As Ben gazed at the assembly, Marshall Bressler rolled up beside him.
“Got to hand it to the DC authorities,” Ben said with genuine admiration. “They’ve got things much more under control than their counterparts in Chicago did.”
“Forget the authorities,” Bressler replied. “Congratulate Senator Glancy’s advance team.”
Christina raised an eyebrow. “What’s an advance team?”
“I can tell you haven’t had much experience with politics. These days, advance men-many of whom are women, by the way-are the lifeline of any politician. At least any politician who wants to be one for very long. Ever since Kennedy/Nixon in 1960, the need for specialists to orchestrate and control how candidates are presented by the media has been readily apparent.”
“I haven’t seen any advance men in the office.”
“We’re not talking about paper pushers. We’re talking about highly skilled media consultants who command top dollar-because they’re worth it. They pander to the press, marshal the allies, outwit the enemies, cozy up to the Secret Service, prepare itineraries, arrange photo ops, plan motorcades, hang bunting and banners and, most important, anticipate every contingency. Politics is not immune to Murphy’s Law-anything that can go wrong, will. The advance men deal with all unforeseen developments and overcome them.”
“And they did-” Ben waved his hand toward the general assemblage. “-all this?”
“Of course. Believe me, they’ve been working on it for days-obtaining permits, snuggling up to the courthouse officials, confabbing with Amanda and the rest of the staff on how we wanted our man presented. Remember, most people will be seeing Todd today for the first time in five months, ever since he was incarcerated in the district jail.”
“Your people put up these ropes?”
“Who else? They wanted to make sure the senator could make a dignified ascent, without interference. Why do you think all the protesters and right-wing tub-thumpers-some of whom were bused in from Maryland by the Senate majority leader’s staff, by the way-have been shunted off so far from the action? All the cameras will get are Todd’s supporters.”
“Is this really necessary? The potential jurors are already sequestered.”
“They’re not concerned about the jury, Ben. That’s your job. They’re concerned about the voters, and not just the ones back in Oklahoma, either.”
“Surely Todd doesn’t still think he can run for national office.”
“Our polls indicate that the video hurt us with female voters, but much less so with males, especially those under the age of forty-five. If you can make it look as if Todd has been the victim of political calumny, an unscrupulous plot to entrap him with another woman then frame him for murder, you might well win us back those female votes. Women sympathize with underdogs and martyrs-people they believe have been treated unfairly.”
“Speaking as a woman,” Christina said, “and for that matter one who doesn’t believe Senator Glancy killed Veronica Cooper, I still wouldn’t give the man my vote if he personally kissed my-”
Ben clamped his hand over her mouth. “Minicams, Christina. Big powerful microphones. Talking out loud bad.”
Christina clenched her teeth and remained silent.
A few minutes later, a black van from DC’s Central Detention Center rolled up to the curb and Senator Glancy stepped out of the back. He raised one arm into the air, and all at once the crowd went wild, cheering, calling out his name, whistling and thumping their feet. Ben felt more like he was at a rock concert than a murder trial. At any moment he expected someone to hold up a lighter.
“What did I tell you?” Bressler said, winking. “Advance men.”
Glancy’s intern, Shandy Craig, stepped out of the crowd and tugged at his sleeve. “Hair check.”
She scrutinized him carefully, then minutely adjusted the lie of his salt-and-pepper bangs.
“Teeth.”
Glancy flashed them for her.
“You’re clean. Go get ’em, tiger.”
Glancy jabbed his thumb back toward Shandy. “Is she the best, or what? Love that girl. Are we ready?”
“We are,” Ben answered. “But I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a very pleasant day for you.”
“We’ll make the most of it. Anything’s better than that hellhole where they’ve been keeping me. I don’t know where people get these ideas about politicians going to country club prisons. The DC jail is the pits.”
Having visited him on several occasions, Ben knew this was true. It was a no-perks enterprise operating on a constrained budget. The visitors’ room didn’t even have separated chambers; every time Ben talked to Glancy he had to shout to be heard over the clatter of all the other attorneys and relatives.
Glancy turned toward the crowd and flashed them a grateful smile-the kind of million-watt grin that gets men elected to public office and keeps them there-then moved with calm and grace toward the front steps. As negotiated with the incarceration officials and the prosecution in the spirit of fair play, Glancy had been provided with a freshly pressed suit and grooming equipment, and his keepers remained several paces behind him out of camera range, so he could enter the courtroom looking like a senator-not a murderer. As he passed by, dozens of people thrust out their hands, and he shook a few, though never slowing his advance up the stairs. Ben couldn’t help but admire the style, the savoir faire that allowed a man in such dire circumstances to emerge looking more like a returning astronaut than an accused murderer.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, Glancy started toward the podium.
With a subtle sidestep, Ben blocked his progress. “Wait a minute. We need to move on to the courtroom.”
“I’m giving a press conference,” Glancy said, smiling. “I’m a politician, Ben. It’s what we do.”
“No way,” Ben replied, standing firm. “I told you. You say nothing unless and until we put you on the witness stand.”
“This is a critical moment, politically speaking,” Glancy explained. “The press has been building toward this for months. They expect me to say something. I can’t let them down.”
“Listen to me,” Ben said, keeping his voice down so the mikes surrounding him wouldn’t pick it up. “This is not a campaign. You’re on trial for murder. Under the new federal execution act, the jury has the option to give you the death penalty.”
“But the potential jurors have already been sequestered, right? They won’t be able to hear what I say.”
“True, but-”
“Please excuse me.” His face remained calm. To anyone who couldn’t hear what was being said, it would look as if two close friends were having an amiable chat. He started again toward the podium.
“Todd.” Ben held his arm. “When I agreed to take on this murder case, you agreed that you would follow my instructions. To the letter.”
“As regards the case, yes. As regards my career-well, I think my political advisers are more qualified to make those decisions, don’t you?”
“Todd, if you endanger-”
“I’m not going to say anything that will help the prosecution, or that will even directly relate to the case.” He gently removed Ben’s hand from his arm. “You know how to play your game, Ben, and I respect that. Now let me play mine.”
Glancy squared himself behind the podium. He started to speak, but another round of cheers and applause erupted, drowning him out. Ben wondered what his advance men had done to trigger that. Paid off a wino? Goosed a maiden aunt?
“My friends,” Glancy began. Even in these circumstances, something about the way he said it, his crisp mellifluous voice, the way he looked squarely into the camera as he spoke, made you want to believe it. “I thank you for your support during these troubled times. I particularly thank those of you who have been so kind to my wife, Marie. My lawyer won’t let me talk about the case-and you know how those lawyers act when they don’t get their way.”