Murder at Ford's Theatre (12 page)

“Thanks to us,” her male colleague said. “Trouble?”

“No, no trouble,” Clarise said.

They’d been discussing AT&T’s possible sponsorship of a play the following season when the phone had rung. “I’m afraid I will have to run right after dinner,” she said. “In the meantime, this looks scrumptious.” She picked up a fork and began to eat, saying between bites, “Let’s get back to the show you’ll be supporting at Ford’s Theatre. There’s a tremendous amount of goodwill for AT&T to come from your participation. Our lawmakers are keenly aware of corporations who support the arts here in Washington, and tend to look favorably upon them when specific regulatory legislation is being considered.” She smacked her well-shaped lips. “This galantine is extraordinary, don’t you agree?”

S
HE RACED HOME
after dinner, flinging her raincoat on a chair as she moved through the house to her home office. Her secretary had left a note containing information from Jeremiah’s call from the police station. Clarise glanced at it and was about to reach for the phone to try to reach her ex-husband when its ring jarred her. She picked up.

“Clarise, darling, it’s Sydney.”

“Sydney, I don’t have time to—”

“I know, I know. There was just a breaking news story on the telly about Jeremiah. I’m shocked, as I know you are.”

“It was on the news?”

“Just moments ago. Clarise, you know I’m leaving for London in the morning, but—”

“You are?”

“Didn’t Crowley tell you? He’s known about the trip for ages.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“At any rate, darling, I’ll only be away for a few days. The show is in tip-top shape. When I come back, call on me for anything.
Anything,
Clarise. I’ll be there at your side.”

“Yes. Thanks, Sydney. I have to run.”

“Of course. Stiff upper lip, Clarise. It’s probably all a mistake.”

T
HE MOMENT
B
ANCROFT HUNG UP,
he dialed the number on the business card Detective Klayman had given him. It took a minute for the desk sergeant to locate Klayman. When he came on the line, Bancroft said, “Ah, Detective Klayman. So glad you’re there. I just heard on the news about Jeremiah Lerner being arrested. I presume it has to do with the murder of poor Nadia.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bancroft?”

“I feel dreadful about this, absolutely dreadful, but I know I must act responsibly. It hadn’t crossed my mind when you visited me at my home, but seeing the news report brought it all back. I knew Nadia had been seeing the Lerner boy, and I warned her against it. She looked to me as a father figure, I’m afraid, and I was perfectly happy to play that role. From what I know of Jeremiah, he’s hardly the sort of young man a decent girl like Nadia should be involved with. And I told her that—in no uncertain terms, I might add.”

“You’re sure he was seeing her.”

“Oh, yes. Quite sure.”

“I’d like to get a formal statement from you, Mr. Bancroft.”

“Happy to accommodate, although I’m sure you can appreciate how delicate this situation is for me. Jeremiah is, after all, Clarise Emerson’s son, and she happens to be not only my boss but a very dear friend as well. I trust we can keep this between us.”

“When can I meet you tomorrow?” Klayman asked.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible, unless you wish to join me on my Virgin Atlantic flight to London. But I’ll only be away a few days. Agents, producers, meetings day and night. They wish to speak to me about a one-man show I’m mounting.”

“When will you be back?”

“Saturday, if all goes well.”

Klayman hesitated before responding. Should he press to see Bancroft tonight? He wouldn’t have time until much later. He didn’t need a statement to use that night when questioning Jeremiah Lerner; knowledge that there was someone to verify Lerner’s involvement with Nadia Zarinski in the event he denied it was good enough.

“Please check in with me when you come back, Mr. Bancroft. And . . . do come back.”

“Of course. You’ll be the first call I make upon my return. Good night, sir. Keep up the good work.”

SIXTEEN

“W
HY DID YOU RUN?
Why did you hit my partner?”

Rick Klayman sat with Jeremiah Lerner in an interrogation room. A uniformed officer stood in a corner, arms folded across his chest. Firearms had been left outside the room; the only weapon in the room was a hefty nightstick suspended from the officer’s belt.

Lerner slouched in the straight-back wooden chair, his coal black hair in disarray. Bruises on his left cheek and temple were turning from red to blue-green.

“Why?” Klayman repeated. “All we wanted to do was talk to you, ask you a few questions.”

“I didn’t know who you were. For all I knew, you were a couple of hit men.”

Klayman looked up at the cop in the corner, who smiled.

“Hit men? Come on, Jeremiah. That’s a dumb answer. We identified ourselves.”

“You beat me up.”

“You beat yourself up going down that ladder.”

The door opened, and Herman Hathaway motioned for Klayman to join him outside.

“What’s he saying?” Hathaway asked.

“He’s claiming police brutality. Nothing about the murder, and no questions from me about it. He made a comment when we brought him in, asked if the murder was why we came after him. I thought it was strange he thought of it.”

“You didn’t rough him up, right?”

“Right.”

“Look, Rick, this is a potential mess. The kid may be a suspect in the Zarinski murder, but now he’s here on charges of assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”

“Which he did.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw Mo’s cheek. And we can hold him on those charges. But the murder is another thing. He’s got a senator for a father. His mother, Mrs. Emerson, called. She says there’s a lawyer on his way. He
ask
for a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Mo’s talking with the family, see if the daughter ever mentioned dating the Lerner kid.”

“I had a confirmation.”

“Huh?”

“A call from the actor at Ford’s Theatre, Sydney Bancroft.”

“What’d he say?”

“He claims he knew she was dating Lerner, and says he counseled her against it.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me, as they say.”

“It just happened a couple of minutes ago, Herman.”

“Get a statement from Bancroft.”

“I will. He’ll be in London till Saturday. I’ll catch him when he gets back.”

“Okay. We can hold Lerner on the assault-and-resisting charges until the preliminary hearing tomorrow. That’ll give us twenty-four hours. Maybe we can get him to talk about the murder, provided the lawyer doesn’t shut him up. Remember, he’s not a suspect in the murder, Rick. We just want to ask a few questions.”

Johnson joined them. “The parents say she never mentioned Lerner,” he said, “the kid, that is. Their daughter talked a lot about the senator, what a great guy he was to work for.”

“The affair with the senator? That come up again?”

“Yeah. The mother thinks the kid is being brought into it because of the rumors about her daughter and the senator. She’s blaming the media.”

“She’s way off base.”

“Tell me about it.”

“By the way, Gertz in Public Info wants to know how the press got hold of it so fast. Any ideas?”

“Wasn’t us,” Johnson said.

“What about the guy at the arts center who helped you find Lerner?”

“Wooby, the director? Possible. Doesn’t seem the type to go running to the press.”

They looked through the one-way mirror into the room where Lerner still slouched in his chair, defiance etched into his narrow, swarthy, brooding, unshaven face. A few years ago, it would have been the face of a thug, or villain. Today, it was the face of a male model.

“Read him his rights again, Rick,” Hathaway instructed, “and see how much you can get out of him before the lawyer arrives.”

Klayman and Johnson entered the room and took chairs on either side of Lerner. Johnson took his time sitting, glaring at Lerner as he did.

“It was an accident,” Lerner mumbled.

Klayman read Lerner the Miranda warning again, slid a copy of it in front of him, and told him to sign as verification that he’d received it. Lerner pushed it back unsigned.

“Suit yourself,” Johnson said. “How long were you and Nadia Zarinski dating?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nadia Zarinski, the murder victim behind Ford’s Theatre. We know you were dating her, Jeremiah. Keep evading our questions and you just dig a deeper hole for yourself,” Klayman said.

“I never dated her. I never even knew her.”

Klayman and Johnson looked at each other before Klayman said, “We have two witnesses who say you did.”

“They’re—lying.”

“I don’t think so,” said Johnson. “Make it easy on yourself, Jeremiah. What’d she do, break it off? Tell you she had another guy, and you lost it?”

“I want a lawyer,” Lerner said. “I’m not answering any of your questions.”

“Suit yourself. You’ll need a lawyer when you’re up on murder charges. Of course, you’re lucky you live in D.C. No death penalty, just the rest of your life in prison. The other inmates should find you attractive.”

Lerner folded his arms across his chest, sunk his chin into his breastbone, and said nothing.

Klayman left the room to join Hathaway on the other side of the one-way glass.

“Lerner’s attorney is here,” Hathaway announced.

A minute later, Mackensie Smith was escorted in. He introduced himself and asked, “What’s he being charged with?”

“Assault of a police officer and resisting arrest, Counselor,” Hathaway replied.

Smith peered through the window at Lerner. He didn’t want to be there any more than Lerner did.

H
E
’
D BEEN RELAXING
at home when the call came. She sounded uncharacteristically panicked. “Mac, they’ve arrested Jeremiah,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Clarise. What was he arrested for?”

“That’s what has me so upset. If it was just one of his silly antics, marijuana, getting into a fight, I wouldn’t be so concerned. But his message—I was out at a dinner meeting and my secretary took it—his message said he thought it had to do with the murder of that poor girl at the theatre.”

“Had he known the girl?”

“I don’t think so. Even if he had, that doesn’t mean he’d kill her. Jeremiah is a handful, Mac, but he’s not a murderer.”

“You might be jumping the gun, Clarise. Questioning him doesn’t mean he’s a suspect. At this stage, the police will be wanting to talk to anyone who might have some information to help them.”

Her distress turned to anger. “What information could Jeremiah possibly have, Mac?”

“I don’t know, Clarise. Have you called an attorney?”

“I’m calling you. I deal with lots of lawyers, but none who handle criminal cases.”

“And I’m one of those who doesn’t, Clarise—at least not anymore. I’m just a college professor now. Remember?”

“Please, Mac. I don’t want to beg. Help me. I have my confirmation hearing coming up—Good God, it’s almost here—and—please!”

“I’ll call someone, Clarise.”

Although Smith hadn’t practiced much criminal law since resigning from his practice, he was still a member of the D.C. Bar, and active in its functions. Those times that he had heeded the call to action had been because of unusual circumstances, a friend in need, or a challenge too compelling to ignore.

“No, Mac, I want you to go. I know this is an imposition, and I wouldn’t think of dragging you away from Annabel, but—”

“Annabel’s out at a meeting.”

“Will you? I’m sure it won’t amount to much. Just say whatever it is you lawyers say and get him out of there.”

It was good that Smith’s sour expression couldn’t be seen over the phone line.

“Do you know where he’s being held?” he asked.

“Yes. First District headquarters, on Fourth Street, Southwest.”

“All right, Clarise. I’ll see what I can do. But I won’t go beyond this. My former law partners are the best in the city. I’ll put you in touch with them tomorrow. Does Senator Lerner know?”

“Yes. I reached him. He’s on some damn retreat in Virginia and said he couldn’t do anything until tomorrow afternoon. A big help.”

Smith let it pass.

“But he did say that he agreed with me about calling you. He’s always been impressed with you, Mac. He’s told me that on several occasions.”

“Are you at home?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you there later.”

He considered after hanging up to attempt reaching one of his former partners to see if he’d handle matters that night, but decided that would be going back on his word to Clarise. There was also a current running through him that he recognized from previous calls to action. He didn’t miss being a criminal trial lawyer, and was quite content, thank you, teaching law, and being Annabel Lee-Smith’s devoted husband. But all the adrenaline hadn’t drained from him; he was still capable of feeling the rush of being needed by someone in the rough-and-tumble world of the criminal justice system.

He left Annabel a note, retrieved his car from the garage beneath the building, and headed southwest.

“T
HIS IS
D
ETECTIVE
K
LAYMAN,
”
Hathaway told Smith. “The detective in with your client is Detective Johnson. They’re the ones who arrested him. Detective Johnson was the victim in the assault.”

“I understand there’s some question of you wanting to talk to him about the murder at Ford’s Theatre,” Smith said.

“That’s right,” replied Hathaway. “He hasn’t been designated a suspect. We just want to know whether he knew the victim, had dated her, and whatever else he might be able to provide.”

Smith said nothing as he stepped to the door and waited for Klayman to open it. Johnson and Lerner looked up at Mac’s entrance.

“This is Mr. Smith, the accused’s attorney,” Hathaway said.

Lerner’s puzzled expression indicated he had no idea who Smith was. Mac introduced himself: “I’m a friend of your mother,” he explained. “She asked me to represent you.” He said to the three detectives and the uniformed officer in the room, “I’d like some time alone with him.” He’d almost said “my client,” but caught himself.

“We’ll leave,” said Hathaway.

“No,” Smith said, nodding at the one-way window. “I mean alone. Could we use an empty office?”

“Your client’s already tried to get away, Counselor.”

“I assure you he won’t try again,” Smith said, fixing Lerner in a hard stare.

Hathaway was reluctant to allow Lerner to leave the interrogation room, but decided that considering who he was, he’d play ball. “Sure,” he said. He told Klayman and Johnson to escort Smith and Lerner to his own office. “Stay there,” he told them. To Smith: “Fifteen minutes, Counselor?”

Smith nodded.

With Johnson and Klayman stationed directly outside the office, Smith sat Lerner down in a swivel chair, and perched on the edge of the desk. “Let me tell you the facts of life, young man. First of all, I’m no longer a practicing attorney, although I’m licensed. I used to practice criminal law. Now, I teach it. I’ve known your mother for quite a while and consider her a friend. I’m here because she asked me to come. In the morning, I’ll get a hold of some top attorneys I used to work with and they can take over.

“Right now, I’m here to help you through the initial phases of the trouble you’ve got yourself in. You’re charged with resisting arrest and assault on a police officer. Did you do those things?”

“I didn’t know who they were.”

“Bad answer, son. Did you run from them?”

“Yeah.”

“When they tried to arrest you, did you resist?”

“They beat me up.”

It was as though he’d never been away from criminal law. How many times had he sat in a police station with young punks, many of them from affluent families, who considered themselves—increasingly, young women, too—tougher than the system, and who were effusive in their answers, thinking they could lie their way out of the trouble in which they’d found themselves? The oppressiveness of such situations, the futility of it all, coupled with the tragic death of his first wife and only child, had pushed him away from the system as it was, and into a less bellicose life.

“Are you saying that the officers who arrested you lied, Jeremiah?”

“Whose side are you on, man, theirs or mine?”

“I was told they came to where you worked because they wanted to ask you questions about the young woman who was murdered last night at Ford’s Theatre.”

He guffawed. “Man, that is ridiculous. I didn’t even know her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I—I read it in the papers.”

“I see. Well, let me sum up what’s going on here, Jeremiah, and give you some solid lawyerly advice. They’ll hold you overnight because they can. Sometime tomorrow, there’ll be a preliminary hearing where the judge will decide whether there’s probable cause to charge you with resisting and assault. The lawyer who represents you at the hearing will ask for bail, which you’ll be granted. I suggest you have one of your parents with you at the hearing. I’ll tell your mother that.

“But from this moment on, Jeremiah, I suggest you keep your mouth shut. That means offering nothing, saying nothing about the charges against you unless your lawyer is present. As for their interest in you regarding the murder, my best advice is to remain silent on that issue, too. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to spend the night in jail.”

“You don’t have much choice in the matter. Any questions?”

“Man, this sucks!”

Smith knocked on the closed door, which was opened by Mo Johnson. With him outside the office were Klayman and Hathaway.

“Have you booked him?” Smith asked.

“Not yet,” Hathaway said.

“Where will he be, in Central Lockup at D.C. headquarters?”

“That’s right, Counselor.”

Smith said, “There’ll be a different attorney for him tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait,” Hathaway said. “Show Mr. Smith out, Rick.”

The attorney and the cop went to the lobby and out to the street.

“Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Smith?” Klayman asked.