by Allan Topol
So why did you marry him? she thought to herself.
And the answer came out the same as it always did: Respectability, Dr. Freud... I was craving respectability once again.
But it was a futile hope. Like virginity, once lost, it couldn't be recaptured.
Ah, the world before Robert. Those were marvelous times. The late sixties, the early seventies. "Armies of the night," Norman Mailer had called them. We acted. We seized control. We shaped our country's path. The people ruled. Justice was on our side. After so many years, the embers from that conflagration still glowed deep inside of Ann. They were remnants from the greatest time of all for her.
God, she was happy.
Free! Free at last!
Suddenly, she was startled by a sound from downstairs. It was a short, muffled cough, coming from someone in the living room. She bolted upright in the tub and climbed out. Grabbing her white terry-cloth robe, she instinctively drew the belt tight around her waist. For an instant she thought of calling the police, but decided they would never arrive in time to help her. She looked around the bedroom for a weapon.
Nothing!
But in the closet of Matt's old bedroom there was a baseball bat he had used in Little League and refused to toss out.
Taking care not to make a sound, she retrieved the bat. Gripping it tightly in her right hand, she quietly descended the carpeted staircase. Halfway down, she stopped and peeked over the banister. The living room was empty, but a man had been there. The scent of a man's cheap cologne drifted up to her nose.
There was noise coming from the den, adjacent to the living room. The television was playing softly. Why on earth would a burglar be watching TV? She remained frozen to the spot and listened. He was inserting videotapes into the VCR, playing a little of each tape, then tossing it on the floor.
Continuing down the stairs, she trod softly, her damp, bare feet silent on the thick blue carpet. Then she raced across the living room and stopped behind the louvered door that connected the two rooms. A tape of a football game was playing. The man's back was facing her as he looked at the television screen. He was short and muscular—built like a tank, dressed in a gray sports jacket. His skin was dark and swarthy. A Spaniard or an Arab, she guessed. There was a bulge at his waist that might be a gun in a hip holster. She was about to sneak up on him when she realized that he would see her reflection in the television screen. So she waited. Finally, he ejected the football tape and squatted down, looking through their collection of a few dozen tapes in the cabinet below the television. That was when she made her move, stalking across the Oriental carpet, raising the baseball bat high.
She swung the bat forward with all the strength she could muster, aiming for his head to knock him out. At the last second he heard her and stood up. The bat struck him square in the rib cage. She heard his bones crack.
He screamed in pain and then fell to the ground, landing on his front with his face on the parquet floor beyond the edge of the Oriental. She let go of the baseball bat and jumped on his back. Ferociously, she grabbed his hair in both her hands and pulled his head back.
"What are you looking for? Who sent you?" she shouted at him. "You invaded my house. Who sent you?"
He didn't answer.
She smashed his head forward, driving his face against the hard wooden floor. His nose broke. Blood poured from his face, down through his thick, dark beard. She pulled his head back again.
"Who sent you?"
Suddenly, she felt a tremor under her. He had been holding his body still, summoning his reserves of energy. Now he pushed up off the floor with martial-arts force. He flipped her off his back, and she flew halfway across the room. In an instant, he was on his feet, dashing toward the living room and the front door. She gathered herself and grabbed the baseball bat. By the time she ran out of the house, though, he was driving away in a maroon Toyota Camry.
She spent several minutes cleaning the blood from the floor, the living room carpet, and the front of the house. All the while she thought about why he had come. He had been looking for a videotape. Finally she realized it must be the one that the Chinese ambassador had given to Robert. But who had sent this man? The ambassador? 0r someone else? It didn't matter for now. The critical fact was that he had left empty-handed. That meant he would be back.
Trembling from what had just happened, she sat in the living room, trying to decide what to do. After she calmed down, she picked up the phone and called the White House. Being the widow of the President's best friend had some advantages. She got through to President Brewster in record time. "Sorry to bother you, Philip, but you asked me to call if I needed anything."
"And I meant it. What can I do for you?"
"I may be imagining it, but I think some people are wandering around outside. Nothing to worry about. Just tourists, acting as if this house were the newest monument in town."
"People can be so cruel."
"Unfortunately, you're right. I was wondering if you could station a couple of Secret Service people here for about a week or so."
"Absolutely. I should have thought of it myself. They'll be there within thirty minutes. Also, the plane's waiting for you at Andrews. Whenever you're ready, let me know and I'll send a car and driver."
"I really appreciate it."
"Call me if you need anything else."
Ann's second call was to Jennifer. "I need a favor, Jenny. A big one. I hate to ask you, but—"
"I'd do anything for you. You know that."
"The funeral's in New York tomorrow morning. Matt and Gerry are already there. I needed time to pull myself together. Besides, they're in their own worlds, as you might expect, and of little help to me. Any chance you can go up with me this afternoon and stay over?"
Jennifer's mind was racing, thinking about the law firm work she had planned to do at home today. She could take it with her to New York. "All right. How soon do you want me to pick you up?"
"How about in an hour?"
"I'll be there."
"I'm warning you. It's going to be a mess for me with his mother, Harmonia, and the rest of his family."
"That bad?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Whoever said WASPs don't show emotion? Harmonia always hated my guts. She viewed my mother's being Jewish as a personal slap in the face. Now she's not above using Robert's death to get one up with me, but guess what? I don't give a shit. I withdrew from the competition. She can do whatever she wants for her son's funeral."
"I'll do what I can to help."
"Oh, and there's one other thing," Ann hesitated. "Once you told me that you had a gun."
Jennifer was alarmed. "I still do. I have a permit. No single woman should live alone without one, but why do you ask?"
"Would you mind bringing it along?"
Jennifer's voice became spiked with anxiety. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm just edgy after what happened to Robert yesterday."
"I'll never be able to get it on the plane."
Ann laughed. "Oh, don't worry about that. The President has Air Force One waiting for me at Andrews. They wouldn't dare put me and my friend through a metal detector. Let's meet there in two hours."
Chapter 6
Ben stood behind the battered wooden table in interrogation room number two and waited for Clyde Gillis. The clock hanging on the dirty beige wall showed it was already five minutes after nine on Sunday night. Ben was enjoying the respite of solitude, having spent most of the last hour battling with Fulton, who wanted to participate in questioning Gillis. It had taken a bitter argument, but Ben finally had persuaded Fulton that he should do the questioning alone, with Fulton and Traynor observing behind the one-way glass wall. When Gillis was ready to confess, Ben would buzz for Traynor, who would then be a witness.
Fulton had yielded to this approach only after Ben had cried, "Look, you asshole, you want a confession. One-on-one I'll probably be able to get it. We load up on him, and he'll clam up. You can make book on that."
> Traynor had agreed with Ben, arguing to Fulton that, based upon his own experience, Ben was right. In the end Fulton backed off.
Two guards led Gillis into the room, dressed in prison blues and handcuffed.
"Take off the cuffs," Ben ordered the guards.
"We'll wait in the corner," one of the guards said as he unlocked the cuffs.
"Nope. You're out of here."
Puzzled, they looked at each other. "Don't worry," Ben said. "I know where the buttons are in this room to call for help, but I won't need them."
Ben turned to Gillis, who was rubbing his sore wrists. "You want some coffee?"
"Yes, please."
Ben filled two Styrofoam cups from a thermos. Then he sat down across the table from Gillis and handed one to him. "My name's Ben Hartwell."
Ben looked up at the clock again and noted the time on the yellow legal pad resting on the table. Nine-fifteen. One hour was all it should take, he decided. In an hour he would have his confession, and he could get back to Senator Young.
Gillis was watching Ben carefully, waiting for him to begin.
"You don't have to talk to me," Ben said.
"I want to talk," Gillis said, though he looked scared to death.
"I mean, legally you have a right to a lawyer and to have your lawyer here when I question you."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
He sounded beaten down, not defiant. Ben gave him a long, measuring look. There was neither the awkward shifting and looking down at the floor, nor the blatant hostility that Ben usually saw in those who committed a serious crime and found themselves snared in the net of the criminal justice system. "It's still good to have a lawyer. I wouldn't talk to the police or a prosecutor without having a lawyer present if I were charged with a crime."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Gillis maintained.
"That's not the point. Our system's not so great. You need to be protected."
Gillis put his hands on the table and squeezed them together. The man displayed a quiet, resolute dignity, Ben thought. His black hands were callused from hard work, but he sat up straight and stared back at Ben, his eyes showing his determination.
"I can't afford a lawyer."
"The court will appoint one."
Gillis stared at Ben for several seconds and then down at his hands again, thinking. Finally he said, "I've got nothing to hide. I want to talk to you because I think I can trust you. Maybe you'll help me get out of here."
"That's not likely."
Ben said it calmly, and Gillis's eyes showed a spark of hope. "I'll take my chances."
"You'll have to sign a statement saying that I offered you a lawyer and you refused."
"I'll sign it."
Ben produced a waiver form from his briefcase, which Gillis read carefully while Ben sat watching him, trying to form an opinion from the man's face. Ben couldn't help but think that he looked honest and sincere. Finally, Gillis signed it.
For several minutes Ben sat across the small wooden table staring at Gillis, without saying a single word. He imagined that Ed Fulton, on the other side of the one-way glass, was ready to explode. But this was part of Ben's standard technique in questioning a suspect—letting him wait and letting the pressure build. That made it easier to obtain a confession, which was precisely what Ben was looking for tonight—an early confession, followed by prompt sentencing.
Ben pointed at the tape recorder resting on the table. "I'm going to record our discussion," he said. Gillis nodded.
Ben had him state his name, and address, and the fact he worked as a gardener for the Winthrops.
"What time did you arrive there yesterday?"
"Eleven o'clock in the morning. Like always."
Ben kept the questions coming, to get Gillis talking. "What did you do when you arrived?"
"Went to work raking leaves."
"When did you stop raking?"
"About four o'clock. Then I went home."
"What about lunch?"
"I had a sandwich in my truck. Ate it about noon."
"During that entire time period from eleven to four, did you talk to anyone?"
"Sometime around noon Mrs. Winthrop came outside. She asked me about my boy, Clyde, Jr."
Gillis was speaking softly, and Ben said, "You'll have to speak up. What about your child?"
"He's sick with a kidney disease. He needs dialysis."
"Who pays for that?"
"Insurance pays for some. I have to pay for the rest."
"And it's expensive?"
Gillis nodded. "Yes, sir. I have bills at home."
Ben knew all of this. Now it was time to dig a little deeper. "How much do the Winthrops pay you?"
"Five hundred dollars a week year-round. I come twice a week. Wednesday and Saturday. I take care of everything in the yard."
"Do they pay you with a check or cash?"
"By check."
"Always?"
"Yes, always."
"They have never paid you in cash?"
He thought about it for a moment. "No, never."
Ben rapidly changed subjects, to get Gillis off balance. "Did you see anyone enter the house?"
"About two o'clock a man came. I saw him talking to the guards in front."
"What did this man look like?"
Gillis shrugged. "I was busy with my work. I never got a good enough look to describe him. About all I remember is a brown coat."
"Did you see him leave?"
"No, sir. I didn't."
"While you were working in the yard on Saturday, did you happen to look through a window and see anything unusual in the house?"
Gillis shook his head.
"Please give me a verbal answer."
"I'm sorry. The answer is no."
"Did you see anyone else in the house besides Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop?"
Gillis paused. "At around two o'clock, I saw a light go on in the downstairs room in the back."
"What else did you see?"
"That's all. The curtains were drawn. I saw the light appear through a crack in the curtains."
"So, about four o'clock you stopped raking?"
Gillis nodded. "Yes," he added.
"And?"
"I went inside to get my check from Mr. Winthrop."
"What happened then?"
Gillis hesitated. "I went downstairs looking for Mr. Winthrop."
Ben wanted to put him on the defensive, to see how he'd respond. "Isn't that unusual to have a gardener roaming though the house?"
"Mrs. Winthrop told me it was all right, and I always come in on Saturdays, even when she's not home."
"And then?"
"I found Mr. Winthrop's body." Gillis closed his eyes, recalling the horrible sight.
"And you saw some hundred-dollar bills on the stairs. Right?"
Gillis nodded. "Yes."
"What did you do then?"
"I touched Mr. Winthrop's chest and felt his pulse to see if he was still alive, but he wasn't."
"And then?"
He looked down at his hands. "I left the house without telling anyone. I know now that was the wrong thing to do."
"So why'd you do it?"
"I was afraid that somebody might think..." He stopped midsentence.
"That you killed him?" Ben asked.
Gillis nodded again.
"Did you kill Mr. Winthrop?"
"No. I did not."
"Who killed him?"
"I have no idea."
"Did you take any of the money that was on the stairs?"
"I didn't take anything."
Ben rose to his feet. The nice-guy routine was over. "You already lied to the FBI once," he said, shifting to a sharp, confrontational tone. "Why should I believe you now?"
Gillis's jaw became stubborn. "I didn't kill Mr. Winthrop."
"Yesterday, you said that you were never in the house. Didn't you?"
Gillis nodded, then said, "Yes."
"And you were lying."
"I was scared."
"When they found your fingerprints and footprints in the house, you changed your story. Right?"
Gillis nodded his head miserably. "I told the truth. I didn't kill Mr. Winthrop."
"You're lying again," Ben fired at him. "Now we've got some new evidence. It's time for you to change your story again. Isn't it? To tell me another lie?"
"What new evidence?" he asked nervously.
"Do you know what we found in your truck, hidden under the seat?"
Gillis shook his head.
"Really?" Ben said. "It's the stuff you put there."
"What stuff?"
Ben was watching him carefully to see how he would take the news he would receive next. "About five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and the gun that was used to kill Mr. Winthrop. The results of the ballistics test are clear."
Gillis looked like he'd been punched hard in the gut. "That can't be," he said weakly.
Ben paced for a few seconds, letting the news sink in. Then he pressed the off button on the tape recorder. He didn't want a defense lawyer claiming that what came next amounted to a coerced confession. "Let me tell you where we are now," Ben said calmly. "I've got the evidence to get a first-degree murder conviction. You were in the house before Saturday. You knew Mr. Winthrop kept lots of cash in the house. So on Saturday you planned to rob Mr. Winthrop. You brought a gun with you. You went into the house to get the cash. Mr. Winthrop surprised you, and you shot him. That's how it happened."
Wide-eyed, Gillis stared at Ben in disbelief.
"You know what?" Ben added. "When I get my first-degree murder conviction, you're going to the electric chair, because you killed the wrong man. And I'm not kidding about the electric chair. When Congress passed the Crime Bill in 1994, they specifically made it a capital crime to kill a cabinet member. So I'm not conning you."
"I didn't kill him," Gillis mumbled softly.
"Yeah, sure. In this town you can kill just about anybody any day of the week, and you get a couple of years in jail. Five if your lawyer screws up. But when you kill the secretary of state, who happens to be a close buddy of the President, we have to make an example of you. That's the way the system works."
