Absolute Power

Chapter Twenty-one

Dan Kirksen opened the Washington Post and started to take a sip of his orange juice. It never reached his mouth. Gavin had managed to file a story on the Sullivan case consisting chiefly of the information that Jack Graham, newly ordained partner at Patton, Shaw & Lord, was the defendant’s counsel. Kirksen immediately called Jack’s home. There was no answer. He dressed, called for his car and at half past eight walked through the lobby of his firm. He passed Jack’s old office where boxes and personal items were still clustered. Jack’s new quarters were just down the hall from Lord’s. A twenty-by-twenty beauty with a small wet bar, antique furnishings and a panoramic view of the city. Nicer than his, Kirksen recalled with a grimace.

The chair was swiveled around away from the doorway. Kirksen didn’t bother to knock. He marched in and tossed the paper down on the desk.

Jack turned slowly around. He glanced at the paper.

“Well at least they got the firm’s name spelled correctly. Great publicity. This could lead to some big ones.”

Kirksen sat down without taking his eyes off Jack. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though to a child. “Have you gone insane? We don’t handle criminal defense work. We don’t handle any litigation whatsoever.” Kirksen stood up abruptly, his long forehead now a shiny pink, his diminutive body shaking with rage. “Particularly when this animal has murdered the wife of the firm’s largest client,” he said shrilly.

“Well, that’s not entirely correct. We didn’t handle criminal defense work but now we do. And I learned in law school that the accused is innocent until proven guilty, Dan. Maybe you forgot that.” Smiling, Jack eyed Kirksen steadily. Four million versus six hundred thou pal. So back off, dickhead.

Kirksen slowly shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Jack, maybe you don’t fully understand the procedures we have in place at this firm before any new matter is undertaken. I’ll have my secretary provide you with the pertinent provisions. In the meantime, take the necessary steps to have yourself and this firm taken off this matter immediately.”

With a dismissive air, Kirksen turned to leave. Jack stood up.

“Listen, Dan, I took the case and I’m going to try it and I don’t care what you or the firm’s policy has to say about it. Close the door on your way out.”

Kirksen turned around slowly and looked at Jack with intense brown eyes. “Jack, tread cautiously. I am the managing partner of this firm.”

“I know you are, Dan. So you should be able to manage to close the goddamned door on your way out.”

Without another word, Kirksen spun on his heel, shutting the door behind him.

The pounding in Jack’s head finally subsided. He returned to his work. His papers were just about completed. He wanted to get them filed first thing before anyone could try to stop him. He printed out the documents, signed them and called the courier himself. That done he sat back in his chair. It was almost nine o’clock. He would have to get going, he was seeing Luther at ten. Jack’s entire brain was overflowing with questions to ask his client. And then he thought about that night. That chilly night on the Mall. The look in Luther’s eyes. Jack could ask the questions, he just hoped he was ready to handle the answers.

He threw on his coat, and in another few minutes was in his car on his way to the Middleton County Jail.

Under the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia and its criminal procedure statute, the state must turn over to a defendant any exculpatory evidence. Failure to do so was a terrific way for an ACA to abruptly derail his or her career, not to mention getting a conviction thrown out and letting a defendant walk on appeal.

Those particular rules were giving Seth Frank a very large headache.

He sat in his office and thought about the prisoner sitting alone in a cell less than a minute’s walk away. His calm and seemingly innocuous manner didn’t trouble Frank. Some of the worst offenders he had ever arrested looked like they had stepped out of the church choir right after they had split open somobody’s skull for a couple of laughs. Gorelick was putting together a good case, methodically collecting a bagful of little threads that when woven together in front of a jury would make a nice sturdy necktie for Luther Whitney to choke himself on. That also didn’t trouble Frank.

What did trouble Frank was all the little things that still didn’t add up. The wounds. Two guns. A bullet dug out of the wall. The place sanitized like an operating room. The fact that the guy was in Barbados and then came back. Luther Whitney was a pro. Frank had spent the better part of four days learning everything he could about Luther Albert Whitney. He had pulled off a crackerjack crime that except for one glitch would probably have remained unsolved. Millions from his heist, a cold trail for the cops; he’s out of the country, and the sonofabitch comes back. Professionals did not do those things. Frank would’ve understood him coming back because of his daughter, but Frank had checked with the airlines. Luther Whitney, traveling under an alias, had returned to the United States long before Frank had hatched his plot with Kate.

And the kicker was this: was he really supposed to believe that Luther Whitney had any reason on earth to check Christine Sullivan’s vagina? And on top of that somebody had tried to kill the guy. This was one of the few times Frank actually had more questions after he had arrested his suspect than he had before taking his guy into custody.

He felt in his pocket for a cigarette. His gum stage had long since passed. He would try again next year. When he looked back up Bill Burton was standing in front of him.

“You understand, Seth, I can’t prove anything but I’m just letting you know how I think it went down.”

“And you’re sure the President told Sullivan?”

Burton nodded, fiddled with an empty cup on Frank’s desk. “I just came from meeting with him. I guess I should’ve told him to keep it mum. I’m sorry, Seth.”

“Hell, he’s the President, Bill. You gonna tell the President what to do?”

Burton shrugged. “So what do you think?”

“Makes sense. I’m not gonna let it lie, I can tell you that. If Sullivan was behind it I’ll take him down too, I don’t care what his justification was. That shot could’ve hit anybody.”

“Well, knowing the way Sullivan probably operates, you ain’t gonna find much. The shooter’s probably on some island in the Pacific with a different face and a hundred people who’ll swear he’s never even been in the States.”

Frank finished writing in his log book.

Burton studied him. “Get anything out of Whitney?”

“Right! His lawyer has him clammed shut.”

Burton appeared nonchalant. “Who is he?”

“Jack Graham. Used to be with the Public Defenders Service in the District. Now he’s a big-shot partner with some big-shot law firm. He’s in with Whitney now.”

“Any good?”

Frank twisted a swizzle stick into a triangle. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Burton stood up to go. “When’s the arraignment?”

“Ten tomorrow.”

“You taking Whitney over?”

“Yeah. You want to come along, Bill?”

Burton threw his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“How come?”

“I don’t want anything leaking back to Sullivan, that’s how come.”

“You don’t think they’d try anything again?”

“The only thing I know is that I don’t know the answer to that question and neither do you. If I were you I’d make some special arrangements.”

Frank looked at him intently.

“Take care of our boy, Seth. He’s got a date with the death chamber at Greensville.”

Burton left.

Frank sat at his desk for some minutes. What Burton said made sense. Maybe they would try again. He picked up the phone, dialed a number and spoke for a bit and then hung up. He had taken all the precautions he could think of for transporting Luther. This time Frank was confident there would be no leak.

Jack left Luther sitting in the interrogation room and walked down the hallway to the coffee machine. In front of him was a big guy, nice suit and a graceful tilt to his body. The man turned around just as Jack passed him. They bumped.

“Sorry.”

Jack rubbed his shoulder where the holstered gun had struck him.

“Forget it.”

“You’re Jack Graham, aren’t you?”

“Depends on who wants to know.” Jack sized the guy up; since he was carrying a gun he obviously wasn’t a reporter. He was more like a cop. The way he held his hands, his fingers ready to move instantly. The way the eyes checked out every feature without seeming to.

“Bill Burton, United States Secret Service.”

The men shook hands.

“I’m kind of the President’s earpiece on this investigation.”

Jack’s eyes focused on Burton’s features. “Right, the news conference. Well I guess your boss is pretty happy this morning.”

“He would be if the rest of the world wasn’t in such a godawful mess. About your guy, hey, my feeling is they’re only guilty if the court says they are.”

“I hear you. You want to be on my jury?”

Burton grinned. “Take it easy. Good talking to you.”

Jack put the two cups of coffee down on the table and looked at Luther. Jack sat down and looked at his empty legal pad.

“Luther, if you don’t start saying something I’m going to have to just make it up as I go along.”

Luther sipped the strong coffee, looked out the barred window at the single bare oak tree next to the station. A thick, wet snow was falling. The mercury was plunging and the streets were already a mess.

“What’s to know, Jack? Cut me a deal, save everybody the hassle of a trial and let’s get this over with.”

“Maybe you don’t understand, Luther. Here’s their deal. They want to strap you onto a gurney, insert an IV into your arm, pump nasty little poisons into you and pretend you’re a chemistry experiment. Or I think now the commonwealth actually gives the condemned a choice. So you can opt for having your brain fried in the electric chair. That’s their deal.”

Jack stood up and looked out the window. For a moment the flash of a blissful evening in front of a toasty fire in the huge mansion with the big front yard with little Jacks and Jennifers running around went through his head. He swallowed hard, shook his head clear and looked back at Luther.

“Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear.” Luther eyed Jack steadily for the first time.

“Luther, will you please tell me what happened? Maybe you were in that house, maybe you burgled the safe, but you will never, ever make me believe you had anything to do with that woman’s death. I know you, Luther.”

Luther smiled. “Do you, Jack? That’s good, maybe you can tell me who I am one of these days.”

Jack threw his pad in his briefcase and snapped it shut. “I’m going to plead you not guilty. Maybe you’ll come around before we have to try this thing.” He paused and added quietly, “I hope you do.”

He turned to leave. Luther’s hand fell on Jack’s shoulder. Jack turned back to see Luther’s quivering face.

“Jack.” He swallowed with difficulty, his tongue seemed as big as a fist. “If I could tell you I would. But that wouldn’t do you or Kate or anybody else any good. I’m sorry.”

“Kate? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll see you, Jack.” Luther turned and stared back out the window.

Jack looked at his friend, shook his head, and knocked for the guard.

The snow had changed from fat, sloppy flakes to pellets of ice that clattered against the broad windows like handfuls of slung gravel. Kirksen paid no attention to the weather but looked directly at Lord. The managing partner’s bow tie was slightly askew. He noticed it in the reflection from the window and angrily straightened it. His long forehead was red with anger and indignation. The little fuck was going to get his. No one talked to him like that.

Sandy Lord studied the dark clusters making up the cityscape. A cigar smoldered in his right hand. His jacket was off and his immense belly touched the window. The twin streaks of his red suspenders jumped out from the background of his highly starched monogrammed white shirt. He peered intently out as a figure dashed across the street frantically chasing down a cab.

“He is undermining the relationship this firm, you, have with Walter Sullivan. I could only imagine what Walter must have thought when he read the paper this morning. His own firm, his own attorney actually representing this, this person. My God!”

Lord digested only a fraction of the little man’s speech. He hadn’t heard from Sullivan for several days now. Calls to his office and home had gone unanswered. No one seemed to know where he was. That was not like his old friend, who kept himself in constant contact with an elite inner circle of which Sandy Lord was a longtime member.

“My suggestion, Sandy, is that we take immediate action against Graham. We can’t let this lie. It would set a terrible precedent. I don’t care if he has Baldwin as a client. Hell, Baldwin is an acquaintance of Walter’s. He must be livid as well about this whole deplorable situation. We can convene a meeting of the management committee tonight. I don’t think it will take long to arrive at a conclusion. Then—”

Lord finally held up one hand and cut off Kirksen’s ramblings.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“But, Sandy, as managing partner I believe that—”

Lord turned to look at him. The red eyes on either side of the large and bulbous nose cut right into the slender frame.

“I said I’ll handle it.”

Lord turned to look back out the window. Kirksen’s hurt pride was of absolutely no consequence to him. What concerned Lord was the fact that someone had tried to kill the man accused of murdering Christine Sullivan. And no one could reach Walter Sullivan.

Jack parked his car, looked across the street and closed his eyes. That didn’t help since the vanity plates seemed to be imprinted on his brain. He jumped out of his car and dodged traffic as he made his way across the slippery street.

He inserted the key in the lock, took a quick breath, and turned the doorknob.

Jennifer sat in the small chair by the TV. Her short black skirt was matched by black heels and patterned black stockings. A white blouse was open at the collar where an emerald necklace fired dazzling color into the little room. A full-length sable was draped carefully on the sheet covering his ragged couch. She was clicking her nails against the TV set when he walked in. She looked at him without speaking. The thick ruby lips were set in a firm, vertical line.

“Hi, Jenn.”

“You’ve certainly been a very busy boy the last twenty-four hours, Jack.” She didn’t smile, her nails continued to click.

“Gotta keep hustling, you know that.”

He took off his coat, undid his tie and went into the kitchen for a beer. He reemerged, and sat across from her on the couch.

“Hey, got a new piece of business today.”

She reached in her handbag and tossed across the Post.

“I know.”

He looked down at the headlines.

“Your firm won’t let you do it.”

“Too bad, I already did it.”

“You know what I mean. What in God’s name has gotten into you?”

“Jenn, I know the guy, okay? I know him, he’s a friend of mine. I don’t believe he killed the woman, and I’m going to defend him. Lawyers do that every day in every place where there are lawyers, and in this country that’s basically everywhere.”

She leaned forward. “It’s Walter Sullivan, Jack. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I know it’s Walter Sullivan, Jenn. What? Luther Whitney doesn’t deserve a good defense because somebody says he killed Walter Sullivan’s wife? Excuse me but exactly where is that written?”

“Walter Sullivan is your client.”

“Luther Whitney is my friend and I’ve known him a lot longer than I’ve known Walter Sullivan.”

“Jack, the man you’re defending is a common criminal. He’s been in and out of jails all his life.”

“Actually he hasn’t been in prison for over twenty years.”

“He’s a convicted felon.”

“But he’s never been convicted of murder,” Jack fired back.

“Jack, there are more attorneys in this city than there are criminals. Why can’t another lawyer handle it?”

Jack looked at his beer. “You want one?”

“Answer my question.”

Jack stood up and hurled the beer bottle against the wall.

“Because he goddamn asked me!”

Jenn looked up at him, the frightened look that had crossed her face passing as soon as the glass fragments and beer hit the floor. She picked up her coat and put it on.

“You’re making a huge mistake and I hope you come to your senses before you do irreversible damage. My father almost had a coronary when he read that story.”

Jack put his hand on her shoulder, turned her face to his and said quietly, “Jenn, this is something I have to do. I would’ve hoped you could support me on this.”

“Jack, why don’t you stop drinking beer and start thinking about how you want to spend the rest of your life.”

When the door closed behind her, Jack slumped against it, rubbing his head until he thought the skin would start to peel away under the pressure his fingers were exerting.

He watched from the tiny, dirty window as the vanity plates disappeared into the blur of snow. He sat down, looked at the headlines again.

Luther wanted to cut a deal but there was no deal to cut. The stage was set. Everyone wanted to see this trial. The TV news had given a detailed analysis of the case; Luther’s photo must have been seen by several hundred million people. They already had public opinion polls about Luther’s guilt or innocence, and he was running far behind in all of them. And Gorelick was licking his chops thinking that this was the vehicle to catapult him into the Attorney General’s office in a few years. And in Virginia, Attorneys General often ran for, and won, the Governor’s Mansion.

Short, balding, big-voiced, Gorelick was as deadly as a rattler on speed. Dirty tactics, questionable ethics, just waiting to bury the knife in your back at the first opportunity. That was George Gorelick. Jack knew he was in for a long, tough fight.

And Luther wasn’t talking. He was scared. And what did Kate have to do with that fear? Nothing was adding up. And Jack was going to walk into court tomorrow and plead Luther not guilty when he had absolutely no way to prove that Luther wasn’t. But proof was the state’s job. The problem was they probably had just enough to put them over the top. Jack would peck and chip, but he had a three-time loser as a client, even though the record said Luther had remained clean for the last two decades. They wouldn’t care about that. Why should they? His guy made for the perfect ending to a tragic story. A poster boy for the three-strikes rule. Three heavies and your life is over, starring Luther Whitney.

He tossed the newspaper across the room and cleaned up the broken glass and spilled beer. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the underused muscles in his arms and went to his bedroom and changed into sweats.

The YMCA was ten minutes away. Amazingly Jack found a parking space right in front and went inside. The black sedan behind him wasn’t as lucky. The driver had to circle the block several times and then pull down the street and park on the other side.

The driver wiped his passenger-side window clear and checked out the front of the Y. Then he made up his mind, climbed out of his car and ran to the steps. He looked around, glanced at the gleaming Lexus and then slowly walked inside.

Three pickup games later, the sweat was pouring down Jack’s body. He sat down on the bench as the teenagers continued to run up and down the court with the inexhaustible energy of youth. Jack groaned as one of the lanky black kids dressed in loose gym shorts, tank shirt and oversized sneakers tossed the ball at him. He tossed it back.

“Hey man, you tired?”

“No, just old.”

Jack stood up, rubbed the kinks out of his aching thighs and headed out.

As he was leaving the building he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Jack drove. He glanced at his new passenger.

Seth Frank looked over the interior of the Lexus. “I’ve heard great things about these cars. How much it run you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Forty-nine-five, loaded.”

“Like hell! I don’t even come close to making that in a year.”

“Neither did I until recently.”

“Public defenders don’t make the big bucks, I’ve heard.”

“You heard right.”

The men fell silent. Frank knew he was breaking more rules than they probably had written down and Jack knew that too.

Finally Jack looked at him. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m assuming you didn’t just come out here to check my taste in automobiles. Is there something you want?”

“Gorelick’s got a winning case against your guy.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not throwing in the towel if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You pleading him not guilty?”

“No, I’m gonna drive him down to the Greensville Correctional Center and inject the shit into him myself. Next question.”

Frank smiled. “Okay, I deserved that. I think you and I need to talk. Some things about this case don’t add up. Maybe it helps or hurts your guy, I don’t know. You willing to listen?”

“Okay, but don’t think this flow of information is going to be a two-way street.”

“I know a place where you can actually cut the meatloaf with a butter knife and the coffee’s passable.”

“Is it an out-of-the-way place? I don’t think you’d look good in a deputy’s uniform.”

Frank looked over at him, grinning. “Next question.”

Jack managed a smile and then drove home to change.

Jack ordered another cup of coffee while Frank played with his first. The meatloaf had been terrific and the place was so isolated, Jack wasn’t even sure where they were. Rural, southern Maryland he thought. He looked around at the few occupants of the rustic dining room. No one was paying them any undue attention. He turned back to his companion.

Frank looked at him in an amused fashion. “I understand you and Kate Whitney had a thing going a while back.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Hell no. She came down to the station a few minutes after you left today. Her father wouldn’t see her. I talked with her for a while. Told her I was sorry about how things had gone down.”

Frank’s eyes glistened for a moment and then he continued. “I shouldn’t have done what I did, Jack. Using her to get to her old man. Nobody deserves that.”

“It worked. Some people would say don’t argue with success.”

“Right. Well anyway the subject got around to you. I’m not so old yet that I can’t see a gleam in a woman’s eyes.”

The waitress brought Jack’s coffee. He sipped it. Both men looked out the window where the snow had finally stopped and the whole earth seemed to be covered with a soft, white blanket.

“Look, Jack, I know the case against Luther is just about all circumstantial. But that’s sent plenty of people to jail.”

“I’m not arguing with that.”

“The truth is, Jack, there’s an awful lot of shit that doesn’t make any sense.”

Jack put down his coffee and leaned forward.

“I’m listening.”

Frank looked around the room and then back at Jack. “I know I’m taking a chance doing this, but I didn’t become a cop to send people to jail for crimes they didn’t commit. Plenty enough guilty people out there.”

“So what doesn’t add up?”

“You’ll see some of it for yourself in the reports you’ll get in your discovery, but the fact is I’m convinced Luther Whitney burgled that house and I’m also convinced that he didn’t kill Christine Sullivan. But—”

“But you think he saw who did.”

Frank sat back in his chair and stared wide-eyed at Jack. “How long have you thought that?”

“Not long. Any ideas on the matter?”

“I’m thinking your guy almost got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and then had to actually hide in that cookie jar.”

Jack looked puzzled. Frank took a few minutes to explain about the vault, the incongruity of the physical evidence and his own questions.

“So Luther’s in the vault all this time watching whoever gets it on with Mrs. Sullivan. Then something happens and she gets popped. Then Luther watches whoever wipe away all traces.”

“That’s how I got it figured, Jack.”

“So he doesn’t go to the cops because he can’t without incriminating himself.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Except who did it.”

“The only obvious suspect is the husband, and I don’t believe it was him.”

Jack thought back to Walter Sullivan. “Agreed. So who’s not so obvious?”

“Whoever she was meeting that night.”

“From what you’ve told me about the deceased’s sex life, that narrows it down to a couple million.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“Well, my hunch is it’s not some ordinary Joe.”

“Why’s that?”

Jack took a swallow of coffee and looked at his slice of apple pie. “Look, Lieutenant—”

“Make it Seth.”

“Okay, Seth, I’m walking a fine line here. I hear where you’re coming from and I appreciate the info. But...”

“But you’re not absolutely sure you can trust me, and in any event, you don’t want to say anything that might prejudice your client?”

“Something like that.”

“Fair enough.”

They paid the bill and left. Driving back the snow started again with such velocity that the wipers were having a hard time keeping up.

Jack looked over at Frank, who stared straight ahead, lost in thought or maybe just waiting for Jack to start talking.

“Okay. I’ll take the chance, I don’t have a helluva lot to lose, do I?”

Frank continued to stare straight ahead. “Not that I can see.”

“Let’s assume for the moment that Luther was in the house and saw the woman murdered.”

Frank looked over at Jack; there was relief in the detective’s features.

“Okay.”

“You’ve got to know Luther, know how he thinks, to understand how he would react to something like that. He’s about as unshakable a person as I’ve ever met. And I know his record doesn’t indicate it, but he’s about as trustworthy and dependable as you can get. If I had kids and needed to leave them with someone I’d leave them with Luther because I know absolutely nothing bad would happen to them on his watch. He’s incredibly capable. Luther sees everything. He’s a control freak.”

“Everything except his daughter leading him into a trap.”

“Right, except for that. He wouldn’t have seen that coming. Not in a million years.”

“But I know the kind of guy you’re talking about, Jack. Some of the guys I’ve busted, except for the little habit of taking other people’s property, they’re some of the most honorable people I’ve ever met.”

“And if Luther saw this woman killed, I’m telling you he would’ve found some way to deliver the guy to the cops. He wouldn’t have let it go. He just wouldn’t!” Jack stared grimly out the window.

“Except?”

Jack looked over at him. “Except for a helluva good reason. Like maybe he knew the person or knew of him.”

“You mean the kind of person people would have a hard time believing could do something like that so Luther figures why even bother?”

“There’s more to it than that, Seth.” Jack turned the corner and pulled up next to the YMCA. “I’ve never seen Luther scared before this all happened. And he’s scared now. Terrified in fact. He’s resigned himself to take the rap for the whole thing and I don’t know why. I mean he left the country for godsakes.”

“And came back.”

“Right, which I still cannot figure out. You have the date by the way?”

Frank flipped open his notebook and told him the date.

“So what the hell happened after Christine Sullivan was killed and before then to get him to come back?”

Frank shook his head. “Could be anything.”

“No, it was one thing and if we could find out what that was, we might be able to figure this whole thing out.”

Frank put away his notebook, absently rubbed his hand across the dashboard.

Jack put the car in park and leaned back in his seat.

“And he’s not just scared for himself. Somehow he’s scared for Kate too.”

Frank looked puzzled. “You think somebody threatened Kate?”

Jack shook his head. “No. She would’ve told me. I think someone got the message to Luther that he either keeps quiet or else.”

“You think the same people who tried to take him out?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Frank made a fist with both hands and looked out the car window. He took a deep breath and looked back at Jack. “Look, you’ve got to get Luther to talk. If he can deliver us whoever did Christine Sullivan, I’ll recommend probation and community service in return for his cooperation; he won’t do any time. Hell, Sullivan would probably let him keep what he stole if we could nail the guy.”

“Recommend?”

“Let’s put it this way, I’ll cram it down Gorelick’s throat. Good enough?” Frank extended his hand.

Jack slowly took it, eyeing the policeman steadily. “Good enough.”

Frank got out of the car and then poked his head back in. “For what it’s worth, as far as I’m concerned, tonight never happened and everything you’ve said stays with me, no exceptions. Not even on the witness stand. I mean it.”

“Thanks, Seth.”

Seth Frank walked slowly back to his car as the Lexus pulled down the street, turned the corner and was gone.

He understood exactly the kind of guy Luther Whitney was. So what the hell could scare that kind of a guy so badly?