Capitol Murder (35 page)

“I’m goin’ in there,” Loving said.

Shalimar grabbed his arm. “You heard what he said. There are others.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m goin’ in.”

“That’s crazy. We’ll call the police.”

“And tell them what, exactly? Even if they take us seriously, which I doubt, they might not be
in time.” To save your sister, he left unspoken.

Shalimar squared her jaw. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t treat me like—”

“Listen to me. We need to make sure someone’s alive to go to the police. And if I go missin’,
you’ll have somethin’ to tell them they’ll have to listen to.”

“But—”

“It’s for the best, Shalimar. You wait outside. If I’m not back in an hour, call the cops and
tell them I’ve been abducted by a satanic cult. That should get their attention.”

“But—”

“You heard me,” Loving said firmly. “And you know I’m right. So please—wait outside. I’m
countin’ on you. You’ve got my back.”

Shalimar’s eyes blazed. “You’re just saying this because you know it’s dangerous. You’re
trying to keep me from being hurt. But you’re going to need help and—”

“I’m sayin’ this because I’m not as dumb as I look. It’s a good plan. So do it already.”

Her lips were pressed tightly together. Loving could see she didn’t like it.

She laid both hands on his shoulders. “Take care of yourself in there,” she said, barely above
a whisper.

“That’s a promise.” He started toward the rear door. “See you outside, Buffy.”

Her eyes blazed. “Don’t call me Buffy!”

“First of all, Ms. Glancy,” Padolino began, “let’s set the record straight. All this business
about your detective and allegedly offering to bribe the deceased—you didn’t tell the police any
of this, did you?”

“Todd and I were advised by counsel that we had the right to remain silent and that it would
be smart to do so.”

“The defendant has a right to remain silent, ma’am, but the defendant’s spouse—”

“Is protected by the husband–wife confidentiality rule, as you and I both know, so let’s not
pretend otherwise.”

“That law does not—”

“That law exists to protect marriages—the same thing I was doing.”

Ben could see the wheels turning in Padolino’s head as he struggled to find an opening. If
he’d ever imagined this was going to be an easy cross, he knew better now.

“Blackmail,” he said finally, “is a crime.”

“Yes, but being blackmailed isn’t. We were the victims, not the perpetrators.”

“Failure to report a crime—”

“Honestly, climb off your high horse and come back to earth.” She allowed herself to show some
mild irritation—just enough, Ben thought. “People being blackmailed never go to the police. If
the blackmailers thought there was any chance of it, they wouldn’t blackmail them in the first
place.”

“So instead, according to your testimony, you aided and abetted a criminal act.”

“I gave money to a pathetic drug-addicted, brain-addled nymphomaniac who was threatening to
bring down one of the best senators this country has ever had just so she could get her next fix.
Was that such a horrible thing?”

Ben leaned in close to Christina. “I think she’s magnificent,” he whispered. “You agree?”

“Big-time,” she whispered back. “Just don’t fall in love. I’ve got a few Evelyn looks of my
own.”

“According to your testimony,” Padolino continued, “you told the deceased you could ‘do a lot
worse to her than she could do to you.’ That, I think, could be interpreted as a threat.”

“A threat designed to save my husband and marriage.”

“Making threats is also against the law.”

“Oh, fine.” She held out her wrists. “Cuff me. Take me away.”

Several of the jurors had to cover their mouths.

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Ms. Glancy. This is a serious matter.”

“No, it isn’t. I mean, murder is a serious crime, but Todd didn’t do it, and you’d know that
if you hadn’t done such a slipshod investigation and settled for arresting the most obvious and
available suspect.”

“Your honor!” Padolino said angrily. “I ask the court to strike that remark and admonish the
witness.”

Judge Herndon tilted his head to one side. “The court is inclined to think you pretty much
asked for it.”

Now several of the jurors were laughing, not even bothering to cover their mouths. Ben could
sense Padolino’s desperation. He needed to score a point—and fast.

“You mentioned that you had the money ready to pay off Ms. Cooper.”

“I did pay her off.”

“I assume that money came from a bank account.”

“You would be correct.”

“That’s the funny thing. You see, back when we were doing our slipshod investigation, I went
to the trouble of subpoenaing your bank account records. Both yours and your husband’s. We were
obviously interested to know if you had made any large withdrawals—or deposits—on or about the
time of the murder. As a matter of fact, I have those statements right here.”

Back at the prosecution table, some poor legal assistant was riffling through her files,
trying to make good on her boss’s promise. After an admirably brief wait, she produced the
statements in question.

“I don’t have to go over them now,” Padolino explained, “because I’ve been over them many many
times before. And I know for a fact, Ms. Glancy, that there are no major withdrawals. Certainly
nothing in the nature of a quarter of a million dollars.” He slid the statements defiantly under
her nose.

“Wrong bank,” she said, without even looking.

“Excuse me?”

“Wrong bank, Mr. Prosecutor. These are our domestic personal accounts. The money I withdrew
came from an offshore account held at a bank on Grand Cayman Island.”

“I find that difficult to—”

“The account number is 00945623819. If you call, they will confirm the existence of the
account. They won’t give you any information about it without permission from Todd or me, but I
will grant you that for the limited purpose of checking withdrawals at or around the time of
Veronica Cooper’s death.” She paused. “I think you’ll find a rather large one.”

“But—but—” Padolino was sputtering now, never a good sign. “Why would a U.S. senator have an
offshore bank account?”

“Objection,” Ben said dutifully. “Not relevant to the charge at bar.”

Judge Herndon considered for a moment. “Although the existence of the account is relevant, it
is true that the reasons for having it in the first place may not be.” He inhaled deeply. “But I
think I’ll allow it.”

You mean, you just want to hear the poor woman try to explain it to this jury of
lower-middle-class taxpayers, Ben thought.

“I haven’t really been involved in the creation of the bank accounts for this family,” Marie
said coolly. “But I believe these offshore accounts may have certain tax advantages.”

“More like a tax dodge, isn’t it?”

Marie drew herself up and looked squarely at him, without a hint of embarrassment. “Mr.
Padolino, I understood your goal here to be prosecuting someone you genuinely believed to be
guilty of murder, not generally slandering someone just for the pleasure of doing so. I’ve
allowed you to confirm the existence of the account and the withdrawal. I think that puts an end
to the inquiry.”

It wasn’t often in his career that Ben had seen a witness so thoroughly take command of a
cross-examination, much less effectively overrule the judge without anyone in the courtroom
daring to saying a word about it. He stopped wondering if she might conceivably have political
ambitions, and started wondering how long it would be before she was sitting in the Oval
Office.

Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of the prosecutor’s face, always pleasurable for a
defense attorney to observe. At the same time, Ben knew that when smart men became desperate,
they did desperate things. And that certainly proved to be the case.

“Ms. Glancy, you mentioned before that your husband had unusual tastes. I gathered from the
context that you were describing his sexual predilections. Would you please explain exactly what
you meant?”

Glancy leaned toward Ben. “You’ve got to stop this,” he whispered, but it was unnecessary,
because Ben was already on his feet.

“Objection!” Ben said emphatically. “Not relevant.”

The judge disagreed. “I think she opened the door to this. Overruled.”

“Your honor,” Ben insisted, “this is obviously just a prosecutorial ploy to salvage his case
by slandering the defendant. There is—”

“I’ve ruled, counsel.”

“Your honor, this is the defendant’s wife!”

“And I said I’ve ruled, Mr. Kincaid!” Herndon rose slightly out of his seat. “That’s my nice
way of saying sit down and shut up.”

Ben reluctantly did as he was told.

“So,” Padolino continued, “could you please describe these unusual tastes? And don’t spare us
the details.”

For the first time, the jury could see Marie hesitating, gathering her thoughts.

“Damn,” Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Why did she have to bring this up in the first
place?”

A very good question, Ben thought. It certainly wasn’t in her testimony when they had
rehearsed it the night before.

“Well,” she said, drawing in her breath, “you’ve seen the video.”

“We certainly have. Your point?”

“Todd,” she said, sighing heavily. “Todd is very into the whole subjugation–domination thing.
He likes—well, you can see it in his whole life, everything he’s ever done. He wants to be in
power. He wants to be in control.”

“Like in the video, when he forced himself on Veronica Cooper?”

“Oh, I think that was more playacting than anything else. They were both willing participants.
But it was playacting Todd liked.” Her eyes moved downward. “Unfortunately . . . I didn’t.”

Glancy squeezed Ben’s arm. “You’ve got to shut this down,” he hissed. “Isn’t there any
way?”

“I already gave it everything I had,” Ben replied. “More objections now would only remind the
jury how badly we want to keep this out.”

Padolino resumed. “Would this subjugation fetish involve . . . certain positions?”

“Obviously. The woman in any position of powerlessness. Restrained. Bent over a chair.”

“Would it involve violence?”

“Objection!” Ben shouted, genuinely outraged. “This has gone far beyond all reasonable claims
of relevance. This is nothing less than a prurient intrusion into a public figure’s private sex
life.”

“It’s a character issue,” Padolino answered.

“Well, isn’t that what they always say,” Ben shot back.

“It goes to the likeliness of the affair, or affairs. Which goes directly to motive. And the
propensity for sexual violence—well, the relevance of that is obvious.”

“I’ll allow it,” Herndon said. He didn’t even have to think about it. And as painful as it
was, Ben knew his decision was correct.

“Pain was—
is
—a turn-on for Todd,” Marie continued. “But it’s more than that. It’s not
just the pain, it’s the . . . debasement. The sense that he’s reducing the woman to a piece of
meat. A plaything. Something that exists only for his pleasure. That’s what he gets off on. I
wouldn’t let him do that to me. So he found other women who would.”

“Like an employee who thought she had to please her boss?” Padolino asked.

Marie scoffed. “Like a desperate drug addict who liked sex and lacked the strength to say
no.”

Padolino had the sense to know this was as good as it was going to get. He ended on a high
note and sat down. Ben declined to redirect.

“What the hell was that?” Ben whispered to Christina. “Her testimony was going brilliantly.
Even the cross was going brilliantly. And then, at the very end, she tanks. Destroys her
husband’s reputation.”

“Nothing she said proved Todd was a murderer,” Christina noted. “She cast serious doubt on the
prosecutor’s theory of motive.”

“Who cares? She made him look so ugly, so perverted, I’ll never be able to generate any
sympathy for him in closing. I couldn’t rehabilitate Mother Teresa after testimony like that.” He
wiped his hand across his brow. “And it wasn’t necessary. Why would she do that? Why would she do
that to him?”

Christina watched Marie carefully as she walked coolly down the nave and out of the courtroom.
“A woman scorned,” she said succinctly. “Hell hath no greater fury.”

Peering over the balcony, almost all Loving could see on the inlaid tile floor on the level
beneath him was the five-sided star enclosed in a circle—a huge pentagram in the center of the
darkened room. The twelve figures surrounding the circle were wearing brown hooded cloaks, like
monastic friars of an ancient order, all participating in an uncanny ritual. In the center was a
large stone block—the altar, no doubt. A sheet was draped over the top of the altar, but Loving
could tell there was something, or someone, under the sheet. Much as he wanted to find Beatrice,
he hoped it wasn’t her, because the entire time he’d been in here he’d never once detected the
slightest movement under the sheet.

After Loving passed through the rear door of the chapel and a long corridor, he found himself
on this balcony. A spiral staircase led to the lower floor, but he decided to stay here where he
had a better view, and it would be more difficult for the hoods below to spot him. The low
lighting cut both ways: it made it harder for him to detect what was going on down there, but it
also made it harder for them to see him watching—which was good, because he was fairly certain
they would not be pleased.

The men had been chanting for almost ten minutes. He suspected it was Latin, but he couldn’t
really be sure—he hadn’t gone to college and they hadn’t covered this in the truck-driving class
he’d taken at the Tulsa Vo-Tech Center. At long last, they fell silent. One man stepped forward,
entered the pentagram, and laid his hands upon whatever was under the sheet.

“Let us pray.”

As one, the rest of the men did not bow their heads, but instead raised them, pressing their
hands together and lifting them above their hoods.