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  Of course, Pope had not summoned the DA himself. The call had come from Derrick Barclay, Pope’s personal assistant, a pompous little man whose presence set Burdett’s teeth on edge. Barclay had not told the district attorney why his employer wanted the audience and had not bothered to inquire whether the suggested time was convenient. He had assumed-quite correctly-that Burdett would cancel any conflicting appointments.

  Even though Barclay had not stated the reason for the meeting, Burdett knew why Pope wanted to talk to him. The district attorney was charged with convicting Arnold Pope Jr.’s killer, and the old man was going to demand to be involved in the prosecution. Senior would never be put off by the quaint idea that the manipulation of the justice system by a private citizen was highly improper.

  Senior had constructed his manor house of slate-gray Tenino sandstone on a high bluff overlooking the Columbia River. With its roof of red tile and parklike grounds, the mansion looked friendly and noble and had none of the personality of its owner. The grounds were surrounded by an ivy-covered brick wall that kept out the riffraff. Burdett used the call box at the gate and was admitted to the grounds. Derrick Barclay was waiting at the carved-oak front door. He was five feet eight, narrow, and had a pale complexion. Barclay’s lips were forever pursed, as if to let the world know that he found everything he encountered distasteful.

  “Mr. Pope will see you in the study,” he said in a clipped, British accent. Burdett was tempted to answer, “Jolly good,” until he remembered that Barclay had the ear of his biggest campaign contributor.

  Arnold Pope Sr. was pacing back and forth on a Persian rug when Barclay showed the DA into a high-ceilinged, book-lined room. A stone fireplace occupied one wall and a leaded-glass window looked out on a garden. Pope was a bear of a man, who had invested the money he made in timber in several fledgling high-tech companies that were now industry leaders. When the timber industry took a nose dive, Senior didn’t blink.

  “Do you have him?” Pope asked without preamble.

  “No, sir, but every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for Marsh. He won’t stay lost long.”

  “What about that woman? Is she in custody?”

  Burdett’s brow furrowed. “What woman?”

  Pope stopped pacing. “That gold-digging bitch he married, the person who’s responsible for my son’s murder.”

  “Sally Pope?” Burdett asked, puzzled by the suggestion that Junior’s wife had anything to do with the murder. “A number of very credible witnesses saw her when the congressman was shot. No one saw her with a gun.”

  Pope glared at the district attorney. “Please don’t play stupid, Karl. You do know about ‘aiding and abetting’ and ‘conspiracy,’ or didn’t you pay attention in your criminal-law class?”

  Burdett flushed. “I know you’re upset but you don’t have to insult me.”

  “I’ll do more than insult you if the people who killed my boy escape justice.”

  “I can’t just arrest Sally, Mr. Pope. There’s no evidence indicating that she’s guilty of murder.”

  “Then you haven’t heard about the note?”

  “What note?”

  “The one found in my son’s Washington, DC, office.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You do know about the photographs?”

  “Of course. We collected all of them from the crime scene.”

  “They were sent to Arnold along with a note. His aide delivered the envelope. My son left the note on his desk when he rushed to the airport. The FBI has it.”

  Burdett didn’t bother to ask how Senior knew about an ongoing FBI investigation about which he-the head law-enforcement official in the county and the person in charge of the murder investigation-knew nothing. Senior didn’t just contribute to local political races. His tentacles reached to the top tiers of the Washington hierarchy.

  Pope pressed a button on his desk and Barclay hustled in, carrying a fax. Pope nodded toward the district attorney and Barclay handed the document to Burdett. It was a photocopy of a note constructed from letters cut out of magazines and pasted onto a piece of paper. The note read: THEY’LL BE TOGETHER AT THE WESTMONT TOMORROW NIGHT AT THE GURU’S SEMINAR.

  “I don’t see how this note implicates Sally Pope,” Burdett said after studying the fax. “The pictures show her having an illicit relationship with Marsh. Why would she send it?”

  Pope smiled, but there was no humor in his smile. “You don’t know my daughter-in-law very well, Karl. She is a devious, scheming whore. She knew you would see it this way. Who could suspect her of tipping off her husband about her affair?”

  The smile disappeared. “Think, Karl. She used the note and the pictures to enrage Arnold, knowing he would rush back to Oregon to confront her. They set him up to be killed. And she set up Marsh to take the fall for her.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, but I can’t arrest Sally without proof.”

  Pope’s smile reappeared. “Oh, there’s proof that she was a conspirator in the plot to kill my boy. There’s more than enough proof. The FBI found fingerprints on the note. Guess who they belong to?”

  CHAPTER 17

  In his youth, Frank Jaffe had been a brawler and carouser; a man’s man with a ruddy complexion and the thick muscles of a stevedore. He believed wholeheartedly that a woman’s place was in the home, where she did womanly things like cooking and raising the children. Men, on the other hand, worked long hours to support their families and played with their children when time permitted. Then his world turned upside down.

  Samantha was twenty when she died giving birth to Amanda. How did a man raise a baby-and a girl baby at that-when he didn’t even know how to change a diaper? That was just one of a thousand questions Frank had asked himself during the grief-filled days that followed his wife’s death and his sudden plunge into fatherhood. Frank had to answer these questions quickly. When a baby is screaming there’s not much time for in-depth research.

  Frank was a great father, even during the insane years when he was attending law school at night, working all day, and thanking God that his parents were overjoyed to babysit Amanda. When he started Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi with some classmates from law school, he had nothing in his life except work and his daughter. Frank never remarried, because he’d never had the time for a serious relationship and he’d rarely found anyone who could measure up to Samantha. On the one occasion he’d come close, his devotion to his work and his child had created a rift that could not be mended.

  Frank had written off romance by the time he entered the fourth decade of his life. Then his secretary ushered Sally Pope into his office and Frank felt like a virginal teenager who has just been introduced to the head cheerleader.

  “I assume you know who I am,” Sally said as soon as they were alone.

  Frank smiled. “Anyone who watches television or reads a newspaper knows who you are, Mrs. Pope. You are notorious.”

  Sally laughed and Frank heard church bells chime. Her eyes laughed, too. Her caramel-colored hair shimmered.

  “I guess I am notorious,” Sally said. “The papers talk about me as if I’m one of those femme fatales from the old black-and-white films.”

  “Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon or Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity,” Frank agreed.

  Sally looked directly into Frank’s eyes. “There is one difference between me and those ladies of the cinema, Mr. Jaffe. I am not a murderer.”

  “Does someone think you are?”

  “My father-in-law, Arnold Pope Sr., is doing everything in his power to see that I’m charged with murdering my husband. And-before we go any further-I need to know if that’s a problem.”

  Frank was confused. “If what’s a problem?”

  “If you take my case, you’ll have to go up against Senior. He’s a formidable opponent. I know that from experience. He also owns a lot of people. I need to know if he owns you or if you’re afraid of him.”

  “I barely know Mr.
Pope.” Frank smiled. “We don’t exactly run in the same circles. And, from what I’ve heard, I doubt I’d like him very much if I did get to know him.”

  “Then you’ll take my case?”

  “Is there a case? Have you been charged?”

  “Not yet. But I have friends who have friends and I’ve been warned that Karl Burdett has convened a grand jury with me as its target.”

  “Have the police or a prosecutor tried to speak to you?” Frank asked.

  “I was interviewed at the club when Arnie was shot. It never entered my head that I’d need a lawyer, then. A detective came to my house yesterday but I’d been alerted to the investigation so I refused to talk to him. That’s when I asked around and got your name.”

  “Before we go any further, we need to discuss the business side of my representation. Are you aware of the expense involved in defending a murder case?”

  “I don’t care about the expense.”

  “I’ll need a $100,000 retainer for my fees, investigation, and expert witnesses,” Frank said. “The case could get even more expensive.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I’ll bring in a cashier’s check tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Now that you’re officially my client, it’s time for me to give you my lawyer speech. I give it to every client and you shouldn’t take anything I say personally. But you should take what I say to heart because misunderstanding our relationship as attorney and client can land you in a lot of trouble.

  “Now, anything you tell me is confidential with only a few exceptions which we can talk about later. So, if you tell me you did kill your husband…”

  “Which I did not.”

  Frank nodded. “But if you did and you confessed to me, I would never tell anyone what you told me. On the other hand, I’m an officer of the court, so I can’t let you commit perjury. If you tell me you did kill Congressman Pope I can’t let you get on the stand and swear you were in Idaho at the time of the shooting. I wouldn’t tell on you, but-if you refused to recant-I’d be forced to drop your case and I will keep your retainer.”

  “Mr. Jaffe, let’s get this out of the way once and for all. I did not kill my husband or have anything to do with his death. Anyone who says I did is lying. If any evidence implicates me, you can be certain it’s been fabricated. I am completely, one hundred percent innocent.”

  “Then why is Karl Burdett convening a grand jury?”

  “I honestly don’t know. All the newspapers say that Charlie Marsh shot Arnie.”

  “Maybe Burdett is working on a conspiracy or aiding-and-abetting theory. If Charlie Marsh fired the shot that killed your husband but you assisted him in his plan, the law considers you to be as guilty as the person who fired the shot.”

  “Charlie and I never discussed murdering my husband.”

  “Then you know Marsh?”

  Sally paused. “I’m not a good person, Mr. Jaffe. I’ve cheated on my husband many times. I was cheating on him with Charlie Marsh. But I loved Arnie. I know that sounds contradictory but our relationship was complicated, and Senior is responsible for that.”

  “Why don’t you explain what was going on.”

  “I’m what people of breeding call trailer trash.” Sally laughed bitterly. “The description is pretty accurate. A good part of my early years was spent in trailer parks. My father was someone passing through town, so I have no idea who he is. My mother was a drunk, but in a dark tavern, after a guy had downed a few, she was an attractive enough drunk to catch a few men before they realized how bad a bargain they’d made. Then she’d be out in the cold again, looking for shelter and the next bottle.

  “I grew up fast. I know now that I’ve got a pretty good mind, but while I was growing up the boys were never interested in that part of my anatomy.” Sally laughed again, self-consciously. “My mother was my role model. I was the high school slut and a high school dropout, and I used sex to get what I wanted. The one thing I did right was waiting to get knocked up until I met someone with money. And that’s where Arnie comes in.

  “Senior convinced him to enlist after college because being a Marine would look good when Arnie ran for office-something Senior started working for on the day Arnie was born. But Senior screwed up. When Arnie went into the Marines it was the first time in his life that he was out from under his father’s thumb.

  “Arnie was at Camp Pendleton completing his Marine Infantry Training. I was working in a restaurant near the base. He came in a few times on leave and we started dating. Freud might say that our courtship was Arnie’s way of rebelling against his father. I was a waitress with no education to speak of, someone he knew his father would loathe.”

  Sally looked very sad. “I told you I’m not a good person. Our marriage is proof of that. As soon as I found out who Arnie was and how much money he had I tricked him into getting me pregnant. It wasn’t hard. He said he loved me. I think he did. When I told him I was pregnant he seemed happy. He’s the one who said we should get married. I don’t think he thought about the consequences.”

  “Did you tell his father?”

  Sally shook her head. “We went to Las Vegas over a weekend. Senior didn’t know until it was too late.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Not well. He tried to get the marriage annulled but Arnie stood up to him. It was probably the only time in his life that he showed any backbone. That’s when I fell in love with him.” She shook her head. “I have to admit, it took me by surprise. I went into the marriage for the money, but Arnie was this big, sweet kid, and I really started looking forward to having a baby.”

  “Did Arnold Sr. mellow when the baby was born?”

  “Not one degree. Senior is relentless when he wants to get his way. When Arnie wouldn’t file for divorce, he poisoned him against me by spreading rumors that I was sleeping around; rumors that had no basis until Senior got to me.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “By beating down Arnie until I came to despise both of them. Senior couldn’t control me. I was too tough for him. So he wrecked our marriage by constantly making Arnie choose between us. Arnie was so whipped he sided with his father rather than face him like a man. That’s when I started sleeping around. I just wanted to wake him up and that was the only way I could think to do it. I never enjoyed the affairs. They were just a way of fighting back. I wanted him to stand up to someone, even if it was me, but he didn’t have the guts.”

  A tear rolled down Sally’s cheek. “Until the night he died, that is. That was the first time in a long time that he acted like a man.”

  Frank’s client looked down at her lap, where her clenched fists lay.

  “I know I hurt him-and there were times when I despised him-but I really loved him.”

  Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her suffering brought back the pain Frank had felt when Samantha died.

  “Do you want some water?” he asked.

  Sally shook her head but she still couldn’t speak. Frank waited patiently. When she was calmer he asked a question he hoped would take her mind off her husband.

  “Does anyone know where Marsh is?”

  “There are rumors that he’s somewhere in Africa-a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.-but the rumors haven’t been confirmed as far as I know.”

  Frank made some notes. “I think this is enough for today,” he said when he was through. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t discuss your case with anyone but me or my investigator-and I mean anyone. No one but me, or someone who works for me, can use the attorney-client privilege to prevent being compelled to testify against you. If a reporter, detective, anyone, approaches you about the case, just tell them your attorney has directed you to refrain from commenting. That’s it. Just cut them off.

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to let Karl Burdett know that I’m your lawyer and you’re off-limits. I’m also going to try to find out what the evidence is that has him believing he can convince a jury beyond a r
easonable doubt that you’re guilty of murder.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A week after Sally Pope hired Frank, she was charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Two days after Sally’s arraignment and release on bail, Frank was cross-referencing phone calls made by a heroin dealer in a federal narcotics case when Herb Cross stuck his head in the door. A few years back, Cross, a slender, bookish African-American, had been mistakenly identified as a robber by a white convenience-store clerk. He told Frank he had an alibi but Frank’s investigator was new and inept and had failed to locate any of the people Cross swore could clear him. Frustrated by the investigator’s incompetence, Cross went off on his own and located the men. After the DA dismissed the case, Frank refunded Cross’s retainer, fired his investigator, and offered Cross the job.

  “I’ve been through the discovery in Pope,” Cross said. “You busy or do you want to go through it now?”

  Frank rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He pointed at the paperwork that covered his desk.

  “This has to be the most boring case I’ve ever worked on. I can use the break.”

  “Pope isn’t boring,” the investigator assured him. “I’ve got everything spread out in the conference room.”

  Frank brought his coffee across the hall to a long table covered with photographs, police reports, and files.

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest condensed version,” Frank said as he took a sip from his mug. “I’ll go through everything myself, later.”

  “Okay, well, Burdett has Charlie Marsh pegged as the shooter.”

  “Because?”

  “They found a fancy, ivory-handled.357 Magnum at the scene. It’s a custom job, very distinctive, and it belongs to Marsh. A waiter at Marsh’s hotel saw him playing with it earlier in the evening and his agent, Mickey Keys, saw the gun in the limo that took Marsh and his entourage to the Westmont.”