Shakeup

37

Maren Gustav was finishing her first days as director when she got a phone call from Mark Bernstein, the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia.

“Good morning, Mark,” she said, breathless to know what had happened.

“Good morning, Maren,” he replied. “It went off pretty much as we expected. He took the Fifth.”

“Then the media will convict him before we can.”

“There’s always immunity,” Mark said.

Maren thought about it. If they gave Clark immunity from prosecution, then he could not take the Fifth, since he would not be incriminating himself. If he still refused to testify he could be held in contempt and jailed until he relented. “I think so,” Maren said.

“The question is, to whom do we make the proffer of immunity: Clark or Deborah Myers?”

“I suppose we do have a choice,” Maren said. “What happens if they both decline the offer and refuse to testify?”

“I suppose they could hold hands in federal prison,” Mark replied. “Or, perhaps, we could arrange some conjugal time for them.”

Maren laughed. “They might find that too appealing.”

“He’s still in the jury room,” Mark said. “What’s your preference?”

“Let’s offer Clark the immunity. We’ll see if he’s the tough Marine he likes to think he is.”

“I’ll go speak to his attorney.” They both hung up.

Mark Bernstein had been a classmate of Clark’s attorney, Jeff Goode, at Harvard Law, and they had never liked each other much. It gave Mark a little thrill to be able to convey this message. He held up five fingers and the questioning attorney announced a short break.

Jeff Goode had been waiting in an anteroom, since defense attorneys were not allowed in the jury room. Mark took a seat next to him at the table. “How goes it, Jeff?”

“That depends on whether you believe my client’s testimony.”

“I do believe him, when he says that answering truthfully might tend to incriminate him.”

“So, where do we stand?”

“We’re offering immunity,” Mark replied.

“Complete and total immunity?”

“Not for every misdeed in his miserable life; just for his actions with regard to his wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s murders, whatever they might have been.”

“So, you’ve chosen to go after Little Debby, have you?”

“That remains an option,” Mark said. “I’d rather convict her on the testimony of your client. You ought to be able to sell him that: he walks, and Little Debby doesn’t. What could be nicer?”

“In Donald’s eyes, it would be better if they both walked.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” Mark said.

“Okay, I’ll give it a whirl. Have the bailiff bring him in here, and don’t rush us.”

“Fine, take your time.” Mark opened a door and summoned the bailiff. “Good luck,” he said to Goode, and left the room.

Jeff Goode stood and shook his client’s hand. “How’s it going in there, Donald?”

“Pretty much as you said it would.”

“You know the press is going to tear you apart, don’t you?”

“What has to be has to be.”

“There’s always a way out, Donald, if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“What way? What price?”

“They’re going to offer you immunity for two murders — your wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s,” Goode said.

“To testify against Deborah?”

“To tell the truth. Which of the following two headlines would you rather see tomorrow morning? ‘CLARK LAWYERS UP, TAKES THE FIFTH ON MURDER CHARGE AND IS IMPRISONED FOR CONTEMPT,’ or ‘CLARK TESTIFIES AGAINST MURDERER AND WALKS FREE’? Those are the options.”

“What will they do with me, if I just refuse to testify?”

“The judge will jail you, until you relent.”

“For how long?”

“How long have you got to live?”

Clark blanched. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“There’s another possible headline you should consider,” Goode said.

“What’s that?”

“‘CHIEF MYERS ACCEPTS IMMUNITY AND TESTIFIES AGAINST CLARK.’”

“She’d never do that to me.”

“You never know,” Goode said. “A year in federal lockup can soften the stiffest spines.”

“I could appeal, couldn’t I?”

“You’d lose.”

“It’s that definite?”

“It’s cut and dried. One of you is going to get a deal, and the other is going to prison. You’ve been given the first shot at deciding that it’s not going to be you.”

Clark stared at the wall and said nothing.

“What’s it going to be, Donald?”

“I need some time to think,” Clark replied.

“I can ask them to break for lunch. That’ll give you an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Can I call Debby?”

“No. You’ll just have to sit in this room and think. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

“Ham and cheese on rye, mustard, Diet Coke.”

“I’ll phone it in,” Goode said, rising. He left the room, and Mark Bernstein was leaning on the wall outside.

“What’s it going to be?” Mark asked.

“I gave it my best shot. Apparently, he doesn’t like making decisions on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll call lunch.”

“And I’ll get him a ham on rye with mustard,” Goode said. They went their separate ways.

Clark had been sitting alone for half an hour. He knew he was going to cave, and that annoyed him. He heard the door open behind him and turned to look that way.

An elderly black woman, pushing a cart of cleaning tools and supplies entered. “Cleaning lady... You mind?” she asked.

“Go ahead,” Clark replied and turned away from her.

A moment later, he heard a ratcheting noise, one that he remembered from the firing ranges of his youth. He was about to speak, when something hammered into his head and he collapsed into a pool of his own blood and brains.

Another shot was fired into his head, then the door opened and closed again.