Dead Man's Thoughts (18 page)

So far I'd dealt in facts. What time was it? What did you do then? Now we were into the hard part. I had to decide how to go with it. Should I confront the kid, beat him over the head and watch his reaction? Or should I play sympathetic, like I was on his side all the way, but the cops had this crazy idea.… I had the uneasy feeling that Detective Button had been thinking along the same lines when he'd questioned me the day I found Nathan's body.

I went for confrontation. The words should have stuck in my throat, but oddly enough, they didn't. I was doing my job, the one I could do in my sleep.

“What'd he give it to you for, Paco?” I asked, my voice as hard as I could make it. “Or maybe I should ask what you did to earn it, huh?”

His reaction was more than I'd bargained for. He gave a hoarse animal cry, lunged out of his seat, and swung wildly at my head. He missed me by inches as he shrieked, “You callin' me a faggot, cunt, I kill you.”

T
WENTY
-
TWO

I
just sat and watched, like a clinical observer at a psychiatric ward. Or like a zookeeper.

Finally, he subsided into sullenness, muttering, “I ain't no faggot. Motherfucking creep cops.”

I hit him again. “I hate to bring this
up
, Paco,” I said, in a tone laden with sarcasm, “but you got a sheet here, man, and we both know what it's for. You've been busted for hustling, kid, you'd better face it. The cops aren't making this up.”

“Fuck that shit!” He jumped up from the stool again. He smacked one fist into an open palm and spun around, as though his anger was too great to let him stand still. I waited.

“Don't you see?” he finally said in a plaintive, high voice, his back still to me. “That don't mean shit. That's just hustlin', man. That's just to get a little coin, you dig? I get paid. Paid good. Them dudes like young guys. I pretend to like all that shit, but I'm laughin' at 'em all the time. Laughin', you dig? And then I rip 'em off, take like a watch or a ring or somethin'. 'Cause even though they're payin' me, ain't nobody can really pay you enough to do that faggot shit. I wouldn't touch none of them dudes if I couldn't get my bread out of it. I ain't no faggot! No way!”

“So there was nothing between you and Nathan?” I kept my voice flat and steady. If there had been anything, I thought, then Nathan had been degraded by a little hustler who hated his clientele. Laughed at them. No, that wasn't Nathan. He would have seen through this cheap little hooker who used the vulnerability of middle-aged gays. Ripped them off both physically and emotionally.

“Let's get back to the watch,” I said in a purposely businesslike tone. “Was it vouchered? Did the cops take it and give you a paper?”

He nodded and reached into the pocket of his tight-fitting denim jacket. I looked at the paper to see if anything else had been vouchered. Vouchering means the item is likely to be used as evidence. In this case the watch would be People's Exhibit One.

For a moment, I just sat there, digesting the implications. The watch was a killer. It could be used two different ways, either of them devastating. Say you accepted the obvious, that the kid stole it. It fitted his record of petty theft, for one thing. Then Nathan caught him at it, they argued, and the kid killed him. Or you bought the kid's story that Nathan gave him the watch. That made them more than lawyer and client, and that was the linchpin of Button's theory. Now you had your gay lover killing. And the way the kid felt about faggots. … Whoever represented him would have to keep him off the stand at all costs.

“When did Nathan give you the watch?”

“Last week.”

“Did he say why he was giving it to you?”

“Yeah. I was late for an appointment and I told him it was because I ain't got a watch, so he give me his old one. He just got a new one. He showed me it.”

That at least was true. Nathan had just bought himself a handsome pocket watch, a gold one with a little cover. He'd been looking for a nice chain. If Paco was going to steal a watch, why not go for the new one? Or even both? Though the D.A. would probably say he'd hoped Nathan wouldn't miss the old one.

“Was anybody else there when he gave you the watch?”

“No. Just him and me.”

“Did you show it to anybody? Your mother, your friends?”

“No. I don't like too many people to know my business, you know.”

“Nobody saw it before Nathan was killed?”

“I don't know, man. Like I wasn't hidin' it, but I wasn't flashin' it neither. I didn't want anybody rippin' it off me.”

“Okay. It doesn't matter anyway.” It didn't. If the cops went with the theft angle, they could always claim the actual stealing took place the week before, but that Nathan found out about it the night he was killed. The thing was, I didn't see Nathan reporting this kid to the cops if he'd stolen everything he had, let alone an old watch he'd just replaced. Theft as a motive for Nathan's death didn't cut any ice with me. Particularly in view of the manner of the murder. Burglars don't tie people to beds and strangle them; they hit and run. No, the sex-murder theory was the one to watch out for. It was the theory Button liked, and it was strengthened by the kid's own story. Who would believe Nathan gave a watch, even an old one, to a kid who was nothing more to him than a client?

“You know, Paco,” I began, “sometimes people who are up against it—like you are on this case—sometimes they get the wrong idea about what can help them and what can hurt them. Take this watch. I can see where you might be afraid to admit that you took it. You might feel that could get you in a lot of trouble. No,” I held up my hand, “let me finish. Don't interrupt. When I'm done, you can say whatever you want to say. Now the thing about this watch is, if you stole it, it's not a big deal. Not compared to murder. But your story that Nathan gave it to you, that's just what the cops want you to say. You understand where I'm coming from?”

He shook his head. “See,” I went on, “they think you and Nathan were lovers.” Paco said nothing, but he balled his fists. “And if they hear that story about the watch being a present from him to you, they're going to think it was true. See what I mean?” His eyes grew even larger as he nodded, slowly. “Now if you admit the truth, that you stole the watch, the cops can't say you were lovers, can they?”

There were holes in my reasoning you could drive a Corrections bus through, but fortunately the kid didn't notice them. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I took the watch when he wasn't lookin'. I didn't think he'd need it no more.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no doubt that it was the truth. It was the kid's usual pattern of petty theft, this time from his lawyer instead of a trick. But it was a much less potent motive for murder than the other.

I moved back to the murder night. “Let's go back to the note,” I said. “Did it look like Nathan's writing?”

“I don't know. It was printed like.” He ducked his head, and a flush of dark rose suffused his cheeks. He said, so low I could hardly hear him, “I don't read too good. He made it simple like.”

“But you thought Nathan wrote it?”

“Why wouldn't I? I seen a note with his name on it. I didn't think about it. Not then. Now I done some thinkin' and I see how somebody set me up good with that note. I mean they got me there and kept me there, right?”

“Right. You catch on quick. What happened when you came back after waiting in the laundry room?”

“There wasn't no note. It was gone. I figured the dude inside with him was gone, so I ring the bell. No answer. I knock a few times. No answer. I waited around some more, knocked some more, no answer. Finally I split.”

“Where'd you go?”

“Coney Island. A bar I know.” I wondered what kind of bar, but I didn't ask.

“Did you try to call Nathan?”

“No. I figure I'll catch him later, you dig?”

“While you were knocking at the door, either time, did anybody pass by?”

“Yeah, maybe, I'm not too sure.”

“Did you try the door?” It was almost an afterthought.

To my surprise, he nodded. “It was lock,” he said.

This time there was no careful consideration of tactics. I was so shocked I blurted out, “Paco, you're lying.”

“No, I ain't,” he replied. For the first time, he looked really scared.

“Paco,” I said softly, “I found Nathan's body and that door was unlocked. If you'd tried it, you'd have gotten in.”

“No, lady,” he shook his head. “That door was lock. I know. Maybe somebody come by and open it later, but it was lock when I was there. Cross my heart.”

Maybe it was the childish phrase that did it. It's hard to pin down exactly what lawyers mean when they use the hackneyed phrase “the ring of truth,” but Paco's statement had it. Maybe it was because saying he hadn't tried the door would have helped him. Saying it was locked hurt him. Therefore it was true.

Meanwhile, there was one more thing that had to be said. “Paco, I can't stay on this case. I can't be your lawyer. The court will appoint someone else, but I'll give them everything I've got and I'll work with them if I can. I believe you. I don't think you killed Nathan.”

He was looking at me with a steady gaze, but there was no sign of emotion as I spoke. I wondered if he believed me. Or if he cared.

“The cops will arrest you and charge you with murder after you're arraigned on the warrant. They'll take you to Central Booking and then bring you back here. Do not, repeat
do not
, make any statements to them. You can't help yourself, no matter what they tell you. Understand?” He nodded.

“Don't let them put you in a lineup without a lawyer present—either me or your new lawyer. Okay?”

This time he looked up. His eyes looked enormous. The pupils were dilated with fear.

“Hey, Paco. Try to stay cool, man. I know it's tough. But I really am trying to help you. Please, just hang in there. I'll be doing the best I can.”

“Lady, can I ax you something?”

I nodded.

“Can you get me separated in Riker's? Away from the other guys? I don't want to do no more of that faggot shit, you dig?”

Coming into the courtroom was like walking into an icebox. I faced a roomful of hostile glares. I had the last case of the day and the court officers were pissed at being kept waiting.

But if I thought I was unloved by the court personnel, all I had to do was look at Button to see what real hate was all about. He looked at me as though he'd like nothing better than to see me in one of the green body bags they'd carried Nathan out in.

The only break in the general hostility came from the judge. The Hon. Helen Donohue was a former Legal Aid attorney and an old friend. She smiled at me as she dogeared her paperback copy of
Princess Daisy
. As long as the Hon. Helen had reading matter, she didn't care how long she had to wait for anything.

The bridgeman called the case. Button brought Paco out. He was shaking, a fine shiver that seemed to emanate from a small knot of fear just below his diaphragm. I knew the feeling, but there was nothing I could do to help.

After the long interview, the arraignment itself was an anticlimax. I got relieved, bail was set ($25,000), and sentence date was set on the warrant—the old case—for next Thursday. That was to give the cops time to get him arrested and arraigned on the murder. Then the court officers took Paco back inside. I gave him a smile, but it didn't erase the look of terror on the small, pretty face.

While I was gathering up my things, a harsh voice sounded in my ear. It was Button. “Well, Counselor, I guess Barnum was right. There is a sucker born every minute. And this time it was me. Tell me again how you wanted information for personal reasons, not as a lawyer.”

“I got off the case, Button. Didn't you hear what went on?”

“Detective Button to you, Miss Jameson. Yeah, you got off the case. After you told that little bastard everything the cops had on him. Or did you spend two hours with him discussing the weather?” When I opened my mouth to answer, he waved me quiet and said, in a weary voice, “Don't bother, Miss Jameson. I'm not likely to believe anything you tell me after this. It just may be that someday you'll regret that, but that's the way it is. I can be made a sucker of once just like everybody else. But not a second time. Not by you or any other stinking defense lawyer.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. I could see his point. From his perspective I'd screwed him—gotten information under false pretenses. But I still felt justified. The information wouldn't be the exclusive property of the prosecution for very long. Paco's 18-b lawyer would have it soon enough. But I could only get it now.

For all the good it would do me. Did I really believe someone had set Paco up, called him pretending to be from the program and then kept him at the scene with a phony note? I could at least find out whether there had been a legitimate call from the program. I could canvass Nathan's building, find out whether anyone had seen Paco at Nathan's door or in the laundry room.

It was with a feeling of optimism, finally, that I left the courthouse. Button's Midnight Cowboy was no longer a bogeyman but a real person. That meant there were facts to be checked, questions to be asked, evidence to be sifted. That meant I could do my job.

T
WENTY
-
THREE

R
ick's was packed, especially for a Tuesday night. Wall-to-wall lawyers, court clerks, court reporters. A judge or two. No cops or court officers, though. They had their own bar near criminal court. Just as well. I didn't much fancy drinking with armed people.

Not that Rick's wasn't something of an armed camp in its own right. The D.A.'s had their table, and we had ours. In fact, there were distinctions within Legal Aid. The rank and file would be at a back table, cracking peanuts and listening to Flaherty. Milt, Deke, and a few other supervisors usually stood at the bar. So in order to get to where I was going, I would have to pass Milt. I wasn't looking forward to it.