Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [94]
She reached across the short space between their chairs and placed a hand on his arm. “So, Counselor, what’s next?”
“Let’s see,” he said. “I’d better speak tomorrow with Dean Mackin. I can always get someone to take my regular classes, but I’ll have to keep the Lincoln sessions. Hopefully, I won’t have to miss any classes, but I need to pave the way in case I do.”
He went on to relate to Annabel the conversation he’d previously had with Mackin, and how the law school dean had questioned the pragmatic wisdom of becoming involved in the Lerner case.
“You can’t blame him, I suppose,” Annabel offered.
“And I’m not.”
“I’m going to lunch Monday with Clarise and others involved in her NEA bid. The vice president is hosting it at the Lafayette.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Don’t count on what?”
“On the VP being there, considering what’s happened, or on Clarise showing up, for that matter. The VP might not consider it politically expedient.”
“What about Clarise? You don’t think she’ll withdraw from the NEA nomination, do you?”
“Annie,” he said, getting up and leaning on the railing, the black waters of the Potomac flowing silently below, “there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that surprises me in this town these days. Ready for bed?”
“I’m always ready for bed with you, Mackensie Smith.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SUNDAY, AS EVERYONE KNOWS, is a day of rest, except for those in jobs demanding their presence. Across the country, men and women enjoy Sunday as a day to reflect and relax, to sleep late, go to the beach, barbecue, nap in a hammock, or catch up on reading the book that seemed impossible to get to during the workweek. For some reason, this is especially apparent and visible in Washington, D.C. Maybe it’s the sprawling Mall, where the briefly leisurely congregate, tossing Frisbees to willing dogs, displaying the latest jogging outfits guaranteed to lessen the pain, and lovers leaning against each other on benches and thinking their individual thoughts about whether this relationship is worth pursuing.
But that reflects Washington’s common folk. For the city’s uncommon residents—and they probably represent the majority—Sunday might appear to be a day of rest, but even their most recreational of activities have a purpose. Someone is invited to the barbecue because that person might prove helpful. The phones continue to be worked. Seemingly social brunches offer both eggs Benedict as well as the scrambled eggs of negotiation. Slaps on the back confirm deals made by people in shorts and wearing straw hats. The dark suits and fashionable pantsuits will be de rigueur on Monday. For Sunday, while the uniforms might change, it’s business as usual in the nation’s capital, albeit with pale legs showing and midsection bulges revealed.
For Mac and Annabel Smith, this Sunday revolved around brunch at Yale Becker’s house in Bethesda. They’d had to politely brush off a couple of reporters camped in the Watergate’s lobby, one of whose aggressiveness raised Mac’s temperature a few degrees. But after a dip in the Beckers’ pool, it dropped back to 98.6. Following a low-calorie lunch, Smith and Becker sat in a corner of the patio to discuss their next moves. Becker had been on the phone that morning with U.S. Attorney LeCour.
“I told LeCour that if they intended to formally charge Jeremiah with murder, we wanted the assault and resisting arrest charges dropped,” Becker told Smith. “He refused, which leads me to believe they have questions about supporting the murder charge. They’ll keep the other options open in the event the murder charge collapses.”
“Did LeCour tell you who’s claiming that Jeremiah dated Nadia?” Smith asked.
“No, but we know one of them is a student at American University, a Joe Cole. LeCour knows he legally doesn’t have to disclose anything to us until the probable cause hearing. He cited all the usual cases, Brady, Weatherford—he sounded like he was giving me a lecture.”