Guilty Minds

When I was finally released from the hospital, I couldn’t wait to get back to Boston. But it wasn’t to be. The US attorney’s office needed me to attend Thomas Vogel’s pretrial detention hearing. They weren’t charging him with murder but with conspiracy to commit. Richard Rasmussen, the guy who actually killed Kayla and staged the suicide, had been charged with murder one.

They wanted to make sure Vogel remained in the DC jail through his trial. Which could be a year off or more.

So the government had to show that he might flee, or pose a danger to anyone in the community, or attempt to obstruct justice, or threaten a witness. The US attorney wanted me there, in case the defense put witnesses on. They’d parked me in a conference room next to the courtroom, where I paced like some caged tiger.

Vogel had hired the best criminal defense attorney in DC, a former federal prosecutor who was said to be a maestro of the courtroom. I was curious to hear some of the proceedings, but the courtroom was a media circus, packed with reporters and spectators, and I wanted to keep my head down and out of the way of the cameras. So I sat in the conference room next door and paced.

Suddenly it was over. I heard the explosion of babble and the clatter and the cacophony. I stood in the conference room doorway, trying to avoid the crush. Finally I caught a glimpse of the AUSA who was running the case. She didn’t look happy.

Vogel was a free man. He was out on bail of half a million dollars, which was chump change for a man of Vogel’s means and contacts.

On the way out of the DC Superior Court building, I saw Vogel, fifty feet away or so, as he was descending the front steps.

His eyes met mine. He gave me a firm, knowing nod-friendly, almost-and then, deliberately, purposefully, he leveled a pistol salute, making a finger gun with his thumb up, his forefinger pointing directly at me.

And he smiled.

– 

I met Mandy for an early supper at Lobby, the dive bar with the license plates on the wall, the beer-sticky floor, the aroma of french fries. I had my go-bag with me, an aluminum Rimowa carry-on, which I stashed on the floor in our booth, at my feet. The speakers were blasting a David Bowie song. “Young Americans,” I realized.

She looked pretty terrific when she showed up. She had her hair up and was wearing pearl earrings, and her skin glowed. She had dark red lipstick on, which somehow complemented her coppery hair.

She ordered a Diet Coke and I had a Natty Boh, and for a while we watched the TV mounted to the wall, tuned to CNN. Jeremiah Claflin was being interviewed. I watched the fluid hand gestures, his sad eyes, the sententiously arched eyebrows, the drape of his hand-tailored suit. His perfectly knotted blue silk tie. The downward curve of his mouth as he spoke. His very white teeth. “He was the best of us,” Claflin was saying.

He was canny, Claflin was. I admired his fluency, his almost-cloaked ambition, all those smooth traits that had pushed him to the high court. Because he knew the truth about Gideon Parnell, yet he was participating in the lie. Claflin, Senator Brennan had said, was known for clarifying the concept of mens rea. Which struck me as ironic, since in Washington, pretty much everyone had a guilty mind.

We’d met for a drink in his office the evening before. He wanted to thank me in person. I wanted to ask him about Gideon, about what kind of long-festering resentment might have led him to drag his protégé’s name through the mud. But he feigned innocence. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I wondered: How did he really feel about Gideon, after all that had happened? Curdled ambivalence, surely. But that didn’t play well on TV. The lie was more convenient.

Now, on CNN, he was talking about Gideon and what a great man he was.

“He was, you know,” Mandy said, turning to me with an even gaze.

“Was what?”

“A great man.”

I nodded. The stories in The Washington Post and The New York Times and the Associated Press all mentioned the fact that he was known to be suffering from depression. Someone in his office had put that out, as if it lent his suicide a kind of logic. It wasn’t true, as far as I knew.

The obituaries were all front-page, of course, and they all talked about how he’d marched with Martin Luther King and how he’d golfed with presidents. To me, the man was a heroic figure with a profound flaw, a streak of vanity that had propelled him to greatness and yet also propelled him to his destruction.

The waitress took our orders. We both asked for burgers. I got the fries, and she got the Greek side salad.

“Are you in pain, still?” she asked. She indicated the bandage on my neck where I’d gotten slashed struggling with the Centurion guy in the basement of Vogel’s house.

“That’s nothing,” I said. “It’s the bruised ribs.”

“I always thought bulletproof vests protected you.”

“It stopped the bullet. It can’t stop the impact.”

She put her hand on mine, warm and tender.