The Rose Conspiracy (50 page)

“Did that policy change, suddenly, on the day that Vinnie Archmont was brought into the facility after her arrest for the Smithsonian crimes?”

“It did.”

“Why?”

“We were informed by a DC Police official that a District of Columbia judge had ruled that the recording of such prisoner phone calls was illegal and must be discontinued.”

“So as a result, DOJ ordered that the recording be stopped?”

“Yes, we halted it immediately, that same day, pending verification of that court order—it all happened to be on the same day that Vinnie Archmont was brought in.”

“Who was the officer with the DC Police Department who called you and informed you that the recording must stop because of a court order?”

“Detective Victor Cheski.”

“And have you, ever since, gone back to the old policy of recording calls again?”

“We have.”

“Why?”

“We discovered that Detective Cheski was mistaken. Apparently there
was
no court order.”

“ ‘Mistaken,' you said?”

“Detective Cheski called it a ‘mistake.' However, we were very disturbed by the incident, to say the least.”

When Blackstone returned to the counsel's table to grab his notepad after dismissing the Assistant Attorney General, Julia leaned forward to catch Blackstone's attention.

“Good guy in act one suddenly becomes bad guy in act two?” Julia whispered.

“Wait for act three,” Blackstone whispered back.

Then he called Detective Victor Cheski to the stand.

Detective Cheski, in his dark suit and tie, handsome, athletic, and confident, was smiling when he took the oath.

Blackstone led him through an initial series of harmless, innocuous questions about his work with the District of Columbia police and his prior warm relationship with Henry Hartz when Hartz was a DC prosecutor and worked closely with Cheski on a number of criminal cases. That was, Cheski thought, the reason why Hartz had named him the lead investigator in the Smithsonian crimes. That—plus, Cheski noted, “the possibility that the crimes could have been an ‘insider' crime, committed by federal employees or even federal agents. So I think he considered me an outsider to the Feds because I worked for the District of Columbia.”

Then Blackstone began to bore further down.

“You were the investigating officer in several of the Hammel Dietz thefts, including the one where he was eventually convicted?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Was there physical evidence from that crime of which Mr. Dietz was convicted?”

“I'm sure there was.”

“That theft involved what kind of location?”

“An art museum. A painting by Matisse was stolen by Mr. Dietz.”

“Let's talk about the physical evidence from that case.”

Henry Hartz bellowed out an objection on relevancy grounds.

The judge overruled the objection, but warned Blackstone that he had “better tie this up in a hurry and make it good.”

“Was there a drinking glass obtained from the crime scene at the art museum?”

“Gee,” Cheski said, “that was a long time ago…”

“Well, then perhaps I should ask the judge to order you to produce all your records from the Hammel Dietz prosecution. Should I do that?”

“There was, I think,” Cheski said, “a drinking glass. As well as a rope, I believe, a tool of some kind with no prints on it and, I believe, a footprint from a shoe. May have been some other evidence.”

“But the thing that convicted Hammel Dietz—the thing that nailed the case shut against him—was the presence of his two fingerprints on the drinking glass, right?”

Cheski was still managing a smile, but his smile was fading.

“The fingerprint evidence was important.”

“Now, let's talk about this case. You had access to the FBI evidence room during the investigation into the Smithsonian crimes?”

“Yes, but so did Special Agent Johnson and—”

“You also had access to the evidence room in the District of Columbia Police Department?”

“Every detective does, and assuming certain procedures are followed, so does any other officer.”

“You had access to the Hammel Dietz evidence at the District of Columbia evidence room, including the glass with his fingerprints, and you also had access to the evidence room at the FBI building containing the Smithsonian crime investigation?”

“I had access to a number of different rooms in various buildings.”

“Yes or no?” Blackstone bellowed. “Did you have access to
both
evidence rooms from
both
investigations—yes or no?”

Cheski was no longer smiling. His face now bore the steady, determined look of a trained professional who could see the oncoming storm he might have to weather.

“I did have access to both, yes.”

“And you were the one to report—no one else, just you—that the ‘missing' glass that had mysteriously gone missing now had been mysteriously found. You were the one?”

“I was the one who—”

“You were also the one,” Blackstone said, steamrolling ahead, “to know that Hammel Dietz could easily be implicated in the Smithsonian crime if the drinking glass with two of his fingerprints could be substituted in the Smithsonian evidence bag for the actual glass from the Langley murder, a glass that had no fingerprints on it.”

“Objection! Objection! Objection!” Henry Hartz was yelling.

“Why would I have done something as stupid as
that?
” Cheski yelled, causing the witness-stand microphone to shriek with feedback.

“I would suggest,” Blackstone said, “that you did exactly that, in order to make it look like Hammel Dietz, a convicted criminal now silenced by death, was the real murderer of Horace Langley. Isn't it a fact that you did exactly that to cover up the identity of the real killer?

“This is crazy, so crazy!” Cheski called out.

Hartz was resuming his cadence of one-word objections.

“Objections overruled. Overruled!” the judge proclaimed.

“Do you deny that you wanted to cover up the identity of the real killer?” Blackstone called out.

“Absolutely! That is an idiotic lie!” Cheski shouted.

Blackstone held up the FBI report of the crime-scene investigation.

“Do you stand by the FBI report into the Smithsonian crimes?” Blackstone asked.

“Of course—why not?”

“Your DNA was found at the scene. Right?”

Cheski gave a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, and so was the DNA of other officers too…it was a boiling-hot night, a heat wave…the air-conditioning in the Castle had gone out…we were sweating…a few drops of sweat fell onto the scene…so what…so what?”

“The point is,” Blackstone said calmly, “that, according to the FBI report, the other officer arrived at the scene at 1:59 a.m., with the crime-lab team, and his sweat droplet was picked up by his own analysis of the scene thirty minutes later. You do agree with that?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Whereas a sweat droplet containing your DNA was picked up at 2:10 a.m. by the crime-lab team. Right?”

“What of it?”

“Well,” Blackstone said, turning to gaze back at FBI Special Agent Ralph Johnson, who was seated motionless in the courtroom, was riveted on the testimony, “I guess it has to do with timing and rats and ships and sailors.”

“I don't understand,” Cheski was muttering.

“How about this?” Blackstone said loudly and slowly. “Do you understand this—the FBI report says you arrived at the scene of the crime in your official capacity at 2:44 a.m., thirty-four minutes
after
your DNA-verified drop of sweat had been picked up by the crime lab team? Or to put it another way, it would appear you dropped a bead of sweat at the scene of the crime before you ever got there to investigate the scene.”

Cheski's face was growing paler, and he was tugging at his upper lip with his lower teeth.

“Do you have an answer?” the judge asked, bending over toward the detective and staring him in the eye.

“Sure. Agent Johnson screwed up again,” Cheski muttered. “Put the time down wrong for when I arrived. I must have arrived sooner at the scene of the crime.”

“Special Agent Johnson is in the courtroom,” Blackstone shot back. “Maybe you're a gambling man, Detective. Are you willing to gamble on Agent Johnson backing you up—and saying he got it all wrong by more than thirty minutes in his report?”

Cheski was silent.

In the back of the courtroom, Special Agent Johnson was trying not to smile.

“Speaking of gambling,” Blackstone said, “I have a private investigator here in the courtroom with me. He has information on Horace Langley's gambling habits. Nothing illegal, mind you. Just a little excessive. He also knows whether Secretary Langley traveled with anyone else when he went to Atlantic City to the casinos. How many times, Detective, in the course of your relationship with Horace Langley, did you accompany him on his gambling junkets? And how much did you know about his gambling debts?”

In a rage Cheski was sputtering something unintelligible from the witness stand.

“What is it that you're saying?” the judge asked.

“Confusion…” Cheski said.

“Confusion about what?”

“Confusion, Your Honor.”

“What kind of confusion?” the judge barked back.

“Confusion,” Cheski said in a low voice, “of the Fifth Amendment kind.”

By then, Judge Templeton had heard enough.

“Counsel,” the judge announced, “I suggest that the government and the defense have a little chat about this case. I think you know what I am referring to. Detective Cheski, you may step down. But please do not leave the courtroom. I would ask that the U.S. marshals assist Detective Cheski here to his seat and stay with him. The government lawyers are probably going to have some further dealings with the detective.”

Henry Hartz slowly rose to his feet on his cane and took a few steps toward J.D. Blackstone. In turn, Blackstone took several steps to the prosecutor. They were standing, nose to nose, in the midpoint of the courtroom.

“This is the moment I told you about,” Blackstone began. “Henry, this is the meeting I told you we would have.”

They spoke for several moments. Blackstone did most of the talking. At one point, Hartz glanced over at Vinnie Archmont, who had a shocked look on her face and was staring straight ahead.

Then Henry Hartz sat down with his two assistant prosecutors. They talked in hushed tones, in strained voices, for twenty minutes while the judge sat patiently at the bench, waiting.

At the end of the twenty minutes, Hartz stood up and slowly made his way to the podium.

“Your Honor,” he announced quietly, “we move for the dismissal without prejudice of the charges against Vinnie Archmont, based on newly discovered evidence.”

“Any objections, Professor Blackstone?” the judge asked.

“None,” Blackstone replied.

“Case dismissed. The defendant is hereby released from custody. Clerk, you can release the jury panel from duty on this case.”

The courtroom erupted in wild chaos.

“All members of the media are ordered to conduct any interviews
outside of my courtroom!
” the judge bellowed. Then he struck his gavel down on the bench, rose quickly, and disappeared through the chambers door.

Vinnie was crying and laughing. Next to her, Julia had her arm around Vinnie. Julia had a huge, beaming smile on her face, and she was shaking her head back and forth in disbelief.

“Thank you, oh thank you, for saving me, for rescuing me, oh thank you,” Vinnie was saying to Blackstone when he arrived back at the defense table.

Blackstone bent down to Vinnie.

“Okay, you and I have a few details to finalize,” Blackstone said. Then he turned to one of the U.S. marshals and asked, “Can I meet with my
client in the conference room inside the courtroom, so we don't have to deal with the media out in the hallway?”

The U.S. marshal smiled and nodded and led them to a door inside the courtroom, which he unlocked and then opened for them.

Blackstone took Vinnie gently by the arm and led her into the conference room and turned on the light switch. Then he ducked back into the courtroom.

He motioned to Tully Tullinger, who quickly strode over to him. Tully pulled a folder of notes out of his leather case and handed it to Blackstone. Julia was standing just behind Tully.

Blackstone took the file from Tully, nodding with a smile. Then he looked over at Julia.

“Please stay close by, okay?” he said.