“What was it you were trying to get across to her?” Smith asked.
“That I was not somebody to threaten.”
“What did she threaten you with, Farmer, that she would tell your boss, Senator Ewald, that you were selling him out?”
“Come on, Mac, nobody sells anybody out at this level of politics. You evaluate, read the tides, and take the boat that will get you there the fastest.”
At least he hadn’t used sports metaphors, Smith thought.
“Mac, Andrea was a slut, a user. She was capable of selling anyone out for personal gain. She called Ken’s house after the gala that night. Ken wasn’t there because he was shacked up with the opera singer. Marcia took the call. Andrea told Marcia to tell Ken to meet her behind the big German relief across from the Kennedy Center’s main entrance.”
“And you heard the conversation on the tape in the second-floor office.”
“Yes. Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. What was Andrea going to tell Ken?”
“That I’d stolen sensitive files having to do with Morales and the Kane Ministries.”
“Why would she say that? Did you steal them? My information is that she stole them.”
“To be precise, Mac, I never physically took the files from the house, although I did make their contents known to certain people.”
“What people? Garrett Kane?”
“No, the distinguished senator in the other room.”
“Jody Backus?”
“Yes.”
Smith stood and leaned on the back of a chair. “Why would you help Ken’s major competitor for the nomination?”
“Ken Ewald won’t win the White House,” Farmer said.
“And you think Jody Backus can?”
Farmer shook his head. “No, Raymond Thornton will be our next president.”
“So what did you have to gain by passing secrets along to Backus?”
“Assurance of a job. Backus might be a Democrat, but he’s much more wired into the Manning administration and Raymond Thornton than anyone really knows.”
Smith sighed. “Then the ideas that Ken Ewald stands for mean nothing to you.”
“Ideas? Of course not. There are no ideas or ideals in politics. The only thing that matters is winning. Hanging in with blind faith and loyalty to a loser doesn’t get you very far.”
Smith felt, at once, disgust and pity. The young man with the bow tie, tweed jacket, and penny loafers was like so many young people in Smith’s law classes, void of ideals, of dreams other than wealth and power; there were no causes that they would fight for unless there were tangible gains, nothing for which they would stand on a soapbox and preach, only a pragmatic sense of self. God help you, Mr. Farmer, God help us all, Smith thought. He said, “You brought me in here and said you might need my help. Do you really think I would defend you?”
“Why not? He’s not going to win, which means you’ll never become attorney general. I think you and I are very much alike, Mac. We’re both good players in this game, and we’re both dependent on how the voters see Ken Ewald versus Raymond Thornton. They’ll go for Thornton. Trust me. There’s nobody better at analyzing a political situation than me.”
“That may be,” Smith said, “but why did you have to kill her?”
“I didn’t intend to. As I said before, I just wanted to emphasize my point. Funny, but it occurred to me just before I pulled the trigger that even if she told Ken Ewald what I’d done, it really shouldn’t affect my future. But then the irony, the reality, of the situation became clear to me. There isn’t a politician in this country who doesn’t try to gain damaging information about opponents, and most of them are happy to pay for it. But the minute you’re the one who sells it to them, they become self-righteous and brand you as a person who can’t be trusted. What garbage, huh, Mac? I looked at Andrea that night and realized the difference. She’d sold out only for money. As far as I’m concerned, that’s intolerable.”
“You consider your own motives loftier?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you see it that way?” He became uncharacteristically passionate. “I see wonderful things ahead for this country, and I see people like you and me helping to shape them. I can’t do that standing at Ken Ewald’s side when he gives his concession speech in November.” A small smile crossed Farmer’s lips, and Smith felt himself begin to tremble.
“When I saw Backus arrive tonight, saw Marcia Mims and Janet Ewald here, I knew you’d put it together. Was I wrong, Mac? You knew I was the one who killed Andrea.”
“Not with any certainty, but yes, I knew.”
“They’ll have trouble proving it.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll certainly testify to our conversation here tonight.”
Farmer guffawed. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my lawyer. Attorney-client privilege.”
“I’m not your attorney, Farmer. You were willing to let Paul Ewald take the rap, weren’t you?”
Farmer’s eyes opened wide, and a smug expression crossed his face. “Of course. I really thought I was off the hook when they focused on Paul as the prime suspect. Seemed perfect. There he was having an affair with her, fighting with Janet all the time, disappearing the night of the murder, and having easy access to his father’s gun. Then you came into the picture and the spotlight on Paul dimmed. You were one of the best criminal attorneys this city has ever seen, and I know you’ll pull out all the stops for me. Believe me, Mac, someday I’ll be in a position to return the favor.”
Smith sprang from his chair, grabbed Farmer by the lapels, lifted him from the chair, and slid him across the desk into the wall. Farmer’s glasses fell off, and his smile was replaced by an expression of terror.
“You slimy bastard, comparing me to you, sitting here calmly while you talk about all the good reasons you had for killing someone. Defend you? I’ll do everything I can to see that you spend the rest of your pathetic life in jail.” He released his grasp, opened the door, and stepped into the living room. Ken Ewald and Jody Backus were in the corner talking. People became aware of Smith and turned to him. Conversation dwindled, then stopped.
Smith motioned to Tony Buffolino to come to him. He said quietly, “Call the police and tell them we have Andrea Feldman’s murderer.”
Buffolino looked toward the open door to the bedroom. “Him? Joe Bow Tie?”
“Yes.”
Farmer appeared in the doorway. He’d replaced his glasses and was straightening his tie. He smiled at Smith as he crossed the room to where Ewald and Backus stood. “Well, Senator Backus, telling your esteemed colleague how you tried to sell him out?”
Backus glowered at Farmer through watery eyes. He said to Ewald, “You’ve had yourself a Judas in your own house all along, Ken. You know what this weasel tried to do?”
Ewald look quizzically at Farmer.
“This little weasel tried to make a deal with me to sell secrets out of your campaign,” Backus said. “How ’bout that?”
Smith joined them as Farmer said, “Don’t listen to him, Ken. He’d do anything to make sure you never become president, including murder.”
“What’s he saying, Jody?”
Farmer continued, “Your good friend, the esteemed senator from Georgia here, arranged to have Andrea Feldman killed to cover up the fact that she was selling your files on Kane and Morales to him.”
Backus was about to reach for Farmer when Smith stepped between them. He said to Ewald, “Ken, this will all be resolved and explained in short order. Let me just say that your trusted campaign manager Mr. Farmer is the one who murdered Andrea Feldman to cover his own tracks. The two of them, Andrea and Farmer, had been selling you out all along.”
Ewald’s face was sheer bewilderment. He shook his head and said, “I just don’t understand what’s gone on this evening.”
“You don’t know who your friends are, Ken,” said Farmer. “I’m glad you’ll never be
president of this country. You’ve made too many messes in your life, and you won’t have me anymore to clean up after you.” He looked at Leslie Ewald, who’d come up to them. “Your whole family is pathetic,” he said.
Farmer slowly turned and started for the door.
“Tony, don’t let him leave,” Smith said to Buffolino, who was on the phone with the MPD. Tony dropped the phone and started to get up, but Smith said, “No, don’t bother. Let him go. He won’t disappear.” Or maybe he’ll kill himself, Smith thought, not at all pleased at his casual acceptance of that possibility.
Smith looked at Leslie, who was obviously as confused as her husband. He said, “I think a lot of nasty things are behind you and Ken now.” To Ken, he added, “I’ll give you details another time. It’s time for you to nail down the nomination, Ken, and for me to get back to teaching law.”
Backus, whose glass was empty, slapped Ewald on the back, which brought a wince to Ewald’s face. “It’s been a tough campaign, Ken, and I bow to the better man. You’ve got my support one hundred percent, and you can count on it from this moment forward.”
38
“I have nothing more to say today, except that I hope at least a few of you will occasionally take time away from your pursuit of fees and partnerships to do something with your legal education that benefits others.” Smith surveyed the faces of the students in his advanced criminal-law class. It was the final day they would be together before graduation.
“Professor Smith.”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to the convention in San Francisco?”
“Yes,” Smith answered.
“Do you think Senator Ewald will be the Democratic nominee?”
“I would imagine so, now that Senator Backus has dropped out and has given his full support to Senator Ewald.”
“If he wins in November, will you become his attorney general?”
“Why would that be of interest to you?” Smith asked.
“Well, sir, it would be …” She laughed nervously. “It would be a nice credential to have been taught by an attorney general of the United States.”
“Frankly, Ms. Mencken, I don’t see that as representing any particular advantage to a law student. People who become attorneys general are like some doctors who become chiefs of staff at their hospitals—and exhibit far more interest in politics than in healing the sick, or, in the case of your intended profession, in defending the unjustly accused or convicting the accurately accused. Not only that, they don’t have time to practice their profession because they are always too busy running for office, one kind of office or another. If you must have surgery in the future, Ms. Mencken, I suggest you not seek the services of any medical chief of staff. Based on that thesis, it would be to your advantage that I do not become attorney general.”
The red-faced young man next to her quickly raised his hand and said, “You’ve evaded the question, Professor Smith. Will you be the next attorney general if Senator Ewald becomes president?”
Smith smiled, slid his notes into his briefcase, and snapped it shut. He looked at the class and said, “Next November, I will be at this university teaching this course to other students. You will have graduated and begun your careers. I will be flattered if you drop in from time to time, or send me a brief note letting me know how you’re progressing.” He was about to end the class with his usual, “Good day, ladies and gentlemen.” Instead, he waved to them and said, “Ciao!”
United States Senator Kenneth Ewald had been receiving people all day in his suite at the Compton Court Hotel in San Francisco. The final roll call was that night. Things were looking good, although there had been a last-minute move to position a more conservative senator from Texas as a serious contender. But that ploy seemed designed as much for four years in the future as for the moment. The die-hard conservatives in the party determined to deny Ewald the nomination had been busy rallying elaborate support for the Texas legislator, but according to Ewald’s new campaign manager, Paul Ewald, they were falling considerably short of their goal.
Still, Ken Ewald was worried, would be until the final votes were counted. He sat alone after a long meeting with leading delegates committed to him. A glass of club soda with a wedge of lime was at the table next to him. He looked at his watch: an hour before his next appointment. He had scheduled it that way. Ewald needed time to think, something he’d decided to do more of in the future.
Outside the closed door, in the living room, secretaries and staff members fielded phone calls. “No, the senator is unavailable at this moment.” “Yes, he will be attending the meeting in two hours.” “No, he has no intention of releasing a statement before tonight.”
One of his secretaries, whose nerves were becoming frazzled from the pace of the day, answered a call with an abrupt, “Yes?”
“This is Roseanna Gateaux. Would it be possible for me to speak with Senator Ewald?”
The secretary placed her hand over the mouthpiece and said to a young aide next to her, “Roseanna Gateaux? Isn’t that the opera singer?”
“Yeah. She’s an old friend of the senator.”
“She wants to speak with him.”
The male aide shrugged. “He said not to disturb him, but I think I’d better with this one.” He winked, went to the door, and knocked. Ewald told him to come in. “Senator, a Ms. Gateaux wishes to speak with you on the phone.”
The mention of her name hit Ewald physically. He realized the aide was waiting for an answer. He said, “Put her through.”
“Roseanna?” he said after the aide was gone.
“I know I shouldn’t be calling you like this but …”
“It’s all right.” He didn’t say he was aware that she was the one person capable of ruining his chances for the presidency, and ruining his marriage, which was, Lord knew, shaky enough.
“Ken, could I possibly see you for a few minutes? I promise it won’t take me long to say what I have to say.”
He wanted to say no, but he was afraid to. They hadn’t had any contact since the events of a month ago, and he knew it had to be that way. Still, there was a part of him that thought it better to resolve problems face-to-face, and in this case to make it plain that there could never be a relationship again. He took into consideration the fact that he had scheduled this private time, and that Leslie would not be back for at least another two hours. “Yes,” he said, “but I only have a few minutes. Where are you?”
“Downstairs in the hotel.”
“All right, please come up.”
His secretary ushered Roseanna into the room. Ewald was aware of a questioning look on the secretary’s face and quickly dismissed her, saying, “It’s okay. Five minutes.”
“You look very good,” Roseanna said, not moving from just inside the door.
“So do you. You do know, Roseanna, that this will be the last time we will ever be alone together. It has to be that way.”
“I understand. I only came here to tell you that you need never worry about me, need never wake up in the middle of the night and wonder whether what we shared together will ever become public knowledge. No kiss-and-tell books, no talk-show interviews, no articles in the National Enquirer.”
He smiled. The smile represented relief at her words, as well as certain sadness at what they meant. “Come, sit,” he said.
“No, I know you don’t have the time, and—”
“Sit down, Roseanna, just for a minute.”
They sat in armchairs that were side by side and looked at each other. She was the most inordinately beautiful woman he’d ever known, possessing a beauty so different from Leslie’s; a difference that was, after all, part of the attraction.
She said, “You will become president.”
“I don’t know, Roseanna. I’m trying very hard to be, although I’m not sure I should.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because … because I’m not sure any longer that I’m the man to sit in such a position
of power, of life and death.”
Her hand poised in midair as though having a mind of its own, then decided to come down on top of his hand, lightly, fingertips only. Her eyes filled as she said, “I think this country will be very fortunate to have you leading it, and I consider myself very fortunate to have been able to touch you, to know you.”
He was embarrassed, and looked away.
She stood. “Ken, what we had was very special to me. I know we will never have it again, and that is a sorrow. At the same time, I celebrate, rather than mourn, what I’ve lost. Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching.”
Before he could say anything, she went to the door, opened it and paused as though about to deliver an exit line, then went through it, and was gone.
Mac Smith, Annabel Reed, and Tony Buffolino had taken the afternoon to ride the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf, where they’d browsed the eclectic wares of sidewalk artisans, bought chocolate in Ghirardelli Square, eaten crab and calamari out of small paper bowls purchased from vendors along Jefferson Street, walked out of the famous Boudin Bakery with loaves of sourdough bread, and returned to the Raphael Hotel footsore and happy.
They sat in Buffolino’s room and toasted their good day with champagne.
Eventually, the conversation got around to the events that had brought them together in this place. Buffolino asked Smith what he thought of Ed Farmer’s chances in his trial. Farmer had pleaded not guilty, and had hired a top D.C. lawyer, Morris Jankowski.
“Jankowski is good,” Smith said. “He’ll find plenty of holes in the prosecution’s case, including my testimony, which, I’m sure, Jankowski will paint as unimportant, create an atmosphere in which I had a personal grudge against Farmer, misunderstood what he was saying.”
“Can you believe this about Greist?” Annabel said, picking up that day’s San Francisco Examiner and tossing it back on a table. “Ridiculous!” Herbert Greist had suffered a fatal heart attack. The story in the Examiner was based on charges by a left-wing group that the Bureau might have killed him.
Smith laughed. “Tomorrow we’ll read that a right-wing group is accusing the Communists of killing him to keep him quiet.”
Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 33
