Dark Ambition (13 page)

Ben was surprised that Hennessey was coming on so strong. Slater must have turned up the heat on him full blast. "That wasn't my plan, I swear it. Fulton doesn't like me because he's a control freak, and I won't let him run things. Besides, he wants to file charges quickly so he can show his boss how great he is. He doesn't know what type of evidence you need to file a case like this."

"Be ready at six-thirty. I'll swing by and pick you up."

"Why don't we meet there? I don't jump through hoops without a cup of coffee."

"I'll have it for you in the car. Hot and strong. What you really need is a little rehearsal with me so you don't get us both fired."

As Ben put the phone down, he wasn't surprised that they'd been summoned. In America's great legal system, the White House was supposed to keep out of criminal prosecution in individual cases, but every time he'd been involved in a case with highly charged political fallout, sooner or later he ended up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for what was typically billed as an informational briefing.

Ben scribbled a note for Elana, telling her that he wouldn't be able to have breakfast with Amy, which he rarely missed. Before leaving, he looked into Amy's room. She was sleeping peacefully in her little bed with her right thumb in her mouth—a habit she had once abandoned but resumed after Nan's death, along with occasional bed-wetting. Ben wanted to walk over to kiss her, and remove that thumb, but he was afraid of waking her. Lately, she'd had trouble sleeping and woke up with nightmares. So he settled for watching her. She was so cute with her curly brown hair falling over her face.

It was a strange sensation for Ben—the love he felt for Amy. Before Nan died, he hated to admit, he had felt little, if any, emotional attachment to Amy. Since then he was finding that he loved her in a way that he hadn't thought he was capable of. Maybe he could have had that type of relationship with his own father, if only...

He heard a horn honking on the street. That must be Hennessey. He headed quickly downstairs and out the front door.

* * *

"Do me a personal favor," Hennessey said to Ben as they walked from the car to the White House. "Even if you think Fulton's an idiot, try to keep your views to yourself. Slater's high on that kid."

"C'mon, Al. You know Fulton's a total ass."

Hennessey sighed with resignation. Ben's independent streak drove him crazy from time to time. Living with it was the price he had to pay for Ben's terrific ability as a trial lawyer. Yet there were times that he wasn't certain he wanted to pay it any longer. "Please, just treat him with some respect."

"That genius will get the respect he deserves."

"Great," he said wearily. "At least I keep my resume current for days like this."

When they arrived at Slater's office, Fulton and Sarah Van Buren were seated at a conference table that occupied one corner of the spacious room. Slater was on his phone, pacing while he talked, barking orders to White House staff members about the President's schedule for the day and where he should be at every minute during the morning trip to New York. "Make sure Air Force One is ready for a nine a.m. takeoff. I'll have the President and Mrs. Brewster there. Marshall Cunningham and his wife will be the two other passengers." Ben nodded curtly to Fulton, whose smug expression warned him it was going to be a rough ride this morning.

The minute Slater hung up the phone, Hennessey introduced Ben to the White House chief of staff, who looked dapper in a blue-and-white-striped shirt and navy suspenders. His suit was double-breasted dark blue, Ben could tell from the jacket hanging behind the door. Ben wasn't an expert on men's clothes, but it looked expensive to him, the sort of thing Slater might have worn as a partner in a big New York investment-banking house. It made Ben feel self-conscious about his own crumpled charcoal-gray suit. He should get it cleaned and pressed on the weekend, he told himself, especially if he was going to be seeing Jennifer.

Still pacing around the office while the others sat at the table, Slater said to Ben, "I hear you're the best man in the U.S. Attorney's office in Washington." His tone was smooth. "I'm looking forward to seeing your package of evidence against Senator Young tomorrow."

Ben was immediately on guard. When people in Slater's position gave out compliments, they wanted something in return. "Yeah, well," Ben said, "I've won a few cases over the years."

"No need for false modesty. I know all about your record. That's why I wanted you on the Winthrop case. President Brewster cares a lot about this one. As you may know, the secretary of state was his close friend. And you know what else?"

"No, what?"

"We need a quick conviction of Winthrop's killer to show the country that we can control crime. It's a question of public confidence. We don't want people thinking they're not safe in their own homes."

"All of that's fine with me," Ben replied calmly, "but we also have to be sure we have a case that we can win before a jury."

Slater nodded his head. "Amen. I couldn't agree more. But, with the evidence against that gardener, you don't have a question, do you?"

"Actually, I've got a big question."

Slater looked mystified, as if Ben had said pigs could fly. "Well, that's real funny, because when I heard from Ed about the evidence you've got in this case, I thought it's a slam dunk. You should file charges today for murder one against that gardener—" He looked at Fulton. "What's his name?"

"Clyde Gillis," Fulton responded meekly, keeping a low profile in the presence of his boss.

"Yeah, Clyde Gillis."

Hennessey glowered at Ben, who was avoiding eye contact.

Ben said, "My gut tells me that if we did that with what we have now, we'd run a serious risk of losing before a D.C. jury."

Slater moved up close to Ben and said in total disbelief, "You're telling me that the gardener didn't do it?"

Is he serious, or is this an act? Ben wondered. Standing his ground, Ben didn't care. "As a matter of fact, I think he probably did do it, but that's not the point. I'm not interested in determining guilt or innocence. That's up to a jury and God. My job's to build a case. If I can't march George Nesbitt into that courtroom and put him on the stand to testify credibly that when he left, Winthrop was alive and well, then I've got a huge hole in my case that any good counsel will drive a truck through to establish reasonable doubt."

Slater scoffed. "What are the chances of the gardener hiring a good lawyer? Won't he get one of those public-defender kids right out of law school? You ought to be able to handle him easily."

"Unfortunately for us, Gillis already has a damn good lawyer." He glanced over at Van Buren. "She used to work at the criminal division of DOJ."

Van Buren looked up. "Who?"

"Jennifer Moore."

Sarah knew all about Ben and Jennifer, but she didn't say a word. Nor did her face betray any emotion.

"Who's paying for this
good
lawyer?" Slater asked.

"Jennifer's a friend of Ann Winthrop. My guess is that Ann thinks Gillis is innocent, and she's bankrolling his defense."

Taken by surprise, Slater looked at Van Buren. "Is that ethical?"

"I'm afraid so."

Slater paused to regroup mentally. This wasn't how he had expected this to play out. "Let's assume this Jennifer Moore's the world's greatest lawyer. How's she going to explain the evidence? The money and gun in the gardener's trunk?"

"She'll say that somebody planted them."

"Will she have any basis for that conclusion?"

Ben shrugged his shoulders. "Beats the shit out of me at this point. But I sure hope to know the answer to that question before I go to trial."

Slater sneered. "So is it fair to say that we're talking about a defense lawyer blowing smoke against the city's best prosecutor and some pretty strong evidence?"

"You could put it that way," Ben said guardedly.

"Well, I'm not a lawyer. Thank God for that. But when I was an investment banker in New York, I employed lots of lawyers. Some pretty good ones. Some not so good. The good ones always relied on facts, lots of facts, to justify their conclusions, and that's how we acted."

It must have been a real treat being his lawyer, Ben thought. Even at a thousand dollars an hour or whatever those guys got, definitely hard work. "Sometimes you don't have facts. You've got to rely on what your instinct tells you, aided by experience. That's where I am right now. My gut tells me that we'd better find George Nesbitt before we file charges against Gillis."

"Then we've got a problem, Ben," Slater said, dripping condescension. "You and I have a problem because your gut conclusion won't be good enough for Philip Brewster, and he happens to be the President of the United States. Brewster needs a conviction right now. He wants to move ahead with this case against that gardener ASAP. He's the man we all work for. So that pretty well settles it."

It took all of Ben's self-control to avoid laughing out loud. He'd learned long ago how staff people invoked their great leader's name when the great leader might not even be aware of the issue being discussed. It was a wonderful Washington ploy. But Ben was prepared to play the game on terms like these. Slow and easy, he cautioned himself before he began talking. Don't explode. He wants you to do that. Do it the way he does, no emotion, calm and reasonable.

"Now, I've been around Washington a long time," Ben said. "I can see that for political reasons you guys up here want to get a quick arrest and conviction and show that you're tough on crime. On the other hand, the President won't be happy if we charge the black gardener, Clyde Gillis, and then later on we find this white guy, George Nesbitt, and it turns out Nesbitt really killed him. That won't play well in the inner cities next November. I'd hate to see the man whom we all work for"—he caught Slater's eye—"get hurt by that."

His words made an impression on Slater. As always, potential adverse political consequences commanded attention at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

"How's the search coming for Nesbitt?" Slater asked Fulton, who sprang to his feet.

"One of the two guards who saw Nesbitt—Jeb Hines—is in California now. They started with fifty-eight possibles with that name. Using age and photo IDs on driver's licenses, they narrowed the universe to twenty-six possibles. Now they're using phone calls and personal visits to contact the twenty-six. It's slow going. As of an hour ago, four have been eliminated. That means there are still twenty-two possibles."

Slater stood next to the window and looked out at the White House lawn below for several moments, evaluating the alternatives. Finally he turned around. "Ed, you tell Murtaugh that I want every conceivable resource used in the search for Nesbitt, and I want it completed by four o'clock p.m. Wednesday, Washington time." He glanced over at Van Buren. "I assume we can say that Ches is on board with this approach?"

"Absolutely. I talked to him before coming over here. He agrees that priority number one is finding George Nesbitt. 'No stone unturned' were the words the AG used."

"What happens Wednesday at four o'clock?" Ben asked.

"That's when you file charges against the gardener for murder one and the death penalty."

"That may not be enough time," Ben protested. "Suppose they haven't found Nesbitt by then?"

Slater's face screwed up in anger. He didn't like being challenged by underlings. He was willing to listen to reason, but once he made a decision, the discussion was over. "Well, it's all the time you've got, pal." Reasonableness was gone. Iron was in. "Four o'clock Wednesday. You got that?"

"Just in time to make the evening news," Ben said.

"Oh, really," Slater said sarcastically. "Gee, I hadn't thought about that. You're obviously as smart as your resume indicates."

"I want two more days," Ben replied stubbornly, keeping himself under control. "Till the end of the week."

"Well, you can't have them. This isn't an ordinary case. Robert's death coming now is, to say the least, awkward for the President. It's less than a year until the voters decide on his reelection. Crime's a major issue with the people. Maybe the most important one of all. The political fallout from this crime could be devastating unless we can show that there's prompt and severe punishment."

"But—" Ben continued.

Slater cut him off. "Let me be real clear about where I'm coming from, pal. Yeah, in general I'd like to be certain we charge the right man with Winthrop's murder, but in the confines of this room, I'll be blunt about it. That's not my primary concern. I've got to help the President run this country. That means making people feel safe in their own homes. And I've got to ensure the President's reelection, which will be a tough battle next year. Now, I hate to put it this way, but those two objectives are more important to me than the life of one gardener. Am I getting through to you?"

"Loud and clear," Ben replied.

Then the chief of staff turned to Hennessey. "You tell your boy here that it's four o'clock Wednesday afternoon, or he's off the case. Start looking for somebody else who won't give us this shit."

Looking squarely at Ben, Hennessey said, "It will be filed by four on Wednesday. If Ben won't do it, someone else in the office will."

Ben glared at Hennessey. The goddamn gutless swine, Ben thought. He won't even say a word to help me out. He's letting me swing in the breeze. And Van Buren's no better. She knows damn well I'm right.

Ben reviewed his options. It was a tough call. On a personal level, he wanted to tell Slater to piss up a rope, but then they'd find someone else, someone not as good, to do their bidding. This case was high-profile. It was the kind of case prosecutors would give anything to have, with daily press and television coverage. He wasn't letting go of it. Besides, if Clyde Gillis was innocent and they were trying to railroad him, Ben might be in a position to stop them as long as it was his case. Jennifer was wrong in that note she had sent him. He did have a soul. Every conviction wasn't just a notch in his belt. "Four o'clock Wednesday," Ben said reluctantly.