The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

  “His call was, but we got nothing on anyone calling in a dead body, if that’s what you mean. The only call came from Coop—the officer, Bert Cooperman.”

  “So how did he hear about it?”

  Molia just shook his head in silence. “Dispatch called me at home. When I got there park police had claimed jurisdiction. And let me tell you, when I took issue I wasn’t the most popular girl at the dance. But I insisted and had the body taken to the county coroner.”

  “Why’d you fight it?”

  Molia took a moment before answering, nodding in silence. “Guess I’m just a stickler for details, Jon.”

  “What about the autopsy?”

  “Never happened. Justice—”

  “I understood his sister specifically asked the county coroner to perform an autopsy.”

  Molia looked over at him. “His sister?”

  Sloane stumbled to correct his mistake. “Joe’s sister. My wife. She asked for an autopsy.”

  Molia nodded. “Seems the Justice Department issued a cease-and-desist order. Said they would conduct the autopsy in-house. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you that, Jon.”

  “They probably told my wife. I’ve been handling other matters.”

  “Cleaning out his office?”

  “Cleaning out his office. So you’re off the case?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “But you still have a file open?”

  Molia smiled like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Let me tell you something about law enforcement, Jon. These things have a way of coming back on you like a bad lunch, know what I mean? After twenty years I’ve had my share of bad lunches. Here’s how it’s going to work: The Justice Department steps in because your brother-in-law is high profile, but after the publicity dies down the feds won’t have the resources or the desire to devote to a suicide, which means it will get dumped back on my desk to close it out. So I keep a file open.”

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging.” Sloane didn’t buy the detective’s explanation any more than he was buying the detective’s willingness to take an hour-plus ride to Washington, or the bumbling, idle, get-to-know-you chitchat. He’d seen some of the best lawyers employ the same down-home tactic, stepping all over themselves in the courtroom while endearing themselves to the jury and getting every bit of information they needed from a witness. The local newspaper had quoted an anonymous source as saying local law enforcement was frustrated with the way the DOJ had handled the Branick matter. Sloane now had a pretty good guess who that anonymous source was.

  “Well, what is it you hoped to learn, Jon?”

  “The family is a bit frustrated, Detective. We’re not getting a lot of answers.”

  Molia reached over and turned down the radio. Up until he did, Sloane hadn’t even known it was on.

  “What kind of questions are you asking, Jon?”

  “My brother-in-law was not the type of man to kill himself, Detective. My wife asked the coroner to perform an autopsy for that reason, and he said he would. Now we’re hearing that didn’t happen and we’ve heard very little from the Justice Department. It’s frustrating.”

  Molia nodded again, but this time a bemused smile creased his face. “I know that feeling.”

  54

  Old Executive Office Building,

  Washington, D.C.

  THE OLD EXECUTIVE Office Building was a white granite structure with a blue slate roof and freestanding columns. It looked like something out of ancient Rome, but then, Sloane thought that about all of Washington, with its squat cement structures and monuments. When they parked in front of the building, Tom Molia asked if he could accompany Sloane inside. It didn’t come as a complete surprise. Sloane knew that the detective hadn’t left his file open to get back a bad lunch. He kept it open because he wasn’t convinced Joe Branick’s death was a suicide, or that the police officer had died in an accident. Molia likely was frustrated, as he said, because he, too, had questions and wasn’t getting many answers. If he could befriend a member of Branick’s family, that might be a start. For his part, Sloane couldn’t think of a reason not to bring the detective with him. It couldn’t hurt to have someone on the same side, and the fact that Molia was a cop and carried a gun didn’t hurt, either, especially since Sloane had no choice but to leave the Colt Defender in the glove compartment of the rental car. He continued to have visions of the telephone repairman coming down the balcony, gun in hand. Sloane had to believe there were others out there with the same intent. Besides, he liked Tom Molia. The detective was like an old shoe, immediately comfortable.

  They entered the building together, and Molia pulled at his shirt, fanning the air-conditioned air. As Aileen Blair had described, a security desk and metal detectors greeted them in the lobby. Sloane hoped she was also right about her ability to cut through the red tape. He watched a man in a suit ahead of them. The security guard gave the man’s identification a cursory glance before he stepped through the metal detector.

  Tom Molia flashed his badge, declared a 9mm Sig Sauer handgun, and walked around the machines, waiting for Sloane on the other side. Sloane announced himself as Jon Blair, as if it were supposed to mean something. Apparently it didn’t. The guard, a no-nonsense-looking man who looked as if he could be a pit boss in Vegas, asked him for a picture ID and slid toward him a clipboard with a lined sheet of paper for visitors to sign in and out.

  Sloane opened his wallet and flipped the license on the counter without taking it from the plastic—an old trick from his youth when he was underage trying to buy beer with a fake identification. He signed Jon Blair’s name in the visitors’ log. “You should have a pass. It’s been arranged by Assistant United States Attorney Rivers Jones.”

  The guard picked up the wallet and examined the license, then looked at Sloane. “Could you take it out of the wallet, please?” he asked, handing it back to him.

  Sloane tried to remain calm but felt as if heat were coming through the soles of his shoes. “Certainly.”

  He removed the license and held it across the counter, not smiling, since Jon Blair had not smiled in his picture.

  The guard took the license and reconsidered it. Then his eyes lingered on Sloane’s face. After a moment he said, “If you’ll stand off to the side, please.”

  Sloane resisted the urge to ask if there was a problem, intent on acting as if there were none. He stepped off to the side as instructed, and the guard picked up a phone on the console, dialed a number, and spoke into the receiver, though Sloane could not hear him. Sloane looked over at the detective. If he was interested in what was going on, he didn’t show it. He had had a smile and comment for just about everyone entering the building, mostly about how much cooler it was inside.

  Two minutes later Sloane watched a young woman bound down the hall toward them carrying several flat cardboard boxes under one arm. She put the boxes down and held out a hand, as eager as a teenage camp counselor. “Mr. Blair? I’m Beth Saroyan.”

  At the same time the guard behind the desk handed Sloane Jon Blair’s license and a name tag encased in plastic with a clip on the back. “Here you go, Mr. Blair.”

  Saroyan shook Sloane’s hand, then turned to Tom Molia, who had joined them. She apologized for not having set aside a pass for him.

  Molia dismissed it with a smile. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m a friend of Jon’s.”

  They took an elevator, and Saroyan led them down a hall where a uniformed guard stood sentry outside a gold-leaf-covered door. It looked like the entrance to a mausoleum. Without prompting, the guard stood, unlocked the door, and peeled yellow police tape from the doorjamb. Sloane got the impression it was an act, the guard’s actions orchestrated for his benefit. That feeling became stronger when he stepped into the office. It was neater than his office after Tina cleaned it. Joe Branick’s desk reflected the recessed overhead lights. The books on the shelves were neatly arranged with family photographs and mementos. The carpeted flo
or was clear, not a scrap of paper on it. He watched Tom Molia walk to the wastepaper basket and casually glance down. Both it and the recycling container beside the desk were empty. Once again Sloane and the detective were on the same page. He had practiced law for too many years to believe that someone who reportedly left his office in a rush habitually kept it so clean. Someone had sanitized it.

  It was another dead end.

  HALF AN HOUR later Sloane slid the top on the last of the Bekins boxes. They now contained Joe Branick’s personal effects, which he had promised Aileen Blair, but nothing that was going to help him identify the companies Branick had worked for or the identity of the black man in his memory. He looked up as a man with a stiff gait and narrow features entered the office and stretched out his arm as if they were old friends.

  “Mr. Blair? I’m Assistant United States Attorney Rivers Jones.”

  At the mention of the name, Sloane watched Detective Molia’s head snap to the side; then he walked out, striking up a conversation with the guard in the hallway.

  With short, neatly parted hair, a muted premature gray that appeared artificial—and thin—Jones looked like a bureaucrat or a computer nerd. “My pleasure,” Sloane said.

  “I apologize if your wife and I got off on the wrong foot. I was hoping to meet her. I’d like to believe I make a better impression in person than over the telephone.”

  “No hard feelings. I’ll let her know.”

  Jones turned to the young woman. “Ms. Saroyan has taken care of you?”

  “Very well, thank you. In fact,” he said, looking around the office, “I think I’m done.”

  “Good.” Jones looked past him to Tom Molia and walked to the doorway. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jones said, offering his hand.

  Molia did not respond.

  Jones tapped him on the shoulder.

  Molia turned.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jones repeated.

  “Oh, how’ya doing?” Molia gave Jones’s hand a perfunctory shake before trying to return to his conversation with the guard, but Jones tapped him on the shoulder again.

  “I’m fine. I’m Assistant United States Attorney Rivers Jones. I didn’t catch your name.”

  The detective chuckled, feigning embarrassment. “Forgot my manners today,” he said to the guard, then glanced at Sloane before looking back at Jones. “It’s Jim,” he said, muttering the name under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” Jones said, leaning forward.

  “Jim. Jim Plunkett,” Molia said.

  The detective, a native of Oakland, had just introduced himself to the assistant United States attorney as the former quarterback for the Oakland Raiders.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Plunkett,” Jones said. “Were you a friend—”

  “Of mine.” Sloane stepped forward, eyes on the detective. “Mr. Plunkett is a friend of mine, Mr. Jones. Tell me, who made the decision to seal Joe’s office?”

  Jones nodded. “You saw the tape on the door.”

  “Yes, I did. When did that happen?”

  “That decision was made by the White House chief of staff.”

  “The chief of staff?” Sloane asked. “Why would he make that decision?”

  “Circumstances. The call that morning from the park police in West Virginia came to the White House Secret Service office. They found Mr. Branick’s White House identification card. The security officers on duty contacted the chief of staff at his home. He instructed them to have the office immediately sealed. I concurred in his decision.”

  “Why?” Sloane asked.

  Jones looked puzzled, and his response was patronizing. “To ensure no sensitive information was compromised or removed. It’s fairly routine in a situation where a person decides to leave, or . . . well . . . in this type of situation.”

  Sloane looked around. “So no one has been in here since Mr. Branick left?”

  “No one,” Jones said. “Why? Is there something in particular you’re not finding?”

  Sloane shook his head. “No, no, everything appears to be in perfect order.”

  “Good. I’d like to—”

  “Was it also the chief of staff who ordered that the investigation be taken in-house by the Justice Department?” Sloane interrupted.

  The question caused Molia to lean forward.

  Jones looked caught off guard. “I’m not sure how that decision was made.”

  “This is your investigation?”

  “Absolutely. This was a Justice Department—”

  “But you don’t know who actually made the decision?”

  Jones faltered. “It’s not that . . . It’s not that I don’t know. It’s—I believe it was a mutual decision between the attorney general and the White House. Actually there are some things I had hoped to discuss with your wife over lunch,” he said, stumbling forward quickly. “If you’re available?”

  Sloane looked to Molia. “I’m sorry, Aileen didn’t mention anything.”

  “No problem.” Molia stepped back into the office, suddenly interested. “Lunch sounds good. I’m starving.”

  Jones smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Plunkett. I meant Mr. Blair . . . alone?”

  “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Mr. Plunkett,” Sloane said.

  Jones shook his head. “It’s nothing personal—”

  “It’s not a problem, Jon,” Molia interrupted. “I don’t want to be a fifth wheel or anything. You’ll get home all right?”

  “We’ll have a car drive you wherever you need to go,” Jones assured Sloane. “It will be no trouble. Ms. Saroyan will have the boxes labeled and shipped.”

  Saroyan stepped forward with pen and paper. Sloane had no clue where to send the boxes. “I’ll have to get back to you with an address.”

  Jones looked surprised.

  “Some of this is going to storage.”

  Saroyan handed him a business card.

  “Very good, it’s all settled.” Jones put a hand on Sloane’s shoulder and led him back into the hall, then stopped and turned back to the detective. “You seem familiar to me, Mr. Plunkett. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

  Molia shrugged. “Rotary Club? I meet a lot of people there. And bowling. Do you bowl?”

  Jones smiled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Maybe you just remind me of someone I know.”

  “I have one of those faces,” Molia said.

  JONES TALKED WHILE he and Sloane waited for an elevator. “I apologize that your friend couldn’t join us,” he said. “It would have been no problem, except there’s been a slight change of plans.”

  “Change of plans?”

  The elevator arrived. Jones ushered Sloane inside and hit the button for the lobby. “I think you’re going to see how committed we all are to making sure Mr. Branick’s death is investigated to the fullest extent possible, Jon.” He paused as if about to deliver the punch line to a joke.

  The doors closed.

  “The president has asked to speak with you personally.”

  55

  TOM MOLIA FELL in behind a sport utility vehicle as big as a tank, picked up a car phone that was a relic by modern standards, and punched the keypad with his thumb.

  Marty Banto answered his direct line on the second ring. “Mole? Where are you? Franklin’s busting my ass looking for you. Says you left for the bathroom hours ago and never came back. Thought you died on the can. We were about to draw straws to see who was the unlucky son of a bitch who had to go in to look for you.”

  “Nice to be loved. Any idea what Rayburn wants?”

  “He wants to know where the fuck you are, is what he wants.”

  When J. Rayburn Franklin wanted to know Tom Molia’s whereabouts, he asked Marty Banto. Molia and Banto covered for each other. Franklin knew it. He just wanted to get the word out that he was keeping tabs on them.

  “No specifics?”

  “Not that he’s sharing, and I’m leaving so I don’t have to listen to him bitch ab
out you anymore.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Now,” Banto said, sounding adamant. “I’m leaving now, Mole. And if I wasn’t in a hurry before, I sure as shit am now because I don’t like the sound of that question.”

  “Just a question, Banto.”

  “Bullshit. I know that question. You need a favor. Look, Mole, the only one riding me harder than Franklin is Jeannie. I need to get home and spend time with my kids before the summer is completely over. She’s not happy we worked all weekend.”

  “Blame me.”

  “I always blame you.”

  “No wonder she likes me so much.”

  “At the moment she likes you a lot better than she likes me.”

  “You know the routine, Banto. Ten minutes after you get home your son will ask to go to a friend’s house to play video games and your daughter will get on the phone.” He changed lanes. “Besides, this is an easy one.”

  “I knew it.”

  Molia thought he heard what sounded like a hand slapping the desk.

  “I know you like a bad book. What am I, your personal secretary?”

  “I just need you to run an ID,” Molia said.

  Banto picked up a pen. He could argue, but Molia would wear him down eventually. He always did. It was quicker just to do what he asked. “Go ahead,” he said, sounding resigned.

  “I owe you one.”

  “One? I’d have better odds playing the lottery than betting on you ever paying off.”

  “The name is Jon Blair, no ‘h’ in Jon.” Molia spelled the name.

  “The guy who called here yesterday?”

  “Same guy.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just spent a morning with him.”

  “The guy sitting in the lobby this morning?”

  “You have brilliant deductive skills, Marty.”

  “Yeah, how about you deduce to do this ID on your own?”

  “Sorry. Okay, look, I have a hunch. This guy says he did a tour of duty with the marines. Check military records for me and see if the name comes up. He also says he’s an attorney in Boston. Check the Massachusetts Bar Association.”