Shadow of Power (6 page)

“Don’t start,” she says. When we have these bouts, which is not often, Sarah sounds so much like her mother that at times I can hear Nikki’s voice. Though Nikki has been dead now for nearly fifteen years, I can often see her eyes staring out at me from my daughter’s face when Sarah is angry. Sarah’s mother died of cancer when our daughter was small, and so my memories of the two of them together seem limited.

“You’re assuming that he did it.” I’m standing in my bedroom over my open suitcase, which is laid out on my bed, half filled with the items I need for my trip to the East Coast. This is a large part of the reason that Sarah is upset. She was hoping that I might take some time off while she was home on break. She is standing in the open doorway to my room, one hand on her hip, looking angry and hurt.

“Sarah, listen. The whole purpose of the trial is to determine whether he did it. And I don’t think he did. What if someone accused you of doing something like this? Wouldn’t you want me to defend you?”

“Dad, that’s not fair. Everybody knows he did,” she says.

“I’m not concerned with what everybody knows. I’m concerned with what a jury says, and then only after they’ve seen, heard, and studied all the evidence.”

“For God’s sake, Dad, he’s a neo-Nazi. Even my political science prof says so.”

“Then your political science professor can convict him of that, and on that charge I promise I won’t represent him.”

“Dad!”

“But on the charge of murdering Terry Scarborough, I am his lawyer, and on that charge he is entitled to a fair trial, just as you would be.”

I return to packing, laying out shirts and underwear on the bed before loading them into my luggage.

“My prof says that Professor Scarborough was the victim of a hate crime. He says that it was a political crime and should be punished that way.”

I’m going to have to make a note to keep my daughter away from the prosecutors. She may give them ideas.

She stands there for a moment collecting her thoughts, trying to come up with a different twist on her argument. I can smell mental rubber burning.

“Fine! How long will you be away? Can you tell me that?” The edge goes out of Sarah’s voice. She realizes that she has lost this bout, though, knowing my daughter,
I
realize she is not giving up.

“Three days, four at most. I have business in New York. I won’t be sure until I get there. I’ll call you every day and let you know when I’ll be home. And I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“It’s just that I thought we could spend some time together,” says Sarah. “I was hoping that maybe we could go down to Mexico for a while, maybe Puerto Vallarta, one of the beach resorts.”

“I will make it up to you. I promise. You’ll be home again in a few months, and we can go somewhere. You can pick the spot.”

“You’ll be in trial,” she says. “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.” She turns and walks away down the hall.

I stop my packing, one of my folded shirts still hanging in the air. “Tell you what!” I holler after her down the empty hall.

“What?” She is already halfway down the stairs.

“How would you like to do some shopping in New York?”

There is a nanosecond of silence, and she appears like magic back in the doorway. “You mean it?”

“Call the office, tell them to get another ticket on the flight, and book one more room at the hotel—adjoining, if they can manage it. Then get in gear and pack. We don’t have much time.”

“Sure! Won’t take me a minute.”

S
even hours in the air allow me to make up for lost time with my daughter. We talk about life on Coronado Island, how the city has changed in the time we’ve lived there. We talk about Harry. Sarah spends a good bit of the flight laughing as only young girls can. Her memories of Harry are of an aging and somewhat hapless uncle, even though she and my partner are not related by blood, marriage, or anything else. They have always been close.

We dredge up old memories, some of them painful: the early years when she was a small child in Capital City, when Nikki was alive and we were a family. To my surprise, Sarah has more vivid recollections of this period than I might have credited. It is one of those imponderables, the snippets of life that engrave themselves on the mind of a small child.

Somewhere high over the flatlands of the Midwest, above the constant drone of jet engines, our conversation turns from distant memories to what she is doing at school, and finally to my practice. Sarah has always had a knack for getting me to talk, so much so that I may have to put her on the law office’s payroll when I return home in order to maintain attorney-client confidence with Arnsberg. Sarah picks my brain on aspects of the case I should not discuss.

Strangely, the question that seems to perplex my daughter the most is how, after its repeal following the Civil War, it is possible that the old language of slavery can still be visible in the Constitution to
day. It is this very fact that Scarborough pounced on and exploited in his book.

Sarah is reading from a
Newsweek
article, a story on the author’s murder and the impending trial.

“It says here that according to Scarborough this language in the Constitution represents ‘an ongoing and perpetual stigmatizing of the African soul.’ That’s a quote from his book,” she says. Then she reads on. “‘While slavery was repealed in 1865 by the Thirteenth Amendment, the offending words that legalized the so-called peculiar institution at the origin of the nation remain in black and white as a visible legacy of America’s principal document of state to this very day.’

“I don’t understand. How can that be?” she says. “If they were repealed, why are they still there?”

I try to explain it to her. “What Scarborough discovered was a seam in the way in which the Constitution is published. Its system of publication is unique to that document.”

Fortunately for Scarborough and unfortunately for the country, removing the language of slavery from the Constitution is not something that can easily be done.

I explain to her that “this is likely to require a separate constitutional amendment altering the style of the amending process. Scarborough knew this. So he knew he wasn’t wasting his time publishing
Perpetual Slaves.
The book would have a long shelf life, because Congress couldn’t wave its magic wand and pass a bill to fix the problem and the president couldn’t do it by executive order.

“There is no simple procedural mechanism for this,” I tell Sarah. “The process and style for amending language in the Constitution have remained the same for more than two hundred years. It’s not like a statute or bill passed by Congress. There, the language that is repealed or amended is stricken from the codebooks and no longer appears in print after a short time following its amendment. On the other hand, words repealed from the Constitution will always remain in print as part of the document, even though they may no longer be enforced and are dead-letter law.”

Sarah thinks about this for a moment, then starts to read again.

“According to the story, it says here, ‘Now, with a spotlight cast on them for all to see, the offending words of slavery fester like some open
wound, threatening to give rise to race riots unseen in the nation since the 1960s.’”

She looks at me. “Do you really think that could happen?”

“I hope not, but there’s already been violence. Mr. Scarborough and his book stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

“But wasn’t that the purpose of his book? Social justice?” she says. “According to political theory, what I’m reading now, violence is sometimes the price that has to be paid. Jefferson said—”

“I know. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”

“You read that?” she says.

“Many years ago.”

As it turns out, her interest is sufficiently piqued that when I set forth the following morning headed for Richard Bonguard’s office, Sarah is with me. She says she will not utter a word. She will sit in the corner like a mouse.

Sarah and I are in the back of a taxi stopped dead in traffic, the remnants of rush hour and the parking lot that is midtown Manhattan.

I warn her that Bonguard may not be friendly. He is, potentially at least, a hostile witness.

“Gee, you think, Dad?” Sarah looks at me, one eyebrow arched. “Your client did kill his cash cow.”

“Is accused of killing,” I correct her.

She ignores me. “Besides, I’ve never seen a literary agent before, so this is a first. Who knows, I may want to write a book someday. What was he like on the phone?”

“Businesslike and guarded,” I tell her. Bonguard agreed to talk with me as much out of curiosity as anything else. From our brief conversation on the phone, it was clear. He is seeking a mutual exchange of information. “I suspect he wants to know whatever it is that I know.”

“Like what?” asks Sarah.

“Mostly he wanted to know about Arnsberg—what he’s like, his background. And of course the big enchilada—why he might want to kill Scarborough.”

“Maybe
he’s
planning on writing a book,” says Sarah.

“Nothing would surprise me. Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

“You worry too much,” she says.

“I get paid to worry.”

What has me worried in this case is that Bonguard, a close acquaintance of the victim, would normally be high on the list of possible prosecution witnesses. The cops would be all over him, urging him not to talk to the defense and, if he does, to pump us for as much information as possible. Talking with him could be tantamount to a conference call with the cops.

“He’s probably just curious,” says Sarah.

“Let’s hope so.”

“So what are you going to tell him?”

“As little as possible.”

“What about this letter?” As it has with Harry’s and mine, the mystery letter mentioned by Bonguard on Leno has captured Sarah’s interest.

“All I know is what he said on television.”

“But the police must have checked it out?” she says. “They must know something.”

“If they do, they aren’t sharing it with us. Besides, there’s a certain dynamic to a case like this, once the cops start to focus on a suspect. And they arrested ours—”

“Yours,” she says.

“Mine.” I smile at her. “They arrested Arnsberg very early on. In that kind of a situation, where they focus early on one suspect, unless there’s an alibi—the suspect was somewhere else at the time of the killing and can prove it—or some other hard evidence that points away from their suspect, the cops can be very myopic. Shortsighted,” I say.

“Dad, I know what ‘myopic’ means.”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not a kid anymore.”

The taxi takes a right, and we head down one of the less-congested cross streets toward the East River. Here we are surrounded on both sides by well-manicured multistoried brownstones. The cab pulls up in front of one of these and stops. We step out, and I pay the driver.

I check the address against the note I’d taken during my telephone
conversation with Bonguard. “This is it.” I had been expecting a commercial high-rise.

There are baskets of colorful hanging flowers adorning the wrought-iron trellis that arches over the doorway at the top of the stairs. The small-paned windows are framed by neatly painted green wooden shutters, the paint glossy and fresh. Sarah and I head up the steps. On the door a small brass plate announces:

BONGUARD & ASSOCIATES

Talent and Literary Agents

I ring the bell, and an instant later a buzzer unlocks the door, so I push it open, and we enter. Inside is a large vestibule, polished hardwood floors, and solid millwork, a heavy beamed ceiling. Dark mahogany banisters flank a curved stairway leading to the upper floors in what was once an impressive private home.

Set back and off to one side is a small Louis XV desk, dark enamel and gold leaf. Seated behind it, a pretty young woman is talking on the phone.

“I’ll give him the message. I’m sure he will get back to you as soon as he can.” She hangs up, makes a quick note, and then looks up at us. “Can I help you?”

“We have an appointment with Mr. Bonguard. Paul Madriani.” I hand her a business card. She takes the card and glances down at a calendar in front of her.

“Just a moment.” She picks up the telephone receiver and pushes two buttons on the desk set, waits a couple of seconds, and then, to a voice on the other end, says, “A Mr. Madriani here to see you. Your ten o’clock. Yes.” She hangs up. “Someone will be right with you. Please have a seat.” She points toward a Louis XV sofa that is fitted into the curving wall supporting the staircase. The couch is one of those antiques with fluffed-up pillows the air from which will dissipate the moment you look at it.

Between planes and taxis over the last two days, we have been sitting for a long time, so we elect to mill around studying the artwork.

“Can I get you some coffee, a soft drink?” the receptionist asks.

I look at Sarah. She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“We’re fine,” I tell her.

We spend five minutes checking out the prints on the walls, copies of early Manhattan landscapes, sailing ships in the harbor, and Wall Street when the stone wall it was named for was still in place. I am beginning to wonder whether Sarah is regretting that she didn’t go shopping. Finally I hear footsteps on the landing overhead. They move quickly down the stairs. When I turn to look up, I see the face I saw on Leno, a little thinner than I remember on the tube.

“Mr. Madriani.” He holds out his hand as he reaches the bottom step. “Richard Bonguard.” He is younger and a little taller than he appeared on television, and his smile is broad. If he retains any reticence regarding our meeting, he covers it well.

I take his hand, and we shake. “Good to meet you.” We pass a few pleasantries until he realizes that there is someone behind him, standing in his shadow. “This is my daughter, Sarah.” He turns to look, takes her hand, and shakes it as well.

“So do you practice with your father?”

“No. No. Just on vacation,” she says.

“Oh, good, then it’s not all business.” He smiles, large and buoyant, an affable soul. We talk about the trip, the endless hassle that is now American air travel. Finally he motions us toward a set of double doors off the entry hall. “We can talk in here. Janice, maybe you can bring us some coffee. What would you like?”

“Just some water,” I tell him.

“Bottled water, Janice.”

He asks Sarah, and she begs off again.

He leads us through some double doors, what used to be the front parlor, now a sizable conference room with a large oval table in the center ringed by comfortable executive leather chairs. “Have a seat, wherever you want.”

Bonguard settles into the chair at the small curve of the oval, the head of the table to my left. Sarah and I take the two closest chairs, our backs to the door, Bonguard to my left and Sarah on my right.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to New York?” Bonguard asks her.

“No. I’ve been here twice before. But I was pretty young.”

“Then you have to stick around for a while and enjoy the city. Tell your dad to hold over for a few days, and I’ll get you some Broadway tickets,” he says.

“That would be great.” Sarah’s ready to put the arm on me.

“I wish we could. Unfortunately, business calls.” I am the ogre.

“I regret that we have to meet under these circumstances,” he says.

“I agree. I do appreciate your willingness to talk with me.”

“Oh. No problem,” he says. “Why not? After all, you’re just doing your job. I can’t imagine how I can possibly help you, but ask away.”

I know that the cops have already talked to him. This was reflected in the investigator’s notes immediately following the murder. They caught up with Bonguard before he could leave San Diego. I mention this.

“Yes, I talked to them,” he says. “Not that I wouldn’t have cooperated, but they didn’t give me much choice. They threatened—” He stops, thinks for a moment. “‘Threatened’ may be too strong a word. They intimated that they might be compelled to name me as ‘a person of interest’ with the press if I didn’t tell them everything I knew.”

A fact that of course was not in the investigator’s notes.

This, according to Bonguard, was because he was the last person to see Scarborough alive, except for the killer.

“You can imagine what that would have done to my business,” he says. “Half my clients would have bailed on me before morning.”

I am packing a subpoena for Bonguard to appear at trial. It is in my coat pocket. Depending on what he says here, it may or may not stay there.

“It was fortunate for you that the police landed on Carl Arnsberg so quickly,” I say.

“One person’s misery is another’s relief,” he says. “But so that there’s no misunderstanding, I have no problem talking with you. I talked to the police, I’ll talk to you. Fair is fair,” he says. “So how can I help you?”

“I suppose you knew Mr. Scarborough as well as anyone. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

“Besides your client, you mean?”

“My client had no reason to kill Mr. Scarborough.”

“Of course.” He smiles at me. “Well, as to the issue of potential suspects, you might say that you have an embarrassment of riches. As you may have guessed by now, Terry was a man who went out of his way to collect enemies, most of them anonymous. I’m told that more than a little of his fan mail included death threats, though I suspect that most of these were from cranks who had no intention of carrying them out. Still, it may be grist for your mill,” he says. “As for me, the long and short of it is, I don’t have a clue as to who killed Terry or why. If you don’t mind my asking, why are the police saying your man did it?”