by Jack Bowie
“No. I haven’t seen Wilson in years and years. He manages the family trust, but we just never had any reason to meet in person. He would send me papers and I would sign them and send them back.”
She hesitated and her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. ”For a long time I didn’t want to discuss Father’s death at all. I avoided dealing with anyone who was connected to it. Probably not my finest hour.”
“Don’t beat yourself up now. All that’s in the past. Let’s just hope he knows something about Coopersmith and how your father became involved.”
She shot him an angry glance. “If he was ever involved, Adam.”
Rather than parking in one of the high-rise garages in the center of Richmond, Goddard sped through the city, took an exit a few miles out of town and pulled to a stop in front of an ivy-covered ante-bellum mansion. Situated in a bucolic neighborhood south of the city, she explained this was the lawyer’s office, a building that had been in Lexington’s family for generations.
The old place was in remarkable shape, Braxton noted, as they walked up a pristine flagstone path from the street. Magnolia and dogwood trees, just opening their pale pink blossoms, spotted the expansive front lawn. Blue-violet clumps of wisteria hung from two large, sturdy oaks that framed the front of the house. They walked up the front steps toward the door and were suddenly surrounded by the sweet smell of jasmine. The vines encircled the pillars on the veranda, their delicate white flowers inviting the visitors ahead. He felt he was stepping back in time to a quieter, simpler life; before the complexity of computers, networks, and consultants made life a headlong rush of “progress”.
Only a small brass plaque beside the door announcing “Howard, Lexington, and Morgan, Attorneys at Law”, suggested that this was anything more than a peaceful private residence.
They opened the front door and entered a spacious foyer that served as the practice’s waiting area. The interior of the home was just as elegant as the outside. Bright floral arrangements contrasted with dark wood and rich oil paintings. Closed doors filled the walls along each side of the foyer. In front of them, a regal staircase rose to an intermediate landing at the back of the room, then split continuing up to the right and left. A huge portrait of a distinguished-looking southern couple hung above the landing.
Open hallways looked down onto the foyer from each side of the second floor. A crystal chandelier suspended from the arched ceiling completed the anachronistic scene.
Braxton noticed a group of young people talking on the second floor. He guessed they were legal interns, probably from the University of Virginia. The only visible presence on the first floor was Mrs. Mary Ellen Burdick, according to another polished brass name plate sitting on her desk. She was a pleasant looking woman, about fifty years old. Light brown hair curled around her face revealing soft features under just a little too much makeup.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a touch of a Southern drawl. “How may I help you?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Lexington. My name is Susan Goddard.”
Burdick obviously recognized the name. “Yes, Ms. Goddard. Mr. Lexington is waiting for you in his office. The second door on the left. You may go right in.”
They thanked Burdick and followed an oriental runner along the left wall. The rooms on the first floor appeared to be for the partners; brass plaques hanging outside each office announced the room’s occupant. They opened the door marked “Wilson Lexington, J.D.”, and went in.
The office was straight out of some TV legal thriller. All wood and glass, polished to an optical shine. A few landscapes hung on the walls but the showpiece was a massive oak bookcase that took up the whole wall to their left. It was filled with legal volumes, each precisely placed just to the edge of their shelf, sitting in an order dictated by tiny gold embossing on the spines. Braxton couldn’t imagine any profession having that many books of exactly the same size, or ever managing to keep such a collection so well organized. It looked more like wallpaper than a working library.
Then again, since the contents of all those volumes were now available on-line from Lexus-Nexus, he guessed no one needed to open the tomes anyway. Still, they must be hell to dust.
Lexington rose immediately from his desk in front of the shelves. He looked about sixty years old, tall and rail thin. He had his coat off, and his starched white shirt and bright red bow tie stood boldly against the muted tones of the room. Brown hair was combed back from his forehead and faded to gray as it reached his temples and ears, but he moved and spoke with the energy of a young man.
“Susan?” the man asked. “I wouldn’t have recognized you. How long has it been?”
“Almost fifteen years, Wilson. You don’t look a day older.”
He took her hand in both of his and clasped it warmly. “I feel each new day, I assure you. But you look wonderful, such a grown woman. It’s so good to see you again.”
Goddard turned to Braxton. “This is Adam Braxton, Wilson. He’s a friend that’s helping me with some trouble.”
“You’re not ill I hope,” Lexington said as he shook hands with the outsider.
“I’m a consultant, Mr. Lexington. So far as I can tell Susan is in excellent health.” Memories of the previous night flashed into his mind. He glanced at Goddard, and saw her face flush with pink.
“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,” Lexington replied innocently. He motioned to a tan leather sofa across from his desk and took a matching chair next to the window. “What are you up to these days, Susan? You’re at Georgetown now as I remember.”
“Yes. I’m studying political science. If you ever want to get back into politics give me a call.”
Lexington tossed back his head and laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not likely. But I doubt you came all the way down here to talk about my career. What can I do to help you?”
She pulled the letter from her purse and handed it to the lawyer. “I found this after Momma died.”
“I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s death. I hope you’ll forgive me for not attending the funeral. I was out of the country.”
He opened the envelope and looked down at the letter. Then he set the paper on his lap, shook his head, and leaned back in his chair.
“Your father was very distraught after the election. A number of us tried to help him but I’m afraid to no avail. I don’t think there is any reason to bring this up again.” He handed the paper back to Goddard.
“Wilson, I need to know what was going on,” she said resolutely. “Please don’t treat me like a child. Momma would never talk about it. She kept shrinking farther and farther away from reality. Please tell me what you know about this. Did Father really take those bribes?”
Lexington turned away and gazed out over the perfectly manicured lawn. When he returned, his eyes were washed with a far-away sadness. “Your father was one of my best friends, Susan. He helped me get started in politics and taught me the importance of public service. When the allegations surfaced, I let him down. I was too concerned with my own position and security. After his death I couldn’t continue in the legislature. I came back to the firm and tried to put all those events into the past. I don’t know that I want to dredge them up again. What good would it do?”
“Was it Potterfield? Was he the one behind the lies?”
Lexington sat mute.
“Dammit, Wilson,” Goddard suddenly jumped from her chair. She locked eyes with the lawyer and clenched her hands into fists. “Talk to me! Potterfield destroyed Father’s career and killed him, just as sure as if he had pulled the trigger. I am not going to let him get away with it. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone else who will.”
Braxton tried to retreat into the back of the sofa. He had learned too well about Goddard’s temper. The delicate young woman could be a firebrand when those she loved were threatened or slighted. He hoped he would never be the object of that fury.
“Alright,” Lexington finally replied softly. “You know
, you’re just as obstinate as your father. I’ll tell you everything I know. But I don’t think it will help very much.” Lexington slumped in the chair as he began.
“It was early in March the year of the election. Your father wanted some legal advice, but didn’t want to come to the firm directly. He said that he was being threatened to not run for reelection. An anonymous caller had said they would ruin him and his family. He tried to have the calls traced but never could. It was as if someone knew everything he was doing. He had tried to get the police to help but they never found anything. He thought it might be someone on his staff and had them all investigated. He was growing more and more paranoid.
“Then the records starting showing up. First it was bank deposits he couldn’t explain. Big ones, tens of thousands of dollars. He began to receive faxes of documents showing contracts and real estate dealings. All related to a developer named Coopersmith. Your father said that none of them were real, but he couldn’t prove it. He asked me whether he could be convicted if anyone took the records to court. I told him that it was all circumstantial evidence, but that a good prosecutor could probably make the case.
“The evidence was too accurate, too complete. People believe what they see on paper. He still refused to quit and the documents were slowly leaked to the press. Twenty years of loyal public service were destroyed in four weeks. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What happened to Coopersmith and the documents?” Braxton asked.
“After the election he disappeared. And the police couldn’t follow the paper trail. Charges were never filed.”
“No one thought that was suspicious?”
“No one thought at all. We all just wanted to put it in the past.”
“But the public never forgot,” Goddard said. Tears pooled in her eyes and her voice had an edge that made Braxton shiver. “Reporters hounded him everywhere he went. It became so bad that he couldn’t stand to go outside our house. He would just sit in his chair and stare out in space. Momma and I tried to help him but he wouldn’t respond. Then one day when we were out of the house he took his shotgun and . . .” She couldn’t finish.
Braxton knew at least a little of how Lynch must have felt. The sense of loss, of repudiation of all that he had been. But he had been younger, more resilient. He had pulled himself out of the depths and started the climb back. For Kenneth Lynch it had been too far.
“Did Mr. Lynch ever tell you who he thought was responsible?” Braxton asked.
The lawyer hesitated. “There was one time. The threats had always come by telephone or fax. There was never a real person involved. But once, just before the election, someone approached him in the parking lot and told him to get out of the race or else. Kenneth said he was a big black man. Later, he told me he was sure it was someone named Nicholson, one of Potterfield’s subordinates.”
“Nicholson?” Goddard gasped. “He’s Potterfield’s Chief of Staff now. Did Father ever say he had any proof it was them?”
“No, Susan. It was just that one conversation. I don’t think you can take it very seriously. Your father was in pretty bad shape by then. Please don’t even think of accusing Senator Potterfield.”
“I already have, Wilson.”
Chapter 41
Richmond, Virginia
Tuesday, 12:30 p.m.
“NOTHING LIKE THE neighborhoods I was used to,” Nicholson commented as he watched the flow of visitors to and from the law office. He had left the Capitol right after the Committee meeting and arrived in Richmond just after noon. The lawyer’s name had been in some of the old newspaper clippings. It had been easy to find his current address. Nicholson was sure this was the link he needed.
Activity had slowed over the lunch hour, and he decided it was time to see what he could find out. As he crossed the street a young couple left the offices and returned to their car. Hopefully Lexington didn’t have other clients waiting. He walked up the cobblestone path, opened the door, and confronted an elderly woman at the reception desk.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he began. “My name is Nicholas Bedford. I’m from the Richmond Historical Society and would like to speak with Mr. Lexington.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Burdick asked.
“No ma’am. But I will take only a moment of Mr. Lexington’s time. It would be of such value to the Society.”
Burdick hesitated, then picked up her phone. After a short conversation, she replied to the visitor. “Mr. Lexington can give you a few minutes. His office is on the left.”
“Thank you so much, ma’am. You’ve been very kind.” Nicholson gave a small bow for emphasis.
“Mr. Lexington, I’m Nicholas Bedford from the Historical Society,” he said as he approached the lawyer’s desk.
Lexington rose and took the man’s hand. “Very good to meet you, Mr. Bedford. Please have a seat. Now, how can I help you?”
“As you may know, the Society has been presenting a series of exhibits on famous Virginians. We are collecting information on our next subject, and hoped that you might provide us with some additional background.”
“I would be happy to assist if I can, sir, who is your subject?”
“Senator Kenneth Lynch.”
Lexington’s face turned pale. Nicholson had expected some trepidation on the part of the lawyer, but nothing quite so dramatic. “Is something wrong, Mr. Lexington? You were Mr. Lynch’s lawyer?”
“Eh, yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Bedford. It’s just that . . . well, it has been a long time and I’m surprised that the Society would consider Kenneth after all of the publicity.”
Nicholson nodded, exhibiting all the sincerity he could muster. “I understand, sir. But we believe that the unfortunate incidents at the end of Mr. Lynch’s career should not negate his exceptional contributions as a Senator. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course.” Lexington seemed to compose himself and continued. “What is it I can do for you?”
“We have been trying to gather some personal background and have been unable to locate any of Mr. Lynch’s relatives. We were wondering if you could tell us where we might find his wife or daughter.”
“His relatives? I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“You did handle Mr. Lynch’s estate?”
“Yes, I did. You see his wife was quite distraught after the funeral. She liquidated the estate and moved to, ah,” Lexington, glanced up to the ceiling, “New York I think it was. I heard she died a number of years ago.”
“What about the daughter, Susan wasn’t it?”
Lexington hesitated. Why would he do that?
“I haven’t heard anything about the daughter since she and her mother left Virginia,” Lexington replied.
“You don’t have any forwarding address?”
“No. They haven’t contacted me at all. I assumed they wanted to break all ties to their past.”
Dammit. Another dead-end. He had to get a lead on the daughter.
“You wouldn’t know anyone else I could contact?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Lexington rose from his chair. “Now if you will excuse me, Mr. Bedford, I do have a lot of work to complete this afternoon. Is there anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Lexington,” Nicholson stuttered.
The lawyer escorted his visitor to the door. “Good luck on your exhibit, Mr. Bedford,” he added. “Good bye.”
The door slammed behind him as Nicholson walked through.
Lexington’s behavior confused him. Nicholson had been around lawyers long enough to know how they operated. Losing complete track of a wealthy client was not in their best interest. Could he have been hiding something? Lynch’s name brought back unpleasant memories for lots of people, but the lawyer’s reaction was too suspicious.
“Was Mr. Lexington able to help you, Mr. Bedford?” Burdick asked as he passed her desk.
“Eh, somewhat ma’am. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to give me as much information on Senator Lynch as I had hoped.”<
br />
“Senator Lynch? It’s too bad you weren’t here earlier then.”
Nicholson stopped short and spun back to Burdick. “Earlier? Why is that?”
“Why, Susan was just here. Senator Lynch’s daughter.”
* * *
Lexington had given them everything he had and the couple left the lawyer to his own memories. Braxton insisted that Goddard wasn’t up to driving and took the wheel of the BMW for the return trip to Arlington.
As they passed Fredericksburg, she pulled a sheet of paper out of her purse. It was a copy of Potterfield’s latest email.
“I was wondering when you’d get back to that,” Braxton said.
“I’ve got to do something about this bastard!” She was crumpling the paper in her hands.
“Hey, calm down. Read it back to me and let’s see what it really says.”
Goddard recited the lines of the message. “What do you think?”
“First of all, I doubt Potterfield wrote it. It was probably this Nicholson’s doing from what Wilson said. He’s younger and more likely to be familiar with the technology. Second, they’re hedging. He ‘will’ turn it over to the FBI. They haven’t yet and probably won’t. It sounds to me like they’re fishing to see what else you have. They can’t afford an investigation if there’s any chance you do have real evidence.”
“That’s quite an analysis, mister consultant. Did it cost me much?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” he replied with a smile. “Let’s tug on his line a bit. Maybe we can get them to reveal something.”
They composed their reply on the rest of the way back to the apartment. When they arrived, Goddard typed it in and sent the message to the remailer.
“When are you going back to Boston?” she asked as she shut down her computer.
Braxton had been pacing the floor behind her, but now headed into the kitchen. It was small but well-appointed, with a granite counter top and gleaming stainless-steel appliances that looked almost new. This was clearly a woman who had the means to get what she wanted.
“I was supposed to go last night, but something important came up.”