Death Penalty (21 page)

“Of course, that's what I mean. And you may see no problem, but others might.”

“Like who?”

“Like my bosses, the new prosecutor, maybe even the judges. A few insignificant people like that. Maybe even the newspapers.”

I sighed. “Tell them to assign someone else to the case. Tell them just like you told me.”

She paused. “I did.”

“And?”

“They said that isn't an excuse. They suggested we stop seeing each other until after the case is over.”

“Ah, come on?”

“Well, Parkman, the new prosecutor did. And, failing that, he said that I wasn't to discuss the case with you, not even to mention it.”

“Is that Olesky's position?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

I heard what sounded like the beginning of a giggle. “He said that the only way I could help you on this case is to shoot the woman out of jail. He told me to quit worrying.”

“He's right.”

“But the newspapers, Charley, what—”

“Today will be the only time the papers will be interested. Look, Wordley is a Port Huron car dealer, big fish, small pond. His lady love blows him away and that's good for a few paragraphs, but there's no mystery, no money, nothing that would make it anything more than local news.”

“What about the sex?”

“Hey, a seventy-year-old merchant is banging a fifty-year-old waitress, but not often. If that's your idea of the kind of hot sex that sells papers or lights up the six o'clock news I'm glad you became a cop instead of a journalist. You would have starved.”

I rolled over and sat up. “Now, given that, would the fact that the waitress's lawyer has a romantic interest in one of the lady cops assigned to the case be the kind of thing that
The Washington Post
might jump on?”

“No, not when you put it that way.”

I looked at my watch again. I figured I had had four hours of sleep total. It wasn't enough, but I could catch up later.

“Besides,” I said, “she didn't kill him.”

“What!”

“As far as I'm concerned, a Mazda dealer, an Oriental-looking fellow seen lurking around her house, snuck in the back door, stole the little pistol, and blew away his main business rival.”

“Charley, have you gone nuts?”

“No. But I do have to come up with a defense. That's the one I shall be working on until I consult with my client later this morning. I presume you people plan to arraign her?”

She laughed. “We have to take her before the judge, Charley. It's the law.”

“Sue, I'll see you later then. But in the meantime will you do me a favor?”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Start looking for suspicious Japanese car dealers. It's the break in the case you people desperately need.”

She laughed and hung up.

I replaced the phone.

Funny, I didn't feel like laughing.

I stopped by my office for a moment before going to court. We would have to go through the ritual of having Becky Harris booked on an open charge of murder. There would be no possibility of bond, not yet, if ever. It would be like a Kabuki drama. Prosecutor, defense, judge: we all knew our parts and would perform them even if what we said had no substantial effect. At least Kabuki is entertaining.

Mrs. Fenton, who seemed unusually impressed by judges, told me I had another message from Jeffrey Mallow. His secretary had said it was urgent and commanded that I should call at once. I told Mrs. Fenton it could wait.

Sue Gillis tried not to look at me in court, but that only made her peek at me all the more. If she hadn't told everyone about our situation they would have easily
guessed. Becky Harris went through it all as silently as I had instructed her. She reminded me of one of those old stone figures carved above graves, staring down, no emotion showing. There was an emptiness in her eyes, as if she had glimpsed the future and no longer wanted to look.

I asked Stash Olesky if I could have a few minutes with Becky before they took her back to jail. The court had no other business for a while, so they let us sit at the counsel table. A court officer sitting in the witness box was the only guard. He was reading the paper and was far away enough not to hear anything we said unless we shouted.

The
Free Press
had a small item on page three about the case, nothing much, since there wasn't much, and besides, the paper's deadline had just about matched Howard Wordley's.

I asked her if she needed anything, probably the silliest question in the world. What could a woman in her situation need, except perhaps a pardon or a file and an escape map.

She asked for some toiletry items from her home, and I said I would bring them.

Finally, we got down to business.

“Becky, please understand I can't lie for you. I can't invent a defense. All I can work with is what you give me. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“Last night you told me Howard said he was tossing you over for a younger woman, his sales manager. You said you stepped into your bedroom and took out the gun, already loaded, went back into the living room and fired it into him six times. Is that about what you told me last night, more or less?”

She nodded again.

“Last night you were in shock. Anyone would have
been. You may have told me things that weren't so. People, sometimes, if they feel very bad, very guilty, will do that. In effect, lie about what happened, almost as a way to punish themselves. Now—”

“What I said happened is what did happen, Mr. Sloan.”

I sighed. “Becky, you aren't cutting me much slack here. I have to form a legal defense.”

“I don't want one.”

“They haven't yet set the degree of murder they're planning to charge.” I gave her my usual lecture on the degrees of murder in Michigan. Life behind bars with no parole for first degree; a chance for parole with second degree; and time or even probation for manslaughter, given the circumstances.

She nodded, but I didn't think she was listening closely. I decided there was no point in discussing plea bargains, at least not yet.

“Where did you get that gun, Becky?” I thought maybe changing the subject might help improve communication.

“Cleveland,” she said. “Years ago. Ten, maybe fifteen.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No. A boyfriend gave it to me. For protection.”

“How about the bullets? Are they the original bullets?” A small bullet that ancient probably wouldn't have enough kick left in it to dent someone, let alone kill.

She shook her head. “No. Those didn't come with the gun.”

“When did you get them?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” It was the kind of rhetorical question asked by a diligent prosecutor. Same disbelieving inflection, too.

“Howard got them for me,” she said.

“He bought you a box of bullets?”

“No. He just brought over six and loaded them for me. He said old ammunition wasn't trustworthy. He said
there was no point in having a gun if it couldn't do the job.”

He had been right about that.

“Where did he get the bullets?”

She looked up at me. “From his wife.”

“Pardon me?”

“Howard said his wife has the same kind of gun. She keeps hers next to the bed too.” She stopped. “Of course, they haven't slept together in years, but he knew she kept it there.”

“He took the bullets out of her gun?”

“No She has a box of bullets. He got them from there.”

I didn't know what use, if any, I might be able to make out of the information, but I had so little that even a meager scrap seemed to possess enormous potential.

I warned Becky again about talking to anyone else about the case and promised to bring what she'd asked for to the jail. I told her the various legal steps that would lead eventually to trial.

“I don't want a trial,” she said firmly.

“I know,” I said. “Let's just take things one day at a time, okay?”

“Where will they have Howard laid out?” she asked.

“What?”

“Has a funeral home been selected?”

“I don't know, Becky. I don't know when or where the funeral will be.”

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I hope they dress him in a blue suit. He looks so nice in blue.”

MRS. FENTON WAS SCOWLING
, even more than usual, when I got back to the office.
“Judge
Mallow called again,” she scolded. “He called, not his secretary. He said it was very important.”

“If he calls again,” I said, “tell him I haven't come back from court.”

“But he said it was important.”

Ordinarily, I am the soul of tact, but her manner provoked a minor explosion.

I turned and glared at her. “Is there something wrong with your hearing?” I snapped. “Do what I tell you. Understand?”

In all the months we had been together it was the first time I had even raised my voice to her. If I had grabbed her hair and punched her nose I probably wouldn't have been able to equal the hurt I saw in her widening eyes.

I felt like a louse, but it was necessary. If I was a louse, it was one who didn't want to get any deeper into the game that Jeffrey Mallow seemed intent upon playing.

I closed my office door and flopped down in my chair. In a moment I planned to go out and apologize.

Wimps are not made, they are born.

The mail was stacked in a neat pile on my desk. I leafed through it, mostly a collection of bills and solicitations on the latest multivolume sets offered by competing law book companies.

One caught my eye. It was five volumes, leather bound, covering everything about space law that could interest attorneys in that field. The space they were referring to was outer space, and, judging from the brochure, nothing was left uncovered. Water rights on planets, if water was present, mineral rights, and mining law were presented in thousands of pages of print reproducing proposed agreements and old earthbound lawsuits. So, if suddenly we decided to colonize Mars, an attorney owning these books could hop the next space shuttle, open an office, and make a million overnight. The books cost a mere $695 for the set, and annual updates—not to be missed—would cost another $200 a year.

I tossed the brochure, wondering not only who would buy the set but who had taken the time to reproduce and project old mining claims and ancient ranching disputes. I didn't think the company would find a ready market, but it was their business so maybe I was wrong.

Among other wonders was a postcard from Key West. It showed a red ball, presumably the sun, sinking into dark water, presumably the Gulf of Mexico.

The note on the back wasn't much, not even a wish you were here, just a scrawled sentence saying Miles Stewart was returning to Michigan. The postmark showed the card had apparently been delayed even more than usual. Doctor Death, according to the date on the card, had arrived yesterday.

He was another one I didn't wish to talk to if I could avoid it.

But he had been in my thoughts, or at least his case had been.
The New York Times
on the weekend had carried an excerpt from a
Harvard Law Journal
concerning assisted suicide. It was in the form of an essay, but I thought it might be worth reading in case it raised cases or issues I didn't know about. I had forgotten to do anything about it and the postcard jogged my memory.

I called St. Benedict's law library. The issue I wanted was there, just in. I asked the kid to put it aside for me and said that I would be there tomorrow, as usual, prior to my Thursday meeting of the club.

He was only a law student but he was learning fast. The idea of doing anything for free had already sounded repugnant to him, although he did agree reluctantly to hold the article for me.

I tried apologizing to Mrs. Fenton as I left but she had climbed deep within herself and stared out at me from two hostile eyes. I figured she would eventually relent.

I went to Becky Harris's house. It was still under guard. A bored Pickeral Point policeman sat in a car out
in front. I knew him and there was no problem with being admitted to the house.

He came in and stayed with me the entire time as I gathered up the things Becky had asked for. I didn't know if he was following orders or if he was just lonesome.

His name was Cecil Anderson, a stout man who had avoided trouble for all of his thirty years on the little police force. He was more gossip than cop. He loved to talk, and he did, incessantly, as I went about my business. But he was a decent man, his gossip was more gentle than vicious. I got the feeling that after thirty years at a boring job Cecil needed stimulation, if only that of his own voice.

“Becky's a nice lady,” he said. “Some of those women who work up at the inn get the idea that they're better than other people. I think they believe some of the glitz of those rich customers rubs off on them or something, but not Becky. She always had a nice word for everybody.” He paused. “Do you think she's got any chance at all?”

“Do you?” It was clear Cecil had an opinion on everything and would express it even if you really didn't want to hear it.

“You'd know better than me, but from what I read in the paper and from what I hear, God, I don't think she's got a prayer. But you never know,” he said, and grinned at me. “Look at what you did in the Harwell case.”

I had grown to hate that name but I tried not to show it.

“Did you know Howard Wordley?” I asked.

“Is this official?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? Shit, Charley, if you should stick me up on the witness stand as your main witness, there goes my job, my pension, and God knows what else.”

“Look, Cecil, if you had information that would save an innocent person, wouldn't you come forward?”