Murder at Ford's Theatre Page 13

  “Yeah. The mother thinks the kid is being brought into it because of the rumors about her daughter and the senator. She’s blaming the media.”

  “She’s way off base.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “By the way, Gertz in Public Info wants to know how the press got hold of it so fast. Any ideas?”

  “Wasn’t us,” Johnson said.

  “What about the guy at the arts center who helped you find Lerner?”

  “Wooby, the director? Possible. Doesn’t seem the type to go running to the press.”

  They looked through the one-way mirror into the room where Lerner still slouched in his chair, defiance etched into his narrow, swarthy, brooding, unshaven face. A few years ago, it would have been the face of a thug, or villain. Today, it was the face of a male model.

  “Read him his rights again, Rick,” Hathaway instructed, “and see how much you can get out of him before the lawyer arrives.”

  Klayman and Johnson entered the room and took chairs on either side of Lerner. Johnson took his time sitting, glaring at Lerner as he did.

  “It was an accident,” Lerner mumbled.

  Klayman read Lerner the Miranda warning again, slid a copy of it in front of him, and told him to sign as verification that he’d received it. Lerner pushed it back unsigned.

  “Suit yourself,” Johnson said. “How long were you and Nadia Zarinski dating?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nadia Zarinski, the murder victim behind Ford’s Theatre. We know you were dating her, Jeremiah. Keep evading our questions and you just dig a deeper hole for yourself,” Klayman said.

  “I never dated her. I never even knew her.”

  Klayman and Johnson looked at each other before Klayman said, “We have two witnesses who say you did.”

  “They’re—lying.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Johnson. “Make it easy on yourself, Jeremiah. What’d she do, break it off? Tell you she had another guy, and you lost it?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Lerner said. “I’m not answering any of your questions.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll need a lawyer when you’re up on murder charges. Of course, you’re lucky you live in D.C. No death penalty, just the rest of your life in prison. The other inmates should find you attractive.”

  Lerner folded his arms across his chest, sunk his chin into his breastbone, and said nothing.

  Klayman left the room to join Hathaway on the other side of the one-way glass.

  “Lerner’s attorney is here,” Hathaway announced.

  A minute later, Mackensie Smith was escorted in. He introduced himself and asked, “What’s he being charged with?”

  “Assault of a police officer and resisting arrest, Counselor,” Hathaway replied.

  Smith peered through the window at Lerner. He didn’t want to be there any more than Lerner did.

  HE’D BEEN RELAXING at home when the call came. She sounded uncharacteristically panicked. “Mac, they’ve arrested Jeremiah,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Clarise. What was he arrested for?”

  “That’s what has me so upset. If it was just one of his silly antics, marijuana, getting into a fight, I wouldn’t be so concerned. But his message—I was out at a dinner meeting and my secretary took it—his message said he thought it had to do with the murder of that poor girl at the theatre.”

  “Had he known the girl?”

  “I don’t think so. Even if he had, that doesn’t mean he’d kill her. Jeremiah is a handful, Mac, but he’s not a murderer.”

  “You might be jumping the gun, Clarise. Questioning him doesn’t mean he’s a suspect. At this stage, the police will be wanting to talk to anyone who might have some information to help them.”

  Her distress turned to anger. “What information could Jeremiah possibly have, Mac?”

  “I don’t know, Clarise. Have you called an attorney?”

  “I’m calling you. I deal with lots of lawyers, but none who handle criminal cases.”

  “And I’m one of those who doesn’t, Clarise—at least not anymore. I’m just a college professor now. Remember?”

  “Please, Mac. I don’t want to beg. Help me. I have my confirmation hearing coming up—Good God, it’s almost here—and—please!”

  “I’ll call someone, Clarise.”

  Although Smith hadn’t practiced much criminal law since resigning from his practice, he was still a member of the D.C. Bar, and active in its functions. Those times that he had heeded the call to action had been because of unusual circumstances, a friend in need, or a challenge too compelling to ignore.

  “No, Mac, I want you to go. I know this is an imposition, and I wouldn’t think of dragging you away from Annabel, but—”

  “Annabel’s out at a meeting.”

  “Will you? I’m sure it won’t amount to much. Just say whatever it is you lawyers say and get him out of there.”

  It was good that Smith’s sour expression couldn’t be seen over the phone line.

  “Do you know where he’s being held?” he asked.

  “Yes. First District headquarters, on Fourth Street, Southwest.”

  “All right, Clarise. I’ll see what I can do. But I won’t go beyond this. My former law partners are the best in the city. I’ll put you in touch with them tomorrow. Does Senator Lerner know?”

  “Yes. I reached him. He’s on some damn retreat in Virginia and said he couldn’t do anything until tomorrow afternoon. A big help.”

  Smith let it pass.

  “But he did say that he agreed with me about calling you. He’s always been impressed with you, Mac. He’s told me that on several occasions.”

  “Are you at home?” Smith asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you there later.”

  He considered after hanging up to attempt reaching one of his former partners to see if he’d handle matters that night, but decided that would be going back on his word to Clarise. There was also a current running through him that he recognized from previous calls to action. He didn’t miss being a criminal trial lawyer, and was quite content, thank you, teaching law, and being Annabel Lee-Smith’s devoted husband. But all the adrenaline hadn’t drained from him; he was still capable of feeling the rush of being needed by someone in the rough-and-tumble world of the criminal justice system.

  He left Annabel a note, retrieved his car from the garage beneath the building, and headed southwest.

  “THIS IS DETECTIVE KLAYMAN,” Hathaway told Smith. “The detective in with your client is Detective Johnson. They’re the ones who arrested him. Detective Johnson was the victim in the assault.”

  “I understand there’s some question of you wanting to talk to him about the murder at Ford’s Theatre,” Smith said.

  “That’s right,” replied Hathaway. “He hasn’t been designated a suspect. We just want to know whether he knew the victim, had dated her, and whatever else he might be able to provide.”

  Smith said nothing as he stepped to the door and waited for Klayman to open it. Johnson and Lerner looked up at Mac’s entrance.

  “This is Mr. Smith, the accused’s attorney,” Hathaway said.

  Lerner’s puzzled expression indicated he had no idea who Smith was. Mac introduced himself: “I’m a friend of your mother,” he explained. “She asked me to represent you.” He said to the three detectives and the uniformed officer in the room, “I’d like some time alone with him.” He’d almost said “my client,” but caught himself.

  “We’ll leave,” said Hathaway.

  “No,” Smith said, nodding at the one-way window. “I mean alone. Could we use an empty office?”

  “Your client’s already tried to get away, Counselor.”

  “I assure you he won’t try again,” Smith said, fixing Lerner in a hard stare.

  Hathaway was reluctant to allow Lerner to leave the interrogation room, but decided that considering who he was, he’d play ball. “Sure,”
he said. He told Klayman and Johnson to escort Smith and Lerner to his own office. “Stay there,” he told them. To Smith: “Fifteen minutes, Counselor?”

  Smith nodded.

  With Johnson and Klayman stationed directly outside the office, Smith sat Lerner down in a swivel chair, and perched on the edge of the desk. “Let me tell you the facts of life, young man. First of all, I’m no longer a practicing attorney, although I’m licensed. I used to practice criminal law. Now, I teach it. I’ve known your mother for quite a while and consider her a friend. I’m here because she asked me to come. In the morning, I’ll get a hold of some top attorneys I used to work with and they can take over.

  “Right now, I’m here to help you through the initial phases of the trouble you’ve got yourself in. You’re charged with resisting arrest and assault on a police officer. Did you do those things?”

  “I didn’t know who they were.”

  “Bad answer, son. Did you run from them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When they tried to arrest you, did you resist?”

  “They beat me up.”

  It was as though he’d never been away from criminal law. How many times had he sat in a police station with young punks, many of them from affluent families, who considered themselves—increasingly, young women, too—tougher than the system, and who were effusive in their answers, thinking they could lie their way out of the trouble in which they’d found themselves? The oppressiveness of such situations, the futility of it all, coupled with the tragic death of his first wife and only child, had pushed him away from the system as it was, and into a less bellicose life.

  “Are you saying that the officers who arrested you lied, Jeremiah?”

  “Whose side are you on, man, theirs or mine?”

  “I was told they came to where you worked because they wanted to ask you questions about the young woman who was murdered last night at Ford’s Theatre.”

  He guffawed. “Man, that is ridiculous. I didn’t even know her.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I—I read it in the papers.”

  “I see. Well, let me sum up what’s going on here, Jeremiah, and give you some solid lawyerly advice. They’ll hold you overnight because they can. Sometime tomorrow, there’ll be a preliminary hearing where the judge will decide whether there’s probable cause to charge you with resisting and assault. The lawyer who represents you at the hearing will ask for bail, which you’ll be granted. I suggest you have one of your parents with you at the hearing. I’ll tell your mother that.

  “But from this moment on, Jeremiah, I suggest you keep your mouth shut. That means offering nothing, saying nothing about the charges against you unless your lawyer is present. As for their interest in you regarding the murder, my best advice is to remain silent on that issue, too. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t want to spend the night in jail.”

  “You don’t have much choice in the matter. Any questions?”

  “Man, this sucks!”

  Smith knocked on the closed door, which was opened by Mo Johnson. With him outside the office were Klayman and Hathaway.

  “Have you booked him?” Smith asked.

  “Not yet,” Hathaway said.

  “Where will he be, in Central Lockup at D.C. headquarters?”

  “That’s right, Counselor.”

  Smith said, “There’ll be a different attorney for him tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait,” Hathaway said. “Show Mr. Smith out, Rick.”

  The attorney and the cop went to the lobby and out to the street.

  “Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Smith?” Klayman asked.

  “As long as it doesn’t have to do with the young man inside and the charges against him.”

  “Are you the Mackensie Smith who teaches the course at GW on Lincoln and his law career?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. I’ll be in your class Saturday morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “I take courses at GW, nonmatriculated. I’m already enrolled in a history course, but when I saw you were teaching a second section of the Lincoln course on Saturday mornings, I signed up quick.”

  “You have a special interest in Lincoln the lawyer?”

  “In Lincoln, period. I guess you could say I’m a Lincoln buff. I’d like to say Lincoln scholar, but I’m a long way from that.”

  “You might be closer than you think, Detective. I’ll look forward to seeing you Saturday.”

  “Thanks. Nice meeting you—Professor.”

  Smith drove back to the Watergate, where Annabel and Rufus were waiting.

  “I can’t believe you did that, Mac,” Annabel said.

  “I’m having some trouble believing it, too. Clarise was very upset, and I thought . . . well, I wanted to help out. I’ll call Yale first thing in the morning and turn it over to him.” Yale Becker, one of Smith’s former partners in the criminal law practice, was considered a top criminal attorney, perhaps the District’s best now that Mac Smith was no longer in the saddle.

  “Clarise called,” Annabel said.

  “I said I’d call her. She should be at Jeremiah’s hearing tomorrow. Being in a parent’s custody is helpful when setting bail.”

  “Is he in big trouble?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. They’re charging him with resisting arrest, and assault on an officer. Those are serious felonies, as you know. What really concerns me, though, is that they want to question him about the murder at the theatre.”

  “Clarise didn’t mention that. Did he know the girl?”

  “He claims not to, but he’s lying.”

  Annabel didn’t ask how her husband knew Jeremiah was lying. His instincts about such things were uncannily accurate.

  “I’ll get hold of Yale and see if he’ll take the case.”

  “Maybe Clarise or the senator won’t want him. The way Clarise talked, she won’t settle for anyone but you.”

  “Out of the question. By the way, one of the detectives involved in the case—a nice young man named Klayman—is signed up for my Saturday session. He says he’s a Lincoln buff.”

  “Conflict?”

  “Not as long as we keep any discussions to Lincoln, and avoid any talk about the Lerner case. Know what bothers me, Annie, besides not believing Jeremiah?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Clarise seemed more concerned about her confirmation hearing than what was happening to her son.”

  “She’s an ambitious woman, Mac. We know that. And I suspect she was never much of a nurturing mother. I don’t mean a loving mother. She obviously loves Jeremiah. But she’s spent her life chasing a career, not motherhood.”

  “She was annoyed that Senator Lerner was away at some retreat and wouldn’t bother coming back until tomorrow.”

  “Sad. I dealt with a lot of parents like that when I was handling divorces, and kept in my desk a copy of something Dickens wrote. He said, ‘I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured and priced everything’—and went on to say that what couldn’t be weighed, measured, or priced didn’t exist.”

  “Let’s not be too judgmental, Annie. Lots of kids are brought up in such circumstances and end up solid citizens. I had too many young people in trouble with the law, and with generally screwed-up lives, who blamed their parents. It’s a convenient excuse for avoiding responsibility. Speaking of responsibility, I’d better walk the beast.”

  “Mac!”

  “Sorry. I forgot about his fragile ego.”

  SEVENTEEN

  SYDNEY BANCROFT EXITED the Delta Shuttle at New York’s La Guardia Airport, went to a large electronic board on which airport hotels were displayed, and called one. Ten minutes later, he boarded a shuttle bus and checked in at the lowest price offered, which included a senior citizen discount.

  “Tricked you,” he told the dour young woman at the check-in desk. “I’m actually thirty-five but made my
self up to enjoy your old fogy rate.”

  She handed him his room key without breaking a smile.

  Shame. He had tried to brighten her day. Young fogy. The room was small. It had one window, which faced a highway, beyond which jet aircraft arriving and departing could be seen—and heard, though muted. He freshened up, checked himself in a mirror cracked in one corner—he was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a tan safari jacket, his usual flying outfit—and went downstairs to the restaurant and bar. It was empty except for the bartender, a waitress whose fatigue showed through her heavy makeup, and two men in business suits with an attractive, middle-aged woman who Bancroft immediately decided was a prostitute.

  “Yes, sir?” the bartender asked.

  “Scotch whisky, a double, sir, with water on the side.”

  After a second round, he took a table and ordered a shrimp cocktail, and another drink. “And please bring rolls,” he told the waitress. “And butter. Lots of butter.”

  He was drunk when he returned to his room, and a little queasy, which was fine with him. Without the alcohol as a sedative, sleep would elude him. He called the desk to reserve the shuttle to Kennedy Airport the following morning, but was told the hotel didn’t provide that service. The severe young woman who’d checked him in said he’d have to take a taxi. Bancroft didn’t argue. He placed a wakeup call with her, stripped off his clothing, and stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, trying not to notice the folds of skin on his slender body that obeyed gravity. He smiled at his mirror image, yellowing teeth returning the affection. He vowed to use one of the teeth-whitening products on the market the minute he got back, a pledge he’d made to himself countless times.

  “Ah, Harrison, how very good to see you again,” he said to his mirror image. “Me? . . . couldn’t be better . . . top of my game . . . how’s things here in the West End? . . . ah-hah, as I suspected . . . yes, I heard Mendes was leaving Donmar Warehouse . . . and Trevor is leaving the Royal National . . . see, Harrison, old chap, I’ve been keeping up with things while in Washington . . . how are things progressing with sprucing up the West End? . . . it’s been looking shabby for years . . . the last time I was here it was positively slummy . . . what it needs, Harrison, is a bit of the old glitter . . . that’s what I intend to bring in with my one-man show . . . I tell you, Harrison, it will be the talk of London . . . and the touring potential is absolutely marvelous, dear chap . . . now, I know we’ve had our little spats over the years, but isn’t that supposed to happen between client and agent? . . . the creative always butting heads with the money end of things . . . Ford’s Theatre will be absolutely devastated with my leaving . . . I sometimes think I’m the only person in Washington who knows anything about Shakespeare and how to present him . . . I—”