"I was living with my wife. But that was fizzling out. She was lesbian, and we were together to present a front. It's an old-fashioned thing, but we've been together almost twenty years."
"Was she home that night?"
"No. I don't know where she was. But I can guess."
"Please don't guess. Answer only what you know to be a fact."
"Sure, sure."
"Now, think carefully about this next question. When the man turned and came back by you, did you see his face?"
"Yes."
"Did you recognize him?"
"No."
"Did he resemble anyone you know to hold an elected office in Washington DC?"
This time the witness took his time. I supposed he was running faces through his mind and comparing them to the person he'd seen.
"No. He was dark-complected and not very tall. Shorter than me. And he turned his face away when he saw me, so I only had a glance."
"Did he in any way resemble the vice president of the United States?"
"Not at all. Our VP is tall and light-complected. This man was undersized and very dark."
"Describe his facial features."
"I only had a glimpse. Anything I could say might mislead you, sir."
"That's all right. Tell us what you saw anyway."
"Aquiline nose, dark eyes, long black hair. He had a neck tattoo, too."
"Could you tell what the tat was?"
"Something green and yellow, hard to tell even with the light as he was running in my direction."
"Green and yellow tattoo? Was it an animal? A weapon? A name?"
"It was impossible to tell. It all happened so fast."
"But you're sure it was a tat?"
"Pretty sure. As I said, it all happened so fast. Maybe it was a collar sticking up from his onesie, a shirt collar underneath. I'm sorry I can't be surer."
"So now it might have been a tattoo, and it might have been a shirt collar against his neck?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, sir."
"You're telling your truth. That's all we ask, Mr. Atkins."
"Thank you."
"I believe that's all I have. Do any of the grand jurors have questions?"
A large man in the back row raised his hand. "What happened to the GoPro, if you know."
"I don't know."
"Was it still attached to his clothing when he came back past you."
"Now that's a good question, come to think of it. I don't remember seeing it."
"So it could have fallen off at the scene?"
"It could have."
"That's all my questions, Mr. Gresham."
"Thank you. Anyone else?"
No other hands went up, so I dismissed the witness after swearing him to secrecy.
Then we adjourned.
34
Rudy Geneseo stepped off the elevator on the ground floor of the U.S. Attorney's Office. He had staked out and followed Michael Gresham for several days now. It was only a matter of time before the lawyer led him to the two remaining Tybaum children.
Just like the three previous nights, Gresham came down at six o'clock. It was pitch dark outside. He headed for his car. Rudy followed him out of the parking lot, taking care not to tip off the marshals' vehicle following Gresham for protection. They drove and drove, up and down the freeways, making sudden jaunts off an off-ramp at the last possible second, up and down alleyways, and then back out to the Bethesda connection.
They arrived in Bethesda forty-five minutes after leaving the USAO. Rudy broke off the pursuit as soon as they entered a new neighborhood, one he hadn't seen before. He knew he'd be able to lurk around for ten minutes and then locate the Gresham rental home where the children were hiding out now. So he went straight when the Gresham and marshals' car went left. Two blocks up was a middle school. He pulled into the circle drive out front and came to a stop at the far end just where it would enter the roadway again. He turned off his lights, turned off his engine, and waited.
Ten minutes later, he exited his vehicle, the overhead light having first been turned off. The Lincoln's heavy door shut silently, and Rudy stepped back. He adjusted the laces on his running shoes, checked that his shoulder holstered gun had a round in the chamber, and began a slow trot back the way he had come. When he reached the street where the Gresham entourage had turned into the neighborhood, he made that turn and silently jogged up the street.
It was almost too easy. The government vehicle was departed; a single MPD marked car took up the driveway to the frame house, and Gresham's car was snugged up to the curb out front. Rudy stopped running and began creeping along the street-parked cars, making his way to the Tybaum driveway. From out of the shadows he crept up on the police car, left side rear to just behind the driver. Sure enough, one cop was sitting inside, texting on his phone. Rudy withdrew the gun from the shoulder holster and fired one silenced round into the man's head. Then he froze. There was no reaction along the street--no lights came on, no doors opened--and there was no reaction from inside the children's house. So he became emboldened. He opened the door to the cop car, pushed the dead cop over onto the passenger's side, and sat down to wait. Ever so quietly he shut the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Gresham stepped out onto the front porch. He paused under the porch light and checked his wristwatch. Rudy scrunched down in the seat. Then, when Gresham was coming up alongside the police car, edging up the driveway to avoid the snow in the front yard, Rudy pointed the gun at him. He fired a single shot--silenced--through the passenger window at the lawyer. The man fell forward, and Rudy came flying out of the car, running around to the opposite side. There he found Gresham stretched out on his belly, his face planted in the snow and ice just off the driveway, one arm thrown impossibly out to the side, unmoving. Rudy went back to the car, opened the driver's door, and removed the cop's shirt from his dead body. He pulled it on over the sweatshirt he was wearing, put the police hat on his head, and boldly strode up to the front door. He rang the bell and waited.
Five or ten seconds went by before the door opened on its security chain. Jarrod--whose face he recognized from earlier stakeouts--peered out at him.
"Yes, officer?"
"I need to use the bathroom."
Jarrod closed the door and Rudy could hear the chain lock being slid open. When the door opened, he stepped inside. There was nothing to be gained by waiting, so he immediately drew the gun from his backside where he was hiding it, pointed the muzzle at Jarrod's head, and squeezed off a single shot. The heavy caliber round caught the hapless young man between the eyes, knocking him and his wheelchair backward a good three feet. After that, the house was still, and Rudy knew he was alone with the little girl.
He began creeping down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
At the first bedroom door on his right, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. There was no sound coming from inside, so he turned the knob and looked inside. It was Jarrod's room, given the extra wheelchair and walker along the wall. So he moved on to the second bedroom, the last one at the end of the hall. The door was open. He stuck his head inside and swung his gun into firing position. Sure enough, the little girl was seated on her bed, two coloring books arrayed before her, coloring two pictures at the same time. The man watched her for several seconds; then he raised the gun to fire.
He never heard the blast coming, never knew a thing.
Suddenly the killer's head exploded, and the man behind him watched as the killer slithered to the floor, dead before he settled across the carpet, first on his knees then slumping onto his side. Michael Gresham lowered his firearm and collapsed on the floor.
Michael slumped back against the wall, the police officer's weapon in his hand. Across his forehead was a deep gash from which blood was oozing where he'd been grazed by the killer's single shot. Ever so slowly he slid down, back against the wall, to a sitting position. His head turned to the side, and he passed out.
The little girl had to have heard the massive
blast of the un-silenced police weapon. But she didn't move. Ever so lightly she began humming, changing from the red crayon to the blue.
All of her art featured women with blue hair.
It was just how the world looked--it always had--to Annie.
35
Just before midnight, the relief police vehicle swung into the driveway. The driver exited his vehicle and crept up on the driver's side of the first police squad car, his service weapon clutched in his two hands. He swung around to face the interior of the car, which is when he saw Sidney Linney, a patrolman by rank, lying back against the passenger door, shot on the left side of the head. The officer knew Sidney was dead.
But he was here to guard the children inside. So he began the long tiptoe up to the front porch. The door was standing open. He went inside and all but fell over the wheelchair still bearing the body of Jarrod Tybaum. The man was slumped back. The entry wound between his eyes told the whole story about him. The officer knew there was one more to account for, a girl of about twelve. He headed for the hallway leading back to the bedrooms.
Which was where he found Michael Gresham, unconscious on the floor, a weapon still clutched in his hand.
He stepped over Gresham's legs and peered inside the last bedroom.
A little girl was asleep atop her bedspread. Two coloring books were on the floor along with a box of spilled crayons.
The officer keyed his shoulder mic.
"Need an ambulance stat! And I need backup," he told the dispatcher.
"Roger that, Officer Hardy. I'm dispatching an ambulance and backup officers now."
The policeman approached the sleeping girl. He laid two fingers against the side of her throat. Strong pulse there. So he went into the first bedroom and pulled the bedspread from the unmade bed. He returned with it to the little girl's room.
Ever so gently he covered her with the bedspread and went back into the hallway. He pulled her door shut so on the off-chance she woke up she might not get a look at the two men lying outside her door, one dead and one alive but unconscious.
He walked outside and checked more carefully on the officer inside the first police vehicle. He was obviously dead, which he had assumed when he'd first crept past. He locked the vehicle's doors with the electric button and stood back. Now that scene was preserved.
Then he went back inside and sat down in the hallway beside the unconscious man. The forehead wound had all but stopped losing blood. He put two-and-two together and knew the man beside him had shot the dead man closer to the girl's bedroom.
There was no doubt what it all meant.
He stood up and went back to the first bedroom and pulled a pillow up out of the tangle of bedcovers.
Returning to the second man, he lifted his head and placed the pillow underneath.
Now he'd done all he could do.
Sirens closed on his location. Tears came to his eyes.
It had been so close.
But she was alive.
36
My recovery wasn't long and protracted; while the bullet had laid bare my skull there had been no significant or lasting damage done besides a concussion. Three days after I was taken to GWU hospital, where I underwent CT scans and two surgeries, my treating physician came into my room and discharged me. Antonia happened in to visit just then. Her face went pale when she saw me and saw the stitches across my forehead. "They told me it was a deep wound," she said, "but they didn't tell me it was four inches wide and would require four hundred stitches. Then she learned I was about to go home and bent over backward to help me. "One of my prosecutors," she said to the physician, "and he is going to have company when he's released and goes home. And he's going to have all the help he could ever need."
I was taken to my hotel and helped into casual clothes. A nurse and two aides were at me always asking how they could make me more comfortable, bringing snacks and coffee, and doing whatever they could to make my way easy. My laptop was opened for the first time in days, and I immediately called Verona and the kids to check in. The kids were at school, but Verona answered on the second ring. "You're home now? You thought last night that it might be today."
"I'm feeling much better," I said, "for a man shot in the head. It could have been much, much worse."
"Are you done with this case, whatever it was?"
"Not quite. But there's something I need to do."
"Can I help?"
"Yes. There's a young orphan girl. She's twelve, and she needs a place to hide for the near future. Her name is Annie, and I'd like to send her to you."
"Is she in danger?"
"She is."
"Will that put our kids in danger?"
"It could. But the marshals who bring her will provide all possible protection from here on out. No one will ever know where Annie is once I have her out of Washington. Can you help?"
"Of course I will. Tell me more about Annie? Is she injured too?"
"She's not. But she has just lost her sister and her brother. Her father was shot and killed not long before that. She's all alone now. But the upside is, Annie's different and that is, in an ironic way, freeing. She doesn't notice she's all alone now. Plus, she and I have become quite close. I think having me in her life helps."
"So you're coming with her? I hope."
"Not quite yet. I have some final pieces of the case to resolve. But there will be FaceTime every day. That will allow her to see me and stay connected with her. Same with our kids."
"What's her long-term placement?"
"Her aunt is in Berkeley, California. She's already stepped up to take the girl."
"Why not just send her there now?"
"Because the aunt is in trial--she's a professor of law and part-time lawyer. She's hard at trial in a very taxing class action that requires her attention all day and much of her nights. It wouldn't work to put Annie with her just now only to have her ignored."
"I see. Well, send her to me. You know I'll take her in a heartbeat, and I'll love her just like one of our own."
This was new: "our own," and "our children." Verona had become closer to my kids than I could have hoped. They were now her kids, too. A miracle.
We talked for another few minutes and then said our goodbyes, agreeing we'd speak again on FaceTime that night when the kids could be included. I realized as I hung up just how much I was missing my family. I also resolved again to ask Verona to marry me. I loved her; she loved me; we had our kids. It brought tears to my eyes to think of all that had happened between us and how far we'd come. She was a fantastic helpmate, but she also had her own life. Her Green Card was just weeks away from arriving and then she could teach or enter industry--whatever she wanted to do. So her life was about to take on new dimensions as well.
I lolled around the rest of that day, going over office email and updating myself on several key cases. Other Assistant U.S. Attorneys had been assigned to my most active cases and were moving things along. I was incredibly grateful that I was now in a situation where there was all but unlimited resources. I could rest easy, confident my cases were being handled with the highest possible degree of competence and care.
The following day, Detective Ronald Holt came calling and brought with him Special Agent Jack Ames. They gathered around the dining table in my suite and opened their notebooks.
"Okay," I said, "here's what we're going to do next with the Tybaum case. Jack, I want you and your Special Agents to obtain all banking records from GULP. I believe we're going to find a smoking gun among those records."
"What kind of smoking gun?" Ames asked. He sat leaning forward, his grizzly bear of a body pressed against the table as he made his notes. He was waiting for me to explain.
"I'm looking for cash withdrawals from their bank accounts. And I'm looking to trace those funds from the PAC's bank to wherever they ultimately wound up."
"How do we do that? Cash isn't usually traceable, Michael."
"As a general proposition that's true. But I thin
k you're going to find in this case that someone at GULP has left breadcrumbs along the way. Without meaning to, of course. Then, find out who the person was who withdrew the funds and find out who the person was who received the funds. When we have done this, we have our conspiracy."
"Conspiracy?" asked Holt. "How do you know this is what we're looking for?"
Ames answered for me. "Because, Detective Holt, our prosecutor friend here has narrowed down the players who have motive and proximity. The motive to kill Gerry Tybaum and his children and proximity to the Russian money and proximity to the GULP bank accounts."
"Bingo," I said. "Special Agent Ames has been reading my mail."
"Well...not literally."
"Oh, that's a relief," I chided. "All kidding aside, Agent Ames will obtain the bank records. In the meantime, Detective Holt, I'd like you to put a tail on the GULP CEO Paul Wexler with your people from MPD. My belief is that he sent this Rudy Geneseo to take out the Tybaum family so that he could sweep the Russian funds back into the hands of GULP. From there, the funds were up for grabs, and since he was the senior officer in the PAC, he could move the money wherever he decided."
"Where are you getting all this?" Holt asked.
I touched the side of my head. "I was a defense attorney for way too long. I've seen many cases just like this one before."
"Okay. Consider me tasked," Holt said.
"Same goes for me," said Ames. "But as long as we're kicking stuff around here, what name am I looking for at GULP?"
"Same guy. Paul Wexler," I said.
"He's my suspect?"
"He's your cash cow, I'm thinking."
"Got it," said Ames.
"Same goes for me," said Holt.
"Then we're done here. Now you gentlemen scatter and let me get back to watching Ellen."
They left, and I called the U.S. Marshal's Special Operations Group. It was time to do something about Annie, who'd been placed under the protection of a policewoman named Alice Munes since the night of the shooting. Annie was doing well; Munes was with the girl 24/7, but it was time to move Annie to Evanston and Verona and my kids.
Annie's Verdict Page 19
