Murder at Ford's Theatre (24 page)

“Out to American University. I want to talk to Joe Cole again.”

“I’ll tag along.”

“Great.”

They found Cole in his room studying for an exam.

“Glad you nailed the guy who killed Nadia,” he said. “What a sick-o.”

“He hasn’t been convicted yet,” Johnson said, perusing posters of rock stars on the walls intermingled with magazine pages of pretty young girls in bikinis.

“But he will be. Right?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Klayman said. “There’s not a lot of evidence against him.”

“I heard on the news you found his shoes in the alley.”

“You should listen more closely,” Johnson said. “They found a shoe
print,
that’s all.”

“That matches him, right?”

“Let’s talk again, Joe, about the Labor Day weekend. You say you were with Nadia on Saturday night, had dinner, made love back at her place, and she kicked you out after telling you she’d had better lovers. Correct?”

“That’s right. Hey, are you asking me the same questions because you think I had something to do with her murder?”

“Nice pictures,” Johnson said. “You like brunettes, huh?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“Most young guys like blondes,” Johnson said. “All these pinups are brunette.”

“So what?”

“Just making a comment, that’s all. Feel like taking a ride, Joe?”

“A ride? To where?”

“The restaurant, Spezie, the one you said you took Nadia to Saturday night.” Klayman pulled a color photo of Nadia from his pocket and flashed it at Cole. “Let’s see if they remember you from that Saturday night.”

Cole forced a dismissive laugh. “Nobody’ll be at the restaurant this morning.”

“Sure they will, Joe,” Johnson said. “Tough business, owning and working in a restaurant. Long hours. I have an uncle owns a ribs joint in Baltimore. Spends his life there.”

“I have to study.”

“Only take a half hour, Joe,” Klayman said. “You don’t want to disappoint us.”

“Don’t you have to have a warrant or something?”

“A warrant? To take a pleasant ride with somebody? Hell, no. Come on, you’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

Spezie’s manager, and most of his staff, were at the restaurant when the detectives and Cole arrived. Klayman showed them Nadia’s picture and asked whether they remembered seeing the young man with them, and the girl in the picture, Saturday night. No one did. Cole became overtly and increasingly nervous.

“You said you paid cash,” Johnson said when they’d left the restaurant and were back in the car.

“That’s right.”

“Do you have credit cards?”

“Yeah, an American Express. My father got it for me.”

“Nice father. How come you didn’t use it at the restaurant?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to run up too many charges on it.”

“You
guess
you didn’t?” Johnson asked. “Can’t remember?”

“I’m not saying anything else,” Cole said, folding his arms across his chest and assuming an expression intended to confirm it.

They dropped him back on campus.

“We’ll be in touch again, Joe,” Johnson said. “Good luck with your exam.”

“What do you think?” Klayman asked as they drove downtown.

“I wouldn’t rule him out,” Johnson responded. “Of course, I don’t like him, but I don’t like Lerner, either. No, Cole’s a possibility—assuming Lerner didn’t do it. I’m not convinced.”

“Neither am I, but I thought it was worth touching base again with some of the others.”

“Like Mr. Shakespeare?”

Klayman laughed. “Yeah, I’d like to talk with Sydney Bancroft again. And some of the people at the theatre. I just have this feeling we didn’t ask all the right questions. Know what I mean?”

“No, but I’ll go along. Give the actor a call. Etta gave me a hard time this morning about coming in on my day off. I could use a good laugh about now.”

M
AC
S
MITH MANAGED
to track down Senator Lerner and arrange for him to contact Yale Becker regarding Jeremiah’s bail. That detail out of the way, Smith met with Dean Mackin to discuss the possibility of missing an occasional class, depending upon how the case against Jeremiah developed. Mackin had evidently accepted Mac’s decision to take part in Jeremiah’s defense; he didn’t raise again the question of whether his colleague had erred in that decision.

After meeting with the dean, Smith closed the door to his office and quickly went through professional journals that had piled up over the past week. It was almost noon when a colleague knocked. “You pulled off a coup this morning,” he said. “Two hundred thousand for bail. I would have bet a million.”

“To be honest,” Smith said, “I wouldn’t have been disappointed if the judge had denied bail. At least I’d know where my client is.”

“You’ll be at the press conference?”

“What press conference?”

“Senator and Mrs. Lerner. I mean, the former Mrs. Lerner.”

“When is it taking place?”

“Five this afternoon, according to the radio. At the senator’s home.”

Smith wondered if Becker had been informed about it. At this juncture, Mac wasn’t sure holding a press conference was a good idea, especially if an attorney wasn’t present to field potentially damaging questions. Then again, Lerner considered himself an attorney, no matter that he hadn’t practiced for most of his adult life.
A fool for a client . . .

There was decided arrogance in deciding to hold such a press conference without having notified their son’s attorneys, but Smith wasn’t surprised. Arrogance, it seemed, was a natural outgrowth of power, especially for those who equated the popular vote with a mandate to practice self-importance beyond reason. Then again, was the arrogance there to begin with, a requisite for anyone seeking high office?

Such thoughts were gone as quickly as they’d formulated. He checked his watch. Annabel would be arriving at the luncheon for Clarise Emerson at the Lafayette. Would Clarise show up? Would Vice President Dorothy Maloney? He’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, there were his classes to prepare for, including the next session of Lincoln the Lawyer, and within minutes he was immersed in analyzing cases in which the sixteenth president of the United States had been involved.

“I
DON
’
T KNOW
how she does it.”

Fifteen women had gathered in the Federal-Baroque–style brick town house on Sixteenth Street, NW, home from the 1950s to the 1980s to the Gaslight Club, a retreat for wealthy Washington men, now a combination residence, office building, and opulent small catering facility. The luncheon honoring Clarise took place in the downstairs banquet room, an attractive space with Queen Anne chairs, floor-length swag drapes, and an elaborately set table.

Clarise was the last to arrive, which broke with protocol. Under ordinary circumstances, Dorothy Maloney, vice president of the United States, would be afforded the privilege of making her entrance after the others were there, like the champion in a boxing match climbing into the ring only after the challenger has arrived. Not that it mattered to Maloney. A large, square woman who was often described as being “handsome” rather than pretty, she was known for not standing on ceremony, except, of course, when there was something official on the line. She had a laugh that was contagious, bubbling, and knowing, and a perpetual glint in her emerald-green eyes.

Until Clarise arrived, most talk had been of Clarise and the problems she faced with her son. The city now knew that Jeremiah had been formally charged with the murder of the young intern, and there was the expected potpourri of theories, alleged “inside” information, and rampant, reckless speculation. The misanthropic proposed that because of Jeremiah’s father’s role, charges would eventually be dropped and swept under a political rug. Others expressed hope, in hushed whispers to those deemed safe to confide in, that justice would be served and that warped young men like Jeremiah Lerner would be kept off the streets. Said one: “We have enough crime in this city without young punks like him running around killing young women.”

“Clarise, darling, how wonderful to see you.”

“I don’t know how you do it, with everything that’s happening.”

“You look—wonderful, Clarise. Our next head of the NEA.”

Annabel sat between Vice President Maloney and Clarise during the catered lunch. Lunch consisted of light food and conversation consisted of light banter, and there was much laughter as Dorothy Maloney told tales out of school, in this case the White House.

When not participating in the chatter, Annabel tried to zero in on what Clarise must be feeling at that moment. She certainly seemed to be in control of herself, put together, gregarious, and tuned in to what everyone was saying. Could she be capable of parking her problem with Jeremiah in some neutral area of her brain while focusing on the moment? Not easy for anyone to do, but Annabel knew a number of people who had that practice down to a science, and she admired them. It was a requisite of success, the ability to sever personal problems from professional demands, handling each on its own merits, and never the twain should meet.

The vice president toasted Clarise at the end of the luncheon: “Clarise and I have been close friends for many years,” Maloney said, standing and raising her champagne flute. “She is, as we all know, a friend and staunch supporter of the arts in America, which, Lord knows, we need at this moment. There are those in positions of authority who view funding for the arts as money down the drain, money that could be put to better use—weapons, tax cuts for the rich, and other agendas that certainly cannot be labeled ‘artistic.’ Clarise has stood up against these other interests—and will continue to do so as our new head of the National Endowment for the Arts.”

There was applause around the long table.

Maloney announced she had to leave, and was escorted from the room by an aide and Secret Service agents. When she was gone, Clarise stood and said, “I’m blessed with friends like all of you here in this room.” She wiped away a tear. “Thank you so much for being here, and for being who you are.”

As people filed from the room, Clarise took Annabel aside.

“Can I ask a huge favor of you, Annabel?”

“Of course.”

“Bruce and I are giving a joint press conference this afternoon at five.”

“Concerning Jeremiah?”

“Yes. Bruce has scheduled it. I’m heading to his house from here to prepare.”

“Does Mac know?”

“I don’t think so. Bruce doesn’t want any of the attorneys to be there. He doesn’t want it to appear to be a conference about Jeremiah’s arraignment, or the trial, if there is one. He wants us to state our support for Jeremiah, that we’re with him one hundred percent.”

Annabel didn’t say what she was thinking, that the self-serving nature of the press conference was transparent. Instead, she said, “How can I help?”

“Be there with me? Offer moral support?”

“Sure. I’m not sure it’s wise having a conference without at least one of Jeremiah’s attorneys present, but that’s not my decision. How are things otherwise?”

“Dreadful. This business with Jeremiah is a nightmare. My hearing comes up later this week.
Festival at Ford’s
is Thursday night. On top of all that, Sol Wexler thinks there’s a problem brewing with Ford’s finances.”

“Oh?”

“That’s between us, Annie. I’ll try to get to the bottom of it when I find a spare minute.”

“Your plate, as they say, is full,” Annabel said, placing a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. “Anything I can do before the press conference?”

“No. Just knowing you’ll be there is enough. Thanks for everything.”

“M
AC, IT
’
S
A
NNABEL.
I’m at the gallery.”

“How was the luncheon?”

“Good. Dorothy looks great, and Clarise seems to be holding up nicely. Did you hear about the press conference?”

“Secondhand.”

“I promised Clarise I’d be there.”

“Why?”

“Moral support.”

“It’s a mistake.”

“Me being there?”

“Having a press conference. Yale called a few minutes ago. It’s taken him by surprise, too. Interesting development, though. LeCour—he’s the U.S. Attorney prosecuting Jeremiah—he called Yale to tell him they want to meet to discuss a plea bargain.”

“Really? So soon? Sounds as though they’re not very confident in their case.”

“Exactly. They’re running a lineup this afternoon.”

“With the street person?”

“Yeah. It’s at four-thirty. I’ll be there.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll catch up later. Mac?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s book a vacation.”

“Now?”

“For when this is over.”

“It’s a deal,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“Any place that doesn’t have ‘D.C.’ after its name.”

Mac laughed and said good-bye.

TWENTY-NINE

J
OHN
P
ARTRIDGE,
the homeless man claiming to have seen the murder of Nadia Zarinski, had been picked up the night before from a church-sponsored shelter. He’d smuggled in a pint of cheap brandy to top off a day and night of heavy drinking; when the officers arrived, he stumbled to his feet from his cot and dropped the half-consumed bottle, sending it smashing to the concrete floor.

“Nice move, Mr. Partridge,” one of the cops said. “Smooth.”

“I didn’t know he had a bottle with him,” the shelter manager said.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the cop. “Nobody knows nothing anymore.”

Partridge was allowed to sleep off his inebriation in a cell. He was fed a hot breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and was urged to clean up before the lineup took place. He was sequestered in a small interrogation room when Smith arrived.

“This is your eyewitness?” he asked Hathaway as they observed Partridge through the one-way mirrored glass.

“Hey, Counselor, you know you don’t get to pick your witnesses,” Hathaway said. “If you did, they’d all be choirboys and kindly grandmothers.”

Smith had reviewed Constitutional case law regarding lineups before leaving his office at GW. It had been decided in numerous court rulings that a defendant’s Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination—not to be “compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself”—did not apply to pretrial identification procedures, including fingerprinting, photographing, measurements, speaking or writing for identification, and lineups. A defendant’s rights under the Fifth Amendment applied only, as one court put it, to protecting one from being compelled to express the “contents of his mind.” Smith knew he was powerless to prevent the lineup; his presence would serve to ensure it was done as fairly as possible, and to be an official observer who could refer to prejudicial practices when examining witnesses at trial.

He was pleased that the alleged eyewitness was a man like Partridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to challenge his reliability in court. Hathaway, he was certain, was well aware of this. Why, then, was he going through the motions of a lineup so blatantly tainted? Obviously, to fail to use Partridge, who claimed to have seen something, would place the police and U.S. Attorney in an awkward position. Chances were, they wouldn’t reference the lineup during trial, which posed another problem for them, the rock versus hard place argument very much present. Depend upon a drunken homeless man and you’re laughed out of court. Fail to mention the lineup during the trial and have to answer why to a blistering cross-examination before judge and jury. Either way, the lineup would work in Jeremiah’s favor.

“Who are the others in the lineup?” Smith asked.

“Cops,” Hathaway responded, “dressed like your client, and two guys from administration.”

“Fine,” said Smith. “Let’s get to it.”

Hathaway, Smith, Partridge, and a stenographer stood in a darkened room. On the other side of one-way glass was a large chart on a white wall; red lines marked off heights in six-inch increments, behind seven spots where the lineup participants would stand.

“You ready, Mr. Partridge?” Hathaway asked. Partridge was dressed in a torn red-and-yellow flannel shirt, baggy chinos, and sandals. Despite not having had a drink for hours, his breath filled the small space with the odor of alcohol and bile, probably oozing out of his pores, Smith thought.

“Do I get the reward?” Partridge asked.

“We’ll see,” Hathaway said, looking at Smith with a please-try-to-understand expression. Smith understood perfectly. The steno had taken down Partridge’s comment. If the homeless man testified, it would be easy to make the point with the jury that he was motivated by the promise of money.

“Ready, Counselor?” the detective asked Smith.

“Bring ’em in,” Smith said.

Five men of approximately Jeremiah Lerner’s height and weight filed into the lineup room before Jeremiah entered, leaving the seventh man to stand at his right. Hathaway hit a switch that flooded the room with harsh white light, causing everyone to shield their eyes with their hands.

“Okay,” Hathaway said into a microphone, “hands down. Come on, get those hands down.”

Smith focused on Lerner. He looked bewildered and frightened. He moved from foot to foot, his eyes scanning the room as though seeking an escape hatch.

“Take a look, Mr. Partridge,” Hathaway said.

Partridge stepped closer to the window and squinted.

Smith approved of the men chosen by the police to join his client in the lineup. A witness would have to be especially astute and observant to pick Jeremiah from the seven.

“Well, Mr. Partridge?” Hathaway asked. “Recognize anyone in there who you saw behind Ford’s Theatre when the girl was killed?”

“That’s him!” Partridge said excitedly.

“Which one?”

“The one over there.” He pointed to the left side of the lineup, where Jeremiah stood.

“What number?” Hathaway asked.

“Six. That fella there, Number six.”

He’d identified Jeremiah.

“Number six, step forward,” Hathaway ordered through the speaker system.

Lerner took a single step.

“You sure?” Hathaway asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. Year of training taught me how to spot ’em. Never forget a face.”

“What kind of training is that, Mr. Partridge?” Smith asked.

“CIA. Been all over the world.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Hathaway said. He picked up a phone and said, “Come get Mr. Partridge. We’re finished with the lineup.”

Partridge was led from the room, the seven men in the lineup left, and the stenographer departed, leaving Smith and Hathaway.

“I know, I know, Counselor,” the detective said. “But he was sober when he made the ID, and he sure didn’t hesitate.”

Smith smiled and picked up his briefcase. “I’m sure with his Central Intelligence Agency credentials, he’ll make a fine witness for the prosecution. Good to see you again, Hathaway.”

Smith arrived home too late to catch the Lerner press conference live, but watched excerpts on the news.

“. . . Clarise and I, Jeremiah’s parents, are understandably concerned and sad about what has happened to our son. But he is innocent. The supposed evidence against him is extremely weak and misleading, and I’m confident that once everything is sorted out, he will be found to have had nothing whatsoever to do with this tragic murder, and we can get on with our lives. I’m sure Clarise wishes to add something.”

She delivered her set speech as it had been handed her at the house before the conference.

“A dreadful mistake has been made, which I have no doubt will be rectified soon. Our son is a gentle, caring young man; hurting another human being simply isn’t in his makeup. I ask that you in the press give us the courtesy of respecting our privacy during this trying time, and not judge our son until all the facts are known. Thank you.”

Questions flew from the assembled reporters, most of them about the alleged affair between the senator and Nadia Zarinski.

“I won’t dignify those questions with an answer,” Lerner said sternly.

“Will you take a lie detector test, Senator?”

“About what?”

“About the murder of the young woman from your office.”

Lerner ignored him and turned to the next questioner.

“Have you met with Nadia’s parents?”

“Unfortunately, no. My schedule has been especially busy, and they had to return to their home in Florida. But I look forward to meeting them in the near future.”

“Ms. Emerson, do you think any of this will jeopardize your chances to head the NEA?”

“No. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Clarise and her former husband disappeared inside his home. Mac had seen Annabel standing behind and to the left of Clarise, and was anxious to hear her perception of how it had gone. He didn’t have to wait long. She called on her cell phone.

“How was the lineup?” she asked.

“Amusing. I just saw some of the press conference. As awkward as it looked?”

“Yes. I need soul food.”

“Ribs and rice?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Café Milano in an hour.”