Annie's Verdict (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 6)

by John Ellsworth

  "That scares the bejesus out of me. But there's still no way we can afford to move."

  I considered what he was saying. There was no way I could do nothing while these children were murdered.

  "Look," I said, "what if I supply the house? Or condo? Would you be willing then?"

  "I'd jump at the chance. So would Mona. She talks about how frightened she is anyway. I think she'd love you for helping us. I know I would."

  "Okay, then let me put my people to work on it. We can have you ready to move in forty-eight hours, so you should each pack a bag. Not a whole lot, just enough to make it a week or so at a time between washes."

  "This will upset Annie no end. She has this place memorized. The last thing she wants is change. It's going to be especially hard on her."

  "We'll just have to walk her through it," I said, interjecting myself into the "We" part of what I'd just said. Careful, I told myself, you can help, but you can't allow yourself to get too close. Then I realized how stupid that was to say. I already was that close. Especially to Annie.

  "Well, if you can help I can have the girls ready to move by tomorrow. Maybe faster is better."

  "I can do that. I'll have some people here tomorrow to move you, then."

  "Who will come to help? We don't know anyone."

  "I have some friends, so just relax about that."

  I was already considering which of the police officers I would call on to move a load or two. They would be excellent at losing anyone trying to follow them. That was my plan, at least.

  So we shook hands, and I headed back to the office. I was going to need Antonia to sign off on my plan. Time to make that happen.

  I was also going to need to call up some funds from my retirement account. It was going to take first-and-last month's rent to pull this off.

  Which was money I was more than ready to spend if it would save lives.

  Antonia was in her office at eleven a.m. when I made it back to the office. She said she could make five minutes for me if I hurried before she had court at half-past the hour.

  "I've got a solution to a problem I haven't discussed with you," I told her.'

  "What problem is that?"

  "Gerry Tybaum's kids. They're at risk."

  "Of what?"

  "Of being murdered by the same man or entity that murdered their father. They're heirs to a huge amount of money."

  "And you think someone wants them out of the way so they can make a claim?"

  "Exactly."

  "What do you propose? Sending them to live with family?"

  "There is no family. I'm willing to rent a house or condo and put them up myself. I just need to use a few cops to help me move them, and for that, I need your blessing."

  She waved her hand at me. "Consider it done. You mean you'll be paying their rent?"

  "I do. They have no money."

  "All victims should be so lucky as to have you show up on their case."

  "It's a one-and-done. I've never even attempted anything like this before, Antonia."

  "That's probably because you were always repping the bad guys before."

  "I'm sure that's right."

  "Well, now you're learning how the vic's families feel. Not pleasant, is it?"

  "No, not at all. But I'm also learning how happy I am that I crossed the street and now I'm prosecuting. I get to do real things that help people.

  "Yes, well, welcome to government service. We're in a unique position to help."

  "Plus, there's a little girl I'm very concerned about. Gerry's youngest is twelve, and she's special needs."

  "Uh-oh, don't go off the deep end with some fatherly need to protect a victim's family. That's a common pitfall, Michael."

  "I'm not. Yes, I am. She's very precious and very helpless. Nothing bad can be allowed to happen to her."

  "Well, she's lucky to have you on her case. Okay, I have to run. Thanks for asking. You have my blessing."

  "Excellent. I'm moving them tomorrow, so I need to get things geared up. Wish me luck."

  A half hour later I was in Bethesda, looking at Zillow listings. I found a three bedroom within walking distance to the Metro, NIH, and YMCA. Mona needed Metro, so that worked. The house was also a one-level, which was necessary with Annie as she'd never lived with stairs and this was no time to experiment with her. The rent was $4100 per month--steep enough, but what isn't steep in this area? So I plunked down first and last and a security deposit. The deciding factor for me was the place was furnished as if the people who had vacated were on a year-long Sabbatical to Paris and wanted things left as they were for their return next winter. The layout was easy enough: living room just inside, kitchen toward the back, master to the right, hallway and two more bedrooms to the left, three bathrooms throughout. The backyard was fenced, and the fence offered complete blocking of views from all directions. I know because I stood in the center of the yard and slowly turned around, seeing who might see me. Satisfied it was safe for Annie, I then signed the lease. One year.

  The next morning, Detective Holt and two more unmarked police vehicles followed me to the Tybaum house. Mona had stayed home from work for the move. All was ready, so each child rode with a different officer just in case anything developed along the way.

  But nothing did. One hour later the kids were examining their new home and Annie was in the backyard trying to make a snowman out of too-little snow.

  One of the unmarked cars and driver were left in the driveway until late in the evening when the vehicle was moved to the end of the block, where it lurked and watched all traffic coming and going until near midnight. It then left.

  The next morning, I called Jarrod's cell phone. All was well; everyone had a good night's sleep, Mona was at the store picking up donuts, milk, and coffee.

  So I could then turn back to my chores, relieved and satisfied the Tybaum kids were a thousand percent safer than they had been a day ago. Without patting myself on the back, I was proud of what I'd done and gave a silent prayer of thanks that I got to reach out and help some kids who were really in need.

  I liked my job more every day.

  13

  Detective Holt met me in the lobby of the USA Office at eight the next morning. He had had another idea: that we should talk to Antonia and find out about her night at the scene of the murder. She might have seen or heard something we could use--which made her a witness as far as the detective was concerned. So we waited around until she stepped out of the elevator then followed her back to her office

  "Can you run us through your Sunday night at the Tybaum homicide scene?" Holt asked her. She finished removing her running shoes and slipped her heels on.

  "Uh-huh. Let me check my calendar first."

  She checked her calendar and then looked up at us. "Okay, I'm going to tell you exactly like it happened. Here we go.

  Sunday night I'm getting ready to watch Homeland. It's my favorite show because I used to have that lady's job.

  "When you were CIA."

  Exactly. Anyway, it turned off cold Sunday afternoon, and by Sunday night the Reflecting Pool at the Lincoln Memorial froze over. Then it froze solid, from what I could find out. Out comes a huge crowd to skate. Among them is a pair known as Bob and Carol. They're down at the far end of the pool, down where the lights are brighter, when they skate over a man frozen in the ice. They're shocked. They're in disbelief, so they stop and creep back. Sure enough, they can make out the whites of a man's eyes in the ice. Carol dials 911 on her phone. I was on-call that night, so after the dispatcher called out the FBI, she called me.

  "Because you're the bottom-rung Assistant U.S. Attorney who gets on-calls on the weekends."

  "Precisely. I'm low man on the totem pole. So I get the call."

  "By the way, what area of criminal prosecution are you working?"

  "I'm robbery-homicide. I'm working on the District's side of the street."

  The U.S. Attorney's Office in Washington D.C. prosecutes both federal crime
s and District crimes. I'm working the District side--what we would call the state prosecutions if it were a state.

  So I'm sitting there, praying the phone doesn't ring, but of course, it does. We're not two minutes into my damn show, Michael. So when it rang, I kicked myself for not turning off the phone during my show. Just kidding--I was on-call, so it was my turn to supervise a weekend crime scene. I hit the TV record button. I would let it play so that Rudolph would have a soundtrack if I had to go out. If he doesn't have a soundtrack, he's been known to howl, and the neighbors have been known to call the cops.

  I knew it was an FBI agent before he even spoke. You can always tell the mouth breathers. Well, that's not fair. Let's just call it a strong feeling it would be FBI then. Who else would call me on a Sunday night when my favorite TV series and the favorite TV series of all of my friends was playing?

  "Ms. Xiang, Special Agent Cowpers. I have a crime scene at the Capitol Mall Reflecting Pool. White male, deceased, approximately forty years."

  "Is your scene contaminated?"

  "No, ma'am. Nobody can get to the crime scene to contaminate it. It's the reflecting pool. He's frozen in the ice."

  "Manner of death?"

  "If the six bullet holes in his back didn't kill him then I'm guessing the ice did. He was a popsicle when we found him."

  "He was frozen in the Reflecting Pool you say?"

  "Hard as a rock. We're awaiting your instructions."

  "All right. I'm on my way."

  "Thank you. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, ma'am."

  "It's all right."

  I hung up and went into my bedroom. My cold weather gear consisted of my thick leather coat, hoodie, and heated gloves. I dressed and patted Rudolph's head. Then I took the elevator down to the parking garage in my building. In the garage, my helmet was locked on the seat of my Can-Am Spyder. I unlocked and pulled on the helmet. Then I climbed aboard and hit the starter one time. The engine jumped to life, and I counted to five while it warmed. Then I rolled up the exit ramp.

  The ride from my condo to the Mall was less than a mile. Still, I was shaking from the cold on arrival. Motorcycles tend to do that to you.

  The Reflecting Pool is that long, swimming-pool-looking thing along the Lincoln Memorial smack in the middle of Washington, D.C. At one end is the Washington Monument and along its side is the Lincoln Memorial. Along its edges, it's maybe eighteen-inches deep. In the middle, it's probably thirty inches, which made it all that much faster to freeze when the temperature plummeted that day.

  The techs had chosen a chain saw to remove the body from the Reflecting Pool. When they had him free, a front-end-loader lifted him out still encased in ice. They stood him up. Which is how I found him when I arrived at the scene.

  Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape into the glare of the floodlights, I circled him. Six small bullet holes penetrated his back, where the ice had been worked free by the techs. It was a tight group, too, the signature of an expert shooter.

  I borrowed a flashlight from one of the Park Police then stood on my tiptoes for a closer look at the victim's face. His mouth was gaped open, his eyes wide in alarm, his body on its way to the morgue even before the brain knew it. To say the man's face reflected a violent end would be an understatement. Just know that six Hydra-Shok rounds on the left midline was about as dead as I ever see in my job as a government prosecutor.

  I let myself down from my tiptoes and shined the light at where his heart should have been. What was left was ribbons.

  A man wearing the black suit and white shirt of the FBI approached me. "I'm Special Agent Cowpers. What do we do?"

  He knew me; I didn't recognize him. "Bring in port-a-heaters and fire 'em up. He'll thaw before morning. Just write it up as suspected myocardial infarction secondary to gunshot." I realized I sounded like a medical professional--which I'm not. But I do know some courtroom medicine and most of the violent ways you can pass from this life into a name printed on a funeral home card.

  The agent left to carry out my orders. Then I spotted the police photographer. She was deep into her work, but I needed some extra shots. Approaching her from behind, I coughed so as not to startle her. She didn't respond.

  "Hey," I said and touched her shoulder.

  She spun around. "What!" she exclaimed.

  "Antonia Xiang. U.S. Attorney's office." I flashed my ID, and her shoulders slumped.

  "Oh," she said, deflating.

  "Please snap pictures of the crowd. You never know," I whispered.

  She nodded she would and then bent back to her work. But every so often I would notice her pointing the camera at the spectators. I knew it would be very rare for the perp to linger in the crowd just for his jollies, but it had been known to happen. Besides, some of these people would be witnesses, and we needed to establish their presence at the scene to head off the defense lawyer who might try to convince the jury the witness was never there.

  More FBI arrived--two agents I knew well. I knew to stay out of their way as they canvassed the crowd. They would approach me later in the night when they were ready. And I would wait around for just that reason.

  My job at the scene of any murder is to answer questions and guide the preservation of evidence. Usually, the questions are chain-of-evidence questions or search-and-seize questions. But that Sunday night, so far, there was none of that. I felt under-utilized and cold. My breath was white and my toes and fingers numb. For twenty minutes I just stood on the sidelines and observed the techs and agents at work. But cold, oh my God. Even swathed in my winter motorcycle gear, I was still shaking. It was welcome, then, when Jack Ames, a heavyset Special Agent, approached me with a worried look and motioned toward his car.

  "Got one who says she saw the shooter," he said. "Problem is--can we go talk in my car? I'll turn on the heater."

  "Lead on. I'm frigging freezing out here!"

  I followed Jack. He was known for being smooth with witnesses and exploitative with suspects. He led me to his car. The government ride was a black Ford Interceptor. Black walls and dark windows, engine running, white exhaust floating up.

  He clicked his key fob. The locks flew up, and we were inside. I tore off my gloves and jammed my numb hands over two dashboard vents. The heat poured out. The relief was immediate.

  "Shit," I muttered.

  "Exactly," said Jack.

  "Okay, so you started to say something about a witness back there?"

  "Yes, I left her with my partner, Abel. She says she saw the whole thing. But there's just one problem."

  I looked at him, waiting. "Which is?"

  "She has a warrant. FTA. Prostitution."

  "Failure to Appear? That's peanuts. She told you she saw the actual shooting?"

  "Yes, she was up at the Lincoln Memorial, down on her knees. She had accepted some guy's tallywhacker in her mouth. You'll never guess who."

  "I give. Who was the customer?"

  "Senator Jessup."

  Stanley E. Jessup. North Carolina. A strict conservative with a draft deferment from 1965 when his daddy was a Congressman and didn't want Jessup getting shot up in Vietnam. He talked a lot on TV, but no one believed him anymore, especially about the textile industry, which he swore up and down was coming back to North Carolina.

  In the dash light, I could see Agent Ames was smiling. He was going to enjoy dishing me the details surrounding the sexual encounter. But what he didn't know--what I was unable to tell anyone--was that six months ago I was a CIA officer assigned to Moscow Station. That job had used up all the parts of me that had once been embarrassed by blowjobs and whores. I had even done those things myself, all in the name of helping Uncle Sam dodge another 9/11. Now here was this FBI agent, thinking he might get to me? Wasn't gonna happen.

  So I trumped him. "Was she sucking his dick?"

  Dead silence.

  Then, "Sheesh, who taught you to talk like that?"

  "The FBI did, Jack. Guys like you."

  The smile
or gloat or whatever it was had disappeared. "Well, she did have his penis inside her mouth."

  "Really? Do we have a picture of that moment?"

  "We do. She shot video when he had his eyes closed at climax."

  "You mean when he shot off in her mouth, Jack?"

  This time his lips were pursed like he might make an important proclamation any moment.

  "But it didn't come together for him?"

  "Yes, she took the shot when he ejaculated."

  "Hmm. In more ways than one."

  "She showed me the photo. It's Jessup, and he looks like he's speaking to the angels."

  "All right. Get her clear at the hospital and get her DNA swabbed. Jessup's DNA will be in her mouth if we get her swabbed before giving something to drink. Then get me a copy of the photo, take her statement, get them on my desk by morning."

  He smiled this time and the air around him was drawn into his lungs. "Now we're talking," he said in a gush. "I wanna see Jessup on CNN trying to explain that shot tomorrow night, counselor. Tit for tat."

  "I see. Well, let's make that happen after we get the senator's statement. We need to know what he saw, too. And get it on video. By the time he comes to his senses, he'll be denying he was ever here."

  "He saw the back of his eyelids, that's what."

  "You don't know that. He might have heard the gunshots and looked over."

  "One question. Did she see the shooter?"

  "She did. She's willing to work with the police artist."

  "Good. Why don't you run on down there and take her statement before it goes stale? And then run down Senator Jessup and get him statementized. Can you do that now?"

  He looked away, his face the dictionary picture for glum. I had asked him to leave the scene, which is almost like saying he wasn't needed there. Which he wasn't; the FBI crime scene techs would do just fine without Special Agent Jack Ames lurking. I climbed out, leaned back inside to thank him for the heat, then headed back to the crime scene. Jack nursed the Ford away from the curb.

  I watched as one of the crime scene techs went outside the tape and returned with a small electronic device that she slipped into a plastic evidence bag with red tape across the top. Something curious there, so I tracked her down and asked about it.