Dark Ambition (5 page)

 

It was almost eleven on Sunday morning and Ben Hartwell, dressed in a fifteen-year-old Yale Law sweatshirt, was trying to teach Amy, his four-year-old daughter, how to operate a scooter. They were on the flagstone patio in the back of his Newark Street house in the Cleveland Park section of Washington, and under his breath Ben was cursing his stupidity in acceding to Amy's repeated pleas for a lightweight aluminum scooter as a birthday gift. Dexterity and balance weren't his strong suits, and he had never ridden a scooter in his life. Plus, Amy was too young for it. She was going to kill herself.

But Amy had said at least ten times, "Really, Daddy, everybody in the preschool has one except me." With the guilt he felt as a single parent, he had yielded. Even after reading the owner's manual, though, he wasn't much help, other than holding the scooter and reminding her about the warnings that were plastered on it. The helmet had been easy. Amy had readily agreed to that. The elbow and knee pads proved to be a sticking point. "Karen and Emily don't wear them, and I don't wanna. I'm no baby."

"They're not for babies," he said, trying to be calm and patient. "They protect your knees. If I were going to ride a scooter, I'd wear knee pads."

She laughed. "You'd look stupid in them."

"But you won't."

"No, Daddy, no," she cried, her eyes filling up with tears. In the end, he caved. "Only this first time. After today, no knee pads, no scooter."

After ten or fifteen minutes, she told him he could let go. Dressed in a pale pink sweatshirt and red corduroy slacks, Amy, who had practiced on her friends' scooters, was soon zipping around the patio.

While watching Amy, Ben let his mind wander. At some point today he had to prepare his summary of the evidence in the Young case. He kept hearing in his mind the words Senator Young had shouted at him when he was questioning Young yesterday afternoon: "You're just a mad-dog prosecutor." The words had stung so badly that Ben had picked up a paper cup half-full of tepid coffee. He was within a hair of flinging it at the senator and scoring a bull's-eye in the middle of Young's white shirt and expensive silk tie. He didn't have to take crap like that from a senator who had accepted secret payoffs from a Mexican drug cartel. The senator had been trying to get his goat with that "mad-dog prosecutor" charge. It wasn't true.

Suddenly, he heard the pager on his belt beep. It was the phone number of Al Hennessey's house in Georgetown. Oh, shit, he thought. His boss, the U.S. Attorney, never worked or called on the weekend. It had to be something urgent. Ben's guess was that Young had complained about Ben's aggressive interrogation. Might as well get it over with fast, Ben decided. "C'mon, Amy," he said, "let's go inside for a little bit."

"But I want to ride my scooter."

"Just for a few minutes, honey, while I make a phone call. You can play with your Barbies. Then we'll come back out. I promise."

In his first-floor study, Ben dialed Hennessey's number. "It is Sunday," Ben said. "I didn't get my days mixed up."

"That's very funny. Real funny."

His boss did not have a sense of humor. Only that practiced politician's tone. "What's up, Al?"

"I was sitting here having brunch when Jim Slater called from the White House."

"And?" Ben held his breath.

"Slater wants us to hold up thirty days taking the Young case to the grand jury."

"And I hope you told him no fuckin' way."

"You don't tell the President that."

"Jim Slater's not the President."

"He speaks for Brewster. There's no doubt that on most issues, Brewster will do what Jim tells him."

"I thought we're a democracy. Nobody elected Jim Slater."

"Listen, Ben, you know what the score is in this town. Young is a powerful Democratic senator. You're getting ready to cut off both his nuts and stick them in his mouth. If Jim Slater tells me to delay thirty days taking the case to the grand jury, how can I tell him no?"

Ben resisted the urge to shout. "Why does he want the thirty days?"

"They want to make their own independent review of the evidence."

That was total bullshit, as Hennessey well knew. "I'll be working on the summary today. I can have a packet to him in a couple of days. He should be able to review it in a few hours."

"It's more than that."

"Even I could figure that out."

"They want Young's vote on the Tax Reform Act, which is scheduled for December first. Once you go before the grand jury, they're afraid the investigation will leak to the press. Young will be so pissed that he'll work against the Tax Reform Act. Brewster's whole economic program will go down the tubes."

"But if I delay thirty days, there could be a leak, and my witnesses will end up in Lake Michigan wearing concrete shoes."

"I told Slater that."

"And?"

"He doesn't give a shit. He's got one interest in life—helping Brewster. He could care less about anything else."

Ben felt his face getting red with rage. He was sick and tired of White House interference in criminal investigations. It always happened, no matter who was president. "Then call Slater back," he told Hennessey, "and tell him to stick it up his ass. We're doing the jobs we're paid to do."

"Take it easy, Ben," Hennessey said.

Those words fueled Ben's anger. Hennessey was such a wimp. Why didn't he stand up to Slater?

"I hate it when somebody tells me that."

"Don't be so damn emotional. We're talking about a thirty-day delay for chrissake." Hennessey was sounding exasperated. "This is no big deal. You don't always have to do things your own way."

"Why don't you and I go to Ches Hawthorne? The AG will back us in a fight with Slater. There's no love lost there."

"The AG's in Tokyo for a conference on law enforcement in the Pacific Rim. He won't be back until next weekend."

"Then call Slater back and tell him that we want a personal briefing with the President on the issue."

"You don't have a choice," Hennessey said. His sharp, emphatic tone let Ben clearly know that Hennessey was in charge and that he could and would fire Ben if Bert didn't follow his orders.

The message came through loud and clear to Ben, who shook his head in disbelief. For three years Hennessey had done everything the White House had wanted, without a demur, in the hope that he would be nominated for a judgeship on the court of appeals in Washington. So far, all that ass kissing hadn't gotten Hennessey his prize, even though two vacancies on the court had been filled by Brewster in his first three years in office. There was another vacancy now, and Hennessey had redoubled his efforts.

"All right," Ben said, resigned. "Your eggs are getting cold. I'll wait the thirty days. Slater will have a summary of the evidence by five on Tuesday afternoon."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. But don't hang up. Slater raised something else that concerns you as well."

Ben saw Amy walk across the living room, dressed in one of the long black dresses Nan had used for piano recitals, with her mother's lipstick caked across her mouth.

"Will I like this one any better?" Ben asked.

"I don't think so."

Amy was sitting down at the baby grand piano in the living room. "I'll be right there," he called to her.

"What'd you say?" Hennessey asked.

"I was talking to Amy. What did you want?"

"Slater says Brewster's all worked up about the Winthrop killing."

"Based on what I read in the morning
Post,
he should be. It doesn't say much for his anticrime program if the President's best friend, and this country's secretary of state, is murdered in his own house."

Ben heard the piano. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amy's little fingers, not pounding, but dancing and gliding on the piano, as Nan had taught her.

"The FBI's going to need help from our office," Hennessey said, "and Slater made me promise to give it to my best lawyer. I immediately thought of you, of course."

"I'm flattered, but then you remembered that I'm working full-time, seven days a week on the Young investigation. So you went to second best."

"Fortunately, I didn't have to because Young's gone on hold for thirty days. Remember?"

Ben thought Hennessey was being ridiculous. He had tried cases. He knew how much work there was to do in a big case like the Young prosecution. "Don't you think I'm going to want to use the thirty days to interview witnesses in Chicago?"

"Pete Hamell in the U.S. Attorney's office in Chicago can do the witness interviews. Don't forget, I pulled plenty of strings to get Hamell assigned to you full-time on Young."

Hamell was a second-rate lawyer who had the worst trial record in Chicago. Ben said tiredly, "You must want to be a judge on the court of appeals badly."

Hennessey ignored the comment. "It's a little more complicated than I've said."

"Meaning what?"

Hennessey hesitated, then said, "Jim Slater asked for you personally on the Winthrop case."

Ben was surprised. "Slater doesn't even know me... although I expect that to change when he gets my summary of the Young evidence."

"Sure he does. You did, after all, receive the attorney general's award last year. And you have a reputation as a tough prosecutor with the highest conviction rate in the office."

Ben shook his head at the none too subtle flattery. "Okay, now that I'm properly buttered up, tell me what you want me to do in the Winthrop case."

"Get a conviction as quickly as possible and wrap it up."

"Do they even have a suspect?"

"The gardener working at the house."

"That sounds awfully convenient. Who's on the case?"

"Bill Traynor's spearheading it for the FBI. He's one of the Bureau's top people, and he's reporting right to the director."

"I know Bill. We've done a couple of cases together." What Ben didn't say was that Traynor had made it clear to Ben that he was anxious to finish up his twenty-five years in the Bureau, which should be next year, then cash in by getting a top security job in industry. He wouldn't be hustling on this or any case. His primary objective would be to avoid offending the FBI director, Ken Murtaugh, so he could disappear over the hill with full accolades.

Hennessey added, a bit too smoothly, "Bill's got a young lawyer on Jim Slater's staff working with him to make sure every possible resource of the government is made available. Ed Fulton's his name. His title for this case is special assistant to Director Murtaugh. He's supposed to help clear roadblocks."

"While supposedly keeping the White House out of a law enforcement matter," Ben said cynically.

"No comment."

"None was required." Ben scribbled Ed Fulton's name on a piece of paper near the phone. "Just what I need. Toilet training some hotshot kid trying to make an instant name for himself in the White House."

Hennessey tried to sound optimistic. "Maybe you'll like this Fulton kid."

"You want to bet on that?"

"I told Slater that you'd call Bill at the Hoover Building as soon as we're done. They need help getting a search warrant this afternoon."

Ben raised his hand, as if Hennessey were in the room. "Hold it a second. Time out. I've got other plans this afternoon."

"Like what?"

"With my daughter, Amy."

"Can't the nanny take her?"

"It's Elana's day off. I'm allowed to be a father one day a week."

"God, Ben, isn't there any way you can rearrange things? We're talking about the murder of the secretary of state, for chrissake. If it's a sitter you need, my daughter's sixteen, and she's—"

"Go back to your brunch, Al. I'll handle it."

"I'll owe you for this."

As Ben put the phone down, renewed energy was surging through his body. He didn't give a shit about Al Hennessey or even Jim Slater. The Winthrop case was high visibility. Killing a cabinet officer was a capital crime. And Hennessey was right about one thing. Of all the people in the office, he had the best chance of getting a conviction.

Okay, so that meant he had to bail out on Amy. First, Ben reached Elana at her sister's, in Adams Morgan. She promised to come within the hour. Then he went into the living room, where Amy was playing the piano with intensity in her deep brown eyes. He sat down next to her on the bench and gently touched a couple of keys. Not that it mattered, because Ben was tone-deaf. Happily, Amy had inherited her mother's ear for music, and "much more natural talent than I ever had," Nan used to say.

Amy stopped playing and started to cry. Gently, Ben picked her up and put her on his knee. She turned and threw her arms around him. As the tears rolled down her tiny face, he felt a familiar ache in his stomach.

"Why did Mommy have to die?" Amy asked.

The question stunned Ben, as it always did, notwithstanding the canned answer that Amy's psychiatrist had suggested. How did you explain to a four-year-old what lymphoma was? How could he say to her, "Sorry, kiddo, you got a bad break. You lost the loving, caring parent and ended up with your workaholic dad—the mad-dog prosecutor?"

But Ben didn't say that. He held her tight. In silence, he waited for her to stop crying. Ben's eyes looked over Amy's curly brown hair to the photograph resting on the piano. He and Nan were standing behind Amy while she blew out the candles on the cake from her third birthday. She might have inherited her mother's ear for music, but unfortunately for Amy, she had inherited Ben's looks. Nan was a ravishing black-haired beauty with coal-black eyes, an exotic, glamorous look, and a perfect nose and set of teeth. Ben had brown hair and eyes, and a square jaw with a double chin at the bottom of a face that usually looked like he needed a shave. Well, at least he and Amy had perfect eyesight, while Nan wore contacts.

Two weeks after that picture was taken, Nan was diagnosed with lymphoma. Ten months later she died. Looking at the picture, Ben was tempted to think that he and Nan had been happy in those days. But that would have been revisionist history. They had never been in love. Their marriage satisfied mutual needs each had: for some companionship that didn't threaten career plans; for sex; and for the semblance of a family life. They were like thousands of other busy Washingtonians in this regard. For Ben, there was something else as well. He had been on the rebound when he met Nan. His marriage with the well-known pianist was a way of sticking it to that bitch who broke up with him. The marriage would have lasted, though, because even after Amy was born, they never spent enough time together to grow weary of each other.