Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

H alfway through the fourth quarter, the Redskins took the lead over the Indianapolis Colts, and the stands at FedEx Field erupted. As the teams prepared for the kickoff, Ali sold the final soft drinks in his hawker’s tray to a father and son wearing Redskins jerseys. When the sale was complete, Ali headed for the concession stand to cash out.

Vendors stood in a long, narrow space behind the bar where the customers shuffled up to place their orders. Behind the vendors were soft-drink machines, toasters that kept the pretzels hot, and rotating ovens that constantly grilled the meat. As soon as he got to the stand, one of the female vendors smiled at him, and Ali found he was smiling too. Women had always been a sore subject with him. He was a virgin who believed subconsciously that any attempt to have a girlfriend would only result in rejection and disappointment.

“Hi, Ali, how did it go today?” Ann O’Hearn asked cheerfully.

“Good,” he said as he lifted the empty tray over his neck and set it on the concrete floor.

Ann was the personification of everyone Ali Bashar had been trained to hate. In the remote mountain village where he had been raised, the teachers in his all-male madrassas had drummed into him that his only concerns in this life were the Koran, Sharia law, and the glorification of jihad. O’Hearn was a blond, blue-eyed female, she was a Catholic and therefore an infidel, and she was not deferential to men. Yet try as he might, he could not hate her. He actually liked her.

“You must be happy,” Ali said.

“You mean because the Redskins won?”

“Of course.”

O’Hearn laughed and it sounded to Ali like bells pealing.

“I couldn’t care less about football. I work here to pay my tuition. I’m into soccer.”

“You are?” Ali had answered, surprised that an American girl would be interested in a game most Americans found boring.

“Sure. I’ve been playing soccer since I was a kid. I’m on my college team now.”

“I too play soccer, but we call it football in my country.”

“I know that. What position?”

“Goalie,” Ali answered.

“Whoa. You’ll never catch me in goal. That’s the toughest position on the field.”

Ali blushed and shrugged. “I enjoy playing in the goal.” He did not tell her that none of the other children in the village wanted to play that position. On the rare occasions he was included in the village games, goalie was the only position he was given.

“I don’t know how you stand the pressure. And you’re always the goat if your team loses.”

One of Ali’s jobs was to help clean up after the game. He and Ann continued to talk about soccer until their work was done and the crowd had cleared out. Ali rode the bus to the employee lot with Ann. When they got to the lot, Ann smiled and said, “See you at the next game.”

Ali smiled too, and it was not a duplicitous smile aimed at creating a false confidence in someone he wished to betray. To his surprise, it was a genuine smile of friendship. Then Ali remembered that Ann had said she’d see him at the next game. As soon as her back was to him, Ali stopped smiling. He did like Ann O’Hearn, and that made him sad, because she would die a horrible death if his mission succeeded, and his mission would succeed because it was blessed by Allah.

Millie slept in fits and starts the night before the hearing on the motions in Clarence’s case. She was up before her alarm went off, exhausted, her stomach in knots. All she could handle for breakfast was tea and toast, but moments after she ate, she rushed into the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, and threw up. When she tried to straighten up, she felt light-headed and had to sit on the floor, paralyzed by fear.

Millie squeezed her eyes shut and imagined what Clarence would say if he were sitting beside her on the cold bathroom tiles. He would tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that their plan could not fail. But was it foolproof? Would she bring him down? She had no confidence that she could carry out her part of the plan. She was certain that she would blunder and the plot would unravel.

If Clarence were with her, he would whisper, “Have faith,” in that self-assured way that made Millie believe she could do anything when she was with him. But she wasn’t with him now, and she was terrified that she would be caught, disbarred, disgraced, and sent to prison.

Millie’s head fell into her hands. She took deep breaths, but they didn’t help. She couldn’t do it. She was too frightened.

Then she thought about what would happen to Clarence if her fear caused her to abandon him. He would die. It was that simple. Her cowardice would kill him. Clarence had explained how the state had stacked the cards against him. He had convinced her that no matter how brilliant she was in court, he would be convicted and sentenced to death. If she didn’t execute their plan, the man she loved would die, and it would be her fault.

Millie struggled to her feet and staggered to the sink. She rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. Then she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and took slow, deep breaths. When her composure returned, Millie went into the bedroom and dressed for court. Then she put the thick, older model cell phone she had found in a pawn shop in her purse. Last night, she had taken out the phone’s innards and replaced them. If she could get the cell phone past the metal detector at the courthouse, Clarence would go free, and they would spend the rest of their lives together. If she failed, her life as she knew it would be over.

C larence had instructed Millie to park on the street as close to the courthouse as possible. After she parked, Millie drew a detailed map of the car’s location and wrote a description of her car, including its license plate number, for Clarence had never seen it.

The Multnomah County Courthouse had been the largest courthouse on the West Coast when it was completed in 1914, and the eight-story concrete building took up an entire block in downtown Portland between Southwest Main and Salmon and Southwest Fourth and Fifth avenues. As Millie drew closer to the courthouse, she paused to see if there were any reporters waiting in ambush. She spotted vans from several local television stations, but none of the faces that had become familiar to her since the reversal in Clarence’s case had made her famous. She assumed that the reporters would be waiting outside the courtroom.

Millie entered the courthouse and stood in the shorter security line reserved for attorneys, court personnel, judges, and police officers. As she inched toward the metal detector, doubts assailed her again. She was weak-kneed and light-headed when she finally got to the head of the line. A stack of plastic trays stood on a table in front of the metal detector. Millie took her keys, her change, and the cell phone out of her attache case, put them in the tray, and passed the tray around the metal detector to a guard. Then she took off her coat and put it and the attache on the conveyor belt. The guard barely looked at the contents of the tray because her attention was focused on Millie as she walked through the metal detector. Millie went through without setting off the alarm. Then she put on her coat, put the cell phone, change, and keys back in her briefcase, and walked up the stairs at a natural pace, even though she wanted to run.

When Millie reached the second floor, she found the ladies’ room. As soon as she locked herself in a stall, she started to shake. She bent forward and rested her elbows on her thighs. It took an effort to keep from crying with relief, but she didn’t want to ruin her makeup. She knew Clarence would be so proud of her. She’d done it. She had gotten through security.