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

by John Ellsworth

There; it was done: she had called me by my name. I was in.

  "Yes, Jarrod told me you could have a cat. I agree, so here we are. Let's take Frankly up front and see about getting him checked out and paid for."

  With shots, neutering, and city fees Frankly cost $225. I paid with my visa and we—there were four of us now, counting Frankly—hurried back out to my car. Again, the wheelchair went into the trunk after I helped Jarrod into the back seat. Annie and I piled inside. By now, I noticed Annie had snuggled Frankly inside her coat and zipped up. Already she was protecting him—she knew what to do without being told. I made a mental note of that.

  Then we drove home.

  Once we were back in the living room and Annie was watching Frankly swatting at the curtain that faced out back, I asked Annie whether she loved Frankly.

  "I love Frankly. And I love Michael Gresham. My friend."

  That was all it took. From then on, we were on speaking terms, Annie and I.

  We have remained conversant to this day.

  And Frankly is still with us.

  So are two more rescues that have come to live with Annie and Frankly.

  18

  A day after we spoke, Detective Holt did call me. In fact, he said he was on his way to talk to Senator Jessup, did I care to ride-along? Yes, I said. So off we went in his unmarked SUV.

  Holt wheeled his vehicle into visitors' parking beneath Senator Jessup's building. It was on H Street, not far from the Hart Congressional Office Building on 2nd Street. As I walked from parking to the elevator, I noticed the detective purposely move his arm against his shoulder holster. Evidently, the weight was right, which meant the gun was in place. Checking it was an old, old habit for most detectives I'd been around. They all said the same thing about it, that they couldn't imagine the day when they would retire and no longer be married to a gun carried concealed. Holt fit the mold perfectly.

  Upstairs in the elevator we went. The FBI desk had given Holt the senator's address on the eighth floor. We got off at eight and turned right. Down the hall to the end, then right again. At #836 we stopped, and Holt rang the bell.

  I could hear someone on the other side of the door. The peephole changed color.

  "Who's there?" called a man's voice.

  "District police officer, Senator. Crack the door, and I'll badge you."

  The door opened on its security chain. Holt flipped open his ID wallet and badge and extended them through the opening.

  "All right, officer, stand back."

  Holt pulled his arm out and stood back while the door closed and then fully opened.

  The senator was dressed in a silk robe, black slippers, and was puffing a white pipe. The smell of apple tobacco filled the air. Clouds of smoke hung throughout the living room. Holt shot me a look and rolled his eyes. His look that said he'd never been in the residence of such a high government official before and he was not just a little cowed by the whole experience. I reminded myself to buckle up, that the guy was only a U.S. Senator who could get both of us fired with one phone call.

  "Ron Holt, District Police," Holt said as we waited to be asked to sit down.

  "And I'm Michael Gresham," I said and leaned and extended my hand, which Jessup shook. He then indicated we should sit down. "I'm the Assistant U.S. Attorney on the Tybaum case."

  "This must be urgent if it couldn't wait till office hours tomorrow," grumbled the senator. He crossed his arms and tossed his head back and gave Holt an up-and-down look. "All right, sit down, gentlemen. You're making me nervous looming over me. You say you're a police officer?" he said to Holt. Then, to me, "And you, I don't get why you're even here. You're not an investigator."

  "Do I pass muster, Senator?" Holt asked with a big smile.

  "You know, actually, you don't," said Jessup with a sour face. "My first impression? You're a pretender."

  "A pretender?"

  "Listen to me, son, it's written all over your face. You're after someone's job. A higher-up. You're a pretender to someone's throne. Find that fits you pretty well, doesn't it?"

  I studied Holt's face. I could tell he was thinking of someone in the detective bureau. Maybe his boss?

  "I don't think that's a good fit at all, no. I don't want anybody's job," Holt proclaimed. "I don't even want the job I have now, Senator, but I have to eat."

  The senator laughed. "Nice repartee. But we both know you're lying through your teeth, son. But all right, we'll just leave it at that. For now."

  "Senator Jessup, we're investigating a shooting at the Reflecting Pool. We have word that you were there and may have witnessed it. The FBI talked to you already, but we have several follow-up questions."

  "I thought I made it clear to the FBI that I didn't actually witness anything. Except I did hear gunshots. But I saw nothing. I can't help you, gentlemen."

  "We have a witness--a young woman--who said you turned your head after the first shot and saw the rest of the shots being fired. Would she be wrong?"

  "She would be. Who is it you're talking about?"

  "You weren't engaged with a young woman, to put it nicely?"

  "Well, yes, I was there. I was showing a visiting constituent the Capitol grounds. But I'm totally unaware of any shooting."

  "Senator, before we let you get too far down the road with some lying-to-the-police thing, I'd like to show you a video. It was taken that night by a young woman."

  Holt held up his cellphone and clicked a play button. The young hooker's video played. Jessup in his living room watched Jessup at the Lincoln Memorial stuffing his penis in and out of the mouth of a topless young woman while Jessup's head bobbed about somewhere above, his eyes rolled back in his head. It confirmed every John's fear: video had been rolling. The shot was a selfie. Or, more accurately, a two-sie. Jessup viewed the video, viewed it a second time, and blinked hard. "I-I-I--," he froze up, speechless.

  Then the senator regrouped. His eyes opened wide, his shoulders flexed, and his hands reached for Holt's cellphone. Holt pulled it away and gave the senator his best smile.

  "No, no, no, Stanley E. Jessup. Government property. Besides, I can just shoot you a copy. Now about that promotion at work you were saying I wanted.... Just kidding! No, this video won't be used to extort you, Senator, but it will guarantee your accurate re-telling of what you saw that night from the Memorial's stairs while the girl was performing her duty. Now, first up, did you witness the actual shooting?"

  "Never looked in the direction of the Reflecting Pool."

  "I don't believe you, Senator. You were both able to see the pool off to your left, her right. You didn't look over after the first gunshot?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Is your hearing compromised, Senator Jessup?"

  "No, why?"

  "Because the killer emptied his gun in the victim's back. And you're saying you didn't look over after the first shot and witness the next five?"

  "I didn't. How else can I say it?"

  "Well, why didn't you look over?"

  "Detective, have you ever had your penis in the mouth of a beautiful topless woman?"

  "You know, I think I'll be the one asking the questions, Senator. Let's focus on you."

  "Well, I'm about done. I may need to call my lawyer if there's anymore."

  "We can do that. I can take you into custody as a person of interest and drive you downtown right now if you'd like. Then you can call your lawyer from the comfort of your own cell. After the photographers finish up with you, that is. We always grant some accessibility to photographers when we have a big name like yours. Would Mrs. Senator be opposed to seeing your picture in the paper along with an article describing what you were doing?"

  "I might have looked over, but I'm not sure. That's why I can't come right out and say I did."

  "What might you have seen?"

  "I might have gotten a pretty good look at the guy with the gun."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Not him, I can't. But I can describe the clothes he
was wearing."

  "Sure, go ahead."

  "He was wearing dark pants and a heavy ski jacket. It was freezing out."

  "Did you by any chance know the guy you saw?"

  "That's a little more difficult. I couldn't swear to that."

  "Couldn't or won't?"

  "It wasn't an unfamiliar face."

  "So tell me about this not unfamiliar face. Is there a name that goes with it?"

  The senator let loose with a long sigh and collapsed back against the couch.

  "Yes."

  "Give me the name, please, Senator."

  "All right, but you didn't hear it from me."

  "I can't agree to that."

  The senator shrugged and a cagey look passed over his face. "Then I don't quite recall any name."

  "No, let's not play around here, Senator. We're being serious now."

  Jessup deflated. He opened his mouth and roared, "Damn!" Holt and I were both surprised at the intensity of his voice and his utterance.

  "So who was it?"

  Jessup shook his head. "You're not gonna believe it."

  "Try me."

  "It was Vice President Jonathan S. Vengrow."

  "The vice president of the United States?"

  "Yes."

  "And you would swear to this under oath?"

  "Yes, but only if there's no other way."

  "Is there another way?"

  "Can't I just tell it to your grand jury and not have to go to court?"

  "That's a possibility."

  "If it comes out that I was there with a prostitute it would ruin me."

  "It would ruin just about any guy with a wife. Or a guy with constituents back home who believe their senator is all about good deals and marshmallow roasts."

  "Well, especially this one."

  Holt looked up from his notes. "Why especially this one?"

  "Because the guy the vice president shot was someone I knew."

  "Who might that have been?"

  "Gerald Tybaum."

  "Why would that matter?"

  The senator let loose a long sigh. "Because there's a connection."

  "Between who and who?"

  "The dead guy and Vice President Vengrow."

  "Tell me about the connection, please."

  "The dead guy was screwing the vice president's wife. That's common knowledge on the Hill. Is that connection enough for the MPD?"

  I remained frozen in my chair, my eyes fastened on Senator Jessup. Holt was nodding and--I had to hand it to him, given what we'd just been told--keeping his cool about it.

  "Will you leave now?"

  "Yes, we will leave now. You've been very helpful."

  "You're going to keep my name out of it?"

  "Yes, I am. At least for now."

  Senator Jessup's face lit up, then fell. "That's as good as it gets, I know. I know. Here's the vice president of the United States murdering the Climate Party's presidential candidate for banging his wife and there I am, my dick in some girl's mouth, witnessing the whole thing. Your elected representatives at work to make your life better. Holy hell."

  "One thing, Senator. Someone has to ask, and it might as well be me because it might have to do with what you saw."

  "Go ahead. It can't get any worse."

  "Here we go. Did you climax?"

  "I did."

  "Yet you were watching the murder as you did?"

  "No, I tore my eyes away."

  "Where were you looking?"

  "My eyes were shut."

  "You had just witnessed a murder, yet you turned away and shut your eyes?"

  "Tell the truth, Detective. Wouldn't you if you were climaxing?"

  Holt shuffled his feet and stood up from his chair. I followed suit.

  "Well," said the senator, a small smirk playing across his face. "Wouldn't you shut your eyes?"

  "I'm asking the questions. Thank you, Senator."

  Senator Jessup nodded slowly. "Then I'm taking that as a 'yes.'"

  I said, "You'll be receiving a grand jury subpoena so we can preserve your testimony as the jury considers charges against the shooter."

  Jessup had regained his footing and didn't let up. "I asked a question, officer. Wouldn't you shut your eyes too?"

  Holt pulled me out of there, and we headed for the elevator.

  Holt was still shaking his head as the door whooshed shut behind us on the elevator. Then the absurdity of the scene lit up a smile across his face.

  "Yes," he said to the CCTV camera in the elevator. "Yes, I always close my eyes! Mr. Gresham?"

  "Don't drag me into this."

  He laughed. "You're already in it. Up to your chin and rising."

  19

  Rusty Xiang read Michael's report of his meeting with Jarrod and Mona Tybaum. When he finished, he still had a half-dozen unanswered questions, so he phoned Mona and made an appointment to meet her at a coffee shop. He was starting with her because of the constant rumor of something existing between her and the vice president--something that startled Michael Gresham and got his immediate attention. He wanted to wrap that up first thing and lay it to rest or if it turned out to be important, he wanted to follow up on it.

  They met at The Coffee Bar, located at the northeast edge of downtown on S Street. The place was virtually bursting at the seams when Rusty arrived and began looking for a young woman in a green baseball cap. Then he located her--it had to be her--alone at a two-chair table further inside. She was busy texting and didn't look up when he entered, so he approached slowly, intending to avoid a startle.

  "Excuse me," he said, "but are you Mona?"

  She looked up, biting her lower lip. "Yes, I am. Mona Tybaum."

  "Good. I'm Russell Xiang. Can I join you?"

  "Please do. I think I know what you want, but maybe not."

  "Would you like coffee?"

  "I'm coffeed out, tell the truth. Maybe a bottle of water."

  He left and returned with a bottle of water and a large bold coffee for himself. He passed her the water, pulled out the empty chair, and settled in.

  "How can I help?" she asked.

  "Well, as I told you on the phone, I'm an investigator for the U.S. Attorney's Office. I'm assigned to Michael Gresham's team. I understand you've met Michael?"

  "I--we--have. Nice man."

  "Can I be blunt here?"

  "Please do."

  "I'm looking into your father's murder, Mona. In the course of doing that I've heard a rumor repeated a few times. Without intending to insult you, please let me tell you what I've heard." Without waiting for her assent, he continued. "People are saying you are or were having an affair with the vice president, Jon Vengrow. I'm here to get your response to that rumor."

  "Jon and I are in love. At some point, we'll be married. Probably after he decides what to do about the 2020 election when President Sinclair's second term is up."

  "Meaning you'll hold off until Vice President Vengrow decides whether to run in 2020 for president?"

  She took a long swallow of the water then wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Exactly. Jon's career is the most important thing to us right now. That needs to be worked through."

  "So in the meantime--how can I put this delicately--in the meantime do you intend to continue with the romance?"

  "Only with great discretion. I'm young, Mr. Xiang. I can wait a few years, and it won't matter all that much. In the meantime, I'll have as much of Jon's love as he's able to give and that will satisfy me. Great men require significant nurturing. That's what I feel like I'm doing with Jon, nurturing him and nurturing his career."

  "Nicely said. Jon's lucky to have you."

  "And I, him. It's a two-way street, Mr. Xiang."

  "Rusty, please."

  "All right, Rusty."

  "Which brings up my next question. I know Michael Gresham made you aware of the Moscow money and the amount, which is staggering. But I'd like to ask you whether you have any idea where that money came from."

&nbs
p; "No, I don't. Long story short, my father was very circumspect about his finances. All we ever knew was that he had enough money to take excellent care of us and to pay for the best education we could get. He was fantastic that way. But where did twelve-million dollars come from? I have no clue, Rusty."

  "Did he ever talk about his business or how he got his money?"

  "As I said, Dad was very circumspect. So the answer is no, he never mentioned a word about such things. At least not to me. You should talk to my brother, too. Jarrod might have a totally different answer for you."

  "I plan to do just that. Next question: who would want your father dead?"

  She sat back in her chair and brushed the hair off her forehead with her hand. "Don't I wish I knew. I've wracked my mind and honestly have no answer for you because I knew you'd be asking. Maybe the fossil fuel industry? Would that make sense since dad was a climate change fanatic?"

  "Makes sense to me. Any names you remember your father ever mentioning? Names of people who were fighting him and his campaign?"

  "There was one, Paul somebody. Wexler? Does that sound right? Does that ring a bell for you?"

  "Not really, but I'm pretty new at the Washington scene, so not much would ring a bell for me. Tell me what you know or have heard about this Paul Wexler, please."

  "He's someone who was once a lobbyist for coal or oil--I don't know, exactly. Then he went all green. An opportunist. But he seemed to be someone who was always in dad's face whenever he commented publicly about climate change. It would be fair to say the guy was a climate change denier, is my best guess. I'm probably saying too much about him; I don't remember all that much."

  "Paul Wexler. You're sure that's his name?"

  "Yes. I'm good with names, Rusty. I'm quite certain that's the man dad mentioned was always cutting back on him trying to make him look bad. Trying to destroy Dad's position on climate issues or fossil fuels. I think he wanted to be the Climate Party's nominee."

  "Now think carefully. Would you have the impression from listening to your father that this Wexler would be someone who would like to see him out of the picture? Maybe even dead?"

  She didn't hesitate. "Positively. He was a mean SOB to my father. I've never seen or met the man, but I hate him for all the uproar he caused in our house at dinner time. We heard about him just about every night. Paul Wexler. That's his name."