Dark Ambition (24 page)

He got up and fixed himself a glass of scotch and a vodka for her. "I went to a Jesuit school for college. St. Vincent in western Pennsylvania. I wanted to be a priest."

She burst out laughing. "You, a priest?"

He looked offended. "I had a cherubic face in those days."

"You still do. And you probably loved to eat pussy then. Was that legal? I mean, for somebody who was studying to be a priest?"

"The answer's no, and that came later. Well, anyhow, it was the height of the war in Vietnam, and I stopped believing in God, which made it hard to be a priest. But something else happened. When I saw kids burning the flag and pissing on it, I got really outraged. This country's not perfect, but it's the best there is. So the U.S. became my god. I started wearing the black suit and black turtleneck—my uniform, as you put it—because it made me feel like a priest in my own order. Call it Saint George, as in George Washington, if you'd like. So there you have it."

She loved the story. Smiling, she asked, "How's the work going for you in your religion these days?"

"I'm developing a new project, as a matter of fact. You interested in doing something with me again?"

"Didn't we just do something?"

It was his turn to smile. "I mean professionally."

"I won't come back to the agency and all that bureaucratic horseshit."

"I wouldn't ask you to. I mean as an independent contractor. It'll involve travel to the Far East."

Her eyes gleamed with interest. "I could handle that. The only place Paul likes to go is Europe. Talk to me when you're ready."

"I hope to. Things may change with Winthrop gone."

"Yeah, it was too bad about him. Washington's getting to be a dangerous town." Careful, she told herself, once the words were out of her mouth. He's smart, and he knows your body language very well. Don't give away too much.

"They arrested Winthrop's gardener," he said.

"I saw that in the newspaper. Did he really do it?"

Donovan shrugged. "I'm not involved. It's Murtaugh's baby. As usual, the FBI is clueless."

She laughed. The rivalry between the two agencies hadn't changed.

"Actually, it is funny," he said, "Murtaugh couldn't find Winthrop's killer if his life depended on it. I sure as hell am not going to use any of our people to bail him out."

The way he said it made her hesitate. "If it wasn't the gardener, then who do you think did it?"

"I just know what I hear on the street."

"Which is?"

He kept his face bland, but he was staring at her intently. "A foreign government's involved. Maybe even a big one in Asia. The biggest one of all."

"Really? Isn't that nice."

Her innocent act didn't fool him. "Did you ever hear of a book called
The Peter Principle!"

She shook her head.

"One of the author's theories is that a person can be really good at one job, but when he gets promoted to planning and management responsibilities, he runs into trouble."

She looked at him with a worried frown. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Just watch your back. I'd hate to have anything happen to you."

* * *

"I got a call from Mrs. Winthrop telling me that she got you a good lawyer," Lucinda said to Gillis. "Jennifer Moore is her name."

Wanting to talk more about his situation, she had come alone to visit him this time. They were sitting across from each other at one of the wooden tables in the visiting room.

When Gillis didn't respond but looked into space with a blank stare, Lucinda said, "Did you hear what I just told you? Did this Jennifer Moore call you?"

"It won't make any difference," he said weakly.

"What do you mean?" She leaned across and shook his arm, which brought a guard scurrying over. She quickly pulled back. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing will matter." He sounded so beaten down and despondent. She had never known him to be like this, not even when doctors had diagnosed Clyde Junior's kidney disease.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned.

He didn't respond.

"I know there's something wrong. Please talk to me, Clyde."

He shook his head sadly and looked down at his hands, refusing to say another word until visiting time was over.

From a pay phone in the visitors lounge, Lucinda called Jennifer and told her what happened.

Jennifer knew exactly what she was talking about, which was a source of some relief to Lucinda.

"They did something to him," Jennifer said.

Lucinda was puzzled. "Who did what?"

"I don't know," Jennifer answered determinedly. "But I intend to find out."

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

At three o'clock, Ben took a copy of the indictment of Clyde Gillis up to Al Hennessey's office on the fifth floor. Outside, a gloomy sky had overtaken the early morning sun. It matched his mood. Drafting the indictment, which the grand jury had rubber-stamped, had been painful. With each line, he had more and more doubts as to whether Gillis had in fact killed Winthrop. There was nothing specific he could point to, just his instinct as a prosecutor. Still he plowed on, like a good soldier, for all the considerations he had weighed in his mind in Slater's office on Monday morning, but feeling antsy all the while.

The moment Ben walked into his office, Hennessey barked at Liz, "Hold all my calls."

"Except if Jim Slater calls from the White House," Ben shot back.

Ben's quip infuriated Hennessey. "Jesus, you got an attitude."

"I think we should be lawyers, not political hacks."

Hennessey scowled. He was getting tired of Ben's pious carping. They weren't operating in an independent sphere. They were part of the government. "Life's never that easy for prosecutors. We work for the President, remember?"

"Yeah, but who elected Jim Slater?"

Hennessey wanted to give Ben a tongue-lashing, yet right now there was a more important matter than that. "I assume that you're ready to file against Gillis on the Winthrop murder," Hennessey said.

Without responding, Ben handed him a copy of the indictment charging Gillis with first-degree murder and seeking the death penalty.

Hennessey sat down at his desk and read it slowly. Hoping that the weakness in their case, the inability to locate Nesbitt, would be obvious from the document, Ben waited until Hennessey was finished to make one more try. "I don't think we should file it," Ben said. "If we can't produce George Nesbitt at trial, Jennifer and the press will tear us apart."

Hennessey tapped his fingers nervously on his desk. He thought once again, as he had repeatedly since Jim Slater had spoken to him during cocktails at David Kelso's house last evening, about the vacancy on the court of appeals. Slater had said that he wanted to put Hennessey's name on a short list for the appointment. "And by the way, I assume that indictment will be filed by four tomorrow afternoon." Hennessey could practically see himself in judge's black robes. He wasn't going to risk losing that prize over the Clyde Gillis case.

"That's not an option," Hennessey said flatly. He gave Ben a hard stare. "This indictment's going to be filed. I hate to put it this way, but if you can't live with that, you'll have to resign from the office. It's that simple."

From Hennessey's cold tone, Ben knew that further discussion was useless. He wasn't willing to give up his job over this issue. Even after the indictment was filed, he told himself, he could manage the case so Gillis wouldn't be railroaded. Annoyed, he watched Hennessey remove a gold-plated pen from the desk holder and add his signature above Ben's with a flourish. Even the way Hennessey signed his name annoyed Ben. Then Hennessey snatched the phone from its cradle and called Malcolm Wyatt, the chief judge on the district court.

"Malcolm," Hennessey said, "we're filing charges against Clyde Gillis for the murder of the secretary of state. In the interest of avoiding a media circus, I think this case justifies a special assignment. You wouldn't want a fiasco like the O.J. trial in your court. Would you?"

There was a long pause. Ben knew what was running through Wyatt's mind. The district court had a lottery system for assigning judges to cases, and the chief was always reluctant to depart from that procedure.

Wyatt said something Ben couldn't hear. Then Hennessey responded, "How about Judge Hogan?"

Astounded, Ben raised his eyebrows. Lucille "Hang 'Em High" Hogan was viewed as a prosecutor's dream. She was the toughest sentencer on the court. "The judge from hell," a defense lawyer had once named her. Ben had tried a score of cases before her, and he'd won all of them. He also knew, however, that in those rare instances that she thought an innocent person was being charged, she could turn into a prosecutor's nightmare.

To Ben's surprise, Hennessey must have gotten his request. The next words out of his boss's mouth were, "Will you ask Judge Hogan if she'll set arraignment at ten tomorrow morning? We want to move this case."

Hennessey coughed nervously. "Well, give it a shot."

He put the phone down, cut across his office, and dropped the indictment on Liz's desk. "File it yourself," he said to her. "Give Burton in the public affairs office a copy. He can release it to the press. Also, schedule a press conference in about an hour. I'll be down then."

He turned back to Ben. "You want to join me at the press conference?"

"That's OK," Ben said, keeping his voice neutral. "You can take full credit for this one."

The judicial express train had left the station. God help Clyde Gillis, Ben thought.

He returned to his office and was still brooding about the case an hour later when the phone rang. It was Ed Fulton.

"Now that you've filed," Fulton said. "I want to apologize for how I've been acting, and turn over a new leaf."

Ben's suspicions were immediately raised. "What prompted this, hotshot?"

"You've got a lot of experience," Fulton said, as pleasant as could be. "I want to learn from you when you get the case ready for trial. I won't get in your way. I promise."

Ben shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't figure this kid out. "And you'll stop behaving like such an asshole?"

Across the phone line, Ben heard Ed muttering with anger. "Yeah, and you'll stop calling me hotshot?"

Ben didn't really want to give that one up, but he said, "It's a deal."

"Good, then how's about coming out to the house with me for dinner tonight? My wife Theo's a great cook."

The offer surprised Ben, and he reluctantly agreed. As long as he had to work with Fulton, maybe they could find a way to be decent to each other.

"I'll swing by and pick you up at seven," Fulton said.

* * *

Ben watched Al Hennessey's press conference on the television set in his office with a sullen expression. Hennessey was smart. He was sticking to the indictment, not giving their case away. Still, he gave the impression that Clyde Gillis was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. Hennessey handled the questions well, making a nice appearance in his neatly pressed gray Oxxford suit. Ben had seen enough labels on Hennessey's jackets to know what he wore. None of the reporters asked about George Nesbitt, but that wouldn't last. Before long, Jennifer would be leaking to the press all of the facts about Winthrop's missing visitor. Ben would be left to pick up the pieces. If the case against Clyde Gillis went south, as Ben expected, Hennessey would be holed up in his office while Ben, in his wrinkled suit, would have to take the heat before the television cameras.

At the conclusion of the press conference, Ben called Jennifer.

"We filed," he said glumly.

"I saw the press conference," she said crisply. "Thanks for the advance notice. Were you that worried about a response by me?"

Ben sighed, wishing he could tell her it wasn't his idea. "You know how these things go."

"Only too well when you're involved."

Her dig burned him. In a flat voice he informed her, "Judge Hogan has the case."

"Don't tell me you guys let it go on the wheel and I got an unlucky draw."

Ben didn't say anything. He didn't want to lie to her.

"Thanks at least for that," she said.

"The judge wants to do arraignment tomorrow at ten. Can you be ready?"

"It doesn't take long to prepare for saying 'not guilty.' "

She was being hostile, and he didn't want that. He had called to see if she'd consider a deal. "Look, Jennifer, I think we should talk about the case."

"Why?"

"I want to talk in person. Can you come over here?"

"Nope. Neutral territory only."

"How about the Old Ebbitt Grill in thirty minutes?"

For a moment, the professional voice softened. The restaurant, the scene of their first meal together, had been a favorite meeting place of theirs for drinks after a long day. "You still a regular there?" she asked.

Ben's answer was gentler as well. "I'm not much different from the guy you used to know."

"Yeah, that's the problem. Oh, and I'll buy my own drink." She wasn't being nasty or unpleasant. It was a simple reaffirmation of a message she had delivered to him after they were a couple—we're equals, Ben; don't try to control me.