Murder at Ford's Theatre Read online

  Quill stared.

  “‘Bear the burden,’ Harry. The man on top of the woman. Can you picture the publicity the show will generate with an insider’s look at how bawdy Shakespeare could be? That was the nurse.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The nurse speaking to Romeo.”

  He returned to his chair.

  “Now, let me sketch out the entire show for you. The production costs will be low, Harry, the beauty of a one-man show. Here’s how I see it.”

  Ten minutes later, when Bancroft had finished his presentation, Quill yawned and went behind his desk.

  “Well?” Bancroft asked.

  “Sydney, I do not believe a show as you envision it has a chance here in London. Or anywhere else for that matter.”

  “Nonsense!” Bancroft jumped up and prepared to perform another scene. “Let me—”

  “Sit down, Sydney!”

  Bancroft did as he was told, staring helplessly at the agent.

  “I understand that actors and actresses who have fallen out of the public limelight for many years think that the same public can’t wait for them to return. I understand that, Sydney, as much as I consider it sad. The truth is, your career was predictable, an actor with modest talent and fierce determination who managed to earn a living for quite a few years on the stage, and then in films. But Sydney, for God’s sake, be realistic. The critics didn’t rally to your cause except in a few instances. The films I managed to get you roles in certainly never set the world on fire at the box office. You’ve had a good run, Sydney. Enjoy having had it. Accept your age gracefully and revel in the fruits of having been—of having once been an actor.”

  “Your cruelty has been duly noted, Harry.” Bancroft swallowed hard and turned to avoid having Quill see the wetness in his eyes.

  “Now don’t be coming down hard on me, Sydney. I’m just an agent.” He forced lightness into his voice. “Tell you what, old friend. We do go back a long way, and I must admit a certain fondness for you, as well as respect for who you are and who you were. Raise the money for your show, Sydney. Go back to the States and hit up all those who’ve made fortunes in boring, probably illegal endeavors, and who would like to end their lives having rubbed elbows with the arts.” His snicker was his excuse for laughter. “Come up with the money to mount the show, Sydney, and then come back to me. As you say, it shouldn’t cost too much to produce your show, a couple of hundred thousand pounds. Costs are up. You wouldn’t believe what it costs these days to put on even a modest play with a small cast. You live in Washington, Sydney. There must be all sorts of funds available for the arts. What about that bird you had a fling with in your drinking days? What was her name? Claire, was it? She heads that theatre you’re working at these days, doesn’t she?”

  “Her name is Clarise, Harry.”

  “Ah yes, Clarise. Well, use your considerable charm and get her to back your show. Get someone, Sydney, to fund it. Anyone! Once you have, I’ll be delighted to help you find the right producer and director in the West End.” He came around the desk and offered his hand. “See? I never forget an old and valued client. Off you go now. I have—ah—I have an important meeting across town.”

  Bancroft seemed unsure whether to take Quill’s hand, or even to get up from his chair. He looked down at the worn carpet at his feet, fingers working his chin. Finally, he rose, smiled at the agent, went to the door, turned, and said, “You shall hear from me again, Harry, despite your need to insult me. You shall hear from me when all of the West End and Broadway are clamoring for my show, outbidding one another for the privilege of being involved with it. And when that happens, Harrison Quill, I shall seriously consider allowing you to represent me.”

  The receptionist came into the office after Bancroft was gone.

  “Who the hell is he?” she asked.

  “A sick man, my dear. A very sick man. I need another tea. And pour a spot of brandy in it. I’m feeling very depressed.”

  EIGHTEEN

  WHILE SYDNEY BANCROFT’S Thursday morning flight to London winged its way across the Atlantic, Mac Smith and his former law partner, Yale Becker, were passing through the metal detector in the lobby of the H. Carl Moultrie District of Columbia Superior Court. With six divisions—Criminal, Family, Civil, Multi-Door Dispute Resolution, Probate, and Special Operations—its Indiana Avenue building is one of the busiest courts in the country, with six hundred cases adjudicated each day; thousands of people flood its lobby, hallways, and courtrooms in search of justice, or to find themselves guilty of having denied justice for others.

  Smith and Becker rode the escalator to the second floor and headed for one of the building’s seventy courtrooms and hearing rooms. They’d almost reached their destination when a rotund black man with a close-cropped gray beard, coming from the opposite direction, stopped them. He wore a black suit, black shirt, flamingo-pink tie, red lizard boots, and wide-brimmed Spanish hat. He carried an oversized, bulging-at-the-seams, elaborately tooled, well-worn leather briefcase. “Mac Smith?” he said.

  Smith smiled. “One and the same, Horace.”

  “What are you doing here, slumming?” the man asked with a chuckle.

  “Wish I were,” Smith said with equal pleasantness. “You know Yale Becker.”

  “Of course I do,” Horace said. “You two back in business together again?”

  “For the moment,” Smith said. “Actually, I’m more along for the ride.”

  WHEN SMITH HAD REACHED BECKER the previous night and asked him to represent Jeremiah at the Presentment hearing, Becker agreed, but only if Smith would accompany him. “You know the family,” Becker had said. “Besides, I’d enjoy working with you again, Mac. Good to keep your hand in.”

  And so Smith agreed, but not before Annabel urged him to. She’d seen it before with her husband, a vague restlessness that wouldn’t go away until he’d taken some action to satisfy it. It came in cycles, once, maybe twice a year, something, someone, luring him with a challenge too compelling to arbitrarily ignore.

  “It’ll take too much time, Annie,” Mac had said. “I have my classes and—”

  His weakest excuse, she knew. Mackensie Smith was one of the most efficient time managers she’d ever known. “I’ll help you,” she said.

  “All right,” he’d said.

  And that was that.

  “THE BAD GUYS KEEPING YOU BUSY, Horace?” Becker asked the flamboyant black attorney.

  “The numbers say crime in D.C. is down, but you’d never know it by me. Never been busier. But you two wouldn’t know about that. Got another high-profile, big-money case on the docket today?”

  “You might say that,” Becker said. “Half right—on the profile, not on the money. Good seeing you, Horace.”

  “Always a pleasure.” To Smith: “Still turning out bright-eyed young lawyers over at GW?”

  “Doing my best, Horace. You take care.”

  As they resumed navigating the hundreds of people coming and going in the hall, Smith said, “How many cases do you figure Horace is handling today, Yale? Six? Ten? A dozen?”

  “Too many, I’m sure. Drugs. Domestic abuse. Petty thieves. He’s a hell of a good attorney, Mac, nobody better at cutting deals. Love his style. Can’t overlook him in that getup.”

  No more of a getup than we’re wearing, Mac mused, Yale’s three-piece suit and my tweed-and-button-down outfit perhaps not as flamboyant, but every bit as much of a uniform as Horace is wearing.

  A clerk escorted them from an outer office into where the magistrate judge sat at a table examining the Lerner files provided by the police. With him was a U.S. Attorney who was introduced as Alex LeCour. He was young, black, and obviously on the rise.

  The judge, Jerry Millander, got right to the point. “So, here we are. Why are we meeting?”

  “There’s a complication in this case, Judge,” Becker said.

  “There always is,” Millander said. “You’re talking about the murder at Ford’s Theatre.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, sir,” Smith said. “The hearing today on the assault and resisting charges is one thing. But the police want to question our client about what he might know of the murder.”

  “So?”

  “So, it puts our client in the position of possibly being coerced,” Becker responded. “The police have already pressured him to answer questions about the murder, which he declines to do. He claims he didn’t even know the victim. I’m uncomfortable having the assault and resisting charges used as a wedge to get him to say things he wouldn’t under ordinary circumstances.”

  U.S. Attorney LeCour said, “He was read his rights twice, Counselors.”

  “About the charges against him,” Smith quickly said. “Not concerning the murder.”

  LeCour said, “According to the investigating officers, two people have confirmed that your client not only knew the deceased, he’d dated her.”

  “You’re making my point, Mr. LeCour,” Smith said. “We’re not here to try a murder case.” He glanced at Becker. “These so-called confirmations that Jeremiah knew the victim is news to us. I’d like a copy of the file.”

  “No can do, Counselor,” said LeCour. “Not the murder investigation file. The other charges? Sure.” Millander handed one of two files to Smith.

  “Our concern,” said Becker, “is that today’s Presentment hearing will confuse the issue, as Mr. LeCour has just done. We want to be sure that the murder plays no part in the proceedings, or in your decisions, Judge.”

  If Millander was offended at the suggestion that his decisions might be based upon anything but hard fact and judicial propriety, he didn’t demonstrate it. He said to LeCour, “They’re right. Let’s not mix apples and oranges.”

  “The detectives went out to the Millennium Arts Center, Judge, to question the defendant about the murder,” LeCour said. “That should be brought into the equation.”

  “They went out there to question him,” said Smith, “not to arrest him. He couldn’t have resisted arrest if the officers weren’t there to arrest him in the first place. As for assaulting the detective, they both ended up with bruises. Sounds like a wash to me. The kid was scared. He saw two strange guys in suits looking for him. He swung on them and bolted. The preponderance of evidence just isn’t there.”

  “Save that for the Presentment, Mr. Smith,” Millander said. “By the way, Senator Lerner is here in the building. He’s asked that the hearing be closed. I can’t accommodate him with that, but we have arranged for him, and any others involved, to enter and exit the building through a door not available to the public. He’s also asked that I impose a gag order on all participants. I choose not to do that, but ask that all of you exercise restraint, particularly with the press. They’re here in force.”

  “I don’t wonder,” Smith said.

  “See you downstairs in an hour,” Millander said, dismissing them.

  Smith and Becker went to the cafeteria, where they carried coffee to a small table far removed from others.

  “What do you think, Mac?” Becker asked.

  “Like the judge says, apples and oranges. I think he’s committed to separating the charges from their interest in Jeremiah as a potential suspect in the Zarinski murder. I’m sure we can plead out the charges. What concerns me, Yale, is what LeCour said: that the police have two confirmations that Jeremiah knew the deceased, and possibly even had some sort of a relationship with her.”

  “If he did, he’s not doing himself any favor denying it.”

  “They got him to deny it before I arrived last night. I told him, of course, to say nothing. But he’s an arrogant kid.”

  “We’ll ask for no bail. You know Senator Lerner. I suggest we get him to accept responsibility for his son and agree to have the boy live with him while this gets sorted out. The judge’ll certainly waive bail if that’s the case.”

  Smith nodded.

  “That still leaves the kid subject to investigation for the murder. What’s your read on him, Mac? Capable of it?”

  Smith agreed, but added, “Capable of it the way almost everyone is, given provoking circumstances. You’ll represent him through to the end?”

  Becker smiled. “On two conditions. One, that the defendant and the family request that I represent him. And two, that you’re in for the duration.”

  “I can’t promise that, Yale.”

  “Then I can’t promise I’ll take the case. Look, Mac, this goes beyond my simply wanting you on the team because, frankly, I enjoy your company. It also has to do with your connections with the family. We’re dealing with two highly visible parents, the senator, and his ex-wife. And you well know that in that situation, the attorney ends up with three clients, none of whom will see eye to eye on anything.”

  Smith smiled. “That was one of many reasons I got out of the business, Yale. Criminal law is easy, provided you don’t have to deal with people. Like most everything else in life.”

  “Like most everything else in life,” Becker repeated. “Well?”

  “Annie wants me to.”

  “Smart lady. You won’t go against her wishes. Right?”

  “Not a prudent thing to do. Yes, I’ll assist. Of course, that assumes he ends up charged in the murder. Failing that, you don’t need me to plead out the assault and resisting charges.”

  “Fair enough. Introduce me to the senator when we get there. Is he as much the playboy as the media paints him to be?”

  Smith shrugged. “I’m really not that friendly with Lerner. Clarise is our friend. But I’ve met him on a number of occasions, and shared a dinner table with him a couple of times. He’s always had an attractive woman at his side. And I read the papers.”

  “Any inside knowledge about the rumors that the senator had a fling with the murder victim?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Will your friend, Ms. Emerson, end up heading the NEA?”

  “I suspect so, unless some bombshell explodes in her face.”

  “Like her son being charged with the murder of a young woman rumored to have been sexually involved with his father? Juicy!”

  “And unlikely. Let’s go. I have a feeling Judge Millander doesn’t abide lateness.”

  Magistrate Judge Jerrold Millander, now wearing a black robe, sat at the bench of a first-floor hearing room. U.S. Attorney LeCour occupied one of two tables. With him were Detectives Rick Klayman and Mo Johnson. Seated at the second table was U.S. Senator Bruce Lerner and a young female aide. They stood as Smith and Becker approached.

  “Good to see you again, Mac Smith,” said Lerner, shaking hands and introducing the aide. Smith did the same for Yale Becker. With everyone seated, they pulled their chairs close together and spoke in whispers.

  “We’d like you to take personal responsibility for Jeremiah,” Smith said. “If he can be released to your custody, we’re sure the judge will waive bail.”

  Lerner’s expression said either that he wasn’t sure that was possible, or that he wasn’t accepting of the suggestion.

  “A problem?” Becker asked.

  Lerner looked around before confiding, “Jeremiah and I have been estranged for a long time, gentlemen. I’m not sure he would want to live with me, no matter for how short a duration.”

  “Let’s ask him,” Smith said as they all turned to see Jeremiah being led into the room by a court bailiff and a U.S. Marshall. Jeremiah saw his father seated at the table and frowned, as if to say, “What are you doing here?”

  He was brought to the table and directed into the only unoccupied chair, next to Lerner.

  “Hello, son,” the senator said.

  Jeremiah ignored him.

  Smith, who sat on Jeremiah’s other side, leaned close and said, “We’re going to ask that you be released to your father instead of asking for bail. That means you’re to live with him until the next phase comes up, a probable cause hearing in ten days or so.”

  “I don’t want to live with him,” Jeremiah said defiantly.

  “I suggest you
rethink that, Jeremiah,” Smith said. “You’re in serious trouble here. Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

  “I’ll live with my mother.”

  “She isn’t here to warrant to the judge that it’s all right with her, and that you’ll abide by the court’s order. Your father is here. Take advantage of it.”

  The court clerk’s reading of the charges against Jeremiah Lerner, and his citing of the case number, interrupted them. Judge Millander looked down from the bench and told LeCour to proceed. The young U.S. Attorney spelled out the circumstances of the defendant’s arrest and incarceration, and indicated the arresting officers were present. Klayman looked over at Smith and nodded a greeting, which Smith ignored. The two detectives were sworn in separately, and under questioning by LeCour explained what had happened at the Millennium Arts Center the previous evening. Their collective testimony took only fifteen minutes. Smith and Becker had decided not to ask the detectives why they’d gone in search of Jeremiah. Raising the question of how he could have resisted arrest when he wasn’t being arrested was better saved for the trial, if that became reality, or better yet, to be used as ammunition in attempting to persuade the U.S. Attorney’s office to drop that charge. Becker asked a few routine questions for the record, and sat down. Millander announced that a probable cause hearing would be scheduled within the ten days mandated by law. Becker stood and requested an extension: “I’ve just been brought in on the case, Judge, and will need more time to prepare.”

  “Granted. Talk to my clerk about a date. What about bail?”

  “The state requests bail of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, your honor,” LeCour said.

  Millander’s expression reflected the absurdity of the amount.

  “He has a previous criminal record, your honor,” said LeCour. “And he’s already attempted to avoid custody as evidenced by his flight from these officers.”

  Millander asked the defense for its comments.

  “Your honor,” Becker said, “his previous criminal record involves three minor charges, one of which was dropped.” He looked down at Jeremiah. “As you’re aware, the defendant comes from a distinguished family, pillars of the community. His father, Senator Lerner, who is here this morning, has agreed to take personal responsibility for his son, and will ensure his attendance at any future legal proceedings. Under the circumstances, we feel bail is not only inappropriate, it’s unnecessary.”