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

by John Ellsworth

  "Morning," said the VP.

  "Please tell us your name for the record."

  "Jonathan Y. Vengrow."

  "What is your occupation--for the record."

  "I'm the vice president of the United States of America."

  "Directing your attention to January 15 of this year, were you vice president on that day?"

  "I was."

  "We're here about a shooting that occurred on that day, Mr. Vice President. Actually, as best we can tell so far, the shooting occurred around four or five that afternoon. Do you remember where you were that day at that time?"

  "Not really. I know that that night I was watching Homeland on cable TV. I was in the rear of our living quarters in my bedroom at the Naval Observatory."

  "Was anyone with you then and there?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you married, Mr. Vice President?"

  "Yes, my wife's name is Indio. But she wasn't with me while I watched my show."

  "Where was Mrs. Vengrow?"

  "She was off visiting her sick mother."

  "Was anyone else with you that afternoon or evening?"

  "No, it was one of those rare days when I had some time to myself. Nothing on the calendar so I could do whatever I wanted. I'm hooked on Homeland so I dialed it in. I watched while I worked on my stamp collection."

  "Do you recall what time you started watching your show?"

  "I don't recall. But I'm sure the cable TV people can help you with the time."

  "Sure, sure."

  At just that moment, I felt some of the awe at my role and its importance fall away and I realized I was settling into my job and using all my skills to get the VP's story out in front of the grand jury. It felt like I had trained all my life for this job. I had amassed the tools to do it not only well but exceedingly well. My day brightened at that exact moment and I lost my fear.

  "Approximately three hours before your show started on TV, a man by the name of Gerald Tybaum was shot to death near the Lincoln Memorial. Do you recognize his name?"

  "Sure. Gerry Tybaum was a friend. He was also a candidate for President of the United States put forth by the Climate Party."

  "So you're aware of his murder?"

  "Of course. Everyone is. Terrible thing. So that's why we're here? I was wondering."

  "Do you own a gun, Mr. Vice President?"

  Vengrow sat back in his chair. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the small desk in front of him. It was clear he was thinking and my guess was that the question surprised him as well. Truth be told, I had no reason to ask about the gun that killed Gerry Tybaum. It had already been established that it was my gun. But these questions were for future reference. Call it a hunch--when I'm in cross-examination I follow all hunches. It has proven a valuable instinct time and the again.

  "How is my gun relevant, Mr. Gresham?"

  "Please just answer the question, sir, and leave the relevance to me."

  "Yes, I own a gun. It's the same gun I carried in the First Gulf War."

  "What caliber is that gun?"

  "Nine millimeter."

  "If I told you Gerry Tybaum was shot six times by a nine millimeter on January fifteenth would that surprise you?"

  "No, no surprise. But it wasn't my gun. I'm happy to make it available for testing at any time or place."

  "Thank you for that."

  "Sure. No problem because that gun didn't shoot Mr. Tybaum. In fact, it has never shot anyone."

  "Fair enough. I'll send someone by your office later today for it."

  "It'll be ready, Mr. Gresham."

  "Have you been in possession of any other nine-millimeter guns the last three months?"

  "No. Of course not. I'm surrounded by Secret Service day and night. No need for handguns on my part."

  "Now I'd like to talk about a particular item of clothing. I'm talking about a belt buckle. The belt buckle I want to talk about is silver and about the size of a buckle the rodeo cowboys might wear. On the face it says 'Effingham 2010.' Below those words there is a crucifix, a cross with a figure hanging from it."

  "Yes, I have a belt buckle like that. It was presented to me by the Christian Cowboys' Association. I don't wear it all that often, but it's a favorite of mine."

  "So my description of the buckle is accurate?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  "Were you wearing that buckle on January 15 this year?"

  "That would be the day Gerry Tybaum was murdered?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "No, I wasn't wearing that belt that day. I wear it more like for picnics and cookouts and that sort of thing where I'm wearing jeans and maybe making a speech, Fourth of July and fundraisers stuff."

  “Will you bring that buckle by my office and leave it for us to examine?”

  “Certainly I will.” He smiled at me, which I ignored.

  "Do you own a North Face coat?"

  "I think I do. Yes, a goose-down coat that's very warm in the winter."

  "Were you wearing that coat on January fifteenth?"

  "Oh, I really can't say. You've got me on that one, counsellor."

  "Would you make that coat available at the same time we come by for the gun?"

  "Sure."

  "It hasn't been cleaned recently?"

  "No."

  "Good. Please don't clean it between now and when we pick it up."

  It was a long shot, the coat, but I wasn't willing to leave any stone unturned. It might turn out there was blood on the coat; hell, even without blood, if the two men struggled it might even have Tybaum's DNA on it. I would track down every possible item of evidence. You just never know.

  "Now, Mr. Vice President, I need to go into a series of questions that are personal. I wouldn't be asking them at all and I'm not asking them to embarrass you but there's talk on the street, as they say."

  The vice president spread his hands and shrugged. "Ask away, counsellor."

  "Let me just get right to it. Was your wife having an affair with Gerald Tybaum?"

  "Yes."

  "You knew about it?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "And how did that make you feel?"

  "It didn't make me feel anything. Indio--my wife--and I haven't been in love for a long, long time. She basically goes her way and I go mine. All I've ever asked of her is that she not embarrass me or cost me votes," he said, smiling at the "votes" comment.

  "Did it anger you that she was seeing Mr. Tybaum?"

  "No. Did you not understand what I just told you? We weren't emotionally invested in the marriage any longer."

  "I appreciate that," I said. "On the other hand, were or are you having an affair? In particular, I'm wondering whether you were having an affair with Mr. Tybaum's wife."

  "Not with his wife, no."

  "You're qualifying your answer. Were you having an affair with any member of his family?"

  "Yes. His daughter."

  "What's her name?"

  "Mona Tybaum."

  "How long have you been involved with Mona?"

  "She was murdered counselor. I'm sure you know that. So what does my relationship with her have to do with anything now?"

  "Just answer, please."

  He drew away from the microphone then. "Counselor, what does this have to do with the death of her father?"

  "Please just answer my question, Mr. Vice President."

  "Please repeat it, then."

  "How long had you been involved with Mona?"

  “A few years. We met at a political fundraiser in 2011. She was a precinct worker and I was the junior senator from Illinois."

  "Where did this take place?"

  "Where? In southern Illinois. Edwardsville, actually."

  "Tell us what happened?"

  "Counselor, I think I'm going to draw the line right here. What happened between Ms. Tybaum and me over five years ago just isn't relevant to this case. I used to be a prosecutor myself and I know a little bit about relevance. I won't answer the question." />
  "You realize I could hold you in contempt for not answering if the judge orders you to answer?"

  "I'm willing to take my chances."

  "Was Gerald Tybaum, Mona's father, at that fundraiser five years ago in Edwardsville?"

  "Well, he was, actually. I'd forgotten that."

  "And was your wife there?"

  "Yes, she always stood on the dais with me. The money shot--me and later with President Sinclair and our wives."

  "Did your wife happen to speak to Mr. Tybaum that night--if you know?"

  "Yes, she did."

  "What happened between you, your wife and Mr. Tybaum that same night?"

  "Well, she didn't come back to the hotel room all night long. The Secret Service was following her because I was a candidate for VP. I managed to make them come clean. She spent the night with Gerald Tybaum in his hotel room."

  "Was this during the time period you've described where neither you nor your wife cared what happened romantically with each other?"

  "No, it wasn't. But that would take place not long after."

  "Tell us about that."

  "Her overnight tryst with Tybaum was the spark that burned our marriage to the ground. Things were never the same between us after that night."

  "Do you blame Tybaum for destroying your marriage?"

  "Hmmm. That's hard to say. I really don't remember if I blamed him or not."

  "Did you blame him on the night he was gunned down at the Lincoln Memorial?"

  "No, I don't remember that being a part of my thinking any longer."

  "Mr. Vice President, did you shoot and kill Gerald Tybaum?"

  He shifted uneasily in his seat. "No. But neither did I frown on it. I thought and still think it served him right."

  "So there's anger there?"

  "I'd call it resentment, Mr. Gresham. I resented the guy. But not enough to shoot him. He was a nobody and I was and am Vice President of the United States. We don't even exist in the same universe."

  "Were you still seeing Mona Tybaum?"

  "I was there when she died. You should already know that."

  "What I know isn't what the grand jury knows. Bear with me while we get the story out to them."

  "Sorry."

  "You were still sleeping with her?"

  He lifted his eyes from me and quickly surveyed the room. "Is this confidential? It's supposed to be. Has the jury been admonished and sworn to secrecy?"

  "If you were a prosecutor you know they have been, sir."

  "Then I'll confess that Mona and I were heavily involved. We saw each other face-to-face at least every week. Sometimes more."

  "Are you aware that Mr. Tybaum died having over twelve-million dollars in a Russian bank?"

  "Not aware, no."

  "Are you aware that he wanted that money to go to his children, Mona and Jarrod and Annie?"

  "Like I said, I wasn't aware of the money at all."

  "So you haven't been pulling strings to help her get that money into her own account?"

  "Good grief, no. I can't have dealings with anything Russian, Mr. Gresham."

  "One last question, Mr. Vice President, then we can open it up to questions from the grand jurors."

  "Fine."

  "Have you had anything to do with my job at the U.S. Attorney's Office?"

  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Have you made any calls to anyone about me?"

  "Not at all. Oh, wait. I did call the U.S. Attorney herself and ask about you when I received the subpoena."

  "Did you say anything about my working there? Or about my continuing to work there?"

  "No. I'm sure I did not."

  "All right. We're going to take a break now while I collect any questions from the grand jurors that they want me to ask. We'll stand in recess for ten minutes. All grand jurors please bring your questions to me now."

  Several jurors presented me with written questions. More than half of the jurors headed for the restrooms. Some just remained in their seats, writing or staring at the floor. Cell phones and laptops and tablets had been collected so there were no recording or photographic devices in the room. Which meant that no one could check their email or send a text. Alas.

  Ten minutes later, the grand jury clerk told me everyone had returned and was seated as before. I was good to go.

  I read the first grand juror question to the witness:

  "Mr. Vice President, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

  "No, I have not. That's random."

  "Next question. Do you and your wife have any children?"

  "No, she was unable to have children."

  "Next question. Are you going to run for president when Sinclair's term is up? I'm not sure that's relevant but let's have you answer anyway."

  "I have no plans to run. I think this is it for me."

  Sure, I thought, a man one step away from the presidency is going to just turn his back on taking that role for himself? What politician would ever do that?

  "Next question. Did you ever get Mona pregnant?"

  "No. I'm sterile."

  Silence in the room. Startled looks on just about every face there.

  "I'll follow up on that with one of my own," I said. "Did your wife know about your affair?"

  "Oh, yes. Mona stayed over with me when we could arrange it. This didn't happen all that often."

  Again, full-on silence. This was good stuff they were getting to hear. But if any of it turned up in the papers heads would roll. I'd make sure of that.

  "Mr. Vice President, those are all the questions. Do you have any further testimony you'd like to offer?"

  "No, I've said it all. Just please admonish the jury."

  He meant I should remind them that we'd met in secret and absolutely none of what they heard could ever be repeated out of the grand jury room. I went on to add that if any of it was leaked I would hunt down and prosecute the responsible party. I did this nicely, not as a threat but as commentary on my role there.

  Then we were finished for the day.

  30

  Jarrod called me that night. Annie wanted to see me, he said.

  "What would she want with me?" I asked, curious but pleased.

  "She wants you to take her somewhere."

  "Why don't you do it, Jarrod?"

  "I no longer have a driver's license, Michael. Besides, she specifically said she wanted you."

  "Can I come by tomorrow around noon?" It was a light court day, and I could spare an hour or two with Annie. Most definitely.

  "That would be perfect. I'll tell her you're coming."

  "So she's talking to you about all this?'

  "Not exactly. She has it set up like a game show. She says, ‘Who do you think Annie wants to see?' and then I have to guess who. Your name was my second guess."

  "Who was first?"

  "Doesn't that go without saying? Mona, of course."

  "Of course. Okay, Jarrod, tomorrow noon-ish it is."

  "See you then. And thanks."

  The next day, I rolled into the kids' driveway at half past noon. I parked, got out and looked both ways for five minutes, just making sure I wasn't followed. Then I went inside.

  "Annie!" I said when she came to the door. "Were you waiting for me?"

  "Take me to the Smithsonian, Michael. There's an exhibit for me."

  "What is it?"

  "Divine Felines: Cats of Ancient Egypt."

  "Annie, do you have a cat?" Of course she did; I was asking to gauge her response.

  She only looked at me. I realized the construct of her actually having a cat was something she didn't or couldn't consider. I didn't ask about it again.

  I told Jarrod we'd be back in a couple of hours and then walked Annie out to my car. She climbed into the passenger's seat and pulled the seat belt into place. She snapped and smiled. Something about that simple act had caused her some small happiness. I'd never know what it was. Neither would anyone else.

  When we arrived
at the museum, we parked and went inside, got directed to the cat exhibit, and stopped at the entrance to the exhibit to read the placard. I read it aloud to Annie:

  Cats' personalities have made them Internet stars today. In ancient Egypt, cats were associated with divinities, as revealed in "Divine Felines: Cats of Ancient Egypt." Cat coffins and representations of the cat-headed goddess Bastet are among the extraordinary objects that reveal felines' critical role in ancient Egyptian religious, social and political life. Dating from the Middle Kingdom to the Byzantine period, the nearly 70 works include statues, amulets, and other luxury items decorated with feline features, which enjoyed special status among Egyptians. The exhibition, organized by the Brooklyn Museum of Art, also dedicates a small section to cats' canine counterparts.

  I finished reading, and Annie took my hand. "Cats, Michael," she said. "Now, Michael."

  And so we began our sojourn around the exhibit. Annie carefully stood before each of the seventy separate works in the exhibit and studied the item. She was memorizing what she was seeing. When we had turned the last corner and surveyed the last cats, she tugged at me to move out of the traffic flow where we could talk.

  Against the north wall, she paused and said, "The man who killed my father had a cat."

  "What?"

  "They brought his clothes to our house. I examined them. He had cat hairs on the back of his shirt."

  "You're sure of that?'

  "It was a match with the hairs on the video. The cat was orange."

  "Isn't that a tabby?" I asked, exhausting my knowledge of the subject.

  "It could be."

  "Your father might have struggled with the man who killed him. Maybe there was a transfer of hair."

  "Most definitely. The crime lab needs to look at the shirt again."

  "I'll make sure they do."

  "It's only right," she said. "So far they've missed it."

  "Okay. Hey, I want you to look at something. I pulled out my cell phone and played the cat-reflecting-pool video from the night her father was killed. But I only showed her the cat portion. Then I replayed it three or four times. Then in slow motion. "What's this look like to you?"

  "A yellow tabby cat."

  "Tabby is its breed?"

  "Tabby isn't a breed. It's a type of marking, including spots and stripes."

  "Anything else?"