by Allan Topol
Traynor paused to sip some coffee. "There was a gardener, Clyde Gillis, working in the yard in the afternoon, raking leaves. Gillis's first story was that he was never in the house. He told us that about seven last evening. Since we had fingerprints and shoe prints in the house, we took samples from Gillis."
"And?"
"We made a positive ID about midnight, including a fingerprint on Winthrop's chest and another one on his wrist. So we went back to Gillis and told him that."
That wasn't the way the FBI operated. They gathered all of the evidence in a methodical way before confronting a suspect. It was obvious to Ben that Fulton had been calling the shots.
"And?" Ben asked.
"At about four a.m. we got story number two from Gillis. He entered the house to collect a check for his work. He found Winthrop's dead body, got scared, and ran away without telling anyone what he saw."
Gillis's story sounded plausible to Ben. "Where is he now?"
"At home in southeast Washington. We asked him not to leave his house for the next six hours. He agreed. We've got two agents out in front to follow him if he runs."
"You asked him not to leave his house, and he voluntarily agreed?" Ben asked skeptically.
"Yeah, that's right," Fulton responded.
Traynor looked embarrassed. He knew that they weren't following standard FBI procedures.
Ben said, "Tell me what happened."
"We leaned on him pretty hard. We told him if he set foot out of the house or used the telephone, we would immediately arrest him."
Ben shook his head in disgust. "For which you didn't have probable cause. So you decided to place him under virtual house arrest, and I assume that when you asked him for the prints, you told him that he had a right to counsel and that he didn't have to talk to you or anyone without first consulting a lawyer."
A heavy silence hung over the room. "I decided not to," Fulton replied defiantly.
Ben was stunned. "You ever take a course in criminal procedure? You ever hear about the Fifth Amendment?"
"Don't be a wise guy," Fulton said, though he began fiddling with his college ring engraved with fraternity initials. "I want him to talk. I don't want him clamming up."
"Why didn't you hook electrodes up to his nuts?" Ben's voice was hard, showing the cold fury he felt. "That works even better."
"I'll forget you said that."
"But I'll remind you if I can't use the key evidence, and the judge throws out our case against Gillis because you deprived him of his rights." Incredulous, Ben turned to Traynor. "Jesus, Bill. You know better than that. You're a pro in this business, not like our hotshot friend here from the White House."
Traynor looked down at his hands. "The director made it clear to me at the beginning. Ed here is in charge. The order came right from Slater at the White House."
Ben shook his head. Traynor was so eager to please, he wasn't doing his job. He turned back to Fulton. "The only thing that surprises me, hotshot, is that you called for help from the U.S. Attorney's office."
Unchastened, Fulton glared at Ben. "We need a search warrant."
"I assume you're a member of the bar. Go get one."
"Judge Penn insisted that the application come from an assistant U.S. attorney."
Now Ben saw how this had all played out. "And you couldn't cow the judge by invoking the name of Jim Slater and the White House?"
Fulton didn't respond.
"What a shame," Ben added. "That's the trouble with having federal judges appointed for life. You guys in the White House can't push them around."
"If you've had your fun," Fulton replied sharply, "can we stop farting around and go get the warrant? We want to search Gillis's house and the truck that he uses to haul leaves."
"What are you looking for?" Ben directed the question to Bill Traynor.
"A gun. Money that was taken from the house. We think lots of money was taken. There might be other evidence."
"You guys really think Gillis did it?"
Traynor looked at his notepad. "He has a sick kid. He needs money for medical treatments. It certainly looks like robbery."
"Why not Nesbitt? You haven't been able to find him."
Traynor hesitated. "The time sequence fits Gillis better."
He said it in a halting voice that made Ben wonder if he really believed it. "What do you mean?"
Traynor glanced back at his notes. "According to the guards in front of the house, Nesbitt arrived at two in the afternoon and left at two-thirty. Gillis was there from eleven to four. The FBI lab puts the time of death at three-fifteen."
"How precise is that time of death?"
Traynor held out his hands. "It's an estimate. You know how they do these things. They check body temperature. It's got a margin of error."
"We had the best guy in the FBI lab look at the information," Fulton interjected. "We found him at the Kennedy Center last night and brought him to check over everything."
Ben couldn't believe this moron. "I am so impressed. And you no doubt love his answer."
"What's your trouble, mister?" Fulton said. "You got a soft spot for gardeners? Gillis did it just as sure as God made little green apples. He looks and sounds guilty, and he's changed his story."
Ben shrugged in agreement. "You're probably right. He probably is guilty. But that's not what it's all about, hotshot."
"I don't like being called that."
"I didn't think so. That's why I keep doing it," Ben said, boring in. "The point is, when we get to trial, the issue won't be whether Gillis did it or not. The issue will be whether I can put on an airtight case without getting my evidence tossed on a technicality. They taught me that at the Yale Law School, and I'll bet they even taught it to you at Harvard."
Fulton shot Ben a surly look. "Oh, fuck off."
Ben advanced on him. "Look, asshole, I'm on your side. I've got other things I'd rather be doing right now than screwing around with this case, but the only way I'm going to get back to them is by getting a conviction that sends Gillis to the electric chair, if he's guilty, which is likely. That means putting on evidence that won't get excluded. That means tying up every loose end. Now, what's the deal on Nesbitt, Bill?"
"We're still looking for him," Traynor said, again uncertainly.
Ben knew that he had found the weak link in the case against Gillis. "Look harder. I want to be able to tell the judge that we left no stone unturned."
"I've got a straight line to Director Murtaugh on this case. I'll ask him to double our search team."
Ben was pleased to hear that. If the FBI put on a full court press, he was confident that they'd find Nesbitt.
"Did you find any other prints in that part of the Winthrops' house?"
"Nothing. Other than Winthrop's."
"Who found the body?"
"Mrs. Winthrop."
"When?"
"At about four-thirty yesterday afternoon."
"What'd she do first? Call the police? Or notify the guards in front of the house?"
Bill Traynor rubbed the weariness from his eyes before responding. "Her first call was actually to a friend who brought her home from the theater. Then Mrs.Winthrop called the police. The friend got to the house about fifteen minutes before the police."
"What's the name of the friend?"
"She's a lawyer. Jennifer Moore is her name."
Startled, Ben drew back sharply. He hadn't seen Jennifer since she had walked out on him more than five years ago. There was a long silence as Traynor's words hung in the air like an awful ghost. Ben finally said, "Well, isn't that nice?" He still winced in pain when he thought about her, but he had no intention of running away from the case. It was time, he decided, to excise this dybbuk once and for all. "Get me a secretary," he barked to Traynor. "I'm ready to dictate the application for a search warrant."
* * *
Marshall Cunningham was determined to see the President as soon as he returned with the First Lady from paying a condolence call on
Ann Winthrop. He remained in telephone contact with one of the Secret Service agents in the presidential motorcade. As soon as the cars crossed K Street, Cunningham walked upstairs to the President's living quarters.
Moments later they arrived.
He had known Brewster for ten years, and he had never seen the President or the First Lady so emotionally shaken. Beverly's face was red from crying. She immediately headed off to their bedroom, without even saying hello.
The President's jaw was set in a somber expression. The lines in his craggy face were more pronounced. His usually carefully combed gray hair was mussed in the way it was when he became upset and he ran his hands through it. His eyes had a glazed look. "I never drink before the sun goes down," he said. "You know that. But I sure as hell am going to make an exception today."
"It's horrible," Cunningham responded, wanting to sound sympathetic. "Absolutely horrible. I can't tell you how badly I feel for you and Beverly."
"I appreciate your saying that. Your opinion means a lot to me. Next to Robert, you're my oldest and closest friend in the administration. I know that the two of you didn't always see eye to eye."
A veil of sadness covered Cunningham's face. "Those were policy differences. On a personal level, we always got along, and I knew how much his friendship meant to you."
Walking over to the tea wagon, the President asked, "You want one?"
The last thing Cunningham wanted now was a drink, but he didn't want to refuse the President. "Whatever you're having, Philip."
Brewster poured two fingers of Jack Daniel's into a couple of glasses and added some ice. After handing one to Cunningham, who put it down on an end table, Brewster sat on a sofa and sipped the drink slowly. "Robert and I went back so far. Christ, he was my catcher when I pitched at Exeter. He fixed me and Beverly up on our first date."
Cunningham sat impassively and let Brewster rattle on. He shared none of his leader's sentiments. As far as he was concerned, it was a miracle that Winthrop didn't die in the sack with some bimbo, setting off a major scandal that would have doomed Brewster's chances for reelection. It was a classic case of how badly things can turn out if a president appointed unqualified cronies to top-level jobs in the government. Family money and connections had been enough to get a partnership for Winthrop in a New York law firm. That was right where Brewster should have left him after being elected president—unless, of course, he wanted to name his friend to an ambassadorship in a nonsensitive country.
"What a shame," Brewster continued. "He was a good man. He had so much to offer the country and the world. I'm going to miss his counsel."
Jim Slater appeared in the doorway to the room. "I couldn't agree with you more," Slater said, "but we'll find out who did this horrible deed and bring him to justice. I promise you that, Philip."
"Have you spoken to Murtaugh?" Brewster asked.
"Several times. I'm on it myself, working with him and his best people at the FBI. We're going to catch the bastard fast and go for the death penalty."
"Robert deserves that much."
Slater nodded. "It's a real blow for all of us. How's Ann taking it?"
"Like a trooper. The funeral's in New York tomorrow. Their kids are on their way there now. Ann's flying up early this evening. Fortunately, the press left her house when I did. She should be able to get some rest."
Ignoring Cunningham, Slater continued talking as if he and Brewster were the only ones in the room. "Well, the reporters sure aren't leaving you alone. There are a shitload of them downstairs, and they want you to make a statement about the search for Robert's killer."
"What'd you tell them?"
"I didn't. I've got a tentative hold on network time tonight at eight o'clock, after the football games. My thought is that you would just make a short statement here in this room in front of the fireplace. No question-and-answers. I figure you can use Robert's death to blast the Republicans for holding up your crime bill in the Senate. You can gain some points politically by showing how we're on top of this investigation."
"You think that's smart?" Cunningham said. "Using Robert's death for political purposes?"
Slater glared at him. "That's not the point. People are worried about crime. If this could happen to the secretary of state, then they're not safe in their own homes. They've got to be reassured."
"What do I tell them?" the President asked.
Slater reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "I've got two people working on a draft right now. Let me read you a paragraph I wrote for them to include."
Brewster nodded, and Slater began reading. " 'I want to assure each and every American that no effort will be spared to find the perpetrators of this heinous crime and to bring them to justice. It is but one more example of why the Congress should promptly enact the administration's crime bill, S.83. Violent crime is a plague gripping America. A cancer in the heart of our great country. We must strike back, declaring war on crime in a way that will finally eradicate it from our midst. What yesterday's tragic events demonstrate is that unfortunately no American citizen is safe in his own home—regardless of where he lives and even if he's the secretary of state. We must stop talking and act to ensure the most basic of all protections to all of the American people.' "
"That's not bad. When will you have the draft?"
"In about an hour. We'll describe how extensive the FBI search is. We'll tell them that we already have a number of leads, and we may even have an arrest within twenty-four hours."
Cunningham pulled back in surprise. "Is that true?"
"Absolutely. I've got a kid on my staff, Ed Fulton, working with one of the top guys in the FBI, who's reporting directly to Murtaugh. Fulton just called and told me it was a simple robbery gone wrong. An inside job. Not terrorists and not hardened criminals."
"Who was it?" Cunningham asked, pressing for more information.
"The gardener at the Winthrops' house. They're moving fast to build an airtight case and make an arrest."
"That would be good news," Brewster said.
"Very good."
Cunningham eyed Slater with hostility. "What's Ches say about the idea of the television statement?"
Slater was annoyed. Dealing with Winthrop's murder wasn't the purview of the secretary of defense. Cunningham was using his friendship with the President to gain a foothold on Slater's turf. "I haven't called yet. I figured we'd call him now."
The President glanced at his watch, then picked up the phone and told his secretary, "Get me Attorney General Hawthorne. Try the Okura Hotel in Tokyo."
A few minutes later, Ches Hawthorne was on the speakerphone. "Jim wants me to go on TV tonight to talk about Robert's death," Brewster said. "What do you think, Ches?"
It was the middle of the night in Tokyo. The call had awakened Hawthorne, who had had too much sake at dinner, out of a sound sleep. "What would you say?"
Slater repeated his summary of the proposed television address. There was a long silence while Hawthorne tried to think it through. "It's probably a good idea," he finally said, "How soon can I see a copy of the statement?"
"I'll fax it to you within the hour."
"I think I should come home tomorrow," Hawthorne said, "and personally take charge of the Winthrop investigation."
Slater decided he'd better jump in fast. He didn't want Hawthorne getting a lot of publicity and looking like a hero when there was an early arrest. "That's a terrible idea," he replied. "You're attending an international conference devoted to crime control and law enforcement. We'll look like idiots if you have to rush home because of a murder. Besides, Murtaugh has his top people involved. No offense, Ches, but what would you add being here that you can't contribute by phone and e-mail?"
"There may be legal decisions to be made."
Cunningham was amused by the infighting between Slater and Hawthorne. Pleased that the gardener's arrest was imminent, Cunningham didn't care who took credit for it.
"I got Al Hennessey to
give us the best man in his office," Slater said.
"What do you think, Philip?" Hawthorne asked the President.
"It's your call, Ches, but I think Jim makes some good points."
"All right, I'm convinced. I'll have Sarah Van Buren, the head of the criminal division at Justice, keep me informed."
When they hung up the phone, Cunningham thought about telling the President about his meeting with the Chinese ambassador that morning, but decided against it. In Brewster's emotional state, his knee-jerk reaction would be to blow up at the Chinese and take some action against them. Maybe even increase Winthrop's proposed arms package for Taiwan. It would be a poor decision, because Cunningham was convinced that, if pushed, Beijing would attack Taiwan. No, he had to gamble that Winthrop hadn't told Brewster about the meeting at Winthrop's house on November first and the London video.
* * *
Free! Free at last! Ann thought as she leaned back in the warm bubble bath. Finally, the frenzied activity of the last twenty-four hours was over, and the house was empty. They all meant well, so genuine in their concern for the grieving widow. God, if they only knew how she felt.
And what about Matt and Gerry? How did they feel about their father's death? Neither of the children had been close with Robert. When they were young, she had tried to be both mother and father—making up for Robert's indifference that frequently descended into unreasonable commands and destructive criticism. The petty tyrant making arbitrary demands on his subjects. Of course, it was inevitable that neither of them would measure up to his standards, and so Matt had a job as the editor of a small literary magazine in San Francisco, about as far as he could go physically and spiritually to escape from his father without leaving the continental United States. And Gerry had set aside her Ph.D. in history to teach fourth grade in an inner-city school. Both drifted away, coming home as little as possible because of Robert, while blaming her for not giving them more support in battles with their father. It left her with a gaping hole that she had tried to fill with Jenny, her surrogate daughter, whose own mother had hit the road and left Jenny with her father when she was only four.