Anna felt some sympathy for the people whose lives would be affected. But a young woman was dead, and Anna’s main concern was finding who had killed her. “Bring your business documents here tomorrow,” Anna said. “All of them.”
Madeleine stood up. “I need to consult with my lawyer.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break, folks.”
The jurors got up, stretched, and headed to the bathrooms and vending machines. Jack, Anna, and Madeleine filed into the witness room. Samantha and Thomasson were standing by the CSO’s desk.
Madeleine grabbed her attorney’s arm and pulled her to a corner. “They want me to turn over my books!” She was obviously trying to keep her voice low but was so upset that everyone could hear.
Anna could see the jurors watching the whole scene. They should only see the evidence presented in the grand jury room itself.
“Why don’t you talk in the witness room?” Anna suggested to Thomasson.
Madeleine and her attorney went into the room and conferred with the door closed. After a few minutes, Thomasson opened the door and gestured for them to come into the room. Madeleine was sitting with her arms crossed over her chest. Anna closed the door behind them.
“Is all of this really necessary?” Thomasson asked.
“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t have any basis to withhold the records.”
Anna was glad Jack agreed with her about this.
“She won’t do it,” Thomasson said.
“We can get a search warrant right now,” Sam said. “We’ll just go to her house and take the records.”
“Not based on her immunized testimony,” Thomasson countered. “Look, she’s not going to destroy the papers, I guarantee it. She understands that would be felony obstruction of justice. But she won’t just hand them over to you.”
“We’ll ask the judge to compel her,” Anna said.
“Fair enough. But she wants to fight it.”
“All right.” Jack sighed. “Let’s call the judge.”
Jack rang the judge from the witness room’s telephone. A law clerk put him through.
“Mr. Bailey?” Judge Redwood’s voice came through the speaker.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor. I have defense attorney Jane Thomasson here, as well as her client, Madeleine Connor. We have a matter that requires your intervention. We hope to schedule a hearing as soon as possible.”
Jack briefed the judge on what was happening. “The government is going to move to compel Ms. Connor’s records. We can have the motion to compel filed with the court by . . .”
He looked at Anna. “By this afternoon,” she mouthed.
“By this afternoon,” he said.
“Can you respond before midnight tonight, Ms. Thomasson?” asked the judge.
The lawyer didn’t look happy about it, but she agreed.
“Okay. I’m putting you down for a hearing tomorrow at eleven A.M.,” said the judge. “And I want both sides coming prepared. Ms. Connor, bring your records to court tomorrow. If I do rule in the government’s favor, I will order that the documents be turned over straightaway.”
Unlike the hearing about the congressional videotapes, this time Anna was happy with the judge’s signal.
“What if I don’t turn them over?” Madeleine asked her lawyer.
Her lawyer shushed her—bad strategy to let the judge know you were already thinking about violating an order. But the judge had heard.
“Then I’ll hold you in contempt, Ms. Connor.” Judge Redwood’s voice dropped an octave. “And you’ll go to the D.C. Jail, where you’ll be held until you comply with the Court’s order.”
Madeleine’s eyes got wide. “What about my clients?” she asked. “And my girls? They’ll be exposed if I turn those books over.”
“An unfortunate consequence of engaging in illegal activity.”
“Can I at least warn them?” Madeleine asked.
“Ma’am, you should talk to your lawyer.” The judge’s disapproval rang through the speakerphone. “But I expect she’ll advise you not to have any off-the-record conversations with your clients or the women you employ as escorts—that is, your co-conspirators—telling them about this investigation. Should it be interpreted as dissuading them from testifying, or encouraging them to destroy evidence, your conversation would constitute obstruction of justice.”
“Which your immunity doesn’t cover,” Jack added.
Madeleine looked at her lawyer, who nodded. The madam’s arrogance had transformed into fear. Anna had seen this transformation many times before, at the moment a person realized it was not a game, that they were actually in trouble. Madeleine wanted to fight to protect her escorts and her clients. But would she sacrifice her own liberty for their privacy?
“I can’t go to jail again,” Madeleine said to her lawyer. “I won’t.”
“Shh,” said the lawyer.
“Then you will obey my order tomorrow,” the judge said, and hung up.
27
Anna, Jack, and Samantha emerged from the courthouse into John Marshall Place Park. The park provided a shady green spot between the federal courthouse and the Canadian embassy. Anna wasn’t surprised to see a bunch of journalists set up there, with their cameras pointed to the courthouse’s side door. Reporters often lingered near the courthouse when they heard that something big was going on.
Anna was surprised to see Madeleine standing calmly in the plaza, with her lawyer looking uncomfortable at her side. Journalists pressed around the two women, shouting questions at the madam.
“Madeleine! Do you think Congressman Lionel killed your escort?”
“Are you cooperating with the prosecution?”
“Who are your other clients?”
News vans sat on the C Street curb, their raised poles snaking with red wires. They were broadcasting live. Someone must have tipped them off that the madam had come in to testify—perhaps a grand juror, or someone who worked at the courthouse, or even someone in Anna’s own office.
“No comment, no comment!” said Thomasson, tugging at her client’s arm.
Anna felt a wave of sympathy for the madam, as well as a twinge of guilt for putting her in this position. Anna knew what it was like to be caught in a media stampede—although at the moment, she seemed invisible to the reporters.
But Madeleine didn’t look unhappy. She was standing still and smiling at the crowd. A fresh coat of pink gloss glimmered on her lips. She put up her hands, shushing the reporters so she could speak. Anna suddenly realized who had alerted the press. “I think Madeleine called the reporters herself,” she whispered to Jack.
He nodded. “She’s ready for her close-up.”
The rules prohibited grand jurors and government agents from talking to anyone about an ongoing grand jury investigation, but those rules didn’t apply to Madeleine or her attorney. A witness could hold a press conference if she wanted—and it looked like that was exactly what Madeleine was doing.
Madeleine spoke slowly but forcefully. “For many years, I ran an agency called Discretion. Caroline McBride was working for me when she was killed. I’ve been ordered by the government to turn over my agency’s books and records. I’m fighting like hell not to! But I’ve been warned that if I don’t turn them over, I’ll be put in prison.”
Anna looked at Jack. “She’s clever. This is her way of getting around Judge Redwood’s instruction without having any off-the-record conversations.”
Madeleine looked straight into a camera. “I promised my clients discretion, and my girls, too. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep that promise. I’m sorry. The hearing is tomorrow morning. Before I turn over my records, I’d like to warn my clients and my girls that their names may be exposed.”
“What will you do to warn them?” asked a reporter.
“That was it,” Madeleine said. She pushed her way through the crowd.
28
Nicole curled on a corner of the filthy mattress, trying to
stay on the parts that were unstained. It was impossible. The entire mattress was covered in mysterious blotches, one bleeding into the other. They could be blood, or piss, or a spot of mumbo sauce. Nicole shuddered and pulled her knees closer to her chest, squeezing herself into an even smaller ball.
She hadn’t slept all night. She was terrified, shaking and sweating, in desperate need of coke. The rest of the basement offered no escape. There were no windows. The only door, at the top of the dilapidated steps, was locked. The cement walls were streaked with rusty stains; the floor was partially covered with a balding brown carpet that looked and smelled like it had been reclaimed from a dump; the whole moldy cellar was lit by a single bare bulb in the middle. She wasn’t sure if it was day or night. There was stuff everywhere: furniture, boxes, crates, garbage bags overflowing with clothes and stuffed animals. It looked like an episode of Hoarders.
Who were her captors? Two guys had driven her here last night, making no attempt to prevent her from seeing the rowhouse into which she’d been dragged. Then they’d thrown her into the cellar without giving her a clue as to why this was happening. They could be Madeleine’s enforcers cracking down on her freelancing. Or political operatives trying to shut her up for what she knew. Maybe someone she owed money. She’d made so many enemies lately, it was hard to keep track.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. It was T-Rex. Nicole’s fear instantly turned to relief—a Pavlovian response to the sight of her drug dealer. She hurried to meet him as he came down the stairs. He was tall, white, and muscular, with a shaved head and tattoos covering every inch of his neck, arms, and chest. She’d slept with him a few times, first for fun and later to cover her debt. Although he was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans now, she knew his tattoos stopped at his groin in a tangle of thick barbed-wire designs. He was the closest thing she had to a friend now.
“T-Rex!” She held her arms out to embrace him.
His huge palm was like a padded club, hitting her jaw with a loud thwack. Pain exploded across her face, and she fell to the floor.
“Fuck you, Nicole. Where’s my money?”
She looked up at him, shocked and then furious—at herself for her stupidity. Of course, T-Rex hadn’t come to rescue her. He must be the reason she was here in the first place.
“Hey, hey, that ain’t the way it’s done!” an unfamiliar voice called from the top of the stairs. “You gonna bruise that beautiful face.”
A man with smooth brown skin and short black hair trotted down into the basement. He was as tall as T-Rex, but thin rather than muscular. His perfectly symmetrical features and bright white teeth gave him a leonine beauty. The man smiled and offered a hand down to Nicole.
She hesitated, shaking off her pain, then took his hand and let him help her to her feet.
“You okay, baby?” He gently put his hand on the cheek where T-Rex had hit her. His thumb brushed away a tear.
Nicole didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t okay. Her jaw hurt, and she was terrified. T-Rex crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. But this man’s touch was soothing; his brown eyes looked concerned for her. She nodded at him, gulping back her tears.
“Everybody calls me Pleazy,” he said. “How about you?”
“Nicole.”
“Okay, Nikki, let’s talk. You and T-Rex got a problem. I got a solution.”
She didn’t like being called Nikki, but she wasn’t about to say that now. She looked him over. He wore Rocawear jeans and a button-down shirt. She was surprised to see the hip, expensive clothes in this basement. Something about the fact that he’d spent hundreds of dollars on his outfit made her feel like he was more trustworthy.
“I hear you been dabbling in the business,” Pleazy said. “That’s good, that’s fine, I respect that. Girl like you got obvious talent. But you need a manager. For your safety. And to protect your earnings.”
“I don’t want a pimp!”
T-Rex took a step toward her, hand raised. “Dammit, Nicole! You got no choice.”
She cringed and covered her face with her arms. Pleazy stepped smoothly between them. “Chill, man. I got this covered.”
T-Rex glared but lowered his hand. “She’s been jerking me around for months. Promising to pay, running when I come. She owes me enough to make a down payment on a house. I’m done fucking around.”
“See, Nikki, the man is upset. And I gotta tell you, he’s not inclined to let you walk outta here. He wants to make an example of you.” Pleazy’s voice was soothing, but a chill crept down her back. “I told him, Give her a chance. So that’s why you’re here. To work off your debt through me.”
Nicole stared at Pleazy. The man was proposing some sort of indentured servitude. She shook her head.
“Now, wait up before you say no, just hear me out. You keep a third of what you make. I take another third. The rest goes to T-Rex. I run a good stable. Got four good girls upstairs. They make, average, five hundred a night. You’ll be all paid up in a couple months. Free to go do whatever you like. You could go, you could stay. You might find you like my way. Maybe you even learn something. Meanwhile, I keep you safe, give you a roof over your head. I set up the appointments, I take care of the business. All you gotta do is what you’re already so good at. It could be good for you, Nikki. You could stop running.”
There was something seductive about his voice and about what he was proposing. The idea of relinquishing control was incredibly tempting. Stop running. Stop struggling to make things work. Stop being surrounded by alien pimps taunting and hitting her. She wasn’t equipped to deal with the world she’d gotten into. He would take care of her, protect her, run the business. She could just lie back and let the world spin underneath her without constantly trying to stay upright.
A tiny part of her old self shook its head. She’d never wanted this.
“Oh, and Nikki.” Pleazy’s voice was like honey, so sweet that even the nickname sounded smooth on it. “There’s one more thing.”
He took his hand off her cheek, and she backed up, thinking he might hit her. But he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cylindrical glass tube and a tiny Ziploc bag with a waxy yellow-white rock in it. It was what she’d craved every minute of the last few days.
He took out the rock and placed it in the glass pipe in front of a steel wool filter, then pulled out a lighter and held it out like a prince offering the keys to his kingdom. She reached for the pipe, but he held it away from her. “Mm-mm. What do you think, Nikki? Have we got a deal?”
Her jaw throbbed, making it hard to think, but that was the least of it. She had to have that pipe. She would do anything for it.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
“That’s my good girl.”
He handed her the pipe. She flicked on the lighter, held the flame to the glass, and inhaled. The fire incinerated the rock, and smoke poured into her lungs. Finally: relief and release and sweet annihilation. She closed her eyes and basked in the chemicals coursing through her body, delivering pleasure to every nerve. Everything was gonna be okay.
She opened her eyes to find Pleazy smiling at her with great tenderness. His face was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He leaned down and kissed her, ever so gently.
“We’re gonna make a fine team, Nikki. I’ve got big plans for us.”
He took her hand and led her up the stairs.
29
The newspapers fell for Madeleine Connor, and they fell hard, like a tweenage boy with his first crush. Anna sat at a computer in the war room and scanned through the Google hits. The Capitol murder investigation was the top story on the home page of every newspaper she clicked to. The story had the perfect dynamic: Murder and sex drew in the readers, and the political element meant even the most respectable journalists could talk about it.
By now all the papers had pictures of Caroline. There was a photo from her high school yearbook, with her blue eyes radiating innocence, and a more recent picture from Faceb
ook, where her smile had an inscrutable quality that hinted at something darker. The papers also ran photos of Madeleine Connor with the courthouse behind her. The madam was photogenic—the Botox and plastic surgery looked odd in person but made for a glamorous head shot. Bloggers were raving about her beautiful white linen suit, the particular pink of her lipstick, where she might have bought her shoes. In the most popular photo, she smiled with her eyes averted from the camera, pushing aside a strand of caramel hair that the wind had blown into her face. She looked sexy and mysterious and just vulnerable enough to elicit sympathy for the woman who was being forced to disclose the dirty secrets of powerful men.
With the coverage came criticism of the government’s work. Why hadn’t they arrested Lionel yet, some bloggers asked. Few of the friends Lionel had made in over thirty years on Capitol Hill would go on the record in his defense. There were odds posted on when he would resign. Many people were betting on, and clamoring for, a quick arrest.
Anna wasn’t bothered by that criticism. The nation could jump to conclusions—and they might be right—but an important part of her job was not bringing charges against an individual until she was sure. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” was a heavy burden, and for good reason.
One criticism did bother her, however: the assertion that by forcing the madam to turn over her entire client records, the government was needlessly humiliating people, clients and escorts alike. Many assumed Congressman Lionel was the culprit and thought that the prosecutors were fishing for other politicians to target for visiting prostitutes, or that they were motivated by prurient interests. These were activities between consenting adults, the writers said, so why should a puritanical government snoop into them?
“It’s like we’re Big Brother in a pilgrim’s hat.” Anna looked up from her computer to Jack, who was typing away on the other side of the conference table.
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