Capitol Murder (10 page)

“I’d like to know what time of day it was. If it was during work hours, that means the
taxpayer was paying for it. Maybe he was, too, I don’t know. But if it was the taxpayer, I’m
angry.”

“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.

“Heard anything from Loving?” Christina asked. She had changed into a turquoise dress with a
hip-hugging waist that was positively lovely. Even some nice bling—a faux pearl necklace and
earrings.

“Barely.” Ben was wearing the same suit he’d had on all day. Of course, he had only three, and
the dry cleaning at the Watergate wasn’t that speedy, so he couldn’t afford to be extravagant.
“He did leave me a message. Thinks he’s got some kind of lead on Veronica Cooper’s friends.”

“’Bout damn time, as my father used to say.” She flagged the waiter and asked him to refill
her club soda. “You know how little we’ve got, and the prosecution has a mound of evidence. Not
to mention public opinion—a general populace predisposed to convict. Everyone commentator and
quidnunc in the city is talking about this case.”

“Because of the video?”

“Because this is a nation where news has been supplanted by gossip. Because most people would
rather think the worst of their elected officials than the best.”

“There is that . . .”

“And I don’t care what the judge says in court. As soon as the jurors see that video, in its
full and unexpurgated form, the burden of proof will be on us.”

“We don’t have to prove he’s a hero. Or even a nice guy. We just have to prove he’s not a
murderer. I think we should all but ignore the video, admit the affair. Focus on the murder, the
forensic evidence, the bizarre appearance of the corpse in the hideaway. Glancy’s alibi.”

“Padolino will do his darnedest to bust that alibi.”

“Just the same, that’s where we should concentrate our energy. That’s where Padolino has some
holes in his case. We should make the most of it.” He fidgeted with his fork. “Did I mention . .
. that’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing tonight. Have I seen it before?”

She flashed her usual fulgent smile. “This is what I always wear when we go someplace
nice.”

“So that would mean . . .”

“You’ve seen it twice.”

“Well . . . it looks . . . particularly nice tonight.” He wanted to slap himself. Ben, you
smooth talker. More talk like that and she’ll be putty in your hands.

“You’re sweet. But I’ve had it for years. It’s getting worn. I should go shopping.”

“Well, we are in DC. After the case is over . . .”

“Maybe if we win. And you actually collect a fee this time.”

“Christina . . .”

“Just joshing, partner.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You know I care
nothing about monetary gain. Why else would I work with you?”

“I think our only danger is that Glancy will spend too much on associated counselors. How many
people are technically a part of this defense team now?”

“I think we’re up to ten, counting the local counsel that have been assisting on the paperwork
and document review, the DNA expert, and the appeals expert.”

“Both of whom are totally unnecessary at this time.”

She nodded her agreement. “My theory is that Glancy wants to have more lawyers than O. J. and
Jacko combined. It’s an ego thing. And if he can afford it . . .”

“Whatever. Just so they’re invisible in the courtroom. I don’t want the jury to get the idea
Glancy is trying to buy his way out of trouble.” He glanced at the list in the center of the
table. “Did you want some wine?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Does this mean the Four Georges doesn’t stock chocolate milk?”

“
Très
amusing. I just thought you might like a little stress-reducer.” And as a
matter of fact, yes, the waiter had whispered to him earlier that there was no chocolate milk,
but she didn’t need to hear that. What she needed to hear . . . well, he knew perfectly well what
she needed to hear. So why wasn’t he able to say it? “You know, Christina, I really . . . really
appreciate your help on this case. You were invaluable in the courtroom today.”

“That’s what partners do.”

“Read jurors’ minds?”

“They complete each other. Make a whole greater than the sum of the parts. That’s true for . .
. all kinds of partners.”

Well that was unsubtle, even for Christina, the Queen of Blunt. Ben cleared his throat and
fiddled nervously with the menu until the waiter blessedly reappeared.

The menu selections were extremely rarefied for Ben’s taste, but he managed to order something
he was pretty sure involved beef; Christina had the grilled salmon. After they’d given their
order and the waiter poured the Beaujolais, Ben pitched various approaches to his opening
statement to Christina. She didn’t like any of them. Too defensive, too exculpatory. The trick
was to remind the jurors that this was about murder, not sex; to direct them to disregard the
video without appearing to make excuses for it. “If I were you,” she advised, “I’d just come
straight out the first time I addressed them and say—”

“Excuse me.”

Ben looked up and saw a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee standing next to the
table beneath one of the pseudo-palm trees. He was staring at Ben with a crazed, walleyed
expression. Ben didn’t know who the man was, but he was certain he’d seen him in the courtroom
earlier. “Yes?”

“Are you two the lawyers defending Thomas Glancy?”

“We’re the lead trial counsel, yes.” Ben pondered. Reporter? Police officer? Autograph hound?
“We’re working in affiliation with a number of—”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Uh, I’m . . . sorry, no.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory?” Before Ben had a chance to react, the man had grabbed
Ben’s wineglass and flung the drink into his face.