Capitol Murder (8 page)

But even as he watched the man perform like the pro he was, Ben knew he was wrong. This wasn’t
going away anytime soon. If it went away at all.

Ben thought he was beyond the point where anything that took place in, at, or near a courtroom
could surprise him. After the trial in Chicago—an emotionally and politically charged hate crime,
covered blow-by-blow by the media nationwide—what could possibly be more difficult? He thought
he’d seen it all.

He was wrong.

The federal courthouse was swarming with reporters. That was hardly startling. The so-called
Glancy’s Glen had established itself in the courthouse parking lot almost immediately after the
senator was arrested. Scores of reporters representing all the media were there, making daily,
sometimes hourly updates with the majestic stone pillars of the courthouse as a backdrop.
According to the experts, the media stronghold outsized the famed O. J. outpost. Every pretrial
proceeding, no matter how minor, had been covered in detail: every docket hearing, every pretrial
motion, every judicial conference, no matter how trivial. The reporters would deliver their
reports in somber tones, usually concluding with a small pivot toward the courthouse and a
reference to how “no one would know for sure” what happened to Veronica Cooper until the parties
gathered in this building “for a final reckoning.”

What did surprise Ben as he and Christina stepped out of their taxicab was how expertly the
area surrounding the courthouse appeared to be organized this morning. Ropes cordoned off the
central flight of steps leading to the front doors. There were protesters present, firebrands
from the left and the right as there had always been, but somehow they had been pushed far to the
rear, far enough that not even the loudest of them would be heard once the minicams started
rolling. Ben recognized many of the people standing closest to the ropes—including several of the
senator’s staff members and friends, such as Amanda Burton and Shandy Craig. A podium had been
placed at the top of the stairs with several microphones already in place.

As Ben gazed at the assembly, Marshall Bressler rolled up beside him.

“Got to hand it to the DC authorities,” Ben said with genuine admiration. “They’ve got things
much more under control than their counterparts in Chicago did.”

“Forget the authorities,” Bressler replied. “Congratulate Senator Glancy’s advance team.”

Christina raised an eyebrow. “What’s an advance team?”

“I can tell you haven’t had much experience with politics. These days, advance men—many of
whom are women, by the way—are the lifeline of any politician. At least any politician who wants
to be one for very long. Ever since Kennedy/Nixon in 1960, the need for specialists to
orchestrate and control how candidates are presented by the media has been readily apparent.”

“I haven’t seen any advance men in the office.”

“We’re not talking about paper pushers. We’re talking about highly skilled media consultants
who command top dollar—because they’re worth it. They pander to the press, marshal the allies,
outwit the enemies, cozy up to the Secret Service, prepare itineraries, arrange photo ops, plan
motorcades, hang bunting and banners and, most important, anticipate every contingency. Politics
is not immune to Murphy’s Law—anything that can go wrong, will. The advance men deal with all
unforeseen developments and overcome them.”

“And they did—” Ben waved his hand toward the general assemblage. “—all this?”

“Of course. Believe me, they’ve been working on it for days—obtaining permits, snuggling up to
the courthouse officials, confabbing with Amanda and the rest of the staff on how we wanted our
man presented. Remember, most people will be seeing Todd today for the first time in five months,
ever since he was incarcerated in the district jail.”

“Your people put up these ropes?”

“Who else? They wanted to make sure the senator could make a dignified ascent, without
interference. Why do you think all the protesters and right-wing tub-thumpers—some of whom were
bused in from Maryland by the Senate majority leader’s staff, by the way—have been shunted off so
far from the action? All the cameras will get are Todd’s supporters.”

“Is this really necessary? The potential jurors are already sequestered.”

“They’re not concerned about the jury, Ben. That’s
your
job. They’re concerned about
the voters, and not just the ones back in Oklahoma, either.”

“Surely Todd doesn’t still think he can run for national office.”

“Our polls indicate that the video hurt us with female voters, but much less so with males,
especially those under the age of forty-five. If you can make it look as if Todd has been the
victim of political calumny, an unscrupulous plot to entrap him with another woman then frame him
for murder, you might well win us back those female votes. Women sympathize with underdogs and
martyrs—people they believe have been treated unfairly.”

“Speaking as a woman,” Christina said, “and for that matter one who doesn’t believe Senator
Glancy killed Veronica Cooper, I still wouldn’t give the man my vote if he personally kissed
my—”

Ben clamped his hand over her mouth. “Minicams, Christina. Big powerful microphones. Talking
out loud bad.”

Christina clenched her teeth and remained silent.

A few minutes later, a black van from DC’s Central Detention Center rolled up to the curb and
Senator Glancy stepped out of the back. He raised one arm into the air, and all at once the crowd
went wild, cheering, calling out his name, whistling and thumping their feet. Ben felt more like
he was at a rock concert than a murder trial. At any moment he expected someone to hold up a
lighter.

“What did I tell you?” Bressler said, winking. “Advance men.”

Glancy’s intern, Shandy Craig, stepped out of the crowd and tugged at his sleeve. “Hair
check.”

She scrutinized him carefully, then minutely adjusted the lie of his salt-and-pepper
bangs.

“Teeth.”

Glancy flashed them for her.

“You’re clean. Go get ’em, tiger.”

Glancy jabbed his thumb back toward Shandy. “Is she the best, or what? Love that girl. Are we
ready?”

“We are,” Ben answered. “But I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a very pleasant day for
you.”

“We’ll make the most of it. Anything’s better than that hellhole where they’ve been keeping
me. I don’t know where people get these ideas about politicians going to country club prisons.
The DC jail is the pits.”

Having visited him on several occasions, Ben knew this was true. It was a no-perks enterprise
operating on a constrained budget. The visitors’ room didn’t even have separated chambers; every
time Ben talked to Glancy he had to shout to be heard over the clatter of all the other attorneys
and relatives.

Glancy turned toward the crowd and flashed them a grateful smile—the kind of million-watt grin
that gets men elected to public office and keeps them there—then moved with calm and grace toward
the front steps. As negotiated with the incarceration officials and the prosecution in the spirit
of fair play, Glancy had been provided with a freshly pressed suit and grooming equipment, and
his keepers remained several paces behind him out of camera range, so he could enter the
courtroom looking like a senator—not a murderer. As he passed by, dozens of people thrust out
their hands, and he shook a few, though never slowing his advance up the stairs. Ben couldn’t
help but admire the style, the savoir faire that allowed a man in such dire circumstances to
emerge looking more like a returning astronaut than an accused murderer.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, Glancy started toward the podium.

With a subtle sidestep, Ben blocked his progress. “Wait a minute. We need to move on to the
courtroom.”

“I’m giving a press conference,” Glancy said, smiling. “I’m a politician, Ben. It’s what we
do.”

“No way,” Ben replied, standing firm. “I told you. You say nothing unless and until we put you
on the witness stand.”

“This is a critical moment, politically speaking,” Glancy explained. “The press has been
building toward this for months. They expect me to say something. I can’t let them down.”

“Listen to me,” Ben said, keeping his voice down so the mikes surrounding him wouldn’t pick it
up. “This is not a campaign. You’re on trial for murder. Under the new federal execution act, the
jury has the option to give you the death penalty.”

“But the potential jurors have already been sequestered, right? They won’t be able to hear
what I say.”

“True, but—”

“Please excuse me.” His face remained calm. To anyone who couldn’t hear what was being said,
it would look as if two close friends were having an amiable chat. He started again toward the
podium.

“Todd.” Ben held his arm. “When I agreed to take on this murder case, you agreed that you
would follow my instructions. To the letter.”

“As regards the case, yes. As regards my career—well, I think my political advisers are more
qualified to make those decisions, don’t you?”

“Todd, if you endanger—”

“I’m not going to say anything that will help the prosecution, or that will even directly
relate to the case.” He gently removed Ben’s hand from his arm. “You know how to play your game,
Ben, and I respect that. Now let me play mine.”

Glancy squared himself behind the podium. He started to speak, but another round of cheers and
applause erupted, drowning him out. Ben wondered what his advance men had done to trigger that.
Paid off a wino? Goosed a maiden aunt?

“My friends,” Glancy began. Even in these circumstances, something about the way he said it,
his crisp mellifluous voice, the way he looked squarely into the camera as he spoke, made you
want to believe it. “I thank you for your support during these troubled times. I particularly
thank those of you who have been so kind to my wife, Marie. My lawyer won’t let me talk about the
case—and you know how those lawyers act when they don’t get their way.”

The crowd laughed heartily. What was all this “those lawyers” jazz? Ben wondered. Hadn’t
Glancy picked up a JD way back when, too?

“Nonetheless, I can assure you that when this is over—and it will be over soon—I will be back
to work, doing what I’ve always done: defending and protecting the best interests of my
constituents.” The resultant swell of cheers and enthusiasm almost drowned out his closing.
“Thank you again for your support. See you on the other side.”

Loving drummed his fingers on the desktop. He circled Jones’s workstation, pacing trails into
the burgundy carpet. He checked his watch. He gazed at the view of the Main Mall out the north
window of their borrowed office space. He shuffled through his papers and daily reports. And then
he sat back down and drummed his fingers some more.

“Would you cut that out!” Jones said, finally.

“Huh? What?”

“Everything! All of it. The pacing, the fiddling, the drumming. You’re driving me insane!”

“Short drive,” Loving muttered. “Why are you so touchy?”

“Because I’m swamped! As you may recall, the trial we’ve been prepping for the past five
months began today. I have a mound of motions and other paperwork to deal with.”

“Didn’t Glancy hire a team of big-firm lawyers to do that kinda stuff?”

“Yes, a magnificent beau geste designed to show his gratitude to Ben—that hasn’t helped in the
least. A bunch of twenty-eight-year-olds in starched shirts billing three hundred dollars an
hour. Give me a break. I’d rather do it myself.”

Loving frowned. “Least you can make yourself useful.”

“You’re the resident hawkshaw. Don’t you have some investigating to do?”

“I’ve been investigatin’ for five months. And I haven’t come up with squat.”

“No theories?”

“Oh, I got lots of theories. The Trilateral Commission runs this town—they’re behind all the
big power plays. There’s basically thirteen old men who run the world.”

Jones resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d long since become accustomed to Loving’s
endless supply of conspiracy theories. “Got anything Ben could conceivably use in court?”

“Nah. I’ve interviewed all the witnesses. Everyone who might know somethin’ about the case.
Looked under every rock. And struck out each time.” He was interrupted by a computer chip
rendition of the William Tell Overture. “’Scuse. That’s my cell.”

Jones turned back to his screen. “Probably Ben wanting me to run him over some pencils or
something. As if I had nothing better to do.”

“Yeah?” Loving said, as he snapped open the phone.

The voice on the other end was low and whispery. “You the one looking for intel on the Cooper
killing?”

Loving’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I am. Who’s this?”

“That’s not important.”

“I gotta call you somethin’.”

“Fine.” There was a short, bitter laugh. “Call me Deep Throat.”

Loving felt his heart race. “Like—in that movie they showed at my brother-in-law’s bachelor
party?”

“The—what? No, like in—never mind. You don’t need to call me anything. But I can help
you.”

“How?”

“You want Glancy to get off, don’t you?”

“That’s our goal, yeah,” Loving said, not quite answering the question. Having seen that video
several times too often, he personally had a hard time getting worked up about whether Glancy was
convicted. This was a job he was working for Ben, period. “How can you help?”

“The secret to saving the accused,” the voice continued, “is finding out more about the
victim.”

“I’ve investigated the victim. For months. I know where she grew up and what her favorite
colors were and what grades she made in junior high science. I’ve talked with her mom. I know
everything about the woman.”

The softness of his voice gave his chuckle an eerie hollowness. “No, you don’t. Not by a long
shot.”