16
B en was not surprised when the prosecution called Brad Tidwell, the junior senator from Oklahoma. Padolino made a great show of explaining in open court that Tidwell was a “hostile witness,” and was appearing only because he had been subpoenaed-probably a condition of his agreement to testify. Tidwell opened with several stories of how he had once admired Senator Glancy and how helpful the man was during his early days in the Senate, despite the fact that they were from opposite parties. Together, he and Padolino did everything imaginable to dispel the idea that this testimony had partisan motivations.
“On September 26 of last year, did you attend the morning meeting of the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions?” Padolino asked.
“I did, sir. I’m proud to say I have the best attendance record of any member currently serving. I’ve never missed an entire day. I even attended when I had strep and a temperature of one hundred and four.”
Well, I bet the other committee members appreciated that, Ben mused.
“And was the defendant present on September 26?”
“He was, sir. He’s still vice chair, and I believe he handled some of the parliamentary rigmarole at the opening.”
“And did he remain in the committee chambers for the entire morning?”
Ben wondered if he had been coached to pause at this dramatic juncture, or if his political experience had given him sufficient instinct to work these things out for himself. “No, sir. He did not.”
A small stir from the gallery. Not quite enough to get Herndon’s gavel rattling, but close.
“At what time did Senator Glancy leave the room?”
“I can’t be certain. I was very busy, and I didn’t know then that it would be important. But it was in the first hour or so of the session.”
“Say around nine thirty?”
“Objection!” Ben rushed in. “Leading.”
“Sustained.”
“I really didn’t notice the time,” Tidwell continued. “But it was early. Before ten, certainly.”
The earliest time the coroner said the killing could have occurred, Ben noted. How terribly convenient.
“Thank you. I have no more questions.”
But Ben did. More than a few.
“Could we possibly get some specifics on this previously unmentioned absence?” Ben thought it was an appropriate time to allow some indignation to show.
“What would you like to know? I told you as much as I can about when he left.”
“How long was Senator Glancy gone? According to you.”
“I really couldn’t say. I had other things to do than monitor his comings and goings.”
“Give me a ballpark figure.”
“I can’t.”
“Was it a bathroom break? Or was he gone a good long time?”
“It was more than a bathroom break. I was trying to float a redraft by him, but he wasn’t anywhere in the chamber. I searched the whole place, waited, finally had to move on to something else. It was at least ten minutes before I saw him in the chamber again. Maybe as much as twenty.”
More than enough time, Ben realized. He played the best card he had. “Senator Tidwell, I interviewed you two days after the murder occurred, along with every other member of that committee. You told me you were working on a new formulation of a bill and couldn’t remember whether Senator Glancy was present the whole time or not.”
“And that was true. At the time. But I’ve had a long while to think about it since then. Time to reflect and to review my notes. Now I distinctly remember looking around for Todd, and not finding him.”
The man was so smooth he could make anything sound reasonable. Ben had one last impeachment card, a pretty feeble one. But he had to play it.
“Despite being from the same state, you’re not a member of the same political party as Senator Glancy, are you?”
“I think I made that clear.”
“The current Senate has only a bare Republican majority. You’d probably like to see a few Democrats replaced by Republicans, right?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Answer the question.”
“Well…” He grinned a little. “I wouldn’t object.”
“And you’d probably enjoy being the senior senator from your state, wouldn’t you?”
That got a rise out of him. “If you’re trying to suggest that I’m making this up just to get Senator Glancy out of the Senate, you’re wasting your time. I wouldn’t do that. We may be political opponents, but we’re still brother senators. Politics is one thing, but loyalty is another. I put loyalty first.”
“So you say,” Ben rejoined. “But that didn’t stop you from testifying today, did it? No more questions.”
Padolino would try to patch that up on redirect, Ben well knew. But at least it gave him an exit line.
As Glancy had predicted last night, Opportunity had arrived. Coupled with Motive, the prosecution had made their case. They’d given the jury everything they needed to convict. For all intents and purposes, the burden of proof was now on Ben-and if he failed, Todd Glancy was a dead man.
It was overkill, Ben thought, and the flaw with overkill was not just that the jury would get bored but also that eventually some witness might make a mistake that would undermine everything. Padolino had made his case; the only sensible thing to do was rest. But instead, he opted for the anticlimactic introduction of character assassination. For what purpose? Ben wondered. What character was there left to assassinate?
Ben did his best to exclude all such witnesses, but Herndon ruled that it went to the issue of both motive and the likelihood that Glancy might leave a meeting to engage in “inappropriate relationships.” So it came in. Padolino put a succession of three women on the stand-all of them young, all of them pretty.
The first, a senatorial aide, claimed that during a meeting of the Atomic Energy Commission, Glancy put his hand under the conference table and between her legs. According to her, when she looked at him, shocked, he whispered, “My dear, you’re as cold as ice. Would you like to conduct a little science experiment? Let’s see if we can generate some spontaneous combustion.” The second, a member of the Senate secretarial pool, claimed Glancy had stumbled into her elevator late one evening, drunk as a skunk, belched, put his hand on her breast, and slurred, “Sssorry. I missstook you for a doorknob.”
Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Am I the only one who’s like, ickk?”
“No, I’m pretty sure there are others,” Ben whispered back. “Sixteen of them, to be exact. And they’re all sitting together.”
Glancy remained quietly impassive throughout the testimony.
The most damaging was the third, which was undoubtedly why Padolino had saved her for last. She claimed to have been interviewing for an intern’s position in Glancy’s office, the position later held by Veronica Cooper. This put it in the realm of employment-related sexual harassment, which was not only contrary to federal law and actionable in civil court, but also grounds for immediate expulsion from the Senate, as Senator Packwood had learned several years before.
“He kept saying, ‘Hiring is so difficult. You can’t make an informed decision unless you’re aware of all the candidate’s talents.’ And then he unzipped his fly.”
“Did he… make a request?” Padolino asked.
“He didn’t have to. It was obvious what he wanted. I told him I wouldn’t have sex with a stranger just to get a job. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Hey, it’s not like it would be real sex.’” She pursed her lips. “Obviously, he was a Democrat.”
Ben didn’t bother asking his client if any of these incidents actually happened. They didn’t directly pertain to the murder. And Ben didn’t really want to hear the answer. He was much more concerned about what was going on at the prosecution table. Padolino had effectively completed the day with what at best could be called filler witnesses. Damaging, perhaps, but not that damaging.
The question troubled him deeply. Because as every good attorney knew, the key to a successful defense was anticipation. No matter how bad the testimony, if you can see it coming, you can come up with some way to deflect it, to undermine it, to deflate it, to make it seem less than it at first appeared to be.
But if you didn’t know what was coming, you were like a floundering fish waiting to be speared. Dead in the water.
Loving stared at the young woman bearing both the determined expression and the crossbow aimed at his chest. “Have I… uh… done somethin’ to offend you?” he asked.
“Your very existence offends me, Dracula.”
Loving furrowed his brow. “I think you may be confused.”
“Am I?” She was so close now the tip of the crossbow bolt was barely a foot away. “How do you figure?”
Loving pointed to Daily. “He’s Count Dracula. I’m Renfield.”
Daily spun around. “Now wait a minute-”
“You think that’s funny?” She pushed the tip of the bolt to his chest, right over his heart. “You won’t be laughing once I send you into instant cremation.”
Loving held up his hands. “Look, lady, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not vampires.”
“I suppose you were in there just for the free crudités.”
“I was in there as part of an investigation. That’s my job. I’m a private investigator.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I was watching you. I saw that rouged-up Vampirella bite your neck.”
Ah. Now Loving was beginning to understand where the woman was coming from. “And why do you care?”
“Because that’s my job,” she spat back. “I’m a vampire hunter.”
Loving and Daily exchanged a look. “Did you say what I think you just said?”
“Don’t get smart with me!” She jabbed him with the tip of the bolt. “I won’t take any crap from a reanimated corpse.”
Loving held up his hands. “Lady-do you have a name?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’d just like to know who I’m talkin’ to before you, uh, slay me.”
She hesitated, her narrowed eyes spewing anger. “You can call me Shalimar.”
“And you’re a… vampire slayer.”
“Hunter! Not slayer!”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is this is real life, not some TV show.”
“Fine. Vampire hunter.” He paused. “Do you need a hunting license for that?”
Her teeth clenched together. “Wiseass undead hellspawn. I’m taking you down.”
“Look, Shalimar, I’m not a vampire. You fire that bolt, you’ll be committin’ murder.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove it? How do I prove I’m not a vampire?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’ll follow you home.”
“What? Why?”
“If I can sneak into your place without an invitation, that means I’m not a vampire, right?”
She raised the crossbow higher. “I warned you-”
“Or we could get Italian. After you see how much garlic I put on everythin’-”
“Cut it out!”
Loving tried another tack. “You got a cross on you?”
She hesitated. “Several.”
“How did I guess? Gimme one.”
“Why?”
“So when I don’t burst into flames or cower or hiss or anythin’, you’ll know I’m not undead.”
Slowly, Shalimar reached inside her Windbreaker and produced a small wooden cross. She held it out to him. Loving took it into his hand…
And screamed. “Aaaaaah!” He dropped the cross and pressed his hand to his chest.
Shalimar jumped, crossbow at the ready. “What? You monstrous-”
Loving held up his hands. “Jokin’, jokin’.” He picked the cross up off the pavement and squeezed it. “See. Nothin’. I’m not a vampire.”
Shalimar pursed her lips, furious. “Him, too.”
Daily took the cross, didn’t joke around, didn’t turn to flames.
Slowly Shalimar lowered her crossbow. “I guess you’re clean. You should be more careful about who you make out with.” She shrugged. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“Think nothin’ of it,” Loving replied. “Happens every day. But lemme tell you-there’s nothing in there but a lotta pathetic whack jobs tryin’ to convince themselves they’re special by copyin’ scenes from bad horror movies. I didn’t see anyone who didn’t reflect in the mirror over the hearth.”
“More pretenders.” She released the bolt from her crossbow and slowly edged it back into the quiver on her back. “Damn.”
“Lady, they’re all pretenders. There’s no such thing as vampires.”
“You’re wrong. They do exist.”
“Where? Universal Studios?”
“History is replete with documented vampires. The novel Dracula was based on a real vampire. Lady Caroline Lamb, the Victorian poet, was a vampire. There have been many books written on the subject.”
“Ma’am,” Loving said, “with all due respect, I’ve been known to buy any number of off-the-wall theories. But even I don’t believe some lady poet was really a vampire. Know why? ’Cause there’s no such thing!”
She looked at him with a sad, pitying expression. “That’s what they want you to believe.”
“Oh, for Pete’s-”
“Are you familiar with Rousseau?”
“The actress?”
“No, the eighteenth-century French philosopher and writer. One of the smartest men who ever lived. He said-and this is an exact quote-‘If ever there was in the world a warranted and proven history, it is that of vampires: nothing is lacking, official reports, testimonials of persons of standing, of surgeons, of clergymen, of judges; the judicial evidence is all-embracing.’”
“The man was cracked. With all due respect, Miss Shalimar, people don’t rise from the dead, no matter who they’ve been suckin’ on.”
“Do you know the disease porphyria? It’s a genetic disorder that causes receding gums-which can make people look like they have fangs-and also creates hypersensitivity to sunlight and an enzyme deficiency that can cause people to crave blood.”
Loving pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, you’re… what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? You should be in a sorority or the Junior Service League or somethin’. When did you get started chasin’ vampires?”
Her eyes narrowed to a dull pinpoint of light. “After they took my sister.”
A synapse fired somewhere inside Loving’s brain. “What was your sister’s name?”
She looked at him for a long while, as if trying to evaluate whether she could trust him, before finally answering. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. Why do you ask?”
17
B en waited quietly, wringing his hands under the defense table, desperate to know who the prosecution’s pièce de résistance would be. He’d pored over their witness list, but that was no help-there were at least thirty uncalled witnesses remaining, and as far as he knew none of them had anything sensational to say. He’d tried to wheedle the information out of Padolino, who wouldn’t give up anything but kept pestering Ben for Christina’s phone number. His associates were apparently under threat of bodily injury not to talk. Ben had scanned the courtroom, the hallway outside, even the men’s room, but hadn’t been able to spot anyone who wasn’t normally present.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” Christina said, with an attempt at solace that was painfully unavailing. “Maybe there is no killer finale. They’ve already put on enough to make their case.”
“But possibly not enough to win it.” Ben shook his head. “No, if this was all he had, Padolino woul
d’ve closed with Senator Tidwell. Or the video. There has to be something more.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Glancy grunted. “My staff is equally clueless.”
“Not for want of trying.” Amanda Burton stood behind her man, the usual unpleasant expression on her face. “I’ve called all my connections in the Senate and the law enforcement world. They haven’t been able to tell me anything.”
Shandy, her blond hair tucked behind her ears, nodded. “Marshall’s come up dry, too. And if Marshall can’t find it, it isn’t available. Oh-I almost forgot.” She pulled a sealed envelope out of her satchel. “This is for you, Boss.”
Glancy held the letter between his fingers. “Should I read it now, dear? Or in private?”
She smiled. “It can wait till later.”
“Thanks.” He tucked it into his coat pocket. “It’s a comfort to know I have such dedicated people taking care of business while I’m stuck in this trial.”
“Speaking of which,” Shandy said, turning toward Ben, “you look cute as a bug in Todd’s navy-blue Brooks Brothers.”
Ben glanced at the suit he was wearing. “What, this old thing?”
Shandy laughed. “Fits you much better than that blue rag you were wearing twice a week. What’s ‘Dillard’s,’ anyway?”
Ben stiffened slightly. “Dillard’s is a first-rate Oklahoma-based chain of department stores-”
“But Ben doesn’t shop there,” Christina interjected. “He shops at a consignment store and buys the hand-me-downs of people who shop at Dillard’s.”
Ben adjusted the knot in his necktie. “Nothing wrong with a little frugality.”
Judge Herndon’s clerk entered the courtroom, closely trailed by the man himself. The judge greeted everyone, gave the usual admonitions to his sequestered jury, then got down to business. “I especially want to remind the members of the press in the audience that no disturbances, outbursts, or unruly behavior will be tolerated. And that goes for the nonpress personages in the gallery as well.”
Capitol Murder Page 21
