Capitol murder

by Philip Margolin

  “Brad Miller.”

  “Thanks for taking my call, Mr. Miller. I’m Millie Reston, a lawyer in Portland, and I’m representing Clarence Little. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I won Mr. Little’s postconviction cases. His convictions in the Benford and Poole cases have been set aside.”

  “I assumed Clarence would get someone to attack the rest of his convictions once it was established that the jurors who convicted in Benford and Poole could have been influenced by evidence concerning a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “That’s what the judge held. You made my job easy by proving Mr. Little didn’t kill Laurie Erickson.”

  “You know it was another lawyer who won the appeal in the Ninth Circuit.”

  “I know you weren’t the attorney of record when Little’s conviction in the Erickson case was thrown out,” Millie said. “But everyone knows that it was you and Dana Cutler who provided the real basis for the reversal.”

  “That’s ancient history. When I moved to Washington, D.C., to clerk at the Court, I lost track of what was happening in Oregon. I haven’t been involved in the case for some time, so why have you called me?”

  “I’ve been prepping for Mr. Little’s trials, and I had a question about something that happened while you were representing him.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s about the jar with the pinkies and the two bodies you found. I’m confused about how you found them.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

  “All I want to know is who told you where to find the jar and the bodies.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Reston. I can’t help you.”

  “Does that mean you’re protecting a confidence of Mr. Little’s?”

  “I can’t comment on that,” he said.

  “We both represent Mr. Little, so you won’t be violating a confidence if you answer my question.”

  “Look, Miss Reston, I can’t even be sure you are who you claim to be. You could be a reporter looking for a story and pretending to be Mr. Little’s lawyer. But even if you are who you say you are, I can’t help you. I don’t even know why you’re asking me about this. Clarence is your client. Ask him.”

  There was dead air for a moment, and Millie thought Brad was going to hang up. Instead, he asked her a question.

  “When were you appointed to handle Clarence’s postconviction cases?”

  “Shortly after the Ninth Circuit reversed in the Erickson case.”

  “That was a month or two before the presidential election, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just received a letter in the mail from your client. It’s similar to a letter from Mr. Little that was hand-delivered to me on the evening of the presidential election. Did you have anything to do with those letters?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Millie answered a little too quickly.

  “Do you know who helped him send them to me? They weren’t mailed from the penitentiary.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry I bothered you,” Millie said, ending the conversation abruptly. She hadn’t expected Brad to ask her about the letters, and she was scared to death that he would talk to someone at the prison about them. She was sorry she’d called Brad. She might have put herself in harm’s way if he followed up. Even worse, although he had not come out and said it, Miller certainly acted like a man protecting a client’s confidences.

  Millie went back to the files after she hung up on Brad Miller, but she had trouble concentrating, because she could not help thinking about their conversation. Miller was no longer involved with Clarence’s case. Why would he refuse to answer her question? The only reasonable explanation was that Clarence had revealed the locations as part of a confidential communication, which the law forbade Brad to reveal.

  That evening, Millie tossed and turned for almost an hour after getting into bed and slept in fits and starts. She was exhausted when she woke up, and had no appetite. She dreaded confronting Clarence about the pinkies, but she had to know if everything she believed she and Clarence had together was built on a lie. She had to know if Clarence was the person who had revealed the location of the two murder victims and the jar full of horrific souvenirs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first time Millie met Clarence Little at the state penitentiary, she had been afraid. But fear had given way to trust and trust to love. Now, once again, seated at the table in the contact visiting room, Millie’s stomach was in a knot, her throat was dry, and she dreaded meeting Clarence. Then the door opened and he walked in with a wide smile on his face. He looked so happy to see her that she could not help returning his smile. As he walked toward her, Millie’s doubts were nudged aside by the joy she felt whenever they were together. Suddenly her suspicions seemed foolish. How could someone who made her feel this way be a sadistic torturer?

  “This is an unexpected surprise,” Clarence said as soon as the door closed behind the guard.

  Millie remembered why she was visiting Clarence and her smile disappeared.

  “What’s wrong?” Clarence asked.

  They’d come to know each other so well, Millie thought. He could read the slightest shift in her mood. Isn’t that what people in love were able to do? Didn’t they become one person, one soul?

  “I… I was going through the transcripts and the police reports to prepare for trial and, well, something is bothering me.”

  Clarence reached across the table and took her hands in his. As always, his touch was electric and disorienting.

  “Tell me. Let me help you,” he said.

  “It’s the pinkies, the ones in the jar, and the bodies in the forest.”

  “What about them?” Clarence asked.

  “How did Brad Miller know where to find them? Who told him where they were?”

  Clarence didn’t flinch. He looked totally at ease. “Have you asked him?”

  “I did but he wouldn’t discuss it.”

  Clarence frowned. “That’s strange. And there’s nothing in the case file that explains how that evidence was found?”

  “No.”

  Clarence shook his head. He looked puzzled. “Brad isn’t involved with the murders of those poor girls anymore. If he knew, what reason would he have to keep that information from you?’

  Millie felt sick. Her voice broke a little when she spoke. “He might not tell me if the information was given to him by a client.”

  Clarence’s brow creased and he seemed confused for a moment. Then his eyes widened.

  “You think that I told him? How would I know? I had nothing to do with those girls.”

  Millie felt awful. She had broken the trust that bound Clarence to her. Clarence looked up and locked eyes with Millie’s.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said, his voice shaking. “I thought you loved me.”

  “I do,” Millie pleaded, desperate to heal the breach her ridiculous suspicions had created.

  Clarence took a deep breath. “You see what they’ve done?”

  “Who?”

  “The people who framed me. The prosecutors and detectives. These were horrible crimes. If the police can’t solve them legally, they have to find a scapegoat. And I’m it. Why else would they prosecute me after it became clear beyond any doubt that I was framed for Erickson’s murder? If I’m not convicted, they’ll all look bad.”

  Millie reached across the table and covered Clarence’s hands with hers. She squeezed them. Her suspicions were forgotten.

  “They won’t convict you. I promise.”

  Clarence took Millie’s hands in his and returned the pressure. “I know you mean well-and you’re one hell of a lawyer-but they’ve stacked the deck against us. They’ve even made you suspect me, and you love me. What do you think they’ll do to the jurors? Those people don’t know me the way you do. They’ll want someone to pay, and I’ll be the only one in the room they can blame. If we go to trial, I’m doomed.”

  “Don’t give up hope!”
>
  “I hadn’t until now.” Clarence looked so sad. “Admit it, Millie. You’ve had doubts, haven’t you? You really thought I was capable of

  … of doing… things to those girls.”

  Clarence swallowed. He looked sick. Guilt overwhelmed Millie.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, on the verge of tears.

  “It’s what they do to you, and it’s the reason I’ll never get a fair trial.”

  Millie didn’t know what to say. Clarence was quiet for a moment. He appeared to be deep in thought.

  “There is a way,” he said finally.

  “What way?”

  He opened his mouth. Then closed it and shook his head. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do it.”

  “Do what, Clarence? I’d do anything for you.”

  “I can’t put you at risk. If it works, we’ll be together. But if it doesn’t…”

  “Tell me.”

  Clarence leaned across the table and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “I’ve told you before that I have money stashed away, lots of money, enough for us to live on for the rest of our lives.”

  She nodded. It was one of the many confidences he’d bestowed on her.

  “Millie, there are countries that don’t have extradition treaties with the United States. If we got to one of those countries, we could get married and live together in peace.”

  “But how would we…?” Millie started. Then she got it. “Oh, I couldn’t…”

  “It’s the only way, and I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. I’m certain we can pull it off.”

  “But we’d be fugitives. We’d never be able to come home.”

  “We’d be together, Millie. That’s all that matters to me. Ask yourself what kind of a life you have now. Mine is horrible. It’s day after mind-numbing day in a tiny cell, never seeing the sun, grateful for any change in my routine, even a court appearance. I had nothing until I met you. You’ve given me hope. Without you I would have gone insane. I’d do anything-take any risk-to be with you.”

  Millie let go of Clarence’s hands. She sat back. “I’ve got to think.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I know this is a lot to spring on you. But listening to the doubt in your voice… It tore me up, Millie. To think you might have lost faith in me… It made me realize how hopeless my case is if we’re depending on a fair result at my trial.”

  Millie stood up and rang for the guard.

  “Are you okay?” Clarence asked.

  “I’m confused, Clarence, and I’m scared.”

  “I’m sorry. Forget what I said. We’ll take our chances in court.”

  She turned her back so she wouldn’t have to face him.

  “I’ll think about what you said,” she told him just as the guard appeared.

  “Okay. And, Millie, no matter what you decide, I love you.”

  M illie wandered back to her office building in a daze. When she got upstairs, she closed the door to her office and tried to distract herself by working on another case, but she couldn’t concentrate. If she did what Clarence asked her, life as she knew it would be over-but she and Clarence would be together.

  “What do I have now?” she asked herself. Until she met Clarence, her life had been dull gray. When she was with Clarence, everything was highlighted in bright colors. True, she was starting to make money and a name for herself, but that could end. One highly publicized loss, and she could be back where she started, a nobody. And even with her professional success, she was still who she was, colorless, boring, and drab. She only felt like a woman when she was with Clarence. He made her feel alive. Could she give up everything for him? If she did what he asked, she would be a fugitive; she would be trapped in the country to which they fled, never able to leave for fear of arrest.

  But she would be with Clarence; they would be bound to each other.

  Millie tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up every morning in bed with Clarence, sated by a night of lovemaking, warmed by the heat of his body. That life would be so much better than what she had now.

  Millie told her secretary that she had a headache, and she left for her apartment. When she was inside, she kept the lights off and sat on her sofa. She looked around. Her apartment was as much a prison as Clarence’s cell. What would she be giving up if she left it and went on the run with Clarence? She would live in fear, but fear was an emotion, love was an emotion. Before she met Clarence, her life had been a wasteland, bare of all emotions except depression. This was her chance, maybe the only chance she would ever have, to experience life. But did she have the courage to take it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  A week before the NFL exhibition season started, Steve drove the members of the cell to FedEx Field, where the Washington Redskins play. Ali Bashar thought the stadium looked like a massive, elongated pottery bowl whose size was accentuated by the empty asphalt parking lots surrounding it. On a game day, bumper-to-bumper traffic would move at a snail’s pace down the street leading to those lots, while exuberant fans surged toward the entrances. But there had been no game that day, and FedEx Field was eerily quiet.

  Ali had been told to report to Jose Gutierrez, who ran a concession stand for the company that leased it from the Redskins. Gutierrez told Ali what he would have to do and when he would have to show up. Then he’d brought him to the security office, where his picture was taken, an ID card was issued, and his fingerprints were scanned into a computer.

  Weeks later, two hours before kickoff, on the morning of the second exhibition game, Steve dropped off Ali and the others in the employee parking lot across the street from the stadium. A bus drove the employees to Gate D, where a security guard compared Ali’s features to the face on his ID card before Ali placed his finger on a scanner that matched his prints to the ones on record. A wave of sound hit Ali when he got off the bus, and the din was worse when he was inside the stadium. Rock music blared at a level high enough to cause deafness but was almost drowned out by the noise caused by ninety thousand fans yelling to be heard over the cacophony of sound. All of this noise bounced off the stark gray concrete walls and floor of the concourse that circled the stands. Bordering the concourse were concessions selling hot dogs, bratwurst, hot chocolate, hot pretzels, and cold beer.

  Ali went to the vendors’ room, which was next to the entry gate. He was wearing his own clothes, but he picked up a shirt provided by the concession. It resembled a referee’s shirt but had stripes in the Redskins’ burgundy and gold colors. The vendor’s room was a big concrete square filled with refrigerators stocked with cold beer and soft drinks and machines that were constantly cooking hot dogs. Mr. Cooper, the owner of the concession, had brought in the hawkers’ trays the day before, and Ali stocked his with Coke-filled cups. When he sold all of the cups, he would return for more after handing in the money he had collected.

  H alfway through the fourth quarter, the Redskins took the lead over the Indianapolis Colts, and the stands at FedEx Field erupted. As the teams prepared for the kickoff, Ali sold the final soft drinks in his hawker’s tray to a father and son wearing Redskins jerseys. When the sale was complete, Ali headed for the concession stand to cash out.

  Vendors stood in a long, narrow space behind the bar where the customers shuffled up to place their orders. Behind the vendors were soft-drink machines, toasters that kept the pretzels hot, and rotating ovens that constantly grilled the meat. As soon as he got to the stand, one of the female vendors smiled at him, and Ali found he was smiling too. Women had always been a sore subject with him. He was a virgin who believed subconsciously that any attempt to have a girlfriend would only result in rejection and disappointment.

  “Hi, Ali, how did it go today?” Ann O’Hearn asked cheerfully.

  “Good,” he said as he lifted the empty tray over his neck and set it on the concrete floor.

  Ann was the personification of everyone Ali Bashar had been trained to hate. In the remote mountain village where he had been raised, the t
eachers in his all-male madrassas had drummed into him that his only concerns in this life were the Koran, Sharia law, and the glorification of jihad. O’Hearn was a blond, blue-eyed female, she was a Catholic and therefore an infidel, and she was not deferential to men. Yet try as he might, he could not hate her. He actually liked her.

  “You must be happy,” Ali said.

  “You mean because the Redskins won?”

  “Of course.”

  O’Hearn laughed and it sounded to Ali like bells pealing.

  “I couldn’t care less about football. I work here to pay my tuition. I’m into soccer.”

  “You are?” Ali had answered, surprised that an American girl would be interested in a game most Americans found boring.

  “Sure. I’ve been playing soccer since I was a kid. I’m on my college team now.”

  “I too play soccer, but we call it football in my country.”

  “I know that. What position?”

  “Goalie,” Ali answered.

  “Whoa. You’ll never catch me in goal. That’s the toughest position on the field.”

  Ali blushed and shrugged. “I enjoy playing in the goal.” He did not tell her that none of the other children in the village wanted to play that position. On the rare occasions he was included in the village games, goalie was the only position he was given.

  “I don’t know how you stand the pressure. And you’re always the goat if your team loses.”

  One of Ali’s jobs was to help clean up after the game. He and Ann continued to talk about soccer until their work was done and the crowd had cleared out. Ali rode the bus to the employee lot with Ann. When they got to the lot, Ann smiled and said, “See you at the next game.”

  Ali smiled too, and it was not a duplicitous smile aimed at creating a false confidence in someone he wished to betray. To his surprise, it was a genuine smile of friendship. Then Ali remembered that Ann had said she’d see him at the next game. As soon as her back was to him, Ali stopped smiling. He did like Ann O’Hearn, and that made him sad, because she would die a horrible death if his mission succeeded, and his mission would succeed because it was blessed by Allah.