Death Penalty (24 page)

“And, if this is a legal problem, maybe you can find someone who can help you. A judge, an old friend, someone you can trust. There's usually somebody if you think hard enough.”

I nodded.

“And, if it's something you can't change, accept it.”

WHEN I GOT TO THE
office Friday morning I half expected another message from Mallow, but he hadn't called. Mrs. Fenton broke the silence barrier, but her voice still carried the bitter tinge of lingering resentment.

She had prepared coffee. At least it was warm.

According to the previous day's obituary, Howard Wordley was being laid to his final rest even as I sat behind my desk. He had been laid out at P. J. Anderson's, bullet holes artfully concealed by deft cosmetology, for the public to express their sorrow.

Howard himself wasn't much of a draw. Car dealers who extracted the last dime from their customers seldom were, but Mrs. Claire Wordley brought out the crowds. I had heard the funeral home had been packed with numerous delegations from the charities she supported, the businesses she owned, and from fellow members of exclusive clubs to which she belonged.

P. J. Anderson's was handling the whole show, which meant Howard would be transported for his last ride not in a Mercedes but rather in a Cadillac hearse, since that was the only kind Anderson owned. It seemed like a final
irony, being transported by the opposition company. Nearly on a par with being shot by a gun he himself had loaded.

I didn't attend. Lawyers defending people who are responsible for the funeral being held in the first place are seldom welcome. Anyway, I never did like Wordley.

I sipped my coffee and watched the river. It was funeral weather, heavy, gray clouds and a slight drizzle. The kind of weather that provokes somber thoughts.

It had been a bad night for me. I slept, but it seemed only in half-hour intervals. The Mallow problem curled through my mind like a twisting snake.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that he had been lying. When he called again, I would tell him just that, as I had before, and turn down his bogus offer.

Still, the possibility loomed before me: maybe he wasn't lying.

I gulped down the coffee and got to work.

Stash Olesky called to inform me that his new leader had finally made a decision on what Becky was to be charged with. Olesky said it was to be second degree, since Becky had made no statement and they really couldn't show she had gone to get the gun as Stash had surmised.

That in and of itself was a victory of sorts. Becky, even if she pled guilty, was probably looking at eight years as a practical matter. The hope of eventual freedom beat no hope at all.

Stash asked about the examination.

In Michigan there are two ways to bring a person before the bar for trial. The first is by grand jury indictment. The second, and more popular, is by a charge by the prosecutor to be heard in open court at a hearing called a preliminary examination. A judge determines then if a crime has been committed and if there are reasonable
grounds to believe the defendant may have done the dirty deed.

Holding a formal examination in Becky's case would serve no purpose. I already knew what kind of a case they had against her and I didn't want to give her a chance to plead guilty before I had a crack at dickering for a lesser plea or sentence.

“I'll waive the examination, Stash,” I said. “I'll put it in writing and drop it off today, if you like.”

“Monday's good enough,” he said. “Look, Charley, my boss tells me I'm not to consider manslaughter. And, if a plea is offered, the term of punishment is to be left up to the judge. I will have no discretion. I wanted you to know that. Now, having been informed, do you still want to waive examination?”

“Suppose I got the widow to okay manslaughter?”

“He might change his mind. You should know that he changes his mind about every three minutes. Still, even then, I doubt he'd want to risk any criticism. He might be afraid the sentencing judge might have some unkind words.”

“Suppose I got the judge to agree, too?”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“Charley, the case will go to Evola. He's set up for the next major felony. It's the vacation season, after all. He's the only judge around.”

“Damn.”

“You should have been nicer to him in the Harwell trial.”

“Fuck him.”

He laughed. “If that's your thing, Charley. But what about the examination? Still want to waive?”

I couldn't think of a thing I could do for Becky by insisting on an examination.

“I'll still waive, Stash.”

“Okay. To tell you the truth, Charley, I don't think you've got a chance at trial. I know you're good, but unless you've got one of your famous tricks up your sleeve, poor Becky is a goner.”

“What, Stash, are you worried?”

“Not me, Charley. I got sleeves too.”

I KEPT BUSY THE REST OF THE DAY
, although most of it turned out to be make-work. Every time the phone rang, I kept thinking it would be Mallow. I had geared myself up to talk to him, to get it over with, but each time it was someone else.

I didn't call him because I figured he might interpret such a call as a hooded invitation to negotiate. I didn't want any ambiguity about what I planned to do.

Several times I considered calling Judge Palmer himself, to let him know how his name was being used. Once, I even looked up his number. But the haunting thought that he might actually be involved stopped me, although I was almost positive that couldn't be the case.

Almost
was the key word.

I made up my mind to wait for Mallow.

Mrs. Fenton went home, as usual, precisely at five. I waited around until it was time to pick up Sue Gillis for our dinner date.

I took a couple of calls, people who wanted appointments. But no Mallow.

My anxiety level escalated with every call. I tried to think of the serenity prayer. It wasn't helping.

I took Sue to a small restaurant on Lake St. Clair. It was the kind of place that looked awful from the outside. A large shack, half of it hanging out over the water, held up by ancient and insecure piles. Peeling paint, warped
wood, and rusting gutters only added to the negative impression.

Inside, it was better, but not much, with mismatched tables and old kitchen chairs.

Tourists took one look and drove on. The locals knew that when the cook wasn't drunk, the fish he prepared was probably the best in the world.

I had called to make reservations. It was done in two stages. First, I asked if Harry the cook was drinking. If he was, there would be lots of tables available. No local went there to eat when Harry was loaded. The girl on the phone sounded as though she were giving a weather report. I was told Harry was stone cold sober and it looked like that dry condition might just last at least into the early evening. There was one table left for eight o'clock; there had been a cancellation, so I grabbed it.

By the time we got there, Harry was nipping but still straight enough to prepare two perch dinners of a quality that would make the best cordon bleu chef resign from sheer envy.

The place was packed with locals. Everyone knew everyone else.

Sue had some former customers in attendance—a couple who ran a very successful sex therapy business until they were convicted of prostitution. Sue said the man was doing well as a boat salesman. His partner, a flashy and fleshy blonde who laughed a lot, was doing secretarial work. Sue wasn't entirely convinced that therapy sessions weren't still being offered to selected customers. But we were all out for a social evening, not business, so cordial waves of hello was how it went.

A man I had gotten a divorce for sent over drinks, a martini for Sue and an orange juice for me. He was with a hard-eyed woman half his age. The way she looked at him seemed to me like the way a Bedouin might look at a particularly
promising camel. I figured there might be even additional divorce business sometime in the future. We saluted each other with raised glasses across the crowded room.

Harry came out of his kitchen to say hello. He was a steady client of mine. He no longer had a driver's license, no one could have saved that, not with the number of convictions he had accrued, but I had managed to keep him out of jail, except for a night or two, for assorted assaults and other numerous disturbances of the peace.

Harry's nipping was obviously increasing in frequency and amount, and I pitied the later diners who would come and find that Harry's culinary magic had floated away, lost in an alcoholic fog.

I had tried several times to get Harry into the club, but he wasn't interested. I suspected that one day he would topple over into a giant skillet, and there, amid bubbling butter and onions, he would sauté his soul into the hands of that great maître d' in the sky.

“Something's bothering you,” Sue said after we had eaten and were sipping coffee.

“Why do you say that?”

“You're unusually quiet.”

“Maybe you're seeing the real me, ever think of that?”

“If it's the Becky Harris case,” she said, “I can't talk about it, you know that.”

“It's not that.”

“What then?”

“Nothing.”

“A family problem? Your daughter?”

“No.”

She raised the coffee cup to her lips, watching me.

I smiled, trying to look as though I hadn't a care in the world.

She just shook her head. “If you refuse to talk, I can take you back to my place and force it out of you.”

“Blackjack and handcuffs?”

“You know, Charley, sometimes I wonder about you.”

SHE DIDN'T USE ANY
weapons or restraints, and we made love in the most gentle fashion. I had almost forgotten my problem, and she, thankfully, had forgotten to continue to pry.

My secret, such as it was, remained mine.

I spent the night, but Sue had to go to work Saturday morning, so after a quick cup of coffee with her I went back to my own place to clean up. It was raining softly and the air had the chill feel of another all-day drizzle.

The red light on my answering machine was blinking. I wondered if it might be Mallow.

I played back the messages. One was from a former client who wanted to get a divorce. Even on the short message tape, I could hear his wife screaming at him in the background. I thought the call was more for effect than a serious inquiry about my legal services. He said he would call my office on Monday.

The other was from an old friend, Jason Bishop, a judge who was lining up a St. Benedict alumni golf outing, who asked if I might be interested. He left his home phone number.

It was while I was taking my shower that I realized that Judge Bishop knew all the players in my little drama, and he knew them well. Including me. He was one of the centers in the so-called St. Benedict Mafia.

To his face, he was called Judge. To his close friends, Jase. But other than face-to-face encounters, he was known to bench, bar, and press as The Bishop.

It wasn't only because of his last name. He looked like a bishop, or at least Hollywood's idea of a British bishop. He was rotund, with a wisp of white hair that lay like a low halo around the back of his head. He wore tiny reading
glasses that were perpetually perched near the tip of his nose. His face was forever solemn. A small, tight smile was the only expression he ever allowed himself, although, in fact, he had a wild sense of humor He favored black suits, which contributed to the priestly look. It was as if he had been conjured up by the casting directors for Masterpiece Theatre. He had everything but the traditional gaiters.

Always, he spoke quietly—even in the midst of the most violent courtroom battle. But his words carried surprising force, empowered by a superior intellect, quick mind, and an uncanny knowledge of people in all walks of life. His gentle eyes, a blue as pale as milk glass, seemed to see more than any other eyes.

He had sent me to jail once for contempt when I got carried away in a trial before him. I sat in a cell for an hour, which, together with my apology, had constituted what he considered adequate punishment.

Over the years, even during my most turbulent times, he had become my friend, and later, one of my advisers.

He was as much a state political fixture as had been his father before him. The elder Bishop, a legendary state senator, had been one of the most powerful men in Michigan. His son, the judge, was the same. There wasn't anyone who held important office in the state whom he didn't know and who didn't know him.

They might kid about The Bishop, but I had never heard anyone speak of him with anything but respect.

He was a wise man.

Bob Williams had suggested that I might seek out someone, someone I could talk to, someone I could trust, someone I could talk to in confidence about my situation.

I toweled off.

Before I even had a chance to give it a second thought, I dialed The Bishop's number.

The last time I had seen The Bishop had been at his wife's funeral, almost a year before. Since then, he had moved from the big house in Grosse Pointe to a smaller condo only a few blocks away. He gave me the new address.

It was about an hour's drive from Pickeral Point, and he invited me for lunch. Saturday, he said, was customarily reserved for golf, but the rain had washed that plan away. He said his only other alternative was to sit around the golf club and play cards. He liked golf, but he didn't like cards, so he sounded genuinely glad to have something else to do.

I didn't give him a clue about why I had called.

The drive down wasn't bad, the rain wasn't that hard, although the mist thrown up by big trucks made passing hazardous.

I wondered if I was really doing the right thing.

In the shower, my looking for The Bishop's advice seemed like an inspiration. Now driving in an entirely different cascade of water, I wondered about the wisdom.