Capitol murder

by Philip Margolin

  The penitentiary was for convicted felons. As soon as his convictions were set aside, Clarence was presumed innocent of the charges against him, and he had been transferred to the Multnomah County jail in downtown Portland, a few blocks from her office. In anticipation of the transfer, Millie had sprung for a makeover and had had her hair styled in Portland’s top salon. After she showered and applied her makeup, she put on a new outfit she had purchased especially for today, the first day she and Clarence would be able to touch each other without bulletproof glass to stop the warmth from passing from Clarence’s hand into hers.

  Millie hummed as she drove downtown. After parking in a lot near her office, she walked to the Justice Center, a modern sixteen-story, concrete-and-glass building that was separated from the Multnomah County Courthouse by a park. The Justice Center housed several courtrooms, State Parole and Probation, the Central Precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the district attorney’s office, and the Multnomah County jail.

  The jail occupied the fourth through tenth floors in the building, but the reception area was on the second floor. Millie walked through a glass-vaulted lobby filled with police officers, attorneys, defendants, and others having business in this hall of sorrows. When she passed the curving stairs that led to the courtrooms on the third floor, she pushed through a pair of glass doors. A sheriff’s deputy was manning the reception desk. He searched Millie’s briefcase after checking her ID, then motioned her through the metal detector that stood between the reception area and the jail elevator. As soon as Millie passed through the metal detector without setting off any alarms, the guard walked her to the elevator and keyed her up to the floor where Clarence was being held.

  After a short ride, the elevator doors opened, and Millie stepped into a narrow hall with a thick metal door at one end. Next to the door, affixed to a pastel yellow concrete wall, was an intercom. Millie used it to announce her presence. Moments later, a uniformed guard peered at her through a plate of glass in the upper part of the door before speaking into a walkie-talkie. Electronic locks snapped and the guard ushered Millie into a narrow corridor that ran the length of three contact visiting rooms. The interior of each room could be seen from the corridor through a large window.

  The guard opened the door to the first room. Then he pointed to a black button affixed to the wall.

  “Your client will be brought over in a few minutes. When you need to leave-or if there’s any trouble-press the button.”

  The only furnishings in the concrete room were two orange molded plastic chairs set on either side of a round, Formica-topped table that was bolted to the floor. The guard left, and Millie took the chair that faced a steel door on the side of the room across from the corridor. As Millie stared at the door her heart beat faster. The man she loved would enter through it in minutes. She was trembling and her hand shook when she tried to open the clasp on her attache case. Just as she started to take out the papers she had brought, the electronic locks on the rear door snapped open and two guards led Clarence into the room. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and the first things Millie noticed were that he had let his hair grow and he was putting on weight. Clarence had always been lean, but now he looked a little lumpy, and she credited the starchy jail food for the extra weight. When Clarence was free, they could both go on a diet and slim down.

  Manacles securing Clarence’s ankles and wrists restricted his movements, but he shuffled forward with a huge smile on his face. The first guard pulled Clarence’s chair away from the table so he could sit down. When he was sitting, the other guard unlocked his chains.

  “Buzz when you’re done,” one of the guards said. Then they left Millie and Clarence alone.

  Clarence looked her up and down. “I love your hair. You had it done, didn’t you?”

  Millie blushed. “I wanted to look good for you.”

  “Well, you succeeded. You look great, and I’m honored that you went to all this trouble for me. I don’t imagine you have much free time. You must be incredibly busy after the publicity you’ve gotten.”

  Millie couldn’t help grinning. “My business has been amazing. I’m actually turning away cases.”

  “You deserve your success. It’s not every attorney who could have convinced Judge Case to reverse two murder cases as notorious as mine.”

  Clarence paused and stared into Millie’s eyes. Then he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Millie felt an electric charge pass between them.

  “Thank you for standing up for me,” Clarence said. Then he released her hand and looked down at the tabletop. Millie had the impression that he was gathering his courage to broach something important. When he looked up, he radiated none of the self-confidence she was used to seeing.

  “Millie, maybe this is premature but… well, when I’m free-and I know you’ll help me gain my freedom-would you consider…”

  Clarence paused. Then he flashed a shy smile. “I’m sorry, but when I’m around you, well, you make me so happy, but you also make me nervous.” He took a deep breath and looked Millie in the eye. “I should have a ring with a diamond as big as the moon, but,” he said, turning his palms up, “Tiffany won’t deliver in here.”

  Millie couldn’t breathe.

  “What I’m trying to say is, would you consider marrying me?”

  Millie had dreamed about this moment, and now that Clarence had proposed, she was speechless. Clarence stopped smiling. He looked so sad. Then his eyes dropped to the tabletop again.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I…”

  Millie reached out and covered Clarence’s hands with hers.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m just so happy I couldn’t speak. Of course I’ll marry you. I love you.”

  Clarence looked up, a wide smile on his face. “Thank you, Millie. You’ve made me the happiest man in the world. I wish I could kiss you but…” He nodded at the closed-circuit camera that was fixed to the wall. “But soon, Millie, soon we’ll be together, and we’ll be able to kiss and… and make love.”

  The blood rushed to Millie’s cheeks.

  “I hope I haven’t shocked you, but I’ve wanted to hold you for so long.”

  “I want to be with you, too.”

  “You will be, as soon as I’m acquitted. Do you know when my first trial will be held?”

  “I talked to Monte Pike. He’s the chief criminal deputy, and he’s prosecuting. We’re going to have a scheduling conference soon to work out the logistics; which case to try first, dates, that sort of thing.”

  “Good. Please tell me as soon as you know.”

  “I will.”

  “There is something else I’d like you to do.”

  “Anything.”

  Clarence smiled. “This shouldn’t be too difficult. Can you get the judge to order the jail to let me wear a suit and tie when I’m in court? There are going to be television cameras all over the place, and I don’t want potential jurors seeing me like this,” he said, pointing to the jumpsuit.

  “I’ll do it today. And I’ll buy you a beautiful suit and tie. You’ll look just like a lawyer.”

  For the rest of the meeting, Millie and Clarence talked about the wedding and where they would go on their honeymoon. Clarence hinted that he had money that he would use to treat her like a princess, and Millie was afraid that her heart would burst from joy.

  Finally Millie had to end the conference because she had to get back to her office to meet a new client. She rang for the guard. As she walked down the corridor away from the visiting room, she kept her eyes on Clarence until the concrete wall blocked her view of her beloved.

  Millie arrived at her office with no memory of the trip from the Justice Center. The phrase walking on air came to her, and she suddenly knew what it meant. She had accepted the fact that she would go through life alone, but now, through a miracle, she was in love with a man who loved her. She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. She would gain freedom for Clarence, and in so doing, she
would free herself from a life of loneliness.

  Chapter Nine

  The Senate of ancient Rome was the inspiration for the United States Senate; the name is derived from senatus, which is Latin for “council of elders.” The American Senate is often described as the world’s greatest deliberative body, and membership in this exclusive club is more prestigious than membership in the House of Representatives. If you are a congressman from California, Texas, or New York, you are one of thirty to fifty people who can make that claim. Only two people from each state can serve in the Senate. The only qualifications for the office are that one must be at least thirty years old, a citizen of the United States for at least the past nine years, and an inhabitant at the time of the election of the state one wishes to represent.

  The halls of the Dirksen Building were usually filled with casually dressed vacationers and groups of self-important men and women clothed in power suits on a mission to get this or that done. The constant din was a sharp contrast to the quiet in the halls of the United States Supreme Court, where Brad had just finished a year as a law clerk. At the Court, silence was the norm, visitors were few, and lobbyists were strictly prohibited.

  An American flag and the Oregon State flag stood on either side of the main door to Senator Carson’s suite of offices on the second floor of the Dirksen Building. Visitors entered a reception area where a young man and a young woman greeted them when they were not dealing with a constant flood of telephone calls. When the Senate was in session, the waiting room was usually filled with vacationing Oregonians who wanted to say hello to the man they had helped to elect and with constituents and lobbyists who wanted something from him.

  When a senator moved in, the office was deconstructed, then rearranged for the senator’s needs. Walls went up to create offices of various sizes for the staff. A door in the reception area opened into a narrow, crowded corridor that ended at Senator Carson’s large corner office. A cubicle occupied by one of the legislative correspondents, who answered the letters the senator received every day, formed a barrier between the corridor and Brad’s office.

  The offices for legislative assistants were small but looked different, depending on the occupant. All were furnished with bookshelves, gray metal filing cabinets, and desks, but some of the spaces were neat and well organized, while chaos reigned in others. Brad’s office was in between these extremes. His desk was neat, but he was starting to use the floor as extra filing space, and it would not be long before it resembled an obstacle course.

  Much of the Senate’s important work begins in committees, which review legislation and oversee the executive branch. One of Brad’s jobs was to help Senator Carson prepare witnesses who were going to testify in front of one of the committees on which he sat. The testimony of these witnesses was received in writing the night before they were going to testify but was embargoed to the press. Brad was preparing a list of questions to ask a witness who was going to testify in favor of an immigration bill the Judiciary Committee was considering when the senator sent for him.

  Senator Carson had hired an interior decorator, and his office now had a regal look. A credenza filled with books on various subjects on which the senator had to be educated stood under a window with a view of Union Station. A set of chairs with polished wood arms and burgundy upholstery sat along a wall decorated with photographs, framed newspaper pages, and awards that highlighted important events in the senator’s business and political careers. Across the way, a long, comfortable sofa sat kitty-corner to a second, smaller sofa and opposite two high-backed armchairs. A coffee table holding two coffee-table books with photos of Oregon’s spectacular scenery stood between the large sofa and the chairs.

  A recess with a flat-screen monitor and a computer keyboard occupied another wall. Senator Carson sat in front of the recess behind a large wood desk and listened while Brad briefed him on the witnesses who would testify about the immigration bill. They had been talking for twenty minutes when the senator’s secretary buzzed to tell him that Senator Elizabeth Rivera of New Mexico, the chairperson of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, was holding on line 3.

  Jack Carson was a member of the Select Committee on Intelligence, which oversees the United States intelligence community, including the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the National Security Agency, among others. Since 9/11 the importance of this committee had increased, and he made sure that his constituents knew that he was important enough to have been made a member.

  “Good morning, Betsy,” Carson said as soon as they were connected. “What’s up?”

  “We’re convening a special session of the SSCI in one-half hour. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll be up,” he told Senator Rivera.

  When the call ended, Carson buzzed his secretary. “Francis, do I have a meeting at ten thirty?”

  “You’re scheduled to meet with a delegation of Oregon filbert farmers.”

  “Shit! Look, I’ve got an emergency meeting with Intelligence. Can you get Kathy to cover for me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Have her mention national security. I hope the filbert growers won’t be too pissed off at me for not being able to hear their gripes in person. And send Luke in, will you?”

  The senator turned to Brad. “Come with me, Brad. You’ll find this interesting.”

  “Are you sure I can go?” Brad asked. “I don’t have a top-secret clearance.”

  “I’m a U.S. senator, which means I can do pretty much anything I want. You’ve got a law degree, and I don’t. And I want my lawyer with me.”

  B rad entered the most secure room in the Senate through a pair of unmarked frosted-glass doors and found himself in a waiting area decorated with pictures of men and women who had served as the chair of the SSCI.

  “You’ll have to leave all of your electronic devices,” Lucas Sharp said as he took out his BlackBerry and handed it across a wooden barrier to a stern-looking Capitol Hill policewoman, who placed it in one of many cubbyholes that filled the wall to her left. Brad emptied his pockets and followed the senator and his chief of staff through a door into a corridor with bookshelves on the right and an alcove on the left with a telephone and a small round table surrounded by four chairs.

  The door to the hearing room was open. Looked at head-on, it appeared to be a normal wood door, but Brad could see that it was steel and had the thickness of a door to a vault. On his way to the door, Brad walked by a conference room with a regular phone and a secure, encrypted phone.

  In the center of the conference room was a long rectangular table furnished with comfortable high-backed leather chairs. A plaque identified each senator’s place at the table. The room was swept daily for bugs, and the walls were thick enough to foil anyone trying to hear what went on. No personal electronic devices were allowed, but there was a television at each place with a view of the Senate floor so the senators could see if they were needed for a vote. The television could also show videos of drone strikes in Afghanistan or other top-secret operations. Chairs lined the walls behind the senators, and Lucas told Brad these were for

  the senators’ aides. While Sharp was speaking, Brad noticed a man sitting at the far end of the conference table. Brad recognized him as someone he had seen on TV.

  Dr. Emil Ibanescu, the deputy director of national intelligence, was a balding, middle-aged man with a sallow complexion. He was wearing an expensive tailored suit, but his paunchy build made it look lumpy. Ibanescu’s parents had emigrated from Romania when Emil was seven. He had graduated at the top of his public high school class in Brooklyn with a perfect grade-point average. Scholarships had covered his tuition at Harvard, where he earned a PhD in record time. Ibanescu spoke many languages, most of them fluently, and had fast-tracked through the CIA. When the Office of the Director of National Intelligence was formed in 2005 to oversee and direct the National Intell
igence Program, Ibanescu was tapped to serve as a deputy director.

  “Something must be up if Emil is here,” Lucas said. Carson took his seat without comment. Brad and Lucas sat behind him with their backs to the wall, and an aide shut the door.

  “Let’s get started,” Senator Rivera said. “Dr. Ibanescu is here to brief us on a very real threat to our national security. Emil, why don’t you take the floor?”

  “Thank you, Madam Chairperson.” Ibanescu’s speech betrayed a faint hint of Eastern Europe. “In the past year, we have received information from multiple sources pointing to the strong possibility that a major terrorist operation is under way in the United States. We are facing two obstacles. First, we know the event is scheduled to take place in the near future, but we have not identified the target. Second, we are convinced that the group that is behind this plot is centered in Pakistan, but the group is not al-Qaeda or any other known terrorist group. This means that monitoring these known terror networks has not provided the information we need to foil the plot.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you’ve made much headway here,” said Senator Allen McElroy of Alabama.

  “That’s true. Because this plot is the work of a small unknown group, many of our methods of gathering intelligence have not been particularly useful. However, there is some good news. We have obtained one solid lead in the past few days. InCo, an Oregon company, may be involved in laundering money that is being used to finance part of this operation.”