Annie's Verdict

by John Ellsworth

  Which was horrifying even to consider.

  They had lost the vice president in a small strip mall restaurant, and already the media was swooping in with their TV cameras and microphones, taking statements and descriptions from anyone who'd stop and talk to them. Finally, the president himself was notified, and he wanted to know who was in charge and whether Service had enough staff to locate his Number Two.

  Inside the fleeing vehicle, the VP's hands were all over Mona as she drove, rocketing around corners and shooting down back alleys. At last, they found a parking space at the far end of a root beer drive-in, and she parked but left it running for the heater. The loudspeaker demanded to know their orders, and she responded they'd like a burger, fries, and two chocolate malts. "Coming right up," was the reply. "Will this be cash or credit card?"

  At just that moment, Mona felt his hand on her neck, and the vice president was pulling her face over to his. He landed several kisses on her mouth and ears and managed to slip one hand through the buttons on her silk shirt and began massaging her ample bosom. Mona moaned and put her head back. Her knees parted beneath the steering column and she shuddered when her lover slid his hand up between her legs and touched her panties.

  Which was the exact moment the food arrived and the waitress on roller skates shouted and motioned to put down the window and pass a credit card out to her. Mona shook herself back to reality and fumbled through her purse, finding a card floating loose inside following that morning's purchase at a Starbucks where she had been hurried to exit the line and hadn't been able to put the card back in her wallet.

  Neither the vice president nor Mona noticed the black Lincoln that had followed them to their location. It had been waiting at the far end of the alley when Mona had pulled in from the other end. It had waited and fallen in behind her when she came tearing out of the alley and squealed onto the street, making a screeching right turn almost on two wheels only. She was busy steering and accelerating; he was busy with his hands roaming her body hungrily, his lust blinding him to anything outside the Subaru.

  Now the Lincoln nosed in behind them, having gone past and turned around and returned facing directly to the street. There was a reason for the maneuver. Which was this: he would be leaving in a hurry.

  In a quick, fluid move, Rudy Geneseo came out of the Lincoln and came up behind the waitress, who was running Mona's credit card through her validator. No one saw him as he swung the large gun out of his inside coat pocket and thrust it forward, placing the muzzle just behind Mona's left ear. A second later her forehead and brain tissue was spattered across the windshield, the waitress had fainted, and the vice president was sitting with a line of blood across his expensive white shirt and crying unintelligibly, "Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!"

  The gunshot was silenced, but there were witnesses.

  Rudy casually returned to his vehicle, tossed the gun on the passenger seat, and lowered himself into the driver's seat. He carefully put the car in gear and rolled out to the sidewalk. Blinker flashing, he made a legal and careful right turn and melted away in the heavy traffic.

  The vice president's door flew open, and the man staggered up against the car next to Mona's. He rapped his knuckles against the window glass and instructed the driver to dial 911. She did and handed him the phone. He gave instructions, reporting the homicide, and was told by the dispatcher to move away from the car, go inside the restaurant, and wait in the restroom until Secret Service came for him.

  The vice president did exactly as he was told.

  When the Service arrived they found him seated on the porcelain lip of the toilet, the ring up behind him pressing against his back. His trousers were down around his ankles, and he was weeping and shaking without letup.

  The story made the news that night. The TV reporters had a world of questions but few answers.

  They promised to update their viewers at ten o'clock once more was known.

  That same night was hell night at the Tybaum residence. Jarrod was inconsolable, and his pain and weeping caught the notice of Annie, who reacted violently to her brother's emotions. She destroyed the dolls in her room, pulling arms and legs out of torsos and dumping the disarticulated limbs into the hallway toilet, which she repeatedly flushed until the water was leaking out into the hallway.

  Police and Annie's psychiatrist came to the house. Gerald Tybaum's sister was flying in from Berkeley where she taught law at Boalt Hall. It was a long night for everyone; finally just after two a.m. Annie fell asleep and was carried by her psychiatrist into her room and settled on her trundle bed.

  Tomorrow would be a long day, and so far there was no responsible adult in the house, not with Jarrod still in shock. A social worker arrived. A priest followed. Detective Ronald Holt appeared and began putting together the pieces as to what had happened that day.

  Tybaum's sister arrived at the house just before noon and very capably took charge.

  Jarrod came out of his shock and began looking after Annie, who by the morning was her usual, detached, uninvolved self.

  Ronald Holt called Michael Gresham, and they talked. Holt did as instructed by Gresham, calling the Naval Observatory and demanding an appointment with the vice president. The operator advised him the vice president wasn't seeing anyone.

  "Bullshit," snarled Holt. "He'll see me, or I'll show up with a SWAT team and take his ass to jail."

  The appointment was made shortly after.

  But the appointment went by the wayside as Michael Gresham was suddenly unavailable.

  Nivea Young had made a call to the Metropolitan Police Department's Tip Hotline.

  She gave them Gresham's hotel, room number, and location of the handgun. She said she was calling from a payphone. Why was she calling? Because he had jilted her and she wanted payback. He had bragged about killing Gerald Tybaum and had told her he was leaving the country and she couldn't go with him. After he had promised to take her along, he had gone back on his word. She was furious, she exclaimed before hanging up. She hung up the pay phone and yanked open the phone booth door. Only then did she remove the latex gloves, stuffing them into her pants pocket. She swiped the hairnet off her head and climbed into her truck.

  She pulled her RAM half-ton out of the Texaco parking lot and accelerated eastbound, toward the river.

  26

  Special Agent Ames, Detective Holt, and I met in my office the day after Mona was murdered. We discussed what we knew about the vice president and Gerry Tybaum's death. And Mona. For openers, we knew that Gerald Tybaum's shooter was wearing the VP's belt buckle--or one exactly like it. Plus, the North Face coat, which wasn't determinative except to a minimal degree. And we knew the VP had a motive--Tybaum's affair with the vice president's wife was embarrassing and painful for Vengrow. But we agreed that Vengrow had had nothing to do with setting up Mona's murder, and this fact cleared him, in my mind, of any connection to Gerry Tybaum's case. Why? Because it would be a one-in-a-million occurrence for Vengrow to want Gerry dead and someone else to want Mona dead. It was much easier to accept that whoever wanted them dead was the same person.

  I said, "Mona's death has changed everything. Four eyewitnesses saw what happened. The vice president is obviously in the clear. So we need a new suspect."

  "Michael," Special Agent Ames said to me, "you're clearing the vice president on Gerald Tybaum's death too?"

  "Of course," I said, 'unless he steps up and confesses to it. We're not going to theorize about two different shooters going after Gerry and then Mona. It's the same person. The FBI can clear Tybaum on this one. You can tell them you got that straight from the U.S. Attorney's Office."

  "Will do."

  I continued, "Now we need to start thinking about motive. I'm thinking of possible reasons why someone would want the senior Tybaum and his daughter dead."

  "Plus, there's the question of the son and the younger daughter," added Holt. "They're at risk now too, at least in my book. I've got them under protection right now twenty-four/seven. Two off
icers are always on the premises."

  "Good," I said. "Now here's something I've been looking to plug in. Two days before his murder, Gerry Tybaum visited me in Chicago. He had me sign a power of attorney that gave me authority over funds in a Russian bank account."

  "What funds?"

  "I believe they are PAC funds. The deposit is twelve-million dollars."

  "I interviewed the CFO at GULP," said Agent Ames. "GULP is a PAC, and he didn't think Gerry Tybaum had any way of accessing their funds."

  "I know," I said. "Now, there are lots of people who would want someone dead for that amount of money. And Gerry told me at the time that there were some very powerful, very evil people after him."

  "Any names?" asked Ames. "Any clues at all who he might be talking about?"

  "No."

  "Did he have any theory about any missing money?"

  "No. But if the money was PAC money, we start right there."

  "Makes sense," both men agreed. "So. Who's the CEO?"

  Ames opened his file and checked through his interviews.

  "Man by the name of Paul Wexler," said Ames.

  "Paul Wexler," I said, trying hard to remember. The name was very familiar. Then I remembered my meeting with Jarrod and Mona. They had both mentioned Paul Wexler. As I recalled, there was also bad blood between the two men. My suspicions went up. "Paul Wexler's name came up when I spoke with Jarrod and Mona. There were significant problems between Gerry and Wexler. The GULP CEO was a thorn in Gerry's side, according to his kids."

  "What was that all about?" asked Ames.

  "It sounded like Wexler had at one time been in bed with the oil and gas industry."

  "Good grief. How did he wind up at GULP? Aren't they tree huggers?"

  "Not entirely," I said. "I've been nosing around. There are competing interests inside GULP. Gerry headed up the environmentalists in the group; Wexler represented the interests of Big Oil. But Gerry had the upper hand because the PAC was the baby of all the environmental groups. That's where the 'save our home' money went for the protection of the planet. All of that. At one time there had been spin-offs into oil and gas, but for the last two elections it had all been about solar and hydroelectric."

  "So, we've got two guys who are opposed in their energy positions. Does that translate into the murder of one by the other?" said Holt. "How does that work?"

  "I think it at least opens a door we need to pass through," said Ames. "But I still fail to see why Tybaum would steal all that money from the PAC that funded his run for president."

  I nodded. "I don't have that much trouble with it. There is authority to the effect that PAC money inures to the PAC's candidate. Gerry might have thought the money was his, earmarked for a run in 2020. So he pulled it out of the PAC for safekeeping overseas where Wexler couldn't get to it."

  "Works for me," said Ames. "So what do we do with this?"

  I said, "We start calling people before the grand jury and start getting stories pinned down. Then we put our heads together again and see where we are when we come up for air."

  "Who's up first?" said Holt.

  "Vice President Vengrow. Then Senator Stanley Jessup," I replied. "He deserves no less than to be one of the first in line."

  "Agree," the two cops said in unison.

  "I thought the vice president was cleared," Ames said at that point. "Why are you taking his testimony?"

  "Because he was at the scene of his lover's murder. And it was reported he was at the scene of the father's murder. We need to dot the i's and cross the t's."

  That afternoon, I gave my paralegal a list of folks to subpoena for the grand jury. Then I began drawing up lists for the documents portion of the subpoenas so the witnesses could bring documents too.

  Somewhere in the midst of all this, I called my house just to check in.

  Verona picked up my call on the second ring.

  27

  "Verona? Michael here. How's everyone?"

  Her voice was immediately warm. "Everyone is great. The kids and I were talking about you over supper."

  "Really? Are they getting along without having me around every night?"

  "The FaceTime calls are helping."

  "Good. I'll keep them up."

  "Definitely. They're doing better than I am, Michael. I miss you. Are you in your hotel room?'

  "I am. I'm going over some new files and getting ready for some motions tomorrow in court. It's never-ending, the files coming my way. I'm all but underwater already."

  "How are you liking prosecuting?"

  "I love it. It's very organized and very methodical. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed painting by the numbers. I mean we have an answer for everything in our DOJ manual. Which greatly relieves pressure on us so we can prosecute and always know we're operating within DOJ guidelines. Venture outside of those, however, and you do so at your peril. Long story short: it fits me to be here. Now, how is your green card application coming along?"

  A short pause, then, "It would be much easier if we were married. Now, wait, before you answer. I'm not saying this to get you to marry me, though I'd probably jump at the chance. I'm saying it because the steps are much easier if an alien like me is married to an American citizen. But it will be great to get the card and be able to work again."

  "So you're still thinking of going back to teaching?"

  "I am. My diplomas and post-graduate documentation are all gathered. I just need the damn card at this point."

  "Listen, I've got a mess on my hands, and I'm going to have to cut this short."

  "What's going on?"

  "One of my victim's daughters was murdered. I'm on my way over to her house right now."

  "Okay. Well...goodbye, then."

  I could tell from her tone she was troubled. I said, "Well, I think we need to discuss--"

  Just then there was a loud pounding on my hotel room door. I told Verona I had to answer, set the phone aside, and went to the door and pulled it open.

  Only to be greeted by three uniformed officers and two men--armed with wallet badges--demanding entrance. I stood aside and told them to come right in. One of the street clothes cops took me aside as everyone else filed past us.

  "You're an AUSA, correct?" he said to me.

  "Yes."

  "Please show me your ID."

  I slipped my U.S. Attorney ID out of my pocket and opened the wallet. "Here we go. What is all this?"

  "Search warrant."

  He held out a single sheet of paper filled with writing and signed at the bottom with a fancy signature. I glanced over it and knew immediately that something had gone wrong in my life. It looked to be a valid search warrant, and I seemed to be on the wrong end of it. I stepped back and went over and hung up the phone without another word to Verona. The same cop followed me as I did this. Then I turned back to him.

  "Okay, I'm an Assistant U.S. Attorney, and you can trust me with the story behind the search here. What gives?"

  "Mr. Gresham, we've received an anonymous tip that there's a murder weapon hidden in this room."

  "What? That's insane!"

  Just then two of the uniforms removed the inside cover from my air conditioner. One of them swept his hand down inside, and I watched as he pulled out a gun wrapped in plastic.

  "Who would hide a gun wrapped in plastic," I said to the plainclothes officer. I realized I was already making my argument to a judge. No one hides murder weapons wrapped up in plastic.

  Unless he meant to keep it away from water. Which is a common event inside air conditioners as water condenses and is carried away by the drainage system. Water, in my air conditioner, a gun inside my air conditioner. Suddenly the plastic made a lot of sense.

  The plainclothes officer nearest me told the uniform to leave the bag unopened and to put it inside an evidence bag. Then he turned back to me.

  "We're going to need you to come down to the MPD and talk to us, Mr. Gresham. I'm guessing this can all be straightened out in an hour or two.
"

  I sighed and began looking for my shoes.

  Thirty minutes later, I was escorted from reserved parking into the MPD building on Indiana Avenue NW. Inside was a discolored tile floor and the standard tan walls and ancient windows of old buildings. I was steered along to an interview room consisting of a table and six chairs--three on each side--, and I was told to take a seat. I asked whether I needed an attorney and the plainclothes officer said he didn't think so.

  For almost thirty minutes I cooled my heels, waiting for whatever. Then, much to my surprise, there came a friendly and familiar face: Ronald Holt walked in wearing jeans and a sweater. On his feet were running shoes. He looked like he had come here in a hurry without much thought to wearing the MPD detectives' suit-of-the-day. But it was great to see him, and I almost wanted to give him a hug.

  "Michael," he said, taking the seat directly across from me. "I see you've been swept up in something here."

  "Can you help me understand what the hell's going on Ron? Where did the gun come from in my room and--"

  "Whoa up, Michael. Don't say too much until you hear what I've got to say. I don't want you inadvertently implicating yourself in something you're not a part of. Fair enough?"

  "More than fair. Thanks. So, what gives?"

  "Evidently the MPD received an anonymous call. From a woman. She told our front desk that they could find in your room, hidden inside the air conditioner, the gun used to murder Gerald Tybaum. So that's where we are with this."

  "Good God! Has anyone examined the gun?"

  "I have."

  "Are there prints?"

  "There are. Those have been lifted and fed into the database. Unfortunately, the gun has your prints all over it. Now, whether the gun was used to kill Mr. Tybaum remains to be seen. We won't know that until tomorrow when the examiners come in and do some studies."

  I leaned back in my chair. I was stunned. This was happening way too fast, and I could find no handle any place to grab onto as it slid past me. "What kind of gun is it?'