Dark Ambition (28 page)

* * *

There was a carnival atmosphere, the usual Washington media feeding frenzy, on Constitution Avenue in front of the U.S. Courthouse when Jennifer arrived at nine-thirty. The TV cameras were already disgorging the footage they had just shot of Clyde Gillis entering the courthouse through a side entrance. Runners were standing by to get it to the network studios ASAP. Those print reporters who hadn't received an entrance pass in the day's press lottery were kibitzing on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes and drinking lukewarm coffee. None of them had the faintest idea that Jennifer had anything to do with the case, and she walked undisturbed into the six-story boxlike structure, briefcase in hand. Her anonymity would end with this morning's hearing.

In the courtroom, Jennifer set up her papers at the defendants' counsel table and closed her eyes for a minute, thinking about how this was likely to play out. When she opened them, she found the prosecution table was still empty. What had happened to Ben?

Her surprise became Judge Hogan's dismay when the judge took the bench and Ben still hadn't arrived.

"Why don't you move to dismiss for failure to prosecute, Miss Moore?" the judge said facetiously.

Before Jennifer could respond, Ben raced into the courtroom.

"Ah, Mr. Hartwell," Judge Hogan greeted him. "I see that you decided to honor us with your presence this morning."

There were titters of laughter in the packed courtroom, which Ed Fulton, seated in the last row, didn't appreciate in the slightest.

Cutting through the center aisle in the gallery, Ben glanced up at the bench and the judge's pale white face, with its black half-moon glasses, thin, narrow lips, and thick mop of gray hair. He gave her a wry smile. "I'm sorry, Your Honor." He had tried too many cases before Judge Hogan to be intimidated by her grandstanding manner. Besides, even in a large city court system like Washington's, a camaraderie existed between judges and the prosecutors who appeared before them regularly.

Judge Hogan glanced over to her right. "Bailiff, get the defendant."

They brought in Clyde Gillis, dressed in prison blues, a tired-looking, beaten-down shell of the man who had raked leaves at the Winthrop's house only five days ago. Jennifer moved forward to the lectern to stand beside her client. Her courtroom manner, Ben decided, was far more polished than he remembered. She displayed greater self-assurance as she touched her honey-blond hair, which was tied back tightly, waiting for Judge Hogan to address a question to her.

"Does the defendant waive the reading of the charges?" the judge asked.

"Yes, Your Honor," Jennifer said.

"And how does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty," Jennifer replied firmly. Then she held her breath. Even this morning Gillis had refused to talk to her. She had no idea what was running through his mind. She just hoped that he didn't speak up now and challenge her plea. Happily, he didn't.

The judge looked down at her calendar. "Trial thirty days from today, Friday, December seventeenth," she said sharply, giving the defendant the absolute minimum time.

"Your Honor," Jennifer replied, "this is a complex case. I was just recently brought in. I really think—"

"How much time would you like?"

"I need sixty days at least."

"That's too long. I'll give you until January third. That's it. No more delays. Don't even consider asking for a further extension."

"I understand, Your Honor."

The judge looked at Ben. "What about bail? What's the position of the United States?"

Ben didn't hear the question. He was still thinking about the trial date. He had made reservations yesterday to fly with Amy to Aspen on the twenty-third of December. If this case went to trial on January third, then—

"Mr. Hartwell," the judge snapped, "are you with us?"

Embarrassed, Ben jumped to his feet. "Sorry, Your Honor."

"Let the record reflect Mr. Hartwell is still alive."

There was laughter in the courtroom.

"Now, would you care to enlighten us about the position of the United States on bail? That's when the defendant goes free until trial."

More laughter.

Ben's face turned red with embarrassment. He recovered quickly, though. "It would be highly inappropriate to let the defendant out under any circumstances. It's a capital crime. He's only lived in this community a short while. The whole world is watching this case. We can't run the risk of having the defendant skip out."

"Miss Moore, what's your position?"

"Mr. Gillis has no prior arrests. A perfectly clean record. He's the sole source of support for a wife and four young children—one of whom is quite ill and needs costly treatments. If you keep him locked up and he can't work, it will be impossible for them to survive."

Jennifer's plea made the judge stop and think. She took off her glasses and held them in her hand, looking pensive. "So what do you want?"

"Release him on his own recognizance."

The judge was willing to consider a reasonable request, but this was too much. "Are you serious?"

Jennifer knew from the sound of her voice where the judge was headed. Lacking a reasonable compromise, Jennifer was stuck. "Yes, Your Honor, and I believe that under the law with no prior arrests—"

Judge Hogan interrupted, "Bail denied."

"But, Your Honor—"

"Next, pretrial motions. Will you have any, Miss Moore?"

"Yes, Your Honor. We have serious constitutional violations. For the first interrogation of the defendant, he was placed under house arrest without being apprised of any of his rights. Facts were coerced from the defendant. He wasn't informed of his right to counsel. All of the government's evidence is the fruit of that poisonous tree. I'll be moving to dismiss."

"Mr. Hartwell, what do you have to say about this?"

"It's ridiculous. We—"

"That's what I thought you'd say. File your motion in one week, Miss Moore," the judge said sharply. "Response due four days later. I'll hear it in two weeks. What about discovery, Miss Moore? I assume you'll want some."

Jennifer responded to the no-nonsense judge, "I'll have my motion in one week."

"We'll give her the stuff a week later and file any opposition then," Ben said.

"Anything else?" Judge Hogan asked.

"No, Your Honor," Ben and Jennifer said in unison.

"This court is now adjourned."

The bailiff led Clyde Gillis out through a side door. Judge Hogan followed minutes later. That was the signal for the reporters to descend on Ben and Jennifer like an avalanche. Ben spotted Art Campbell in the back of the courtroom, but Ben couldn't get through the mob of reporters to talk to him. Then Campbell was gone.

None of the reporters paid any attention to the tall, broad-shouldered black woman sitting in the front row, dressed in a navy blue suit that she wore to church on Sundays. Standing up, Lucinda Gillis suddenly felt light-headed. Instinctively, she reached her hand out to her daughters Naomi and Ruth, but to no avail. She fainted dead away. Mercifully, her head landed on the bench rather than the hard stone floor.

As soon as she collapsed, Jennifer raced over. She told Ruth to go to the ladies' room and get paper towels dipped in cold water. Jennifer brought Lucinda around quickly, and then led her out of the courtroom accompanied by her four children. Tears were streaming down all of their faces. As Jennifer helped them into a cab and paid the driver, she said to Lucinda, "Don't worry. I'm going to get Clyde out of this."

"It's a crime," Lucinda said. "They've got the wrong man."

* * *

Lucinda was home ten minutes when the telephone rang. "It's for you, Mama," Ruth said. "Some woman."

"I don't want to talk to anyone."

"I told her that. She said she has to talk to you. It's important, and it's about Daddy."

With an effort, Lucinda dragged herself from the bed, where she had been trying to rest. All she could do was think about Clyde. He didn't kill anybody. This was all some white man's doing; she was sure of it. But Clyde would get the white man's justice. And what about her and the kids? How would they ever manage without him? She would never go on welfare. She was too proud for that.

She staggered to the telephone.

"I think I can help you," the woman said.

Lucinda was immediately wary. Was this a trick, or a joke? "Who are you?"

"We have to talk in person."

Lucinda wasn't budging. "Don't fool with me."

"I'm not fooling with you, I promise."

"How can you help me?"

"The people I work for know that Clyde didn't kill Winthrop. That he was framed with phony evidence. He's being used to take the fall for some powerful people."

That made sense to Lucinda. "But what can you do about it?"

"There's a way to fix it so it goes easy on Clyde and your family's taken care of."

Clyde had looked so dreadful in court that Lucinda was willing to at least listen. "Yeah, how are you going to do that?" she asked.

"I can't tell you over the phone. Take the red line Metro to the Van Ness station. Then take the exit for the west side of Connecticut Avenue. Ride the escalator to the top. I'll be waiting for you there. And you must come by yourself, or I won't stick around."

Lucinda was torn. She had learned long ago, when men tried to lure her into a car with promises of money, that gifts didn't fall out of the sky. But if powerful people were really involved, she couldn't pass up any chances. Clyde had worked for the secretary of state, after all. "How will I know you?" Lucinda asked.

"You won't," Gwen said, "but I'll know you."

* * *

Believing that she was safe after the video had been turned over, Ann had asked Brewster to remove the guards from the front of her house a day after Robert's funeral. Now, as she opened the front door with a bag of groceries in one hand and stepped inside, she was sorry. Right away she detected the scent of a man's cheap cologne, the same odor that she had smelled on Sunday when the intruder was in the house. She turned to bolt, but he had been waiting for her behind the door. Moving fast, he grabbed her around the waist, pulled her back inside the house, and kicked the door shut. When she struggled, he pulled a heavy rope from his pocket and looped it around her body, pressing her arms against her sides. Like a sack of potatoes, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming, as he carried her upstairs. Her screams didn't bother him. The house was sufficiently isolated so no one could hear her.

Once they reached the master bedroom, he flung her down on a chair in a sitting position. Then he tied her ankles together, sat down on the bed, and removed a gun from his pocket.

There was terror in her eyes. "What do you want?" she asked.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"If you want money or jewelry, you can have them."

He laughed harshly. "You can't buy your way out of this."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want all of the other copies you made of the video."

"There are none. You got the only one."

He sneered. "You take us for fools."

She wondered who "us" was but didn't ask. Her situation was already dire enough. She couldn't risk saying anything to persuade him that she knew so much that he should kill her, regardless of whether he got the video. "No, I don't. I never made a copy."

He was idly examining his gun. "Are you ready to tell me the truth?"

"I did tell you the truth."

"I'm going to take a little target practice," he said, enjoying himself. "First your right kneecap. Then the left one. After what you did to my face, I won't mind if I miss on the first couple of shots. Eventually, I'll hit the target."

Ann was more scared than she had ever been in her life. The fear was threatening to shut down her mind. She had to think.

He took a silencer out of his pocket and attached it to the gun, which he pointed at her. Then he pulled his finger away from the gun. He made a motion as if he were pulling the trigger. "Pow. Pow. Last chance."

Ann's brain began working. She had to find a way out of this mess. He'd never have to know Jennifer had a copy of the video.

"Okay, you'll get what you want," she said, sounding reluctant. "There is one other copy, in a bank vault downtown."

He nodded. "That's a start."

"What do you mean, a start?"

"I want all the copies."

Okay, Ann, she told herself. You're in the theater. Be convincing. "That's the only one."

"You're lying."

Her strength and determination were overcoming her fear. "Think about it," she said. "Why would I possibly make more than one copy? It doesn't make sense. I made an insurance copy. I didn't make two insurance copies." When his face didn't show any reaction, she added, "Search the house if you want to."

He nodded, considering her words. To satisfy himself, he got up and went through a couple of her dresser drawers. When he didn't find anything, he said, "All right. You're going to that bank vault now to get me the video."

"Whatever you want."

They drove in his maroon Camry. Repeatedly, he warned her that the loaded gun was in his pocket and he would kill her if she did anything suspicious to get help. She cowered against the door of the car.

They parked in front of the bank on Pennsylvania Avenue. Inside, he walked with her to the vault area and then to a small room, where she extracted the video from the metal box and handed it to him.

She wanted him to leave her in front of the bank, but he insisted on her getting back into the car.

"Please," she said, "you've gotten what you wanted. Leave me alone."

"Get in the car, or I'll kill you."

She spotted a policeman about fifty yards away. For an instant she considered screaming. Then better judgment prevailed. No point to that, she decided. He'd shoot her and then escape.

When he drove into Rock Creek Park, she became frightened again. What did he plan to do with her now? Rape her? Then kill her? She shuddered, imagining the possibilities.

He stopped in a deserted picnic grove. "Give me your purse," he said.