William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

Ben clamped his hand over her mouth. “Minicams, Christina. Big powerful microphones. Talking out loud bad.”

Christina clenched her teeth and remained silent.

A few minutes later, a black van from DC’s Central Detention Center rolled up to the curb and Senator Glancy stepped out of the back. He raised one arm into the air, and all at once the crowd went wild, cheering, calling out his name, whistling and thumping their feet. Ben felt more like he was at a rock concert than a murder trial. At any moment he expected someone to hold up a lighter.

“What did I tell you?” Bressler said, winking. “Advance men.”

Glancy’s intern, Shandy Craig, stepped out of the crowd and tugged at his sleeve. “Hair check.”

She scrutinized him carefully, then minutely adjusted the lie of his salt-and-pepper bangs.

“Teeth.”

Glancy flashed them for her.

“You’re clean. Go get ’em, tiger.”

Glancy jabbed his thumb back toward Shandy. “Is she the best, or what? Love that girl. Are we ready?”

“We are,” Ben answered. “But I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a very pleasant day for you.”

“We’ll make the most of it. Anything’s better than that hellhole where they’ve been keeping me. I don’t know where people get these ideas about politicians going to country club prisons. The DC jail is the pits.”

Having visited him on several occasions, Ben knew this was true. It was a no-perks enterprise operating on a constrained budget. The visitors’ room didn’t even have separated chambers; every time Ben talked to Glancy he had to shout to be heard over the clatter of all the other attorneys and relatives.

Glancy turned toward the crowd and flashed them a grateful smile-the kind of million-watt grin that gets men elected to public office and keeps them there-then moved with calm and grace toward the front steps. As negotiated with the incarceration officials and the prosecution in the spirit of fair play, Glancy had been provided with a freshly pressed suit and grooming equipment, and his keepers remained several paces behind him out of camera range, so he could enter the courtroom looking like a senator-not a murderer. As he passed by, dozens of people thrust out their hands, and he shook a few, though never slowing his advance up the stairs. Ben couldn’t help but admire the style, the savoir faire that allowed a man in such dire circumstances to emerge looking more like a returning astronaut than an accused murderer.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, Glancy started toward the podium.

With a subtle sidestep, Ben blocked his progress. “Wait a minute. We need to move on to the courtroom.”

“I’m giving a press conference,” Glancy said, smiling. “I’m a politician, Ben. It’s what we do.”

“No way,” Ben replied, standing firm. “I told you. You say nothing unless and until we put you on the witness stand.”

“This is a critical moment, politically speaking,” Glancy explained. “The press has been building toward this for months. They expect me to say something. I can’t let them down.”

“Listen to me,” Ben said, keeping his voice down so the mikes surrounding him wouldn’t pick it up. “This is not a campaign. You’re on trial for murder. Under the new federal execution act, the jury has the option to give you the death penalty.”

“But the potential jurors have already been sequestered, right? They won’t be able to hear what I say.”

“True, but-”

“Please excuse me.” His face remained calm. To anyone who couldn’t hear what was being said, it would look as if two close friends were having an amiable chat. He started again toward the podium.

“Todd.” Ben held his arm. “When I agreed to take on this murder case, you agreed that you would follow my instructions. To the letter.”

“As regards the case, yes. As regards my career-well, I think my political advisers are more qualified to make those decisions, don’t you?”

“Todd, if you endanger-”

“I’m not going to say anything that will help the prosecution, or that will even directly relate to the case.” He gently removed Ben’s hand from his arm. “You know how to play your game, Ben, and I respect that. Now let me play mine.”

Glancy squared himself behind the podium. He started to speak, but another round of cheers and applause erupted, drowning him out. Ben wondered what his advance men had done to trigger that. Paid off a wino? Goosed a maiden aunt?

“My friends,” Glancy began. Even in these circumstances, something about the way he said it, his crisp mellifluous voice, the way he looked squarely into the camera as he spoke, made you want to believe it. “I thank you for your support during these troubled times. I particularly thank those of you who have been so kind to my wife, Marie. My lawyer won’t let me talk about the case-and you know how those lawyers act when they don’t get their way.”

The crowd laughed heartily. What was all this “those lawyers” jazz? Ben wondered. Hadn’t Glancy picked up a JD way back when, too?

“Nonetheless, I can assure you that when this is over-and it will be over soon-I will be back to work, doing what I’ve always done: defending and protecting the best interests of my constituents.” The resultant swell of cheers and enthusiasm almost drowned out his closing. “Thank you again for your support. See you on the other side.”

Loving drummed his fingers on the desktop. He circled Jones’s workstation, pacing trails into the burgundy carpet. He checked his watch. He gazed at the view of the Main Mall out the north window of their borrowed office space. He shuffled through his papers and daily reports. And then he sat back down and drummed his fingers some more.

“Would you cut that out!” Jones said, finally.

“Huh? What?”

“Everything! All of it. The pacing, the fiddling, the drumming. You’re driving me insane!”

“Short drive,” Loving muttered. “Why are you so touchy?”

“Because I’m swamped! As you may recall, the trial we’ve been prepping for the past five months began today. I have a mound of motions and other paperwork to deal with.”

“Didn’t Glancy hire a team of big-firm lawyers to do that kinda stuff?”

“Yes, a magnificent beau geste designed to show his gratitude to Ben-that hasn’t helped in the least. A bunch of twenty-eight-year-olds in starched shirts billing three hundred dollars an hour. Give me a break. I’d rather do it myself.”

Loving frowned. “Least you can make yourself useful.”

“You’re the resident hawkshaw. Don’t you have some investigating to do?”

“I’ve been investigatin’ for five months. And I haven’t come up with squat.”

“No theories?”

“Oh, I got lots of theories. The Trilateral Commission runs this town-they’re behind all the big power plays. There’s basically thirteen old men who run the world.”

Jones resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d long since become accustomed to Loving’s endless supply of conspiracy theories. “Got anything Ben could conceivably use in court?”

“Nah. I’ve interviewed all the witnesses. Everyone who might know somethin’ about the case. Looked under every rock. And struck out each time.” He was interrupted by a computer chip rendition of the William Tell Overture. “’Scuse. That’s my cell.”

Jones turned back to his screen. “Probably Ben wanting me to run him over some pencils or something. As if I had nothing better to do.”

“Yeah?” Loving said, as he snapped open the phone.

The voice on the other end was low and whispery. “You the one looking for intel on the Cooper killing?”

Loving’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I am. Who’s this?”