The Rose Conspiracy (17 page)

B
lackstone came into the office by nine in the morning the next day, which was his custom during the summers when he didn't have a teaching load. But the night before had been rough. He was not sure he had slept more than three or four hours straight. The meds he was taking as a sleep aid didn't seem to be working. But he couldn't afford to go stronger. When he had tried a more powerful medication once, it practically left him drooling.

After tossing and turning in bed for a while, he bolted out of bed and trudged over to the oversized teakwood desk in his condo. Sitting in a pair of gym trunks, he went back to drafting a summary of all of the evidence he had gleaned from the prosecution in their case against Vinnie. As he worked on that he would alternatively switch over to his summary of all of the defense evidence that corroborated Vinnie's theory of innocence. There was also a third summary he had up on his laptop as well. He called that one his “wild card” list. It was a hodgepodge of information, witnesses, and facts that didn't seem to comfortably fit either into the prosecution's case or the defense theory.

While he was working on the three summaries, he resisted the temptation to compare them and then draw some conclusions about his chances of success in getting an acquittal for Vinnie. He didn't want to get mired in the dismal realities quite yet. He wanted to leave some room for the “ah-ha” phenomenon, the gestalt-like mental awakening he could usually pull off in every case before it was too late—the one or two, or maybe three, critical concepts that held the key to unfolding a whole picture to
the jury, like a hologram in a museum—a three-dimensional, 360-degree portrait of his client as innocent. A feat that usually required him to show how someone else was guilty.

After working on that for several hours, Blackstone finally crashed around three in the morning. A few hours later he stumbled out of bed with his alarm. Then he downed his own morning concoction: some energy drinks mixed with tomato juice. After dressing he stopped by the gym and worked out for three-quarters of an hour, showered there, and then headed to the office.

Julia was already at the firm and met him in the hallway.

“You look pretty whipped, J.D.,” she said. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“The usual,” he remarked.

“Oh well, you're a big boy.”

“Yes, Mommy, I am,” he retorted.

“You know there's a reason why unmarried men die earlier than women, or than married men for that matter,” Julia added. “Statistically, I mean. They don't know anything about balance in life. And there's no one around to nag them into practicing any balance. You know, some limits.”

“Hmm,” was all Blackstone said to that. But then he shifted the conversation quickly back into law-practice gear.

“I need your help on an important part of this Vinnie Archmont defense.”

“What's that?” she asked with a bit of suspicion in her voice. Blackstone knew she didn't like his client. On the other hand, he knew Julia was tough-minded enough to separate her feelings from the work at hand.

“Whether we like it or not,” Blackstone continued, “Henry Hartz has ratcheted this up to a death-penalty case. That's where you come in.”

“You mean, making sure the dosage they give her is lethal enough?”

“Knock it off,” Blackstone barked back. “I'm serious. I don't want to hear you talking trash like that again.”

Julia was taken aback by her partner's burst of anger. But she was also surprised at her own macabre joke, which had seemed to come out of nowhere. Under usual circumstances it wouldn't be her style.

“Sorry, J.D.,” she said quietly. “That wasn't very professional of me.”

“Let's just move on,” he replied coldly. “I need you to start preparing the death-penalty phase of the defense case, in the eventuality that Hartz gets a jury conviction. I think there's a strong case we can mount for life imprisonment rather than death.”

“What about the appeal of the pretrial order on the Langley note? I thought you wanted me to do that. I've been working on the brief.”

“I'm taking you off that. I'll do the appeal myself. I need you on the death phase.”

“Is there some reason why?”

Blackstone looked her in the eyes, but not for very long.

“I've got my reasons,” he said in a thin voice.

Then he turned, strode into his office, and closed his door loudly behind him.

Blackstone got Tully Tullinger on the line.

“Tully, I think I set the trap with the senator. Now, you said the well was pretty dry with your contact in Collings's office.”

“Well, there's no way I can arrange another meeting like that with the guy, if that's what you're thinking.”

“It's not. Now that I've lit his fuse I need to get some intelligence about what he does about me from this point on.”

“Oh, I think I can get you that kind of intelligence,” Tully said.

Blackstone was pleased and stressed that time was of the essence on that task.

Then he went over a few of his voice mails. One was from a press reporter who wanted to talk to him about his chances for success on the pending appeal to the DC Court of Appeals in the Smithsonian murder case.

After calling the reporter back, Blackstone gave him a few minutes. He knew better than to predict results. Instead, Blackstone gave the print journalist some of the high points from the docket statement they had already filed in the appeal.

Then he spent the rest of the day on several other cases that had not been attended to for a while. He had been spending a huge amount of time on Vinnie's defense, and it was starting to show in his law practice.

By the end of the day, he felt like some of his other cases were getting back on track.

He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty.

Blackstone picked up the phone and called Vinnie's studio number.

It rang nine times, and then finally she picked up.

Vinnie sounded a little exasperated.

“Hey, it's J.D. here,” he announced.

“Sorry, I was involved in a project,” she said. “Not going well. Bad day all the way around. And truthfully, I was doing some thinking.”

“About?”

“You, actually. Sorry our last conversation went all…you know…icky.”

Blackstone had to chuckle at that.

“Yeah. I'm sort of an expert at ‘icky.' ”

Vinnie laughed out loud at that.

“So glad you called,” she said.

He could tell she was smiling on the other end.

“Do you eat dinner?” he asked.

“Sure, from time to time I do,” she said. “How about you?”

“Not regularly.”

“Then maybe we should do something about that,” she said brightly.

“Yeah, I was thinking that too. How about in fifteen minutes? Can you be ready?”

“You know me. I'm low maintenance.”

“There's a place called Ben's Bistro over in Georgetown.”

“Sure, I know it. Fifteen minutes—I'll be there.”

“Great,” Blackstone said. “See you there.”

He stuffed some things into his briefcase and hurried out through the lobby. Julia was there, surprised to see him actually heading out of the office before eight at night.

“I took your advice,” Blackstone announced to Julia.

“About what?”

“Balance in life. I just got me some.”

“How?” she asked.

“I'm going out on a dinner date.”

Julia's face was deadpan.

“Congratulations,” she said in a professional tone.

He strode out the door. A minute later Julia could hear the deep rumble of the engine of his Maserati, out at the curb, being fired up.

She stood and watched him through the glass window in the front door of the office. Julia kept watching, struggling with deeply mixed emotions, until Blackstone put it into gear, and then roared off.

CHAPTER 25

B
en's Bistro was a popular pub restaurant in Georgetown. At night, its winding corridors full of booths and tables were always crowded, mostly with DC career types, executives, lobbyists, lawyers, and politicos. Blackstone knew the owner and could usually secure his favorite booth, one that was tucked into a corner, with more privacy and quiet than the others, situated under a framed and yellowed article about the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba. Some of the initial discussions about attacking Cuba, according to the article, had taken place between a few Kennedy Administration officials during their dinner at Ben's. Next to that article, there was a picture of President Lyndon Johnson, signed personally by Johnson.

And next to that picture on the brown brick wall was another framed article, this one from
Today's Lawyer
magazine, containing an interview with J.D. Blackstone.

“Favorite restaurant?” Blackstone was quoted as saying. “Probably the casual kind, Ben's Bistro, that's certainly one of them.” Someone had used a yellow highlighter to underline that part.

Blackstone would sit with friends and sometimes clients in that booth, under that framed article. But he would never point it out. And to his knowledge, no one ever noticed it.

That night, he met with Vinnie in his favorite booth. He was already there when she wandered in, looking for him. She was wearing a fake zebra-skin jacket and cowboy boots. Her dark, antebellum style curls were dancing around her face as she jaunted over to the table.

“Hiya, darling!” she blurted out with a smile, and bent over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good to see you,” Blackstone said.

They both grabbed their menus, got the ordering out of the way, and then started to talk. First about her sculpting and some of the art shows she had been doing. Then more serious topics.

“Tell me something,” Blackstone said. “Do you know a senator by the name of Bo Collings, from Arkansas?”

Vinnie thought for a moment. Then she said, “No, I don't know him. Why?”

“I think he may have an interest in your case.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I was hoping you could answer that,” Blackstone replied. “I think he may have injected himself into your prosecution. I thought you could help me figure out his involvement.”

“Senator Collings—is he for us or against us?” she asked.

“I think he is trying to help the prosecutor. Why, I'm not sure yet.”

Blackstone watched Vinnie. She was thinking that one through. Carefully.

“You know, something rings a bell about him. I wonder…” she said casually. “Maybe he came to one of my art shows here in DC. Do you think that's possible?”

“When was the last show you had in the DC area?”

“Well, three in the last two years. One in DC. One in Vienna. And another in Alexandria at the Torpedo Factory, where my studio is.”

“Do you have the names of any attendees?” Blackstone asked.

“I'm positive I don't.”

“Don't you have a sign-in book for people attending the art show…something like that?” Blackstone asked.

“No. Never keep those,” she answered quickly. “Sorry I'm not much help.”

“Nothing specific you can tell me about Senator Collings?”

“No. Just that I have a very strong feeling that maybe he and I met somehow, somewhere. You should pursue this, though, don't you think? Find out why he's involved? Maybe…oh I don't know…just thinking that this may be important, don't you agree?”

Blackstone smiled, but didn't respond to that. He was watching her. Her initial gaiety was disappearing. She was getting somber.

“I wish we didn't have to talk about my case all the time,” she said with exasperation.

“Why?”

“Because I know you will do the right thing. Everything will work out. You've said the government doesn't have much of a case.”