Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [88]
“He’s supposed to be. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Smith knew he’d placed himself in a precarious position. Although he’d known about Jeremiah leaving since the previous day, he was under no legal obligation as his attorney to inform the authorities. But when told that the interest in his client had been elevated from assault and resisting arrest to murder, he’d been evasive to LeCour, leading the U.S. Attorney to assume, by inference, that Jeremiah was still at his father’s house. Not exactly a lie, but not exactly truthful, either.
LeCour then asked the question Smith hoped he wouldn’t.
“When did he leave the house?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“You knew that?”
“I didn’t know he’d absent himself overnight. He and his father had an argument, and he left in anger, took his father’s car. The assumption was that he’d cool off and return. He didn’t.”
“I should have been notified.”
“Why? The judge didn’t specifically state that he couldn’t leave the house. He was free to go to the store and buy a newspaper and a cup of coffee.”
LeCour’s pique entered his voice. “He’s wanted for murder, Mr. Smith.”
“As of this afternoon,” Smith said, his momentary questioning of his legal culpability now gone. “Last night he wasn’t wanted for murder, Mr. LeCour. Now, concerning his whereabouts: You’ll obviously want to send officers to verify that he isn’t at Senator Lerner’s house, and that’s fine. But I’m meeting there at seven with the senator. I’m certain your previous offers of courtesy to the senator can be carried over for a few more hours. There’s nothing to be gained by turning a search of the house into a circus.”
Except, Smith knew, that prosecuting such a high-profile case, and reaping the publicity fallout, wouldn’t be unappealing to LeCour—or to any U.S. Attorney, for that matter.
“Send those two detectives who were there previously. Give me an hour with the senator. Make it eight. All right?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Smith. We want Jeremiah Lerner. He’s already gone, who knows where, maybe out of the area. I’ll be honest with you. I consider your decision to not be forthcoming to be a breach of legal ethics.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. LeCour. And you’re entitled to take whatever action you choose regarding sending officers to the house. We’ll be speaking again soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SOL WEXLER HEADED his own CPA firm in Washington, and listed an impressive roster of politicians and business leaders as clients. He was, of course, sought after by a number of nonprofit D.C. organizations and agencies to lend his financial knowledge to their boards, and managed to deftly turn down most of them. But he’d been an aspiring actor early in his life—before reality trumped youthful dreams—so when asked to join Ford Theatre’s board of trustees, he’d readily accepted. Naturally, he ended up chairing its finance committee, and had become close to Ford’s producing director, Clarise Emerson, as well as other trustees, including Annabel Smith.
Clarise’s brief confab with the director of philanthropic programs for American Express had gone well. The company pledged to continue its support for the theatre’s productions, and entertained Clarise’s suggestion that it up its pledge. She went directly from that meeting to one with the producers and the director of Festival at Ford’s. Everything was proceeding as planned, she was told, no hitches.
Now, she huddled with controller Bernard Crowley in her office. The independent auditors had been there all day poring over the books and reconciling income and expenditures. They seemed pleased, Crowley said.
“It’s going smooth as silk,” he told her after the auditors had departed, taking with them additional records needed to complete the audit.
“That’s no surprise,” she said. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is for me to not have to worry about finances. I—”
A phone call interrupted.
“Hello? Yes, how are you? … What? … I see… Yes, of course … All right … See you then.”
“A problem?” Crowley asked after she’d ended the call.
“Problem? No, no problem.