No Way to Treat a First Lady (24 page)

The breakfast was arranged at a hotel in Tysons Corner in Virginia, a half hour from Washington. Boyce booked the room himself. Felicio was waiting for him when he walked in.

Boyce's next call was to Sandy Clintick. She was surprised to get it. She didn't bother to conceal her feelings. Boyce told her he wanted to meet with her. In private.

Fine, she said. Come to my office. Boyce politely declined the opportunity to be ambushed by photographers, slipping into a side door at the Justice Department. He counterproposed the Metropolitan Club. He arranged for a private dining room. Seven o'clock? See you then.

Sandy Clintick was shown in. Boyce extended his hand. She simply nodded and sat down. Her body language said, "So?"

"I might," he said, "be able to talk my client into agreeing to an involuntary manslaughter charge. But I would insist on two and a half years. Max. House arrest."

Sandy Clintick stared at Boyce. Finally a smile appeared, not the kind that bathes you in warmth.

"When I took this case," she said, "I tried to go into it as I would any other. Do the job, don't make it personal, walk away. I was actually looking forward to going to trial against you. I've observed you over the years with interest. Sometimes with admiration. Then I finally met you. And, do you know, I've almost forgotten that you have a client. To be honest—something you may have a hard time relating to—at this point I don't care about your client. But I do care about you. And I'm going to beat you."

She paused.

"You've given me insight, Mr. Baylor. And I'm grateful to you. You've restored my belief in evil. So the answer is—go to hell. I am going to convict your client. Just for the pleasure of making you lose."

"Fair enough." Boyce grinned. The rule never failed: Forgive your enemies. It makes them madder than hell.

" 'Fair enough'?" Deputy Attorney General Clintick laughed, amazed. "It doesn't bother you to be called evil?"

"I've been called worse."

She shook her head.

"If this conversation leaks," Boyce said, "I'll know where it came from."

"I have
so
many better things to do. Including," she said, rising, "being here."

"What's this? What the hell is this?"

Beth held
The Washington Post.
She read aloud: " 'Sources within the Justice Department say that MacMann attorney Boyce Baylor initiated contact to explore the possibility of a reduced charge, from first-degree murder to involuntary manslaughter. According to them, Baylor was rebuffed.' " Beth looked up. "Is this
true?"

"Do I look like the sort of lawyer who would go hat in hand to some hack prosecutor, to beg? Give me some credit."

"No no no. None of that. Answer the
question."

"This puts us in an excellent position. PR-wise. We'll crucify her for this. Deliberate leaking. Trial by media. It's scandalous. We might even succeed in getting her thrown off the case."

Beth took his hand and placed it over her belly. "Swear. On this."

"It was just a friendly little chat."

"Dammit, Boyce!"

"Oh," Boyce said dismissively, "I just wanted to give her a chance to vent before closing arguments. It's like milking a rattlesnake. Leaves 'em with a little less venom."

"You should have
asked
me."

"I asked you," Boyce said, "not to take the stand."

"So she wants blood?"

"The good news is it's mine she wants."

"So that's it? That's the ball game?"

Boyce sat beside her. "Look on the bright side. You have a brilliant attorney, the best in the country, and..." He sighed. "All right, it's not an ideal situation. But don't you give up. Things can change. You never know what's going to happen in a case like this."

" 'Case like this'? You've tried a 'case like this' before?"

"Oh, dozens."

"Boyce!"

"What?"

"It kicked!"

Boyce felt. "Sure it wasn't gas?"

"It wasn't
gas.
I felt it."

"Do they kick at this point? We should get a book."

"It kicked."

"Maybe it was objecting."

"Boyce, this baby is going to be born in a prison."

"It's going to be all right." He put his hand on her belly. "Swear."

Juror number fifteen emerged from his shower in his room at the Capitol Suites Hotel and moistly walked barefoot across the carpet toward the one object that had given him pleasure in the last five months, the television. The U.S. Marshals Service had installed some sort of block—one of the jurors had nicknamed it the J-chip—so that the televisions in their rooms could not receive normal programming, only documentaries, cartoons, sports, and movies. The Home Cooking Channel, Self-Discovery Channel, Celebrity History Channel, Police Chase Channel, and the Self-Abuse Channel.

He had had no news of the outside world in almost half a year. The country might be at war. The stock market might have crashed. Maybe they'd cured AIDS and landed on Mars. Maybe aliens had landed and taken over. Who knew? They didn't get newspapers or magazines, unless the marshals went through them first with scissors and cut out the references to the case.

He took off his damp towel and gave his delicates a good scratching. The only other nice thing about this incarceration, which had now lasted longer than a typical prison sentence for mass murder, was that you could stand buck naked in a room and give your balls a good fondling without the wife or kids walking in on you.

Nads firmly in hand, he picked up the remote control with his free hand and hit the power button. He looked over at the desk mirror. He'd gained fifteen pounds eating the crap they served. He was sourly contemplating the protuberance of his waistline when he heard an unfamiliar sound—a news report coming from the television. He turned and watched. There before him was one of those guys, the whatyacallem, commentators. He recognized him from the O. J. Simpson trial, the boyish-looking one with the glasses.

"Peter," the man was saying, "Boyce Baylor has
denied
the report that he sought a plea bargain with Deputy Attorney General Sandra Clintick. But this story
refuses
to die. Independent sources have confirmed, to me directly, that Baylor and Clintick
were
seen entering the Metropolitan Club several days ago, just
moments
apart...."

Juror number fifteen thought,
Hell is
this?

Juror number seven's thoughts were similar. She had been crocheting while watching the Biography Channel but had decided fifteen minutes into it that she was just not that interested in Marie Osmond. How did these people qualify for "biographies," anyway? What was the world coming to?

She had been flicking through the channels in search of the Home Cooking Network when all of a sudden she came on the public television channel. How had that come on? It was the
news
show, the one with that nice man from Oklahoma, Mr. MacLehrer. And heavens, here he was discussing the trial, with a young historian with a hairpiece. What on earth? How was it they were getting television news all of a sudden? She watched, fascinated. So that Boyce Baylor had tried to arrange a plea bargain, eh? Well, he certainly should, the way it was going, and if I were you, Mr. Big Shot Defense Attorney, I wouldn't drive too hard a bargain. Why he ever put that woman on the stand, she'd never understand.

Juror number nine listened to the news about the trial for half a minute before changing back to the Sports Channel. The Lakers were playing the Knicks.

Boyce was in his hotel television studio doing an interview with the
Today
show, denouncing Deputy Attorney General Sandra Clintick for "shamelessly" leaking "false and injurious" information to the media when they moved in. They arrested him in midinterview on live television. It made for what is otherwise the most misused phrase in the English language: "must-see TV"

As he was handcuffed by the FBI agents and read his rights, with some five million viewers watching, the show's producers could only offer a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the television god for this amazing benison, the first live arrest of a lawyer on network TV.

The director of the FBI denied that the timing was intended to humiliate Boyce Baylor. The agents were simply following procedure. Of course no one believed this, much less the director of the FBI, but the media was so grateful to him for providing them with such a spectacular moment that they didn't press.

Boyce knew what was happening before the viewers did, since he knew the meaning of, "You're under arrest for violation of 18 U.S. Code 371." It took the producers a few minutes to clarify that the legalese stood for "conspiracy to tamper with a federal jury." Within a few more minutes, they rousted their legal correspondent out of bed—he apologized profusely for not having been watching—to inform them that the standard penalty for conviction of such a crime was five years in a federal prison, plus certain and permanent disbarment.

Boyce noticed as they rode down in the Jefferson's elevators that the FBI agents—there were four of them instead of the usual two, presumably in case he decided to shoot it out—were grinning. How sweet this moment must be for them.

"You're having a good day, aren't you?" he said, his tone not unfriendly.

"And it's not even coffee break yet," one replied, beaming back at him.

In the car on the way to FBI headquarters, Boyce considered clinically,
So this is what it feels like, riding in the back, handcuffed.
What empathy he would now have with his clients. Assuming he ever had any more clients.

How had they known? Had they tapped his fishy phone? Felicio's plane? God knows whose plane it was. Felicio had some colorful friends. Maybe customs had noted the tail number and tracked it. Were Felicio and Ramon in custody?

More to the point—had the plan worked? Had the jurors been polluted? If so, Judge Dutch would have no choice but to order a mistrial. And in a new trial, Beth would not repeat the mistake of taking the stand. All she would have to do was follow the script of the first trial up to that disastrous point, and then she, and Tummybug, would be all right. Now they could visit him in jail.
Look! That's Daddy behind the glass! He can't hear us! Wave!

They were pulling up in front of the FBI Building. There must have been two hundred of them, yelping, baying.

"I see you called ahead."

"Since you like going in front doors so much."

They were putting him through the full perp walk so that the moment could be recorded for all posterity, in all its ingloriousness.

He heard the first question shouted at him. "Boyce—who're ya gonna call?"

It was an interesting question. Whom does Boyce Baylor call when
he
needs a lawyer?

He ran a few names through his mind. Whoever he called automatically became the top law dog of the land.

No. Boyce was not yet ready to pass the baton of greatness. He was
still
the greatest. Though admittedly, if you were being hustled off in handcuffs, your number one status might be open to question.

When he went through the door, every agent in headquarters was there in the lobby to watch. They were all smiling. Then they all burst into applause.

"Thank you!" Boyce shouted. "Great to be here."

After the mug shot and fingerprinting, he posed for pictures with the arresting agents. Might as well be a good sport about it.

It was a mere special agent in charge who did the interrogation. Boyce was disappointed. He'd been expecting at least a deputy director. Clearly, they were determined to pretend it was "just another case."

He smiled at the SAIC and his deputy. "Oh, fellas, fellas. You don't really think I'm going to talk to you, do you?"

Judge Dutch was not a happy camper. He interviewed the jurors separately, in his chambers. In addition to being unhappy about his jury being tampered with, he was troubled by something else: the FBI's handling of it. Something was not right. Only moments after juror number seven had reported to the U.S. marshals that her television reception had undergone a miraculous improvement in reception, the FBI had swooped into the hotel in force—thirty agents, rushing into the jurors' rooms, yanking out the cords of TV sets, taking statements, isolating jurors.

In other words—they
knew.
Then why, for God's sake, hadn't they moved in sooner, to prevent it? Judge Dutch would have words with the director.

Meanwhile, he would now interview juror number fifteen. So far, only four jurors had admitted to having seen coverage on their television sets. Number nine was ambiguous. He "thought" he might have seen "something." The judge could not penetrate beyond this, other than to get a play-by-play recap of the Knicks-Lakers game. Jury of peers. God save us.

Judge Dutch had initially impaneled a jury of eighteen, giving him twelve plus six alternates. He would have to dismiss these four, leaving him with two alternates. At this point, he could only pray that of the remaining jurors to interview, no more than two had seen anything. Otherwise it would be the Mistrial of the Millennium. The prospect made Judge Dutch consider, in this order, shooting himself, giving up the law, drinking an entire bottle of gin. Option three might lead, pleasantly enough, to accomplishing options one and two.

He nodded gravely at his clerk to bring in juror fifteen.

Boyce asked simply, "What's your evidence?"

Wide grins. One of the agents walked over to a VHS and pressed play. A TV monitor anchored to the ceiling produced an image: Boyce, Felicio, and Felicio's technical man in the Tysons Corner hotel room. The quality of FBI surveillance tape had much improved since the grainy days of the DeLorean and Mayor Marion Barry busts. These days it was all so digital. Boyce listened to himself saying, "There will be a very big story on the TV news tomorrow night. That's what I want them to see. Can it be done by then?"