Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [92]
“We’re ready to go in,” the officer with the bullhorn told Johnson.
“Let’s hold up,” Klayman said. To Johnson: “Come on.”
They went to the door, pushed the button, and heard chimes inside. Johnson banged on the door. “Police!” he shouted. “Jeremiah Lerner? If you’re in there, open the door and come out with your hands raised.”
This time, Klayman kept his thumb on the bell, causing the chimes to tinkle rapidly, while Johnson continued to knock.
“We take the door down?” Johnson asked.
“I hate to do that,” Klayman said. “Stupid kid. Why doesn’t he just open the damn door?”
“Please,” a woman’s voice said from behind.
Clarise Emerson had been allowed through the barricades, and had been escorted to the door by an officer.
“Oh, Ms. Emerson,” Klayman said.
“Is your son in there?” Johnson asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, he was, but—”
“Can you get him to come out?”
“Is all this necessary?” she asked. “This spectacle?”
“We’re here to arrest him, ma’am, for the murder of Nadia Zarinski,” Johnson said.
“Good God, this is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.” She looked down the street to where reporters and TV camera crews vied for a better vantage point. “The press is everywhere. Jeremiah didn’t kill anyone. Don’t you see that?”
“Ma’am,” Klayman said, “whether he did or not will be determined by others. Right now, our orders are to bring him in. We’d rather do it quietly, but—”
“You call this ‘quietly’?”
“If you can get him to surrender himself, it’ll be over,” Johnson counseled. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to go in and get him.”
“I want his lawyer present,” she said, her voice reflecting the modicum of control she’d managed to muster.
“Mr. Smith?” Klayman said. “He’s at your former husband’s house. We just left there. But I suggest we take care of getting your son first.”
“I’ll make that decision,” she said, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. She found it and dialed.
“Bruce, a horrible thing has happened. Jeremiah is here, and … what? … Here, at my house … he’s here and the police are here, too, and the press are everywhere and—is Mac Smith still with you? Put him on.”
She told Smith what was occurring, thanked him, and ended the call. “He’ll be here shortly,” she told the detectives.
“Look, Ms. Emerson, we don’t have time to—”
Klayman’s cell rang.
“What’s going on there, Rick?” Hathaway asked.
Klayman explained.
“Go in and get him,” Hathaway said. “The hell with the lawyer. Read him his rights and bring him in.”
“Okay,” Klayman said, not happy with the order. He saw no reason to not wait until Smith arrived, which would undoubtedly be in minutes. He said to Clarise, “Ms. Emerson, why don’t you go inside and talk with Jeremiah? It would make things a lot easier if he just came out nice and peaceful.”
“What do you intend to do, shoot him down like some rabid dog?” she growled.
Klayman or Johnson didn’t respond. Clarise removed a set of keys from her purse, inserted one in the door, and pushed it open.
“Jeremiah?” she yelled. “It’s Mother. Jeremiah, please, you must talk to me.” She vanished into the foyer’s darkness; a light came on in a room to the right.
“We go in?” Johnson asked, sotto voce.
Klayman indicated patience with a raised hand.
Mac Smith arrived with a uniformed officer, who said, “He says he’s the lawyer for the perp.”
Smith’s facial reaction was worth a thousand words.
“Sorry, Professor,” Klayman said. “If he’d only—”
“I know, I know,” said Smith. “Ms. Emerson is inside?”
“Yes.”
Smith walked past them and entered the house. They heard him call Clarise’s name, and she responded. Klayman and Johnson stepped into the foyer. The voices from the room on the right were distinct.
“You’ve caused a lot of trouble, Jeremiah,” Smith said.
“I’ve been telling him that,” Clarise said, her voice shrill.
“You told them,” Jeremiah said.
“No, I did not tell them, darling,” she said. “I don’t know how they knew. Reporters are everywhere. This will be front-page news tomorrow, on every TV station.”
“Look, Jeremiah,” Smith said, “there’s nothing to be gained sitting here.