William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“Did the senator vote to send our boys to the Middle East? ’Cause if he voted for that one, you better get me off this jury right here and now.”

“Only thing I want to know is where the girl got that outfit. I mean, not that I would ever wear anything like that. I was just, you know. Curious.”

“Way I see it, them boys up in Washington been screwin’ us for years. What’s so special ’bout this one?”

In a few instances, the judge removed prospective jurors sui sponte. The woman who was way too interested in the deceased’s undergarments, for instance. But for the most part, he left it to the lawyers. After each round of questioning, Ben and Padolino approached the bench and quietly informed the judge who they wanted replaced. Ben took most of his cues from Christina-although he was able to deduce that the “angry taxpayer” needed to go on his own. Time and experience had proven to him that Christina had a preternatural gift for understanding people-far greater than his own. By the time he had a juror’s name down, Christina had figured out her age, socioeconomic background, political persuasion, sexual preference, and whether she was a cat person or a dog person. Christina wanted a jury composed principally of ailurophiles-cat people. He had no idea why. But he didn’t argue.

Eventually both sides used up their peremptories. After that, they had to come up with a good reason to remove a juror, persuasive arguments why an answer indicated bias. And they found that Judge Herndon was not easily persuaded. Maybe it was his usual resistance to prolonged jury selection; maybe it was because he knew the eyes of the world were on him and he was determined not to come off as a Judge Ito who let the lawyers push him around. Either way, eventually the questions and the challenges bottomed out and they had twelve jurors and four alternates.

“Opening statements at nine A.M. sharp,” the judge informed them. Then he thanked the jurors for their cooperation and gave them detailed preliminary instructions. They would be sequestered for the length of the trial.

“What do you think?” Ben asked as he returned to the defendant’s table. “Did we get a good jury?”

“I think you did the best you could with what we drew,” Christina said.

“What does that mean?” Glancy asked. “Do they like me or are they going to hang me out to dry?”

“My name’s Christina, not Sibyl,” she replied. “The outcome will depend on what happens when the witnesses take the stand.”

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t ask if the jurors were Republicans or Democrats,” Glancy groused. “That’s the most important question-certainly the most relevant. And the judge never asked it.”

“Because it is totally impermissible, even in this case,” Ben answered. “There are about a hundred cases on point. Courts have to follow precedent-previous rulings on the same issue. Even the Supreme Court.”

“So you’re telling me the Supreme Court followed precedent when they butted into the 2000 election and made Dubya the leader of the free world?”

Ben turned his eyes toward his legal pad. “Let’s stay focused on the case at hand, shall we?”

Of all the two-bit gin joints in the world, Loving mused to himself, this was about the only one Ben hadn’t already sent him to-always in the hope of rooting out the truth by exploiting Loving’s knack for worming information out of the bottom-feeders of society. Ben didn’t like bars, had a coughing fit whenever someone lit up, and couldn’t lie to save his soul, so he needed someone else to handle these assignments. Loving got that. But someday he was going to draw the line. That day would not be today, however. He wasn’t going to pass this one up just because of the décor.

Which was actually quite nice, as it turned out, a step up from the usual haunts he ventured into in search of unfound knowledge. Martin’s Tavern, in Georgetown on Wisconsin Avenue, was a national landmark dating back to 1933. The look of the place appealed to Loving-lots of dark stained wood, very colonial, from the booths to the long oak bar that flanked the north wall. And the waiters wore distinguished green jackets-pretty swank for a tavern.

Loving scanned the clientele as he passed through the building. Looked like a sports bar, except he saw a lot of people who might actually be capable of playing a sport rather than simply watching one on the tube from behind a mountain of six-packs. He wouldn’t mind stepping up to the bar for a quick quaff himself, but not while he was on duty. He had to keep his wits about him. As he’d learned long ago-when you’re working one of Ben’s cases, you should prepare for the unexpected. Which was of course, by definition, impossible.

He found the rear door and the alleyway his mysterious informant had mentioned without any trouble. It was dark and squalid and had a penetrating stench. Loving didn’t know how often the garbage was collected back here, but it wasn’t often enough. He kept tripping over trash can lids or stepping into squishy lumps he couldn’t identify, which was probably just as well. The alley seemed to cut through the better part of a city block, but most of the back doors weren’t labeled, so he had no way of knowing which one might lead to the purported escort service, much less to the mysterious Lucille. He might still be walking back and forth in that alley if he hadn’t spotted a man exiting quickly from one of the doors, hitching and adjusting his pants as he walked, a euphoric smile on his face.

Ah, Loving thought. One of those kinds of escort services.

He knocked on the door, wondering if he needed a secret knock or handshake. Fortunately, that didn’t prove necessary. The door opened a crack. A pair of dark female eyes became just barely visible. “Yeah?”

“I’m here to see Lucille,” Loving replied.

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“Darn! I forgot to call ahead. But-”

“She isn’t seeing any more clients tonight.”

“Are you sure? Maybe if you asked, she-”

“I’m sure. She… had a bad experience. Asked for the rest of the night off. But we have other escorts on duty tonight. What are your requirements?”

“My… uh, requirements?”

“What exactly were you looking for? We have other redheads. Other large-breasted women. Much larger, in fact.”

Loving squirmed. “No, it, uh, has to be Lucille.”

The crack in the door began to narrow. “Try again another night, cowboy. If you want to avoid disappointment, make an appointment.”

Loving thrust his toe forward, stopping the door.

The woman’s face turned cold. “Look, buddy, I’m not alone here. You may think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve got three guys inside just as big as you who’ll rip your-”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Loving assured her. “I just gotta talk to Lucille.”

“Then come back another night. There’s no way-”

“Tell her it’s about Amber.” It was a shot in the dark, but he had to try something. “Tell her I’m looking for Amber.”

The two coal-black eyes in the narrow slit stared at him for a long moment. A good thirty seconds passed before Loving heard the sound of the door chain being released.

“You can come inside. But stay in the lobby. I’ll ask Lucille if she’s up to it.” She held up a finger. “You better not be screwing with us.”

“Gosh, no,” Loving said. “I wouldn’t dream of… trying to screw with someone here. At the escort service.”

She gave him another long look. “Back in sixty seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”

Senator Glancy had recommended the Four Georges at the Georgetown Inn for dinner; he’d even made the reservation himself on Ben’s cell phone and told the maître d’ to put it on his tab. He wasn’t attending himself, since the federal marshals collected him as soon as the jury was dismissed, but Ben and Christina opted to take his recommendation-and his free meal. They were seated in the elegant and somewhat exclusive George II room-apparently senators had pull in this town, even when they were currently residing in a holding cell. The room was decorated in a desert motif: palm trees, or something that looked like them, brick-laid walls painted a sandy hue and ornamented with several variegated mosaics. They didn’t have to sit on the carpet or wear turbans, but the low tables and the belly-dancing music still conveyed the desired ambience.