Betty set the silver coffeepot on a silver tray and led her husband to the couch. They were a handsome, powerful couple, and they dressed the part even at home. Betty wore a blue crushed-silk skirt suit and had her dark hair swept into a chignon. Lionel wore a navy blue suit. In ten years, Davenport had never seen him without a tie.
Betty and Lionel sat together on the couch, holding hands. The room quieted, all eyes looking at Davenport expectantly.
Davenport couldn’t have a client meeting like this. For one thing, he relied on the attorney-client privilege, which kept secret anything said between him and his client. But the privilege didn’t cover advice he gave in the presence of his client’s wife or staff. Even if Davenport fashioned a joint-defense arrangement that allowed the discussions to remain confidential, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted the staffers to hear the advice he would give their boss. He didn’t yet know enough. Any of them—in addition to his own client—might have killed that girl.
And Davenport knew that the Congressman couldn’t speak frankly in front of his wife. A week from now, Betty might file for divorce. Potter, Vale, Williams—or all of them—might cooperate with the authorities against the Congressman. Davenport had to be prepared for the worst. For this meeting, the entourage had to go.
“Congressman,” Davenport began gingerly, “last night when we spoke, I advised you not to discuss this investigation with anyone, including your staff.”
“I haven’t discussed last night’s events with anyone,” Lionel replied. “But this is a political problem, not just a legal one. These are my top advisers. I rely on their counsel.” Davenport glanced skeptically at Betty, and Lionel reacted. “I have nothing to hide from my wife! I had nothing to do with that woman’s death last night.”
Betty showed no emotion. There had long been talk of Lionel’s womanizing, but she always stood by his side. She was the consummate political wife, supportive and helpful, skillful at turning the subject and, if that failed, steadfast in defending her husband. Perhaps she simply wasn’t bothered by her husband’s cheating. Or did she blind herself to it?
Potter set down his scone and leaned forward. “We have to talk about it. Any legal strategy has to work with our campaign strategy.”
Davenport looked at Potter, speaking softly but sternly. “Although I am not your lawyer, let me give you some friendly advice. Do not talk to each other about the subject of this investigation. I don’t care how innocent you all are or how much you’re dying to figure out what happened—if you talk to each other about what happened last night, the prosecutor will find out, and he will assume that you’re trying to get your stories straight.”
Potter blanched. “Can I talk to my wife?”
“If you must. Your conversations with your spouse are privileged. But do not talk to any other family or friends about it. The prosecutors can drag them into the grand jury to find out what you said. Your loved ones will not appreciate that experience, I assure you. If you’re smart, you won’t discuss what happened last night with anyone except your lawyers.”
“We don’t have lawyers,” Vale said.
“Congressman Lionel has offered to pay your legal bills, provided you hire competent representation. I’ve arranged for excellent attorneys to represent you all. Obviously, you’re free to turn them down and pay for any other lawyer you want. It could cost less, but you should be prepared to spend fifty to a hundred and fifty thousand, assuming you don’t go to trial.”
In the old days, Davenport’s firm would have represented everyone; today’s conflict-of-interest rules no longer permitted that. But it was important to Davenport that the staffers be represented by attorneys who would work well with him—optimally, attorneys who would defer to him. They would have independent fiduciary duties to their clients, of course, but they would know who was paying their bills. D.C. had dozens of criminal-defense lawyers who made a living from Davenport’s referrals. They were excellent defense attorneys, but they rarely advised their clients to cooperate with the government and testify against Davenport’s clients. If they did, they could expect their livelihood to dry up.
The staffers nodded. They would accept Davenport’s free lawyers.
“Good,” growled the Congressman. “The next thing we need to do is draft something to tell the press.” He nodded toward the front of his house, where the reporters were camped. “I can’t stay in here forever.”
“Until we know more about the situation, you should say nothing,” Davenport advised. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“Plead the Fifth?” Betty said, horrified. “He has nothing to hide!”
This was always tricky ground. Davenport didn’t want to tell her all the things her husband might have to hide. That would just alienate the one ally his client needed most of all. “Of course, Betty,” he assured her. “But right now anything he says will be misinterpreted.”
Davenport looked at the three other men. Any one of them might know exactly what had happened to the girl last night. As much as Davenport wanted to know, he first needed to make sure that the staffers didn’t prematurely say anything to law enforcement. “I don’t represent the rest of you, but speaking as your friend, I’m sure your lawyers will tell you the same thing. The Constitution protects you from having to talk to the police, and you should rely on that right.”
Davenport expected he wouldn’t get any resistance from the pudgy Chief of Staff, who was Lionel’s top man, devoted to his boss for over twenty years. Potter would take his marching orders. Williams was a hired gun who might give Davenport pushback but would ultimately listen to whatever Lionel told him. Vale worried him, though. He’d been with the Congressman only two years. Long enough to know some secrets but short enough that he had little to lose if his boss went down. Vale had to be treated with care.
“If you agree, your own attorneys will be available to meet with you this afternoon. In the meantime, the office can just say ‘no comment’ to any press inquiry. You’ll say Congressman Lionel regrets the young woman’s death, but he cannot comment further due to the ongoing investigation.”
“The hell we will!” Potter said. “Congressman, if you plead the Fifth, tomorrow’s Post will read ‘Lionel Pleads the Fifth in Murder Case.’ That’s as good as a conviction for your campaign.”
“We appreciate your advice, Mr. Davenport,” Betty added, “but you have to understand our position. The primary is in six weeks, and Youngblood is a real challenge. My husband didn’t know this woman. He’ll be cleared in the investigation. But if he no-comments his way through it, we’ll lose the seat he’s held for thirty years.”
Davenport shook his head, frustrated. In times like this, he thought wistfully about his decision to turn down medical school in favor of the law. If he were a surgeon, his patients would be anesthetized while he operated on them. A patient never got up during surgery and disputed the doctor’s technique. Davenport often wished he could put his criminal-defense clients under sedation while he operated. “The risk to your husband is much greater than just losing his seat,” he began.
Lionel stood up, interrupting him. “Daniel, I appreciate your counsel. I’m sure it’s the best defense strategy. But ‘no comment’ is not an option I can take. This office cannot be seen as obstructing a murder investigation.” He turned to his staffers, his deep voice slow and deliberate. “If one of you knows something about this woman’s death, I would appreciate receiving your resignation immediately.” No one responded. “Good. In that case, I will offer the police our full cooperation, within the bounds of my legislative prerogatives.”
Davenport closed his eyes for a moment, disappointed, but he could tell the decision was final. “They’ll want to interview you right away. I’m not going to let you go into the grand jury.”
Lionel nodded and sat down next to his wife. She took his hand again.
“Congressman, I need to speak to you privately now,” Davenport said.
Betty kissed her husband’s jowl
s, stood up, and led Potter, Vale, and Williams out of the room. Davenport could hear her herding the staffers to the back porch.
The defense attorney carefully considered his next question. He preferred to spend as much time as possible investigating, figuring out what evidence the government had and what its witnesses might say, before asking a client for his side of the story. Rarely would a client be completely honest in the first conversation. If Davenport didn’t have the documents and the knowledge to keep his clients honest, whatever self-serving half-truths or outright lies the client told could hamper Davenport’s defense strategy. A client might tell a lie often enough that he came to believe it and was devastated on the stand when it was disproved.
There was no time for that kind of research now. If the Congressman was going to be interviewed, Davenport needed to know what he would say.
“All right, Emmett.” Davenport leaned toward his client. “That woman didn’t wander into your hideaway and fall off your balcony by herself. What really happened last night?”
Vale cut through the Congressman’s backyard to avoid the waiting TV cameras, stepping carefully through the grass to avoid scuffing the shine on his shoes. His silver Smart Fortwo coupe was parked half a block away. He held Davenport’s handwritten note—the name and address of his assigned attorney. That arrogant son of a bitch. Vale doubted Davenport’s hand-picked lawyer would really have his best interests at heart. But he no longer had the savings to afford his own attorney, and he’d be damned if he was going to get a public defender, like some crack dealer.
He slid into his tiny Smart car and started the noiseless engine. It was the smallest car on the road; the wingspan of his arms was longer than its width. The car was perfect for parking in tight spots no one else could squeeze into. Vale always felt superior to the gas-guzzling monsters circling the blocks, looking for somewhere to park. He was smarter than they were.
He was smarter than most people. That, he knew, was what had held back his career. At his age, he should be a chief of staff. But he couldn’t put up with others’ mediocrity, so he had a reputation of being hard to get along with. He felt a nagging disappointment that his career had stalled out.
Vale would cooperate with the police investigation, though not for the reasons Congressman Lionel wanted. He didn’t care whether the Congressman was reelected. He wasn’t going to be a good soldier, like Potter, keeping the Congressman’s dirty secrets. The police were going to find someone to blame that girl’s death on, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Brett Vale.
He would give the police exactly what they were looking for. Everything about Emmett Lionel’s relationship with that girl. That whore.
12
While they’d been meeting with Caroline’s mother, Vanetta had turned the conference room next to Jack’s office into a “war room.” The police paperwork and Davenport’s binder of motions were neatly stacked on the conference table. One of the library’s unrestricted computers had been rolled into one corner, and a TV tuned to the local news sat in another. Vanetta had even put a box of Jack’s favorite snack—peanut-butter crackers—on the credenza.
Anna thought back nostalgically to the war room she’d shared with Jack during the D’marco Davis case. It was during the hours spent together in that room that she’d fallen in love with him.
Jack thanked Vanetta, who beamed at him. Anna shared her own secretary with six other AUSAs; the poor woman was stretched thin. Junior prosecutors like Anna did their own copying, faxing, mailing, phones, and scheduling. As Homicide chief, Jack got a secretary to himself. But Vanetta’s thoughtful preparations weren’t just a result of Jack’s seniority, they were also a sign of how much she liked him.
On the table was a faxed report from the Medical Examiner. Anna skimmed it. It had the results of a sex kit. No vaginal injuries—typical in most sex assaults. Although juries, conditioned by shows like CSI, expected such injuries, they were rare in anatomy that could stretch to fit a baby. Negative for semen, too. That meant the sexual assault hadn’t been completed, or the man had worn a condom. Anna passed the report around to Jack and Samantha, who nodded with disappointment at the lack of DNA.
Jack turned off the TV and sat at the head of the conference table. Anna and Sam sat on either side of him.
“We have to find out everything there is to know about Caroline McBride, the Congressman, and his staff,” he said. “Anna, start by drafting some subpoenas. Caroline’s phone records, student records, credit reports—those’ll lead us to her banks and credit cards. Find out what kind of money she had and where it was coming from.”
Anna nodded and jotted the to-do list on her legal pad. When she looked up, she noticed a piece of lint on Jack’s lapel. She reached to pluck it off, then felt self-conscious about making such a personal gesture. She turned the movement into what she hoped was a convincing stretch. But Jack had noticed her intention; he looked down and plucked the lint off himself. Samantha’s eyes flicked curiously between Anna and Jack. Anna cursed the agent’s sharp eyes and her own mistake. Their secret was going to be harder to hide than she’d anticipated.
“I’ll have my analysts examine whatever records you get,” Sam said to Jack. “And I can run everyone through ChoicePoint, NCIC, and our internal databases.”
“Great,” Jack said. “And we need boots on the ground. I want agents and MPD detectives out there talking to her friends, teachers, neighbors. If we’re lucky, somebody’s heard of this escort agency, Discretion. Anna, what’s it say about them on that porn site you’ve got the taxpayers paying for?”
“TrickAdviser?” Anna said. “Not much. There’s no contact information for Discretion, and they don’t advertise on Backpage or Eros. I’m guessing they get all their business through referrals. But I can tell you who their most prolific client is.”
Anna pivoted her chair so she was facing the unrestricted computer and logged on to TrickAdviser. With a few clicks, she got to the profile of “Sasha.” She scrolled through as she spoke. “It’s the world’s oldest profession, but they’ve adopted modern methods. The first man who reviews an escort creates her profile on TrickAdviser, not the woman or her agency. The guy fills out a macro and inputs all of her vital statistics, says what she’s willing to do, how much she charges. So the first reviewer is critical. Agencies can be very particular about who gets that first appointment. Look at Caroline’s first review.”
Jack and Sam stood behind her. The first review of Sasha was written by someone with the screen name BigBoy89. He had given her a 10 in both the “appearance” and “performance” categories. Anna clicked on his full review.
General Details: Every once in a while you meet a girl so amazing, it makes you wonder why you bother with any other providers. Tonight, I met that girl. Madeleine told me Sasha was something special, and as usual, she didn’t exaggerate. Sasha arrived at my place on time, and when I opened the door, I was knocked out. I expected beauty, given the price, but this girl should be a centerfold. Sports Illustrated Swimsuit, not Hustler. Nothing fake about her, no silicone or spray tan, just all-natural girl-next-door beauty. She’s exactly what every hobbyist hopes for—the chance to bask in a gorgeous creature you’d never be able to do in real life. She came into my house and greeted me with a passionate DFK. I was getting hard already. VIPs, read on . . .
“What’s a DFK?” Jack asked.
“Deep French kiss,” Anna said. “One of the more innocent acronyms on this site.”
“Who are the VIPs?” Sam asked.
“Anyone can look at a limited amount of information. But if you want the really down-and-dirty stuff, you have to be a VIP member. Guys get VIP status by paying or writing reviews. For every review a guy writes, he gets fifteen days of VIP access. Otherwise, it costs a hundred and fifty dollars a year.”
“So these guys write up their crimes just to avoid a small fee?” Jack asked.
“No. I think they do it because they get off on it.” Anna clicked on the link for th
e VIP information.
The Juicy Details: Personally, I could’ve done her right there at the front door, but I knew this was her first time out, and I can be intimidating. I took her into the living room and we talked for a couple minutes. She said she was nervous, but I was someone she’d want to get to know outside the hobby. I know this is the schtick, guys, but she was so convincing, I almost believed her. After a few minutes, she’s the one who started undressing me. I’ve been with some rookies who you have to lead through every step, like training a new horse, but this girl was amazing—hot to trot, couldn’t wait to take my clothes off, I didn’t have to use the spurs at all. Pretty soon we were both naked, and she’s got a smoking-hot body. Now, here’s where I would normally give you all the juicy details. But I gotta tell you, we connected in a way that was so amazing, I don’t want to cheapen it by posting the details here. Can you believe I’m saying that? I know some of you will be disappointed. What can I say? Life isn’t fair. Long story short: It was amazing. Hands down, the best experience I’ve had with any provider, ever. And she said it was the best she’d ever had, too. I think she meant it. Sasha, if you’re reading this, you are phenomenal. Keep it up, and you’ll be a legend.
“This guy is disgusting,” Sam said. “And delusional.”
“So who’s BigBoy89?” Jack asked.
Anna clicked on a link to BigBoy89’s page. It contained no personal information but had hyperlinks to all 322 of his reviews. He’d been a member of TrickAdviser for five years. “He seems to be an influential reviewer. But he’s not a high roller. Mostly, he writes about two-hundred-dollar-a-night transactions. The only time he reviews thousand-dollar escorts is when he’s writing an initial review for a Discretion escort. He must be getting a discount for being their tester.”
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