Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

“Don’t take it,” Sharp warned.

Carson frowned. “Why not?’

“Do you know who that is?”

“She said her name was Jessica Koshani.”

Sharp nodded. “Koshani’s name came up more than once when I was in the DA’s office. She’s involved with a number of legitimate enterprises, but there was a suspicion that they were fronts for other not-so-legal ventures.”

“Such as?”

“Money laundering through some of the businesses.”

“For who?”

“Drug dealers, arms dealers, and she’s rumored to be the silent partner in a high-end escort service.”

Carson kept his features blank, but he felt the stirring of an erection.

“So there’s no solid proof that Ms. Koshani is doing anything illegal?”

“No.”

“Then I see no problem in meeting with her.”

“There could be problems later, if Lang’s people start spreading rumors.”

“We need the money, Luke. You’ve seen the polls. Lang has closed the gap. I started ten percentage points ahead, and it’s down to one. And it’s the damned TV ads he’s been running. If we don’t come up with enough money to run our own, I could lose.”

“It’s not just the money I’m worried about.”

“I’m a big boy, Luke. I can keep my zipper closed.”

“History would suggest otherwise,” his friend answered. Carson blushed and broke eye contact.

“When are you meeting?” Sharp asked.

“Thursday evening.”

“Damn, I’ll be in Medford.”

“Look,” Carson said, his tone softening, “I appreciate the warning but you don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be okay.”

Sharp started to say something, but caught himself when he saw Martha weaving her way toward them through the round tables that the waitstaff was starting to clear. He loved Jack Carson like a brother, and he worried about him. Jack was brilliant, but he could be very stupid when it came to women.

Brad was enjoying his job as a legislative assistant to Senator Carson, but he soon found that the pace of work was much faster than the pace at the United States Supreme Court. There were two gears in Senator Carson’s office, fast and slow. When the Senate was not in session or the senator was not in D.C., Brad could dress casually and come to work a little later than usual, although he had so much work even in slow gear that he was at the office by eight and didn’t leave until six or seven. When the Senate was in session or the senator was in D.C., he was expected to dress in a suit and tie, everything ran at hyper speed, and he might not get home until after ten.

Eating breakfast at home was a luxury Brad could not afford, no matter what the gear. Almost all of the staffers grabbed breakfast in one of the Capitol cafeterias and ate at their desks. Brad’s staple was orange juice, a toasted bagel, and coffee. While he ate, he was expected to digest not only food but the contents of the Oregonian, Portland’s daily paper, the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the Congressional Quarterly, a privately produced paper that covered every legislative action in Congress and that Brad found stacked at the entrance to the senator’s office every day.

When he was hired, Brad had been assigned a portfolio heavy on legal issues. Lucas Sharp, the senator’s chief of staff, had told him to start each day by scanning publications for issues in his portfolio. Brad was expected to be up to speed on every issue in his portfolio so he could advise Senator Carson on whether to support, oppose, or try to modify a piece of legislation. Sharp had warned Brad that the worst thing that could happen to him was to field a call from his boss about an article he had not read. In addition to reading the papers, Brad learned about each subject by talking to the staffs of NGOs, lobbyists, concerned citizens, representatives of labor and business, and anyone else who had a view on an issue.

Senators’ offices were located in three buildings: Russell, the oldest; Dirksen, the second oldest; and Hart, the new kid on the block. The party in power had first choice of offices and the senators chose in order of seniority. After an election, life in the Senate was like a game of musical chairs. When a party out of power gained a majority, the losing party’s senators had to move if the winners wanted their offices.

Senator Carson’s office was in Dirksen. Hart was the building closest to Brad’s apartment, and he usually used its staff entrance so he could get inside as fast as possible. D.C. was freezing in winter and hot and humid in summer. A corridor in Hart led to the Dirksen building and was one of many corridors and underground tunnels that connected the office buildings to each other and the Capitol.

Brad had convinced himself that there was no reason to worry about Clarence Little, but two days after reading about the reversal of Little’s convictions, Brad’s self-confidence evaporated. Brad rarely received personal mail at his Senate office, so he was surprised to find the plain white envelope with no return address sitting on his blotter when he got back from lunch. Then he recognized the handwriting on the envelope. It was identical to the writing on the envelope he had received on the evening of the presidential election. Brad’s mouth was dry, and he felt slightly nauseated as he opened the envelope and read the letter it contained. Dear Brad, I hope this letter finds you in good health and enjoying your exciting new job. There is plenty of excitement here on death row, too. My convictions have been reversed. I will soon have new trials, which I hope will end in “Not Guilty” verdicts and freedom. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could visit you and your lovely bride in our nation’s capital? And, speaking of Ginny, how is the love of your life? I hope things are still piping hot between you two. Your Friend, Clarence

Who had smuggled this letter and the letter Clarence had sent him on the night Maureen Gaylord was elected president out of the penitentiary? Was it a guard Little had bribed or his attorney? Brad decided that it wasn’t worth his time to find out.

Should he write Little and tell him to stop writing? No, that would just encourage the psychopath. Brad hadn’t answered Clarence’s first letter, and he decided that he wouldn’t answer this one.

Brad thought about the new trials. After mentally reviewing everything he knew about the cases, he concluded that the chance of Little winning his freedom was small. The best that could happen if he got a top-flight attorney was a life sentence. When Brad calmed down, he started to crumple up the letter to use in a game of wastepaper basketball, but he stopped and put it in the lower drawer of his desk instead.

A cold rain carrying the salty, seaweed scents of the ocean pelted Ali Bashar as he stood at the rail of the freighter.

“America!” Ali said to the stocky, stone-faced man who stood beside him. His companion turned toward Ali for a second, then turned away. His dark, cold eyes showed none of the excitement Ali felt, as if passion for anything but his mission had been leached out of the man in the camp. Ali believed himself to be as dedicated as the others, but he still retained a sense of wonder.

Ali’s dark complexion and milk-chocolate-colored eyes were common among the tribal people who grew up in the mountainous section of Pakistan where he had been born. His straight black hair was concealed beneath a knit watch cap, and he wore a heavy pea jacket as protection against weather that Manhattanites would consider uncomfortable but which chilled the blood of someone who had spent the last eight months in the desert. Ali was five feet eight and had been sick frequently when he was a child, so his constitution was frail. When he was young, he had been the butt of many jokes and the object of the cruelty that comes naturally to children. Ali was bright, was especially good with numbers, and had an excellent memory. These traits had helped him to excel in the classroom but often made his life outside of it difficult. His intelligence had finally been rewarded at the al-Qaeda camp in Somalia, but the physical part of the training had been difficult for him.