Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [72]
Senator Lerner approached. He looked down with disgust at his son, and Smith wondered if he was about to strike him. Lerner asked Smith, “How serious is this?”
“Very serious,” Smith replied. “The detectives who were here will write their report, reflecting what Jeremiah has told them. If he ends up charged and goes to trial, they’ll use these lies against him. My suggestion is that I call them, ask them to come back, tell them Jeremiah wishes to correct some misstatements he made, and get him on the record with the truth.”
Smith said to Jeremiah, “But I have to know the whole story, Jeremiah, before I can proceed in your defense. Did you kill her?”
Jeremiah erupted. He jumped up, smashed his fist into the back of the chair, knocking it over, and stormed from the room. His father called after him to no avail.
“Damn kids!” Lerner spewed, taking the chair behind his desk.
“Some kids are their own worst enemies, Senator. They think they know everything, and don’t realize the ramifications of their actions. It’s obvious that your son is going to face some tougher times in the weeks ahead, whether he had anything to do with the girl’s death or not. His attitude won’t help.”
Lerner started to reply, but Smith said, “I don’t have your son’s faith as an attorney, which is necessary. It would be better if you found someone else to represent him.”
“Absolutely not,” Lerner said with a slap of his hand on the desk. “Clarise says you’re the best defense lawyer in town, and—”
“Clarise is being kind. I retired from criminal law years ago, and have been teaching at GW. My former law partner, Yale Becker, has agreed to become involved, too.”
“Of course. I knew you were a professor, and Mr. Becker’s reputation is certainly known to me.” He’d calmed down and was again the senator, in charge and sure of himself. “I appreciate your agreeing to help us. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision.”
Smith righted the chair Jeremiah had toppled and sat in it. What had been a sunny sky was now overcast; light through the windows was flat and gray. Lerner looked older than when Mac had first arrived. He sat behind his desk, chin resting on clenched hands, eyes focused on the desktop but thoughts elsewhere. He asked absently, “You have kids, Mac?”
“I did. A son. He and my first wife were killed by a drunk driver on the Beltway.”
Lerner’s voice didn’t change in response to that grim statement. “They break your heart, don’t they?” he said.
Smith didn’t know how to respond. Yes, his heart had been broken, but not by his son—by an irresponsible drunk who ended up being convicted of negligent manslaughter. Where was he now? What was he doing? Did he wake up in the middle of the night as Smith sometimes did and recoil at the horrible memory of that rainy night?
“What’d the drunk get, a slap on the wrist and probation?”
“Four years.”
Lerner snickered. “Obviously some wimp of a judge put on the bench by the liberals.”
Smith sat in silence.
“You give all you can to your kids, Mac, and they turn on you. Like Jeremiah. He wanted for nothing, was taught to be a good citizen, work hard, make something of himself.” He suddenly straightened, as though struck by an important thought. “Is this indicative of where young people are heading today?”
“Not all young people,” Smith said, thinking of the Lee J. Cobb role in Twelve Angry Men, the vengeful juror who’d been disappointed by a son and took it out on a young defendant.
“They’ve got their values wrong, Mac. They get twisted messages from the media, movies, TV, those damn video games. The liberals don’t seem to care what kind of garbage they fill kids’ heads with these days. There’s a lot of blame to be laid there.”
Mac hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of a political speech. Lerner’s conservative politics were well known. Had his right-wing beliefs butted heads with Clarise’s more liberal thinking, and contributed to the breakup of their marriage? It didn’t matter. Politics, and any discussion of it, seemed grossly out of place