Death Penalty (19 page)

I asked him where he was.

He was in a bar on Detroit's west side. I knew it well, it was a dump. It was one of those places where the atmosphere is a mix of stale beer and urine, and at times the urine was the least offensive aroma. It was not the kind of place you'd take your mother, unless Mom happened to be a drunken stevedore.

I suggested Mickey take a cab home.

He resented the implication and declared that he was in full possession of his faculties. He wished me a frosty farewell and hung up.

It was a quiet evening after that, at least for a while. I watched the cable news and then a documentary.

My daughter, Lisa, called from school. I understood it was one of those duty calls. School was good, she was working hard, she was seeing a new guy. Lisa had dropped some weight and had apparently joined a boy-of-the-month club. Anyway, this month's sounded like he
was half-human, which was an improvement over last month's boy.

I asked if she needed money. She said she didn't but it was one of those slow, reluctant refusals. There were a few expenses she hadn't anticipated. The income from her part-time job wasn't stretching quite as far as she thought it should. I huffed and puffed, she expected it, and said a check would be in the mail tomorrow.

She told me she loved me and I told her I loved her, and that was that, the duty on both sides discharged, until the next time. Still, it made me happy to talk to her, duty or not.

I turned off my apartment lights and looked out on my scenic parking lot while I sipped an iced ginger ale. I knew I would have trouble sleeping. I tried to think of good things, like Sue Gillis, but my mind kept returning to the riverside meeting with Jeffrey Mallow.

I could still see, as if it had been recorded on film, the sight of those little pieces of torn memo paper fluttering down to the surface of the water, floating for a moment and then sinking slowly, one by one, dreamlike, a fairy paper trail disappearing forever.

The more I thought about the conversation, the worse it became. Trying to figure out what Mallow was up to was like trying to work out a chess problem. No matter what piece you mentally moved or where, you created a new problem for yourself, a new threat.

I was almost relieved when the phone rang.

I didn't bother to turn on the light, there was adequate illumination from the parking lot. My watch's shining dial said it was just past eleven o'clock.

“Yes,” I said, expecting a wrong number at this hour.

“Mr. Sloan?” The woman's voice was shaking. “Mr. Charles Sloan?”

“Yes, this is Charley Sloan.”

“I need your help, Mr. Sloan,” she said and then started to cry.

I figured it was a wife whose husband had just walked out the door.

“That's what I'm here for. Help. Who is this?”

There was some more sniffling, it sounded genuine, then she spoke as best she could. “You may not remember me.”

“Try me.”

“I'm Rebecca Harris.”

“Becky Harris,” I said. “Sure, Becky, I remember you. What's up?” I presumed Howard Wordley, her sometime lover, had probably smashed her around again. “Is it Howard Wordley?”

“Can you come over to my house?” she asked, again in a voice that trembled so badly her words were almost inaudible.

“It's late, Becky. Frankly, I'm in bed. Let's meet at my office first thing in the morning.” Then I thought about the earlier problem. “Are you hurt, Becky? Did he hurt you?”

All I got was tears.

“These matters are usually best handled by the police, Becky. I know that may sound a little odd, given your recent experience, but . . .”

“Oh, God . . .” It was a wail of pain, more spiritual than physical, but nevertheless real.

I flicked on the light. “Where do you live, Becky?”

She gave me the address. I knew the area, a fringe neighborhood not too far physically from the gold coast mansions on the river but economically on the other side of the moon. It was a place of transients, people hanging on to their lives by their fingernails. “I'll get dressed and be there as quickly as I can.”

It was impossible to get anything more from Becky Harris. She was crying too hard.

IT WAS A NICE CLEAR NIGHT, a little nippy for the end of May, but pleasant. Out on the river a freighter signaled
, sounding like a distant train. It was answered a moment later by another big boat. In the still night, both boats sounded lost and lonesome.

Pickeral Point had gone to bed, or so it looked. I passed only one other car on the main street. Nothing stirred on the side streets.

I found Becky Harris's place easily enough. It was at the end of a block of very old, poorly maintained houses. Two houses were boarded up and one had obviously burned, leaving only a ghostly shell. Those who lived here lived close to the bone, and the mailman and government checks were the only touch these citizens had with the people who ran their lives.

Close up, you could almost smell poverty's breath.

Becky's place was a small single-story house set well back from the street. It looked a bit better kept, even in the dark. There was a small porch in the front. A single light was on inside, but nothing else showed. I eased the Chrysler into the rutted driveway.

A battered old car, older than the one I used to drive, was parked on one side of the porch. I could see it reflected in lights from a nearby house.

On the other side of the porch, parked in close, as if trying to hide, was the stern of a big, new Mercedes. My headlights caught it, and the gleaming gray steel seemed somehow obscene and out of place. I quickly killed my headlights.

Up until I saw the Mercedes I had been relaxed. Relaxation vanished as quickly as my headlights.

I walked up on the old porch. The wood creaked with every step. I tapped lightly on the screen door. The main door was already open.

“Mr. Sloan?” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Yes,” I whispered back, and felt ridiculous for doing it.

She appeared, but the inside light was behind her so I really couldn't see her face very well. She was nicely
dressed, dark slacks and a fashionably baggy sweater.

She opened the door and I stepped in.

She grabbed me and hung on as if she would drown if she let me go. Her entire body trembled with small, continuous spasms.

“There,” I said, trying to soothe her. “Everything's going to be all right.”

I looked over her shoulder into the small living room. It was tiny, just a couch and a chair separated by a worn coffee table. Nothing matched. A small color television was set on the coffee table.

But I could see that everything was not going to be all right.

Howard Wordley sat in the old overstuffed chair. He looked like he might have sat there often. The old chair held him like a glove. He was slouched a bit so that his head was supported by his rather large stomach. He was looking directly at me. He was fully clothed. Expensive stuff, from his sports jacket to his tasseled polished loafers.

His small round hands were perched along the top of his belly.

I didn't say hello. There wasn't much point. He was dead.

He had a small caliber bullet hole the size of a thin pencil just above his right eyebrow, and another just below it. There was little blood at either wound. His dark jacket looked a trifle too dark in several spots, and I presumed bullets had entered there too.

If he was a suicide, he had been extremely clumsy about it.

“Help me.” Her voice was like an echo from somewhere inside my chest. The shaking was getting worse.

I guided her past the awful sight in her living room into a small kitchen and sat her down on a kitchen chair.

“Listen to me,” I said sharply. “I can't tell you what to
say, and I can't build a story for you to tell the police. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“If you shot him,” I said, speaking slowly so she would understand me, “there are several defenses. One, self-defense. If he was trying to kill you, or you thought he was, and based on past experience with him that doesn't seem too unlikely. If that was the way it was and you shot him to save your own life, that's called self-defense.

“Another defense is mistake. If you mistook him for a burglar, probably not too plausible seeing how well you knew him, but if it was a mistake and you did think he was a burglar, that is a legitimate defense. I can't tell you what to say, but I can tell you your legal rights.” I was telling her what to say, but it was called the lecture and a protection against an obstruction of justice charge.

“Mr. Sloan,” she interrupted me.

“Becky, I'm a lawyer, not an accomplice. I have to report this and I have to do it now. There's a record of when you made that call to me. They'll check everything. I can't do you much good if I'm in jail too.”

“Mr. Sloan. This is a nightmare. I didn't mean to do it.”

“Okay, let's make this very quick. Tell me exactly what happened. If it was self-defense maybe there is something I can do.”

She tried to light a cigarette but her hands were shaking too badly.

“Lately, Howard's been coming over here to”—she looked away—“to see me. It's been, well, fine. You know, comfortable.

“But his visits started getting less and less.” She looked at me again. “He said it was business.” The word
business
was spoken with sharp bitterness.

“Tonight he came over unannounced. Usually he tells me if he's coming and I get in some wine and cold cuts, that sort of thing.”

“Go on,” I said, conscious of the passage of time.

“Tonight he came over. He sat down”—she nodded toward the living room—“and told me everything was over between us.”

“Because of his wife?”

She shook her head slowly. A sob preceded her next word. “His sales manager. A woman, a young woman, who looks like a cheap whore. He said he had started seeing her.”

She looked at me, tears flowing like little rivers. “He said he wanted a younger woman.”

“And suddenly you don't remember anything after that,” I prompted.

She shook her head. “I remember everything. I went to my night table, got my gun, it's a small pistol I keep for protection. This can be a dangerous neighborhood. I came out and shot him. First in the face and then in the stomach.”

“How many times?”

“Six, I think. The gun has a six-round clip. I fired until it was empty.”

“Did he say anything when he saw you with the gun? Was there a struggle?”

“No. He didn't have a chance, really. I just started shooting.”

“How long after that did you call me?”

She paused, thinking. “Minutes, I guess. I was so upset. I loved him. I didn't mean to kill him, or even hurt him. It was just so . . .” She started to cry again.

“Where's the gun now?”

She reached into her slacks.

I shook my head. “No. Keep it there. Give it to the police when they come.”

“Mr. Sloan, what will I do?”

I sighed. “First, you refuse to make any statements to the police unless I'm there with you. This is important. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“They will have you seen by doctors. You will refuse to discuss any aspect of what happened here unless I'm right there with you.”

“But—”

“Please, Becky. I don't know what I can do for you under these circumstances, but whatever I can do legally, I will.”

“Thank you.”

“And don't talk to any fellow prisoners in the jail about what happened here. That's a favorite device, a sweet, kind cellmate, full of sympathy, who later turns out to be a cop.”

She nodded, then paused. “Mr. Sloan, I don't have much money. The most valuable thing I have is the diamond ring Howard gave me.”

I figured, given Howard's reputation for honesty, that the ring was probably glass, not even cubic zirconia.

“We'll work it out,” I said.

I walked out to the living room. Wordley was just as relaxed as before. I gingerly picked up the telephone and dialed the police.

They came quickly enough, at least the first scout car did, arriving in only a matter of minutes. Then came the detectives covering the night shift, who seemed annoyed. Not that a murder had been committed, but that someone had been so inconsiderate as to do it on their shift.

The Kerry County medical examiner, Dr. Ernesto Rey, was at a convention, so the police had to borrow a pathologist from Oakland County, a man I knew well, a good doctor, careful, intelligent, and, unfortunately for defense lawyers like me, an excellent and skilled witness.

Finally, Stash Olesky made his appearance. His deep-set eyes were swollen with sleep, his blond hair uncombed, making him look more like an overage paperboy than Kerry County's leading murder prosecutor.
When fully awake, Olesky's wide cheekbones gave those eyes a certain quiet menace, like a Polish aristocrat thinking about killing the czar. Now he looked like he was thinking nothing more sinister than going back to bed.

Olesky was good, the best trial man on the prosecutor's staff. He had a reputation of being absolutely fair. Plus, he was a hell of a workman. He would have made an excellent judge, or just about anything else connected with the law, but he liked criminal trial work, and he particularly liked trying murders.

I liked him a lot, and if that wasn't entirely mutual, I think he did respect me. It was always a little hard to tell what Stash might be thinking behind those expressionless but penetrating Polish eyes.

We did the expected legal dance. He tried to wheedle me into allowing them to take a statement from my client. “Just to clear up a few small things,” he said.

I said since there was no proof that my client had done anything illegal, she should be released in my custody.

It was like two roosters in the henhouse, flapping their wings at each other. It was meaningless, but expected.