Philip Margolin: Capitol murder

Clarence was a master of sleight of hand. Even though Millie had been watching him the whole time, she had missed seeing Clarence slip the envelope out of the file with his legal papers and into the memo. She remembered his warning to wear gloves when she handled the envelope so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints. It was addressed to Brad Miller like the other envelope she’d smuggled out of the penitentiary.

On the evening of the presidential election over a year ago, Millie had waited in the parking lot of Miller’s apartment complex in the dark with her lights off as the rain beat down on the roof of her car. As soon as Miller and Ginny Striker drove off to their election-night parties, Millie had slipped the envelope under Miller’s door and driven away. There had been no repercussions then and Clarence assured her that there would be none this time. All he was asking her to do was mail a letter.

Brad Miller had not been kidding when he told Dana Cutler and Jake Teeny that he hoped the rest of his life was dull as dirt. And Brad knew about dull as dirt. He had grown up and gone to college in the less than exciting suburbs of Long Island, then studied law in Manhattan. Living in New York sounds exotic if you’re from Nebraska or South Dakota, but it is much less exciting if you’re on a strict budget and studying most of each day. Brad had always been a straight arrow, so not once during his three years in school did he snort cocaine with swimsuit models while partying all night with the rich and famous at a new, in club. In fact, his only contact with drugs and wild goings-on occurred while reading police reports during an internship at the Manhattan DA’s office during the summer between his first and second year in law school.

Brad fled the East Coast when his fiancee dumped him shortly before the wedding that was supposed to take place after law school graduation. What seemed tragic at first turned into a blessing in disguise when he met Ginny Striker, another associate toiling in Portland’s modern-day salt mine, Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.

Brad also knew the flip side of dull as dirt. From the moment a sadistic senior partner ordered him to file an appeal in the sure loser, pro bono case of Clarence Little v. Oregon, his life had consisted of one terrifying incident after another. Once his investigation into Clarence’s case brought down President Farrington, he thought he’d find peace and quiet clerking in the sedate halls of the United States Supreme Court, but once again he’d almost lost his life-twice.

So Brad was not lying when he said he craved boredom. He was madly in love with his wife, and his happiest moments were when he and Ginny, dressed in sweats, held hands while watching old movies on television.

Brad and Ginny lived on the third floor of a four-story redbrick apartment house on Capitol Hill. Their apartment was walking distance from the Senate and a longer walk or a Metro ride from the Department of Justice. They had moved in a little over a year ago, when Brad started clerking at the Supreme Court. They had been able to afford the rent because Ginny was pulling down a six-figure salary at one of D.C.’s biggest law firms. The rent was less affordable now that Ginny worked at the DOJ, but they loved the location, the exposed brick walls, and the small garden in the back.

The day after Judge Case handed down his decision, Brad was getting ready to leave for work while Ginny finished her breakfast in their roomy kitchen. Brad was slipping into his suit jacket when he saw the color drain from Ginny’s face.

“Did you know about this?” Ginny asked, holding up page 3 of the Washington Post.

Brad leaned forward and read, COURT REVERSES CLARENCE LITTLE CONVICTIONS AND DEATH SENTENCES. His stomach did a swan dive.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t been involved in Clarence’s case for over a year.”

Brad reached across the kitchen table and took the paper from his wife.

“I’m not surprised,” Brad said as soon as he finished the story. “They had to give him new trials once it became clear that he’d been framed in the Erickson case.”

“He won’t get out, will he?” Ginny asked. Brad could hear the fear in her voice.

“I don’t know. They convicted him every time he was tried. The question is how great an impact the evidence from Erickson had on the jurors in the other trials. But I don’t think we have anything to worry about even if he’s acquitted. Clarence and I got along pretty well. He knows I’m responsible for his conviction in Erickson being thrown out. I believe he thinks of me as a friend, and he has no reason to hurt us.”

“He’s an insane serial killer, Brad. He doesn’t need a reason. He was nice to you because he wanted you to work hard for him, but he’d kill either one of us without shedding a tear.”

“That’s true in the abstract, but why would he want to hurt me? Clarence kills women.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman.”

Brad smiled. “Actually, I have noticed. But you’re not the type of woman Clarence fixates on. All of his victims were teenagers or in their early twenties. You’re an old married woman.”

Ginny cast a stern look at Brad. “Are you’re telling me I’m over the hill?”

“I admit that I married you as a humanitarian act.”

“Oh well. Since you married me as an act of charity, I guess you won’t be interested in having mind-bending, erotic sex tonight.”

Brad couldn’t help smiling at the thought. “It’s true that I’m totally uninterested in sleeping with you, but now that we’re married, I feel I have an obligation to keep you sexually satisfied.”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll see about tonight, buster.” Then she got serious again.

“You really think we’ll be okay?” she asked.

Brad gave Ginny a reassuring smile. “I do. And it’s going to be a while before we have to think about Clarence Little, anyway. The state will appeal the judge’s ruling. Then, if his decision is upheld, there will be the new trials. That will take years, and he’ll probably get convicted. Don’t let Mr. Little spoil your day.”

Ginny put her plate and coffee cup in the dishwasher and went into the bathroom to finish putting on her makeup. As soon as she was out of sight, Brad’s encouraging smile disappeared. Well over a year ago, on the evening of the presidential election, he and Ginny had returned to their apartment in Portland in a raging downpour. Ginny had gone to the bathroom to dry her hair, and Brad had started to go into the kitchen to put up water for tea when he’d spotted a white envelope on the entryway floor. His name and address had been handwritten, and there had been no return address. The letter was from Clarence Little. Dear Brad, I knew I was right to trust you. I’ve just learned that my conviction for the murder of the Erickson girl is going to be set aside and that’s all due to your hard work. I’ll still be executed, but I can live with that, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d invite you to the execution, but I know you’re squeamish. My only regret is that I didn’t get to go to court to overturn the conviction. I might have seen my lovely pinkie collection one last time. Oh well, one can’t have everything. Good luck on your new job and your marriage to the lovely Ginny. She’s a sweetheart. Too bad I won’t get a chance to know her. Your friend, Clarence.

Brad had destroyed the letter immediately. He knew Ginny would be upset if she thought Clarence was interested in her. What Brad didn’t understand was how Little was able to learn anything about Ginny. The letter had been hand-delivered, so the obvious answer was that the person who had delivered the letter had told Little about Ginny. Brad had decided against confronting his ex-client. It was better to ignore him.