Capitol Murder

by William Bernhardt

  “Fair enough.”

  “We’re opponents. We don’t have to be enemies.”

  Could I possibly clone this guy, Ben wondered, or take him home with me?

  “You’re wrong about the reporters, though. They really don’t have it in for defense attorneys. Despite all the babble about the ‘liberal media,’ I’m not even sure reporters have opinions of their own anymore. All today’s journalists care about is ratings. Circulation numbers. Popularity quotients. Nielsens. It’s ironic, really. They criticize politicians for making decisions based upon poll results. But they do exactly the same thing.”

  “That’s a rather heterodox viewpoint. Especially coming from a Republican.”

  “Answer me this: who did the press come down harder on? Reagan, during the Iran-Contra scandal, or Clinton, during the Lewinsky affair?”

  “Clinton. By a mile.”

  “Right. Now let’s weigh their relative importance. The Clinton scandal was about a man cheating on his wife. The Reagan scandal was, well, treason. Conducting secret foreign policy in direct contravention of Congress. And remember, you’re talking to a very right-wing guy here. But the fact remains-the press didn’t batter Reagan one one-hundredth as much as they did Clinton. Why? Because Reagan’s popularity ratings were huge. Everyone loved the man. He was sweet and slightly doddering, like everyone’s favorite grandfather. And everyone was overwhelmed with intaxication.”

  “What?”

  “The euphoria induced by a tax cut, which overcomes people’s recollection that it was their money in the first place. Anyway, attacking that sweet, senile old man with the dyed pompadour would’ve turned people off big-time. So the media softballed him.”

  “To be fair,” Ben said, “Clinton did lie about the affair.”

  “Yeah, and Reagan lied about Nicaragua. Dubya lied about having a drunk driving record and he’s been obscenely evasive about his past drug use. Why wasn’t the liberally biased press all over that? Because dumb as the man is, he comes off on television as very likable, a regular guy. Clinton was smart and capable but not necessarily someone you’d want over for dinner; they could beat up on him all night long.” He grinned. “That’s your main problem in this case, you know, Ben. Everyone knows Glancy is smart. Very, very smart. You’d be much better off if you were representing an amiable dunce.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. “Fascinating as this is, it looks like it’s time for us to get back to the salt mines.”

  “Right.” Padolino swiveled his feet around and stretched. “One more question, though. That partner of yours. Miss McCall.”

  “What about her?”

  “Are all the lady lawyers in Oklahoma that hot? ’Cause that sure isn’t how we grow them up here.”

  Ben couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t insult someone, so he kept his mouth closed.

  “My assistants tell me you and she have a thing going. True?”

  Ben licked his lips, stuttered. “A-a thing? I don’t know what that means.”

  “The hell you don’t. Tell me the truth. Some of my people think you’re working your mojo on that saucy little intern of Glancy’s-”

  “Shandy?”

  “-but my investigators, the ones I really trust, say you and Christina are the item. One step away from wedding bells.”

  “Well, I-I wouldn’t go as far as-”

  “So it wouldn’t bother you if I asked her out? Because I really want to ask her out.”

  Ben coughed, grabbed his briefcase. “I-I can’t tell you what to do. Your business, not mine.” He hustled toward the door, suddenly feeling more stressed than he had when he came in. “Enjoyed the chat. See you in court.”

  Loving sat by himself on the side of the cavernous wood-paneled room, eyes wide. He’d seen some pretty weird stuff in his time, especially since he’d started working for Ben Kincaid. But this joint was setting a new personal best for weirdness. Compared to this, the Goth club was a set from Leave It to Beaver.

  The most prominent features of the room, so far as Loving could tell, were inlaid wood, low lighting, cobwebs, and dust. He had the impression that it had once been used for something else, but the former owners had stripped it clean, which explained why there was nothing hanging on the walls-no books on the shelves, no furniture other than the most rudimentary tables and chairs. The dust and cobwebs also signaled a lack of care, or perhaps just a décor that appealed to the members of Circle Thirteen.

  As the hour passed, the room slowly filled with people. They were quiet, somber folks; even the ones who entered with a group tended not to interact much. They were here for a reason, Loving surmised, but unlike the habitués of Stigmata, they weren’t here to party. As with the Goths, the attire of the denizens of Circle Thirteen tended to be predominantly black, but Loving saw none of the tongue-in-cheek, campy, Haunted Mansion spirit that he’d spotted at Stigmata. Here it was monotone black suits, even tuxes, floor-length drab dresses, some of them with a long train. There was no music, no dancing. Whatever it was these guys were planning on doing, they took it very seriously.

  Loving and Daily had had no trouble getting in. This time they’d had the sense to dress in solid black, head-to-toe-Loving even forked over some cash for a pair of black high-top sneakers. There were no bouncers or bodyguards here, thank God. But if they didn’t worry about security, did that mean nothing of interest would happen? Loving saw no signs of drugs or booze-not even smoking. Not that he was looking for trouble, but if they didn’t encounter any, it probably meant they weren’t on the right track.

  “You think they’re okay?” Loving whispered to Daily.

  “Sure. They’re clean-cut, law-abiding vampires.”

  “They did have a website, even if it was supposed to be restricted. I don’t think they’d have a website if somethin’ criminal was goin’ down.”

  Daily scoffed. “Where have you been, Loving? I read in the Post about drug dealers that have their own websites, making deals, transferring funds via PayPal. They use code words to describe the goods, but the transactions are still taking place on the Web. The pushers’ once ubiquitous cell phones have been replaced by instant messaging.” He paused. “You know what instant messaging is, right?”

  “Wrong. And I don’t want to, either. Look, let’s split up. We stand out enough individually. Together, we look too much like cops for anyone to talk to us.”

  Daily nodded and headed for the opposite end of the room. Loving walked over to a round table large enough to accommodate eight people. If he sat, maybe someone would join him, drawn by his animal magnetism. Did vampires have animal magnetism? he wondered. Well, then they’d be drawn by their sonar. Whatever.

  He hadn’t been sitting long before he was joined by a woman who appeared to be in her midthirties. She was very tall, very thin, with a clinging chemise that draped around her feet. Long jet-black hair almost reached her waist. Dark eyes, dark mascara. Since she didn’t introduce herself, Loving decided he would call her Morticia.

  “You’re new,” she said. It was not a question.

  “Yeah,” Loving replied, trying to size her up as he spoke. What would a nice girl like her… never mind. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger back and forth. “Don’t say that. They’ll ride you out on the rails. Tell them you’re interested in joining the Circle.”

  Well, this was going to be easier than he’d imagined. He hadn’t even had to perform any silly circus tricks. “That’s what I meant to say. I’m interested in joinin’ the Circle. Any particular reason you’re helpin’ me?”

  “We’re destined to be together.”

  Loving blinked. “We are?”

  “Yes. I knew it the moment I saw you sitting there. Well, I didn’t exactly know it. It was more something I sensed, a psychic vibration, if you will. But I’ve learned to trust those vibrations.”

  That was a line he hadn’t heard back at the Tulsa honky-tonks.

  “You seem
… more mature than most of our new recruits.” She leaned closer, revealing a voluptuous bosom thinly veiled by her chemise. “I’ve been waiting a long time for some fresh blood. And I mean that in every possible way.”

  Loving felt an anxious tingling at the base of his skull. “So, you’re a… a… member of the Circle?”

  “I am.”

  “And that means…”

  “Right.” Her eyes come-hithered him in a big way. “But I assume that’s a turn-on for you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Loving cleared his throat. “Like I said, I’m lookin’ for someone.”

  And she smiled again, even more broadly than before. “You found her.”

  The prosecution’s next witness was Steve Melanfield, the Kodiak Oil lobbyist Ben had first met in the Senate Dining Room. Funny how many of the people who were so friendly to Glancy five months ago ended up on the prosecution’s witness list. Nature of the town, Ben supposed. Friends and enemies changed sides in a heartbeat. It was all a matter of who wanted what at any given moment.

  Padolino established that Melanfield was a professional lobbyist, that he had been working for Kodiak Oil for nine years, and that because Glancy came from one of the top oil-producing states in the union they had frequent contact with one another. That was to be expected. What was not to be expected was that he might have had contact with Veronica Cooper.

  “I’d seen her in Senator Glancy’s office from time to time,” Melanfield explained. He was dressed conservatively-a dark pin-striped suit that did the best that could be done with his outsized frame. “Probably said hi once or twice. I don’t really remember. I never suspected anything was going on between them. Until the night of September 25.”

  “What happened that night?”

  “I was working late-I’d been pulling double shifts ever since the Alaska wilderness bill left committee. Finished making the rounds about ten, ten thirty. Clerk told me Glancy hadn’t left the Russell Building, so I went to his office. The door was unlocked, slightly ajar. Hazel was gone for the day.”

  Ben shook his head. Imagine how much easier this case would be if Glancy had just learned to lock his doors at quitting time. Or hired a receptionist who didn’t require sleep.

  “And what did you see in Senator Glancy’s office?”

  “Well, actually, I heard something before I saw anything. Two voices. Loud. Didn’t take long to figure out that they were arguing with each other.”

  “Could you identify the voices?”

  “Yes. But just to be sure, I crept forward a little and peered through the crack in the door. It was Senator Glancy and his intern, Veronica Cooper. Except she wasn’t wearing much. Just her underwear. Black lace. And his fly was unzipped.”

  “Indeed.” Padolino lowered his chin, giving the jury a minute to catch up. “Could you make out what they were saying?”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”

  Padolino didn’t blink. “As per our brief, your honor, if there is hearsay, it is permitted by bona fide exception in the Federal Rules of Evidence. Any statements made by Senator Glancy are, of course, admissions against interest. And since Ms. Cooper is now deceased, her statements would fall under the exception permitting testimony where the declarant is unavailable.”

  “The objection is overruled,” Herndon declared. Ben wasn’t surprised. He had briefed the issue in advance, and Herndon hadn’t bought it. But he had to make an in-court objection to preserve the issue for appeal.

  “Let me ask again,” Padolino said, picking up the thread smoothly. “Could you hear what the parties were saying?”

  “Some of it.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  Ben grimaced. There Padolino went again, being smart. Bringing it out on direct so Ben couldn’t make hay with it on cross. He hated it when prosecutors were smart.

  “Look, in my business, information is the coin of the realm. A lobbyist can’t know too much, especially about the people he’s trying to persuade. Don’t get me wrong-I’m not saying listening at keyholes is a great thing. But I genuinely believe my company is doing good, important work for the people of this nation. Securing our political and economic independence. So if I can learn a little something to advance that cause-so much the better.”

  Jeez Louise, Ben thought. What a patriotic eavesdropper. The man must’ve rehearsed that speech all night.

  “So what exactly did you hear?”

  “I heard that Veronica Cooper was very angry. There was something she wanted-I never heard exactly what it was-something Glancy wasn’t giving her. She tried everything she could-she begged, she whined, she got flirty. Nothing would change his mind. So she threatened him.”

  The jury stiffened, almost in unison. They were beginning to see where this testimony was going.

  “What exactly did she threaten?”

  “She said if Glancy didn’t change his mind, she was going to tell everything. She didn’t specify what. But given how she was attired and… you know… the circumstances, I assumed she was going to tell his wife about their affair.”

  Technically this was speculation, Ben thought, but there seemed little point in objecting. The jury had undoubtedly already reached the same conclusion.

  “Was Senator Glancy moved by this threat?”

  “No. Just the opposite. He laughed at her. Right in her face. Said she could tell his wife anything and it wouldn’t matter a damn bit.”

  Ben could feel the heat radiating from his client, seated just beside him. But as always, Glancy’s sangfroid remained in place. According to him, this entire incident was a politically motivated fabrication. But that couldn’t make it easy to listen to. Especially not with his wife sitting just behind him.

  “He didn’t care what his wife thought?”

  “He said she had her own agenda. And she wouldn’t let it be screwed up by-this is a quote-‘some two-bit tramp whose only real talent was something you couldn’t put on a résumé.’”

  Padolino paused a moment. “What was Ms. Cooper’s reaction to that statement?”

  “She was infuriated. Totally lost what little cool she had left. She jabbed Glancy in the chest and said, ‘If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll ruin you.’”

  There was a silence in the courtroom-not a good one.

  “Was there any further discussion?”

  “If there was, I didn’t hear it.” Melanfield turned to face the jury. “After that last blowup, Ms. Cooper grabbed her clothes and headed toward the door. I didn’t want to be caught playing Peeping Tom, so I ducked out of the office and ran downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” Padolino said. He turned to Ben with a sad smile. “Your witness.”

  Loving tried to think of a question quickly, something, anything to distract Morticia. She was sitting much too close to him, her bosom was too near his nose, and was staring at his neck in a way that made him supremely uncomfortable.

  “So, I guess, all these guys.” Loving waved his hand generally about the room. “All Goths?”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” She drew in her breath, her chest heaving. “No, despite the superficial similarities, there are two distinct groups. Goths are children, amateurs. Pretenders. Nothing like us. In fact, sometimes I wear colors other than black.”

  “Like what?”

  “A very dark midnight blue.”

  Loving heard a cracking sound behind him.

  “Bend over!”

  He turned just in time to see a young woman with a supermodel figure and an endless mass of black curls bend over the back of a chair, which had the effect of hoisting her ridiculously short skirt and exposing her perfectly rounded snowy white cheeks. While Loving stared, a short, stout man-presumably he who had issued the command-brought his hand around and slapped her bottom with a wooden paddle. The woman winced as the paddle made contact-but her ecstatic smile grew broader with each smack.

  “You have got to be kiddin’.” Loving turned back to Morticia. “Should I d
o somethin’?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like give that creep a taste of his own paddle.”

  She brushed her hand against his. “My friend, he’s not doing anything she doesn’t want. Just getting her in the mood for the Ceremony.”

  “But-”

  “There is a decided correspondence between the Circle and the dark fetish world.”

  “You mean-”

  “Dominance and submission. Bondage and discipline. Sadomasochism.”

  “Right out in public?”

  “This isn’t the public. This is the Circle. We understand one another.”

  “But isn’t this all a little… twistedish?”

  She laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “Don’t ask me. I’ve been into scarification since I was fifteen.”

  “And that’s-”

  “Hurting myself. Cutting myself. I used a razor blade. Sometimes I’d draw patterns, shapes.”

  Loving winced. “Bet that stung.”

  “Wonderfully so. After I was done cutting, I’d pour alcohol over the wounds. To prevent infection-but also because it hurt so good.”

  Loving’s eyes narrowed.

  “Once the welts formed I’d have the image of a raven, an ankh, whatever design I’d crafted.”

  “But-why?”

  She shrugged. “Who can explain why they like what they like? There’s no logic to it. We’re just hardwired that way. Some say it’s endorphins-the body releases them to help you deal with pain and you get a head rush. A natural high. It’s a deeply spiritual experience. Try it sometime.”

  “Mmm… maybe later.”

  “It beats living the usual life of quiet, desperate mimesis.”

  “Uhhh…”

  “Imitation. Doing what everyone else does, just because they do it. Never doing anything to please yourself.”