Murder at Ford's Theatre (22 page)

“Who’s that?” Johnson asked, pointing to a downstairs window where the drapes parted for a moment. A woman’s face was seen, but disappeared as the drapes closed again.

“We’re ready to go in,” the officer with the bullhorn told Johnson.

“Let’s hold up,” Klayman said. To Johnson: “Come on.”

They went to the door, pushed the button, and heard chimes inside. Johnson banged on the door. “Police!” he shouted. “Jeremiah Lerner? If you’re in there, open the door and come out with your hands raised.”

This time, Klayman kept his thumb on the bell, causing the chimes to tinkle rapidly, while Johnson continued to knock.

“We take the door down?” Johnson asked.

“I hate to do that,” Klayman said. “Stupid kid. Why doesn’t he just open the damn door?”

“Please,” a woman’s voice said from behind.

Clarise Emerson had been allowed through the barricades, and had been escorted to the door by an officer.

“Oh, Ms. Emerson,” Klayman said.

“Is your son in there?” Johnson asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, he was, but—”

“Can you get him to come out?”

“Is all this necessary?” she asked. “This spectacle?”

“We’re here to arrest him, ma’am, for the murder of Nadia Zarinski,” Johnson said.

“Good God, this is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.” She looked down the street to where reporters and TV camera crews vied for a better vantage point. “The press is everywhere. Jeremiah didn’t kill anyone. Don’t you see that?”

“Ma’am,” Klayman said, “whether he did or not will be determined by others. Right now, our orders are to bring him in. We’d rather do it quietly, but—”

“You call this ‘quietly’?”

“If you can get him to surrender himself, it’ll be over,” Johnson counseled. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to go in and get him.”

“I want his lawyer present,” she said, her voice reflecting the modicum of control she’d managed to muster.

“Mr. Smith?” Klayman said. “He’s at your former husband’s house. We just left there. But I suggest we take care of getting your son first.”

“I’ll make that decision,” she said, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. She found it and dialed.

“Bruce, a horrible thing has happened. Jeremiah is here, and . . . what? . . . Here, at my house . . . he’s here and the police are here, too, and the press are everywhere and—is Mac Smith still with you? Put him on.”

She told Smith what was occurring, thanked him, and ended the call. “He’ll be here shortly,” she told the detectives.

“Look, Ms. Emerson, we don’t have time to—”

Klayman’s cell rang.

“What’s going on there, Rick?” Hathaway asked.

Klayman explained.

“Go in and get him,” Hathaway said. “The hell with the lawyer. Read him his rights and bring him in.”

“Okay,” Klayman said, not happy with the order. He saw no reason to not wait until Smith arrived, which would undoubtedly be in minutes. He said to Clarise, “Ms. Emerson, why don’t you go inside and talk with Jeremiah? It would make things a lot easier if he just came out nice and peaceful.”

“What do you intend to do, shoot him down like some rabid dog?” she growled.

Klayman or Johnson didn’t respond. Clarise removed a set of keys from her purse, inserted one in the door, and pushed it open.

“Jeremiah?” she yelled. “It’s Mother. Jeremiah, please, you must talk to me.” She vanished into the foyer’s darkness; a light came on in a room to the right.

“We go in?” Johnson asked, sotto voce.

Klayman indicated patience with a raised hand.

Mac Smith arrived with a uniformed officer, who said, “He says he’s the lawyer for the perp.”

Smith’s facial reaction was worth a thousand words.

“Sorry, Professor,” Klayman said. “If he’d only—”

“I know, I know,” said Smith. “Ms. Emerson is inside?”

“Yes.”

Smith walked past them and entered the house. They heard him call Clarise’s name, and she responded. Klayman and Johnson stepped into the foyer. The voices from the room on the right were distinct.

“You’ve caused a lot of trouble, Jeremiah,” Smith said.

“I’ve been telling him that,” Clarise said, her voice shrill.

“You told them,” Jeremiah said.

“No, I did not tell them, darling,” she said. “I don’t know how they knew. Reporters are everywhere. This will be front-page news tomorrow, on every TV station.”

“Look, Jeremiah,” Smith said, “there’s nothing to be gained sitting here. You can’t go anywhere. If you don’t allow me to bring you out, they’ll storm in here and take you by force. Nobody wants that, including the police. If this is a mistake—and the police do make mistakes—we’ll sort it all out, and you can go home. Until then, my best advice is to cooperate. I’ll be with you every step of the way. No one will abuse you or your rights. I promise you that.”

There was silence, broken only by what sounded like sniffling.

“Ready?” they heard Smith say.

Smith came from the room to the foyer, followed by Jeremiah and his mother.

“He’ll cooperate,” Smith said. “He’s not running anymore.”

TWENTY-SIX

T
HE APPREHENSION OF
J
EREMIAH
L
ERNER
as the targeted suspect in the murder of Nadia Zarinski was, in fact, the lead story on every TV and radio newscast that evening. In a sense, it was refreshing news. Washingtonians, like the rest of the country, had been numbed by a daily dose of unpleasant war stories from the Middle East, tales of childish squabbling among members of Congress, and countless pundits carrying form-over-substance to new heights. The arrest of a U.S. senator’s son for murder was almost palliative.

Smith had to wait until the eleven o’clock news to see reports of the scene with which he’d been involved. He’d accompanied Jeremiah to First District headquarters, where Jeremiah was booked, and then to the central cellblock, where he was placed into a cell. He would remain there until a probable cause hearing could be scheduled, within ten days of his arrest if established procedure was honored. At that hearing, the U.S. Attorney’s office would present evidence it felt was sufficient to charge the defendant with murder. Whether the government would opt to indict directly, or take its case before a grand jury, was its call.

Mac had called Annabel from police headquarters to tell her he’d be late. He didn’t have to explain why. TV had told her all she needed to know.

He walked into the apartment a little before eleven. The strain of the day and evening was readable on his face. Annabel made him a drink while he changed from his suit into shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals, and they sat on the terrace.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah, it is,” he said. “Jeremiah made it a lot worse than it had to be by running. I don’t think they have that strong a case against him, but it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s been convicted by the press, and Senator Lerner and Clarise have been thoroughly trashed.”

“What
is
the evidence against him?”

“A couple of people who say he’d dated the girl, and his lying about it. And one of his shoes matches a print found at the scene. And, there are the accusations that he’d roughed up previous girlfriends. We’ll be able to keep that out—it’s more prejudicial than probative—and all the pretrial publicity raises some due process issues. But, yes, the damage has already been done.” His sigh was long and pained. He closed his eyes, slowly shook his head, opened his eyes, and smiled at his wife. “Just think, Annie, a few days ago I was a dumb and happy, low-profile professor turning out future Supreme Court justices, or at least well-trained ambulance chasers.”

“Want to give up?”

“Did you have to put it that way? No, I’m in this to the end. Yale will carry much of the burden, write the motions and pleadings, handle all the preliminary hearings. I think there’s been a classic rush to judgment here, Annie, by the police and the U.S. Attorney. Jeremiah hasn’t made it easy on himself. Cops love to nail unpleasant people, and juries tend to convict abrasive, arrogant defendants. Jeremiah Lerner fits all those categories, and more.”

“The political fallout has to be big,” she said.

“Big and nasty. As you know, Lerner has spoken of possibly running for president next time around. What his son might have done shouldn’t have any bearing on his qualifications, but it will, if only by extension.”

“What about Clarise and the NEA?”

“Same story. Those on the committee who are against her will use this messy family situation to indicate she’s—well, imply that she’s been a bad mother, raised a bad child, has victimized her own son through her defense of questionable art and movies—you name it.”

She reached across the short space between their chairs and placed a hand on his arm. “So, Counselor, what’s next?”

“Let’s see,” he said. “I’d better speak tomorrow with Dean Mackin. I can always get someone to take my regular classes, but I’ll have to keep the Lincoln sessions. Hopefully, I won’t have to miss any classes, but I need to pave the way in case I do.”

He went on to relate to Annabel the conversation he’d previously had with Mackin, and how the law school dean had questioned the pragmatic wisdom of becoming involved in the Lerner case.

“You can’t blame him, I suppose,” Annabel offered.

“And I’m not.”

“I’m going to lunch Monday with Clarise and others involved in her NEA bid. The vice president is hosting it at the Lafayette.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Don’t count on what?”

“On the VP being there, considering what’s happened, or on Clarise showing up, for that matter. The VP might not consider it politically expedient.”

“What about Clarise? You don’t think she’ll withdraw from the NEA nomination, do you?”

“Annie,” he said, getting up and leaning on the railing, the black waters of the Potomac flowing silently below, “there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that surprises me in this town these days. Ready for bed?”

“I’m always ready for bed with you, Mackensie Smith.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

S
UNDAY, AS EVERYONE KNOWS,
is a day of rest, except for those in jobs demanding their presence. Across the country, men and women enjoy Sunday as a day to reflect and relax, to sleep late, go to the beach, barbecue, nap in a hammock, or catch up on reading the book that seemed impossible to get to during the workweek. For some reason, this is especially apparent and visible in Washington, D.C. Maybe it’s the sprawling Mall, where the briefly leisurely congregate, tossing Frisbees to willing dogs, displaying the latest jogging outfits guaranteed to lessen the pain, and lovers leaning against each other on benches and thinking their individual thoughts about whether this relationship is worth pursuing.

But that reflects Washington’s common folk. For the city’s uncommon residents—and they probably represent the majority—Sunday might appear to be a day of rest, but even their most recreational of activities have a purpose. Someone is invited to the barbecue because that person might prove helpful. The phones continue to be worked. Seemingly social brunches offer both eggs Benedict as well as the scrambled eggs of negotiation. Slaps on the back confirm deals made by people in shorts and wearing straw hats. The dark suits and fashionable pantsuits will be de rigueur on Monday. For Sunday, while the uniforms might change, it’s business as usual in the nation’s capital, albeit with pale legs showing and midsection bulges revealed.

For Mac and Annabel Smith, this Sunday revolved around brunch at Yale Becker’s house in Bethesda. They’d had to politely brush off a couple of reporters camped in the Watergate’s lobby, one of whose aggressiveness raised Mac’s temperature a few degrees. But after a dip in the Beckers’ pool, it dropped back to 98.6. Following a low-calorie lunch, Smith and Becker sat in a corner of the patio to discuss their next moves. Becker had been on the phone that morning with U.S. Attorney LeCour.

“I told LeCour that if they intended to formally charge Jeremiah with murder, we wanted the assault and resisting arrest charges dropped,” Becker told Smith. “He refused, which leads me to believe they have questions about supporting the murder charge. They’ll keep the other options open in the event the murder charge collapses.”

“Did LeCour tell you who’s claiming that Jeremiah dated Nadia?” Smith asked.

“No, but we know one of them is a student at American University, a Joe Cole. LeCour knows he legally doesn’t have to disclose anything to us until the probable cause hearing. He cited all the usual cases, Brady, Weatherford—he sounded like he was giving me a lecture.”

“We’ll have subpoena power.”

“Eventually.”

“Any hint as to whether they’ll seek a grand jury?”

“None, but they’re liable to. Gets them off the hook if twenty-three grand jurors vote to indict a senator’s son instead of the politicos having to make the decision on their own.”

“Did LeCour mention a lineup?” Smith asked.

“He says the police want one. What do you think?”

Smith grimaced and looked back to where Annabel and Sue Becker were admiring Sue’s award-winning rose garden. The police obviously had what they considered an eyewitness. According to what Smith had heard, though, he was an alcoholic street person, hardly what a savvy prosecutor would want to present at trial. Still, Smith had tried enough criminal cases in which a so-called eyewitness identified his client, and despite the witness’s shaky character and debatable reliability, the jury had believed him.

“We really can’t stop them,” Smith said. “If we try, they’ll use it as an example of our having something to hide, of consciousness of guilt on his part. I’ll make sure it’s a legit lineup. And if it isn’t, we can use that to our advantage if this ever goes to trial.”

The Beckers’ yellow Lab joined the two attorneys, laying his head on Mac’s lap and giving his hand a lick. Yale left to refresh their iced teas. Mac massaged the dog’s neck as he sat back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sun on his face.

He’d been troubled when he’d gone to bed the previous night. Now, engaged in a strategy discussion with another attorney for whom he had great respect and personal affection, he realized how much he was enjoying the experience. He loved teaching, found it immensely challenging, particularly when dealing with an especially promising student who forced him to dig deep into his intellect and knowledge. But so much was theoretical.

Being part of Jeremiah Lerner’s defense team was real, nothing theoretical about it. This was criminal law as the textbooks never described it. Yes, there were time-honored, Constitutionally guaranteed principles to be adhered to, and local laws to be followed, and Smith knew them like the back of his hand, and taught them. But lecturing, and navigating them as an advocate for a young client facing a lifetime behind bars, was another matter.

I
N
G
EORGETOWN
on this sunny Sunday, Clarise Emerson stayed at home with her drapes drawn, and an answering machine screening callers. She’d chosen to not answer most calls, including three from Sydney Bancroft, but had picked up at the sound of her ex-husband’s voice.

“How are you handling things, Clarise?” he asked.

“Dreadfully,” she said.

“The press camped at your doorstep?”

“Of course. A TV crew, too.”

“I think we’d better talk.”

“About what?” she snapped, anger on the rise.

“About our only son, goddamn it! Look, I know we have differences, and I’m not suggesting we discuss them. But we’ve got to present a united front as his father and mother, stand behind him publicly, take the initiative with the press, and express our belief in Jeremiah and his innocence. I met late last night with Andrew and Janice, and we—”

“Your staff?”

“Yes. We believe that sitting back and waiting for things to happen is the wrong approach. Andrew is drafting a statement for the press to come from both of us. We’ll put that out tomorrow morning. We’ll hold a press conference a day or two after that, when we’ll make a joint statement. That’ll be drafted, too, and we’ll hold a briefing session prior to it to try to anticipate questions that might be asked.”

“A briefing session.” She said it as though it were a guilty plea. “That’s all I seem to be doing these days, Bruce, being grilled at briefing sessions for the NEA hearing. I don’t think I can take another.”

“Well, Clarise, I suggest you suck it up and make yourself available for what I’ve put together. Don’t forget, this is for our son. I’ll be at the house for the rest of the day. Call me. Make it five. I’ll have more details then.”

The next call she took was from Joyce Drummond, President Nash’s White House aide responsible for the administration’s task force on arts and humanities agencies, and who’d been in charge of prepping Clarise for her hearing.

“I hate to call you on a pretty Sunday, Clarise, especially because of what you’re going through with your son. But this has to do with that.”

“Should I sit down?” Clarise asked, wishing she had a cigarette. She’d quit smoking twenty years ago.

“Maybe.”

“Go ahead, Joyce. I’m in a chair, not far to fall.”

“I just got off the phone with Ken Shoenlein, Topper Sybers’s chief of staff. We go back a long way together on the Hill. He called me as a courtesy to an old friend. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

“And?”

“He called to tell me that Senator Sybers is going to call for the president to withdraw your nomination—unless you offer to do it.”

“Because of what’s happened to my son?”

“Yes. Sybers, according to Ken, feels your personal troubles would make it too difficult for you to devote sufficient time and attention to the NEA. That’s nonsense, of course, nothing more than an excuse to get rid of you.”

“At least he’s not claiming I corrupted my son through the TV shows I produced.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Will the president do that? Withdraw my nomination?”

“Not according to the VP. I called her chief of staff to tell her what Sybers is threatening, and she got hold of Vice President Maloney, who said the president will do it over her dead body, an overstatement, but reflective of her position.”

The day had been a cocktail of emotions for Clarise, anger, sadness, frustration, and only fleeting moments of resolve to stand tall against whatever was flung at her. Now, that resolve consumed her.

“I can’t control what President Nash decides to do, Joyce, and can only hope he won’t bow to Senator Sybers. But I know one thing: No one is going to force me to withdraw my name. I’m in it until I’m told I’m not.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Clarise,” she said, a happier note replacing the seriousness that had permeated her voice.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Nothing. Enjoy what’s left of the day. We’ll be working behind the scenes with the president. See you tomorrow at the luncheon?”

“Of course. It’s for me, isn’t it? The guest of honor has to be there.”

Joyce laughed. “The guest of honor,” she repeated, “and the next head of the NEA. See you tomorrow.”

“W
HAT AN ARM,
”
Rick Klayman said.

He was at Mo Johnson’s house enjoying a family Sunday barbecue, and ended up playing catch with the middle son, eighteen years old, an outstanding pitcher for his high school baseball team.

“Big-league potential, Ricky,” said the proud father, dressed in green Bermuda shorts and yellow T-shirt, and wearing a large white apron with
KING OF THE BAR-B-Q
written on it in red letters. “Had his fastball timed last week. Ninety plus. Scouts are showing interest.”

Klayman handed the glove to Johnson, rubbed his palm where the pitches had stung, and joined Etta, Rachel Kessler, two other couples, and the Johnsons’ other sons on the patio. The sounds of an early Miles Davis quintet came from small, wireless outdoor speakers.

“I’m so glad you could join us,” Etta said to Klayman and Rachel. “We’ve been wanting to get you here for a cookout for months now.”

“There never seems to be time for anything that’s fun,” Rachel said with a laugh. “It’s work, work, work.”

“All work and no play makes for a dull child,” Mo commented as he unwrapped plastic from a large platter containing marinated rib steaks. “Who said that?” he asked Klayman, “and don’t say Abe Lincoln.”

Klayman threw up his hands. “Maybe it
was
Lincoln,” he said lightly.

“James Howell,” Rachel said. “And the dull child was named Jack.”

Everyone laughed; Klayman applauded and said, “Only Rachel would know something like that. She’s a treasure trove of trivia.”

“You should go on
Jeopardy!,
Rachel.”

“Rick is a Lincoln scholar,” Mo said, preparing to place the steaks on the gas grill.

“Not a scholar,” Klayman said, “but I do read a lot about him.”

“You must have been fascinated with the murder at Ford’s Theatre,” someone said.

“I wouldn’t say fascinated,” Klayman said. “I’ve spent a lot of time there. You ever been?’

One of the couples had, and discussion ensued about the Lincoln Museum in the theatre’s basement, and the tour they’d taken with a park ranger.

“Is it true that John Wilkes Booth originally hadn’t planned to kill Lincoln?” Klayman was asked.

“Yes, it is,” the young detective replied. “Booth was a die-hard Confederate supporter and hated Lincoln, considered him uncouth and a traitor for advocating freeing the slaves. He originally intended to kidnap Lincoln, take him to Richmond, and trade him for Southern prisoners, but that plot failed. He was in the audience during Lincoln’s last public speech in April 1865. Lincoln gave it from a second-storey White House window and proposed that some blacks be given the right to vote.”

“
Some
blacks?” There was much laughter.

“I think he meant well,” Klayman said in defense. “At any rate, even suggesting that some blacks get the vote was too much for Booth. He tried to get a colleague to shoot Lincoln on the spot, but he refused. That’s when Booth told his friend, ‘That’s the last speech he’ll ever make.’”

“He was right, wasn’t he?”

“Unfortunately.”

Johnson took orders—rare, medium, or well done?—and the grill flared up as he slapped the meat on it. Rachel went with Etta to fetch accompanying dishes from the house, and Klayman followed Johnson into the family room, where Mo replaced the Miles Davis CD with one by pianist George Shearing.

“You still thinking Lerner might not have killed her?” Johnson asked his partner.

Klayman shrugged. “I’d just feel better if we were following other leads, talking to other people.”

“Like who? The senator? That crazy old actor? Cole? Somebody at the theatre?”

“I suppose so. I—”

“Ooh, better get out and turn those steaks.”

They were in the middle of dinner on the patio when Klayman’s cell phone sounded. “Sorry,” he said, standing and walking a few feet from the table.

“Rick, it’s Herman.”

“What’s up?” Klayman asked his boss.

“Nothing to pull you away—how’s Mo as a chef?”

“Five-star.”

“Look, I know you’ve been dogging the Connie Marshall case since she disappeared. What is it now, two years?”

“Yeah.”

“They dragged a floater from Chesapeake Bay early this morning. Some fisherman snagged the body—skeleton, I guess—and the ME was called in.”

“It’s her? Connie Marshall?”

“Looks like it. They used dental records on file, brought in a forensic dentist from Virginia. It matches up.”

Klayman said nothing.

“Rick?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Herman. I’m glad they found her.”

“I just thought you’d want to know.”

“I appreciate the call. Is Ong still there?”

“Yeah. He’s doing his number on what’s left of her.”

“I’ll swing by.”

“Nothing you can do.”

“I’d just feel better. Thanks again.”

“That was Herman,” Klayman told Johnson as he rejoined the other guests. “They found Connie Marshall.”

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“An intern who went missing a couple of years ago, the one supposedly having an affair with the House majority leader, Tomlinson. A fisherman found her in the bay.”