11
D
aniel Davenport didn’t usually make house calls. His clients met him on his own pricey turf, a high corner office overlooking other marbled office buildings at the intersection of 11th and G. But Congressman Lionel had insisted. In the middle of his reelection campaign, Lionel couldn’t afford a picture of himself walking into a criminal lawyer’s office. He wanted to stay out of sight. So the defense attorney made the trip up 16th Street to a posh neighborhood of Tudor-style homes in upper Northwest.
The plan didn’t work. Davenport parked on Blagden Avenue amid a forest of satellite trucks. He walked silently past the crowd of reporters, ignoring the shouted questions without even offering a “no comment.” The Lionels’ mansion had crisp white stucco and dark half-timbering that made it look like a large old English tavern. The landscaping was elaborate and meticulously trimmed. Davenport strode calmly to the side door to avoid the stand of cameramen staking out the front.
A moment later, he was seated in a cushy floral chair in the Lionels’ living room, a porcelain cup of coffee in his hand. A picture window provided a peaceful view of the lush green backyard. The room was so large that the baby grand piano in one corner seemed small. A plate of cut fruit and scones sat on the table next to a crystal vase filled with white roses. The defense attorney was uncomfortable. It wasn’t just because his chair was too soft. It was the group of people arrayed in the room.
Congressman Lionel paced in front of the picture window. His mane of silvering hair and ferocity had helped earn him the nickname “The Lion of D.C.” His agitated pacing around the room was the trait that reminded Davenport of an angry, caged predator now.
Stanley Potter, the portly Chief of Staff, sat on the couch, alternately checking his BlackBerry and eating a scone. Crumbs dropped
onto his electronic device. Lionel’s wife, Betty, poured coffee from a silver pot into a delicate cup set in front of Potter. He thanked her and took a slurp. A drop splashed onto his rumpled blue shirt, leaving a stain on his round belly. He tried to brush it away, managing only to smear it in.
Lionel’s Legislative Director, Brett Vale, sat watching Potter with a look of disgust in his light blue eyes. His fingers pinched the impeccable crease of his gray trousers. The LD was lean as a whip and quiet as a stone. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and already sported a full head of silver hair. Together with his clothes, it gave the impression of someone too old to still be an LD. When Betty offered Vale coffee, he declined with a slight shake of his head.
Lionel’s campaign manager, Terrance Williams, stood in a corner, talking agitatedly into the cell phone clamped to his right ear. His index finger was inserted into his left ear, although he was the noisiest thing in the living room. “This is the worst fucking time for Malik to be on vacation,” Williams fumed. Malik Cole was Lionel’s press secretary, who’d left for a honeymoon in New Zealand three days ago, the day everyone had expected Congress to go into August recess.
Betty set the silver coffeepot on a silver tray and led her husband to the couch. They were a handsome, powerful couple, and they dressed the part even at home. Betty wore a blue crushed-silk skirt suit and had her dark hair swept into a chignon. Lionel wore a navy blue suit. In ten years, Davenport had never seen him without a tie.
Betty and Lionel sat together on the couch, holding hands. The room quieted, all eyes looking at Davenport expectantly.
Davenport couldn’t have a client meeting like this. For one thing, he relied on the attorney-client privilege, which kept secret anything said between him and his client. But the privilege didn’t cover advice he gave in the presence of his client’s wife or staff. Even if Davenport fashioned a joint-defense arrangement that allowed the discussions to remain confidential, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted the staffers to hear the advice he would give their boss. He didn’t yet know enough. Any of them—in addition to his own client—might have killed that girl.
And Davenport knew that the Congressman couldn’t speak frankly in front of his wife. A week from now, Betty might file for divorce. Potter, Vale, Williams—or all of them—might cooperate with the authorities against the Congressman. Davenport had to be prepared for the worst. For this meeting, the entourage had to go.
“Congressman,” Davenport began gingerly, “last night when we spoke, I advised you not to discuss this investigation with anyone, including your staff.”
“I haven’t discussed last night’s events with anyone,” Lionel replied. “But this is a political problem, not just a legal one. These are my top advisers. I rely on their counsel.” Davenport glanced skeptically at Betty, and Lionel reacted. “I have nothing to hide from my wife! I had nothing to do with that woman’s death last night.”
Betty showed no emotion. There had long been talk of Lionel’s womanizing, but she always stood by his side. She was the consummate political wife, supportive and helpful, skillful at turning the subject and, if that failed, steadfast in defending her husband. Perhaps she simply wasn’t bothered by her husband’s cheating. Or did she blind herself to it?
Potter set down his scone and leaned forward. “We have to talk about it. Any legal strategy has to work with our campaign strategy.”
Davenport looked at Potter, speaking softly but sternly. “Although I am not your lawyer, let me give you some friendly advice. Do not talk to each other about the subject of this investigation. I don’t care how innocent you all are or how much you’re dying to figure out what happened—if you talk to each other about what happened last night, the prosecutor will find out, and he will assume that you’re trying to get your stories straight.”
Potter blanched. “Can I talk to my wife?”
“If you must. Your conversations with your spouse are privileged. But do not talk to any other family or friends about it. The prosecutors can drag them into the grand jury to find out what you said. Your loved ones will not appreciate that experience, I assure you. If you’re smart, you won’t discuss what happened last night with anyone except your lawyers.”
“We don’t have lawyers,” Vale said.
“Congressman Lionel has offered to pay your legal bills, provided you hire competent representation. I’ve arranged for excellent attorneys to represent you all. Obviously, you’re free to turn them down and pay for any other lawyer you want. It could cost less, but you should be prepared to spend fifty to a hundred and fifty thousand, assuming you don’t go to trial.”
In the old days, Davenport’s firm would have represented everyone; today’s conflict-of-interest rules no longer permitted that. But it was important to Davenport that the staffers be represented by attorneys who would work well with him—optimally, attorneys who would
defer
to him. They would have independent fiduciary duties to their clients, of course, but they would know who was paying their bills. D.C. had dozens of criminal-defense lawyers who made a living from Davenport’s referrals. They were excellent defense attorneys, but they rarely advised their clients to cooperate with the government and testify against Davenport’s clients. If they did, they could expect their livelihood to dry up.
The staffers nodded. They would accept Davenport’s free lawyers.
“Good,” growled the Congressman. “The next thing we need to do is draft something to tell the press.” He nodded toward the front of his house, where the reporters were camped. “I can’t stay in here forever.”
“Until we know more about the situation, you should say nothing,” Davenport advised. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“Plead the Fifth?” Betty said, horrified. “He has nothing to hide!”
This was always tricky ground. Davenport didn’t want to tell her all the things her husband might have to hide. That would just alienate the one ally his client needed most of all. “Of course, Betty,” he assured her. “But right now anything he says will be misinterpreted.”
Davenport looked at the three other men. Any one of them might know exactly what had happened to the girl last night. As much as Davenport wanted to know, he first needed to make sure that the staffers didn’t prematurely say anything to law enforcement. “I don’t represent the rest of you, but speaking as your friend, I’m sure your lawyers will tell you the same thing. The Constitution
protects you from having to talk to the police, and you should rely on that right.”
Davenport expected he wouldn’t get any resistance from the pudgy Chief of Staff, who was Lionel’s top man, devoted to his boss for over twenty years. Potter would take his marching orders. Williams was a hired gun who might give Davenport pushback but would ultimately listen to whatever Lionel told him. Vale worried him, though. He’d been with the Congressman only two years. Long enough to know some secrets but short enough that he had little to lose if his boss went down. Vale had to be treated with care.
“If you agree, your own attorneys will be available to meet with you this afternoon. In the meantime, the office can just say ‘no comment’ to any press inquiry. You’ll say Congressman Lionel regrets the young woman’s death, but he cannot comment further due to the ongoing investigation.”
“The hell we will!” Potter said. “Congressman, if you plead the Fifth, tomorrow’s
Post
will read ‘Lionel Pleads the Fifth in Murder Case.’ That’s as good as a conviction for your campaign.”
“We appreciate your advice, Mr. Davenport,” Betty added, “but you have to understand our position. The primary is in six weeks, and Youngblood is a real challenge. My husband didn’t know this woman. He’ll be cleared in the investigation. But if he no-comments his way through it, we’ll lose the seat he’s held for thirty years.”
Davenport shook his head, frustrated. In times like this, he thought wistfully about his decision to turn down medical school in favor of the law. If he were a surgeon, his patients would be anesthetized while he operated on them. A patient never got up during surgery and disputed the doctor’s technique. Davenport often wished he could put his criminal-defense clients under sedation while he operated. “The risk to your husband is much greater than just losing his seat,” he began.
Lionel stood up, interrupting him. “Daniel, I appreciate your counsel. I’m sure it’s the best defense strategy. But ‘no comment’ is not an option I can take. This office cannot be seen as obstructing a murder investigation.” He turned to his staffers, his deep voice slow and deliberate. “If one of you knows something about this woman’s
death, I would appreciate receiving your resignation immediately.” No one responded. “Good. In that case, I will offer the police our full cooperation, within the bounds of my legislative prerogatives.”
Davenport closed his eyes for a moment, disappointed, but he could tell the decision was final. “They’ll want to interview you right away. I’m not going to let you go into the grand jury.”
Lionel nodded and sat down next to his wife. She took his hand again.
“Congressman, I need to speak to you privately now,” Davenport said.
Betty kissed her husband’s jowls, stood up, and led Potter, Vale, and Williams out of the room. Davenport could hear her herding the staffers to the back porch.
The defense attorney carefully considered his next question. He preferred to spend as much time as possible investigating, figuring out what evidence the government had and what its witnesses might say, before asking a client for his side of the story. Rarely would a client be completely honest in the first conversation. If Davenport didn’t have the documents and the knowledge to keep his clients honest, whatever self-serving half-truths or outright lies the client told could hamper Davenport’s defense strategy. A client might tell a lie often enough that he came to believe it and was devastated on the stand when it was disproved.
There was no time for that kind of research now. If the Congressman was going to be interviewed, Davenport needed to know what he would say.
“All right, Emmett.” Davenport leaned toward his client. “That woman didn’t wander into your hideaway and fall off your balcony by herself. What
really
happened last night?”
Vale cut through
the Congressman’s backyard to avoid the waiting TV cameras, stepping carefully through the grass to avoid scuffing the shine on his shoes. His silver Smart Fortwo coupe was parked half a block away. He held Davenport’s handwritten note—the name and address of his assigned attorney. That arrogant son of a bitch.
Vale doubted Davenport’s hand-picked lawyer would really have his best interests at heart. But he no longer had the savings to afford his own attorney, and he’d be damned if he was going to get a public defender, like some crack dealer.
He slid into his tiny Smart car and started the noiseless engine. It was the smallest car on the road; the wingspan of his arms was longer than its width. The car was perfect for parking in tight spots no one else could squeeze into. Vale always felt superior to the gas-guzzling monsters circling the blocks, looking for somewhere to park. He was smarter than they were.
He was smarter than most people. That, he knew, was what had held back his career. At his age, he should be a chief of staff. But he couldn’t put up with others’ mediocrity, so he had a reputation of being hard to get along with. He felt a nagging disappointment that his career had stalled out.
Vale would cooperate with the police investigation, though not for the reasons Congressman Lionel wanted. He didn’t care whether the Congressman was reelected. He wasn’t going to be a good soldier, like Potter, keeping the Congressman’s dirty secrets. The police were going to find someone to blame that girl’s death on, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Brett Vale.
He would give the police exactly what they were looking for. Everything about Emmett Lionel’s relationship with that girl. That whore.
12
W
hile they’d been meeting with Caroline’s mother, Vanetta had turned the conference room next to Jack’s office into a “war room.” The police paperwork and Davenport’s binder of motions were neatly stacked on the conference table. One of the library’s unrestricted computers had been rolled into one corner, and a TV tuned to the local news sat in another. Vanetta had even put a box of Jack’s favorite snack—peanut-butter crackers—on the credenza.