Capitol Murder

by William Bernhardt

  Padolino turned, pivoting, then walked slowly to the edge of the jury box and laid his hand upon the rail. “Don’t misunderstand me. My heart bled just like yours did when we heard the testimony of that poor woman, Beatrice Taylor, when she told us about the torment, the horrors that she and her friends endured. But that had nothing to do with the supernatural. That had to do with a megalomaniacal drug pusher. He wasn’t controlling those girls with the hypnotic power of his vampire eyes-he was controlling them with drugs. And whether he drank blood or not, it doesn’t change the fact that there is no such thing as a vampire and there is no evidence-not the slightest shred of evidence-that this man was ever on the grounds of the Senate, not on the day Veronica Cooper died or at any other time. Ms. Taylor suggests that he bribed a guard to get into the Senate building without recording his name on the daily registry. Well, isn’t that convenient? I’ve heard that you can’t see vampires in a mirror. Apparently you can’t see them in the United States Capitol building, either.”

  He paused, looking at each juror in turn. Ben could tell he was winding up for the grand finale. “You know what this is? It’s the Big Lie Defense. Tell a little lie, and people may be suspicious, think you’re just trying to get yourself off. But if you can concoct something huge, something outrageously unlikely, people are actually more likely to buy it, on the theory that no one would dare tell a tale that tall unless it were true. That’s what has happened in this trial, my friends. They couldn’t give you another likely suspect. So instead-they gave you Count Dracula.”

  He stepped closer, and even though his voice grew softer, it seemed more urgent, more insistent. “But you’re not that gullible, are you? You’re not that easily misled by courtroom shenanigans. You can still distinguish right from wrong, truth from fiction, the likely from the impossible. You know in your hearts what really happened. Senator Glancy and Veronica Cooper were having an illicit sexual relationship. She tried to blackmail him. So he killed her and dumped the body in his private hideaway till he could think of something better to do with it. It’s that simple. And that’s why I know you’ll do the right thing-and find the defendant guilty of the murder of Veronica Cooper. Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight right up front,” Ben said, as he approached the jury box. “This case does not come down to which of Mr. Padolino’s scenarios you think is most likely. In fact, I will tell you-and the judge will reinforce this later when he gives you your formal instructions before deliberation-that it makes no difference whatsoever which you think is most likely. Because the standard before you is not ‘what’s more likely.’ The standard is whether the prosecution has proven Todd Glancy’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. If they have done anything less-regardless of what you think is most likely-you must acquit.

  “The prosecutor has done his best to belittle the evidence we have presented-even though we have presented tons of it, with one consistent witness after another. Let me tell you something. I am well aware that there is no such thing as a vampire. But what I am telling you is that this nut thought he was a vampire, that he behaved as a vampire, that he led others, with the force of his personality, his sexual prowess, and his drugs, to believe that he was a vampire, and induced them to become a part of his vampiric cult. It is undisputed that he killed Colleen Smith as well as Amber Daily, and more to the point-that he had a motive for killing Veronica Cooper. So let me rephrase Mr. Padolino’s question. Which is more likely: that Veronica Cooper was killed by a sadistic maniac who was responsible for the deaths of at least two of her friends and the torture of numerous other women? Or that she was killed by a United States senator, a man with no criminal record whatsoever.”

  Ben reminded the jury that the evidence against his client was mostly circumstantial. “Contrary to what the prosecutor has said, there is no evidence directly pointing to Senator Glancy. They did all the pointing-the police and the prosecutors-because he was the most obvious and easiest person to accuse.”

  “Your honor,” Padolino said, rising, “I object. This isn’t relevant and it slanders the good men and women who are devoted public-”

  “Sit down,” Herndon said firmly. “And don’t get up again.”

  Ben jerked his thumb toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Padolino thinks it’s unfair for me to insinuate that the police investigation of this case was lazy. But ask yourselves this: why didn’t they discover the vampire coven? Why didn’t they discover Stigmata, a club the victim had been habituating for months? Why didn’t they know she was a drug addict? Why didn’t they know she frequently traveled with three other young women-all of whom disappeared? My investigator was able to uncover these secrets-why couldn’t they? Answer: because they didn’t look. Senator Glancy wasn’t arrested because of any overwhelming evidence. He was arrested because the true killer had the sense to implicate someone he knew the cops-and the public-would be predisposed to distrust. Because he was a politician.”

  Ben faced the jury squarely and ratcheted his voice up a few decibels. “Is this important? You bet it is. Sure, the majority of law enforcement officers in this country are good honest people and we owe them our respect and our thanks. But every time I turn around, it seems as if our civil rights are eroding. We overlook police procedural violations, police brutality, because after all, the suspects are almost always guilty, right? The Second Amendment supposedly protects us from unwarranted intrusions, search and seizures, arrest without charge or probable cause, but every day we see those rights whittled away. We pass laws we know aren’t constitutional, but shield the offense by giving them names like the Patriot Act-as if there was something patriotic about violating the constitutional freedoms that are the bedrock upon which this country was founded.

  “Is this important?” Ben asked again, this time his voice was even louder than before. “You better believe it. Because this is the United States of America. We created the modern democracy. We invented the Constitution, a written document that guarantees the people’s rights-and restricts the powers of the government. I love this country, but every time we let another constitutional right be trampled upon, every time we look the other way while some wrongful act is committed in the name of homeland security, or national defense, or patriotism, we become a little less American. The erosion of one civil right only leads to another, and I would suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that’s exactly what’s happening here-and it’s wrong. Because here in the United States, we don’t lock people away because it’s fashionable to think the worst of politicians. We don’t arrest people because a crime is committed in their workspace. And we don’t prosecute people without performing a thorough investigation that has convinced us-convinced us-that we have the right man.”

  Ben took a few steps forward and laid his hands gently upon the rail. “Let me ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Are you convinced that they have the right man? Has the prosecution proven to you-beyond a reasonable doubt-that Todd Glancy killed Veronica Cooper? Or is it just possible that it was someone else? Is it just possible that it happened exactly as described by Beatrice Taylor, the closest thing we have to an eyewitness in this case, the woman who knows more about what went on in Veronica Cooper’s life than anyone else in the world. Is it possible? Do you have a reasonable doubt? Because if you do-if, when you walk back into that jury room, you have a reasonable doubt about what really happened, then you must find my client not guilty. Why? Because this is the United States of America.” He let several seconds pass before he added, quietly: “And that’s the way we do things here.”

  25

  “H oly smokes, Ben,” Glancy said, shaking his head. He was waiting, with Ben and Christina, in a small room just a few doors down from where the jury was deliberating. “If you can give a speech like that every day, you should run for President.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “No, I’m a politician-or was, anyway-and I’ve heard enough orations to know a good one from a bad one. That was a hum
dinger. All you needed was some facile remark about family values and the invocation of the deity and it would’ve been perfect.” He stopped, then his voice dropped a few notches. “But was it enough to convince the jury?”

  Ben had to be honest. “I don’t know.”

  Christina jumped in. “I thought you covered all the main points. Brilliantly and persuasively.”

  “Perhaps. But we had some bad evidence. The pathetic thing is, the worst of it had nothing to do with who murdered Veronica Cooper. But the jury still heard it.”

  Glancy didn’t respond. They all knew what Ben was talking about.

  “What about me?” Glancy asked. “How did I do on the stand? You never said.”

  Ben chose his words carefully. “I thought you did the best you could… given the circumstances.”

  “You had to handle some tough questions,” Christina interjected, trying to add a more upbeat note.

  “Yeah, sure, I know all that. But did I have… duende?”

  Ben frowned. “Would it be a good thing if you did?”

  Glancy smiled. That’s Spanish. It’s like… charisma. The power to attract and persuade through personal magnetism and charm. I’m asking you if I seemed… charismatic?”

  Ben stared at him with weary eyes. Were you charismatic while you were talking about your affair with a minor and your aberrant sexual fetishes? “Juries are more interested in what a witness has to say than how they say it.”

  Glancy blew Ben a raspberry. “Says you. Charisma is all. If you’ve got enough of it, you can get away with anything.”

  “That hasn’t been my experience.”

  “It sure as heck has been mine. Haven’t you noticed how no one ever talks about whether a White House candidate is smart or knowledgeable or experienced or capable anymore? They talk about whether he’s electable. Whether he seems presidential.”

  “The legal world operates differently.”

  “Does it? Answer me this: Why did every single member of Nixon’s staff of any importance whatsoever do jail time-except Henry Kissinger, the most active and influential of them all?”

  Ben hazarded a guess. “Charisma?”

  “Darn tootin’. And he was a funny-looking German Jew with an almost incomprehensible accent. But he courted the press. He had PR people releasing statements about how he was dating Jill St. John or whatever. Meanwhile, he orchestrated the secret and illegal bombing of Cambodia. He authorized the Indonesian invasion of East Timor. He pushed for and got a CIA coup to overthrow the democratically elected Allende government in Chile. If someone had done stuff like that in Germany during World War II they’d’ve been tried at Nuremberg for war crimes. But when Kissinger did it, what happened? Criminal charges? No. Instead, he became a wealthy businessman and a senior statesman on CNN. And you know why?”

  “Charisma?”

  “Bingo. He was just so charming-no one could believe he knew about those naughty Watergate plumbers and their friends, even when common sense tells us he couldn’t have been a part of that administration and not have known about it. Some people think the whole reason for the Watergate burglary was to see if the Democrats knew Kissinger had sabotaged the ’68 Democratic Vietnam peace initiative which, if successful, would’ve almost certainly given Humphrey the presidency. Remember, Nixon won by less than one percent of the popular vote.”

  “I think that’s a bit of a stretch,” Ben said.

  “Of course you do. You’re a good guy. So you assume everyone else is, too. But mark my words, Ben-one day that foolish assumption is going to drop-kick you right between the legs.”

  Actually, Ben thought, it already had, on more than one occasion, but those were stories he didn’t care to repeat.

  Glancy stretched back into his chair. “So what are the odds? Fifty-fifty? Better? Worse?”

  “I never make predictions,” Ben answered. “Juries are too unpredictable.”

  “Aw, come on. Give me a hint.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know. We’ll all find out together.”

  “Fine.” Glancy scrunched down in his seat. “But if we lose, I’m not inviting your mother to my annual May Day barbecue.”

  “Just as well,” Ben said, smiling slightly. “She wouldn’t come.”

  The outside door whipped open. Padolino leaned inside. “It’s showtime!” He shut the door behind him.

  “Already?” Glancy said. “They’ve barely been out two hours! What does that mean?”

  Ben glanced at Christina, his lips pursed. “It means they didn’t need much time to make up their minds.”

  Ben thought they got it from television, but Christina’s theory was that every person-and thus every juror-had a secret sadistic streak, a Mr. Hyde lurking in the back of the cerebral cortex waiting for a proper exercise of power to give it expression. Either way, it was a universal constant that when the jury returned from deliberation, they took great pains to give no indication of their decision. Their faces were blank. They looked at no one.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Herndon asked.

  “We have,” said the foreperson, an older woman sitting on the far left of the front row. The bailiff took the folded verdict form to the judge, who carefully scrutinized it with the same stoic expression that was plastered on the jurors. Finally, without a word of comment, he returned it to the bailiff.

  “The defendant will rise.”

  Glancy did so, followed by his counsel. To their surprise, just behind them, Marie Glancy rose as well.

  The foreperson cleared her throat. “We the jury, in the case of the District of Columbia versus Todd K. Glancy, on the charge of first-degree murder-” She stopped.

  Ben winced. Why did they always insist on the dramatic pause?

  “-on the charge of first-degree murder,” she continued, “and for that matter, on the charge of second-degree murder and manslaughter, we find the defendant Todd K. Glancy not guilty.”

  The courtroom exploded. That was the only way Ben could describe it. Some people were shouting with joy. Some were expressing disgust. But whether out of surprise, relief, or pure cynicism, everyone was talking.

  “Oh my God,” Ben heard Glancy muttering softly beside him. “Much as I tried to keep my spirits up, I never really believed-never thought it was possible-” His voice choked. “Oh. My. God.”

  Ben closed his eyes. They had actually managed to pull it off. Against all odds, he and Christina had actually managed to pull it off. O frabjous day!

  Glancy was nearly in tears. He thanked the jury, then tried to hug Christina and shake Ben’s hand, both at once. He looked silly and confused, clearly so overwhelmed he hardly knew what he was doing. Judge Herndon slammed his gavel several times, making a mostly futile effort to quiet the courtroom. When the tumult had finally subsided sufficiently that the judge could be heard, he thanked the jury, gave them a few more final instructions-including reminding them that they were not required to speak to the press and that he personally advised against it-and discharged them. Then he turned his gavel to the main attraction in the courtroom.

  “Mr. Glancy,” he said sonorously, “you are free to go.”

  There was more cheering now, less mixed than before. The opposition was leaving the courtroom-Ben had seen both Steve Melanfield and Brad Tidwell depart with shocked expressions on their faces-and Todd’s friends and staff were gathering around him, embracing him, congratulating.

  “Thank you,” he said graciously, “but the accolades should go to Ben and Christina. They’re the ones who made this happen.”

  There was more jubilation, slapping of backs, and aggressive hand-shaking. Marie Glancy stepped up to Ben and quietly whispered in his ear. “Thank you,” she said, and she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You’ve pulled off a miracle.”

  “That’s why I get paid the big money,” he replied.

  Christina gave him a wry expression.

  “I feel as if I’ve gotten my whole life back,” Glancy said. He still seemed stunned
, utterly amazed. “All the anxiety, the turmoil, all these months. And now, it’s finally over.”

  Of course, Ben knew it wasn’t. There was still a possibility of statutory rape charges. If Padolino could figure out a way to pursue them that didn’t make him look like a poor loser spitefully determined to put Glancy away on any charge he could scrape up. And the only way Glancy could avoid being censured in the Senate would be if he resigned first.

  The celebration continued. Ben was surprised to feel a hand tugging on his back. It was Joe Padolino.

  “Kudos, counselor,” Padolino said graciously. “You tried a fine case. Hell of a closing. I think that’s where you won it.”

  Ben brushed the compliment away. “The evidence won it. The jury knew Beatrice Taylor was telling the truth.”

  “Yes, but on cross, I-” He stopped himself. “Aren’t we lawyers pathetic? We never know when to quit.” He smiled, then passed Ben a scrap of paper. “When all the celebrating is over, would you give this to Christina?”

  “What is it?”

  “My phone number.”

  “Um-oh.”

  “I just thought now that the trial was over, she might have more time for… you know. Socializing.”

  Ben nodded slowly. “I’ll see that she gets it.”

  “Great.” He slapped Ben’s shoulder. “And congratulations again.”

  Ben returned to the frenzied activity surrounding his client. Hazel had her steno pad out, taking notes. Amanda was doing some scribbling as well. Glancy was firing off one assignment after another. Apparently, now that the trial was over, he wasn’t wasting a minute before taking charge again.

  “-and I want the Blue Beetle replaced once and for all, even if it has to come out of my own pocket. Next time I’m caught in a national crisis, I don’t want my interns running to Kinko’s to get the press releases copied.”