The Rose Conspiracy (8 page)

One of the blacked-out sentences in an FBI report produced to Blackstone seemed as if, in the grammatical context of the unredacted sentences before and after it, it had revealed some personal information about Horace Langley. In his motion, Blackstone argued for the full release of that information because, in his words, “The defense believes that Mr. Langley's possible association with any number of ideological groups, including the Freemasons, is material to the defense of this case.”
Blackstone had remembered Vinnie's comment about Lord Dee's interest in the Booth diary pages. All of that overblown stuff about the “ultimate secret of the Freemasons.”

But the way that the criminal law professor saw it, the real blockbuster in his motion was his demand, in paragraph 77, for everything the government had, in terms of evidence, investigation, or scientific analysis relating to the notepad that was found lying on Langley's desk after the murder. More than that, Blackstone was demanding the right to have the notepad examined by his own expert.

When Julia asked him what he was looking for, Blackstone smiled one of his know-it-all smiles and then proceeded to explain.

“According to the reports, his pen was a Faber Castell Porsche P3150 ballpoint. One of those heavy, expensive jobs—you know, the kind they don't call just
pens,
but
writing instruments,
” Blackstone explained. “That thing would have left a deep imprint on the page as well on as the pages underneath.”

“Porsche? I thought they made cars.”

“They do. And they also have a line of pens for those who love their cars. Not a bad car, the Porsche. But no Maserati,” Blackstone noted with a grin.

“So,” Julia continued, her brow furrowed, “the pen impresses a mark—all the way down to several pages underneath. And we get a microscopic examination of those pages still left on the pad of paper—to see if we can decipher what Langley wrote as he was examining the Booth diary?”

“Nice work, Robins,” Blackstone said. “I lead you to water, and you drink—we make a terrific team.”

Julia paused for a minute and then decided to speak her mind.

“J.D., just once in a while, you can try not to be so condescending.”

That is when she got up from the conference table, grabbed her briefcase and her purse, and walked out of the office to go home.

Blackstone, who was still studying the motion he had just e-mailed out to the opposing attorney and the Court, was trying hard to act like Julia's comment didn't bother him.

The next day, early in the morning, Blackstone traveled over to the
federal detention center. He was waiting in the drab lobby of that facility to greet Vinnie when she was released on bail.

After she gathered her personal effects, Vinnie ran out into the lobby, threw her arms around her attorney, and kissed him on the cheek.

Blackstone, a bit embarrassed, moved away slightly and took Vinnie's arms off his neck, as a female jailer behind the glass window glared at him.

“Easy,” Blackstone said to his client. “This is only step one. We still have a case to win.”

“And you will do that, I know it,” she gushed. “You are my defender and my deliverer.”

Blackstone was uncomfortable with her grandiose accolades. So, as he walked her to his car he changed the subject and quickly launched into a preview of the discovery motion he had filed. He drove her to her apartment in Alexandria, not far from her studio. As they were driving, he glanced several times into his rearview mirror.

“Why do you keep looking back?” Vinnie asked.

“Just curious,” was all he said.

Blackstone could see the tan Ford Taurus behind him.

And he knew Tully Tullinger well enough to know that somewhere back there, behind that car, was his private investigator, tailing the Taurus.

CHAPTER 12

B
eneath the mammoth seal of the United States of America that took up half the wall in his courtroom, U.S. District Judge Robert Templeton was seated at the bench, rocking back and forth in his black executive chair. He was listening to the prosecution's objections to J.D. Blackstone's discovery motion.

Judge Templeton had already ruled against Blackstone on most of his requests for the government to turn over various documents and items of potential evidence. So AUSA Henry Hartz was growing more energized and aggressive in his arguments.

“I can't begin to understand,” Hartz said in bewilderment, “Mr. Blackstone's bizarre request for personal information about Horace Langley—including all of his intimate associations. And Mr. Blackstone even wants to know whether the victim had been
a member of the Freemasons.
I would have thought that a law professor like Mr. Blackstone would have consulted his law books before filing such a frivolous, absurd motion.”

Judge Templeton interrupted him, directing his question to Blackstone.

“Counsel, why this business about the Freemasons? Frankly, it strikes me as far-fetched. I have to agree with the government on that one. I don't see the relevance of that issue anywhere in this case.”

Blackstone quickly jogged up to the podium where Hartz was standing and shared the microphone with his opponent.

“Your Honor, I believe it is material to the question of motive.”

“Whose motive?” the judge shot back. “Your client's motive?”

“No, Your Honor. The motive of the true perpetrator, here, which is not my client. She's innocent.”

“
Innocent?
” Judge Templeton retorted. “I wonder if I've ever heard that one before.”

With that, the U.S. marshals leaning against the outer wall of the courtroom chuckled to themselves. The court clerk, a middle-aged black woman seated below the judicial bench at a desk, was grinning.

“My mistake, Your Honor,” Blackstone fired back, his voice showing a restrained sense of indignation. “I thought we were actually still following that quaint Western tradition of a presumption of innocence.”

“Because of your considerable competencies in the practice of criminal law, Professor Blackstone,” the judge said, his eyes now narrowed to slits and his torso leaning over the bench, “I will ignore that remark. For now. Suffice it to say that in my courtroom that presumption still holds.”

Then Judge Templeton straightened up a little in his chair and continued his statement. “But that doesn't mean,” the judge went on, “that I am going to let you use it to bootstrap your argument for discovery of personal information about a murder victim that, at least right now, appears to have absolutely nothing to do with the charges of conspiracy to commit murder and theft. For the time being, I am going to deny that motion. You can renew it later if you can give me some support for its materiality.”

“That only leaves us,” Henry Hartz cheerfully announced, “with Mr. Blackstone's last demand for discovery—located at paragraph 77 of his motion. The request for all of the government's reports dealing with the blank notepad found at the scene of the crime—and Mr. Blackstone's demand for the defense's expert to examine the notepad.”

“Mr. Blackstone,” the judge said, again addressing the defense attorney who was still standing next to Henry Hartz at the podium, “today you've already argued your legal point for that request based on very general Rule 16 considerations. But what's the factual relevancy of the notepad?”

“That seems clear,” Blackstone replied. “The pen was lying next to the notepad. The pen had Mr. Langley's fingerprints on it. Mr. Langley was examining one of the most controversial and historically significant documents in American history. We can logically infer that he was making notes. Those notes may include vital information about motive—why
the
real
culprits wanted those diary pages and why they may have wanted Mr. Langley dead.”

“There it is—
motive
again!” Hartz shouted out. “Your Honor, the weakness of Mr. Blackstone's defense is apparent: He is trying to exonerate his client by merely showing that others may have had some motive to steal the Booth diary. That seems to me to be a flimsy defense if Mr. Blackstone wants to rely on it at trial. But I suppose he has a right to try and argue that to the jury. But at this early stage of the case, it is nothing but a fishing expedition into our confidential investigative reports. Mr. Blackstone's argument is an insult to this Court's intelligence.”

“Well,” the judge replied with a half smile, “I don't take it too personally when the intelligence of this Court is impugned—the
integrity
of this Court, however, is a different matter.”

Hartz could see that Judge Templeton was seriously entertaining Blackstone's demand. So he redoubled his efforts.

“But he
is
impugning your integrity, Your Honor,” Hartz countered. “Blackstone is implying, ridiculously, that the notepad will somehow prove his client's innocence and that you are blocking that evidence from the defense. I can't think of a more direct assault on this Court's integrity.”

The judge was silent on the bench, staring off into space. Blackstone knew he might lose this paragraph 77 demand as he had all the others. He was not going to let that happen.

“I have reason to believe,” Blackstone blurted out, “that the underlying note pages on Langley's notepad may contain microscopic tracings of what he wrote. That we may be able to reconstruct exactly what Langley was writing just moments before he was murdered.”

“And why do you believe that?” the judge asked.

“Because of the pen he was using,” Blackstone said with a sigh, reluctant that he was being forced to divulge his conclusions to the prosecution. “A pen that was capable of making a deep imprint several pages down in the notepad.”

Blackstone was able to see out of the corner of his eye that Henry Hartz was standing motionless at the podium next to him, gripping the head of his cane tightly, and staring straight down onto the wooden shelf of the podium, where a few of his papers were lying.

More silence.

“I'll grant your requests dealing with the notepad,” the judge ruled. “The government will be required to produce copies of any of its reports dealing with the notepad and must provide an opportunity for your defense expert to scientifically examine it.”

“There is a mountain of physical evidence in this case,” Hartz shot back. “It may take a while for us to locate the notepad in the FBI inventory.”

“Then I would ask the Court,” Blackstone replied, “to instruct Mr. Hartz that he had better start looking. I need this information immediately.”

“Mr. Hartz,” the judge said in a conciliatory tone. “Please try to be as expeditious as you can.”

Then he gaveled the hearing to a close.

Blackstone tried to catch Hartz's attention to discuss the timing of when his expert could examine the notepad, but Hartz ignored him.

“Henry,” Blackstone called out to the prosecutor as he walked with his cane to the end of the courtroom to exit. “Hey, Henry.”

But AUSA Henry Hartz never turned around. He just kept walking.

J.D. Blackstone didn't miss that. And he was already trying to figure out exactly what that meant.

CHAPTER 13