Capitol Murder

*

24

B en and Padolino were huddled in the judge’s chambers, both hunched over the man’s desk while Christina and Padolino’s assistants stood barely a foot behind them, each feeding their attorneys case law and citations as the legal wrangling roiled. The court reporter sat just behind them, her fingers rapidly taking down everything that was said.

“This is absolutely unacceptable,” Padolino declared. “The trial is over. He was done.”

“I never rested,” Ben said. “The judge specifically said we could have more time.”

“To interrogate Tiffany Dell, yes. Not to drum up some surprise witness.”

“Right,” Ben shot back. “Only the prosecution is allowed to do that.”

“I never put Tiffany Dell on the stand!”

“You used her as a witness just the same.”

“Gentlemen, stop!” Herndon put his hands down firmly on his desk. “I’ve had enough of this bickering. If you have a legal argument to make, then make it. If you have some precedent to present to the court, heaven forbid, please do so. Otherwise, be quiet!”

They both started to speak at once. Herndon raised a finger. “I want you to both sit down. Now. We’re going to take turns. You remember about taking turns? Perhaps your mothers introduced the concept one day when you were playing Candy Land.”

Both attorneys eyed each other. Lips parted.

“Padolino,” Herndon declared, “you’re first.”

“Your honor, in the name of fundamental fairness, do not allow the defense to pull out some unknown witness at the eleventh hour in a desperate attempt to salvage a case they are going to lose-for good reason. My associates can provide you with a dozen cases in which judges refused to hear testimony from witnesses who were not on the pretrial witness list.”

“Nonetheless, this is surely a matter that has to be considered on a case-by-case basis.”

“But we didn’t even know this woman existed before Mr. Kincaid called us last night. We’ve had no opportunity to talk to her.”

“I have it on the authority of Lieutenant Albertson of the DCPD that Mr. Kincaid himself did not know about this woman or talk to her prior to her discovery by his investigator last night. And the only reason you haven’t been able to talk to her is that she’s been in the Bethesda intensive care unit along with many other young women discovered on the same premises.”

“Just the same-”

Herndon adjusted the direction of his finger. “Okay, you’ve had your say. Now it’s Mr. Kincaid’s turn.”

“Your honor, the only reason I’m asking the court to permit this testimony is that it is vital to uncovering the truth.”

“It always is,” he said wearily.

“Moreover, it is critical to understanding what happened to Veronica Cooper.”

“Oh honestly,” Padolino said, “as if we didn’t already know what-”

“Counselor,” Herndon admonished, “it is not your turn. Back to the Peppermint Stick Forest.”

Padolino clammed up.

Ben continued. “Of course we’ll give the prosecutors access to her, the same as we’ve had, as much as her doctors will permit.”

“What about this other person? The one the police chief called ‘the Sire’?”

“Real name Barry Dodds, real estate agent by day. Vamp by night.” Ben shook his head. “He’s not talking-for obvious reasons. Judge, this girl is all we’ve got.”

“And the minor problem of her not being on the witness list?”

“I could show you mounds of case law in which new witnesses were allowed to be added when they were discovered after the trial began-but I don’t have to, because you already know all about them. Mr. Padolino was allowed to use a previously unlisted witness, and whether he actually called her or not, her testimony was devastating to my client on cross-examination. All I’m asking for is the same leniency you gave the prosecution.”

“But my witness was a young woman of unquestioned integrity,” Padolino insisted. “His witness is-is-well, for God’s sake. She’s a vampire!”

“Not exactly,” Ben corrected.

“Okay, she just runs with the wolves, whatever. The point is, the fundamental credibility required of any witness, and especially from an eleventh-hour surprise witness, is utterly lacking.”

Herndon batted his finger against his lips. A long time passed in silence while the attorneys waited in excruciating suspense.

“You both make good points,” Herndon said, at long last. “And I suspect I could rule either way and not be wrong. The only difference is, if I say no to Mr. Kincaid, he’s going to lose, and Appeal Item Number One would be my ruling against his new witness. Why should I let that happen? That’s not good for me or the prosecutor’s office. Furthermore-” He paused, looking deeply into Ben’s eyes. “-I’ve been watching the defense work for several weeks now. And I tend to think that if Mr. Kincaid says this witness is critical to learning the truth about what really happened-then she probably is. I’m going to allow it.”

“But-”

Herndon turned his finger. “Don’t bother. The prosecution’s objection is noted. But the jury is going to hear what this woman has to say.”

Given all that she had been through, Beatrice looked better than Ben expected, but there was no denying her fragility, the brittle-glass quality of her demeanor. She had been brought to the stand in a wheelchair, and her doctors had insisted that she should testify for no longer than one hour without taking a break of equal length, and that she should be on the stand for no more than four hours a day. Her skin was pale-almost to the point of being translucent-but Ben knew she had suffered severe blood loss and probably had not seen the sun for a very long time.

“It was all fun at first,” Beatrice explained. Her voice was quiet and delicate; even with her microphone turned up to its maximum volume, the spectators in the rear of the gallery had to strain to hear what she was saying. “We were just four DC working girls out partying, trying to have a good time. Originally, we frequented the usual twentysomething haunts-the Rhino Bar and Pumphouse, that sort of place. But as we soon learned, we all had a dark side-probably what brought us together in the first place. We were all into Goth, so we started going to those clubs. We thought the whole occult thing was kind of sexy. So it was inevitable that we would end up at Stigmata. The owner’s head toady, Sid Bartmann, took a shine to us and invited us to their upstairs apartment one night-and that was when our lives began to fall apart.”

“Was that when you first began taking drugs?”

“Yes. Bartmann had a lab not far from the club where he cooked the stuff up. The drugs only increased the intensity of the fun, at first. And the sex… well, you got used to it, after a while. If you were high enough, that could be fun, too. Some of the men up there learned about our… interests, and they took us to a meeting of Circle Thirteen. That was where the Sire spotted us. His minions invited us into the Inner Circle, allowed us to take part in their secret ceremonies. All very thrilling. Exciting. Sexy. Like I said, fun, fun, fun. Until Colleen got killed.”

Beatrice described how the Sire had taken them, while they were all high, and involved them in the Inner Circle’s sacrificial rites. Colleen had been chosen to be the first because she was so immersed in the vampiric mythos. It had long been a fantasy of hers to participate in a gothic vampire sexcapade.

“Her hands were bound behind her back,” Beatrice explained, her voice halting. “She was tied to a chair. And we just stood there watching, thinking how cool this was, getting more than a little turned on. We’d been warned that the ceremony required some small bloodletting, but hey, we were vampires, right? They assured us the drugs would prevent Colleen from feeling any pain, only erotic pleasure, and the injury would be small and temporary and invisible.

“But something went wrong. That was when we realized the Sire wasn’t a wannabe. He truly believed he was a vampire. ‘Vampyr,’ he liked to say. And he craved blood. Craved it with such intensity that he lost all control. That’s what happened with Colleen. I don’t know how to explain it with any word other than-bloodlust. Once he stuck his teeth into Colleen and started drinking from her, he couldn’t stop himself. He started on her neck but eventually moved to her jugular. Blood spewed everywhere. Colleen’s eyes bulged. She screamed, but somehow that only seemed to titillate him, to urge him on.”

“Did you try to stop it?” Ben asked.

“God, yes. All three of us ran to help her, but the other members of the Inner Circle held us back. They told us not to worry-they’d seen it happen before.” She paused. “I don’t think even they realized just how out of control the Sire was. And by the time they did-it was too late.” Tears poured from her eyes. “Colleen was dead.”

Ben gave her a moment to collect herself, then forged ahead. “What happened next?”

“We didn’t know what to do. Amber wanted to go to the police, but the Sire said we were just as likely to go to jail as he was. We were accomplices; they’d get us on felony murder charges, he said. Plus-we needed that drug. If you haven’t been dependent on a drug, you can’t know what it’s like. Veronica talked about us all quitting our jobs and getting out of town-but we didn’t have the money to last a week on our own, and we knew it wouldn’t be a day before we came crawling back to Sid or the Sire to get our fix. We were hooked. We couldn’t live without it. We’d do anything for it.” Her head fell. “Even sell out our friend. Even cover up her murder.”

“So you… just went back to the party-hard swinging vampire life?”

“At first. Then Veronica came up with an idea-a way to make some serious getaway money-enough to buy a huge supply of the drug, enough to last us for years, enough to blow town and start our lives over again somewhere outside the influence of the Sire. Somewhere far away from those hypnotic eyes.”

“Do you know what her plan was?”

“More or less. She was going to film Senator Glancy having sex with her-then blackmail him for money.”

Several members of the jury stirred. For the first time, the story presented by the Glancys had received some independent verification.

“And did you think that plan was… realistic?”

“Definitely. Veronica had a way about her. It wasn’t just that she was gorgeous. She knew how to make herself irresistible, how to make men know she was interested, available, or better yet, how to make them think she wanted them. And it wasn’t all a show, either. She liked having sex and as with most things in life-practice makes perfect. She was good at it. Veronica was kind of like a drug herself. Men became addicted to her.”

“Did you follow the progress of her… plan?”

“For a while. Till the morning one of the Sire’s Inner Circle goons showed up unannounced at the apartment Amber and I shared after she left the escort service. With a gun.”

“Why was he there?”

She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to regain her strength. “The video had been released-the video Veronica made to blackmail Senator Glancy-and suddenly the eyes of the world were on her. The Sire was afraid she’d expose everything. He’d decided it would be best to ‘bring us all in.’ He’d gone to the Capitol to collect Veronica himself and sent this goon after us. Well, we knew what that meant. We’d heard about the young girls who went to the Inner Circle and disappeared. We’d seen the Sire and some of the other hard-core bloodsuckers going into that secret, always locked, back room, licking their chops. I knew if we cooperated, no one would ever hear from us again. So I made like I was coming on to him, snuggled up close, fiddled with his fly. And while I distracted him, Amber snuck up behind him and clubbed him on the side of the head with a baseball bat.”

Ben nodded. Hell of a dramatic story. But was the jury buying it? “What did you do then?”

“What else? We ran. Tried to disappear, become invisible. We knew the Sire had connections everywhere-including with the police, so that was not a realistic option. We had to lie low, deep down under the radar. But how far can you get without using ATMs, credit cards, contacting friends? And just to make everything harder, remember-we were going cold turkey, trying to function without the drug for the first time in months. We were a mess. Couldn’t think straight, couldn’t plan more than a minute ahead at a time. Stuffing ourselves with sugary foods and booze, trying to make the pain go away. Eventually Amber couldn’t stand it anymore. She went back to Stigmata for a fix. Of course, once Randy had her back in his clutches again, he never let her go. Until she ended up getting shot. Through his police connections, the Sire had learned that Amber’s father was in town and tracked him down. When her father refused to talk, the Sire killed him, stuffed his body in the trunk of his car, and stole his wallet. They looked enough alike that he could pass using Daily’s photo ID, as long as no one looked too closely. He eventually caught up to Amber in the hospital and killed her. I got to hear him brag about it.” Her head fell. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, as if trying to extinguish the pain, the grief. “Because he caught me, too.”

“But he didn’t kill you?”

“No. He’d had to kill Amber, since he couldn’t get her out of the hospital without being seen, but there was no reason to be so harsh with me. He pumped me full of drugs that kept me half stoned and tried to brainwash me, torturing me, making me participate in sick ceremonies, slapping me around and then making me beg for more. He broke my nose. But I never gave in to it. I pretended that I did-but I didn’t. The problem was-he knew.”

“So why didn’t he kill you?”

“He wanted me to suffer, just as he said he had suffered after we ‘deserted’ him. He wanted to put me through hell. So he put me in that room with the others in the back of that church of his, tied me down to the bed-and he sucked my blood. While I was still awake and alive.”

Sickened expressions crossed the faces in the jury box. The outpouring of pity was so strong Ben could feel it. If only some of that sympathy would spill over to his client…

“Not all at once, mind you. He’d take a pint here, a pint there. When he wasn’t around, his assistants would take our blood in the more conventional way. Me and the others-we were his living blood bank. He’d wait till I’d had time to produce more blood, then suck me down again.”

“A fact the police can confirm,” Ben inserted, and he noticed Padolino didn’t object. Because he knew it was true.

“But every day,” Beatrice said, “every single day he reminded me that eventually he was going to kill me. He’d… play with me. Hurt me. Torment me in any way imaginable, both mental and… physical. He never let me move, stretch, go outside. He would spoon-feed me the most disgusting gruel you could imagine. He didn’t even let me go to the bathroom-just gave me a chamberpot and told me to do the best I could. I couldn’t shower. I got bedsores. My muscles atrophied. I still can’t move my left arm. Every day the pain got worse, but he didn’t care. He wanted me to live in hell, the sadistic bastard. And I did. I did.” Tears again streamed down her cheeks. “And the worst of it was-I knew I had no chance of escape. None. The only thing I had to look forward to was death. A slow painful death caused by that disgusting psycho sucking out all my blood.”

Ben paused a moment. Her testimony had been painful, not only for her to give, but for everyone to listen to. But he had a little more ground to cover before they took a break.

“Beatrice… who killed Veronica Cooper?”

“The Sire. He told me he was going to do it, then laughed about it after she was dead. Laughed because he’d not only silenced her-he’d made a quarter of a million dollars.” She paused, wiped the water from her face, then continued. “He went to the Senate the morning after the video broke-the same morning he sent his flunkie after me and Amber. He bribed some old security guard to put a false name on the ‘expected dignitaries’ list so he could get in and out without leaving a trace. He found Veronica, overpowered her, bit her, took her money-and gave her that anticoagulant to make sure she bled to death.”

“Let the record reflect,” Ben said quietly, “that a police search of the so-called Temple of the Vampire, detailed in the report admitted as Exhibit D-235, reveals that a quarter of a million dollars in cash was found in a satchel in the man known as the Sire’s bedroom. A comparison of serial numbers has established that this money came from the Glancys’ Grand Cayman bank account. And the satchel was splattered with blood that matches that of Veronica Cooper. They also found a bottle of the anticoagulant known as warfarin.”

“We never meant for this to happen,” Beatrice said, her voice cracking, tears streaming through the fingers spread across her face. “All we wanted was a little fun, something to relieve our stress at the end of the workday. And now-now-” She began to choke, her words mingling with her sobbing. “Now all my friends are dead. All of them. And I don’t feel as if I can go on living another day. The doctors watch over me, trying to save me, and I keep thinking-why? Why bother? Why not just let it end and let me finally-finally-find some peace?”

Silence blanketed the courtroom like a shroud. Judge Herndon called for the prearranged break. But no one was listening. Everyone’s eyes were on the poor broken girl in the witness stand, not yet even twenty-two, who only a few months ago had a life so vibrant, so promising, that almost anyone might’ve envied it. And who now was so miserable that she secretly wished her doctors would let her die.

After the break, Padolino attempted to cross-examine Beatrice, but there was little he could do, and he was smart enough not to push her over the brink, an act that would’ve made the jury despise him. He emphasized how ill she had been, how often she had been on drugs, and naturally suggested that anything she said, anything she thought she remembered, was suspect. The prosecutor repeatedly hammered the fact that she had not seen the Sire commit the murder and was in reality only making surmises about what had happened based upon what this career liar had told her. And he reminded the jury that despite the horrific tragedy these girls had suffered, all the hard-and-fast evidence still pointed to Senator Glancy.

After the drama of Beatrice’s testimony, closing arguments were almost anticlimactic-but still of critical importance. Perhaps more than in any previous case in his career, Ben realized that everything could hinge on them, as the jury tried to weigh the credibility of Beatrice’s astonishing testimony, whether it could possibly be true, whether it was enough to overcome all the evidence that pointed to Todd Glancy as the killer.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Padolino began, “when all is said and done, it comes down to this. Which is more likely: that Veronica Cooper was killed by a man who knew her, worked with her, had an illicit affair with her, was being blackmailed by her, had scheduled a meeting with her, left a meeting just before the time of her death, and controlled the hideaway in which she was found? Or that she was killed by some hitherto unknown person with no knowledge of or access to the Senate, who the defense wants you to believe was a-” He rolled his eyes. “-a vampire, covering up the evil deeds of his equally diabolical coven. Which one sounds like the truth, the world as we know it, and which one sounds like a preposterous fantasy cooked up by a desperate defense? In the final analysis, I don’t think it’s all that hard a question to answer.”

Padolino proceeded along those lines for nearly an hour, reviewing all the evidence that had been presented during the case and never missing an opportunity to remind the jury of the unsavory secrets that had been revealed about the defendant. “Using a typically disreputable defense tactic, they have attempted to save the defendant by trashing his victim-but it didn’t work, did it? They say the victim had an active sex life-the implication being that this makes it okay for Senator Glancy to have sex with one of his young employees, perhaps even to murder her. A detective was called to provide more slander. Even the senator’s wife was called to talk trash about poor dead Veronica Cooper-but in each case, what we learned about Senator Glancy was far more illuminating. That he has had not one but many affairs. That he favors aberrant, sickening sexual practices-practices which in many respects resemble the wounds found on the victim. Worst of all, that he has engaged in sexual promiscuity with a minor-a seventeen-year-old girl-and subjected her to the same ugly perversions as the others. That he cut her on the neck, just as Veronica Cooper was cut-fatally. Good God-” Padolino’s voice swelled. “You saw that video. What isn’t this man capable of doing?”

Padolino turned, pivoting, then walked slowly to the edge of the jury box and laid his hand upon the rail. “Don’t misunderstand me. My heart bled just like yours did when we heard the testimony of that poor woman, Beatrice Taylor, when she told us about the torment, the horrors that she and her friends endured. But that had nothing to do with the supernatural. That had to do with a megalomaniacal drug pusher. He wasn’t controlling those girls with the hypnotic power of his vampire eyes-he was controlling them with drugs. And whether he drank blood or not, it doesn’t change the fact that there is no such thing as a vampire and there is no evidence-not the slightest shred of evidence-that this man was ever on the grounds of the Senate, not on the day Veronica Cooper died or at any other time. Ms. Taylor suggests that he bribed a guard to get into the Senate building without recording his name on the daily registry. Well, isn’t that convenient? I’ve heard that you can’t see vampires in a mirror. Apparently you can’t see them in the United States Capitol building, either.”

He paused, looking at each juror in turn. Ben could tell he was winding up for the grand finale. “You know what this is? It’s the Big Lie Defense. Tell a little lie, and people may be suspicious, think you’re just trying to get yourself off. But if you can concoct something huge, something outrageously unlikely, people are actually more likely to buy it, on the theory that no one would dare tell a tale that tall unless it were true. That’s what has happened in this trial, my friends. They couldn’t give you another likely suspect. So instead-they gave you Count Dracula.”

He stepped closer, and even though his voice grew softer, it seemed more urgent, more insistent. “But you’re not that gullible, are you? You’re not that easily misled by courtroom shenanigans. You can still distinguish right from wrong, truth from fiction, the likely from the impossible. You know in your hearts what really happened. Senator Glancy and Veronica Cooper were having an illicit sexual relationship. She tried to blackmail him. So he killed her and dumped the body in his private hideaway till he could think of something better to do with it. It’s that simple. And that’s why I know you’ll do the right thing-and find the defendant guilty of the murder of Veronica Cooper. Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

“Let’s get one thing straight right up front,” Ben said, as he approached the jury box. “This case does not come down to which of Mr. Padolino’s scenarios you think is most likely. In fact, I will tell you-and the judge will reinforce this later when he gives you your formal instructions before deliberation-that it makes no difference whatsoever which you think is most likely. Because the standard before you is not ‘what’s more likely.’ The standard is whether the prosecution has proven Todd Glancy’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. If they have done anything less-regardless of what you think is most likely-you must acquit.

“The prosecutor has done his best to belittle the evidence we have presented-even though we have presented tons of it, with one consistent witness after another. Let me tell you something. I am well aware that there is no such thing as a vampire. But what I am telling you is that this nut thought he was a vampire, that he behaved as a vampire, that he led others, with the force of his personality, his sexual prowess, and his drugs, to believe that he was a vampire, and induced them to become a part of his vampiric cult. It is undisputed that he killed Colleen Smith as well as Amber Daily, and more to the point-that he had a motive for killing Veronica Cooper. So let me rephrase Mr. Padolino’s question. Which is more likely: that Veronica Cooper was killed by a sadistic maniac who was responsible for the deaths of at least two of her friends and the torture of numerous other women? Or that she was killed by a United States senator, a man with no criminal record whatsoever.”

Ben reminded the jury that the evidence against his client was mostly circumstantial. “Contrary to what the prosecutor has said, there is no evidence directly pointing to Senator Glancy. They did all the pointing-the police and the prosecutors-because he was the most obvious and easiest person to accuse.”

“Your honor,” Padolino said, rising, “I object. This isn’t relevant and it slanders the good men and women who are devoted public-”

“Sit down,” Herndon said firmly. “And don’t get up again.”

Ben jerked his thumb toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Padolino thinks it’s unfair for me to insinuate that the police investigation of this case was lazy. But ask yourselves this: why didn’t they discover the vampire coven? Why didn’t they discover Stigmata, a club the victim had been habituating for months? Why didn’t they know she was a drug addict? Why didn’t they know she frequently traveled with three other young women-all of whom disappeared? My investigator was able to uncover these secrets-why couldn’t they? Answer: because they didn’t look. Senator Glancy wasn’t arrested because of any overwhelming evidence. He was arrested because the true killer had the sense to implicate someone he knew the cops-and the public-would be predisposed to distrust. Because he was a politician.”

Ben faced the jury squarely and ratcheted his voice up a few decibels. “Is this important? You bet it is. Sure, the majority of law enforcement officers in this country are good honest people and we owe them our respect and our thanks. But every time I turn around, it seems as if our civil rights are eroding. We overlook police procedural violations, police brutality, because after all, the suspects are almost always guilty, right? The Second Amendment supposedly protects us from unwarranted intrusions, search and seizures, arrest without charge or probable cause, but every day we see those rights whittled away. We pass laws we know aren’t constitutional, but shield the offense by giving them names like the Patriot Act-as if there was something patriotic about violating the constitutional freedoms that are the bedrock upon which this country was founded.

“Is this important?” Ben asked again, this time his voice was even louder than before. “You better believe it. Because this is the United States of America. We created the modern democracy. We invented the Constitution, a written document that guarantees the people’s rights-and restricts the powers of the government. I love this country, but every time we let another constitutional right be trampled upon, every time we look the other way while some wrongful act is committed in the name of homeland security, or national defense, or patriotism, we become a little less American. The erosion of one civil right only leads to another, and I would suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that’s exactly what’s happening here-and it’s wrong. Because here in the United States, we don’t lock people away because it’s fashionable to think the worst of politicians. We don’t arrest people because a crime is committed in their workspace. And we don’t prosecute people without performing a thorough investigation that has convinced us-convinced us-that we have the right man.”

Ben took a few steps forward and laid his hands gently upon the rail. “Let me ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Are you convinced that they have the right man? Has the prosecution proven to you-beyond a reasonable doubt-that Todd Glancy killed Veronica Cooper? Or is it just possible that it was someone else? Is it just possible that it happened exactly as described by Beatrice Taylor, the closest thing we have to an eyewitness in this case, the woman who knows more about what went on in Veronica Cooper’s life than anyone else in the world. Is it possible? Do you have a reasonable doubt? Because if you do-if, when you walk back into that jury room, you have a reasonable doubt about what really happened, then you must find my client not guilty. Why? Because this is the United States of America.” He let several seconds pass before he added, quietly: “And that’s the way we do things here.”

25

“H oly smokes, Ben,” Glancy said, shaking his head. He was waiting, with Ben and Christina, in a small room just a few doors down from where the jury was deliberating. “If you can give a speech like that every day, you should run for President.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No, I’m a politician-or was, anyway-and I’ve heard enough orations to know a good one from a bad one. That was a humdinger. All you needed was some facile remark about family values and the invocation of the deity and it would’ve been perfect.” He stopped, then his voice dropped a few notches. “But was it enough to convince the jury?”

Ben had to be honest. “I don’t know.”

Christina jumped in. “I thought you covered all the main points. Brilliantly and persuasively.”

“Perhaps. But we had some bad evidence. The pathetic thing is, the worst of it had nothing to do with who murdered Veronica Cooper. But the jury still heard it.”

Glancy didn’t respond. They all knew what Ben was talking about.

“What about me?” Glancy asked. “How did I do on the stand? You never said.”

Ben chose his words carefully. “I thought you did the best you could… given the circumstances.”

“You had to handle some tough questions,” Christina interjected, trying to add a more upbeat note.

“Yeah, sure, I know all that. But did I have… duende?”

Ben frowned. “Would it be a good thing if you did?”

Glancy smiled. That’s Spanish. It’s like… charisma. The power to attract and persuade through personal magnetism and charm. I’m asking you if I seemed… charismatic?”

Ben stared at him with weary eyes. Were you charismatic while you were talking about your affair with a minor and your aberrant sexual fetishes? “Juries are more interested in what a witness has to say than how they say it.”

Glancy blew Ben a raspberry. “Says you. Charisma is all. If you’ve got enough of it, you can get away with anything.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.”

“It sure as heck has been mine. Haven’t you noticed how no one ever talks about whether a White House candidate is smart or knowledgeable or experienced or capable anymore? They talk about whether he’s electable. Whether he seems presidential.”

“The legal world operates differently.”

“Does it? Answer me this: Why did every single member of Nixon’s staff of any importance whatsoever do jail time-except Henry Kissinger, the most active and influential of them all?”

Ben hazarded a guess. “Charisma?”

“Darn tootin’. And he was a funny-looking German Jew with an almost incomprehensible accent. But he courted the press. He had PR people releasing statements about how he was dating Jill St. John or whatever. Meanwhile, he orchestrated the secret and illegal bombing of Cambodia. He authorized the Indonesian invasion of East Timor. He pushed for and got a CIA coup to overthrow the democratically elected Allende government in Chile. If someone had done stuff like that in Germany during World War II they’d’ve been tried at Nuremberg for war crimes. But when Kissinger did it, what happened? Criminal charges? No. Instead, he became a wealthy businessman and a senior statesman on CNN. And you know why?”

“Charisma?”

“Bingo. He was just so charming-no one could believe he knew about those naughty Watergate plumbers and their friends, even when common sense tells us he couldn’t have been a part of that administration and not have known about it. Some people think the whole reason for the Watergate burglary was to see if the Democrats knew Kissinger had sabotaged the ’68 Democratic Vietnam peace initiative which, if successful, would’ve almost certainly given Humphrey the presidency. Remember, Nixon won by less than one percent of the popular vote.”

“I think that’s a bit of a stretch,” Ben said.

“Of course you do. You’re a good guy. So you assume everyone else is, too. But mark my words, Ben-one day that foolish assumption is going to drop-kick you right between the legs.”

Actually, Ben thought, it already had, on more than one occasion, but those were stories he didn’t care to repeat.

Glancy stretched back into his chair. “So what are the odds? Fifty-fifty? Better? Worse?”

“I never make predictions,” Ben answered. “Juries are too unpredictable.”

“Aw, come on. Give me a hint.”

“Sorry. I don’t know. We’ll all find out together.”

“Fine.” Glancy scrunched down in his seat. “But if we lose, I’m not inviting your mother to my annual May Day barbecue.”

“Just as well,” Ben said, smiling slightly. “She wouldn’t come.”

The outside door whipped open. Padolino leaned inside. “It’s showtime!” He shut the door behind him.

“Already?” Glancy said. “They’ve barely been out two hours! What does that mean?”

Ben glanced at Christina, his lips pursed. “It means they didn’t need much time to make up their minds.”

Ben thought they got it from television, but Christina’s theory was that every person-and thus every juror-had a secret sadistic streak, a Mr. Hyde lurking in the back of the cerebral cortex waiting for a proper exercise of power to give it expression. Either way, it was a universal constant that when the jury returned from deliberation, they took great pains to give no indication of their decision. Their faces were blank. They looked at no one.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Herndon asked.

“We have,” said the foreperson, an older woman sitting on the far left of the front row. The bailiff took the folded verdict form to the judge, who carefully scrutinized it with the same stoic expression that was plastered on the jurors. Finally, without a word of comment, he returned it to the bailiff.

“The defendant will rise.”

Glancy did so, followed by his counsel. To their surprise, just behind them, Marie Glancy rose as well.

The foreperson cleared her throat. “We the jury, in the case of the District of Columbia versus Todd K. Glancy, on the charge of first-degree murder-” She stopped.

Ben winced. Why did they always insist on the dramatic pause?

“-on the charge of first-degree murder,” she continued, “and for that matter, on the charge of second-degree murder and manslaughter, we find the defendant Todd K. Glancy not guilty.”

The courtroom exploded. That was the only way Ben could describe it. Some people were shouting with joy. Some were expressing disgust. But whether out of surprise, relief, or pure cynicism, everyone was talking.

“Oh my God,” Ben heard Glancy muttering softly beside him. “Much as I tried to keep my spirits up, I never really believed-never thought it was possible-” His voice choked. “Oh. My. God.”

Ben closed his eyes. They had actually managed to pull it off. Against all odds, he and Christina had actually managed to pull it off. O frabjous day!

Glancy was nearly in tears. He thanked the jury, then tried to hug Christina and shake Ben’s hand, both at once. He looked silly and confused, clearly so overwhelmed he hardly knew what he was doing. Judge Herndon slammed his gavel several times, making a mostly futile effort to quiet the courtroom. When the tumult had finally subsided sufficiently that the judge could be heard, he thanked the jury, gave them a few more final instructions-including reminding them that they were not required to speak to the press and that he personally advised against it-and discharged them. Then he turned his gavel to the main attraction in the courtroom.

“Mr. Glancy,” he said sonorously, “you are free to go.”

There was more cheering now, less mixed than before. The opposition was leaving the courtroom-Ben had seen both Steve Melanfield and Brad Tidwell depart with shocked expressions on their faces-and Todd’s friends and staff were gathering around him, embracing him, congratulating.

“Thank you,” he said graciously, “but the accolades should go to Ben and Christina. They’re the ones who made this happen.”

There was more jubilation, slapping of backs, and aggressive hand-shaking. Marie Glancy stepped up to Ben and quietly whispered in his ear. “Thank you,” she said, and she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You’ve pulled off a miracle.”

“That’s why I get paid the big money,” he replied.

Christina gave him a wry expression.

“I feel as if I’ve gotten my whole life back,” Glancy said. He still seemed stunned, utterly amazed. “All the anxiety, the turmoil, all these months. And now, it’s finally over.”

Of course, Ben knew it wasn’t. There was still a possibility of statutory rape charges. If Padolino could figure out a way to pursue them that didn’t make him look like a poor loser spitefully determined to put Glancy away on any charge he could scrape up. And the only way Glancy could avoid being censured in the Senate would be if he resigned first.

The celebration continued. Ben was surprised to feel a hand tugging on his back. It was Joe Padolino.

“Kudos, counselor,” Padolino said graciously. “You tried a fine case. Hell of a closing. I think that’s where you won it.”

Ben brushed the compliment away. “The evidence won it. The jury knew Beatrice Taylor was telling the truth.”

“Yes, but on cross, I-” He stopped himself. “Aren’t we lawyers pathetic? We never know when to quit.” He smiled, then passed Ben a scrap of paper. “When all the celebrating is over, would you give this to Christina?”

“What is it?”

“My phone number.”

“Um-oh.”

“I just thought now that the trial was over, she might have more time for… you know. Socializing.”

Ben nodded slowly. “I’ll see that she gets it.”

“Great.” He slapped Ben’s shoulder. “And congratulations again.”

Ben returned to the frenzied activity surrounding his client. Hazel had her steno pad out, taking notes. Amanda was doing some scribbling as well. Glancy was firing off one assignment after another. Apparently, now that the trial was over, he wasn’t wasting a minute before taking charge again.

“-and I want the Blue Beetle replaced once and for all, even if it has to come out of my own pocket. Next time I’m caught in a national crisis, I don’t want my interns running to Kinko’s to get the press releases copied.”

Everyone laughed. Tears were in many eyes.

“What about a press conference?” Amanda said. “I think we need a press conference.”

“No,” Glancy said. “We’ve had a wonderful result, but that doesn’t change the fact that a tragedy occurred. We don’t want to appear to be taking political advantage of that poor girl’s death-or any of the other deaths.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Amanda scribbled a few notes onto her legal pad. “We’ll let a day pass, then put out a press release.”

Glancy rolled his eyes. “And finally- Marshall?”

His executive assistant wheeled to the forefront. “Yes, sir?”

“Toss me your cell phone.”

“Sorry, Boss-I misplaced my briefcase somewhere this morning and my phone was in it.”

“Well, when you find it, call that damned overpriced appeals expert we bought-and tell him he’s fired. We don’t need him anymore!” Another round of cheers filled the courtroom. “All right, you clowns, get me back to the office. I want to see what a mess you’ve made of it in my absence. And I have a bottle of Dom Pérignon 1963 I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I don’t think they’re going to get any more special than this.”