The Plot (35 page)

Thompkins was waiting by the bedroom door, her arms folded across her chest, when Cassie came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel that hardly covered her.

"Uh, Agent Thompkins, I'd like a little
privacy
if you don't mind,” Cassie said, pausing in front of the closet where she'd hung the wrinkled clothes they'd bought her. She hoped they'd fit.

"Sorry, princess. I
mind
,” Thompkins replied, smirking.

Cassie took the clothes from the hangers with one hand while trying to hold the small towel around herself with the other. “Fine. Hope you enjoy the view,” she retorted and retreated to the bathroom.

Thompkins was gone when she emerged fully dressed, and the door between the bedroom and the rest of the suite was open. As Cassie slipped her shoes on, Agent Slade appeared and walked toward her.

"Come on, Miss Hart,” he said and, grasping her upper arm, forced her into the living area.

"So that's what all the commotion was about,” she said at the sight of the camera and closed circuit television. They were arranged in such a way as to conceal any hint of her whereabouts.

The agent didn't reply as he guided her to the far corner of the room to stand in front of a blank wall beneath the hot spotlights and face the camera.

Her mind raced. Why was she being denied a personal appearance in court? Would Max be at the courthouse, expecting to see her? Why hadn't she been allowed to call an attorney? Somehow, she'd have to find a way to disclose her location, to force them to respect her Constitutional rights.

"Don't look so worried, dearie,” Thompkins said, entering the room from the kitchenette. “It'll spoil your television debut."

The cameraman, who followed from the kitchen with a can of Mountain Dew in his hand, chuckled. “That's right. I haven't worked since the wee hours of the morning just to make you look bad,” he said, settling himself on the stool behind the camera. “When I say ‘Go,’ be sure to smile pretty."

Max was sitting in the back row when the prisoners began filing into the courtroom from the side door, shuffling awkwardly against the chains that bound their feet and hands. Checking his watch, he fidgeted and looked around the room. Where was Bernie? He'd promised he'd be here. Maybe he'd already spoken with her. Maybe he was in chambers talking to the judge. One of the large double doors behind him opened, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his friend's familiar bulk ambling toward him. He shook Bernie's hand and slid over to make room on the hard wooden bench.

"Where's Miss Hart?” Bernie asked, looking toward the twenty or so prisoners seated in the jury box.

Max followed his gaze. Some of them joked a little with the person next to them. Most stared solemnly straight ahead or down at their feet. One white youth looked like he was about to be sick. But Cassie was not among them. “I don't know. They
have
to bring her here. And it
has
to be today.” He stood, stepping past Bernie, and walked to the front of the gallery area, signaling to the bailiff, who came over and shook his hand.

"Well, hey there, Detective. What brings you here?” He'd been a street cop and had signed on as bailiff after he retired from the P.D.

"Hi, Charlie. A friend of mine is supposed to have her First Appearance this morning, but I don't see her. Are there any more prisoners waiting outside?"

"Nope. This is all of ‘em. Since when are you friends with criminals?"

"I'm not. This young lady was picked up by the Feds on a phony rap."

"So what else is new? They gotta at least
look
like they're enforcing the law,” Charlie said, making a face. “Want me to check the roster? What's her name?"

Max told him and waited by the wooden railing, while the bailiff went to the table at the front of the room to look at the list of names, shuffled through several other pieces of paper and spoke to the clerk, who checked her computer listing.

"She's not on the list,” Charlie said when he returned. “But, things are so screwed up these days, that don't mean too awful much. If she was brought in late last night, it could be she'll be in the afternoon batch. And with the Feds, they might not even...” He paused as the door at the back of the room opened. “Is that her?"

Max turned to see a thin blonde woman whose deep wrinkles were accented by the heavy makeup she wore. Bernie raised his eyebrows at Max, who shook his head.

Charlie shrugged. “Well, maybe she'll be one of those who appear via closed circuit. The Feds do that a lot, especially if it's a high profile case or they're concerned about security. Sorry, Detective. Wish I could help.” The elderly bailiff ambled back to the front of the courtroom to announce the judge's entrance.

Max was more than a little concerned and disappointed. He'd wanted Cassie to see him there, to know he was with her all the way and working in her behalf. He hadn't considered the possibility she might not show up in person, even though he had known it was just an arraignment where the government would state the charges, she would offer her plea, the judge would rule on whether to allow bail and that would be it. Not like a trial, where she had the right to face her accusers. He shook his head a little. The Chief would be furious at him for postponing their appointment, and all for what?

"All rise,” commanded the bailiff. “This court is now in session. The Honorable Camille Johansen presiding."

Bernie nudged him in the ribs as the judge entered the courtroom, and Max stood up, watching the diminutive Judge Johansen climb the two steps up to the platform and take her place behind the wide oak desk. Rapping her gavel once, she looked out across the people gathered in the room as if sizing up each of them individually, her thick wire-rimmed glasses flashing as they caught the fluorescent lights overhead. She was relatively new to the bench, and Max wasn't familiar with her history. He hoped she wasn't one of those “hang ‘em high and let ‘em fry” types.

An hour, then two passed with gray-clothed prisoners shuffling to the bar, entering their pleas, and being escorted from the courtroom by armed officers. As the number of prisoners dwindled, so did the audience, until finally, he, Bernie, and a young red-haired man with a “Press” badge clipped to his shirt pocket were the only spectators left.

The prosecutor, who had been appointed just a month before when her predecessor committed suicide over some sex scandal, stood and asked permission to approach the bench. “Your Honor. We have a case that was only handed over at the beginning of court this morning,” she said in a monotone as she handed a file to the judge, then returned to stand by the long table at the left of the courtroom. Rumor had it that she had her eye on the mayor's job. Her track-record, since being in office, showed that she hoped to get there by going for the jugular in every case she prosecuted.

An almost eerie silence filled the courtroom while the judge sifted through the information in the folder, frowning now and again at certain portions. At last, she handed one of the papers to the bailiff and sat back against her tall leather chair, instructing him to activate the camera and nodding for the prosecutor to proceed.

Max felt his throat go dry as the television flickered on, then off, then finally on again to reveal a black-and-white image of Cassie. She had dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hair clung to her forehead. He gritted his teeth. It was an old game. Don't let the suspect sleep. Keep them uncomfortable and waiting for a long time. In her case, it was obvious they hadn't missed a trick.

When the courtroom appeared on the screen and she heard her name, Cassie stood up straighter and pushed her hair back from her forehead, aware of how she must look after sitting under the hot lights for more than two hours.

"I am Cassandra Rose Hart,” she responded when she heard her name.

"Please state your legal address for the record,” the bailiff said, and Cassie did so.

She could see the bailiff sitting by a microphone at a desk near the judge's bench. He looked more like he should be dandling his grandchildren on his knee than running a courtroom.

Another voice came over the television as a thirty-something woman in a dark, tailored suit stepped into camera range. “Your Honor, Cassandra Rose Hart has been charged with two counts of conspiracy to commit murder against a Federal officer, two counts of obstruction of justice, two counts of interfering with a Federal Marshall in the performance of duty, and one count each of espionage, conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States of America, and flight to avoid prosecution."

"Cassandra Rose Hart, you have heard the charges against you. How do you plead?” the judge asked.

Before Cassie could answer, an unfamiliar voice interrupted, and an aging, heavy-set man stepped forward into view.

"If Your Honor please,” he said, and Cassie watched wide-eyed as the man stepped up to the lectern between the defense and prosecution tables. “My name is Bernard Schligerman. I am a practicing attorney, licensed in the District of Columbia, Virginia, Maryland, New York, California, and Pennsylvania. I am here to offer myself to act as counsel for Miss Hart."

Cassie almost smiled, remembering Max telling her about his friend, Bernie. So he'd come through. In any other circumstance, she would have danced. As it was, she contented herself with trying to look dignified. And innocent.

"Have you spoken with Miss Hart?” the judge asked, appearing startled at the sudden interruption by the attorney.

"No, Your Honor. I haven't."

"Miss Hart? Have you engaged an attorney to represent you?"

Cassie started to answer, when suddenly the television crackled and went dark.

Max almost leaped from his seat as the closed circuit monitor went blank, but Bernie turned and gave him a sharp look, warning him to stay calm.

"Looks like we've got a technical glitch,” the bailiff said, walking over to check the connections on the television.

"Can you fix it?” Judge Johansen asked after a few minutes of watching him adjust knobs and connections.

Charlie stood back and turned to face her. “I don't think so, Your Honor. We'll have to call a technician."

The judge looked at her watch. “Well, it's close to lunch time. Get the technician in here and see what can be done. Meanwhile, this court is in recess until two o'clock this afternoon.” She stood and left the courtroom, not waiting for anyone to stand.

Thompkins took Cassie into the bedroom as Slade picked up the telephone and began dialing. When she'd left, locking the door behind her, Cassie lay back across the bed and put the back of her hand across her eyes, taking a deep breath against the fatigue and frustration that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to keep her composure. Whether the interruption in the proceedings was just a technical problem or, as she suspected, a deliberate act by the agents who held her, sooner or later they had to resume the proceedings. When they did, she wouldn't wait for the formalities. She'd immediately state that she was retaining Bernard Schligerman and insist upon seeing him in person before proceeding further. No matter whose side any of them were on, they had to keep up appearances. At least for now.

The young redhead from the press approached Max and Bernie. “Excuse me,” he began. “My name is John Emanuel. I'm a reporter for Channel Six?"

They turned toward him without speaking.

"Uh, I was wondering, uh...” He looked back and forth at the two taller men. “Could I get some background information from you about this last case? The Cassandra Hart case? It looks like it could be quite a story."

Max's face grew almost as red as the young man's hair, but Bernie nudged him with his elbow, cautioning him not to alienate the media.

"What exactly would you like to know?” Bernie asked, adopting his most cordial smile. “We can't, of course, talk very much about a pending case."

The reporter smiled back, looking grateful. “Well, she's being charged with a whole lotta biggies. Murder...” He looked at his notes. “Espionage. Conspiracy to overthrow the government. Why are you willing to represent her?"

Bernie sat down on the nearest bench and draped his arm across the back. “Because Miss Hart is innocent, of course."

"How do you know? What does she say?"

"Unfortunately, Mr., uh, Emanuel, was it?” Bernie began, hesitating until the reporter nodded. “I have not had the opportunity to speak with Miss Hart.
No
one has. Not since she was taken into custody."

"But you're her attorney, aren't you? I thought it was the law ... that people have to be allowed legal counsel?"

"It is,” Max interjected. “Or, at least, it's supposed to be. These days, though, well, the government seems to take
lots
of liberties with the Constitution."

John Emanuel looked up at Max and seemed to study his face. “Well, I suppose if there's something in the national interest—"

Bernie interrupted. “Mr. Emanuel, it has been my experience that things are not always what they seem. For example, when you see these prisoners come in here, shackled and outfitted in jail clothing, it is difficult to see them as anything but criminals. Yet, just imagine yourself, let's say you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a crime occurred. Let's further suppose that the perpetrator fits your general description, uh, five feet, nine inches tall, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, red hair? So the police get an artist to make a sketch of the perpetrator, and to make matters worse, he has the same general facial features as you. The sketch is published. A neighbor ... or maybe a competitor ... fingers you. You know you are innocent. The police don't know for sure, but all the evidence points to your guilt. Yet, despite the shackles and prison garb you'd be wearing in the courtroom, which make you
look
like the average thug, you would still be innocent."

The reporter listened intently to the hypothetical situation. “Okay. I can accept that. So just because Miss Hart is in custody doesn't mean a thing. That brings up the next question. Who is she? Why do the
authorities
believe she is guilty? How can you be so sure that she isn't, especially since you haven't even spoken with her?"