William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“I’ve had no reason not to be. Don’t misunderstand-I’m not saying I don’t want to nail your client. But I haven’t got any grudge against you, so there haven’t been any sneaky courtroom tricks, leaks to the press, any of that rot. And I plan to keep it that way.” He pointed a finger. “I do intend to win this case. But I’m going to do it the right way.”

“Fair enough.”

“We’re opponents. We don’t have to be enemies.”

Could I possibly clone this guy, Ben wondered, or take him home with me?

“You’re wrong about the reporters, though. They really don’t have it in for defense attorneys. Despite all the babble about the ‘liberal media,’ I’m not even sure reporters have opinions of their own anymore. All today’s journalists care about is ratings. Circulation numbers. Popularity quotients. Nielsens. It’s ironic, really. They criticize politicians for making decisions based upon poll results. But they do exactly the same thing.”

“That’s a rather heterodox viewpoint. Especially coming from a Republican.”

“Answer me this: who did the press come down harder on? Reagan, during the Iran-Contra scandal, or Clinton, during the Lewinsky affair?”

“Clinton. By a mile.”

“Right. Now let’s weigh their relative importance. The Clinton scandal was about a man cheating on his wife. The Reagan scandal was, well, treason. Conducting secret foreign policy in direct contravention of Congress. And remember, you’re talking to a very right-wing guy here. But the fact remains-the press didn’t batter Reagan one one-hundredth as much as they did Clinton. Why? Because Reagan’s popularity ratings were huge. Everyone loved the man. He was sweet and slightly doddering, like everyone’s favorite grandfather. And everyone was overwhelmed with intaxication.”

“What?”

“The euphoria induced by a tax cut, which overcomes people’s recollection that it was their money in the first place. Anyway, attacking that sweet, senile old man with the dyed pompadour would’ve turned people off big-time. So the media softballed him.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, “Clinton did lie about the affair.”

“Yeah, and Reagan lied about Nicaragua. Dubya lied about having a drunk driving record and he’s been obscenely evasive about his past drug use. Why wasn’t the liberally biased press all over that? Because dumb as the man is, he comes off on television as very likable, a regular guy. Clinton was smart and capable but not necessarily someone you’d want over for dinner; they could beat up on him all night long.” He grinned. “That’s your main problem in this case, you know, Ben. Everyone knows Glancy is smart. Very, very smart. You’d be much better off if you were representing an amiable dunce.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “Fascinating as this is, it looks like it’s time for us to get back to the salt mines.”

“Right.” Padolino swiveled his feet around and stretched. “One more question, though. That partner of yours. Miss McCall.”

“What about her?”

“Are all the lady lawyers in Oklahoma that hot? ’Cause that sure isn’t how we grow them up here.”

Ben couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t insult someone, so he kept his mouth closed.

“My assistants tell me you and she have a thing going. True?”

Ben licked his lips, stuttered. “A-a thing? I don’t know what that means.”

“The hell you don’t. Tell me the truth. Some of my people think you’re working your mojo on that saucy little intern of Glancy’s-”

“Shandy?”

“-but my investigators, the ones I really trust, say you and Christina are the item. One step away from wedding bells.”

“Well, I-I wouldn’t go as far as-”

“So it wouldn’t bother you if I asked her out? Because I really want to ask her out.”

Ben coughed, grabbed his briefcase. “I-I can’t tell you what to do. Your business, not mine.” He hustled toward the door, suddenly feeling more stressed than he had when he came in. “Enjoyed the chat. See you in court.”

Loving sat by himself on the side of the cavernous wood-paneled room, eyes wide. He’d seen some pretty weird stuff in his time, especially since he’d started working for Ben Kincaid. But this joint was setting a new personal best for weirdness. Compared to this, the Goth club was a set from Leave It to Beaver.

The most prominent features of the room, so far as Loving could tell, were inlaid wood, low lighting, cobwebs, and dust. He had the impression that it had once been used for something else, but the former owners had stripped it clean, which explained why there was nothing hanging on the walls-no books on the shelves, no furniture other than the most rudimentary tables and chairs. The dust and cobwebs also signaled a lack of care, or perhaps just a décor that appealed to the members of Circle Thirteen.

As the hour passed, the room slowly filled with people. They were quiet, somber folks; even the ones who entered with a group tended not to interact much. They were here for a reason, Loving surmised, but unlike the habitués of Stigmata, they weren’t here to party. As with the Goths, the attire of the denizens of Circle Thirteen tended to be predominantly black, but Loving saw none of the tongue-in-cheek, campy, Haunted Mansion spirit that he’d spotted at Stigmata. Here it was monotone black suits, even tuxes, floor-length drab dresses, some of them with a long train. There was no music, no dancing. Whatever it was these guys were planning on doing, they took it very seriously.

Loving and Daily had had no trouble getting in. This time they’d had the sense to dress in solid black, head-to-toe-Loving even forked over some cash for a pair of black high-top sneakers. There were no bouncers or bodyguards here, thank God. But if they didn’t worry about security, did that mean nothing of interest would happen? Loving saw no signs of drugs or booze-not even smoking. Not that he was looking for trouble, but if they didn’t encounter any, it probably meant they weren’t on the right track.

“You think they’re okay?” Loving whispered to Daily.

“Sure. They’re clean-cut, law-abiding vampires.”

“They did have a website, even if it was supposed to be restricted. I don’t think they’d have a website if somethin’ criminal was goin’ down.”

Daily scoffed. “Where have you been, Loving? I read in the Post about drug dealers that have their own websites, making deals, transferring funds via PayPal. They use code words to describe the goods, but the transactions are still taking place on the Web. The pushers’ once ubiquitous cell phones have been replaced by instant messaging.” He paused. “You know what instant messaging is, right?”

“Wrong. And I don’t want to, either. Look, let’s split up. We stand out enough individually. Together, we look too much like cops for anyone to talk to us.”

Daily nodded and headed for the opposite end of the room. Loving walked over to a round table large enough to accommodate eight people. If he sat, maybe someone would join him, drawn by his animal magnetism. Did vampires have animal magnetism? he wondered. Well, then they’d be drawn by their sonar. Whatever.

He hadn’t been sitting long before he was joined by a woman who appeared to be in her midthirties. She was very tall, very thin, with a clinging chemise that draped around her feet. Long jet-black hair almost reached her waist. Dark eyes, dark mascara. Since she didn’t introduce herself, Loving decided he would call her Morticia.

“You’re new,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yeah,” Loving replied, trying to size her up as he spoke. What would a nice girl like her… never mind. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”