Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [61]
Smith smiled. “One and the same, Horace.”
“What are you doing here, slumming?” the man asked with a chuckle.
“Wish I were,” Smith said with equal pleasantness. “You know Yale Becker.”
“Of course I do,” Horace said. “You two back in business together again?”
“For the moment,” Smith said. “Actually, I’m more along for the ride.”
WHEN SMITH HAD REACHED BECKER the previous night and asked him to represent Jeremiah at the Presentment hearing, Becker agreed, but only if Smith would accompany him. “You know the family,” Becker had said. “Besides, I’d enjoy working with you again, Mac. Good to keep your hand in.”
And so Smith agreed, but not before Annabel urged him to. She’d seen it before with her husband, a vague restlessness that wouldn’t go away until he’d taken some action to satisfy it. It came in cycles, once, maybe twice a year, something, someone, luring him with a challenge too compelling to arbitrarily ignore.
“It’ll take too much time, Annie,” Mac had said. “I have my classes and—”
His weakest excuse, she knew. Mackensie Smith was one of the most efficient time managers she’d ever known. “I’ll help you,” she said.
“All right,” he’d said.
And that was that.
“THE BAD GUYS KEEPING YOU BUSY, Horace?” Becker asked the flamboyant black attorney.
“The numbers say crime in D.C. is down, but you’d never know it by me. Never been busier. But you two wouldn’t know about that. Got another high-profile, big-money case on the docket today?”
“You might say that,” Becker said. “Half right—on the profile, not on the money. Good seeing you, Horace.”
“Always a pleasure.” To Smith: “Still turning out bright-eyed young lawyers over at GW?”
“Doing my best, Horace. You take care.”
As they resumed navigating the hundreds of people coming and going in the hall, Smith said, “How many cases do you figure Horace is handling today, Yale? Six? Ten? A dozen?”
“Too many, I’m sure. Drugs. Domestic abuse. Petty thieves. He’s a hell of a good attorney, Mac, nobody better at cutting deals. Love his style. Can’t overlook him in that getup.”
No more of a getup than we’re wearing, Mac mused, Yale’s three-piece suit and my tweed-and-button-down outfit perhaps not as flamboyant, but every bit as much of a uniform as Horace is wearing.
A clerk escorted them from an outer office into where the magistrate judge sat at a table examining the Lerner files provided by the police. With him was a U.S. Attorney who was introduced as Alex LeCour. He was young, black, and obviously on the rise.
The judge, Jerry Millander, got right to the point. “So, here we are. Why are we meeting?”
“There’s a complication in this case, Judge,” Becker said.
“There always is,” Millander said. “You’re talking about the murder at Ford’s Theatre.”
“Yes, sir,” Smith said. “The hearing today on the assault and resisting charges is one thing. But the police want to question our client about what he might know of the murder.”
“So?”
“So, it puts our client in the position of possibly being coerced,” Becker responded. “The police have already pressured him to answer questions about the murder, which he declines to do. He claims he didn’t even know the victim. I’m uncomfortable having the assault and resisting charges used as a wedge to get him to say things he wouldn’t under ordinary circumstances.”
U.S. Attorney LeCour said, “He was read his rights twice, Counselors.”
“About the charges against him,” Smith quickly said. “Not concerning the murder.”
LeCour said, “According to the investigating officers, two people have confirmed that your client not only knew the deceased, he’d dated her.”
“You’re making my point, Mr. LeCour,” Smith said. “We’re not here to try a murder case.” He glanced at Becker. “These so-called confirmations that Jeremiah knew the victim is news to us. I’d like a copy of the file.”
“No can do, Counselor,” said LeCour. “Not the murder