No Way to Treat a First Lady (12 page)

"Whatever it was, I could tell it was askew."

"I congratulate you, sir, on your fine ability to identify unfamiliar three-dimensional objects that are ninety degrees off-kilter."

"Objection."

"Withdrawn. But you walked into the room and right away knew that this antique receptacle for spit was a lethal weapon?"

"Objection."

Judge Dutch creaked forward in his chair. This is the source of the aura of judges: they have bigger chairs than anyone else. That and the fact that they can sentence people to sit in electrified ones. It's all about chairs.

"Withdrawn. Let's move on. In your testimony you said that Mrs. MacMann told you she was woken up in the middle of the night by a noise. You expressed surprise that she hadn't investigated the source of this noise, is that correct?"

"Normally when people—especially women—are woken up by something, they want to know what made the noise."

"Especially women? Implying that they are the
weaker
species?"

"Objection."

"Your Honor, I was merely seeking to clarify the witness's own remark?"

Sidebar.

"In other words, Agent Whepson, Mrs. MacMann should have turned on all the lights, got out of bed, maybe armed herself with a baseball bat to go see if there was a burglar? In the White House."

"Objection."

"Sustained."

"Let me rephrase. You were surprised that Mrs. MacMann, exhausted after entertaining half of Latin America in her house, might have just
assumed
that someone else would investigate the cause of this bump, living as she did in the most heavily guarded house on the planet?"

Agent Whepson paused just long enough for Boyce to say, "Never mind, never mind. Let's move on." He was good at creating the illusion of impatience with the molasseslike pace of a trial, of a man in a hurry to get at—what did he call it?—the truth.

"You interviewed Ms. Babette Van Anka, the actress, who had spent the night in the Lincoln Bedroom, down the hall, did you not?"

"I did."

"And what did she tell you?"

"That she had said good night to the President at approximately twelve-thirty and went to sleep."

"Went
right
to sleep?"

Twenty-five hundred miles away, Babette's mouth went dry.

"She told me she had watched television. That she had gone to sleep with the television on."

"Did she tell you that she had heard this thump in the night?"

"She told me that she slept through the night."

"Glad
someone
got a good night's sleep in the White House that night. Just one or two more questions, Agent Whepson. You've been very patient with me. Unlike Ms. Clintick."

"Objection."

"Come, come, Your Honor, I was only attempting to lift our spirits a little."

"You may lift
my
spirits by getting on with it, Mr. Baylor."

"Agent Whepson, at one point in your career you were assigned to the Counterintelligence Division of the FBI, is that correct?"

"Yes, I was."

"Tell the court what they do, would you?"

"The Counterintelligence Division keeps track of foreign intelligence agents working within the United States."

"Spies? That would be foreign spies?"

"That's correct."

"You were in a supervisory capacity there, were you not, in the San Francisco field office?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did an Agent Wiley P. Sinclair work under you?"

"Objection."

Even viewers who didn't know who Wiley P. Sinclair was could tell that this was no standard sidebar conference going on. At one point, Sandy Clintick and Boyce raised their voices so that they could be heard above the shusher, the white noise machine that Judge Dutch turned on during sidebars to prevent eavesdropping.

"This is a key one for the defense," a TV network correspondent whispered to his viewers like a golf commentator during a critical nineteen-foot putt. "Baylor
badly
wants this front and center."

Finally Judge Dutch turned off the shusher. He told the jury that they should not assign any "undue significance" to what they were about to hear.

"Proceed, Mr. Baylor."

"Agent Sinclair worked for you."

"I had twenty-five agents working in that division."

"But did he report to you?"

"Yes, he did."

"And did it turn out that he was selling our secrets to the Chinese government?"

"Yes."

"Hm. That's some counterintelligence operation you had there, Agent Whepson."

"Objection."

"Withdrawn. Did it come as some surprise to you that one of your agents was having a fire sale of our precious national security secrets?"

"It came as a blow to everyone at the Bureau."

"Was the Bureau criticized for lack of diligence in this matter? I understand Mr. Sinclair had been making regular visits to Las Vegas casinos, driving an Italian sports car, going on expensive golf trips."

"There was discussion of that, yes."

"Was anyone at the Bureau fired as a result of this calamity?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Objection. Asked and answered."

"Withdrawn. Did the First Lady, Mrs. MacMann, make any public Statements about this affair?"

"I'm not aware of any."

Boyce took a piece of paper off the defense table. It was passed to the bailiff, who passed it to the very sulky-looking DAG, and duly admitted into the record.

"Your Honor, may I beg the court's indulgence and read aloud just a sentence or two from this document?"

Judge Dutch nodded.

"This is from the
Chicago Tribune
of February twenty-seven of last year. Mrs. MacMann was in Chicago making a speech, and this is a news story about that event. There was a press conference afterwards. She took some questions. Here is what it says: 'Mrs. MacMann said that she was "dismayed" by the recent scandal involving FBI agent Wiley Sinclair. "I think there should be some resignations on principle," she said.' End quote." Boyce handed the piece of paper to Agent Whepson. "You never saw those remarks?"

"I had not seen that specific article."

"I congratulate you on that very lawyerly response, Agent Whepson."

"Objection. Harassing the witness."

"Withdrawn. Were you aware of the remarks from any other source?"

"I would say it was certainly known that Mrs. MacMann had issues with the Bureau with respect to the matter."

"And what was the Bureau's feeling about Mrs. MacMann's 'issues' with it?"

"That she was entitled to her opinion. She was naturally concerned. We all were."

"There was no ill will toward her? No sense of 'Who does she think she is? Why doesn't she butt out?' "

"None that I'm personally aware of, no."

Boyce took back the piece of paper.

"No further questions." His three favorite words in all the law.

It was generally conceded, even by those who remained convinced of Beth's guilt, that the government had not had a good day in court.

Boyce's custom after an especially good day was to hold a "press availability" on the steps of the courthouse.

He stepped out into the blinding glare of the lights, the eager smiles of the media, his number one fans and enablers. Even those who hated him loved him.

"It was a good day for the truth," he began.

Throughout America and the world, food sprayed from mouths, TV sets were cursed at, dinner napkins hurled, channels angrily changed.

He kept his statement brief. The Secret Service, he said, had pronounced it a murder before adducing evidence that it was. The FBI, meanwhile, had it in for Beth because she had dared to criticize them for incompetence. To them, she was just a "busybody wife."

The next day, it was reported that the head of the National Organization for Women had written a "scathing" letter to the members of the Senate Oversight Committee, demanding an investigation of the FBI for its "political persecution" of Beth. Several members of the committee bravely announced to the media that they thought this was a darned good idea. The director of the FBI, a dedicated public servant of impeccable reputation, father of three (girls), devoted husband, now found the media waiting for him on his lawn when he came home from work, demanding to know a) why he had not fired the incompetent Agent Whepson for the Sinclair affair; b) why the FBI was a hotbed of misogyny; and, for that matter, c) why he had not fired himself?

Deputy Attorney General Sandy Clintick had watched Boyce on television, thumping his chest like an alpha male gorilla. She decided that she too had better get out there on the courthouse steps and do some spinning of her own. She took a deep breath and sallied forth, head held high. She told them that she was "satisfied" with how it was going so far. Agent Whepson had been a "fine and credible" witness. Furthermore, the Federal Bureau of Investigation was above reproach. There was no vendetta against Mrs. MacMann. The government would present compelling evidence in furtherance of its case. Thank you.

Privately, Ms. Clintick was aboil with fury at the FBI for not having reassigned the case to someone other than Agent Whepson once the enormity of it had become clear. But the fact was that it had been Agent Whepson who had been on duty that morning when the call came, and once he began the investigation, that was that, it was his case. Taking it away from him only would have made the Bureau look even more suspect. Boyce Baylor was shameless, but he was also lucky.

But Beth MacMann had killed her husband with that spittoon and lied about it, and she, Sandy Clintick, was going to get her. Not because she had a grudge. President MacMann might have been the husband from hell and might even have had it coming. She wasn't going to get Beth MacMann for that. She was going to get her because she wanted more than anything to wipe the grin off Shameless Baylor's face and shove it up his ass.

As for Beth, she no longer suspected that Boyce was out to lose the case to punish her for pulling a
Casablanca
on him back at law school. On the contrary. She was now racked with guilt for what she'd done to him back then. Sitting there in court watching him eviscerate the government's first witness against her had filled her with remorse. She kept thinking of the look on his face when she'd told him she was marrying Ken.

She and Boyce were having a quiet dinner in a private dining room at the Jefferson before Boyce went back to work to prepare tomorrow's cross-examination of Secret Service agent Birnam.

"Boyce, I—"

That was as far as she got before bursting into tears.

"What's the matter? Hey, it's going fine. We're doing fine."

"It's not
that."
She honked into one of the Jefferson's crisply ironed starched napkins. "Oh, Boyce, I'm so
sorry."

"Beth. It was an accident."

She looked up from her honked-in napkin. "What was?"

Boyce leaned forward and whispered, "You didn't
mean
to kill him." He sat back. "Anyway, it's not like he was the favorite of all my presidents." He winked.

"What are you talking about?" Beth said, suddenly dry-eyed.

"The number two wife, the Italian, she used to throw things at me all the time. One time she threw this crystal cigar ashtray. From Steuben. Must've weighed five pounds. If she'd connected, I wouldn't be here."

"I didn't
kill
Ken."

Boyce looked at her. This woman could turn on a dime. He'd had clients like this. The guilt built up until it was overwhelming. They'd burst, then before you could hand them a Kleenex, they were over it, back in denial.

"Whatever." He shrugged.

" 'Whatever'?"

"I'm your lawyer. I'm the last person on the planet you have to explain yourself to."

"I was trying to say... I never told you sorry. For what I did. Back then."

Boyce said quietly, "There's something I never told you."

"Tell me now."

"When you came to my room that day?"

"Yes?"

"I was going to tell you that I was breaking our engagement."

"What?"

"I'd fallen in love."

Beth stared in confusion.

"There was this... guy."

Beth stared. She didn't know what to say.

"He awakened in me something that I didn't know had been there."

"You..."

"He'd been in the navy. He was
so
butch."

"Dammit, Boyce. I was trying to apologize."

"Then it turned out he was two-timing me. With this ambitious
bitch."

They kissed. First time in a quarter century. Yet it felt oddly familiar.

"Whoa," Boyce said after what must have been five minutes. Thank God no waiter came in. The headlines! "I have to be in court tomorrow."

Beth sighed. "So do I."

Boyce began his cross-examination of Secret Service agent Woodrow "Woody" Birnam not at his usual station right next to the witness, but from a distance. He stood at his podium by the defense table.

"Can you hear me okay, Agent Birnam?"

"Yes, sir." Agent Birnam was in his mid-thirties and befitting his profession was in excellent physical shape.

"You have a superb record with the Secret Service."

Agent Birnam knew better than to accept Boyce's compliment at face value.

"You're one of the Service's top pistol shots, I see."

"We're all competent with firearms. It's a requirement."

"Don't be modest, now. You're on the competition team that's beaten the FBI team three years running. I imagine that must be a sore point with Agent Whepson."

Laughter. Vlonko noted which jurors joined in.

"You must shoot a great deal to maintain such a level of proficiency."

"Objection. Agent Birnam's marksmanship is irrelevant."

"Your Honor, I guarantee the court that my line of questioning is more relevant than the deputy attorney general's ceaseless objections. She's objecting so many times that I'm beginning to worry about her blood pressure."

"Overruled. But proceed to your point, Counsel."

"I was, Your Honor, I was. How often do you go to the pistol range, Agent Birnam?"