Shadow of Power

3

Seven 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 today. 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 “‘While slavery was repealed in 1865 by the Thirteenth Amendment, the offending words that legalized the so-called peculiar institution at the origin of the nation remain in black and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 “If they were repealed, why are they still there?”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?”

“Based purely on circumstantial evidence that places him in the hotel room at the wrong time,” I tell him.

“That’s it?”

“As far as I know.”

“I have to assume they have something to go on. Of course, I make no judgments,” he adds.

“Good. Do you mind if I take a few notes?”

“Not at all. Let me ask you,” he says. “Have you talked to your client about the possibility of a book?”

I take out a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of my coat. “No.”

“You might want to think about getting the rights,” he says. “Depending on what happens, the level of publicity.” He’s looking at me from across the table over the top of his coffee cup. “From what I see in the papers, he doesn’t have a lot of money. It could help in defraying your fees.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You should,” he says. “And feel free to call me if you need any help.”

“You said that except for the killer you were the last person to see Mr. Scarborough alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Do you recall arriving at Scarborough’s hotel room that morning?”

He nods.

“Did you let yourself into the room, or did Mr. Scarborough let you in?”

“I didn’t have a key. He had to let me in.”

“The door wasn’t open?”

“No.”

“Did you try it?”

“Why would I do that? It was a hotel room. They’re always locked.”

“But you didn’t push on it to find out, or turn the doorknob?”

“No. I told you.”

“And when you left the room, after your meeting with Mr. Scarborough, do you recall, did he accompany you to the door, or did you let yourself out?”

On this he ponders for a moment. “As I recall, he had finished up shaving, in the bathroom. We talked. He was tired, said he wanted to get some rest. You know, I can’t remember, but I think I let myself out.”

“Can you recall when you left, did you hear the door close behind you?”

“I don’t know. How do you remember something like that? You realize that the cops asked me the same question. Why is it important?”

“I’m sure they did.” I don’t answer his question.

“Are you sure that it latched all the way closed?”

“I didn’t check it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you hear it close?”

“I can’t remember. I wasn’t paying that much attention. Sometimes I check my own door when I’m staying in a hotel, but I don’t usually check anybody else’s.”

“Can you tell me what the two of you talked about, you and Scarborough in your last meeting?”

“What do authors and agents always talk about? Book sales, how his tour was going. The usual,” he says.

“As I recall, Scarborough’s book was doing pretty well at that time.”

“‘Well’ is an understatement,” says Bonguard. “It was flying off the shelves. It’s high on the bestseller list even now. I believe Terry would be astounded that the book is doing so well even after his death.”

“Perhaps because of the death and the controversy surrounding it?” I say.

“It’s possible. When it comes to books, controversy usually sells.”

“Was there any talk of a follow-up book?”

He smiles at me. “You saw the tape of Leno. Yes, he was preparing to write another book.”

“Based on the historic letter you mentioned during your interview with Leno?”

“That’s what he told me. You have to understand that at the time of the Leno appearance I was still trying to flog the current book. I was standing in for Terry. He was supposed to have appeared on the show the night he was killed. You can’t believe everything you hear on television,” he says.

“So you’re saying there was no letter?”

“No, I’m not saying that. It’s just that it was the last chance we were going to have to push sales. You know how it is?”

“And the letter?”

Before he can answer, the door behind me opens. It’s the secretary with a tray bearing a carafe of coffee, three cups, and accoutrements-sugar, cream, teaspoons-and two bottles of water.

He pours himself a cup of coffee-black, no sugar. I take one of the bottled waters and look at Sarah. She declines. “I’m waiting to hear about the letter,” she says.

“So you’re a history buff?” Bonguard turns the question on her.

“I like history. Better yet, I like a good mystery.”

“Well, there was a letter, at least that’s what Terry told me. He led me to believe he was holding it for a sequel. With books as with most things in life, when you’re successful, it’s always good to have a second act.”

“So he had this letter in his possession?” I make a note.

“What he said was that he had a copy. Mind you, I never saw it. Whatever he had, he was keeping it close to the vest. Now, let me ask you a question,” he says. “Did the police find such a letter when they searched Terry’s apartment? Or in the hotel room?”

I shake my head. “Not according to their notes and the list of items they seized.”

“I’m not a lawyer,” he says, “but I assume that if they found it, a letter like this, it is something they would have to disclose to you?”

“Assuming they knew its significance, yes.”

“And by now they would know its significance?” he asks.

Bonguard may not be a lawyer, but he knows the rules of the road when it comes to discovery. I nod. “By now they would know.”

Harry and I have nailed the state’s feet to the floor over the issue of any missing letters. If they are holding back, it would have dire consequences for their case at trial, creating prosecutorial misconduct that even if they can get a conviction could bury them on appeal.

It is now clear why Bonguard has agreed to talk to me. He wants to know where the letter is.

“And I suppose they didn’t find it on your client when they arrested him?” he asks.

“No.”

“One point for your side.” He settles back in his chair again and runs one hand through his blond hair while he thinks.

“If all he had was a copy, wouldn’t that be problematic, assuming he tried to publish based on it?” I ask.

“You mean authentication?” says Bonguard.

I nod.

“That’s true. A publisher could be taking a real chance going forward with a book unless the letter could be established as authentic.”

“And without the original there’s no way to analyze the paper and ink.”

“Right. And as you know, handwriting can be copied, and it’s hard to be sure sometimes, experts all disagreeing,” he says. “Before you know it, people are crying fraud and the author is looking at jail time.”

A few years earlier, it was all over the media and in the press. An antiquarian dealer claimed that he had discovered multiple volumes of Hitler’s handwritten diaries, all of which were scrupulously maintained, a veritable storehouse of the dictator’s most intimate thoughts during the war. It was a treasure trove, except for one little thing: The entire collection was a modern forgery.

“So a copy would be useless for purposes of publication?”

“In point of fact,” he says. “But political wacko though he may have been, Terry was nobody’s fool, especially when it came to money. He may have been an avowed socialist at heart, but when it came to book sales, he was a capitalist through and through. What he said was that he knew where the original letter was. What’s more, he knew someone who could get it for him.”

“Did he say who?”

Bonguard shakes his head. “I asked him, but he wasn’t talking.”

“Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“Only guesses.”

“Would you like to share them?”

Bonguard gives me a face, a little shrug of the shoulder. Now that he knows neither I nor the cops have the letter, he is becoming more reticent. I move on.

“Scarborough makes no reference to the letter in Perpetual Slaves?” Both Harry and I have scoured Scarborough’s book from cover to cover and found no reference to any secret letter.

“No. It was a conscious decision not to include it in this book,” says Bonguard. What is more interesting here is what Bonguard doesn’t say. He doesn’t tell me what he told the cops, that the so-called J letter was the impetus, the driving force that caused Scarborough to write Perpetual Slaves in the first place. Why? For the moment I leave it alone. I don’t ask him.

“Could it be that whoever had the original of the letter didn’t want to release it to him?” I ask.

“Could be,” says Bonguard. “Or it could be, knowing Terry, that he wanted to fan the flames of discontent with Perpetual Slaves and throw more fuel onto the fire later with the letter. That would be his style. And the letter wasn’t necessary to the sales of Perpetual Slaves. He had roused the masses with the revelation that the language of slavery remained in the Constitution. For Terry that was the first blow. I got the sense the letter was the clincher. According to Terry, the letter would have blown the top off of things.”

“Do you know who wrote the letter, the original author?”

“Not with certainty. As I say, I never saw it.”

“Do you know when it was supposed to have been written?”

“Terry never said, though he referred to it cryptically on a few occasions.”

“Cryptically?”

“Alphabetically,” says Bonguard. “He called it the ‘J letter.’”

“J?”

“You can form your own conclusions. If you work from a list of the politically prominent at the time that the framers crafted the Constitution, your list becomes very short fairly quickly.”

“Jefferson?” I ask.

“Or John Jay. There are a couple of others. But Jefferson would get my vote,” says Bonguard. “At the time the Constitution was being written, Jefferson was in Paris serving as American ambassador. This would account for the fact that he would be compelled to reduce any thoughts to writing. We know there was considerable correspondence between Jefferson and others back in the States at the time. We also know his position on slavery, at least his public position. He is on record as favoring abolition. Yet at the time he was one of the biggest slave owners in Virginia. You might call him ambivalent on the subject, since his words and his actions were a bit at odds. He vowed to free his slaves during his lifetime but never did. Economics, it seems, always got in the way.”

“My American history is a little rusty,” I tell him.

“He’s right, Dad,” Sarah chimes in.

“I’m not a history buff either,” says Bonguard. “But when you have a client bringing in the kind of money Terry was and he mentions a letter as a basis for another book, you tend to do a little research.”

“Any idea as to who this letter was directed to?” I ask.

“Your guess would be as good as mine. Terry never said.”

“Do you have any idea as to the monetary value of this letter?” I ask.

“Umm…” He looks at me with a dull gaze as if suddenly I’ve jumped the tracks on him. He thinks for a moment. “Assuming it’s authentic, that it’s never seen the light of day, publicly at least, I have to assume that it would be worth a good deal to collectors.”

“And how do we define ‘a good deal’ in the literary antiquities market?” I ask.

Bonguard smiles at me. “I’m certainly no expert on the value of historic correspondence. But assuming all your assumptions are correct, it would go at auction, one of a kind. And if it’s as explosive as Terry suggested, my guess is it would be worth multiple millions, perhaps. I don’t know. Given a good airing with a bestselling book as Terry was intending, that would drive the price very high.”

“So that would make whoever possessed this letter quite wealthy,” I say.

“Umm…” He sips his coffee, studying me over the brim of the cup. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “People have killed for less. Except for one thing. If Terry was to be believed, he only had a copy of the letter. That in itself was worthless unless it could be authenticated.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t know that,” I say.

He mulls this for a moment. “That’s possible. If you can sell it to a jury.” He smiles again.

“You have no idea how Mr. Scarborough may have gotten his copy of the letter?”

He looks at his watch. “Your dozen questions are about up,” he says. “I have a meeting in a couple of minutes. I don’t know how he got his copy of the letter. He didn’t tell me.”

“Do you have any guesses?”

“It’s only conjecture,” he says. “And don’t say that it came from here, but Terry had a girlfriend. An on-again, off-again thing. I believe it was off when he was killed, since they hadn’t seen each other in a while. The woman’s name is Trisha Scott. She’s a high-powered lawyer with one of the big firms in D.C. Terry met her when she was clerking for the Supreme Court. She was just out of law school, quite a bit younger than he was. If I had to guess as to a source for the letter, I would start there.”

“Why is that?”

“Because this whole thing, the idea of writing Perpetual Slaves, seems to have had its genesis about the time that Terry picked up with Scott. That and other things,” he says.

“What other things?”

“His interest in Arthur Ginnis, the justice that Scott clerked for. Do you know him?”

“I know of him, naturally. Never met him. Supreme Court justices and lowly trial lawyers live and operate in different legal universes,” I tell him.

“Well, Ginnis isn’t exactly the sort that I would expect to take up with Terry. I know Ginnis only slightly. I’ve met him twice. No”-he thinks for a moment-“actually, it was three times. Anyway, I was introduced to him by his wife, Margaret. She’s a lovely woman. For a while she was a client. I met her in New York at a political function. She was publishing a fascinating cookbook. The woman has a positive flair for finding an unusual niche and marketing it. The Favored Dishes of the High Court-that was the name of her book. She did a sequel and went historical on the next one, Meals from Marshall to Warren. That one didn’t do as well.

“She actually got Justice Scalia to pose for the cover on the first one, smiling with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Do you know Scalia?”

I shake my head again.

“Actually, I don’t know him either, only by reputation. But I’m told that even if you don’t agree with him politically-And I don’t,” he says. “I’m hoping for better things following the election. Still there’s one thing that everyone agrees on. Scalia, like his politics or not, is the wit on the Court. Man has an incredible sense of humor. And sharp as a knife, if you know what I mean. Margaret’s book wasn’t The South Beach Diet, but in its market it did very well.”

And it never hurts to do business, even at the fringes, with the influential, names you can drop if you’re sniffing on the trail of a lawyer for a book deal following a hot trial, for example.

“You were talking about Justice Ginnis?”

“Oh, yes. Affable man,” he says, “engaging, politically to the left of center. But his chief claim to fame is that he can swing from the middle. I’m no Court watcher, but lawyers here in town tell me that at the moment he holds the balance of power on the Court. The word is that if you want five votes on anything controversial that’s before the Court, you will have to get Mr. Justice Ginnis.”

“Maybe Scarborough was trying to woo him politically,” I say.

Bonguard shakes his head and rises from his chair. “Terry had given up on the Court long ago. He was as far out on the left wing as you can get without falling off. There were those who knew him who would say he’d already tumbled. He was living in a fantasy world of rebellion and revolution, dreaming of impeachments that would never happen. Terry was not someone that Ginnis would take to-or for that matter would want to be seen talking with.”

“But you’re saying that they did talk.”

“Do yourself a favor and talk to Trisha Scott. I have a feeling she knows more than I do.”

The meeting is over. He ushers us toward the door, chatting sociably with Sarah, about her major in college, what she wants to do when she graduates. As we pass through the door, he shakes my hand one last time and turns to head toward the stairs. Then, as if lightning has struck him in the brain, he suddenly turns back toward me.

“Could you do me one favor?” he says. “If you find the letter, the copy or the original, could you give me a call and let me know?”

“Why is that?”

“I’m curious as to what it says. Terry would never let me look at it. I might also be interested in getting a publishing deal for the contents, perhaps in book form, maybe around the context of the trial and Terry’s death. It could be a good story. Who knows, it might even help your client.”

“If I find it, I’ll give you a call.”

The code words of slavery in the Constitution may have fired Scarborough’s rhetoric and made him rich, but his book, his smoke-belching antics on the stump, and the violence that ensued had their genesis in some other, more startling and subterranean force. And unless I miss my bet, that hidden volcano is somewhere in the pages of what Bonguard is now referring to as the Jefferson Letter.