by Allan Topol
None of the reporters paid any attention to the tall, broad-shouldered black woman sitting in the front row, dressed in a navy blue suit that she wore to church on Sundays. Standing up, Lucinda Gillis suddenly felt light-headed. Instinctively, she reached her hand out to her daughters Naomi and Ruth, but to no avail. She fainted dead away. Mercifully, her head landed on the bench rather than the hard stone floor.
As soon as she collapsed, Jennifer raced over. She told Ruth to go to the ladies' room and get paper towels dipped in cold water. Jennifer brought Lucinda around quickly, and then led her out of the courtroom accompanied by her four children. Tears were streaming down all of their faces. As Jennifer helped them into a cab and paid the driver, she said to Lucinda, "Don't worry. I'm going to get Clyde out of this."
"It's a crime," Lucinda said. "They've got the wrong man."
* * *
Lucinda was home ten minutes when the telephone rang. "It's for you, Mama," Ruth said. "Some woman."
"I don't want to talk to anyone."
"I told her that. She said she has to talk to you. It's important, and it's about Daddy."
With an effort, Lucinda dragged herself from the bed, where she had been trying to rest. All she could do was think about Clyde. He didn't kill anybody. This was all some white man's doing; she was sure of it. But Clyde would get the white man's justice. And what about her and the kids? How would they ever manage without him? She would never go on welfare. She was too proud for that.
She staggered to the telephone.
"I think I can help you," the woman said.
Lucinda was immediately wary. Was this a trick, or a joke? "Who are you?"
"We have to talk in person."
Lucinda wasn't budging. "Don't fool with me."
"I'm not fooling with you, I promise."
"How can you help me?"
"The people I work for know that Clyde didn't kill Winthrop. That he was framed with phony evidence. He's being used to take the fall for some powerful people."
That made sense to Lucinda. "But what can you do about it?"
"There's a way to fix it so it goes easy on Clyde and your family's taken care of."
Clyde had looked so dreadful in court that Lucinda was willing to at least listen. "Yeah, how are you going to do that?" she asked.
"I can't tell you over the phone. Take the red line Metro to the Van Ness station. Then take the exit for the west side of Connecticut Avenue. Ride the escalator to the top. I'll be waiting for you there. And you must come by yourself, or I won't stick around."
Lucinda was torn. She had learned long ago, when men tried to lure her into a car with promises of money, that gifts didn't fall out of the sky. But if powerful people were really involved, she couldn't pass up any chances. Clyde had worked for the secretary of state, after all. "How will I know you?" Lucinda asked.
"You won't," Gwen said, "but I'll know you."
* * *
Believing that she was safe after the video had been turned over, Ann had asked Brewster to remove the guards from the front of her house a day after Robert's funeral. Now, as she opened the front door with a bag of groceries in one hand and stepped inside, she was sorry. Right away she detected the scent of a man's cheap cologne, the same odor that she had smelled on Sunday when the intruder was in the house. She turned to bolt, but he had been waiting for her behind the door. Moving fast, he grabbed her around the waist, pulled her back inside the house, and kicked the door shut. When she struggled, he pulled a heavy rope from his pocket and looped it around her body, pressing her arms against her sides. Like a sack of potatoes, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming, as he carried her upstairs. Her screams didn't bother him. The house was sufficiently isolated so no one could hear her.
Once they reached the master bedroom, he flung her down on a chair in a sitting position. Then he tied her ankles together, sat down on the bed, and removed a gun from his pocket.
There was terror in her eyes. "What do you want?" she asked.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"If you want money or jewelry, you can have them."
He laughed harshly. "You can't buy your way out of this."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want all of the other copies you made of the video."
"There are none. You got the only one."
He sneered. "You take us for fools."
She wondered who "us" was but didn't ask. Her situation was already dire enough. She couldn't risk saying anything to persuade him that she knew so much that he should kill her, regardless of whether he got the video. "No, I don't. I never made a copy."
He was idly examining his gun. "Are you ready to tell me the truth?"
"I did tell you the truth."
"I'm going to take a little target practice," he said, enjoying himself. "First your right kneecap. Then the left one. After what you did to my face, I won't mind if I miss on the first couple of shots. Eventually, I'll hit the target."
Ann was more scared than she had ever been in her life. The fear was threatening to shut down her mind. She had to think.
He took a silencer out of his pocket and attached it to the gun, which he pointed at her. Then he pulled his finger away from the gun. He made a motion as if he were pulling the trigger. "Pow. Pow. Last chance."
Ann's brain began working. She had to find a way out of this mess. He'd never have to know Jennifer had a copy of the video.
"Okay, you'll get what you want," she said, sounding reluctant. "There is one other copy, in a bank vault downtown."
He nodded. "That's a start."
"What do you mean, a start?"
"I want all the copies."
Okay, Ann, she told herself. You're in the theater. Be convincing. "That's the only one."
"You're lying."
Her strength and determination were overcoming her fear. "Think about it," she said. "Why would I possibly make more than one copy? It doesn't make sense. I made an insurance copy. I didn't make two insurance copies." When his face didn't show any reaction, she added, "Search the house if you want to."
He nodded, considering her words. To satisfy himself, he got up and went through a couple of her dresser drawers. When he didn't find anything, he said, "All right. You're going to that bank vault now to get me the video."
"Whatever you want."
They drove in his maroon Camry. Repeatedly, he warned her that the loaded gun was in his pocket and he would kill her if she did anything suspicious to get help. She cowered against the door of the car.
They parked in front of the bank on Pennsylvania Avenue. Inside, he walked with her to the vault area and then to a small room, where she extracted the video from the metal box and handed it to him.
She wanted him to leave her in front of the bank, but he insisted on her getting back into the car.
"Please," she said, "you've gotten what you wanted. Leave me alone."
"Get in the car, or I'll kill you."
She spotted a policeman about fifty yards away. For an instant she considered screaming. Then better judgment prevailed. No point to that, she decided. He'd shoot her and then escape.
When he drove into Rock Creek Park, she became frightened again. What did he plan to do with her now? Rape her? Then kill her? She shuddered, imagining the possibilities.
He stopped in a deserted picnic grove. "Give me your purse," he said.
After she complied, he searched inside. Once he found her cell phone, he shoved that into his jacket pocket and returned the purse.
"Get out," he said. He'd be well out of sight by the time she found a car to stop. He wasn't worried about her seeing the license plates of the maroon Camry. It had been stolen in Ohio. The plates were phonies. As a precaution, he'd abandon the car in a deserted area of rural Virginia, where nobody would notice it.
Watching him pull away, Ann breathed a large sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, just as it was starting to rain, she flagged do
wn a cab with a passenger who was willing to help her out when she said she had had a fight with her boyfriend, who had driven off, leaving her in the park.
All the way back, she couldn't stop trembling. She had to call Jennifer as soon as she got home.
Chapter 18
Ben's secretary handed him a white envelope with his name scrawled on the front. "Somebody slid this under the door," she said, puzzled.
Ben tore open the envelope. As he began reading the barely legible handwriting, a stunned look formed on his face.
Dear Mr. Hartwell:
I confess to the murder of Robert Winthrop. I killed him just like you said, to get the money. I brought a gun with me on Saturday. I knew where Mr. Winthrop kept money in his house. He surprised me when I was taking the money. So I shot him. I am sorry I did this bad thing. Please tell the judge that I want to change my plea to guilty.
It was signed, Clyde Gillis.
Ben read the letter again. Then, deep in thought, he let it drop to his desk. He should be jumping up and down for joy. The case he had never wanted was over. He had another notch in his prosecutor's belt, as Jenny had put it to him on Sunday night. He could go back to the Young investigation full-time. He'd be able to take Amy to Aspen for Christmas. So why wasn't he happy?
Because Clyde Gillis's confession didn't make sense. In all of Ben's experience as a prosecutor, no defendant had confessed right after entering a not-guilty plea. And no defendant represented by counsel had confessed without first making a deal on sentencing. It was obvious that Gillis hadn't consulted Jennifer. Ben was certain that she had no idea about the confession. Christ, he could take this confession and go for the death penalty. If Jenny was right that he had no soul, and he was anxious to get even with her, that was what he would do.
Ben picked up the phone and called Ed Fulton's office.
"He's up on the Hill with Senator Wallingford on the tax bill," Fulton's secretary said. "He asked me not to disturb him unless it was an emergency."
"Have him call me when he gets back," Ben said, happy that he could have some additional time to mull over the confession before talking to Fulton, who no doubt would want Ben to race back in to Judge Hogan this afternoon.
Ben reached for the phone to call Jennifer. Then he hesitated, thinking over what had happened. Why had Gillis decided suddenly to confess? Was he guilty, and he decided he could get a lesser sentence? Was he trying to clear his conscience? Neither of those fit the man he had interviewed Sunday night.
Then what? Had someone coerced him into confessing? Who? Why? Or paid him off? Jenny had said a foreign government was involved. Were they behind all of this?
He picked up the phone and called the jail. "Check today's visitors log," he said to the clerk on duty, "for Clyde Gillis."
After several minutes Ben heard, "Only visitor today was his wife, Lucinda, at one-ten this afternoon. Left at one-forty."
Ben immediately dialed Jennifer.
"You'd better sit down," he said to her, "and hold on tightly to the arms of your chair. I want to read you something that just arrived in my office."
She didn't say a word while Ben read. She waited for him to say, "Give me your fax number and I'll shoot over a copy." Then she exploded.
"Okay, Ben," she cried, "what did you guys do to get him to write that document?"
Ben was so indignant that he could barely speak. "I... I... I had nothing to do with it. I don't know that anybody did anything to your client."
"C'mon, Ben," she said with a snarl. "I wasn't suggesting that you were personally involved, but somebody did something to my client. You know that."
Ben figured she was right. Still he didn't respond. This confession was so unexpected.
"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.
"I don't have any choice, Jenny. I have to take it to Judge Hogan tomorrow morning and ask her to call the defendant back in for another hearing. Then I'll present his confession to the court. If it smells fishy, she'll bear down hard on him with her own interrogation."
Jennifer was still outraged. "I'll be egging her on."
"I figured as much."
"I'll say someone drugged my client. He wouldn't even talk to me."
Suddenly, Ben realized that the hearing before Judge Hogan could be the way to stop the government's railroading of Clyde Gillis. If the gardener didn't kill Winthrop, then whoever was responsible for the secretary of state's death might have made a serious error by obtaining this confession. "Look," Ben said, "suppose I offer to cut you a deal. The same deal you could have had before the confession."
Without hesitating, Jennifer responded, "No deal. My client didn't do it. I read the transcript of the tape of your interview with him, or at least the part of it you gave me. It confirms for me that Clyde's innocent. If you go before the judge tomorrow, you'd better bring the tape of that interview, because I want the judge to hear it. She'll know something funny's going on. Lucille may be the judge from hell for guilty defendants, but she also has a deep sense of fairness for innocent ones. She'll do her job conscientiously. You know that damn well. Personally, I think you guys screwed yourselves when you rigged the system to get her."
Ben had to agree with her on Judge Hogan. Hennessey hadn't consulted him before he made that call. He didn't know the judges nearly as well as Ben because he hardly tried cases anymore himself. He relied on the rumor mill. He wasn't down in the pits with the rubber and the grease.
Ben returned to the transcript of his Sunday interview with Gillis. "Plenty of guilty people have claimed they were innocent in an initial interrogation. That doesn't prove a thing."
"I have other evidence to prove somebody else killed Winthrop. Solid evidence, not conjecture."
Here it was again, this evidence she had. "Please, Jenny, share it with me."
"You'll hear about it in court if you're foolish enough to march to Judge Hogan with that confession."
"C'mon, I don't have any choice."
At last her voice lowered a few decibels. She knew there was no way Ben would ever coerce a phony confession. "My advice is that you sleep on it overnight. Let me know first thing in the morning if you still want to put your head in Lucille Hogan's noose. I'll do my best to help you."
Ben put the phone down and stared at the dirty window in his office for several minutes, idly watching a pigeon contributing to the debris on the ledge. What kind of evidence could Jenny possibly have? She had to be bluffing, stalling for time. Or maybe she wasn't. This case was starting to smell like fish that had been left out all week.
He walked into the outer office, made a copy of the confession, and handed one to his secretary. "It goes to Jennifer Moore at Blank and Foster by fax."
Ben turned around and had started back into his own office when he heard a man calling him from the corridor, through the open door. "Ben, I have to talk to you."
Immediately, he recognized Art Campbell's voice. Ben wheeled around and approached his visitor. "How are you, pal?"
"Pretty good for an old man with six grandchildren," Campbell replied, and then laughed.
Prosecutors and detectives often developed a bond from working together over the years, as the prosecutors depended upon the detectives for their testimony that was so critical at trial. But for Ben, his relationship with Campbell went deeper. The experienced detective was someone Ben had learned to trust. He was not only professional, but totally honest. Unlike many of his colleagues, he would never fudge the evidence to help get a conviction, even if he was convinced the defendant was guilty. And they had hit it off personally. For years they had lunch every couple of months. They went to a Wizards game together at least twice a year. Campbell, who had once played for Georgetown, would show Ben some of the fine points of the game. In June, Ben had attended the wedding of Campbell's youngest daughter.
Ben grabbed two cans of Coke from the small refrigerator in his outer office and tossed one to Campbell, who snatched it on the fly in his large right hand.
>
"It's about the Gillis case," Campbell said as he moved a pile of papers from a chair to the floor in Ben's messy office, popped open the can, and sat down.
"Yeah, I saw you in the courtroom today. I wondered why."
Campbell looked at Ben, puzzled. "You don't know?"
"Know what?"
"I was at the crime scene with my people before the FBI arrived."
Ben had raised his can to take a sip. He put it down with a thud, spilling some soda through the top. "I had no idea."
Campbell shook his head. "My fault. I should have figured they'd do it that way and gotten over here myself. I knew what those guys were like."
"Which guys?"
"Ed Fulton and Bill Traynor."
"Oh, them." Ben leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. "You want to start from the beginning?"
"Saturday, I was the first detective at the murder scene. Just starting my investigation when those two jerks showed up. Said they were running the show. Fulton treated me like I was a piece of dog shit. So I split and took my people with me."
Ben shook his head in disgust. That kid had messed up the case from the very start.
"After Saturday, I was so damn mad," Campbell continued, "that I didn't want to have anything else to do with the case. When I heard about the evidence they found in Clyde Gillis's truck, I figured he was guilty. I didn't think any more about it. Then your old girlfriend came to see me."
Ben bolted upright in his chair. "Jenny? What'd she want?"
"She said she was convinced Clyde Gillis didn't do it. She persuaded me to go back to Winthrop's house to check for additional evidence."
Ben was stunned. "You should have told me. I'm your friend. It was my case."
"With all the heat coming from the White House," Campbell said, looking apologetic, "I figured I'd be doing you a favor not telling you. If I didn't find anything, lots of useless shouting would be avoided. And if I did find something, I told her that I would take it to you as well as to her."
Ben held his breath. "And did you find anything?"
"A blond woman's hair on the blue carpet in the room where Winthrop was killed."