No Way to Treat a First Lady (9 page)

Now the motorcade pulled up in front of the courthouse. This was Boyce's idea.

"Okay," he said, "remember, we're going to walk in there like we own the place. By the time we're through with these jerks, they'll be the ones on trial."

Boyce didn't quite believe this, but going into court was like taking the field in a game. You had to pump up your players. You had to pump yourself up.

There were so many satellite trucks, it looked like a NASA tracking station. It was a scene. Media, cops, and demonstrators with signs—ASSASSIN!, FRY THE BITCH!, FREE BETH!

She was wearing a black pantsuit copied from one of the leading designers, with enough changes so that the media wouldn't be able to say that she had looked "stunning in Armani." Half a dozen designers had called Boyce offering to dress her for the trial. Boyce had turned them all down. What's more, he'd informed the media that he had. On the first day of her trial, Beth looked stylish but sober: a smart-looking woman in her early forties on her way to a business meeting. The white blouse, Boyce joked to her, symbolized her innocence. It was open enough to draw the eyes of the male jurors without offending the women. The string of pearls had been a gift from Ken, bought by his secretary when he forgot her birthday.

"Okay, here we go," he said. "Got your mantra ready?"

She gave him a tight smile. The mantra, devised by Boyce, was "When we walk in, there'll be one single thought in your head:
I have come to accept their apology."

That night, after the first day of the Trial of the Millennium, her entrance into the court was shown on an estimated 72 percent of the world's television sets. Her swanlike serenity, amid a clamor that would have rattled a professional wrestler, was widely commented upon.

Boyce was cheered by DAG Clintick's opening statement. She delivered it in an earnest more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone. He was so delighted that he decided to break his rule and depart—slightly—from his own memorized fifteen-thousand-word opening statement.

The essence of the United States's case against Elizabeth Tyler MacMann, Ms. Clintick averred, was straightforward: The President was found dead in his own bedroom. The autopsy established time of death between 3:15 and 5:00 A.M., and that death had resulted from an epidural hematoma caused by blunt-force trauma to the skull five centimeters above the right eyebrow. Photographic enlargement of the bruise revealed the distinctive imprint of the hallmark of an antique Paul Revere silver spittoon. The spittoon, used as a wastebasket, was found not in its usual place in the bedroom, by the First Lady's side of the king-size bed, but by the door, on its side. The jury would hear testimony from a Secret Service agent who would testify that he had heard a violent argument coming from the presidential bedroom between 2:10 and 2:20 A.M. They would hear from numerous people who had attended the state dinner that night that the President had been in fine spirits and health, no bruise or Paul Revere hallmark on his forehead. An overnight guest in the White House would testify that she said good night to an unbruised President at 12:30 A.M. They would hear testimony from numerous friends and associates of the First Couple as to the turbulence of their marital relations.

When all this evidence was presented, the jury would have no choice but to conclude, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Beth MacMann had callously and cold-bloodedly murdered her husband as he slept, in their own bed. A husband who, as it happened, was President of the United States of America. They would therefore have no choice but to find her guilty not only of murder in the first degree, but of assassination, the gravest crime in the land. This litany of villainy took slightly under two hours to deliver.

Boyce rose, buttoned his jacket, and walked toward the jury box. He rested his hand on the edge of it as he walked from one end of it to the far end, as if it were a banister. He had learned this from Edward Bennett Williams, the great trial attorney: Show them you're not afraid of them, show them you're comfortable everywhere in the courtroom, show them it's
your
courtroom.

He turned, faced them, and said in a quiet but commanding voice, "Good morning." His jury consultant, Vlonko, noted that eight out of eighteen returned his greeting. Resting one elbow on the jury box, he began. No podium, no notes—unlike the DAG. He then launched into his imitation of a lawyer speaking from the heart, one of the great dramatic roles.

"Ladies and gentlemen, that was a pretty good speech you just heard by the deputy attorney general. She was, as you know, appointed to her office, a sacred trust, by her boss, the attorney general, who got his job from Mrs. MacMann's late husband. She and her superior, the attorney general of the United States, seem to have held on to their jobs, despite the change in administration." Pause. "That is unusual. But not irrelevant to this case. It is also highly unusual for a deputy attorney general of the United States to personally prosecute a case. Extremely so. One might ask,
Why
is she prosecuting this case, when she could be doing what a deputy attorney general does? Namely, keeping the nation safe. Working on behalf of those whose civil liberties have been violated? On behalf of those whose livelihoods are threatened by giant monopolies? On behalf of those who are persecuted for the color of their skin, for their sexual orientation—"

"Objection."

"Proceed, Counsel."

"Now, ambition in itself is not a bad thing. All of us, all of you, have ambitions. To move up in the world. To earn the respect of your fellow citizens, to save money to send your children to college—"

In the press section, heads turned. Someone said,
"Oy."
There's no more suspicious sound than that of a lawyer proclaiming the decency of his fellow man.

"—to make better lives for ourselves. That is ambition, and there's nothing wrong with it." Pause. "But...
but
when ambition consists of exploiting a tragedy and the misery of a widow"—this would be the first of 1,723 mentions by Boyce of the word
widow
during the trial—"in the service of a conspiracy by the same government whose sworn duty it is to protect us, then, ladies and gentlemen, decency shudders, honor flees, and darkness has surely descended upon the land."

The deputy AG rose. "Your Honor, this is intolerable."

"This is a court, Mr. Baylor, not a church."

"Well, there I agree with the deputy attorney general. I agree that it is intolerable that a woman who has dedicated her life to public service, to feeding the poor and underprivileged, caring for the elderly, seeing to it that working men and women have jobs and portable health care—while also making sure that business and entrepreneurs are not overtaxed and over-regulated by government"—a little something for the Republicans on the jury—"I agree that it is intolerable that such a woman be vilified and unjustly charged with a heinous act." Pause. "Simply because she dared to speak out against injustice and wrongdoing. Yes, I would say that the deputy attorney general has it exactly right. It
is
intolerable. And after the facts have been presented, you too will find it so. This case is designated
United States
versus
Elizabeth MacMann.
Well, that's about the size of it. The government, the entire United States government... versus one single woman."

Boyce walked slowly over to the defense table and stood near Beth. She hadn't quite anticipated a
J'accuse!
of this amperage. She tried to conceal her embarrassment by staring blankly at the table.

Having placed himself next to the Widow MacMann, Boyce continued.

"There is a philosophical principle called Occam's razor. It goes like this: Never accept a complicated explanation where a simple one will do. Smart man, Mr. Occam. The prosecution—the government—would have you believe that the explanation for President MacMann's demise is more complicated than landing a person on the moon. They will bring in charts, timelines, computer-enhanced photographs, to convince you of a scenario so wild, so convoluted, so unbelievable, that to process it, to take it all in, would require the intellectual capacity of an Albert Einstein or Martin Luther King. You recall that the judge here explained to you during voir dire that this case might take some time to try?" Boyce chuckled. "Well, brace yourself, ladies and gentlemen, because it might just take
years
for the deputy attorney general to convince you of the preposterous scenario upon which her case depends."

Boyce sighed deeply at the monstrous injustice of it all. He aimed his next burst of rhetorical flatulence at the heavens beyond the ceiling, where surely God and His archangels were listening, sharpening their swords of righteousness.

"Be prepared for arguments that would make Jesus weep and Einstein's head spin. Be prepared to hear that a mark on the late President's forehead was put there... by Paul Revere."

The correspondent for
The New Yorker
magazine leaned over and whispered to the
Vanity Fair
reporter, "I love this guy."

"That's right," Boyce continued. "Paul Revere's silversmith mark. Supposedly from a spittoon Mr. Revere made about the time of the American Revolution. Well, sit back and get comfortable. They're going to bring in photographic blowups of a tiny spot on the President's forehead. Experts—that is, they call themselves experts—with expensive, government-supplied laser pointers, will point at these photographs like they were aerial reconnaissance maps of Afghanistan. They'll say, 'See this teeny-tiny part here? We know it's hard to see, but that's Paul Revere's initials on the President's skull. Can't you see that? Are you
blind?
Why, any
fool
could see it!' Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's exactly what the government thinks of you—fools. To be manipulated! Um-
hum."

Jurors seven and nine were nodding along as if it were a Baptist sermon.
Say it, brother!

Boyce shook his head bitterly in wonder. The next words exploded from his mouth with such force that the front row of jurors recoiled.

"A
spittoon!"

The stenographer started.

"The so-called murder weapon. An antiquated device going back to the days when men chewed tobacco. How fitting, ladies and gentlemen, that the government's chief piece of evidence should be a receptacle... for
spit."

The
New York Post
headline the next day was:

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will learn that there is a far, far simpler explanation for the President's unfortunate and untimely demise than that his devoted wife of twenty-five years awoke out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night and seized a historic antique—she, a lover and respecter of antiques, you'll hear testimony to that—crushed his skull, then went back to sleep, woke up, and cheerfully ordered breakfast in bed, with the corpse still cooling. The simple truth is..." His voice dropped.

Reporters, jurors leaned forward in their seats.

"Accidents happen."

Boyce turned directly to the jury, his back to the rest of the court and the world, as if this weighty matter were just between them.

"Planes crash. Cars crash. People fall down stairs, slip in bathrooms. Who among us—who among you—has not felt a wet foot go out from under us—"

Boyce pitched forward, grabbing the jury box rail.

"—and caught ourselves in the nick of time? Has that ever happened to you?"

"Objection."

"Sustained."

But three jurors were already nodding at him. To hell with the prosecutor and the judge. This was between them!

"Who among us, saving ourselves from snapping our necks or going down with our head on the tiles, has not felt a vast
wave
of relief and gratitude and thought,
Whew! Thank you, Lord! That was a close one!"

Boyce walked over to the prosecution's table, where the deputy AG and her team sat, glaring at him. Boyce loved to end his opening statements here, in their territory, in their faces.

"A death by happenstance, by accident, is no less tragic, perhaps, than any other kind of death. But"—withering glance at the prosecution—"it is
not
murder. It is
not
assassination. And it is
no
excuse—none!—to charge horrendous deeds to a woman whose only crime, if you want to call it that, was to have loved her husband too deeply, and too well."

He'd timed it to the minute. It was 4:43 P.M. Judge Umin had announced at the outset that he would adjourn every day at 4:45. His opening statement would marinate in the jury's minds all night, barbecue sauce seeping into meat.

Boyce sat down and bowed his head prayerfully, as if he had just taken Communion.

"You know what they're going to call it, don't you?" Beth said in the car on their way to the post-trial conference in Boyce's hotel suite. "The 'shit happens' defense. You've staked my life on a wet bathroom floor."

Boyce was pumped. Oxygen was roaring to his brain, as if he'd just run five miles. Oh, the poor mortals, the nonlitigators, the timid souls who would never in their lives know this feeling, the thrill of owning a courtroom. A symphony orchestra conductor, a stage actor, a tenor, a great orator, an athlete at his or her peak—they knew something of it. But their stakes were relatively trivial: art, a home run, a moment of uplift for the paying audience. This—this was life or death! This was the Colosseum. He was floating in endorphin soup. All was well with the world. He was in a state of grace. This was going to be his greatest triumph ever, the crown in a shimmery career. He even forgot about his secret plan to lose.

He looked at Beth, and she looked pumped, too, for the first time since this had all begun. He was seized with the urge to kiss her. No. Not yet, and anyway, not in the car with Agent Hickok up front. Boyce wondered about the agents.

She had a large detail—a dozen. Athletes with Uzis. Were they spying on them? He wondered. They were professionals and honorable. But in a few days they were going to hate Boyce's—and her—guts so badly, their trigger fingers would itch like bad cases of poison ivy. The temptation to fight back would be hard to resist.