Capitol Murder (14 page)

The man squirmed under the weight of Loving’s arm, but he couldn’t get loose. Couldn’t even
come close.

“Might as well give it up,” Loving said. “I don’t need duct tape to keep you in line.” He
grabbed the man’s collar and jerked him semi-upright. “Now, what’s the big idea—clubbin’ me over
the head and tyin’ me up?”

“I—I—I needed to know what you know. About Amber.”

“And for that you were gonna slice me?”

“I needed to know why you were looking for her. I needed to know . . . anything about her.
Everything about her.”

“Why?”

“Why should I tell you?” the man said, finding a sudden reservoir of defiance.

“Because I’m the guy holdin’ the knife now,” Loving replied. “And I’m not afraid to use it. So
here’s your last chance, Buster Brown. Why were you pumpin’ me for information about Amber?”

“Because—Because—” The man closed his eyes, swallowed. “Because I’m looking for her, too.”

“And why are you looking for her?”

The man collapsed, his eyes watering up, his whole face transforming from anger to the darkest
despair. “Because she’s my daughter.”

“I thought that went rather well,” Marshall Bressler told Ben as he wheeled his chair toward a
table in the rear of the courthouse cafeteria. Judge Herndon had called for a two-hour lunch
break before the prosecution called its first witness. They had intentionally chosen a remote
table at the far end of the room; they didn’t want anyone, press or otherwise, eavesdropping. “I
was surprised when you chose to let your partner deliver the opening, but she was a quite
effective speaker.”

“I thought Christina was awesome,” Shandy said, her blond hair bobbing with youthful
admiration. “Every time I stand up in front of a crowd of three people or more, I fall apart at
the seams.”

“Christina is full of surprises, that much is certain. It was a strategy call,” Ben said. And
the strategy was—don’t give the opening if you can’t think of one. “Christina has only been out
of law school a few years, but she’s light-years ahead of most, including some who’ve practiced
longer than I’ve been alive.”

“I don’t doubt it. Pardon me.” Marshall popped two blue pills in his mouth, then took a swig
from a Styrofoam cup. “It’s for the pain. Little reminder from my accident. Anyway, I thought the
opening was a major success. Made a real impact on the jury.”

“Unfortunately, I have to disagree.” Amanda Burton swirled up to them, a whirlwind with a
clipboard. “I just caught the latest poll reports on CNN. They replayed the openings word for
word, using actors reading transcripts. Subsequent surveys indicated that while most Americans
thought Senator Glancy had hired himself some good attorneys, nothing that was said changed their
minds.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said. “No one wants to admit to a pollster that they were
swayed by something a lawyer said. Our national cynicism toward the legal profession runs too
deep. Nonetheless, in the courtroom, with a real live sequestered jury, it may be a different
story.”

Amanda shook her head, making an irritating, disdainful noise with her lips. “That’s not what
any of my research data indicate. We’ve seen no movement.”

“Meaning—?”

“Meaning nothing you’ve done so far has changed the opinion of the general populace regarding
the senator’s guilt or innocence. And as you well know, every poll taken since the crime occurred
has indicated that a plurality of Americans believe he is probably guilty.”

“Again,” Ben insisted, “being on a jury is entirely different from being quizzed by an
anonymous pollster. ‘Probably guilty’ doesn’t cut it in the courtroom, especially not when the
attorneys are ramming ‘guilty beyond a reasonable doubt’ down your throat. Jurors don’t have the
luxury of indulging in cynicism or first impressions. They have to weigh the evidence.”

“If jurors are human beings,” Amanda insisted testily, “and although I did not attend law
school, I believe that they are—then they are just as subject to bias and character assassination
as anyone. Not to mention stupidity.”

“I think juries get a bad rap,” Ben shot back. “My experience is that whether they’re manual
laborers or rocket scientists, most jurors pay close attention and try to do the right
thing.”

“And my experience,” Amanda said, now speaking in a tone that could be described as downright
nasty, “is that most people are drones with no minds of their own who have to be told what the
‘right thing to do’ is. My sources indicate that we’re not achieving that goal. Your entire
approach to this case has been misguided. You’ve got a confused, incoherent farrago of highbrow
theories that no one understands. You need to get down and dirty. You need to hit this upcoming
cop witness and hit him hard.”

“That would be a major tactical error.”

She pounded her fists against her forehead. “God! I told Todd not to let you run this thing.
Why is it he always listens to me—except when it really matters? You cannot go back into that
courtroom with some mousy milquetoast cross-examination. You have to come on strong.”

“That is, quite frankly, exactly wrong. The attack-dog approach will turn off the jurors,
especially with a police witness.”

“I’m not asking, Kincaid. I’m telling.”

“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your boss’s defense?”

“All I’m trying to do is prevent this case from becoming a complete PR disaster.”

“Tell you what,” Ben said, doing his best to retain his cool, “I won’t interfere in your PR
work. And you stay the hell away from my trial.”

“Excuse me. What are we talking about?” It was Christina, suddenly appearing at the end of
their table.

There was a long pause.

Ben finally filled the gap. “We were talking about what a great job you did on the
opening.”

She beamed. “Really?”

Ben nodded. “You were magnificent.”

Amanda buried her nose in her clipboard.

“You’re Amber’s old man?” Loving said, floored.

“Yes!” he gasped. “Robert Daily. I’ve been looking for her for months, ever since she
disappeared. The police have been worthless—Veronica Cooper is the only one they care about. So
I’ve been searching on my own, every night, going every place she once went, talking to people,
asking questions.”

Loving released the man’s collar. “And you heard I was lookin’ for her, too.”

“I have a source inside the escort joint. He told me you were asking questions about
Amber.”

“So you bashed me over the head? Kidnapped me?”

“I just brought you here so we’d have a little privacy. It’s a storage locker. I rent it
year-round. I just—I just—” His eyes began to well up. “I just want to know what happened to my
little girl.”

Loving didn’t have much doubt, but it was always wise to be cautious. “Have you got some
ID?”

The man reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet. He showed Loving his driver’s
license, a host of credit cards. Sure enough—Robert Daily.

“Amber’s my only daughter. And I’ve always loved her. Even after she ran away from home.”

“When was that?”

“About a year ago. I eventually traced her to the escort service. Found out . . . how she’d
been supporting herself.”

Loving felt a gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

“Tried to get her to come home, but she refused. Claimed she loved her life, partying all
night, turning tricks. Then she fell in with those other girls, Veronica and her friends. Then it
became even worse.”

“Worse than prostitution?”

“Much. That was when she started wearing all black—never anything but black. Got her tongue
studded. Got tattoos, even in places . . . girls shouldn’t get tattoos. Had practically her whole
back done—then started wearing backless dresses so everyone could see. And the tats were all
weird stuff—symbols, signs, creepy occult crap. Last time I saw her, she wouldn’t even let me
call her Amber.”

“Lilith,” Loving said.

“Yeah, that was it. Lady Lilith. I couldn’t get her to tell me much—she always ran away
whenever I tried. Someone was messing with her head. And then one day, a little more than five
months ago, she disappeared. Just like that. Not a trace of her. Not at the escort service, not
anywhere else. Gone.”

“And you’ve been lookin’ for her ever since?”

Instead of rising, Daily tumbled back onto the concrete floor. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Her mother and I tried to be good parents. We did everything the books said. We didn’t smother
her. We tried to stay involved with her life, her friends, and activities. But somehow . . . it
all went wrong. We screwed up.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Loving said. He could see the man was on the edge. Some
situations called for something other than his usual smashmouth approach. If Daily broke down,
he’d be no use at all. “You can’t explain the things kids do, huh? ’Specially teenage girls.”

“I always told her I loved her. And now—now she’s gone. I’m afraid—so afraid—that—”

“Come on,” Loving said, lifting the man to his feet. “We’re both lookin’ for the same girl.
Let’s work together, whaddya say?”

Daily brushed the dampness from his eyes. “Then—you know where she is?”

“No. But I got a lead. I was on my way when you bashed me over the head.” He smiled, then took
the man squarely by the shoulders. “Now we can do it together.”

Normally, in a case of this nature, for procedural reasons and to lay necessary evidentiary
foundations, the first witness would be the person who discovered the body. Ben was not
surprised, however, to find that Mr. Padolino deviated from standard procedure. The person who
discovered the body, after all, was Shandy Craig, a member of the senator’s staff. She would
undoubtedly be called in time, and the prosecutor would do his best to use her as an example of
how the senator favored putting young and pretty girls on his staff. For his opening witness,
however, when he made his initial impressions on the jury, he wanted a witness who was squarely
and unquestionably on his team—so he skipped Shandy and went straight to one of the police
officers called to the scene, homicide detective Lieutenant Porter Albertson.

Padolino quickly established the man’s credentials, his years of experience, and ran through
the many commendations and promotions he had received for his work. The jury tolerated it, but it
didn’t really interest them, and Padolino clearly understood that. A cop was a cop—get on to the
good stuff.

“When did you arrive at Senator Glancy’s office?”

“About twelve thirty. Took us longer to get up there because of all the security precautions.
We had to check our weapons, as well as anything else made of metal—down to the spare change in
my pocket. They called back to the station to check us out. I kept telling the Capitol officers
that a serious crime had been reported, but they didn’t care. They weren’t letting us in until
they were certain we were who we said we were.”

“When you arrived at the senator’s office, what did you see?”

“Bedlam. It was a madhouse. People running like rabbits all over the place. The senator was
gone and no one appeared to be in control. I’m accustomed to some disorientation after a major
crime, but this was above and beyond the usual.”

“Were all the members of the senator’s staff present?”

“No. Some were at lunch. Some were down at the scene of the crime—the hideaway. And a couple
were in their private offices, talking on the phone. Who they could be talking to at a time like
that I have no idea.”

Ben watched the witness carefully as he testified. He seemed friendly, open, and helpful, with
none of the brusqueness or defensiveness that he had displayed at the crime scene. Was Albertson
putting on a show then, or now? He also seemed uncommonly garrulous for a police witness. Ben
knew they were trained to answer questions directly and succinctly—without giving the defense any
help by adding unnecessary information.

“Did you find the deceased?”

“After a few minutes, yes. I located Shandy Craig, the young blond intern who discovered the
body.” Ben wondered if the descriptive term
young blond
was necessary, or even helpful.
No, Albertson had been coached by the prosecutor to insert it, to remind the jurors that the
senator was a cradle-robbing pervert. “She was really messed up, barely able to speak. Took
forever, but I eventually got her to take us down to the basement hideaway.”

“The door was closed?”

“Ms. Craig had apparently taken one look, screamed, and then—”

“Objection,” Christina said, rising. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

“Sustained,” Judge Herndon said, in a tone that informed the jury that the objection was
technically correct but of no importance whatsoever.

“But the door was closed, correct?” the prosecutor rejoined.

Christina didn’t bother sitting. “Objection. Leading.”

The prosecutor sighed wearily. Damn these defense attorneys and their constant attempts to
enforce the rules. “I’ll rephrase. Please describe the state of the senator’s hideaway when you
entered.”

“The door was closed,” Albertson said bluntly, obviously relieved to finally have it out.

“What did you do next?”

“Well, I opened the door, naturally.”

“And what did you find?”

“The dead, blood-soaked upended corpse of Veronica Cooper.”

There was a susurrous stir in the gallery, quiet, but no less chilling for it. Funny how that
always happened, Ben thought, even though everyone present knew there had been a murder and knew
how the body was found. When the fact of violent death is announced, a collective tremor runs
through the assemblage.

Padolino winced slightly, as if he had not heard all this a hundred times. “Please describe
her . . . position.”

“Her face was between the sofa cushions,” Albertson said, grimacing. “Facing me. She had been
positioned so that her body fell behind her, against the wall. Like she was doing a headstand,
but not very well. Her skirt was down, obviously, and she wasn’t wearing undergarments, so she
was . . . exposed. Her blouse was torn, two buttons were missing, and it was pulled down below
her shoulders. There was a huge bloody gash in her neck. Not that it was still bleeding—the blood
was dried and coagulated by the time I saw her. There was a large puddle of blood on the floor
beneath her.”