Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [87]
You gave up law years ago, Mac thought.
“Can we meet to discuss this, Mac?”
“Of course.”
“Will you come to the house tonight? Say, seven?”
“All right. But I must call LeCour, the U.S. Attorney, at six and tell him of Jeremiah’s disappearance.”
“If you tell them he’s not there, they won’t have to come, will they?”
Mac managed a small laugh. “I’m not sure they’ll believe this attorney about that, Senator. They’ll want to see for themselves.”
His was a pained sigh. “Well, do what you can, and know I appreciate your efforts. Damn him! He must be sick in the head.”
Mac was tempted to say that too many people were labeled “sick” when they behaved badly, giving legitimate mental illness a bad name. The truth was, Jeremiah Lerner was a surly, rudderless young man, and it didn’t matter what made him that way. If he’d murdered the young woman, he’d have to pay for that, although he was entitled to the best possible defense if charged and brought to trial.
They ended the conversation and Smith went to the terrace, Rufus at his side. It had clouded up; rain was imminent, which was good. Washington and its environs had been in a drought all summer, unusual for a city whose summers were characterized by wet, humid, heavy, hot weather.
He realized he was conflicted at that moment, reminiscent of that period of his life when he came to the conclusion that he no longer wished to practice criminal law, and had resigned his partnership and abandoned what had been a love for many years. It hadn’t been the reality of the criminal justice system that he enjoyed as much as it was a reverence for the law and his country’s system of jurisprudence, as flawed as it sometimes was.
He’d spent time in London at its Old Bailey, where he engaged in long talks with British attorneys and judges. The U.S. legal system, which Smith revered, had been based upon the British model, although he’d pointed out to his British counterparts that there were some aspects of their approach that unfortunately had been ignored. The prepping of witnesses before trial, a common and, Smith thought, flawed practice, was anathema in England. Any attorney doing it there faced severe censure. On the other hand, there were English legal practices that he felt were best left behind, particularly the rule under which an English judge summarized for the jury the evidence as he or she saw it.
Mackensie Smith loved the law and its importance in creating and maintaining the American democratic system. Had his wife and son not been killed, he perhaps would have continued practicing, although that tragedy had coincided with a fear that he was becoming burned out, and that the time had naturally come when it was time to shift gears in his life.
At the same time, the more mundane, less stressful life of college professor did not always provide the brand of stimulation to which he’d been accustomed. That, he knew, had been at work when Clarise had drawn him into Jeremiah’s troubles with the law. And Annabel knew the signs, too, recognized when her husband was restless and craving the sort of action and challenge that only the adversarial structure of the criminal justice system could provide. For other men, it was driving fast or engaging in some athletic activity, climbing a mountain or diving off a charter boat in the Bahamas. For Mac Smith, it was standing up to the formidable resources of prosecutors and fighting for a client, using every bit of knowledge, experience, and skill he possessed. Despite his initial reluctance when contacted by Clarise, he knew that by taking that first step and representing Jeremiah the night of his arrest, he’d made a commitment. He was in for the duration, and reminded himself as he stood on the terrace that late Saturday afternoon that he owed his best to his young client, as unpleasant and unattractive as he might be.
“Mr. LeCour, please.”
“LeCour.”
“Mac Smith, Mr. LeCour.”
“You’re early.”
“Yes. My client, Jeremiah Lerner, hasn’t been available to me since you called.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“He’s not at his father