Capitol Murder (20 page)

Marie Glancy sat in the backseat of the limousine, her hand covering her eyes. Christina
climbed in beside her, although given the size of the car they could be two feet apart and still
both be in the backseat. Fortunately, the windows were tinted black so none of the countless
onlookers staked out in Glancy’s Glen could see inside. Only the chauffeur was in visual range,
and Christina could see he had been trained to be discreet. More than discreet, in fact.
Invisible.

“I just can’t do it,” Marie said, her voice quavering. “I thought I could. I got dressed and
came out here, fully prepared to march into that courtroom and do what you want me to do. But
when I arrived, when I saw all those people lined up on the steps, all those cameras circling
like vultures, ready to pounce on the slightest sign of weakness—I lost it.”

“Marie,” Christina said, “this is really not a matter that’s open to debate. You have to go
back into the courtroom. It’s important that the jury see that you still support your
husband.”

“The jury saw me running out of the room in tears.”

“And they will understand that. Any one of them might have done the same. When you return, it
will be a sign that you’ve forgiven your husband’s indiscretion. That you’ve reconciled. That
you’re still behind him one hundred and ten percent.”

“Which is hogwash. All of it.” Christina noted that the woman was able to cry, even to dab her
tears, without ever once smudging her makeup. “There’s been no reconciliation. We haven’t even
talked about it.”

“If I may be blunt, Marie, I don’t care about the reality of the situation. All I care about
is what those jurors see. And what I want them to see is you, back there, in that courtroom.”

The woman’s eyes were misting. “You don’t understand. You just don’t understand.”

Christina reached out and touched her hand. “I want to.”

Marie shook her head, brushing away the tears. “Did you listen to the news reports last night?
Did you hear what they were saying about me? About Todd’s political future?”

“Sorry, I had work to do. But if you don’t come back into the courtroom, I can’t imagine that
he has any political future.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” she said quietly. “Maybe we’d all be happier.”

“Marie, I’m sorry, but we just don’t have time for this speculation and hand-wringing. Court
will be back in session in less than ten minutes. And you have to be there.”

“No. I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying and I’m sure you’re right. But I just can’t do
it.”

“Do you want your husband to be convicted?” Christina hadn’t meant to shout, but her voice
came out much louder than she had intended. The question hung in the cold air between them like a
poisonous balloon.

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then get over it already and get in there. Because if you don’t, you’ll do him more damage
than any witness the prosecution has put on the stand or ever will.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. As strong as the prosecution’s case may seem, they don’t have an eyewitness. They
have to rely on circumstantial evidence and character testimony. But they couldn’t buy character
testimony any more damning than what you’ll deliver if you don’t appear in court today. That’s
the bottom line, Marie.” She leaned forward, eliminating the possibility of Marie averting her
eyes. “If you don’t want your husband to die, you’ll march your fanny back into that courtroom.
Pronto.”

“Get an ambulance!” Loving screamed, but no one was moving fast enough for him. He rammed the
cell phone into Daily’s hand and punched 9-1-1 for him. After that, he grabbed the gun from where
it had fallen, ran out to the top of the stairs, and fired three shots into the ceiling. The
crowd panicked; everyone ran for the door. Good. Loving wanted the place clear when the ambulance
made the scene. There was a small risk of someone being trampled in the rush to get out the
doors, but at this point he couldn’t get too worked up about a decrease in the global Goth
population.

When he returned, he found Lucille sitting on a chair, rubbing her sore face, and Daily
hunched over Amber, tears streaming from his eyes, blood gushing from her neck.

“My baby,” Daily whispered, breathing in broken heaves. “Please don’t die. Please don’t
die.”

In the corner of his eye, Loving saw the creep—Randy, apparently—swivel around and make as if
he thought he might split.

Loving raised the gun. “One more step and I’ll kill you dead. And enjoy it.”

Randy slunk back into his chair.

Loving got another towel and tried to stop the bleeding from Amber’s neck, but he couldn’t tie
a tourniquet without strangling her. He couldn’t tell how serious it was. It looked horrible, but
he knew neck, head, and shoulder wounds always bled profusely.

If Amber died, the only remaining hope . . .

Even as he was thinking it, he saw her eyelids flutter.

Loving bent down on one knee, nudging Daily to one side. “I don’t know how well you can hear
me, Amber. I don’t know if you can talk. But if you can—if you can do anythin’—please help me.
Where’s Beatrice?”

It could’ve been his imagination, but he thought he saw a tiny rise of an eyebrow.

“Beatrice?” Randy, the drug addict in the chair, began to chortle. “You mean that mousy cow
with the fat ass?”

Loving felt his trigger finger tightening. God give him strength. “Do you know where she
is?”

“Hell, no.” He fell back against the chair, still laughing. “She cut out days ago, after we’d
all had a turn at her and she’d had so much she couldn’t see straight. You think we’re weird.
Now, that slut was into some kinky shit.”

It was an accident, officer, Loving mentally rehearsed. The gun just went off . . .

So tempting. But he was in enough trouble already.

“Bee . . . Bee . . .”

Loving’s eyes went wide. Amber was trying to speak. Blood caked her teeth and dripped from the
corner of her mouth, but she was trying to speak.

“Cir . . . cle . . .”

Loving leaned in closer. “Circle? Sir Cool? What do you mean?”

“Circle . . . Thirteen . . .”

Amber’s eyes closed, and Loving knew they weren’t going to get any more out of her
tonight.

“Amber!” Daily shouted. “Amber!”

Downstairs, Loving heard medics rush into the club. He ran to the top of the stairs to show
them the way. “Up here!
Hurry
!”

The prosecution’s next witness was Shawn MacReady, the Republican representative from Arkansas
whom Ben had met briefly in the Senate Dining Room. Padolino spent a fair amount of time
discussing the congressman’s long and distinguished career, his personal triumphs, bills he’d
written or sponsored that had populist appeal and thus might endear him to the mostly
lower-middle-class jury. Ben was disappointed, though not surprised, that Padolino was also smart
enough to point out that MacReady was a political opponent of Glancy’s, a member of the
opposition party and an antagonist on many high-profile pieces of legislation. Better to bring it
out himself than to allow Ben to do it on cross.

“Sir,” Padolino asked, “are you familiar with the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and
Pensions?”

“Yes, sir. In relation to my work on the Appropriations Committee, I’ve had numerous contacts
with their work and attended many of their meetings.”

“And who is the current vice chair?”

“That would be the defendant. Todd Glancy. The senator from Oklahoma. He used to be the chair,
until his party lost control of the Senate.”

“That would be when Senator Waddington of Arizona shifted his party affiliation from Democrat
to Republican.”

“Yes. After twenty years in politics, the man finally saw the light.” There was a mild titter
of laughter in the courtroom.

“On September 26, the day that Veronica Cooper was murdered, was this committee in
session?”

“It was.”

“For how long?”

“We started at nine and worked straight through to lunchtime. Congressmen get very grumpy if
we cut into their lunchtime.” Another round of laughter. MacReady was displaying the charisma
that had undoubtedly gotten him reelected so many times. His slight Tex-Arky accent made his
quips all the funnier.

“And did Senator Glancy attend the committee meeting?”

“He did. The committee record shows he was present.”

“Was he there the whole time?”

Ben felt his body tense. This was of critical importance.

“As far as I know.”

Ben blinked. The prosecution was helping Todd establish his alibi?

“Would you know if he left?”

“Not necessarily. We were in informal session. People were running all over the place. Aides
moved in and out, shuttling drafts and revisions. We were working on some proposed legislation on
the government pensions problem.”

“And you never saw Senator Glancy leave?”

“No. I don’t worry much about what the Democrats are doing. Long as there are more of us than
there are of them.”

Another burst of laughter, enough to inspire Judge Herndon to rap his gavel and give everyone
a stern look. This is as good as it could possibly get from this witness, Ben thought. If only
Padolino would leave it alone and move on to something else. And to his great surprise, Padolino
did.

Padolino held up a photograph of an attractive middle-aged woman with short-cropped brown hair
and a long, angular face. “Sir, do you now or have you ever known a woman named Delia
Collins?”

Ben shot to his feet. “Objection!”

Padolino was ready. “Your honor, this testimony is for the purpose of establishing a pattern
on the part of the defendant.”

“A pattern of what?” Judge Herndon asked.

Padolino arched an eyebrow. “Three guesses.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, moving rapidly toward the bench, “we briefed this issue in our motion
in limine. It’s in your file. You haven’t ruled on it.” Marshall had tipped Ben off about this
possible problem in advance.

Herndon shuffled the paper around on his desk. “Oh, yes. Now I recall. Delia Collins.”

“Then you must also know why this testimony is not relevant to any issue at bar, but could be
extremely prejudicial to my client. I strongly urge the court to suppress any testimony
regarding—”

“Nah.” Herndon waved a hand in the air. “Sounds to me like the prosecutor can get it in as
legitimate evidence of a habit or pattern of behavior such as might have been displayed on the
day of the murder. I’ll allow it, subject to subsequent reconsideration.”

“But, sir, if we hear it in open court, it will be too late—”

“And if I find ultimately that the evidence is not relevant to the case, I will instruct the
jury to disregard it.”

A fat lot of good that will do, Ben thought bitterly as he returned to his table. Once this
cat was out of the bag, it wasn’t ever going back.

“Let me repeat the question,” Padolino said. “Do you know a woman named Delia Collins?”

“Yes,” MacReady answered. “She was a witness who gave testimony before the committee something
like seven years ago on the MacReady-Friedman bill. That was the one that, among other things,
would have invalidated the ‘unproven or experimental techniques’ clause from American health
insurance policies in certain cases regarding terminally ill patients. Would have required
insurance companies to pay for medical treatments even if said treatments were not yet FDA- or
AMA-approved.”

“Did you favor this bill?”

“I wrote it and co-sponsored it. Most of the men in my party supported it. But oddly enough,
even though it seemed like something the liberals would embrace with both arms, Senator Glancy
did not. And he was the chair of the committee at the time. And his people toed his line. The
bill died in committee.”

“Why was Ms. Collins testifying?”

MacReady acquired a more serious expression. “Regretfully, Ms. Collins herself was suffering
from a terminal illness. Ovarian cancer, if I recall correctly. She wanted a new treatment
developed by a medical researcher in Mexico City, a new drug cocktail that had shown some promise
in fighting the disease. But it was new and experimental and expensive, unapproved by the FDA,
and her insurance company refused to pay for it. She was not a wealthy woman, so she had no other
means of obtaining the treatment. Her very dramatic testimony illustrated how serious the need
for the MacReady-Friedman bill was. As far as she was concerned, when her insurance company said
no, they effectively signed her death certificate.” He stopped, sighed. “But as I said, the bill
didn’t get out of committee. And I believe I heard the poor woman died a few months later.”

Ben could see the jury was mystified. This was all very interesting—but what did it have to do
with the murder case? Unfortunately, he knew they would find out all too soon.

“Was that the last time you saw Delia Collins? The day she testified before the
committee?”

MacReady cleared his throat. “Uh, no.”

“Really. When did you see her again?”

“A few days later. Before the final committee vote was taken.”

“And where did you see her?”

“In Senator Glancy’s private office.”

“Please describe the circumstances of this encounter to the jury.”

MacReady frowned, shifted his weight, began to look uncomfortable. Ben suspected he was
probably actually looking forward to this, but he didn’t want it to show. That would be
crass.

“I’d gone into Senator Glancy’s office late at night. It was well past usual working hours,
but the congressional clerk told me he hadn’t left the premises. I wanted to take one last stab
at persuading him to support the bill. I was even prepared to offer a little pork, let him slip
in some appropriations money for another Oklahoma lake or whatever. Hazel—that’s his
receptionist, has been for years—wasn’t at her desk. I suppose she’d gone home for the evening.
So I just walked into the man’s office. Door was shut, but so what? I never expected—” He
stopped, coughed into his hand. “Well, I never expected what I saw.”