m sorry about your loss, ma’am.’ Or, ‘I know this is a difficult time for you, ma’am.’ Those are customary sentiments when dealing with a bereaved family member, if I’m not mistaken. Did you express such a sentiment?”
“Mr. Baylor, the President of the United States was lying there—”
“Just answer the question, thank you.”
“No, I thought under the circumstances—”
“Thank you. Did Mrs. MacMann ask to have a lawyer present while you, as you put it, interviewed her?”
“No.”
“Did she ask to have a lawyer present on any of the subsequent four occasions when you interviewed her?”
“No.”
“At no time did she request to have legal counsel present?”
“No.”
“Is that unusual?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Baylor. As you yourself said, I have no wide experience of presidential assassinations.”
The court laughed. Judge Dutch frowned.
“At what point did you inform Mrs. MacMann that she had the right to have legal counsel present during your so-called interviews?”
“The second time. After I interviewed Secret Service agent Birnam, and after the FBI lab reported that the fingerprints on the spittoon were hers.”
“And how did she reply to you?”
“I believe she said that she didn’t need a lawyer.”
“Is that all she said?”
“She said that she was not hiding anything.”
Boyce went over and took the spittoon from a clerk. It gleamed brightly in the court lights.
“Let’s talk about this so-called murder weapon, this fearsome object at the center of the whole world’s attention. In your testimony, you said that when you entered the President’s bedroom, you did not recognize what this was. And yet you said it was lying on its side. If you didn’t know what it was, how did you know it was on its side?”
“Whatever it was, I could tell it was askew.”
“I congratulate you, sir, on your fine ability to identify unfamiliar three-dimensional objects that are ninety degrees off-kilter.”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn. But you walked into the room and right away knew that this antique receptacle for spit was a lethal weapon?”
“Objection.”
Judge Dutch creaked forward in his chair. This is the source of the aura of judges: they have bigger chairs than anyone else. That and the fact that they can sentence people to sit in electrified ones. It’s all about chairs.
“Withdrawn. Let’s move on. In your testimony you said that Mrs. MacMann told you she was woken up in the middle of the night by a noise. You expressed surprise that she hadn’t investigated the source of this noise, is that correct?”
“Normally when people—especially women—are woken up by something, they want to know what made the noise.”
“Especially women? Implying that they are the weaker species?”
“Objection.”
“Your Honor, I was merely seeking to clarify the witness’s own remark?”
Sidebar.
“In other words, Agent Whepson, Mrs. MacMann should have turned on all the lights, got out of bed, maybe armed herself with a baseball bat to go see if there was a burglar? In the White House.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Let me rephrase. You were surprised that Mrs. MacMann, exhausted after entertaining half of Latin America in her house, might have just assumed that someone else would investigate the cause of this bump, living as she did in the most heavily guarded house on the planet?”
Agent Whepson paused just long enough for Boyce to say, “Never mind, never mind. Let’s move on.” He was good at creating the illusion of impatience with the molasseslike pace of a trial, of a man in a hurry to get at—what did he call it?—the truth.
“You interviewed Ms. Babette Van Anka, the actress, who had spent the night in the Lincoln Bedroom, down the hall, did you not?”
“I did.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“That she had said good night to the President at approximately twelve-thirty and went to sleep.”
Twenty-five hundred miles away, Babette’s mouth went dry.
“She told me she had watched television. That she had gone to sleep with the television on.”
“Did she tell you that she had heard this thump in the night?”
“She told me that she slept through the night.”
“Glad someone got a good night’s sleep in the White House that night. Just one or two more questions, Agent Whepson. You’ve been very patient with me. Unlike Ms. Clintick.”
“Objection.”
“Come, come, Your Honor, I was only attempting to lift our spirits a little.”
“You may lift my spirits by getting on with it, Mr. Baylor.”
“Agent Whepson, at one point in your career you were assigned to the Counterintelligence Division of the FBI, is that correct?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Tell the court what they do, would you?”
“The Counterintelligence Division keeps track of foreign intelligence agents working within the United States.”
“Spies? That would be foreign spies?”
“That’s correct.”
“You were in a supervisory capacity there, were you not, in the San Francisco field office?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did an Agent Wiley P. Sinclair work under you?”
“Objection.”
Even viewers who didn’t know who Wiley P. Sinclair was could tell that this was no standard sidebar conference going on. At one point, Sandy Clintick and Boyce raised their voices so that they could be heard above the shusher, the white noise machine that Judge Dutch turned on during sidebars to prevent eavesdropping.
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