Free Capitol Murder by William Bernhardt

pro he was, Ben knew he was wrong. This wasn’t
going away anytime soon. If it went away at all.

PART  TWO
The Judicial Evidence Is All-Embracing

6

WASHINGTON DC,
FIVE MONTHS LATER
    Ben thought he was beyond the point where anything that took place in, at, or near a courtroom
could surprise him. After the trial in Chicago—an emotionally and politically charged hate crime,
covered blow-by-blow by the media nationwide—what could possibly be more difficult? He thought
he’d seen it all.
    He was wrong.
    The federal courthouse was swarming with reporters. That was hardly startling. The so-called
Glancy’s Glen had established itself in the courthouse parking lot almost immediately after the
senator was arrested. Scores of reporters representing all the media were there, making daily,
sometimes hourly updates with the majestic stone pillars of the courthouse as a backdrop.
According to the experts, the media stronghold outsized the famed O. J. outpost. Every pretrial
proceeding, no matter how minor, had been covered in detail: every docket hearing, every pretrial
motion, every judicial conference, no matter how trivial. The reporters would deliver their
reports in somber tones, usually concluding with a small pivot toward the courthouse and a
reference to how “no one would know for sure” what happened to Veronica Cooper until the parties
gathered in this building “for a final reckoning.”
    What did surprise Ben as he and Christina stepped out of their taxicab was how expertly the
area surrounding the courthouse appeared to be organized this morning. Ropes cordoned off the
central flight of steps leading to the front doors. There were protesters present, firebrands
from the left and the right as there had always been, but somehow they had been pushed far to the
rear, far enough that not even the loudest of them would be heard once the minicams started
rolling. Ben recognized many of the people standing closest to the ropes—including several of the
senator’s staff members and friends, such as Amanda Burton and Shandy Craig. A podium had been
placed at the top of the stairs with several microphones already in place.
    As Ben gazed at the assembly, Marshall Bressler rolled up beside him.
    “Got to hand it to the DC authorities,” Ben said with genuine admiration. “They’ve got things
much more under control than their counterparts in Chicago did.”
    “Forget the authorities,” Bressler replied. “Congratulate Senator Glancy’s advance team.”
    Christina raised an eyebrow. “What’s an advance team?”
    “I can tell you haven’t had much experience with politics. These days, advance men—many of
whom are women, by the way—are the lifeline of any politician. At least any politician who wants
to be one for very long. Ever since Kennedy/Nixon in 1960, the need for specialists to
orchestrate and control how candidates are presented by the media has been readily apparent.”
    “I haven’t seen any advance men in the office.”
    “We’re not talking about paper pushers. We’re talking about highly skilled media consultants
who command top dollar—because they’re worth it. They pander to the press, marshal the allies,
outwit the enemies, cozy up to the Secret Service, prepare itineraries, arrange photo ops, plan
motorcades, hang bunting and banners and, most important, anticipate every contingency. Politics
is not immune to Murphy’s Law—anything that can go wrong, will. The advance men deal with all
unforeseen developments and overcome them.”
    “And they did—” Ben waved his hand toward the general assemblage. “—all this?”
    “Of course. Believe me, they’ve been working on it for days—obtaining permits, snuggling up to
the courthouse officials, confabbing with Amanda and the rest of the staff on how we wanted our
man presented. Remember, most people will be seeing Todd today for the first time in five months,
ever since he was incarcerated in the