Phillip Margolin - Lost Lake

“Yes.”

“Then you renewed your acquaintance in D.C. in 1985?”

“Yes.”

“Did you become lovers in Washington?”

“No.”

“Who made the decision to keep the relationship platonic in D.C.?”

“Me.”

“Why was that?”

“We hadn’t parted on the best of terms in high school, and we’d both changed over the years.” Vanessa shrugged. “I just didn’t feel like getting involved in that way with Carl again.”

“And Mr. Rice knew how you felt?”

“Yes.”

“He also knew that you hated your father, didn’t he?”

Vanessa laughed. “Everyone knew that.”

“Did Charlotte Kohler, your mother, die in a car accident when you were in middle school?”

“It was no accident.”

“You believe that your father murdered your mother, don’t you?”

“I know he did.”

“But you have no proof that she was murdered, do you?”

“No,” Vanessa answered as she glared defiantly at the prosecutor.

“And the authorities concluded that your mother’s death was an accident, didn’t they?”

“My father has people on his payroll who can make any death look like an accident.”

“Nonetheless, the official verdict was that your mother’s death was an accident?”

“Yes.”

“You testified that Sam Cutler was living with you in Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that you thought that your father may have been involved in the Kennedy assassination?”

“My father’s military career took off soon after Kennedy was murdered,” she answered belligerently.

“And you think that’s because he was involved in some sort of cabal that was responsible for the assassination?”

“I don’t have any proof about that. It’s…The coincidence is…” Her voice trailed off as she realized how insane she sounded. “Yes.”

“You testified that you and Mr. Rice had once been lovers, but you decided to keep the relationship platonic when you met again in 1985.”

“I just said that.”

“What if he wanted more, Miss Kohler? He knew you hated your father and that you’d believe any outlandish story he made up as long as the villain in it was General Morris Wingate. What if he concocted a story about a secret army headed by your father to bind you to him?”

“No, the Unit existed,” Vanessa insisted stubbornly.

“If Mr. Rice hadn’t told you about the Unit, would you have known about it?”

“What about the records in the safe?”

“Please answer my question, Miss Kohler,” Brendan asked patiently. “If Mr. Rice had not told you about the Unit, would you have known of its existence?”

“No.”

“Did any of the records you took from your father’s safe mention the Unit?”

“No, but Carl’s army records were with the others.”

“Couldn’t your father’s possession of these records have had an innocent explanation that had nothing to do with a super-secret team of assassins?”

Vanessa shook her head from side to side. She was growing very agitated.

“My father is a killer. He ordered Carl to kill Eric Glass for those records.”

“You cannot produce these records for the court, can you?”

“My father has them, if he hasn’t destroyed them.”

Brendan looked at the judge. “Would you please instruct Miss Kohler to answer my question?”

“Yes, Miss Kohler. You’re not allowed to argue with counsel. If there is a point you wish to make, your attorney can ask you about it during redirect. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Vanessa answered grudgingly.

“Do you want the court reporter to read back the question?”

“That’s not necessary.” Vanessa turned to the prosecutor. “No, Mr. Kirkpatrick, I can’t produce the records.”

“Miss Kohler, did it ever occur to you that Mr. Rice may have murdered the congressman out of jealousy because he thought that Eric Glass was your lover?”

“I don’t believe that. You don’t know my father. You have no idea what he’s capable of doing.”

“Have you ever seen your father kill someone?” Kirkpatrick asked.

Vanessa hesitated.

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen him order someone to commit a crime?”

“No,” Vanessa answered softly.

“Has your father ever hurt you?”

“He had me kidnapped.”

“Or did he rescue you from a man who is a confessed mass murderer?”

Vanessa glared at the prosecutor. “My father had me locked away in a mental hospital.” Her eyes blazed with hate and her body was rigid. “He kept me in a drugged stupor for a year just to shut me up.”

“Or to help you. Didn’t the doctors at the hospital make the diagnosis that kept you there?”

“They did what he ordered them to do.”

“Did the doctors tell you that?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear your father give such an order?”

“He’s too smart for that. He was always telling me how much he loved me and how it hurt him to have to hospitalize me. He made certain that there were witnesses. He may be evil but he’s also very clever.”

“Or very caring, Miss Kohler, or very caring. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

“He made me look like a fool,” Vanessa told Ami, who was seated across the table from her in the jury room following the noon recess.

“Brendan is an excellent attorney. He knows that you have only Carl’s word that the Unit exists.”

“What about the murder of Dr. French and his wife?”

“Brendan doesn’t believe you or Carl. He thinks that Carl killed the Frenches and that you’re covering for Carl.”

“Carl saved your life. What does he think about that?”

“He thinks that your father’s security people came to my house looking for you and Carl killed them and my police guards. That explanation fits Brendan’s theory of the case.”

Vanessa shook her head. “We don’t have a chance, do we?”

“I’m sorry, but I told you that this would happen. You’ve been in a mental hospital and your father is a national hero. You’re very open about your hatred for him. That gives you a strong motive to lie or distort the truth.”

“Still no word from Hobson?” Vanessa asked.

“No.”

“I knew I’d never beat him. He always wins.”

Vanessa closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Her pain was so visible that it hurt Ami, but Ami knew of no way to stop the pain. They had lost, and Vanessa and Carl Rice were going to go to prison for a long time.

After Ami Vergano rested her case, Brendan Kirkpatrick began the prosecution’s case by questioning Dr. Ganett and the other men who’d been taken prisoner at the hospital. Shortly before noon, Judge Velasco recessed court until two.

The prosecutor was feeling a little down when he walked into the Multnomah County district attorney’s office on the sixth floor of the courthouse. He usually felt elated after a great cross-examination, but his demolition of Vanessa Kohler had been too easy. Her irrational belief in General Wingate’s mythical secret army was a product of hate and a deep-seated mental illness. Beating up on someone who was irrational and sick was not something he relished.

“Mr. Kirkpatrick,” the receptionist called out. “I have an important message from Mr. Stamm about your bail hearing. He wanted me to make sure you got it as soon as you came back from court.”

Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney, was Kirkpatrick’s boss. Brendan took Stamm’s note from the receptionist. His brow furrowed with confusion as he read it. He was tempted to go to Stamm’s office and ask for an explanation of the instructions, but the note was very clear. It ordered him to do as he was told without question.