“I need you to find out where he is right now,” Blackstone said. “So I can ‘just happen’ to run into him. Hopefully he is on assignment where Henry Hartz and his team won’t be watching, somewhere outside the District of Columbia.”
“You want me to trace an active FBI agent and tell you where he is currently located in his field activities?” Tully asked, with a measure of skepticism in his voice.
“Yeah,” Blackstone said. “That’s part of it, yes. But more than that.”
“This should be good,” Tully said. “Don’t stop now, I can hardly wait.”
“You need to leak to Agent Johnson the fact that I am trying to locate where he currently is being assigned.”
“Gee,” Tully said. “This is like one of those TV reality shows. Okay. And after I do this daunting task, then are you going to have me ingest a plate full of worms?”
“And your intel about Agent Johnson in particular,” Blackstone said. “I really need that pronto—ASAP—overnight delivery.”
“I get the drift here,” Tully said with a groan. “Oh man. You know, I took up this PI work as a kind of semiretirement after I left the NSA. You’re killing me, J.D. There are things besides work, you know…stuff like rest, recreation, seeing my grandkids. Human relationships. Going to the beach. Normal stuff.”
“You can do all of that,” Blackstone said, “after Vinnie Archmont’s trial.”
Tully said he would do what he could.
“You’re the best,” Blackstone told his private investigator.
After the phone call, he showered. His mind was racing, but not about the criminal case.
After dressing in some sweat pants and a T-shirt, Blackstone went into the kitchen of his condo to get something to eat. Then he noticed his pile of keys lying on the kitchen counter. He picked up the key ring and fished through them until he came to a silver key a little smaller than the others.
After staring at it for a while, he stuffed his keys into his pockets. Then he walked downstairs to the parking area. He climbed into his Maserati and fired it up.
After twenty minutes he was in Alexandria.
He knew he was only about a half a mile from Vinnie’s apartment. Cruising by the cross street where she lived, he turned off the main drag of Old Town Alexandria and onto Vinnie’s street.
Blackstone stopped for a moment in front of her apartment building. He looked up at her window. The light was on, but the drapes were pulled.
He sat there, with the motor running for several minutes. His head was back against the headrest.
But this was not the place where he had intended to visit.
So he put his convertible into first gear and motored off.
Ten minutes later he was pulling up to a sign and an electric metal gate that read Potomac River Storage.
He looked beyond the gate to the row-upon-row storage units with locks on them. The entire area was lit by yellow lights on high poles that cast a strange aura over everything.
Blackstone remembered the access code to the electric gate. All he had to do was punch in the numbers and the gate would automatically swing open.
And he also remembered the storage unit number. He had been paying the rent every month for two years. But he had refused to visit it.
Blackstone reached out toward the ignition of the car and isolated the smaller silver key hanging from the key chain. He fingered it.
I told myself I wasn’t going to do this, he thought.
And he wouldn’t.
Instead, he backed his car away from the gate and drove back to his condo.
CHAPTER 50
The next day, Blackstone was in his office. Shortly after his arrival, he noticed that an e-mail had come in.
It was from Henry Hartz. It was also being simultaneously filed, electronically, with Judge Templeton. Hartz explained, at the outset of the e-mail, that he had obtained a short extension of time from the District Court to furnish the final discovery information to the defense as a follow-up from the pretrial conference with the judge. Hartz had already provided, as required, an expanded explanation of the anticipated testimony of Shelly Hollsaker. Now the prosecutor was providing the last bit of information demanded by Blackstone: an explanation about the drinking glass at the scene of the crime.
In the e-mail, what Hartz had to say about that piece of physical evidence was not about to satisfy Blackstone.
Your Honor:
Pursuant to the verbal order of the District Court at our last pretrial conference in the above-styled case, the Government has conducted a thorough search of the evidence room utilized by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in connection with this case. The purpose of the search was to attempt to locate a drinking glass which had been identified by Special Agent Ralph Johnson in his 302 report, investigative report #2009456BDC. In that report, Agent Johnson identified a drinking glass on the desk of Horace Langley, in the office of Secretary Langley at the scene of the crime. Agent Johnson was first on the scene, along with a member of the crime lab and several forensic agents whose duties included the sweep of the room for forensic evidence and preservation of that evidence.
Special Agent Johnson indicates in his report that he used latex gloves to initially inspect the glass, and then he placed it carefully in a clear plastic evidence bag and marked the legend of the bag with an indelible marker along with his name, the date, and the investigation case number.
Several other items of physical evidence were also retrieved, bagged, and tagged in a similar manner, including Secretary Langley’s writing pen, a blank notepad, and a personal journal retrieved by Agent Johnson from Secretary Langley’s desk. The desk was initially opened by Detective Victor Cheski of the District of Columbia P.D., who arrived about 50 minutes after Agent Johnson arrived at the scene.
In speaking personally with Agent Johnson about the drinking glass, he indicates that his report was accurate and fairly describes the process he used in securing the physical evidence, including the drinking glass. That glass, according to Agent Johnson, was clear, not colored, and was without any logo or design. His visual inspection did not detect any fingerprints. The glass, once bagged in the evidence baggie, was placed with all other physical evidence in a corner of the office floor. At the end of the forensic sweep of the crime scene, all of the physical evidence collected at the scene was gathered up by the crime lab team. In interviewing each of them, there was unanimity that, according to their memories, the glass was among the various items gathered up, transported to the forensic truck, and then taken to the crime lab. However, no one could recall which agent actually carried the bagged drinking glass to the truck.
The physical evidence inventory sheet was filled out at the crime lab. It appears that the drinking glass was inadvertently omitted from the inventory list for some reason.
Because Agent Johnson had the drinking glass under his investigatory control, he would have been the person responsible to make sure that it was part of an unbroken chain of custody that ultimately led to the crime lab.
Despite our best efforts and a diligent search, we have been unable to locate the subject drinking glass. However, we do believe, Your Honor, that the absence of the glass is an immaterial aspect of this case from an evidentiary standpoint. The lab report describes a full panel of tests that were done on a clear drinking glass matching the description of the subject glass, with the same case identification number on the baggie containing it. The crime lab report, which has already been furnished to defense counsel, J.D. Blackstone, indicates that no fingerprints and no detectable DNA were present in or on the glass.
While we cannot locate where the glass went after its lab analysis, nor do we know where it is presently located, the absence of any discernible evidence in or on the glass makes its absence a moot point in this prosecution.
Furthermore, defense counsel Blackstone apparently never doubted the crime lab findings showing no fingerprints and no DNA evidence on the glass, because he never asked thi
s Court for permission to have his own experts analyze the glass independently.
Lastly, the deadline set by this Court for the defense to have requested its own analysis of the drinking glass has long passed.
Accordingly, while we cannot explain the missing drinking glass, it is entirely irrelevant to this case.
As soon as Blackstone finished reading the lengthy e-mail from the prosecution, he called Henry Hartz.
His secretary said he was in a conference, but as soon as he was available he would call back.
Fifteen minutes later he did.
“Henry, this whole drinking glass incident is outrageous,” Blackstone sputtered into the phone.
“Blackstone,” the prosecutor replied calmly, “I know how you defense lawyers operate. You will do anything possible to take the focus off your client. You scour the record, the FBI reports, the evidence, looking for the smallest irregularities in law enforcement protocol. And, inevitably, you will find something. There is almost always some minor goof-up that occurs in a complicated crime investigation. And you bellow and holler about how the goof-up is ‘outrageous,’ it’s a ‘miscarriage of justice.’ It’s a police conspiracy to cover up the truth, blah, blah, blah. Frankly, if this drinking glass deal is your biggest and best argument—well, let me just give you a little free advice.”
“I’d love to hear some,” Blackstone said.
“You’d better focus on the death penalty phase,” Hartz said, “because after your client is convicted, there just may still be a slim chance you can convince the jury not to sentence her to execution.”
“I’m filing a motion to dismiss, based on the missing evidence, which was lost due to the negligence of the government,” Blackstone said. “And I’m also going to argue for a spoliation-of-evidence instruction for the jury if my dismissal motion is denied.”
“Be my guest,” Hartz said confidently. “The Court won’t grant your dismissal motion because the evidence is not exculpatory. More than that, the drinking glass is absolutely irrelevant. And on your spoliation jury instruction, I’m not much worried about that either. The most the judge will do is instruct the jury that because the glass was in government custody, if there is any inference to be drawn, it can draw a negative inference about the glass against the government because the glass is now lost. So what? What negative inference is there about the glass? It’s a zero sum game on that, Blackstone. You know it and I know it. The jury’s not going to care about a missing glass that didn’t have fingerprints or DNA on it, but for some reason got misplaced.
“What they are really going to care about,” Hartz continued with a steely edge to his voice, “is a dead Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. An honored scholar, shot down in cold blood. And the fact that your client is personally connected to Horace Langley, and connected to the access code to the door used by the murderer, and tied to a motive to get the Booth diary pages. And in a telephone conversation after her arrest, expressed shock and surprise because she had been promised, by her co-conspirator, whoever that might be, that she wouldn’t be a ‘suspect’ in the murder and theft.”
“Thanks for a preview of your opening statement for the trial,” Blackstone said. “That’s going to be helpful for my preparation.”
Then Blackstone added, “But one more thing, Henry. This missing glass is not the only thing missing here. Or don’t you remember? You were going to inform me about why the federal detention people mysteriously failed to tap the phone in Vinnie Archmont’s holding cell the day she was arrested and starting making unlimited calls, courtesy of her jailers.”
“Actually, Blackstone I was going to explain that for you,” Hartz said brightly. “I found out that the Department of Justice contacted the Detention Center early that day to make sure that there was no phone eavsedropping going on. There was a court order on the subject that had been handed down. Obviously, we obey court orders.”
“And you will put that in writing?” Blackstone asked.
“I already have. In a hard-copy letter to the court and an e-mail attachment version coming to you. You should have it later today.”
“Fine,” Blackstone said.
“Always willing to be of service,” Hartz said in a sugary-sweet reply.
After hanging up from the telephone conversation with Hartz, Blackstone walked over to Julia’s office. He didn’t sit down, but leaned against the opening of her door.
“Henry Hartz says they don’t have an audio of the Vinnie Archmont telephone calls from the detention center,” Blackstone explained, “because the DOJ called them and warned them not to allow it—a court decision had come down, I guess, ordering them to cease recording phone calls. I’m supposed to get an e-mail from Hartz explaining it all. I’ll forward it to you when I get it today. If you could check with the DOJ to verify what Hartz said, I would appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Julia said. “Anything else?”
“I was also wondering how you are coming on the death penalty phase of the defense.”
“I’m wrapping up the background data on Vinnie,” Julia said. “As you will recall, I put her through a preliminary examination by one of our forensic psychologists.”
“Yes, I remember. In my humble opinion, they weren’t likely to find anything. Maybe some delayed adolescence issues, some minor personality features.”
“That’s about all he found,” Julia said. “Obviously nothing of any real substance that’s going to be very persuasive—very little to go on in order to argue mental or emotional mitigation at the penalty part of the case. Sorry, J.D.”
“It is what it is,” he replied.
Then he turned and trudged back to his office.
It was mid-afternoon when Tully called him.
“Do I get my bonus now or later?” Tully said. “That’s all I want to know.”
“Give me some good news, my friend,” Blackstone said. “Perk me up.”
“Okay,” Tully said. “About Agent Johnson. Here’s the scoop. It appears that he filed an internal race discrimination claim against one of the lawyers in Henry Hartz’s prosecution office, and it kicked up some dust. They’ve assigned him out to the field.”
“Keep going,” Blackstone said. “This is intriguing.”
“So that may have been the reason that Henry Hartz passed him over for Detective Cheski in terms of who was leading the investigation team.”
“That, plus a piece of evidence that Agent Johnson had been responsible for and is now missing,” Blackstone shot back.
“Right,” Tully said. “Anyway, Agent Ralph Johnson is currently pursuing some phase of the Smithsonian case investigation. And I heard that this is sort of on his own initiative, if you gather my meaning…He is currently down in the Old-Town of Savannah, Georgia. Down by the river.”
“He’s there now?”
“Right.”
“And the other part of your assignment with Johnson.”
“Well, there’s no guarantees,” Tully said. “But I am pretty sure that Agent Johnson is now very aware that you are tracking him. I planted that big fat hint with one of my cronies in the Bureau.”
“Good,” Blackstone said.
“You’re sure that’s what you wanted?”
“Oh, yes, “Blackstone said. “I’m sure. Now how about the other job—digging into Horace Langley?”
“I’m flying to Jersey tonight,” Tully said. “I’ve got a contact who may know something. I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Great. Oh, and one more thing,” Blackstone said. “Can you e-mail me quick a photo of Johnson?”
“I think so, give me an hour or so,” Tully said.
“That should work,” Blackstone said.
After Tully hung up, Blackstone checked his e-mail again. Now Hartz’s e-mail about the DOJ and the federal detention center was coming in. He quickly forwarded it to Julia. Then he called Frieda on the intercom.
“Get me a flight out tonight, Frieda,” he said quickly. “Out of Reagan Nat
ional Airport.”
“Where to?” she asked.
“Savannah, Georgia,” Blackstone replied.
CHAPTER 51
Blackstone flew into the Hilton Head International Airport a little after ten that evening. Frieda booked him a rental car and a room at one of the Hilton Head resorts. The hotels in the city of Savannah were already booked out and he couldn’t get anything on short notice.
After climbing into the rental car, Blackstone decided to catch some late dinner along the coast. Blackstone trolled along the beach roads until he saw the lights of a sprawling fish market restaurant perched along the sandy beach, adjacent to a long pier that extended out into the ocean inlet.
It was the type of place that Blackstone and Marilyn had enjoyed frequenting in their early days of marriage. An informal beach eatery right on the edge of the water, with colored, lighted Chinese lanterns swinging in the breeze—music playing—and lots of people and noise.
Blackstone got a small table for himself outside on the big weathered wooden deck overlooking the ocean. The moon was almost full, and it cast a long, glimmering path over the waves. The night was calm, except for the breeze and the sound of the surf slowly rushing up against the shore, and the music of a band playing somewhere.
He ordered a bucket of lobster and shrimp, but didn’t eat most of it. A friendly waitress tried to strike up a conversation, but he was in no mood to make small talk.
Like the rolling tide, it often came over him. The memories. The woman he could no longer hold or touch. Or share a pillow with. And then he would try to figure out what grade Beth would be in just then. What sports she would have gone out for. How she might have changed so much in just the past two and a half years…if everything had been different.
But it wasn’t different. It was exactly as it was.
Blackstone tossed down a healthy tip, left his bucket still half full of seafood, and walked through the sand back to his rental car. And then drove back to his resort hotel room.
After an unsatisfactory night’s sleep, Blackstone got up early. He drove from Hilton Head into Savannah so he could arrive at the historic downtown tourist area along the river by nine in the morning. Blackstone drove through the streets lined with moss-laden trees, stately old houses, and circular roundabouts at the intersections. He parked his car and headed down to the shops and businesses along the Savannah River.
The Rose Conspiracy Page 26