Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Dana laughed. “I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s insulting that you also think I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t-”

“It’s okay. I know how crazy I sound. So it’s time to show you the proof.”

Dana handed Gorman an envelope filled with the best shots from the farmhouse and some other photographs of Charlotte Walsh.

“I’m a private detective,” Dana explained. “A few days before she was murdered, I was given an assignment to follow Walsh and report to a client on everything she did. And don’t ask me for the client’s identity. I don’t know it.

“The night she was murdered I followed Walsh to the Dulles Towne Center mall. A car arrived and she got in. I followed Walsh into the Virginia countryside to a farmhouse. There were armed guards patrolling the grounds and a car registered to the Secret Service parked outside. I have shots of the license plate of the car used by the Secret Service. I’d advise you to run the plate yourself. Some of these shots also show the weapons the guards were carrying. Check out the weapons carried by the Secret Service and you’ll find they’re the same type.

“Walsh went upstairs. She was with a man. The lights in the room went off long enough for them to have sex. When the lights came back on, Walsh was angry. She stormed out of the house and yelled at someone inside. I have a clear picture of the man. It’s Christopher Farrington.”

Gorman had been shuffling through the photographs in the envelope during Dana’s narration. He froze when he came to the photograph of the president staring after the car that was returning Walsh to the mall. Dana saw the reaction and smiled. She knew she had him.

“These pictures have a date and time on them. Walsh left before midnight of the day her body was discovered in the Dumpster. The Ripper could have killed her, I guess, but think about it. Farrington is running an election campaign, his wife’s pregnant, and his mistress-a teenager-is upset with him. Then the one person who could destroy his election chances just happens to be the random victim of a serial killer. That would certainly be a piece of good fortune, would it not?”

Gorman stared at the time and date stamp.

“So, Pat, are you ready to do business?”

“Why me? The Washington Post can pay a lot more, and they’d print your proof immediately. I publish a weekly.”

“You’ll put out a special edition if we do business. That’s one of my conditions.”

“Okay, but you still haven’t explained why you want to do business with Exposed. Our credibility isn’t the best. Aren’t you afraid the White House will just claim this is a hoax?”

“You know who Dale Perry is?”

“The lawyer who committed suicide.”

“Only I don’t think he did. Dale is the man who hired me to follow Walsh for his client. I was spotted when I took these pictures. A few hours after I took the shots, two men attacked me in my apartment and demanded the pictures. I shot one of them and escaped.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I wish I was. Several nights later, I met Dale at a bar to arrange for the sale of the photos to the president. More men were waiting for me when I left, but I managed to slip by them. The fact that Dale is dead tells me that the president isn’t buying. I need money fast so I can go on the run. You’re the owner of Exposed. If I talk to the Post it will take time to get the money. For the amount I want, a Post reporter would have to talk to his editor, who would have to get permission from the board of directors. Then they wouldn’t pay until they’d investigated. The longer I wait, the greater the chance Farrington’s men will find me. I need those pictures published fast. Once they’re front-page news the president won’t have any reason-other than revenge-to want me dead. And he’d be the prime suspect if I die. My only hope of staying alive is that the scandal will make Farrington forget about me.”

“How do I know these are real? It’s easy to fake digital pictures.”

“You publish stories about Bigfoot and alien abductions, Gorman. Why do you care if they’re real?”

“Because this story isn’t about Bigfoot. You don’t call the president of the United States a murderer without unimpeachable proof.”

“Fair enough, Pat. Check the clothing.”

Gorman looked puzzled.

“The pictures of Walsh show the clothes she was wearing when she went to the farmhouse. The Ripper’s victims were all found fully clothed. Find out if the clothes on the corpse are the same as the clothing in my photographs.”

Gorman was quiet for a moment. Then he turned in his seat so he was facing Dana.

“I’m not going to print these pictures if this is hoax, but if they’re real I’ll go after this story with everything I have.”

Oregon/Washington, D.C.

Claire had finished reading this evening’s installment of Peter Pan to Patrick when the president walked into his son’s bedroom.

“Do you think I could fly, Dad?” Patrick asked.

Chris saw the book they were reading. “Definitely,” he said, “if you were sprinkled with pixie dust.”

“Can you get some pixie dust?” Patrick asked hopefully.

Chris walked over to the bed and ruffled his son’s hair. “I’ll get the Department of Defense right on it. Now, hit the hay. I’ve got something I have to talk over with your mom.”

Claire tucked Patrick in and followed her husband into a sitting room near Patrick’s bedroom. The president shut the door. For the first time, Claire noticed that her husband was holding a rolled-up newspaper.

“We have a problem and I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Christopher held the paper out to her. The bright red headline in Exposed read:

PRESIDENT’S LOVE TRYST WITH TEENAGE MURDER VICTIM EXPOSED.

Under the headline was a photograph of Charlotte Walsh yelling at someone who was half exposed in the doorway of a house and a second photograph of the president standing in front of the house.

Claire stared dumbstruck at the headline and the photographs.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Christopher looked at the floor, unable to meet his wife’s uncomprehending gaze.

“I fucked up, Claire. I know I promised you I wouldn’t do this again, and I feel awful about betraying you but…”

“Someone photographed you?” Claire asked incredulously as she stared at him wide-eyed. “It wasn’t enough that you cheated on me? You had to make sure the world found out?”

The president continued to look at his shoes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say, you dumb bastard.”

Claire read the story beneath the photographs. Then she threw the paper onto the polished wood coffee table so hard it bounced.

“You have made me look ridiculous. You have disgraced me and your son. I’m an adult. I can survive this-God knows I survived your other affairs-but Patrick is a child.”

Chris was smart enough to stifle any urge to respond. Claire paced back and forth, her eyes blazing. Then she picked up the paper and threw it in her husband’s face. He made no move to protect himself and the tabloid fell to the floor.

Claire stood inches from him. “You fix this, you hear. You get this fixed. If you lose this election I will leave you. Do you understand me. You’ll be back in Portland chasing ambulances, and Patrick and I won’t be with you.”

Claire turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Just before she slammed the door, Christopher heard her say, “I hope she was worth it.”

Brad smiled as soon as Ginny walked into the bar at the Shanghai Clipper. They had started meeting at the restaurant after work, and these get-togethers had become the best thing about his day. The worst part of his day was his job, which had gotten a lot tougher since his disastrous meeting the week before with Susan Tuchman. Brad thought that he might be unemployed if Richard Fuentes hadn’t told the Dragon Lady that Brad had done the right thing when he pursued their client’s claim of actual innocence and turned over the pinkies to Paul Baylor, the private forensic expert, instead of the police. But Fuentes wasn’t any happier than Tuchman that Brad had dug up the corpses and moved the pinkies before consulting with the partner who was supervising him.