“Interesting,” he said.
“What does this do to my case?”
“It has to do with the Fifth Amendment,” Blackstone said.
Vinnie had a puzzled look on her face.
“What I mean is this,” Blackstone continued, putting down his silverware and pushing away his plate. “You have a right not to testify under the Fifth Amendment. Deciding whether an indicted defendant will waive that right and choose to testify at trial is probably one of the most important strategic steps in a criminal case.”
“Who decides?”
“You and I do, Vinnie. I counsel you. I give my very strong recommendation. But ultimately I have to abide by your decision.”
“And your recommendation is, what?”
“We’ll reserve that until the very last moment,” Blackstone replied. “Sometimes even during the trial itself. We can hold back from deciding until after the prosecution has presented its case, even through your defense case. Up to the point where all of our other defense evidence had been presented. But sometime before the defense rests its case, if you are going to testify, that’s the last chance…the last train out of the station.”
Vinnie was pondering what she had just been told. Then she asked another question.
“But what problem would there be in my testifying on my own behalf?”
“Several potential problems,” Blackstone replied. “When you testify, you have to do it truthfully. All of what you just told me, about your offering Langley under-the-table money to give Lord Dee a preview of the Booth diary pages, that will all come out. That is not going to make you look good in front of the jury. Beyond that, much of what you would say will corroborate the government’s case against you. You will admit that Langley gave you the security door code. That you tried to get your hands on the diary. Langley refused. His private journal said that he was planning on reviewing the diary pages that same night. Did Langley tell you that?”
“He said he was working late that night…that I could come by if I wanted to…after hours…I think he may have said something about working on the Booth thing, I’m not sure.”
“So, right there,” Blackstone snapped, “you put another bullet in the prosecution’s gun. The only two things you will really be able to deny are these: You would testify that you were not part of any plan to kill Langley or steal the diary, and that you didn’t give the code to anyone else, correct?”
“Right. I didn’t. Absolutely not,” she said adamantly.
“Do you know how you might have inadvertently let the access code get into someone else’s hands?”
“I wouldn’t have the faintest idea.”
Then she thought of something, and narrowed her eyes and asked Blackstone another question.
“You said there were several problems with my testifying. You explained how I might end up actually helping prove the prosecution’s case. What are the other problems?”
“If you testify, but you lie, even if you get acquitted of the Smithsonian crime, the government can come after you again for criminal perjury.”
“Why do you think I would lie?” she said, pleading.
“People who face a life sentence, or the death penalty, or even just a few years in prison—they get scared,” Blackstone said, almost nonchalantly. “They think they can beat the system with a well-contrived story. Or they panic. Lots of reasons. And sometimes a defendant lies because telling the truth would require a confession—they lie because they are guilty and they know it.”
Vinnie fell silent. Blackstone could tell that his client was starting to face up to the tough terrain ahead of her at trial.
“Look,” Blackstone said, “there’s also a procedural matter we need to talk about.”
She gave him a wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Nothing nerve-racking,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Just a pretrial conference with the trial judge. The lawyers are going to discuss some preliminary details about the trial and update the court. I need to have you there.”
“I really don’t want to go.”
“Any good reason for that?”
“Nothing that you would understand, I’m afraid.”
“Try me.”
“You keep saying that I am the client and you have to do my bidding and all of that—well, here it is—I am instructing you to handle this without me. Just tell me what’s discussed at the court hearing.”
“I’m still waiting for an explanation as to why you won’t show up.”
“Fear—how about that for a reason?” she blurted out. “J.D., just think about that one for a second. I come in acting all worried and frightened and panicky…the prosecutor takes one look at me and is going to be able to read it all over my face…is that going to help my case? For the government lawyer to know I’m scared to death of this trial?”
“I can understand that,” Blackstone said. “But I have two responses. First, you are going to be required to be physically present at your trial. That’s not an option. So how are you going to handle that? Second, because of that, you might as well start getting psychologically prepared. One way to do that is by going into the courtroom for the pretrial. Get used to the layout of the place, and some of the court personnel. Getting a comfort level with the exterior stuff of the environment where the trial is going to be conducted. That’s a first step. Then you and I can start talking about your fears. Dealing with them directly. If you need a professional counselor to help you with that process, I can recommend someone.”
“You mean a shrink?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks,” she said with a kind of nervous laugh. “J.D., I’ve made it clear. I don’t want to be at the pretrial…you be there for me. That’s why you’re my lawyer. Is there something I need to sign to make sure I don’t have to be there and you can appear for me?”
“Interesting that you should mention it,” Blackstone said. “Yes, there is. Stop by the office tomorrow. I will have a waiver form ready for you to sign.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to run to the bathroom quick,” she said. “Don’t bother cleaning up. I want to do that. You just stay put.”
Then she rose and disappeared around the corner.
Blackstone got up and started meandering around the room, studying the art on the walls, most of it French impressionist, and scanning the magazines on the table and the books in her bookcase. Then he walked over to a closet that was half open.
It was a coat closet. There were a few jackets hanging there. On the floor was a stack of magazines.
He reached down with his good right arm and picked up the magazine on the top. It was Architectural Digest. The next one was ArtCentric. The one after that was an issue of National Geographic with one of the cover headlines dealing with ancient busts of Assyrian kings. He flipped through the pile of miscellaneous magazines, getting a closer glimpse at Vinnie’s interests.
Until he was almost at the bottom of the stack. That is when he came across an anomaly.
It was a several-year-old issue of Crime Journal. The cover story was the Virginia-Maryland-DC sniper killings of 2002, involving Lee Boyd Malvo and John Allen Muhammad.
Blackstone flipped the magazine over to check out the mailing label. Then he tossed it down and placed the rest of the stack of magazines on top of it.
As he walked out of the closet he saw Vinnie rounding the corner, heading into the little dining room where they had been eating.
“What are you trying to do, tidy up my messy apartment?” she yelled out as she picked up the dishes from the table.
“No, just snooping around to find out where the dead bodies are buried,” he countered with a smile.
“Ooh, that’s a little macabre, even for you, J.D.”
Blackstone strolled back to the table, where she had laid a clean dessert plate.
“Come on, sit down,” she said cajoling. “I’m serving coconut cream pie. Nothing fancy. Just
the classic dessert.”
While he was waiting to be served he said, “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“What’s the most memorable sculpture you ever did?”
“Hmm, that’s a tough one,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Well, I think that Horace Langley, actually, would have been a great sculpting experience…he had an interesting face…but I never got to finish it, obviously.”
Then she thought more on it.
“There was another one.”
Blackstone was waiting.
“When those two guys, can’t recall their names…the ‘Beltway snipers,’ they were called. When they gunned down all those poor people like that in Virginia, and Maryland, and some in DC, I think too…anyway, a community group later came to me and suggested maybe I could do a sculpting—a kind of memorial for the victims. But it never got off the ground.”
Blackstone smiled and nodded. He had wondered about the magazine in the closet. But once again, Vinnie had the right answer. So why did he keep wrestling with doubts about her?
“Got to ask you something else,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“I was reading in the grand jury testimony about your attending that Theosophy conference in Scotland with Lord Dee.”
“Oh, that,” she groaned. “Very weird. And yet interesting, I have to admit. I just found the other presenters were not in the same league as Magister Dee. And a few were quite bizarre. A little like attending a Star Trek convention.”
She placed a large slice of cream pie on his plate.
“The grand jury evidence,” Blackstone said, looking around for a fork or spoon on the table but not finding one, “indicated you were very enthusiastic about the conference. You loved the whole thing. And you praised one speaker in particular—a guy by the name of Radfield Kemper. He was talking about using force and violence if necessary to hasten the—I think he called it the ‘esoteric elite.’ Does any of that ring a bell?”
“Not really,” she said from the kitchen where she was fetching some clean silverware.
In a moment she was back in the dining room, standing next to Blackstone. She placed her fork down at her plate, but kept his fork in her hand.
“Look, you have to know something about me,” she said, looking down at him. “I can get enthusiastic about things…over the top even…to please people around me. I wanted to show Magister that I was into this stuff. And in a way I kind of was. I think I may have said some things to make it sound like I was all gung-ho. But that was for Magister’s benefit, I think.”
Then Vinnie, still standing next to Blackstone, took the fork in her hand, sliced into the pie on his plate, and picked up a piece on the end of the fork. She put it into Blackstone’s mouth.
There was a small drop of cream pie that lingered on his lip.
Vinnie bent down and kissed it off his lips with hers.
“I’m sure you realize I want you,” she said. “I’m not very good at keeping a secret.”
But then she straightened up and with a quick change of attitude and tone of voice, she explained herself.
“But I’ve decided to be a good girl tonight. I’m not going to ask you to sleep over. I think you still need a little bit of space.”
“Oh?” he said taking a bite of his own from the pie on his plate.
“Yes. Maybe it’s losing Marilyn, your wife. Even though it’s been—what?—two years or more from what I know about it. Anyway, with the trial and everything coming up, I just thought it would be better, you know, if you slept in your own bed tonight…unless…well…unless you really wanted to stay with me tonight.”
“I’m really not sure what you’re saying,” Blackstone said.
“To tell you the truth,” Vinnie said, running a hand through her curled locks, “I really don’t know what I’m saying.”
Blackstone swallowed the bit of pie, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and stood up.
“Then, in that event,” he announced with a smile, “I’ll take my leave. Until you can figure out what you’re saying, or not saying.”
Blackstone was at the door when Vinnie spoke to him one last time.
“Darling,” she said. “When can we do this again?”
“I’ll call you,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We have a criminal trial to prepare for.”
CHAPTER 42
Two days later, in the chambers of U.S. District Judge Robert Templeton, J.D. Blackstone was seated in one of the large red-leather chairs across from the judge’s expansive mahogany desk. Julia, as co-counsel, was seated next to him.
On the other side, also facing the judge, was Henry Hartz, along with another assistant federal prosecutor.
In two chairs in the far corner of the room were FBI special agent Johnson and DC Detective Victor Cheski.
It was Blackstone’s first day with his shoulder out of the sling. It was stiff, but he tried not to show it.
“Client not here?” the judge said with a measure of dissatisfaction.
“No, Your Honor,” Blackstone replied. “My client has signed a waiver. I’ve filed it with the clerk.”
“Yes, I know,” the judge said, still perturbed. “I’ve read it. But I can’t imagine a client in a death penalty case just choosing not to show up. Can you?”
“I’m not in a position, Your Honor, to detail our attorney-client conversations.”
“I’m not asking you to,” the judge snapped. “But for heaven’s sake, Blackstone. Can’t you control your client? Tell her she needs to be here. I don’t want some post-conviction motion being filed—if she’s convicted, I mean—arguing that she should have been advised of this or that in the pretrial conference.”
“That’s the purpose of a waiver,” Blackstone said with a small measure of condescension. “Waiver, being defined as the informed, voluntary, and deliberate relinquishment of a known right.”
“Don’t play law school with me,” the judge snapped.
“Mr. Blackstone,” Hartz said, interjecting with disdain in his voice. “Are you sure she is still in the jurisdiction? Has she fled from the country, perhaps? Jumped bail?”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Henry?” Blackstone shot back. “That would do a nice job of bolstering your sagging little case.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Judge Templeton barked. “Let’s get on with the business here.”
“Henry,” the judge said, turning to the prosecutor, “have you provided all the necessary discovery to Professor Blackstone?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
“Judge,” Blackstone interjected. “I still have two requests outstanding.”
“Which are?” Henry Hartz snapped.
“Well, first,” Blackstone said, “I asked for discovery relating to the drinking glass that the FBI 302 report of Agent Johnson says was on the victim’s desk.”
“You have a copy of the crime lab report,” Hartz shot back. “There were no fingerprints on that glass. So the glass is obviously irrelevant. What’s your complaint?”
“I would like to know where the glass went,” Blackstone said.
With that, Blackstone turned and looked behind him. In the far corner of the room, FBI agent Johnson was stone-faced. Next to him, Detective Cheski has a pleasant smile on his face.
“The glass is obviously in the evidence inventory,” Hartz said with a twisted smirk.
“Not according to your inventory sheet,” Blackstone replied. “It’s not listed.”
“You must have been looking at the wrong evidence inventory sheet.”
“Henry,” the judge said. “I want you to give an accounting of this drinking glass issue in forty-eight hours. In writing. To the court, and a copy to defense counsel. Okay, next?”
“My demand for exculpatory evidence,” Blackstone announced.
“There is no exculpatory evidence in this case,” Hartz announced brazenly. “Your Honor, this i
s one of the few cases I can remember where I couldn’t disclose any exculpatory evidence to the defense. The more we dig, the more incriminating evidence we find against the defendant, Vinnie Archmont. Rest assured, Judge, if we come across any evidence that tends to support in any way the innocence of the defendant, we will be sure and produce it to Mr. Blackstone.”
“Alright, next?” the judge said.
“The government’s witness list,” Blackstone continued. “I recognize every one of the witnesses on their list because they all testified in the grand jury—all, that is, except one.”
Then he lifted up the government’s witness list and tapped a name on the list with his pen.
“Who is this woman Shelly Hollsaker?”
Henry Hartz was silent. Then he explained.
“She is the person who overheard a statement made by your client.”
“I know that,” Blackstone volleyed back. “It says that right here on your witness list. I want to know who this gal is—stop playing games here, Henry.”
“She’s a prisoner,” Henry said. “In the lockup. She shared a cell with your client after her arrest.”
“And you don’t think the fact that a prosecution witness just happens to be a federal prisoner is exculpatory?” Blackstone said, his voice simmering with anger.
“Gentlemen,” the judge interjected. “Please. Actually, Henry, your description of the evidence you intend to elicit from Ms. Hollsaker is a little scant. Please submit a more exhaustive description of what she is going to testify to. In writing. Within forty-eight hours. Okay?”
“Will be glad to,” Hartz said with a smile.
“One more thing,” the judge said. “The media has now begun to file motions asking that the trial be televised. I don’t like cameras in my courtroom. You both know that. And the Court of Appeals has given us guidance on that too. So, before I render my decision on those requests, where do you stand?”
“The government is taking no position on that issue,” Hartz announced.
“The defense objects to cameras,” Blackstone said. “I think that juries can do strange things when they know they are being filmed. This is a capital murder case, not a TV reality show.”
The Rose Conspiracy Page 20
