No Way to Treat a First Lady by Christopher Buckley Page A
Authors: Christopher Buckley
Tags: Fiction, LEGAL, Humorous, Legal Stories, Widows, Presidents' spouses, Trials (Murder), Attorney and client, First Ladies
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off a raised drawbridge over the Intracoastal Waterway, demolishing the top deck of the yacht that was passing through at the time, killing two people and maiming four others. Crudman described his client as "a terrific human being."
Crudman told Geraldo that while he, Alan Crudman, tried not to get emotionally involved with his clients, it wasn't always possible.
"How Boyce Baylor," he said, "is going to handle the fact that he was once engaged to his client and she dumped him is anyone's guess."
Perri said, "I thought you dumped her."
Boyce grunted.
William "Billable" Howars, the exuberant Memphis, Tennessee, lawyer, said that Boyce would probably make Babette Van Anka out to look like "the whore of Babylon" on the stand. This brought a soft cough and concerned interjection from Edgar Burton Twimm about the presence of television cameras in courtrooms.
Barry Strutt had won a dramatic court-ordered exhumation of President Kennedy's assassin Lee Harvey Oswald that had established finally and irrevocably, beyond a shadow of a doubt—absolutely nothing, but he was triumphant about it. He said that it would be bad strategy for Baylor to try to cast doubt on the testimony of Secret Service agent Woody Birnam, who said he had overheard the President and First Lady arguing that night. He said that a Washington, D.C., jury—the phrase was now understood to be code for "predominantly black"—tended to respect the Secret Service and wouldn't like it.
Geraldo broke for a commercial. Perri went and got the sparkling ice. Geraldo was back on by the time she returned. Boyce was snoring. She thought about pouring the ice water on his lap, then got into bed and turned the channel back to her own show.
Chapter 7
Boyce and Beth sat together on the observer side of a one-way mirror as Boyce's team of pollsters prepped seventy people on the other side of the glass for the focus group that was about to begin.
Normally, Boyce did not invite his defendants to participate in these sessions. Often, being in jail, they were unable to participate. But Beth had asked to come. She seemed genuinely eager to hear what people thought of her.
The focus group began. Part one consisted of the pollster reading aloud a series of statements about Beth. The group pressed buttons on the consoles in front of them. The body sensors measured their sweat, breathing, and heart rates to determine the honesty of their responses. The first question was: "Do you believe that Beth MacMann killed her husband?"
Beth looked at the computer screen in front of Boyce. A bar column of lurid electronic red rose vertically. The number 88.32 appeared above it.
"Is that—"
"That," Boyce said, "is where we start."
* * *
Three and a half hours later, after the last person had been unhooked, thanked, handed a check, and reminded that he had signed an enforceable confidentiality agreement not to reveal even that the session had taken place, Beth looked as if she had just been sentenced to death.
"I think we could both use a drink," Boyce said.
Beth nodded wanly. They went to Boyce's hotel suite.
He felt for the first time since taking the case a sense of pity for her. Large crowds used to cheer when she took the stage. Now she had just spent the afternoon listening to a majority of seventy people call her a murderess and, into the bargain, a scheming, manipulating, power-grabbing bitch. It wasn't the steely Lady Bethmac sitting across from him staring into her Scotch, but a frightened woman facing the death penalty.
"I tried to be a good First Lady. I pushed through initiatives on child care, prescription drugs for the elderly, the environment, a lot of things."
"I know," Boyce said. "The bastards ought to be grateful, instead of getting all bent out of shape just because you killed their president."
Beth gave him a horrified look.
"So shall we dispense with the self-pity and get to work?"
She nodded. "Fair enough."
"We heard some bad news today. But we
Crudman told Geraldo that while he, Alan Crudman, tried not to get emotionally involved with his clients, it wasn't always possible.
"How Boyce Baylor," he said, "is going to handle the fact that he was once engaged to his client and she dumped him is anyone's guess."
Perri said, "I thought you dumped her."
Boyce grunted.
William "Billable" Howars, the exuberant Memphis, Tennessee, lawyer, said that Boyce would probably make Babette Van Anka out to look like "the whore of Babylon" on the stand. This brought a soft cough and concerned interjection from Edgar Burton Twimm about the presence of television cameras in courtrooms.
Barry Strutt had won a dramatic court-ordered exhumation of President Kennedy's assassin Lee Harvey Oswald that had established finally and irrevocably, beyond a shadow of a doubt—absolutely nothing, but he was triumphant about it. He said that it would be bad strategy for Baylor to try to cast doubt on the testimony of Secret Service agent Woody Birnam, who said he had overheard the President and First Lady arguing that night. He said that a Washington, D.C., jury—the phrase was now understood to be code for "predominantly black"—tended to respect the Secret Service and wouldn't like it.
Geraldo broke for a commercial. Perri went and got the sparkling ice. Geraldo was back on by the time she returned. Boyce was snoring. She thought about pouring the ice water on his lap, then got into bed and turned the channel back to her own show.
Chapter 7
Boyce and Beth sat together on the observer side of a one-way mirror as Boyce's team of pollsters prepped seventy people on the other side of the glass for the focus group that was about to begin.
Normally, Boyce did not invite his defendants to participate in these sessions. Often, being in jail, they were unable to participate. But Beth had asked to come. She seemed genuinely eager to hear what people thought of her.
The focus group began. Part one consisted of the pollster reading aloud a series of statements about Beth. The group pressed buttons on the consoles in front of them. The body sensors measured their sweat, breathing, and heart rates to determine the honesty of their responses. The first question was: "Do you believe that Beth MacMann killed her husband?"
Beth looked at the computer screen in front of Boyce. A bar column of lurid electronic red rose vertically. The number 88.32 appeared above it.
"Is that—"
"That," Boyce said, "is where we start."
* * *
Three and a half hours later, after the last person had been unhooked, thanked, handed a check, and reminded that he had signed an enforceable confidentiality agreement not to reveal even that the session had taken place, Beth looked as if she had just been sentenced to death.
"I think we could both use a drink," Boyce said.
Beth nodded wanly. They went to Boyce's hotel suite.
He felt for the first time since taking the case a sense of pity for her. Large crowds used to cheer when she took the stage. Now she had just spent the afternoon listening to a majority of seventy people call her a murderess and, into the bargain, a scheming, manipulating, power-grabbing bitch. It wasn't the steely Lady Bethmac sitting across from him staring into her Scotch, but a frightened woman facing the death penalty.
"I tried to be a good First Lady. I pushed through initiatives on child care, prescription drugs for the elderly, the environment, a lot of things."
"I know," Boyce said. "The bastards ought to be grateful, instead of getting all bent out of shape just because you killed their president."
Beth gave him a horrified look.
"So shall we dispense with the self-pity and get to work?"
She nodded. "Fair enough."
"We heard some bad news today. But we
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