William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

As he turned stealthily down the corridor to the private offices, he saw that Christina was already in. His spirits got an instantaneous lift, as they always did when he saw her. He almost said hello-then thought better of it and returned to stealth mode. They’d had a wonderful time together the night before, absolutely blissful: takeout from Right Wing, a new episode of Says You! on the radio, and some extremely gratifying snuggling. But when the evening came to an end, and they stood at the door together, and he’d given her one last goodbye kiss about as many times as was possible without it becoming ridiculous, she paused, held him at arm’s length, and waited.

He knew what she was waiting for. And the pathetic thing was, he wanted to comply. But he couldn’t make himself do it. No matter how hard he tried. So he bumbled something inane about what a “swell girl” she was, and she left.

Yes, he was definitely tiptoeing past her door, too.

He slid into his desk chair and thumbed through the mail Jones had left. Bills, bills, and more bills. A possible case in Creek County against a crop-dusting school. A small-time Internet florist that wanted to sue its fulfillment service. Nothing remotely interesting. Nothing likely to make him rich overnight. And nothing that was ever going to help him work up the nerve to do right by-

“Christina!” He sat upright, startled by her sudden appearance. “What-”

She marched past his desk, grabbed him by the shoulders, raised him to his feet, and planted a big wet one right on his lips.

“Ub-dub-what-”

“Yes, yes, I know your rules. No smoochies in the workplace. But today I think you’ve earned an exception. I just got word from the courthouse. Father Beale is going to be released!”

“You’re kidding!”

“You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that. He’s been wrongfully incarcerated for far too long. It’s an embarrassment to the entire state.”

“So our appeal finally worked.”

“Appeal, schmiel. It was your book that did it.” Not long after he had tried Father Beale’s case-and lost-Ben began writing his second nonfiction book. It had finally been published about a month before, and the sales had been considerably better than those for his first book-which meant they were at least in two-digit numbers. Bad Faith had also generated a fair amount of media attention, especially in legal circles.

“The governor, archconservative that he is, couldn’t help but get involved after you turned up the heat, Ben. People were calling for Father Beale’s release all over the state-heck, all over the nation. Greta van Susteren devoted an entire hour to the case, for Pete’s sake. Make no mistake, Ben-this had nothing to do with any judge, jury, or legal argument. You made this happen.”

“Well… I’m glad he’s getting out, anyway.” Which was putting it mildly. Father Beale had been Ben’s childhood priest, a man he loved dearly for all his faults. Losing his case had been a devastating blow. “I want to be there when he’s released.”

“I knew you would. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

“Great. That’s just… great.” Ben had been trying to avoid her eyes, but something about Christina made that impossible. Whether he wanted to or not, his gaze returned to her long strawberry-blond hair, her freckled nose. She was half a foot shorter than he was, and yet everything she did, everything she said exuded confidence and fortitude. “Look…” He hesitated. “About last night…”

Her eyes turned up. “Yes?”

“I just-I just wanted you to know that-that-”

“Yes?”

Ben felt beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “That you were totally robbed by that Says You! fake definition round. I mean, who on earth would know that babbing was some kind of eel fishing? Arnie has a way of bluffing that takes everyone in. And-and you shouldn’t feel bad about missing that one.”

Her head moved slowly up and down. “Thanks, Ben. Appreciate that.”

A large crew-cut head bobbed into the office. “Hey, you guys got the TV on?”

It was Loving, their investigator. A huge man, built like a storage freezer, but at heart as soft as a new pair of Hush Puppies.

“No,” Ben answered. “Why? Oprah going to help you find fulfillment by buying some book?”

“Nah. Somethin’ really excitin’. On C-SPAN.”

Something exciting on C-SPAN? Ben thought. That’ll be the day. “What about?”

“Come see for yourself. It’s that Senator Glancy guy.”

“Glancy?” Christina turned her head. “Don’t you know him, Ben?”

He nodded. “Went to law school with him.”

“Friends?”

He shrugged. “His family knew my family. Titans of Nichols Hills, that sort of thing. But no, he and I were never particularly close. My mother is constantly comparing us, throwing his success in my face.”

“Why? Because he was a successful and fabulously wealthy oil magnate and then got elected to the Senate, and you’re a-a-”

Ben waited. “Ye-es?”

“-a… increasingly prominent attorney. Let’s go see what Loving is talking about.” She did a quick about-face and headed out of the office.

Ben almost smiled. Smoothly done, Christina. Very smooth indeed.

Ben and Christina stared at the small television set in the office lobby, their lips parted. Even in black and white, it was difficult to believe. Or stomach.

“And you say they’ve been running this all morning?”

“Oh yeah,” Loving replied. “You know how these news guys are. They get their hands on somethin’ this good, they’re gonna find some reason to play it over and over again. Before, the talkin’ heads were usin’ it for a discussion of character issues. Now it’s some kinda chitchat about employer ethics. It’s all just a big dog-and-pony show so they can run the tape.”

Loving may have a homespun way of expressing himself, but Ben knew he wasn’t wrong. In a previous age, the press, of their own volition, declined to ever print a photo of FDR in a wheelchair or using leg braces. Today they would show… this. Repeatedly.

“How did they get it?” Ben wondered aloud.

“No one seems to be sure. They said the tape showed up on a C-SPAN reporter’s desk.”

“I am so totally disgusted,” Christina said. “I mean, an affaire de coeur is one thing, but this-”

“Jiminy Christmas,” Ben groaned. “They’re starting it again.”

Christina’s lips pursed. “Let’s just hope they resist the temptation to use slow motion.”

The video was black and white and grainy, but it was still clearly Senator Todd K. Glancy, D-OK, in the foreground, wearing a blue business suit. Kneeling before him on a sofa was a brunette woman who couldn’t possibly be older than her early twenties. She was wearing nothing but lacy undergarments, a black push-up brassiere, and panties connected by a garter strap to fishnet hose, like something you might see in a Victoria ’s Secret store window. No, Ben thought, it was too tacky for Victoria ’s Secret. Maybe Frederick ’s of Hollywood. No, still too tacky. Maybe Ashlyn’s Adult Toy and Costume Shop.

The lead anchor appeared on the screen, a somber expression on his face, continuing his prosaic commentary. “Again, we want to caution our viewers-what you are about to see will shock you. We are airing this only because it is clearly newsworthy, and because it could have profound ramifications for the future of this country. Nonetheless, if there are any impressionable minors in the viewing area, or for that matter anyone who might be offended by graphic sexual content, we strongly urge you to remove them, or to turn off your television immediately.”