Ben had to put all that out of his mind. His client wasn’t the U.S. government; it was Todd Glancy. And despite everything he had learned these past months, he did not believe Todd was guilty of the crime. He was convinced of that.
Now all he had to do was convince twelve other people.
Loving stepped into the alleyway, hitching and adjusting his pants, a euphoric expression on his face. Well now, he thought, that was a surprising turn of events. Might’ve been the most pleasant surprise in the history of his employment with Kincaid & McCall. Who said a private investigator didn’t get any perks?
Should he go back through Martin’s Tavern, or try to find a street outlet? He had a hunch this alley eventually emptied onto Wisconsin and might well put him closer to his rental car. From there, he could make a few phone calls, then start looking for this Stigmata joint.
He wasn’t sure how much he’d accomplished, but at least he had some fresh information about Amber and one possible lead. He thought he was finally on the right track. And he’d made a new friend. It was always good to have friends.
Loving stopped. Had he heard something in the alley behind him? He turned and carefully scrutinized the darkness. It was hard to say with certainty, as pitch-black as it was here, but he didn’t see anything. Probably his imagination. No one could possibly know where he was-no one but his mysterious informant, Deep Throat. Could they?
He resumed walking. The sounds of traffic whizzed by at lightning speed. Given what Lucille had told him, they were probably on their way to some party. Freebasing cocaine. Jeez, the stupid things people did to themselves. He would never understand that. Or, for that matter, why a sweet girl with a home and a mother and a perfectly good name-
He froze in place. Okay, that time he definitely heard something.
“Who’s back there?” Loving barked. “You need somethin’?”
No answer.
Loving considered himself a solid sort, not easily given to flights of fancy. But this whole situation was starting to get under his skin.
He doubled his pace, just to be on the safe side. He could see the street now, and from there he’d find his car, then get his cell phone, and he’d check in with Jones and maybe even see if that club was open and-
The fist came out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. He had no time to duck, no chance to do anything to lessen the blow. Was it coming from ahead or behind? He wasn’t sure, even as the fist drove into the left side of his skull.
Though groggy, he tried to focus. “What… is it? Wha-”
He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the lid of a garbage can rushing toward his face, battering him on the forehead. The back of his head slammed against the brick wall. He fell to his knees.
“What’s-goin’-?” he mumbled, but it was no use. Consciousness was fading fast. He felt a hand grip the hair on the top of his head and knock him back against the wall one last time. After that, a deep black sleep shrouded his consciousness like fingers snuffing out the flame of a candle.
8
“L adies and gentlemen of the jury: when all is said and done, this is a case about violation, in all its most repellent forms. Personal, sexual violations, yes. But even more so, violation of the employer-employee relationship, violation of women’s rights. And perhaps most profoundly, violation of the public trust. Because as the evidence will show, the crime committed by the defendant, Todd K. Glancy, a United States senator, in the complex that is the seat, the very heart of our government, not only violated the poor young woman he abused and then murdered. Ultimately, Todd Glancy violated us all.”
Ben was so close to being on his feet he could feel his toes twitch. This was supposed to be the opening statement in a murder trial, not a long-winded exegesis of women’s rights in the workplace. Padolino was right on the line, almost but not quite verging from a permissible melodramatic summary of the crime to an impermissible extrapolation of the crime to unrelated issues-a plea to find the defendant guilty not based upon the evidence but to “send a message.” No doubt he had rewritten and rehearsed this opening endlessly, going just as far as he thought he could without being shut down.
“Let me apologize in advance for the unpleasant nature of some of the evidence I will be forced to present to you during the course of this trial. I don’t want to, but I have no choice. Justice demands it. Much of what you see-some videotaped evidence in particular-will shock you, will tear at the very core of your soul. As well it should. But it is important that you fully understand the relationships of the parties, of the killer to his victim, and his proven attitude and behavior toward her, so that you can see as clearly as I do what led to this twenty-two-year-old woman’s tragic death.”
As Ben had anticipated, even though this was a capital murder case, Padolino was much more interested in talking about the alleged sex crime evidenced by the video. His lurid topic allowed him to avoid the usual bathetic cries for justice, and his considerable speaking skill prevented this lengthy talk from having the soporific effect openings often had on juries anxious to get on to the evidence. Padolino stuck to his strengths-the video could not be refuted, and it was guaranteed to repel anyone who watched it. Proving the senator guilty of murder was a trickier matter.
“Veronica Cooper graduated from the University of Virginia with high honors, receiving a BA in political science. It had been her dream to work in the national arena, so you can imagine her delight when she was hired by the distinguished senator from Oklahoma, a man considered one of the most promising, most up-and-coming members of his party. And then imagine her dismay when she found that her new job, her dream, required more than intelligence and hard work. Imagine her horror when she learned, as the evidence will show, that the senator extracted far more than legislative work from his interns.”
Ben and Christina exchanged a glance. He was in effect arguing evidence of pattern or habit, that Glancy was an inveterate womanizer-evidence that could only be admissible given certain narrowly prescribed circumstances. But the irony was that he was arguing a pattern of sexual misconduct, which was not the crime for which Glancy was on trial. It was the crime for which Padolino intended to hang him, to make the jury despise him before the evidence relating to the murder was ever presented. Most of the opening proceeded in that manner. Ben was relieved when he detected the telltale signs-Padolino’s approach to the jury rail, the lowering of his voice and the lengthening of his dramatic pauses-that indicated he was coming to his conclusion. He knew when it was time to stop-when the jury members understood what you were going to do but were still hungry for the details, before they reached the point of rhetorical satiety.
“As the evidence will show, Senator Todd Glancy met his intern in a secluded part of the Russell Senate Office Building and forced her to perform a repulsive sex act, documented by graphic videotape. The tape was leaked, the man was exposed, and suddenly his entire future, all his political ambitions, rested in the hands of that twenty-two-year-old intern whom he had treated so shabbily. The evidence will show that he met with her and attempted to buy her goodwill, or at least her silence, before the inevitable media deluge descended upon her. And when she refused to cooperate, he met her in his private hideaway and killed her, in a violent, bloody fashion. Once more showing his callousness, his utter lack of respect for her as a person, he tossed her body onto his sofa and left her.” He paused. “And this from a man elected to the highest legislative body in this great land.”