Sampson took another victory puff. “You want to pay me now? Fifty be an acceptable amount for you to lose?”
“Fifty’s fine with me. You got a bet.”
“Get it on. I love to take what little money you have.”
Out front on 3rd Street, a crowd of a couple of thousand surrounded the main courthouse entrance. Another two hundred people, including seven rows of reporters, were already inside. The prosecutor had tried to bar the press, but it had been denied.
Somebody had printed up signs and they were everywhere: Maggie Rose Is Alive!
People were handing out roses at the trial site. Up and down Indiana Avenue, volunteers circulated with the free roses. Others sold commemorative pennants. Most popular of all were the small candles that people burned in the windows of their homes as remembrances of Maggie Rose.
A handful of reporters were waiting at the back entrance, which is reserved for deliveries, as well as for a few shy judges and lawyers. Most veteran cops who come to the courthouse, and don’t appreciate the crowds, also choose the back gate.
Microphones were immediately pushed at me and Sampson. TV camera lenses gawked. Neither instrument fazed us anymore.
“Detective Cross, is it true that you were cut out of the case by the FBI?”
“No. I have an okay relationship with the FBI.”
“Are you still seeing Gary Murphy at Lorton, Detective?”
“That makes it sound as if we’re dating. It’s not that serious yet. I’m part of a team of doctors who see him.”
“Are there racial overtones to this case, as it relates to you?”
“There are racial overtones to a lot of things, I guess. There’s nothing special here.”
“The other detective? Detective Sampson. You agree, sir?” a young dude in a bow tie asked.
“Well, sir yourself, we’re going in the back door, aren’t we? We’re the back-door men.” Sampson grinned for the camera. He didn’t take off his shades.
We finally made it to a service elevator, and tried to keep the reporters out of the same car, which wasn’t easy.
“We have a confirmed rumor that Anthony Nathan is going for a temporary-
insanity plea. Any comment on that?”
“None at all. Ask Anthony Nathan.”
“Detective Cross, will you take the stand to say Gary Murphy isn’t insane?”
The ancient doors finally shut. The elevator started to rumble up toward the seventh floor, “Seventh Heaven,” as it’s known in the trade.
The seventh had never been quieter, or more under control. The usual train-station scene of policemen, young thugs and their families, hardened crooks, lawyers and judges, had been stemmed by an order restricting the floor to the single case. This was the big one. “Trial of the Century.” Wasn’t that the way Gary Soneji wanted it?
In the absence of chaos, the Fed Building was like an elderly person rising from bed in the morning. All the wrinkles and bruises were visible in the early-morning light that streamed from cathedral windows on the east side of the floor.
We arrived just in time to see the prosecutor enter the courtroom. Mary Warner was a diminutive thirty-six-year-old U.S. attorney from the Sixth Circuit. She was supposed to be the courtroom equal of defense lawyer Anthony Nathan. Like Nathan, she had never tasted defeat, at least not in any significant case. Mary Warner had a glowing reputation for tireless preparation, and faultless, highly persuasive courtroom demeanor. A losing opponent had said, “It’s like playing tennis with somebody who always hits it back. Your best spin shot—back it comes. Your gamer—it comes back. Sooner or later, she beats you into the ground.”
Supposedly, Ms. Warner had been handpicked by Jerrold Goldberg, and Goldberg could have had any prosecutor he chose. He had chosen her over James Dowd and other early favorites for the job.
Carl Monroe was there, too. Mayor Monroe couldn’t stay away from the crowds. He saw me, but didn’t come over, just flashed his patented smile across the broad concourse.
If I hadn’t known exactly where I stood with him, I did now. My appointment to divisional chief would be my last upgrade. They’d done that to prove I had been a good choice for the Hostage Rescue Team, to validate their decision, and to cover up any possible questions about my conduct in Miami.
Leading up to the trial day, the big news around Washington had been that Secretary of the Treasury Goldberg was working on the prosecution case himself. That, and Anthony Nathan being the defense attorney.
Nathan had been described in the Post as a “ninja warrior in court.” He had regularly been making front-page news since the day he’d been retained by Soneji/Murphy. Nathan was a subject that Gary wouldn’t talk to me about. On one occasion, he’d said, “I need a good lawyer, don’t I? Mr. Nathan convinced me. He’ll do the same for the jury. He’s extremely cunning, Alex.” Cunning?