After class, J.D. Blackstone jumped into his Maserati Spyder convertible and motored over to his law office, a twenty-minute drive away in Georgetown. He walked quickly past the desk of Frieda, his secretary, who was on the phone. Frieda hurriedly put the person on hold, and then snatched up a slip of paper and shoved it at Blackstone.
“J.D.,” she said, “urgent message. New client. She is coming in momentarily.”
“Maybe you ought to have Julia take her,” he said. “I need to get back to the college within the hour. We’ve got our dreaded faculty meeting for the fall semester, cleverly held at the beginning of summer just to torment us…”
“Can’t do that. Julia’s in court. You’d better read the note.”
Blackstone glanced down at the phone message slip.
It read,
A woman named Vinnie Archmont called. Says she is “target” of grand jury. Smithsonian Institution criminal case. Wants to meet ASAP.
“It’s the investigation,” Frieda whispered, “into the murder of the Secretary of the Smithsonian, Langley…and the theft—”
“Of the John Wilkes Booth diary pages,” Blackstone interjected, finishing her sentence for her. “Yes, I do read the papers, Frieda.”
Then he added, “Vinnie…what kind of name is that for a woman?”
“Fine,” Blackstone said. “I’ll see her. When?”
“She should be here any minute.”
Blackstone disappeared into his office. He leafed through his mail. Mostly magazines. A few of the legal trade papers, the two Capitol Hill dailies, and the latest issues of Scientific American, Philosophy Monthly, several current events publications, Psychology Today, and the Southern Poetry Review.
His intercom buzzed. It was his new client on the way in, Frieda said.
The door opened.
A woman in her early thirties stepped in. She was uncommonly attractive, with deep, dark eyes and a kind of chiseled beauty that still managed to retain a softness to it. Almost a young, girlish look. She was dressed in an artist’s smock, blue jeans, and red cowboy boots.
But her hairstyle was an eyeful. Her hair was jet black and configured in a kind of Gone with the Wind motif, complete with cascading ringlets, like Scarlett O’Hara. Blackstone was smart enough not to comment on a woman’s hair—unless it was to give a glowing compliment. Which he was not about to do.
She was holding the law firm’s standard client information sheet, which she handed to Blackstone. He took it, glanced down at it, and then shook her hand. He took a few seconds to study both of her hands, and then smiled and motioned to the chair where she sat down across from his desk.
Blackstone looked over the form. In the blank for “occupation” it said simply “artist.” Her studio was listed at an address in the “Torpedo Factory” in Alexandria, Virginia, a stylishly renovated former armaments warehouse dating back to World War II, now converted to boutique art studios and galleries.
He studied her as she smiled brightly. She was grasping one more piece of paper in her hand, carefully folded, which looked like a letter with an envelope.
“I’m here because of this,” she said holding up the letter and envelope. But Blackstone didn’t move to take them.
“Clients usually think they know why they are here,” Blackstone said. “But I find that most of the time they don’t. Not really.”
Then he continued, tapping the client sheet he was holding, “You say here that you are an artist. By the way, are you an athlete?”
“Dear no,” she replied with a little giggle. “Why?”
Blackstone ignored her question and probed further.
“Don’t lift weights, do gymnastics, anything like that?”
“No, I don’t.”
He took in her entire frame with a long glance, then he spoke up.
“In that event, I presume you are a sculptor. Right?”
She laughed.
“That’s right,” she replied with surprise. “So you must be familiar with some of my work.”
“No, not at all,” he replied.
“Then how did you know?”
“Observation. You are a petite woman, yet you have powerful, deeply veined hands. The kind of hands that result from kneading clay. You have your makeup done professionally, yet you don’t any have nail polish on. And I notice you have what appears to be modeling clay under one of your fingernails. Your artist’s smock is a little dingy and worn—it is a working piece of clothing for you. But I don’t see any watercolor, acrylic, or oil paints on it. So you’re not a painter. All that leads me to say you’re a sculptor.”
“I’m impressed,” she said with another big smile.
Blackstone motioned for the letter, which she quickly gave him. Her countenance changed almost as if on cue. Now she had a frightened, confused look.
The letter was on the letterhead of the Office of the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia. It was announcing that Vinnie was the “target” of an ongoing federal grand-jury investigation into “crimes occurring at and in The Smithsonian Institution, including murder and theft of federal documents.”
“This is all a huge mistake,” she began.
“I hope for your sake that you’re right.”
“This is serious, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Killing a federal official like Horace Langley is a capital offense.”
Vinnie had a puzzled look.
“That means that the prosecuting attorney could ask for the death penalty.”
The dark-haired beauty was speechless.
“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Blackstone replied, trying to be consoling. “This is merely a target letter. It doesn’t mean you’ll get indicted. And it certainly doesn’t mean you are going to get convicted. It may mean absolutely nothing…or it could mean something. Depends on what you tell me about your involvement in this thing.”
She paused a moment before she spoke. Then she started to explain.
“I knew Horace Langley,” she said.
“How well?”
“Professionally.”
“Define that.”
“I was with him,” she said with a stunned look on her face, as if finally realizing the depth of the trouble she was in, “there in his office…with him in the Smithsonian, at the Castle, the day he was murdered.”