Padolino leaned across the rail, getting as close to the jurors as the judge would allow, looking each of them directly in their eyes. “Does this man deserve to be punished? I should say so. Does he deserve the greatest punishment it is in your power to decree? Again, I must answer yes. Because the magnitude of his crime was great. And the magnitude of his violation was even greater.”
Loving awoke, head throbbing. Despite the darkness and the turbid haze swirling through his brain, he determined that he was affixed to a square-backed chair. He twisted a little each way, testing the degree to which he was bound. Damn tight, as it turned out. As his vision cleared, he was slowly able to make out the faint glint of silver emanating from his midsection.
Duct tape. Wouldn’t you know it. Thanks to George W. Bush, every crackpot in America now had a roll of duct tape handy. Loving himself kept a backwoods survival cabin, a stockpile of fresh water and canned goods, and invested only in gold coins, but even he wasn’t gullible enough to fall for the duct tape malarkey. Among other reasons, he knew that no matter how tightly you were taped, it was always possible to wiggle away-eventually. He could already feel some give around his right arm. There was a gap between the back of the chair and the back of his arm that was just loose enough to allow him to wriggle. Given enough time, he could get that arm free.
He continued twisting back and forth, but less than a minute later he heard the sound of a poorly oiled heavy metallic door opening and closing. The hollowness of the echo, combined with the visible concrete floor, suggested that he was in a large room-a warehouse, perhaps, or something like it.
He heard footsteps approaching. He reduced the wiggling, still doing his best to worm free, but careful not to let it become apparent.
A few moments later, a tall figure emerged from the darkness. He was about Loving’s age, maybe a little younger. Thirtysomething. Black hair, with streaks of brown, tied into a ponytail in the back. Stubble. Wearing a navy-blue jacket over a light blue buttondown shirt. Thin, wiry. Loving sensed a near-palpable tension bottled up, like a soda that had been shaken way too many times.
Loving decided to play it cool. “Thank goodness you’re here. Someone tied me up and left me, I dunno how long ago. Have you got somethin’ you could use to cut this tape?”
Loving was not surprised that the man didn’t rush to help him. But he had hoped for at least a wry chortle. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
“Who says I am?”
The man continued to stare at him. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
Could this be the man Deep Throat had been talking about? The one he was so scared of? “I’m not lookin’ for anyone. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m duct-taped to a chair.”
Loving could almost feel the man’s rage. His nostrils flared; his chest rose. And yet his voice remained perfectly modulated. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Loving said, trying a different tack. “It’s a job.”
“What have you learned so far?”
“Not much. Why d’you care?”
“I need to know everything you’ve learned.”
“And I need to take a leak, but at the moment neither one of us is gettin’ what we want, huh?”
The man stepped forward with such suddenness that it took Loving by surprise. “Don’t toy with me, asshole. I want to know what you’ve found out about Amber.”
“Sorry. That information’s strictly confidential. Rules of professional ethics.”
Like a jaguar finally permitted to pounce, the man sprang forward, lowering himself on one knee. A flash of metal illuminated his hand.
As he inched closer, he pushed the switchblade against Loving’s throat. “This is your last chance,” he growled. “Why are you looking for Amber Daily?”
Christina had to give Padolino credit where due. He was a silver-tongued devil-heavy emphasis on the devil. He had written a magnificent opening, and delivered it to perfection, playing not only to the jury but also to the press corps he knew would carry his words to the millions of Americans following this high-profile case. Padolino was a gifted communicator.
Christina was not. Which was not to say she couldn’t talk to people-she could. But she didn’t have the fancy vocabulary, the silky tone, the square jaw, or even the earnest expression. Her strength was telling people what happened, straightforward and without embellishment. So that was what she did.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, at this point you may well be wondering what this case is all about, so let me help you out. Is this case about a sex crime? No. Is this case about sexual harassment in the workplace? No. Is this a recall election for a U.S. senator? No. This is a murder trial. So everything that doesn’t pertain to the murder-which would be about ninety-three percent of what the distinguished prosecutor just said-is not relevant. We all know about the videotape and we all know that there was an inappropriate”-she immediately wished she had said “illicit,” a stronger word but one that would not stir memories of Clinton and Lewinsky-“relationship. The defense will not even attempt to deny it. Not because we’re proud of it. Far from it. It was disgraceful, as the senator himself would be the first to tell you. We will not discuss or deny that because it has nothing to do with the murder. It gives you no information, not even a clue, as to who killed Veronica Cooper. And that’s what we’re gathered here today to determine. That’s the only thing that matters.”
She paused and took a breath. It was hard to read people at the same time she was speaking to them. That was why she always preferred to let Ben do the big speeches-so she would be free to watch, to observe the expressions on their faces, the tiny twitches, the slight but ever-so-important rise of an eyebrow. She thought they understood what she was saying, that the courtroom should be focused on the crime at hand, the murder. But she wasn’t at all sure they were receiving the subtext-that Padolino was manipulating them, using irrelevant matters to coerce a verdict based upon emotion rather than evidence.
“In his opening, the prosecutor made a great deal of the fact that the defendant is a U.S. senator, and I think perhaps that’s appropriate, although for entirely different reasons. Although I’m sure he did not intend it, Mr. Padolino seemed to be implying that Todd Glancy should be held to a higher standard because he is an elected official. I will suggest to you, ladies and gentlemen, that the man has already been held to a vastly higher degree of scrutiny, and abuse, because he is a U.S. senator. This case is permeated with politics. If, as the prosecutor tells you, Todd Glancy wielded such great power, that is all the more reason why political opponents might want to bring him down, might orchestrate a scandal-or even a murder-to reap the political benefit. This is not mere idle speculation. As you hear the evidence presented by the prosecution, never forget to ask yourself the basic questions that have remained unanswered, that the prosecution still cannot answer. Who leaked that incriminating videotape to the press? Why does such a videotape even exist? The fact that it does, and that it was deliberately planted to incriminate Senator Glancy, tells you that even before the murder occurred someone-or some group-was working against him. And if we know that such a person or group might initiate a sex scandal for political purposes, is it so difficult to believe they might also arrange a murder? Again, ask yourself the fundamental questions. Why was she killed in the U.S. Senate complex-one of the most conspicuous locations for a murder imaginable. Why was the body left in the senator’s own hideaway? Are we to believe the senator is so stupid he couldn’t come up with a less incriminating place to commit a murder and leave the corpse? With all due respect, the theory of the case presented by the prosecutor in his opening statement simply makes no sense.”