Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“Point taken, but we’re still dealing with a lot of speculation. What do you think, Keith?”

“I think there’s a lot to what Brad’s said. We’ve checked the phone records of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Claire Farrington took her nap. They were made around ten in the evening, but they were made within five minutes of each other. Unfortunately, we can’t pinpoint the time that the Secret Service agents saw Hawkins leave the adjoining suite so we can’t prove that he didn’t make both calls, but the time interval suggests two different callers.

“And we’ve also come up with this,” Evans said as he handed copies of two grainy, black-and-white photographs to Justice Kineer. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.

“These were taken by a surveillance camera in the stairwell leading down to the lobby of the Theodore Roosevelt shortly after ten. I’ve had an agent make a trial run for me. A person leaving at this time and driving at night when the traffic would be minimal could get to the spot in the mall where Walsh parked in enough time to disable Walsh’s vehicle and hide herself.”

“Is there any way to determine if this person is a man or a woman?” Kineer asked. “I can’t tell.”

Evans shook his head. “We can’t determine the sex.”

Kineer looked around the room. “Any suggestions on what to do next?”

When no one answered Kineer smiled. “Do I have any volunteers who want to accuse a pregnant first lady of being a serial murderer?”

Keith Evans had survived gunfights and gone one-on-one with hardened psychopaths, but he still felt insecure as he followed the Secret Service agent up the stairs to the family quarters of the White House. The agent tried to convince himself that this would be like any other witness interview, but he failed miserably. He and Justice Kineer were not going to be grilling some two-bit drug dealer. They were going to be interrogating the first lady of the United States, an expectant mother who was married to the most powerful man in the world. Evans knew his career could go swirling down the toilet if he screwed up.

The Secret Service agent opened a door for Kineer and Evans, and they stepped into a cozy sitting room. The upholstered furniture sported a bright floral pattern that matched the drapes surrounding several floor-to-ceiling windows. Along the walls were a cherrywood writing desk and tall cupboards displaying pewter mugs and dinnerware from colonial times. Pastoral landscapes in gilt frames added to the feeling that the visitors were going to conduct their interview in the country home of an eighteenth-century American.

A man of average size, dressed in a dark blue business suit and sporting a trim, salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rimmed glasses was waiting at the door.

“Good afternoon, Mort,” Roy Kineer said to Morton Rickstein.

“Good afternoon, Judge,” Rickstein replied. The dapper lawyer and the former justice weren’t friends, but they’d bumped into each other often enough at social and legal functions to call themselves acquaintances.

“Do you know Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked.

“We’ve met on a few occasions,” Kineer answered, turning toward the woman seated in front of a tall window through which the sun shone. Claire Farrington’s back was straight and a smile of mild amusement played on her lips as she studied her visitors the way a queen might regard a supplicant from an outlying part of her realm.

Kineer had forgotten how large and powerful Claire Farrington looked. The first signs of motherhood did nothing to diminish his feeling that it would have been easy for her to overpower girls like Charlotte Walsh and Laurie Erickson.

“This is Keith Evans, Dr. Farrington,” Kineer said. “He’s with the FBI, but I had him seconded to me because he was the lead investigator in the D.C. Ripper case.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Evans,” Farrington said. “You did fine work apprehending Eric Loomis.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, noting that she hadn’t complimented him for arresting Charles Hawkins.

Kineer and Evans found a seat on a couch that was catty-corner to Claire Farrington’s high-backed chair. Evans placed his attaché case on the floor next to a coffee table made of dark polished wood.

“Why do you feel it’s necessary to interview Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked when Evans and the judge were comfortable.

“She’s a close personal friend of Charles Hawkins,” Justice Kineer answered.

“You don’t intend to call her as a witness, do you?”

“I can’t guarantee that. Dr. Farrington was with Mr. Hawkins on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder and may have evidence relevant to the case.”

“I understood that Mr. Hawkins has confessed and plans to plead guilty. If there’s not going to be a trial why would you need Dr. Farrington?”

“It’s not sufficient to obtain a confession,” Kineer said to the attorney before changing his focus from Rickstein to the first lady. “We have to be certain that Mr. Hawkins committed the crimes to which he’s confessing. Sometimes people confess to a crime they didn’t commit because they’re mentally ill or they want publicity or they’re covering up for the real perpetrator.”

Farrington’s expression and demeanor didn’t alter.

“Do you have any reason to doubt Mr. Hawkins’s confession?” Rickstein asked.

“There are parts of it that are causing us some concern so, unfortunately, we have to keep pressing our investigation.”

“What parts?” Rickstein asked.

Kineer smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t go into that at this time. Confidentiality and all that. You understand, Mort.”

“Sure. Why don’t we get on with this. You ask your questions and Dr. Farrington will answer them unless I tell her not to or she doesn’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” Kineer said. He turned to Evans. “Keith knows more about the cases so he’ll be asking the questions. Keith?”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us. I know you’re really busy,” Evans said.

“Chuck is a dear friend. I can’t believe what’s happening to him.”

Evans nodded sympathetically. “Where did you two meet?”

“We were all in the same year at OSU.”

“Oregon State University?”

“Yes. And we were all athletes. He and Chris were on the basketball team, and I played volleyball.”

“I hear you were very good.”

“Yes, I was,” Claire answered without hesitation.

“Was Mr. Hawkins very good?”

“Not particularly. He wasn’t a starter like Chris. He had some good games but most of the time he rode the bench.”

“I understand you and Mr. Hawkins dated in college.”

“Yes.”

“Did you go out with the president at OSU?”

“We double-dated, Chuck and me and Chris with whoever he was dating.”

“So the president and Mr. Hawkins were close?”

“Yes.”

“Did the president have a steady girlfriend in college?”

A look of distaste changed the first lady’s features for a second and then it was gone.

Claire answered stiffly. “Chris was the big man on campus and found it easy to attract women.”

“When did you start going out with the president?” Evans asked.

“Isn’t this getting a bit far afield?” Rickstein asked. “Dr. Farrington has a busy schedule, and she’s been gracious enough to set aside this time for you, but we’ll be here forever if you go over information that’s readily available in every magazine and newspaper that’s been covering the campaign.”