Pop Goes the Weasel (25 page)

So was Chief of Detectives Pittman, who was putting on quite a show from his front-row seat. “You mean to tell me that because
Shafer has diplomatic immunity he can avoid criminal prosecution in criminal court? But he can traipse right into our
civil
court and get protection against false arrest and defamation?”

Kersee nodded and made clucking noises with his tongue and teeth. “Yessirreebob, that’s it exactly. Our ambassadors and their
staffs enjoy the same kind of immunity in England and everywhere else around the world. No amount of political pressure will
get the Brits to waive immunity. Shafer is a war hero from the Falklands. Supposedly he’s also pretty well respected inside
the Security Service, though lately he seems to have been in some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” I asked.

“They won’t tell us.”

Pittman was still badgering the lawyers. “What about that clown from the Baltic Embassy? The one who wiped out the sidewalk
café?
He
went to trial.”

Mike Kersee shrugged. “He was just a low-level staffer from a low-level country that we could threaten. We can’t do that with
England.”

“Why the hell not?” Pittman frowned and thumped his hand hard against the arm of his chair. “England isn’t worth shit anymore.”

The phone on Dowd’s desk rang, and he raised his hand for quiet. “That’s probably Jules Halpern. He said he’d call at ten,
and he’s an efficient bastard. If it is him, I’ll put him on the speaker box. This should be about as interesting as a rectal
exam done with a cactus.”

Dowd picked up and exchanged pleasantries with the defense attorney for about thirty seconds. Then Halpern cut him off. “I
believe we have matters of substance to discuss. My schedule is rather tight today. I’m sure you’re hard pressed as well,
Mr. Dowd.”

“Yes, let’s get down to business,” Dowd said, raising his thick, curly black eyebrows. “As you know, the police have a qualified
privilege to arrest anyone if they have probable cause. You simply don’t have a civil case, Counselor—”

Halpern interrupted Dowd before he had finished speaking.
“Not
if that person identifies himself from the outset as having diplomatic immunity, which my client did. Colonel Shafer stood
in the doorway of his
therapist’s
apartment, waving his British Security Service shield like a stop sign and saying that he had immunity.”

Dowd sighed loudly into the phone. “There was blood on his trousers, Counselor. He’s a murderer, Counselor,
and
a cop killer. I don’t think I need to say any more on the subject. With respect to the alleged defamation, the police also
have a qualified privilege to talk to the press when a crime has been committed.”

“And I suppose that the chief of detectives’ statement in front of reporters—and several hundred million others around the
world—isn’t slander per se?”

“That’s correct, it isn’t. There’s a qualified privilege with respect to public figures such as your client.”

“My client is not a
public
figure, Mr. Dowd. He is a very private individual. He is an intelligence agent. His very livelihood, if not his life, depends
on his being able to work undercover.”

The chief counsel was already exasperated, possibly because Halpern’s responses were so calm, yet always delivered rapidfire.
“All right, Mr. Halpern. So why are you calling us?”

Halpern paused long enough to make Dowd curious. Then he began again. “My client has authorized me to make a very unusual
offer. I have strongly advised him against it, but he maintains his right to do so.”

Dowd looked startled. I could tell that he hadn’t been expecting any kind of deal offer. Neither had I. What was this about?

“Go ahead, Mr. Halpern,” said Dowd. His eyes were wide and alert as they roamed around the room looking at us. “I’m listening.”

“I’ll bet you are, and all your esteemed colleagues as well.”

I leaned forward to hear every word.

Jules Halpern continued with the real reason for his call: “My client wants all possibility of a civil case being brought
against him waived.”

I rolled my eyes. Halpern wanted to make certain that no one could sue his client in civil court after the criminal court
case was concluded. He remembered that O. J. Simpson had been set free in the one court only to be bankrupted in the other.

“Impossible!” said Dowd. “There’s no way in hell that will ever happen. No way.”

“Listen to me. There
is
a way, or I wouldn’t have broached the subject. If this is done, and if he and I can be convinced of a speedy route for a
criminal trial, my client will
waive diplomatic immunity
. Yes, you heard me correctly. Geoffrey Shafer wants to prove his innocence in a court of law. He insists on it, in fact.”

Dowd was shaking his head in disbelief. So was Mike Kersee. His eyes were glazed with astonishment as he glanced across the
room at me.

None of us could believe what we had just heard from the defense attorney.

Geoffrey Shafer wanted to go to trial.

Book Four
TRIAL AND ERRORS

CONQUEROR HAD WATCHED her work High Street in Kensington for nearly six weeks. She became his obsession, his fantasy woman,
his “game piece.” He knew everything there was to know about her. He felt—he knew—that he was starting to act like Shafer.
They all were, weren’t they?

The girl’s name was Noreen Anne, and a long time ago—
three years
, to be exact—she had traveled to London from Cork, Ireland, with lovely dreams of being a fashion model on the world stage.

She was seventeen then, nearly five-ten, slender, blond, and with a face that all the boys and even the older men back home
told her was destined for magazine covers, or maybe even the cinema.

So what was she doing here on High Street at half past one in the morning? She wondered about it as she forced a coquettish
smile and occasionally waved a hand at the leering men in their slowly passing cars that made the rounds of High Street, DeVere
Gardens, Exhibition Road.

They’d thought she was pretty, all right—just not pretty enough for British or American magazine covers, and not good enough,
not classy enough, to marry or have as a girlfriend.

Well, at least she had a plan, and she thought it was a good one. Noreen Anne had saved nearly two thousand quid since she
began to walk the streets. She thought she needed another three thousand or so, and then she would head back to Ireland. She’d
start a small beauty shop, because she did know the secrets of beauty, and also a lot about the dreams.

So, here I am in front of the Kensington Palace Hotel in the meantime
, she thought.
Freezing my fine bum off
.

“Excuse me, miss,” she heard, and turned with a start. She hadn’t heard anyone come up on her.

“I couldn’t help noticing you standing here. You’re an extraordinary beauty. But of course you know that, don’t you?”

Noreen Anne felt relief the moment she saw who it was. This one wouldn’t hurt her, couldn’t if he tried. She could hurt
him
, if it came to that.

He was old, in his late sixties or seventies; he was obscenely fat; and he was seated in a wheelchair.

And so she went off—with Conqueror.

It was all part of the game.

THE AMERICANS had promised a speedy route to trial, and the fools had actually delivered.

Five months had passed since the murder of Detective Pasty Hampton. Alex Cross had been shuttling back and forth to Bermuda,
but he still had no idea where Christine had disappeared to. Shafer was out of jail but on a very short leash. He hadn’t played
the game once since Hampton’s murder. The game of games had been on hold, and it was driving him mad.

Now Shafer sat in his black Jag in the parking lot directly under the courthouse, feeling hopeful. He was eager to stand trial
on the count of Aggravated, Premeditated Murder in the First Degree. The rules of play had been established, and he appreciated
that.

The suppression hearing weeks before was still a vivid memory for him. He’d relished every minute of it. The preliminary hearing
was held before the jury selection, to determine what evidence would be allowed at the trial; it took place in the spacious
chambers of Judge Michael Fescoe. The judge set the rules, so in a way he was the gamemaster. How fabulously droll, how delicious.

Shafer’s lawyer, Jules Halpern, argued that Shafer had been in a therapy session at Dr. Cassady’s home-office, and therefore
had every right to privacy. “That privacy was violated. First, Dr. Cassady refused to let Detective Cross and the other officers
come inside. Second, Colonel Shafer showed his identification to the detective. It proved that he was with the British Embassy
and had diplomatic immunity. Cross barged into the therapist’s office anyway. Consequently, any evidence obtained—if indeed
any evidence
was
obtained—is the result of unlawful search.”

Judge Fescoe took the rest of the day to consider, then announced his decision the next morning. “As I listened to both sides,
it seemed to me that the issues were straightforward and not all that unusual in a murder case. Mr. Shafer does indeed have
diplomatic immunity. However, it is my opinion that Detective Cross acted in a reasonable and lawful manner when he went to
Dr. Cassady’s apartment. He suspected that a grave crime had been committed. Dr. Cassady opened the door, allowing Detective
Cross plain view of Mr. Shafer’s attire. Colonel Shafer has insisted all along that his diplomatic immunity denied Detective
Cross permission to enter the premises.

“I am therefore going to allow the prosecution to use the clothing Colonel Shafer was wearing on the night of the murder,
as well as the blood on the carpet outside the apartment door, as evidence.

“The prosecution may also use any evidence found in the parking garage, both in Detective Hampton’s car and in Colonel Shafer’s,”
Judge Fescoe continued, and this was the key part of his ruling: “I will
not allow
evidence found once Detective Cross entered the apartment against the stated wishes of both Colonel Shafer and Dr. Cassady.
Any and all evidence discovered during the initial or subsequent searches is suppressed and will not be allowed at the trial.”

The prosecution was also told not to make any reference, during the trial, to any other uncharged murders that Shafer was
suspected of having committed in Washington. The jury was to understand that Shafer was under investigation only for the murder
of Senior Detective Patricia Hampton. Both the prosecution and the defense claimed victory at the end of the suppression hearing.

The stone steps outside the courthouse were swarming with a buzzing, unruly crowd on the morning of the first day. Shafer’s
“supporters” were wearing UK/OK buttons and waving crisp, new Union Jacks. These wondrous fools made him smile as he clasped
both hands high over his head in victory. He enjoyed being a hero immensely.

What a glorious time. Even if he
was
a little high and spacey on a few choice pharmaceuticals.

Both sides were still predicting “slam dunk” victories. Lawyers were such fabulous bullshitters.

The press was touting the outrageous charade as the “criminal trial of the decade.” The media hype, expected and ritualistic,
thrilled him anyway. He internalized it as tribute and adulation. His due.

He purposely cut quite a dashing figure; he wanted to make an impression—on the world. He wore a soft-shouldered, tailored
gray suit, a striped bespoke shirt from Budd, and black oxfords from Lobb’s, St. James’s. He was photographed a hundred times
in the first few moments alone.

He walked into the courthouse as if in a dream. The most delicious thing of all was that he might lose everything.

Courtroom 4 was on the third floor. It was the largest in the building. Closest to the double set of public doors was a gallery
that held around a hundred and forty spectators. Then came the “bar area,” where the attorneys’ tables were situated. Then
the “judge’s bench,” which took up about a quarter of the room.

The trial began at ten in the morning, and it was all a rattle and hum to him. The lead prosecutor was Assistant U.S. Attorney
Catherine Marie Fitzgibbon. He already yearned to murder her, and wondered if he possibly could. He wanted Ms. Fitzgibbon’s
scalp on his belt. She was just thirty-six, Irish Catholic, single, sexy in her tight-assed way, dedicated to high-minded
ideals, like so many others from her island of origin. She favored dark-blue or gray Ann Taylor wardrobes and wore a ubiquitous
tiny gold cross on a gold chain. She was known in the D.C. legal community as the Drama Queen. Her melodramatic telling of
the gory details was meant to win the sympathy of the jury. A worthy opponent indeed. A worthy prey as well.

Shafer sat at the defendant’s table and tried to concentrate. He listened, watched, felt as he hadn’t in a long time. He knew
they were all watching him. How could they not?

Shafer sat there observing, but his brain was on fire. His esteemed attorney, Jules Halpern, finally began to speak, and he
heard his own name. That piqued his interest, all right. He was the star here, wasn’t he?

Jules Halpern was little more than five-four, but he cut quite a powerful figure in a court of law. His hair was dyed jet-black
and slicked back tightly against his scalp. His suit was from a British tailor, just like Shafer’s. Shafer thought, rather
uncharitably, he supposed,
Dress British, think Yiddish
. Seated beside Halpern was his daughter, Jane, who was second chair. She was tall and slender, but with her father’s black
hair and beaked nose.

Jules Halpern certainly had a strong voice for such a slight and small fellow. “My client, Geoffrey Shafer, is a loving husband.
He is also a very good father, and happened to be attending a birthday party for two of his children half an hour
before
the murder of Detective Patricia Hampton.