Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Fifty

One look at his waiting area and a potential client would know that hiring Bobby Schatz was going to be an expensive proposition. The magazines on the end tables focused on life in the Hamptons, Saint Croix, and Biarritz. Elegant sofas stood on either side of a Persian carpet that was laid across a polished hardwood floor, and the lawyer’s receptionist, who was so stunning that she could grace the cover of Vogue without makeup, was positioned behind a handcrafted mahogany desk.

The first and only time Dana had worked with Schatz, the capital’s preeminent criminal attorney had hired her to assist in the defense of an American-born terrorist who had tried to blow up the football stadium where the Washington Redskins play. The relationship had ended under strange and unpleasant circumstances.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked in a friendly voice that betrayed none of the disdain she may have felt for a woman wearing jeans, shades, and a motorcycle jacket. Schatz had stopped representing biker gangs and other lowlifes long ago. Nowadays, the defendants he escorted to court were disgraced hedge-fund managers and nattily dressed political perverts.

“Tell Bobby that Dana Cutler wants a moment of his valuable time.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, and I don’t need one. Just tell him who’s in the waiting room.”

The receptionist hesitated, but something about Dana made her reconsider. She pressed a button and conveyed the message.

“He’ll see you,” she told Dana. The woman started to get up but Dana motioned her to stay seated.

“Bobby and I are old friends. I know the way to his inner sanctum.”

Dana walked down a narrow hall, past offices staffed by the attorney’s associates, then stopped in the doorway of a large corner office decorated with expensive art and photographs of Bobby with the rich and famous. Sitting behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier was a thickset man with slicked-back dyed black hair who was dressed in an elegant gray pinstripe suit. A red polka-dot bow tie was secured under the collar of a white silk shirt, and a silk handkerchief poked out of the pocket beneath the jacket’s left lapel.

Schatz remembered his last meeting with Dana. “Do I need to call security?” he asked, only half kidding.

“No, Bobby. I’m not going to shoot you—at least not today.”

“That’s a relief.”

Dana sat in a high-backed armchair and took in the view of the Capitol dome.

“You’re still doing well,” she remarked.

Schatz shrugged. “I get by.”

“You’d do even better if Horace Blair was a client.”

“Once was enough, thank you,” Bobby answered.

“You two have a history?”

“Ten years ago, I had the displeasure of representing Horace when he was charged with drunk driving.”

“That’s right! Wasn’t that the trial where he met Carrie Blair?”

Schatz nodded.

“What was the problem?”

“My client. Carrie Blair was the prosecutor and she had one witness, the arresting officer. I made mincemeat of him during cross. If we’d rested without putting on any witnesses we would have won, but it was love at first sight for Horace and he insisted on testifying so he could make gooey eyes at Carrie.”

Schatz shook his head in disgust. “I did everything I could to talk him out of taking the stand, but he blew me off. Then he confessed during cross-examination, just to impress Carrie. I would have smacked my head against the counsel table but it would have been unseemly.”

“I thought defense attorneys were supposed to put the interest of their clients first,” Dana said with the hint of a smile.

Even ten years later, Schatz did not appear to see the humor in the situation.

“I don’t like to lose. Ever. In any event, I don’t see how I can represent Horace. Charlie Benedict is representing him.”

“That’s true, but he shouldn’t be Blair’s lawyer. You should.”

“What’s your interest in Blair?”

“I think he’s being framed and I want you to help me prove it.”

Schatz leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and studied Dana.

“Who do you think is framing him?”

“Charlie Benedict.”

“Now you’ve got my attention.”

“Bobby, how much do you know about the Ottoman Empire?”



Schatz listened intently as Dana told him about her quest for the scepter and all that had followed.

“That’s some story,” Schatz said when she was finished.

“That it is. What do you think of it?”

“I think you’ve convinced me that Horace is innocent and Benedict might be guilty. But how do you intend to prove he’s innocent with Benedict as his lawyer?”

“The key to this case is—if you’ll pardon the pun—the key with Blair’s fingerprints that the police found in Carrie’s grave. If Benedict killed Carrie Blair, he had to get hold of it before he buried her, but I don’t know if he had an opportunity to do that. What I do have is a plan that will let me find out. And the first step in that plan will be to get Horace Blair to fire Charles Benedict and hire you.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“By meeting with Horace Blair and convincing him that his attorney is trying to frame him. To do that, I have to talk to Jack Pratt, his civil attorney, the other lawyer who is allowed to meet with Blair. Do you know him well enough to set up a meeting?”