He stared impassively. A pause. “WhistlePig.”
“Sorry?”
He spoke almost mechanically. “It wasn’t Old Overholt. That’s not my brand. The bottle in my office, that was a gift.”
“And a few years later, Claflin’s now the golden boy. He’s the one being put up for the top job. You’re not in the inner circle of consideration any longer. How’d that happen? Did Claflin whisper to one of the kingmakers that Gideon Parnell had a dark spot on his biographical X-ray?”
I waited. Gideon was silent for a long time. At last he said, his deep voice hushed, “I can’t be sure. I’ve always wondered.”
“And it ate at you, I’m sure. Which is why Claflin’s name had to be dragged through the shit before he was vindicated. In your campaign to bring down Slander Sheet. And you know, the thing is, Gideon — you’re probably too old to be named to the court. After all that.”
Gideon just looked wounded. I thought of what my father had said. It’s always your friends who do you in. Maybe that wasn’t about himself after all.
“Vogel had probably done investigations for the firm, right?”
Gideon nodded. But his mind was somewhere far away. “The evil that men do lives after them,” he said. “The good is oft interred with their bones.”
I’d heard that before. “If you mean killing your sister’s rapist, I think people will understand why you did what you did. You did a bad thing for a good reason.”
“Do you know who Wilbur Mills was?”
“Yeah, vaguely. A congressman. A stripper named Fanne Foxe, the Tidal Basin, a sex scandal.”
“And all anyone remembers about him is the sex scandal that ended his career. Then there’s Clark Clifford.”
Wearily, I said, “The BCCI scandal.”
“John Edwards.”
“The mistress, the kid. The wife with cancer.”
“John Tower.”
“Uh, Texas senator with a drinking problem.”
“Yes. The list is long. All of them men who accomplished things. But how they’re remembered? For some small-time scandal.” He slid open a desk drawer and looked at whatever it contained. “A lifetime spent doing good works — to end up a figure of disgrace?” He drew out from the drawer a handgun, a nickel-plated revolver with a short barrel.
“You’re not thinking straight,” I said.
But he put the gun to his temple.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Gideon!”
He closed his eyes. “How this story ends — how my story ends?” he said. “It’s in your hands. And mine.”
“Don’t!” I jumped out of my seat and tried to grab his gun, but it was too late.
I saw everything as if in slow motion.
I saw the revolver, like a toy in his giant hand. Saw his manicured fingernails. Saw his index finger squeeze the trigger.
I saw the hammer pull back into the cocked position. Saw the fractional rotation of the cylinder as it lined up a new bullet.
Heard the metallic click. Saw the hammer slam forward, the firing pin striking the primer at the back of the bullet casing.
I saw the muzzle flash, the tongue of flame, and then the cloud of smoke as the gun recoiled.
Heard the explosion, so immensely loud yet not nearly loud enough for what it signified.
And I felt something moist and hot mist my face.
Epilogue
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.