Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [69]
“The sign of a good administrator,” Sol Wexler, chairman of the theatre’s finance committee, said. “Well, no matter where the credit belongs, the numbers look solid.”
Another member of the committee interrupted to offer congratulations. The woman, barely five feet tall, expensively dressed, tanned, and with silver hair expertly arranged—and whose life was a series of meetings of boards and committees to which she belonged—took Clarise aside. “I just want you to know, my dear, that the board stands solidly behind you in this dreadful mess you’ve found yourself in.”
Clarise’s blank expression prompted the woman to say, “The business with your son.”
“Oh, yes. It’s all a mistake. I’m sure it will be settled shortly.”
“I certainly hope so. We’ll miss you once you’ve gone over to the NEA, but I know your heart will still be here at Ford’s.”
“You can count on that, Melinda.”
The finance committee member leaned closer and became conspiratorial. “Is it true that your son is suspected of—”
“No, of course not. As I said, it’s all a mistake, bureaucratic fumbling.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize your confirmation to the NEA. You know how politicians can twist things and use them for their partisan advantage. We’re with you, Clarise.” She squeezed Clarise’s arm as physical affirmation of her support, and left to speak with someone else.
An understanding and supportive Crowley filled the void at Clarise’s side.
“Pleased?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, Bernard. The presentation was top-notch. Truly professional. Everyone is impressed with your efforts in getting our finances in order. Well done!”
“Thank you. By the way, I spoke with the assistant director on the teen show, Ms. Riva.”
“And?”
“She says that despite Sydney’s absence”—he chuckled—“in fact, she said it might be because he’s not here, the show is in good shape. No hitches. I just wanted to put your mind at ease on that front.”
Truth was, Clarise hadn’t given that production a thought. But she thanked him for following up as he’d promised, and excused herself to go to the rest room. Once there, she checked her watch. One-thirty. The police and Mac Smith would be on their way to her former husband’s house to question their son. She was tempted to jump in her car and drive there to be present during what would surely be an ordeal for Jeremiah. But knowing Bruce was planning to be on hand led her to abandon that idea. She had unbridled confidence that Mac Smith would provide all the necessary legal protection for her son, and prevent any abuse of his rights.
She went to her office, closed the door, and began poring over the possible questions that Senator Sybers and his committee might raise at her confirmation hearing, and the kind of answers she’d been instructed by her handlers to give.
Compartmentalize.
It worked. Her only thoughts were of the hearing, and how she would breeze through it, Sybers and his outdated view of art, morality, and women be damned!
“YOU EVER BEEN to a U.S. senator’s house before?” Johnson asked.
Klayman turned a corner and said, “Oh, sure. Once a week at least.”
They’d left First District headquarters at 1:45 to drive to Senator Bruce Lerner’s home in Kalorama.
“Hathaway says the senator’ll be there, loaded for bear.”
“So I hear. Mac Smith, too.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yeah. I’m going to his class tomorrow.”
“You are? How come?”
Klayman explained the nature of Smith’s class, and why it appealed to him.
“Man, you’d better be careful.”
“Why?”
“Don’t talk to him about the case.”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
Johnson said nothing; Klayman looked over at him.
“No, no, Ricky, I didn’t say you were. Just be careful, that’s all. You have the warrant?”
“Uh-huh. Right here.” He patted his jacket’s breast pocket.
They were escorted into the house by a maid and led to Lerner’s study, where the senator, Mac Smith, and Jeremiah Lerner waited. After introductions, they were invited to sit on a couch across from