Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [105]
Annabel didn’t say what she was thinking, that the self-serving nature of the press conference was transparent. Instead, she said, “How can I help?”
“Be there with me? Offer moral support?”
“Sure. I’m not sure it’s wise having a conference without at least one of Jeremiah’s attorneys present, but that’s not my decision. How are things otherwise?”
“Dreadful. This business with Jeremiah is a nightmare. My hearing comes up later this week. Festival at Ford’s is Thursday night. On top of all that, Sol Wexler thinks there’s a problem brewing with Ford’s finances.”
“Oh?”
“That’s between us, Annie. I’ll try to get to the bottom of it when I find a spare minute.”
“Your plate, as they say, is full,” Annabel said, placing a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. “Anything I can do before the press conference?”
“No. Just knowing you’ll be there is enough. Thanks for everything.”
“MAC, IT’S ANNABEL. I’m at the gallery.”
“How was the luncheon?”
“Good. Dorothy looks great, and Clarise seems to be holding up nicely. Did you hear about the press conference?”
“Secondhand.”
“I promised Clarise I’d be there.”
“Why?”
“Moral support.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“Me being there?”
“Having a press conference. Yale called a few minutes ago. It’s taken him by surprise, too. Interesting development, though. LeCour—he’s the U.S. Attorney prosecuting Jeremiah—he called Yale to tell him they want to meet to discuss a plea bargain.”
“Really? So soon? Sounds as though they’re not very confident in their case.”
“Exactly. They’re running a lineup this afternoon.”
“With the street person?”
“Yeah. It’s at four-thirty. I’ll be there.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll catch up later. Mac?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s book a vacation.”
“Now?”
“For when this is over.”
“It’s a deal,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“Any place that doesn’t have ‘D.C.’ after its name.”
Mac laughed and said good-bye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JOHN PARTRIDGE, the homeless man claiming to have seen the murder of Nadia Zarinski, had been picked up the night before from a church-sponsored shelter. He’d smuggled in a pint of cheap brandy to top off a day and night of heavy drinking; when the officers arrived, he stumbled to his feet from his cot and dropped the half-consumed bottle, sending it smashing to the concrete floor.
“Nice move, Mr. Partridge,” one of the cops said. “Smooth.”
“I didn’t know he had a bottle with him,” the shelter manager said.
“Yeah, yeah,” said the cop. “Nobody knows nothing anymore.”
Partridge was allowed to sleep off his inebriation in a cell. He was fed a hot breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and was urged to clean up before the lineup took place. He was sequestered in a small interrogation room when Smith arrived.
“This is your eyewitness?” he asked Hathaway as they observed Partridge through the one-way mirrored glass.
“Hey, Counselor, you know you don’t get to pick your witnesses,” Hathaway said. “If you did, they’d all be choirboys and kindly grandmothers.”
Smith had reviewed Constitutional case law regarding lineups before leaving his office at GW. It had been decided in numerous court rulings that a defendant’s Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination—not to be “compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself”—did not apply to pretrial identification procedures, including fingerprinting, photographing, measurements, speaking or writing for identification, and lineups. A defendant’s rights under the Fifth Amendment applied only, as one court put it, to protecting one from being compelled to express the “contents of his mind.” Smith knew he was powerless to prevent the lineup; his presence would serve to ensure it was done as fairly as possible, and to be an official observer who could refer to prejudicial practices when examining witnesses at trial.
He was pleased that the alleged eyewitness was a man like Partridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to challenge his reliability in court. Hathaway, he was certain, was well aware