Capitol Murder

by Phillip Margolin

Crawford was still fuming when the door closed behind the investigator.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  A little before three o’clock, Ned Farrow, the man in charge of prosecuting Jack Carson, had called Brad Miller and asked him to come to his office at the DOJ. When he walked in, he was surprised to find Keith Evans across the desk from Farrow. When he stood up to shake hands, Brad’s friend looked grim.

  “What’s up?” Brad asked as soon as everyone was seated.

  “I have news I don’t think you’re going to be happy to hear,” said Farrow, a career prosecutor. He was pudgy and balding, and his suits always looked wrinkled. But he had an excellent reputation for tenacity and intelligence and a stellar record of convictions.

  “Is that why Keith is here?” Brad asked.

  “I thought it would be easier for you to take if a friend broke it to you.”

  “Broke what?” Brad asked as he looked back and forth between the FBI agent and the prosecutor.

  “We’re not going to indict Senator Carson,” Keith said.

  Brad stared, openmouthed. “How can you drop the case? He killed Koshani and gave her top-secret information. Not to mention putting the lives of all those people at the football game in danger.”

  “Carson hasn’t said a word since he was arrested, so we only have your evidence to support an indictment.”

  “He confessed. I heard every word he said.”

  “He confessed after his earlobe was cut off and the wound was sealed with a lighter, Brad,” Farrow said. “Think about what you would say at trial. You’ve testified and Bobby Schatz starts his cross. How would you answer if Schatz asked you to describe Carson’s physical and mental condition when he made his so-called confession?”

  Brad had a vivid memory of the scene in Carson’s living room. He tried to think of a way to put a positive spin on his description, but there was no way to do it.

  “If Bobby Schatz asked me that question, I would have to testify that the senator was in horrible pain. He was screaming and weeping.”

  “A confession elicited by torture won’t fly,” Farrow said. “No judge would allow your testimony.

  “And even if it was allowed in, Schatz would argue that Carson hit Koshani in self-defense after he was stabbed and that Lucas tortured and killed Koshani while Carson was badly wounded. You told me that Carson said he tried to stop Sharp.”

  “Brad,” Keith said, “the only evidence we have that Carson is culpable in Koshani’s death is your statement of what he said under torture, and a lot of what he said was exculpatory.”

  “What about the treason charge? He told Koshani what he heard in the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

  “Same problem,” Farrow said. “Carson will testify that he made everything up to stop being tortured. With Koshani and Crispin dead, the government doesn’t have anyone but you, and that’s not going to be enough.”

  After his meeting with Keith Evans and Ned Farrow, Brad walked down to Ginny’s office, and they took a cab to the China Clipper, where they planned to celebrate Jake’s homecoming. The last time they had eaten Chinese, the newlyweds had just returned from their honeymoon and were looking forward to starting new jobs. But Brad’s and Ginny’s jobs had not turned out anywhere near the way they thought they would. They tried to put up a brave front when Jake and Dana sat down, but Dana was a pretty good detective, and it wasn’t difficult for her to deduce that her friends were playacting.

  “Are you worried about the trial?” Dana asked Brad.

  “There’s not going to be a trial.”

  “Why not?” Jake asked.

  “I met with the prosecutor this afternoon. They’ve cut a deal with Carson.”

  “He’s going to prison, right?” Dana said.

  “No. He’s going to resign, and they’re not going to indict.”

  Dana was furious. “How is that possible?” she asked.

  “The prosecutors decided that the case was too thin,” Brad said.

  “He confessed that he and Sharp killed Koshani,” Dana shouted. “You heard him.”

  “He confessed after his earlobe had been sliced off and cauterized with the flame from a lighter. Ned Farrow is convinced that no judge will let me testify to anything Carson said under those conditions.”

  “So Carson walks?” Jake asked.

  “He walks away from a prison sentence,” Ginny said, “but that video will be on the Internet forever. He’s giving up his Senate seat . . .”

  “Which he would have lost anyway,” Dana said. “He’s so far back in the polls that it would have been a miracle if he got a single vote if he stayed in the race.”

  “His wife is divorcing him,” Brad said.

  “It’s still not enough,” Dana said.

  “I agree,” Brad said, “but it’s the best that can happen under the circumstances.”

  “Maybe Clarence Little will finish what he started,” Dana said.

  Brad looked shocked. “Don’t say that, Dana. Carson is an awful person, but I wouldn’t wish Clarence on anyone.”

  “Speaking of Mr. Little, what’s the latest on him?” Jake asked.

  “There is no latest. Keith Evans told me that he’s disappeared without a trace.”

  Ginny shivered. “Hopefully he’ll stay disappeared.”

  “He did save Brad’s life,” Jake said.

  Brad shook his head. “Never, ever think of Clarence as a good guy. I’m glad he saved me, and I’m very thankful that he told me that he would never come after Ginny or me, but he is pure evil.”

  “What are you doing for a job?” Jake asked, to change the subject.

  “I don’t know. Ginny was fully reinstated, so we’re okay moneywise for a while. I can probably get a decent job in D.C., but we’re thinking of leaving.”

  Dana looked upset.

  “I got my old job back working in the Fraud section,” Ginny said, “but I’m getting the cold shoulder from a lot of people. It’s unpleasant, and I’ve already been given some awful assignments, and I suspect it will get worse.”

  “You can sue the bastards if they fuck with you like that,” Dana said.

  “I could, but I don’t want to. I’ll stick it out at Justice until we decide what to do, but my days there are numbered.”

  “We’d miss you guys,” Jake said.

  “We’d miss you, too, but we’ve been through hell these past few years, and we’d love to lead a normal life. Ginny and I have talked about starting a family, and that’s not really practical here.”

  “Where would you go?” Jake asked.

  “We’re both members of the Oregon Bar. Oregon is beautiful, and the chances of anything really exciting happening to us there are pretty small.”

  “Are you forgetting your adventures with Clarence Little and President Farrington?”

  “That was an aberration, and we wouldn’t have to practice in Portland. Ginny and I could start a law firm in a small town or the suburbs.”

  “With your luck, anywhere you settle will be the site of the biggest international criminal conspiracy in history,” Dana joked.

  “Yeah,” Jake added. “The government will probably move the aliens from Area 51 there.”

  Ginny smiled. “If we see any aliens, we’ll take pictures, sell them to Exposed, and retire.”

  “How is your business going?” Brad asked Dana.

  “Great. I thought Bobby Schatz would be pissed at me, but he’s referred some really good clients.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their food. After everyone filled their plates, Jake talked about an assignment he’d just gotten photographing swimsuit models in Tahiti for a fashion magazine. Dana said she’d worked out her schedule so she could go with Jake as a bodyguard.

  After dinner, the foursome went to the same jazz club they’d gone to the last time they’d eaten at the Chinese restaurant, to hear a quintet that had gotten a good review in the Post. No one mentioned jobs, serial killers, or crime for the rest of
the evening, and Brad and Ginny were in a better mood by the time they returned to their apartment.

  Brad had been downtown meeting with the prosecutor, then he’d picked up Ginny, and they had gone to the China Clipper. So neither of them had checked the mail. Brad sorted through it while Ginny looked over his shoulder. He shuffled through a bunch of bills and flyers before a postcard froze the blood in his veins.

  “Oh no,” Ginny said.

  Brad swallowed hard. The front of the postcard showed a beach in Acapulco. On the back Clarence Little had written, “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.”

  There were brownish-red stains on a corner of the card. Brad was certain that if they were analyzed, they would turn out to be human blood.

  Epilogue

  Rafik Nasrallah thought about his move for three minutes. Then he took the pawn. Imran Afridi tensed as if low-voltage electricity had passed through him. He hunched over the board, concentrating on the square where the pawn had been and Rafik’s knight now stood. Rafik knew that his friend was trying to convince himself that his position was not as bad as it seemed. After five minutes, he accepted reality and his shoulders sagged. Rafik knew that Imran would play on. All the last move had given him was an edge, but with accurate play, it would be enough.

  Rafik took no joy in winning, as he might have before the FedEx debacle. Three months before, when Imran believed his plan could not fail, a rare victory over the chessboard was something Rafik would savor, but he had been beating his old friend regularly since Imran had returned from America.

  Imran was depressed. He could not concentrate, he had no patience. That is why he misread positions and made foolish errors of judgment. Imran had told Rafik that he was being followed. He was certain that his phone was tapped. More than once when Rafik had come to visit, Imran had asked if he had noticed a black Audi outside the wall of his estate. Rafik had not seen a black Audi or any other suspicious vehicle. What he had seen was his friend’s steady mental decline.

  Imran rarely left the grounds anymore. His businesses were suffering. He no longer held the parties for which he was famous. Rafik saw no traces of women. There had always been women before, but Imran had confided to his friend that he did not trust women he did not know well, women who could be spying on him for the CIA or Pakistani intelligence.

  “Well done,” Imran conceded fifteen moves after the capture of the pawn.

  “I was lucky,” Rafik said. “You were distracted.”

  “It’s the weather. It’s unsettling.”

  The weather in Karachi had been depressing for the past four days; a warm, slashing rain had kept everyone indoors praying for clear skies and the sun to raise their spirits. But Rafik knew it was the failure of Imran’s grand scheme that was really bringing him down.

  “What is really worrying you, Imran? I know it’s more than the weather.”

  Imran smiled sadly. “You know me too well. And you’re right. I keep waiting for them to come for me. I cannot believe that I am safe.”

  “You are Allah’s faithful servant, and he will keep you safe,” Rafik assured his friend. “I was certain you would be arrested when you told me you were going to stay in America, but Allah saw you home, and he will protect you.”

  Imran thought about his last day in America. “I was getting ready to leave when Tolliver called me. He must have thought that we are complete fools. The traitor wanted me to fly him out of the country. He probably expected us to trust him with the plans for our next operation.”

  “You’re certain he was working with the CIA?”

  “He had a weapon. My men had to kill him before I could question him. But there can be no question, Rafik. The man was in custody because he tried to kill ninety thousand people. The CIA doesn’t open the prison doors for someone like that. I don’t care what legal error the prosecutor made. Someone in Tolliver’s position would have ‘committed suicide’ or been killed ‘resisting arrest’ before he would be set free.

  “And why was he even in a jail instead of one of the CIA’s secret prisons? Why was Tolliver permitted to have a lawyer? It was a setup.”

  “You’re right,” Rafik conceded. “And it’s my fault. I should never have told you to use him.”

  “You did nothing wrong. He fooled everybody; you, me, the imam. If anyone is to blame, it is I. I made the final decision.” Imran sighed. “Anyway, it is over. The plan was a total failure.”

  Imran looked exhausted, and Nasrallah left so his friend could turn in early. The ride through the quiet streets in the back of his chauffeured bulletproof Mercedes was conducive to thought. Rafik was relieved that he had been instrumental in foiling Imran’s insane plot. He loved Imran, but he had worried about him since Cambridge, when his friend began talking about jihad. He had not known what to do until the men approached him. Rafik had been using cocaine; he was involved with prostitutes; he was heavily in debt to the casinos of London and terrified of what his father would do if his sins were discovered. These men promised him a fresh start, and he was only too eager to escape from the pit of addiction and sin into which he had fallen. As soon as he agreed to provide the occasional tidbit of information, the debts had miraculously disappeared.

  Rafik had hoped that he would never have to pay his new debt. Then Imran, inspired by 9/11, started talking about mass killings. Imran’s plans made Nasrallah’s stomach turn. He was sick of violence in the name of God. He was tired of seeing good Muslims portrayed as insane killers by the Western press because of the acts of a few deranged men. Rafik had reached out to his handlers as soon as he was certain there was more than simple talk involved.

  Rafik often wondered what Imran would do if he learned that his best friend was working with British and American intelligence. Tolliver had been a godsend; the ideal fall guy. Nasrallah hoped that the failure of the FedEx plot would dampen Afridi’s desire for jihad. He did not want to betray him again. But he would if it meant saving the lives of innocent people.

  Acknowledgments

  If I kept my mouth shut about the number of people who helped me with the research and writing of Capitol Murder, everyone would think I was a genius, but the truth is that I could not have written Capitol Murder without a lot of help from a lot of wonderful people who were willing to take time from their busy days to give me the information I needed to make the book work.

  Much of the book takes place in the United States Senate, and I have to thank my friend United States senator Ron Wyden for not only letting me hang around his office for several days and giving me access to his staff so that I could pester them with questions but also for personally taking me on a tour of the Capitol dome. Special thanks go to Jennifer Hoelzer, who helped set up my interviews, took me all over, and generally made my visit to the Senate a success. Thanks also to Chief of Staff Jeffrey Michels and staffers Joel Shapiro, Jayme White, Isaiah Akin, and Lisa Rockower. Finally, a warm thank-you to David Najimi, who conducted the dome tour, and was then kind enough to e-mail me the answers to specific questions. I wanted to put a scene in the dome, but it didn’t work out. Be sure to ask your congressperson to arrange a tour the next time you are in D.C. It is really interesting.

  Many scenes in the book take place in the Department of Justice. I want to thank Assistant United States Attorney Charles Gorder for helping make my visit there possible, and for answering my questions about various aspects of the federal criminal justice system. Tremendous thanks to Jeff Breinholt, who showed me around the DOJ, and thank you to Erin Creegan and Steve Ward, who answered my questions about the routines of DOJ attorneys.

  Thanks to Guy Berliner for showing me how the concessions at FedEx Field work, and thanks to Mike Unsworth of the Portland Police Bomb Squad, Medical Examiner Karen Gunson, Steve Perry, Dennis Balske, Steve Wax, Krista Shipsey, Anass Shaban, and Gina Farag.

  Additional thanks to Mitch Berliner, Andy and Ami Rome, Daniel Margolin, Robin Haggard, and Carolyn Lindsey.

  Capitol Murder is my tenth book w
ith HarperCollins, and I am very grateful for the support of Jonathan Burnham, Brian Murray, the sales force, and the art department, all of whom have made my long tenure with the house so enjoyable. I want to give special thanks to my wonderful editor, Claire Wachtel, and publicist par excellence Heather Drucker. And a belated thank-you to Caroline Upcher.

  I thank my agents Jean Naggar, Jennifer Weltz, and everyone else at the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency in every acknowledgment, but I’ve got to. Jean, Jennifer, and the rest of the crew are amazing, and I wouldn’t even be writing this book if it hadn’t been for them.

  And last but never least, I thank Doreen, who is gone but who still inspires me.

  About the Author

  PHILLIP MARGOLIN has written fifteen New York Times bestsellers, including his latest novels Supreme Justice and Fugitive. Each displays a unique, compelling insider’s view of criminal behavior, which comes from his long career as a criminal defense attorney who has handled thirty murder cases. Winner of the Distinguished Northwest Writer Award, Margolin lives in Portland, Oregon.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Books by Phillip Margolin

  Lost Lake

  Sleeping Beauty

  The Associate

  The Undertaker’s Widow

  The Burning Man

  After Dark

  Gone, but Not Forgotten

  The Last Innocent Man

  Heartstone

  WASHINGTON TRILOGY

  Executive Privilege

  Supreme Justice

  Capitol Murder

  AMANDA JAFFE NOVELS

  Wild Justice

  Ties That Bind

  Proof Positive

  Fugitive

  Credits

  Cover photograph © Terry Why/Getty Images