Capitol Murder (13 page)

“Let me apologize in advance for the unpleasant nature of some of the evidence I will be
forced to present to you during the course of this trial. I don’t want to, but I have no choice.
Justice demands it. Much of what you see—some videotaped evidence in particular—will shock you,
will tear at the very core of your soul. As well it should. But it is important that you fully
understand the relationships of the parties, of the killer to his victim, and his proven attitude
and behavior toward her, so that you can see as clearly as I do what led to this
twenty-two-year-old woman’s tragic death.”

As Ben had anticipated, even though this was a capital murder case, Padolino was much more
interested in talking about the alleged sex crime evidenced by the video. His lurid topic allowed
him to avoid the usual bathetic cries for justice, and his considerable speaking skill prevented
this lengthy talk from having the soporific effect openings often had on juries anxious to get on
to the evidence. Padolino stuck to his strengths—the video could not be refuted, and it was
guaranteed to repel anyone who watched it. Proving the senator guilty of murder was a trickier
matter.

“Veronica Cooper graduated from the University of Virginia with high honors, receiving a BA in
political science. It had been her dream to work in the national arena, so you can imagine her
delight when she was hired by the distinguished senator from Oklahoma, a man considered one of
the most promising, most up-and-coming members of his party. And then imagine her dismay when she
found that her new job, her dream, required more than intelligence and hard work. Imagine her
horror when she learned, as the evidence will show, that the senator extracted far more than
legislative work from his interns.”

Ben and Christina exchanged a glance. He was in effect arguing evidence of pattern or habit,
that Glancy was an inveterate womanizer—evidence that could only be admissible given certain
narrowly prescribed circumstances. But the irony was that he was arguing a pattern of sexual
misconduct, which was not the crime for which Glancy was on trial. It was the crime for which
Padolino intended to hang him, to make the jury despise him before the evidence relating to the
murder was ever presented. Most of the opening proceeded in that manner. Ben was relieved when he
detected the telltale signs—Padolino’s approach to the jury rail, the lowering of his voice and
the lengthening of his dramatic pauses—that indicated he was coming to his conclusion. He knew
when it was time to stop—when the jury members understood what you were going to do but were
still hungry for the details, before they reached the point of rhetorical satiety.

“As the evidence will show, Senator Todd Glancy met his intern in a secluded part of the
Russell Senate Office Building and forced her to perform a repulsive sex act, documented by
graphic videotape. The tape was leaked, the man was exposed, and suddenly his entire future, all
his political ambitions, rested in the hands of that twenty-two-year-old intern whom he had
treated so shabbily. The evidence will show that he met with her and attempted to buy her
goodwill, or at least her silence, before the inevitable media deluge descended upon her. And
when she refused to cooperate, he met her in his private hideaway and killed her, in a violent,
bloody fashion. Once more showing his callousness, his utter lack of respect for her as a person,
he tossed her body onto his sofa and left her.” He paused. “And this from a man elected to the
highest legislative body in this great land.”

Padolino leaned across the rail, getting as close to the jurors as the judge would allow,
looking each of them directly in their eyes. “Does this man deserve to be punished? I should say
so. Does he deserve the greatest punishment it is in your power to decree? Again, I must answer
yes. Because the magnitude of his crime was great. And the magnitude of his violation was even
greater.”

Loving awoke, head throbbing. Despite the darkness and the turbid haze swirling through his
brain, he determined that he was affixed to a square-backed chair. He twisted a little each way,
testing the degree to which he was bound. Damn tight, as it turned out. As his vision cleared, he
was slowly able to make out the faint glint of silver emanating from his midsection.

Duct tape. Wouldn’t you know it. Thanks to George W. Bush, every crackpot in America now had a
roll of duct tape handy. Loving himself kept a backwoods survival cabin, a stockpile of fresh
water and canned goods, and invested only in gold coins, but even he wasn’t gullible enough to
fall for the duct tape malarkey. Among other reasons, he knew that no matter how tightly you were
taped, it was always possible to wiggle away—eventually. He could already feel some give around
his right arm. There was a gap between the back of the chair and the back of his arm that was
just loose enough to allow him to wriggle. Given enough time, he could get that arm free.

He continued twisting back and forth, but less than a minute later he heard the sound of a
poorly oiled heavy metallic door opening and closing. The hollowness of the echo, combined with
the visible concrete floor, suggested that he was in a large room—a warehouse, perhaps, or
something like it.

He heard footsteps approaching. He reduced the wiggling, still doing his best to worm free,
but careful not to let it become apparent.

A few moments later, a tall figure emerged from the darkness. He was about Loving’s age, maybe
a little younger. Thirtysomething. Black hair, with streaks of brown, tied into a ponytail in the
back. Stubble. Wearing a navy-blue jacket over a light blue buttondown shirt. Thin, wiry. Loving
sensed a near-palpable tension bottled up, like a soda that had been shaken way too many
times.

Loving decided to play it cool. “Thank goodness you’re here. Someone tied me up and left me, I
dunno how long ago. Have you got somethin’ you could use to cut this tape?”

Loving was not surprised that the man didn’t rush to help him. But he had hoped for at least a
wry chortle. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”

“Who says I am?”

The man continued to stare at him. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”

Could this be the man Deep Throat had been talking about? The one he was so scared of? “I’m
not lookin’ for anyone. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m duct-taped to a chair.”

Loving could almost feel the man’s rage. His nostrils flared; his chest rose. And yet his
voice remained perfectly modulated. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Loving said, trying a different tack. “It’s a job.”

“What have you learned so far?”

“Not much. Why d’you care?”

“I need to know everything you’ve learned.”

“And I need to take a leak, but at the moment neither one of us is gettin’ what we want,
huh?”

The man stepped forward with such suddenness that it took Loving by surprise. “Don’t toy with
me, asshole. I want to know what you’ve found out about Amber.”

“Sorry. That information’s strictly confidential. Rules of professional ethics.”

Like a jaguar finally permitted to pounce, the man sprang forward, lowering himself on one
knee. A flash of metal illuminated his hand.

As he inched closer, he pushed the switchblade against Loving’s throat. “This is your last
chance,” he growled. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”

Christina had to give Padolino credit where due. He was a silver-tongued devil—heavy emphasis
on the devil. He had written a magnificent opening, and delivered it to perfection, playing not
only to the jury but also to the press corps he knew would carry his words to the millions of
Americans following this high-profile case. Padolino was a gifted communicator.

Christina was not. Which was not to say she couldn’t talk to people—she could. But she didn’t
have the fancy vocabulary, the silky tone, the square jaw, or even the earnest expression. Her
strength was telling people what happened, straightforward and without embellishment. So that was
what she did.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, at this point you may well be wondering what this case is
all about, so let me help you out. Is this case about a sex crime? No. Is this case about sexual
harassment in the workplace? No. Is this a recall election for a U.S. senator? No. This is a
murder trial. So everything that doesn’t pertain to the murder—which would be about ninety-three
percent of what the distinguished prosecutor just said—is not relevant. We all know about the
videotape and we all know that there was an inappropriate”—she immediately wished she had said
“illicit,” a stronger word but one that would not stir memories of Clinton and
Lewinsky—“relationship. The defense will not even attempt to deny it. Not because we’re proud of
it. Far from it. It was disgraceful, as the senator himself would be the first to tell you. We
will not discuss or deny that because it has nothing to do with the murder. It gives you no
information, not even a clue, as to who killed Veronica Cooper. And that’s what we’re gathered
here today to determine. That’s the only thing that matters.”

She paused and took a breath. It was hard to read people at the same time she was speaking to
them. That was why she always preferred to let Ben do the big speeches—so she would be free to
watch, to observe the expressions on their faces, the tiny twitches, the slight but
ever-so-important rise of an eyebrow. She thought they understood what she was saying, that the
courtroom should be focused on the crime at hand, the murder. But she wasn’t at all sure they
were receiving the subtext—that Padolino was manipulating them, using irrelevant matters to
coerce a verdict based upon emotion rather than evidence.

“In his opening, the prosecutor made a great deal of the fact that the defendant is a U.S.
senator, and I think perhaps that’s appropriate, although for entirely different reasons.
Although I’m sure he did not intend it, Mr. Padolino seemed to be implying that Todd Glancy
should be held to a higher standard because he is an elected official. I will suggest to you,
ladies and gentlemen, that the man has already been held to a vastly higher degree of scrutiny,
and abuse, because he is a U.S. senator. This case is permeated with politics. If, as the
prosecutor tells you, Todd Glancy wielded such great power, that is all the more reason why
political opponents might want to bring him down, might orchestrate a scandal—or even a murder—to
reap the political benefit. This is not mere idle speculation. As you hear the evidence presented
by the prosecution, never forget to ask yourself the basic questions that have remained
unanswered, that the prosecution still cannot answer. Who leaked that incriminating videotape to
the press? Why does such a videotape even exist? The fact that it does, and that it was
deliberately planted to incriminate Senator Glancy, tells you that even before the murder
occurred someone—or some group—was working against him. And if we know that such a person or
group might initiate a sex scandal for political purposes, is it so difficult to believe they
might also arrange a murder? Again, ask yourself the fundamental questions. Why was she killed in
the U.S. Senate complex—one of the most conspicuous locations for a murder imaginable. Why was
the body left in the senator’s own hideaway? Are we to believe the senator is so stupid he
couldn’t come up with a less incriminating place to commit a murder and leave the corpse? With
all due respect, the theory of the case presented by the prosecutor in his opening statement
simply makes no sense.”

She took another deep breath. While not as smooth as the prosecutor, she spoke from the heart,
and she hoped that it showed. Regardless of how bleak the case or how unsavory the client, she
had never knowingly lied to a jury. She had to make them understand that. Not by what she said
with her mouth. By what she said with her eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I fear this is likely to be a long case, a complex one, tiring and
confusing and, in the end, difficult to resolve. But I can tell you these two things for certain.
First, the burden of proof is on the prosecution, to prove not that the senator was a bad person,
but that he committed murder. And I can tell you one other thing. No matter what happens, no
matter how bleak the outlook, no matter what evidence is revealed—I will not lie to you. We, the
defense, will not lie to you. Not a fib, not a white lie, not an exaggeration, not the slightest
little taradiddle. We don’t have to. The prosecution cannot prove that Todd Glancy committed this
murder.” She paused. “Because he didn’t.”

“Whoa, whoa, pilgrim, let’s calm down now,” Loving said, staring at the switchblade pressed
against his larynx. “No need to get excited. You didn’t tell me this was urgent.”

“Stop messing with me!” The man brought his free hand around and clubbed Loving on the side of
his head. It stung—especially given that his head was already pounding—but it didn’t hurt nearly
as much as it might’ve. “Make no mistake, you pissant, I will cut your throat if you don’t tell
me what I want to know. Who hired you?”

Loving answered, but his response was so quiet the man couldn’t make it out. Instinctively, he
leaned in closer.

And that was when Loving whipped his free arm around and clubbed the man on the side of the
head. He tumbled backward. Loving grabbed his right hand, pressed his thumb down on the pressure
point of the man’s wrist. His fingers flew open and Loving grabbed the knife. Before the man had
a chance to recover, Loving had cut himself free from the chair. The man tried to scramble back
to his feet but Loving, hunched over him and empowered with the knife, held him down with one
hand. “Not so fast, buckaroo,” Loving said, shoving his face to the floor. “You know, I don’t
mind being questioned. Pretty much comes with the job. Sometimes I even answer. But I do mind
having a knife pressed against my throat. Even if you didn’t have the balls to cut me, you
could’ve done serious damage just by accident.”