William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“That’s not important.”

“I gotta call you somethin’.”

“Fine.” There was a short, bitter laugh. “Call me Deep Throat.”

Loving felt his heart race. “Like-in that movie they showed at my brother-in-law’s bachelor party?”

“The-what? No, like in-never mind. You don’t need to call me anything. But I can help you.”

“How?”

“You want Glancy to get off, don’t you?”

“That’s our goal, yeah,” Loving said, not quite answering the question. Having seen that video several times too often, he personally had a hard time getting worked up about whether Glancy was convicted. This was a job he was working for Ben, period. “How can you help?”

“The secret to saving the accused,” the voice continued, “is finding out more about the victim.”

“I’ve investigated the victim. For months. I know where she grew up and what her favorite colors were and what grades she made in junior high science. I’ve talked with her mom. I know everything about the woman.”

The softness of his voice gave his chuckle an eerie hollowness. “No, you don’t. Not by a long shot.”

“Okay, hotshot, tell me what I don’t know.”

“Not over the phone.”

“Oh, puh-lese.”

“Will you meet me? Someplace safe?”

“What is it with you Washington clowns?” Loving said. “Can’t you ever just talk to someone like a normal human being?”

“No, I can’t. If he found out-”

“If who found out?”

“I can’t tell you that. But if you’ll agree to meet me…”

“Fine.” Loving acted exasperated, but in reality he was elated. It was a lead-or at least the promise of a lead. Even if the guy was a kook, which was the most likely case, it would give him something to do. “Where you wanna meet?”

“How about the Reflecting Pool. You’re already near, right?”

“Where exactly? It’s a big pool.”

“I can’t specify a location. I have to remain fluid. To keep watch for people who might recognize me.”

Loving felt his patience draining. “Then how am I gonna find you?”

“You won’t have to. Just leave your office, right now, walk across to the Pool, find an empty bench, and make yourself comfortable.” He paused. “When it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

The courtroom was as silent as a vacuum while all assembled waited for the judge to arrive. It was almost like a wedding: the supporters of the defendant were seated on the right side of the courtroom behind the defense table, next to the jury box. The prosecution, the deceased’s family, and most of the press sat on the left. No cameras were allowed in the courtroom, but there were record numbers of notepads, sketch artists, and laptops with padded keyboard silencers and Wi-Fi transmitters that beamed each word back to a receiving station in Glancy’s Glen.

Ben also spotted a number of Glancy’s fellow senators in the gallery. Presumably they got first dibs on the limited seats, if they wanted them. The Republicans had excoriated Glancy from the moment the body was found. The Democratic support was lukewarm at best: “I’m optimistic that when the truth is uncovered, we will find that Todd did not commit these horrific acts, despite appearances. But let me make it clear that I do not condone sexual harassment in the workplace…” That sort of thing. Although a motion to censure had been brought, it was tabled for the time being. Independent counsel had been appointed to investigate whether any violation of federal law “or Senate protocol” had occurred-but as yet, nothing had been done. They were all waiting to see what happened in the courtroom. Glancy had resisted calls for his resignation; if for no other reason, his replacement would be chosen by Oklahoma ’s current governor, a staunch Republican. Given how close the balance between the two parties was in the Senate at the moment, the outcome of this trial could affect far more than the future of Tom Glancy; it could quite literally affect the future of the nation itself.

No pressure there, Ben thought, muttering under his breath. None at all.

“Judge Herndon should be here soon.” Ben said. “Know him?”

“Ben, I know everyone in this town,” Glancy replied calmly. In dramatic contrast to the nervousness Ben was experiencing, the defendant was maintaining his usual implacable sangfroid. “Herndon is a Republican, alas. Been around a long while. Used to be in private practice, then he helped George Bush the First raise a lot of campaign dough and got himself appointed to a federal judgeship. He’s still active in the Republican machine. I’m surprised he hasn’t moved higher than the district court by now. It suggests several relevant possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Either he likes it where he is, or there’s a reason he can’t get anything better.”

“Heads up, Ben,” Christina whispered. “Enemy at five o’clock.”

Ben’s esteemed opponent, federal prosecutor Paul Padolino, headed his way. Padolino was a calm man, eminently reasonable, quiet and laconic, unlike most prosecutors. To Ben’s knowledge, he had not indulged in excessive gamesmanship and had not held repeated press conferences despite the fact that he reportedly had political ambitions. Nonetheless Ben knew that as soon as the judge’s gavel sounded, they would both relinquish all pretense of civility and begin a titanic struggle, each desperate to come out the victor.

Padolino paused at the defendant’s table, nodded politely to Christina, then looked Ben square in the eye. “Life, incarceration at the upscale prison in Arlington, possibility of parole in eight years.”

“You call that an offer?” Ben said. It was his standard reply to all plea bargains; the only thing it meant was that he needed more time to think.

“I call that the best you’re going to get. The prison I’m offering has tennis courts, for God’s sake. A nine-hole golf course.”

“Sorry, but-”

“Ben, once the trial starts, there’s no stopping it. All offers are off the table.”

Ben turned toward his client.

“No conversation required,” Glancy said, holding up a hand. “I did not commit this atrocity. I will not plead guilty to it, not if your offer was one day of community service at a candy factory.”

“And there you have it,” Ben said.

“I’m not kidding, Ben. This is our final offer.”

“And we’re declining.”

Padolino’s cool melted a bit. “You’re both being irrational. I’m trying to do you a favor!” He stomped back to his table.

Despite Padolino’s protest, Ben suspected he wasn’t all that surprised by their decline of his offer, or disappointed. No trial lawyer who’d come this far wanted to pack it in before it started.

Barely a minute later, Judge Herndon emerged from his chambers, preceded by his bailiff.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the bailiff chanted. The judge took his seat.

The trial had begun.

Leave immediately, the man had said. When it’s safe, I’ll find you, he’d promised. So where the heck was he?

Loving sat on a bench on the south side of the Reflecting Pool, crossing his legs from one side to the other, staring at the passing joggers, watching the squirrels in the trees, bored to tears. He’d never been good at sitting still. The view was lovely, not only the Pool but of the Lincoln Memorial at the opposite end and all the cherry trees lining the perimeter. But he hated waiting, and he hated all the oh-so-mysterious cloak-and-dagger baloney. That wasn’t how they operated back in Tulsa.

He checked his watch. He’d been sitting for more than an hour. Even if he didn’t have any other decent leads-or, for that matter, any indecent leads-this was more than he could bear. The guy obviously wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d give up on the chump and pay a visit to Honest Abe. There was a man you could count on.