The President's Assassin (17 page)

Jennie commented, “Darwinism.”

Ted replied, “Whatism?” apparently missing this anthropological farce. What once gave wealth, prosperity, and optimism to Richmond’s finer residents remained a meal ticket, and now it was lawyers and oncologists cashing in.

Ted swung hard to the right, hit the brakes, and we screeched to a sharp halt at the curb of a three-story townhouse. Clearly, Judge Barnes had not been without means. Actually, the guy was loaded. The house was tall, wide, and constructed of sturdy southern clay brick that had browned with age. From the looks of it, the house was circa 1920 or so, and in the architectural manner of that era, was austere, not garish or ostentatious, though still regal and impressive. The building’s facade appeared well-kempt and tended, though the grass and shrubbery in front were overgrown and in need of loving care, evidence of a widow as the landlady.

Perhaps it was the darkness, but the judge’s house struck me as slightly creepy and claustrophobic, a brooding gothic tableau awaiting a nightmare appropriate to its size and scale. But my imagination sometimes runs away with me.

Ted commented, “Whew—seven and a half minutes.”

Jennie said, “Lucky you.”

“Sheeit,” said Ted, surely meaning, Yes, indeed, lucky me.

Two agents stood guard outside the door, and we clearly were expected, as one rushed forward and opened the rear door for Jennie. He informed her, “Mrs. Barnes is waiting in the home office. Incidentally, she goes by Margaret. I wouldn’t suggest you call her Marge, or Maggie.” He added, “Per orders, we haven’t disclosed what this is about.”

Jennie replied, “Good.” She turned and said to me, “This is going to be delicate. If we upset her, she’ll clam up. Let me handle it.”

“You mean I can’t just throttle her and ask how she raised a monster?”

“You cannot.” She smiled. “Unless I get nowhere. Then she’s all yours.”

The agent pushed open the door and we three passed through the threshold with the sure knowledge we were about to ruin Margaret Barnes’s night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HE FIRST THING
I
NOTICED WAS THE SILVER TRAY ON A SMALL TABLE BY THE
front door. I recalled a time when such trays were fixtures in the homes of senior officers, intended for visitors and guests to deposit business cards and thank-you notes. Agency people don’t carry business cards, at least not real ones. And, after we finished with Mrs. Barnes, a thank-you note was probably out of the question.

But tradition has greater meaning in the South than the North, and the home we entered had the aura of a museum, or perhaps a mausoleum. We passed down a long, high-ceilinged hallway strewn with antique furniture and memorabilia that clearly meant something to the Barneses and looked like old junk to me.

A large living room was to our right, and to our left what is called a parlor, which has passed out of favor even in the South and never was in fashion in the less ceremonious North. I noticed that an elevator had been installed off the living room, perhaps the only nod to modernity in this house. Strewn there and about were paintings of the Barneses’ ancestors, some women in antebellum gowns—only one real looker in the group—a few stout gentlemen in gray Civil War costumes and old-fashioned business suits, and so forth.

Above the living room mantel hung a more recent portrait of a man in a dark robe I assumed was Judge Calhoun Barnes, before he blew his brains out, I think.

The gent in the portrait was handsome in a florid, broad-faced manner, barrel-chested, silver-haired, with a long, noble nose, a tight, uncompromising mouth, and fiery eyes that seemed to bore not through, but at you. They were eyes that slammed you against a wall.

I felt an immediate jolt of sympathy for any lawyer who appeared before His Honor’s bench. In Judge Barnes’s features and facial creases, I observed no self-doubts, no sense of humor, no sympathy, no empathy—in fact, no hint of generosity or goodwill. A very talented portrait artist had rendered this pose, and artists are called artists because of their license to interpret reality. But a painter cannot hide, disguise, or absolve the inner essence of his subject, and Calhoun Barnes’s inner core was palpable. The man was a bully.

I mentioned to Jennie, after we’d browsed a little more, “This isn’t a home. It’s a history lesson.”

She ignored this aside, and me. True to her craft, she was wandering around, immersing herself in the environment from which Jason Barnes was hatched. Having dealt with a few criminal profilers, I don’t pretend to understand their skills, and it all sounds a bit psychobabbly, in my view. But they do put a lot of bad guys in the slammer, so I guess they’re okay.

Anyway, we reached the end of the hallway, and where I expected the kitchen there was instead a small waiting room, through which we passed into a spacious, wood-paneled office. The agent who had escorted us inside and guided us through this maze of old furniture and dead Barneses stuck his head into the room and announced, “Special Agent Jennifer Margold is here.” He backed out of the office without introducing me, and left us alone with our subject.

We walked to the middle of the room, where Mrs. Barnes remained seated—actually enveloped—inside a huge brown leather club chair with her legs resting comfortably on an overstuffed ottoman.

As I mentioned, Mrs. Barnes did not rise, nor did she offer her hand or proffer a greeting; she merely waved languidly in the direction of a long leather couch punctuated with buttons.

I glanced at our hostess as we sat—she seemed composed, almost smug, perhaps even expectant, as if we were here for her to interrogate us, rather than vice versa. Was she in for a big surprise.

Anyway, compared to Calhoun’s portrait, Margaret Barnes was younger, by perhaps a decade, and at least physically, she and he were an interesting study in contrasts and contradictions. She was tiny and slender, frail actually, with a pallor that was unnaturally pale. In fact, her skin was nearly translucent, unlike so many southern ladies who looked like sunbaked prunes. Her features were beautiful and, were it not for the dark circles and deep crevices that surrounded her eyes and the sagging lines around her mouth, might even be considered youthful. Probably these were scars of grief, though they could be something more, something less immediate, something more intrinsically soul-sabotaging.

She looked at me and said, “I’m sorry...I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sean Drummond.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Drummond. Are you also an agent?”

“No ma’am.”

“Then what are you?”

“Well, I’m...” What was I?

“A consultant,” Jennie cut in. “He’s helping us close some old case files.”

Mrs. Barnes smiled and said, “Oh...well, that’s nice.” She gathered her thoughts and added, “I don’t understand why you chose to come at this late hour. Though as they say, better late than never.”

In fact, there was no way Mrs. Barnes could understand why two federal agents were visiting her house after midnight, though she obviously had an idea, and that idea seemed not to trouble her. Jennie squeezed my leg, a gesture I understood to mean, Don’t spook this lady.

Jennie withdrew a tape recorder from her pocketbook and held it up for Mrs. Barnes to observe. She explained, “I’m required to inform you that I’ll be recording our conversation.”

“I...is that necessary?”

“I’m afraid it is.” She smiled reassuringly and added, “You’re not suspected of any crimes, Mrs. Barnes. It’s just a procedural formality.”

Mrs. Barnes smiled at me. “I suppose as long as I’m not a suspect...”

I smiled back. “Completely harmless.” A tape recorder in the hands of a federal agent is
never
harmless, incidentally.

After a moment, she said, “Goodness...my manners! Would either of you care for a drink? I know it’s late...maybe an aperitif?”

I love the way southern women handle these common courtesies like a careless afterthought. I mean, they know it’s phony, you know it’s phony, and that just makes it more charming.

Margaret Barnes’s accent, incidentally, like so much in this house, was a relic, what used to be called a plantation accent—a concoction of squashed vowels and expressive little midsentence bounces. I was sure a ton of Daddy’s money went into finishing schools and Sweetbriar College perfecting her sugary tumble of intonations.

But in response to her kind offer, Jennie glanced at me and replied to Mrs. Barnes, “Thank you, we’ll have to pass.” She added, emphatically, “Hoover’s law—federal officers never drink on duty.”

I smiled at Mrs. Barnes. “Scotch, if you have it.”

Jennie coughed into her hand.

Mrs. Barnes laughed. “’Course. My husband, Calhoun, adored a good scotch. Perhaps you’d be so good as to pour me a sherry as well?”

I got up and walked to the built-in bar across the room. Incidentally, the coda of southern gentility is hospitality, and I was a little surprised that she sent me to fetch the drinks, but happily, hospitality also means a well-stocked bar, and Judge Barnes was a thoughtful host. I poured myself a glass of Calhoun’s Glenfiddich, and for Margaret I poured a glass of sherry I was sure Calhoun wouldn’t be caught dead drinking.

I walked back and held her sherry slightly beyond her grasp, until it was apparent she could not slide forward and grab it, and it was apparent why. Margaret Barnes was a cripple. I said, “Excuse me,” and placed the drink in her hands.

“That’s quite all right.” But I think she was a little peeved, because she diverted her eyes from me and toward Jennie. She said, “Well! So, to what do I owe this late-night visit...Jennifer? Or do you prefer Jennie?”

“I prefer Jennie. Could we begin with a few questions about your husband?”

“Oh...then this
does
concern Calhoun?”

“I’d like to begin there, yes.”

Margaret Barnes did not bat an eye. She leaned back and her eyes shifted around the room, bringing transparency to why she had chosen to meet us here, in the back study, instead of the living room, or the front parlor, which probably was her custom.

Large and expansive walls surrounded us, and upon them hung the full and impressive regalia of Calhoun Barnes’s long career and many accomplishments: his undergraduate and law degrees from the University of Virginia, framed documents ordaining him a city magistrate and then as a federal judge, an array of local awards, and a huge menagerie of photographs of the judge with famous personages.

I immediately ruled out self-esteem issues, frustrated narcissism, or excessive modesty as motives for Calhoun’s suicide.

From the rogues’ gallery, I picked out three former United States Presidents, a slew of Virginia governors and senators, and in the middle of this menagerie, where it could not be overlooked, a younger Judge Barnes sharing brandy and cigars with Saint J. Edgar Hoover, in this very same room, actually on the very same couch upon which Jennie and I sat. So there we were, so to speak, cheek-to-cheek with greatness.

Also, in the far left upper corner was an old black-and-white photograph of a very young Calhoun Barnes in fishing waders and a plaid shirt, with his arm around an equally young and considerably tinier Justice Phillip Fineberg, also in fishing gear. Interesting.

I met Margaret Barnes’s eyes. I noted the obvious. “Your husband was very...successful.”

“I suppose he was.” She added, “I believe all men should have their private enclaves where they can view their triumphs. Don’t you think that’s so, Mr. Drummond?”

I nodded. “My many accomplishments hang on the wall over my toilet.”

She forced a smile. I think my northern charm was wearing thin.

We were supposed to recognize, and we did recognize, that Calhoun Barnes had formed powerful alliances and connections, that his widow wasn’t without resources, and that a federal power dance was out of the question. Jennie commented, “Your husband obviously had an extraordinarily successful career. Why did he...well—”

“Kill himself? I know what Calhoun did, Jennifer. He put a gun in his mouth, and he slipped a noose around his neck.”

“All right. Why?”

But she appeared not to want to address this question yet. It was her intention to control this session, and she suggested, “Would I bore you if I went back a bit in time, to when Calhoun and I met?”

Beyond words.
I replied, “Not at all, ma’am.”

She took a long sip of sherry. She said, “I think it’s important for you to know the Barneses are a venerable name in this city. Calhoun’s great-grandfather owned a large and prosperous plantation in the tidewater area. His grandfather was an officer under Stonewall Jackson and was not without accomplishment on the battlefield. He turned to law after the war, moved the family here, and lawyering became their family vocation. In fact, Calhoun’s daddy was also an attorney and became a highly regarded judge himself. There was even talk of his daddy ending up on the Supreme Court. I think, had not the Negro issue become so divisive and inflammatory, it likely would have happened.”

Nobody spoke for a few moments as we sat and absorbed this tale. With southern aristocracy, family histories are like shadowboxing in a darkroom; you have to fine-tune a bit. In a nutshell, I understood her to say, Calhoun’s family once owned a huge spread, big bucks, and mucho slaves, the Civil War came, the slaves hightailed it, the money dried up, the carpetbaggers elbowed in, the Barneses fled, became city folk, became professional, became successful, remained bigots, and history caught up with them. No wonder Faulkner had such a ball with these people.

That’s the problem with the whole southern notion of family tradition and lineage; if the past is lily-white, it’s okay, I guess—otherwise it’s like being born with ten tons of shit on your back. The past is never the past with these people. Somehow this shaped Calhoun Barnes, and somehow this also shaped Jason Barnes.

Mrs. Barnes continued, “My family had a fine pedigree as well. Many thought Calhoun and I would make a good match.”

Jennie commented, “He was a handsome man.”

“Yes. Calhoun was many things, Jennifer. He played football at the University...Later, he became quite accomplished at tennis and golf. And brainy? At law school, he received a slew of offers from prestigious judges and firms from Atlanta to New York.” She looked at Jennie and asked, “Are you a lawyer? I know many FBI agents are.”