“Do you know how often the senator and Foster dated?”
“I have no idea, but …”
“What?”
“Well … Foster’s married.”
“I see. Do you have any other information for me, Mr. Grant?”
“No, Detective, I don’t think so. I feel really bad that you’ve forced me to talk to you about this stuff. I hope it helps you. But I hope it doesn’t harm the senator’s reputation. Or even Foster’s, for that matter. I don’t have any respect for Foster. But his wife also has a reputation.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think anything you’ve told me today is going to harm the senator’s reputation. And I’ll try to keep you out of this as well. To keep you from having to talk about this again. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try. Thank you for your cooperation.” Lotello turned off the tape recorder and put it in his pocket.
“We’re done for now, Mr. Grant. I really do appreciate your help.”
“You didn’t make any friends today, Detective. I’ve driven a lot of important people in this town. What happens in my car, and what I hear in my car, has always stayed there. This makes me feel like I can’t be trusted. But, hey, I guess you’re just doing your job. Bully for you. I hope you can live with yourself.” Grant turned and walked away.
Lotello knew he had a job to do. And people to protect. Innocent people. Certainly more innocent than Wells and Foster. Somehow that was of little comfort to him right now. It didn’t soften the sting of Grant’s remarks. Or the fact that this was not one of his prouder moments. I know, Beth. You don’t have to tell me.
CHAPTER 86
Monday, August 3, 12:45 p.m.
AP Online News
Rachel Santana
NORMAN TRIAL FINALLY UNDERWAY SURPRISES CONTINUE TO MOUNT
AFTER A SURPRISING—AND still unexplained—one-week delay, the murder and rape trial of Cliff Norman is finally now getting underway, but not without at least one more stunning development this morning.
In what legal experts unanimously agree was an unprecedented and surprising decision in the course of deciding a number of pretrial motions, Judge Cyrus Brooks ruled that Norman would be permitted to present a defense of justifiable homicide. The announcement was met with such an outburst in the courtroom that Brooks threatened to clear the gallery for the remainder of the trial. While such a threat is constitutionally hollow, Brooks was visibly annoyed by the on-site reaction to his ruling.
According to legal experts interviewed by this reporter, the defense of justifiable homicide is generally reserved to circumstances where an accused is protecting himself or his family from an immediate physical threat; for example, when a property owner kills a burglar caught breaking into his home and threatening the property owner’s immediate family with a brandished weapon.
Norman’s attorney, Leah Klein, presented the argument that such a defense should be legally available to Norman on the grounds he was striking down political officials posing similar threats to the public at large by dereliction of duty—if not outright graft—in not policing conduct on the part of Wall Street that caused the current economic downturn across the country. Klein argued, by analogy, that Norman should be permitted to extend the argument to grave financial threat as a result of violation of public trust, and to the ‘family-of-man’ public at large.
At the earlier final status conference in the case, Brooks showed no interest in expanding the doctrine. This writer cannot help but wonder if his reversal of position is somehow related to the as yet unexplained one-week delay in getting the trial underway.
Political leaders across the board either declined comment or were highly critical of the Brooks ruling. Of course, there’s no surprise in that. Brooks’s ruling declares open season on all of our political leaders, who are now likely to be as much on trial as Norman.
A White House spokesperson refused to comment. “It would be inappropriate for the White House to comment on any matter currently in the courts.”
House Speaker Nancy Jamison was more outspoken. “Judge Brooks’s ruling is an affront to every one of our dedicated, hardworking public servants. It just goes to show what is happening in our judicial system these days.”
When the news of Brooks’s ruling was announced over speakers to the assembled and growing crowd maintaining a daily watch in front of the courthouse for almost a week now, the reaction was quite the opposite to that of the country’s shaken political leaders. The instant and raucous cheers were heard for blocks in all directions: “Shoot them all!”
It remains to be seen how far Brooks intends to allow the doctrine of justifiable homicide to be exploited in this case, but fasten your seat belts—this case promises to be quite a circus.
CHAPTER 87
Monday, August 3, 1:30–4:15 p.m.
BROOK’S ADMINISTRATIVE CLERK KNOCKED on his chambers door. “Judge?”
“Enter. Are we ready to go?”
“There were three stragglers from the jury pool, but they’re all here now. I reminded them what you said. Hopefully, they’ll take it more to heart going forward.”
“Okay, then. Time to get this show on the road.”
Moments later, Brooks had donned his judicial robes, made the short march from his chambers to the bench, and was addressing the jury pool. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. As I told you before lunch, we are going to see if we can get through our voir dire process and seat our twelve jurors and two alternates this afternoon. That’s an ambitious schedule, but our new fast-track rules require it. Unfortunately, we’re already fifteen minutes behind because three of our juror candidates were late returning from lunch. We all have schedules and things to do. But it’s really important that each one of us honors the regimen and the schedule. We cannot proceed when even one of you is not here. I know the process can be a bit daunting. Particularly on the first day. Starting tomorrow morning, please make sure you’re here on time.
“This case is fairly simple. No weapon, no fingerprints, no DNA, no other scientific evidence. If we can all stay on time from now on, I hope to complete the trial and deliver the case to the jury for deliberations by this Friday.
“Each of you has already completed and returned a jury questionnaire. I have them. So does counsel for each side. We won’t need to cover that ground again.
“On the blackboard to my right you’ll see a list of eight voir dire topics that I want each of you to answer out loud for all to hear. One at a time. These are basic background questions designed to determine whether any of you might be conflicted as potential jurors in this case. In ‘packets’ of six, we’ll start with the person on the far rear left and move in sequence from there.”
The first juror candidate stood and began to speak. Brooks interrupted. “Sir. You’re welcome to stand if you wish. But that’s not necessary.”
The candidate sat. Stating his name, he then continued: “I’m not married. I have no children. I live alone. I’m a mechanical engineer. I am a registered Democrat. I have a few traffic citations but have never been convicted of a felony. I have health insurance through my employer. I haven’t had any problems with the insurance company. I don’t expect much of our political representatives. So I guess I don’t have much feeling whether they’ve been doing their job properly. I was called for jury duty once before but was dismissed without serving.”
“Thank you,” Brooks replied. “I hate to say it, but I’ve had a few traffic citations myself. I tried to talk my way out of a couple of them. No luck. I guess I wasn’t very persuasive. Next, please.”
It was two fifteen p.m. when the first six members of the jury pool had finished their presentations. The attorneys were then allowed to question the first six-pack of candidates. Reilly was invited by Brooks to go first.
Respectfully addressing the fourth candidate by his name, Reilly began. “You mentioned that you’ve had difficulties obtaining benefits from your health care provider for your wife?”
&nb
sp; “Yes.”
“Who’s your provider?”
“Blue Cross. Actually, I think it changed its name to Anthem.”
“Do you feel Anthem was within its rights in denying coverage?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
“Because I’ve paid all of my premiums when they were due. They accepted my money without ever telling me they would treat me this way.”
“How did you react?”
“I didn’t react. What could I do? From what I read, most of these insurance companies are all the same.”
“Have you ever complained about this to any of your elected representatives?”
“It never occurred to me that I could do that.”
“Now that I have mentioned this idea to you, what do you think of it?”
“Not much. Probably would have been a waste of time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Insurance companies have powerful lobbies working for them. My elected representative isn’t going to give me the time of day.”
“Do you think such behavior would entitle you to strike back at these insurance companies or your elected officials?”
“You mean physically?”
“Yes.”
“No, of course not. I think I have the right to speak out, but that’s all.”
Reilly finished and turned the floor over to Klein. She questioned a few of the first six juror candidates.
Brooks asked counsel if either of them wanted to move to strike any of the first candidates for cause. When they both nodded affirmatively, he summoned them up to the bench. Brooks whispered, “Let’s hear your motions. Quietly. The reporter’s microphone will pick up what you have to say for possible appeal.”
Arguments heard, Brooks made quick work of denying their respective motions to dismiss certain juror candidates for cause. “I’m not going to insult these possible jurors over such frivolous positions. Step back.
“Okay, counsel, does either of you choose to preemptively dismiss any of the first six candidates as a matter of right? Without need for cause. Or my approval.”
Reilly declined, deciding to save his limited number of six preemptive dismissals for potentially more serious problems. Klein acted. “Your Honor, with thanks for his good service, the defense dismisses Mr. Simon.”
Brooks glanced at the reaction on Simon’s face and knew Klein had preempted wisely: the man would never have bought into a defense of justifiable homicide if Lotello didn’t come up with some tangible evidence. Which Klein didn’t have so far. “Mr. Simon,” Brooks announced, “you are dismissed. Please return to the jury service room. They will give you a form stating that you have done your duty for the next year. Thank you.”
At 3:20, with three six-packs concluded and nine jurors seated, Brooks announced the afternoon break. He admonished the jurors to be back at three thirty-five sharp.
The process resumed on time. The number of jurors seated was now twelve. Brooks looked at the clock. It was almost ten minutes to four. There was no way he was going to bring back in eighteen additional candidates in the morning just to get two alternate jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have ten minutes more this afternoon. We still need to pick our two alternate jurors. You can see how it hurt not to have started this afternoon until one forty-five. I don’t really like to do this, but we’re going to go through the next six-pack right now and see if we can’t get our two alternates this afternoon. Hopefully, we’ll be out of here by four fifteen.”
Twenty minutes later, the questioning of the latest six-pack was finished. Brooks stared at counsel, daring them to ask any questions or to make any motions for cause. Five minutes and four preemptive dismissals later, the two alternate jurors were selected and the remaining jury pool members were dismissed. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your hard work today. Have a good evening. We’ll convene in the morning for opening statements at eight thirty sharp. Please be on time.”
* * *
PAIGE NORMAN SAT IN the courtroom gallery in her reserved first-row seat behind Cliff Norman. She thought about the jurors who had just been seated. As was always the case with any trial party, she wished they had a couple of the jurors that Reilly had knocked out. But she thought that Klein had done a good job.
She was staring unconsciously at the back of her husband’s head. Almost as if on cue, Norman turned around and glanced at his wife. A fleeting, almost conspiratorial, smile crossed his face. It vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. So did Norman, as the bailiff escorted him out of the courtroom and back to his jailhouse home.
* * *
KLEIN WAS DEEP IN thought as she exited the courtroom. She thought that Brooks had hammered her unfairly on several of her motions to dismiss for cause. It was almost as if Brooks were having second thoughts about his justifiable homicide ruling. Blaming her for the ruling. She would have liked to give Brooks a piece of her mind, but she couldn’t lose sight of the almost unlimited power a trial court judge has to influence the jury.
CHAPTER 88
Monday, August 3, 2:30 p.m.
GRANT HAD TRIGGERED SOMETHING in Lotello’s mind. He knew that he had to confront Foster. But not until he first checked out something in his undisclosed copy of Wells’s little black book.
From his meeting with Grant, he went straight to where he had it stashed. There they were: two identical entries. Just as he had remembered them. The first was on February 3, two days before Wells was murdered. The second was on February 5, the very day she was murdered. On each of those nights, the calendar contained the notation “PF.”
Grant had solved part of the puzzle for Lotello. At least now he knew what PF meant: Peter Foster. However, this only made things more complicated: Lotello had just gone from two unconnected suspects—Hollister and Thomas—to three unconnected suspects—Hollister, Thomas, and Foster. All part of the D.C. political scene. If Foster was stepping out on his wife with Wells, he might well have had reason to do her in. And according to her calendar, it looked like Foster was with Wells on the night of her death.
Lotello was now standing in front of the drop-dead gorgeous receptionist in the drop-dead gorgeous NAIB offices. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?” Lotello felt a slight awakening in that erogenous zone he didn’t think was still alive. Sorry, Beth.
“I hope you can,” Lotello barely managed to respond. “This is the office of the National Association of Investment Bankers, right?”
“Yes, it is. Can I be of some assistance to you?”
Concentrate, Frank. Keep your eye on the ball, not the eye candy. “Peter Foster works here? Is he in? I’d like to see him, please.”
“Pete is our executive director, but I’m afraid he’s away on business. He’s expected back on Wednesday.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll stop back on Wednesday.”
“May I tell him your name?”
“Sure.” Let him speculate a bit. “I’m Frank Lotello, Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan D.C. police.”
“Impressive. It’s nice to meet you, Detective. My name’s Fancy. Fancy LeBeau. I don’t know any detectives, Mr. Lotello. Is there anything I can do for you in the meanwhile?”
Did she really say Fantasy? “No. That’s alright, Fantasy. I’ll be back on Wednesday.”
“It’s Fancy, Detective, F-A-N-C-Y, not Fantasy. I guess my parents just liked the name. But don’t worry about it. It’s a common mistake. I am occasionally accused of being … the fantasy of a number of men I know. I don’t mind that at all. I’ll let Pete know you were in. I’ll look forward to seeing you again on Wednesday, Detective.”
“Likewise, Fancy.”
CHAPTER 89
Monday, August 3, 4:30 p.m.
CONGRESSIONAL COUNTRY CLUB was a different kind of eye candy. One of which Lotello had never tired. Of course, someone not bitten by the golf bug might not understand. Still, he hadn’t played since Beth’s death.
Lotello slowed as h
e reached the guard gate. “Can I help you?” the guard politely inquired, not recognizing Lotello as one of the members.
“My name’s Frank Lotello; I’m a guest of Bobby Harrelson. He’s expecting me.” That wasn’t so. It didn’t matter. Lotello knew Harrelson would cover him if the guard checked. “Have you been here before? Do you know where to park?”
“I have. And I do.”
“Okay. Enjoy your visit.”
“Thanks.”
Lotello dropped his car off with the valet and headed for the pro shop. “Hi. Bobby Harrelson around?”
“He’s finishing giving a lesson down at the driving range.”
“Thanks. I’ll wander over there.”
“I can get someone to give you a ride if you’d like.”
“No thanks. The walk’ll be nice.”
When he reached the driving range, Lotello quietly took a seat and watched Harrelson finish his lesson. As the student walked off, Lotello spoke up. “Bobby, how the hell are ya?”
Harrelson didn’t even turn around. “Frankie L., get your ass out here! Where you been, boy?”
A rowdy, robust hug later, Lotello said, “Bobby, I swear you look younger every time I see you. How do you do it?”
“A lot of fresh air, a couple rounds a week, some good food, some better drinks. How are Maddie and Charlie? How are you?”
“Doing okay. Still missing Beth. Still adjusting. But we’re getting there.”
Harrelson nodded. “So, for a smart-ass detective, you really aren’t all that smart. I keep after you to come out and shoot a round with me. And you show up at four thirty why? Forget when the sun sets around here?”
“Hey, Bobby. I need some help. But it’s not with my game. I’ll take some of your money when I have a little more time. Can I buy you a beer?”
“Your money’s no good here, Bubba. But I’m happy to buy you one. Or two. Let’s go hit The Grill.”
Brooks-Lotello Collection Page 54