Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [71]
“His shoes?” Smith said, taking the warrant from Klayman.
“That’s correct,” said Johnson. “Are those the only pair of shoes in your possession, Jeremiah?”
“This is ridiculous,” the senator said.
Klayman and Johnson stood. “Sir,” Klayman said, “the warrant is valid. It extends to your son’s apartment, too. Officers are there as we speak.” To Jeremiah, who’d gotten up and walked to a window overlooking a garden: “Are those Ecco shoes you’re wearing?”
“What?”
“The shoes you’re wearing. They’re Eccos. Right? Are they the only Eccos you own?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Please remove them and give them to me.”
Jeremiah looked to his father, then to Smith.
“The warrant is valid,” Smith said. “You’ll have to turn them over, Jeremiah.”
“What room is he staying in, Senator?” Johnson asked.
“Upstairs. A guest room.”
“Please take me there, sir.”
As Senator Lerner led the imposing black detective from the study and to the staircase, Jeremiah sat on a window bench and slowly removed his shoes. Klayman picked them up from the floor, careful to hold them by the tongues and to not touch the soles.
Johnson returned a few minutes later and announced, “He doesn’t have any other shoes upstairs, Rick. Let’s go.”
Smith accompanied the detectives to the front door and out to where they’d parked.
“You’re skating on thin ice,” he told them.
“Oh?” said Johnson.
“You said he wasn’t a target in the investigation, but you obtain a warrant for his shoes. How many other pairs of shoes have you gotten a warrant for? How many other possible suspects are walking around barefoot?”
“We just want to—”
Smith cut Johnson off. “I assume you’ve gotten footprints from the scene, and your forensic people say they were made by Ecco shoes.”
“I can’t discuss it, Mr. Smith,” Klayman said.
“Neither can my client. He’s off-limits from now on.”
“Sure,” said Johnson. He looked up at the home they’d just left. “Nice house,” he said.
Smith looked hard at Klayman. “Maybe you’d better reconsider attending my class tomorrow, Detective. I’m liable to flunk you on general principle.”
Klayman grinned. “I’ll take my chances, sir,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’m not a cop, just a student interested in Lincoln the lawyer, and you’re not a defense attorney, just a learned professor. See you then, and please thank the senator for his time. I’m sure he’s a busy guy.”
Smith lingered outside for a few minutes, processing what had transpired, before returning to the study where father and son sat in silence.
“Is there any reason why your footprints would be behind Ford’s Theatre, Jeremiah?” Smith asked.
No one spoke. Then, the senator said in a tone so low, it was difficult to hear him, “Yes, there is.”
Smith took them in, going from one to the other.
“Jeremiah has something to tell you,” the senior Lerner said.
Now, Smith focused his eyes on Jeremiah.
“Yeah, I knew her,” the young man said. “Yeah, I dated her.” He came forward in his chair. “But I didn’t kill her, dude. I did not kill her!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“MAYBE YOU’D BETTER TELL ME about it, Jeremiah,” Smith said. “The truth this time. And do not call me ‘dude.’”
Senator Lerner could barely contain his anger. He stood at the window, his back to the room, taking in air to calm himself.
“How close were you to Nadia?” Smith asked Jeremiah.
“Just a couple a’ dates. That’s all.”
“What’s a couple?” Smith asked. “Two? Four?”
Jeremiah responded angrily. “How the hell do I know? It’s not like she was my girlfriend or something. She was wild, man, hot, loved a good time, so, like, I showed it to her a couple a’ times.”
“Damn it, Jeremiah, show some respect,” Senator Lerner growled. “Why did you lie to the police?”
“’Cause they’d think I had something to do with her murder. Man, what is this, some kind of railroad job?” He turned to Smith, his face red with anger. “What kind of lawyer are you, huh? They