Death Penalty (25 page)

Jason Bishop had graduated from St. Benedict with Franklin Palmer, and was only a year or two ahead of Jeffrey Mallow. Bishop had been elected as a Wayne County Circuit judge almost before his law diploma was dry, thanks to his politician father. He had helped many others, including his old classmates, to attain high political office. I wondered if talking to him about Franklin Palmer and Jeffrey Mallow might turn out to be one of the biggest blunders of my life.

No question, he was an oddity. Judge Bishop could easily have gone up the judicial ladder but had turned down a federal judgeship as well as a nomination to the state supreme court. He liked what he did and where he did it. If power and influence were money, he would be a very rich man. But The Bishop lived comfortably, quite content on his judicial salary. For him, wealth, like ambition, apparently held little allure.

His condo was a luxury row house built during the 1930s, the units looking like something you'd see in the older, more elegant streets of Philadelphia or Baltimore.

I located his number, parked the car, and jogged through the rain toward the front door.

There he was, opening the door, before I even got there.

From the waist on up, he looked more like a bishop than ever, wearing a gray pullover with a white collar buttoned at the neck. The impression was definitely clerical.

But from the waist down, things were different.

He wore garish plaid trousers, golfing attire, I presumed. The plaid was woven of sickly reds and decaying greens. If an animal looked like that, a vet would have put the poor thing to sleep.

I'm of average height, more or less, and The Bishop was several inches shorter.

He shook my hand solemnly and led me through his rather sparse living room into a small kitchen, a room that had the look and feel of where he did most of his living.

“You've saved me from a fate worse than death, Charley,” he said in his surprisingly soft voice. “I faced a day of pinochle with dullards who don't understand the game.”

He gestured to a kitchen chair. “I've prepared sandwiches, complete with pickles and fixings. Now what to drink, eh? I have coffee, tea, soft drinks, beer, liquor, even bottled water. That's courtesy of my daughter, who thinks tap water is poisonous and designer water is just like being in heaven.”

“Coffee's fine, Judge.”

“Still in the program, I take it, Charles?”

I nodded.

“Good. Would it bother you if I had a beer?”

“Not at all.”

He had gone to some trouble with the sandwiches. Apparently from living alone he was learning about kitchens and cooking. The coffee was a special blend, imported, and tasted like it.

“I called a number of the St. Benedict crowd about the golf outing, Charley. But you're the only one who responded immediately. Have you become a devotee of the game, by any chance?”

“I don't play anymore. It frustrates me, frankly.”

He nodded, as though I had just said something terribly profound.

“The game was created by God to teach man humility,” he said. “If you're not here as a golfer, Charley, may I inquire what dark need my phone call unearthed?”

I watched as he sipped his beer. Suddenly I felt the need to drink. I looked away.

“I need some advice,” I said.

“Advice is like flatulence, Charley. I'm full of it.” He stood up, poured out the beer, and in its place, took coffee.

“You didn't have to do that,” I said.

“I know. Now, Charley, let's hear your problem.”

Looking into those soft blue eyes had a hypnotic effect on me. I began awkwardly, but soon, soothed into comfort, I told my story, beginning with Mickey Monk's request through my latest conversation with Jeffrey Mallow.

He listened as though we were in court, nodding occasionally, asking a few questions, but otherwise evidencing no discernible reaction.

Finally, I was finished.

He poured fresh coffee for us both, then sat down and studied me for a moment before speaking.

“I was a senior in law school when Jeff Mallow was a freshman. We go back a long way.”

My heart sank. Maybe I had managed to pick the wrong wise man.

“In those days, Charley, after admission to the bar, the law practice was a lot tougher to get into. Most of our boys went into work as insurance adjusters, things like that, something to bring in a steady income while they ran around like mad dogs trying to dig up clients. Some made it, some didn't. Darwin didn't have to travel all the way to the Galapagos Islands. He could have studied one of St. Benedict's old graduating classes. He would have learned all he needed to know about the survival of the fittest.”

He got up. “How about a cigar, Charley?”

I shook my head. “That's something I gave up, too.”

“You'll be sprouting white wings any day now. It's my last vice, and I cling to it, despite my doctor and my children. I limit myself to two cigars a day.”

He produced a cigar that was long enough to lift a truck. It was the equal of three normal cigars. He lit it
with a kitchen match, then turned on the blower over his kitchen range. The cloud of smoke was sucked up, but the pungent aroma still permeated the small room.

He studied the glowing tip as a doctor might inspect a lab specimen. Satisfied, he drew again on the cigar, blew out the smoke, and continued.

“I was lucky, of course. My father got me a job with the prosecutor and then had me appointed to this job when old Judge Herbert got caught with a lady—not his wife—and resigned.”

He smiled at the memory. “The old man rigged the thing. He didn't frame Herbert, but as soon as it happened, he saw a way he could provide a lifetime job for his son, and he did.”

He laughed. “He had a vote the governor needed. Badly. Very badly. Cynics might call it selling out. Even extortion. In any event, I got the job, and I have had it now for forty-two years.”

He fondled the cigar. “We were a tight group, those of us who survived old St. Benedict. I used my new position and power to help my classmates and friends. Frank Palmer was one. Jeff Mallow was another.”

“Judge, I'm sorry if I've . . .”

The Bishop shook his head, indicating that I should remain silent.

“Frank Palmer got a job as criminal law professor at the school. They do that now with nationwide searches when they need a professor. Then, it didn't pay much, and it was considered a part-time job for one of us who needed it. Frank did, and he got it.

“Later, as you know, he was appointed to the appellate bench. I had something to do with that, not a lot, but I helped.”

As he drew in another long puff, the cigar tip glowed an oddly vibrant red. “Jeff Mallow followed the same career track, more or less.

“You have to understand, Charley, we were all Detroit boys, mostly from the working class, and we didn't have many friends besides ourselves. We tended to cling together, a sort of ragtag, self-help society, if you will.”

I nodded. The same thing had applied to my own graduating class.

“Jeff Mallow was always a little brash, but likable. Did you know why he quit as chief judge of the appellate court?”

“To join Armstead Meade, so the papers said.”

The Bishop nodded. “True enough—Armstead, Meade, Slocum and Herman, the biggest law firm in the state, and the most expensive. They took him on as a full partner, too. Of course, he was bringing something to that firm far more valuable than his former judicial title.”

“Oh?”

“Jeff had managed to persuade our most famous and most affluent alumnus, Jacques Mease, the wizard of Wall Street, to sign aboard as his client. Obviously, Mease's business would mean millions of dollars in future legal fees, so Armstead Meade grabbed Jeff Mallow like a hungry cat might go after a big fat fish.”

He chuckled, but there was a sadness in that sound. “Unfortunately for all concerned, about a month later, the feds dropped the net on Mease. As you know, he turned in almost everyone but his mother. Did a year. Kept millions. Escaped to the South Seas.”

“Mallow must have made some money before that happened,” I interjected, “perhaps as a defense lawyer for Mease?”

The Bishop shook his head. “Not a penny. Mease made his own deals with the feds. Of course, having lost the fat fish as a client, Armstead Meade showed Jeffrey the door so fast he didn't know what hit him.

“He's been going downhill ever since. He talks like he
owns the world, but he's almost bankrupt. I understand he's about to file.”

“So that's why he's so desperate for money?”

The Bishop nodded, then relit the cigar.

“Jeffrey,” he said through the smoke, “has borrowed from every one of us, some more than others. He has, financially, hit the very bottom.”

“Judge, what should I do? If I turn him in, it's his word against mine. Financial problems or no, I wouldn't be believed.”

“You could turn him in and wear a wire.”

For one long minute, I thought he had to be joking.

“That would eliminate the credibility problem,” he said.

I shook my head. “No. I'm not a cop. The man's desperate. He's running a fraud. God, maybe if I were in his shoes I might do the same. I'll just tell him it's no deal, and let it go at that. Besides, lawyers who blow the whistle on judges, even ex-judges, aren't the most welcome people in court. It could hurt me worse than him. Anyway, there's no point in doing it.”

“It's your decision to make, obviously.” The Bishop nodded slowly, then spoke again, this time in an even softer voice. “Charley, I would appreciate it if you'd keep me advised on this.” The last was spoken in a voice that was just above a whisper, but there was no question that the statement had the snap of a command.

“Sure. If you like. But, given what you've told me, there's no real problem. I'll just tell him to go to hell, and that's the end of it.”

I got up. “Well, then, thanks for the lunch and the advice.”

“Any time. Tea and sympathy, that's my true calling.”

He walked me to the door. “Let me know as soon as you hear from Jeffrey.”

“Any special reason?”

“Perhaps.”

“Like what, if you don't mind telling?”

“I'm interested. Frank Palmer also has been borrowing heavily.”

There it was again, the same quiet voice.

DRIVING BACK TO PICKERAL POINT
, every bar I passed seemed to be blinking a special invitation just for me. I saw the cars parked in front of the places. I knew inside it would be cool, dark, and a baseball game would be on the television above the bar. A man could forget trouble there for a while. Just sip and watch the game, the mind out of gear, human intelligence coasting.

I could even conjure up the tart taste of a fresh, cold beer.

Thoughts like that were dangerous.

There were no Saturday AA meetings unless I drove all the way back into Detroit, and there were a lot of saloons to pass before I got there. Sue Gillis was staying overnight at her sister's in Toledo. Bob Williams was away at a medical seminar.

I had two choices. I could go to my office and watch the rain on the river, or I could go to my apartment and watch the rain on the parking lot.

I needed someone to talk to, and not the guy who happened to be sitting on the next bar stool.

So I drove to Herb Goldman's Marina.

Despite the rain, the parking lot was surprisingly almost full, although it looked as if most of the boats were still in their wells.

I jogged through the drizzle to Herb's office. It didn't look like an office, it looked more like a dumpster that needed emptying.

He was seated in an old chair staring out the window. His oil-stained clothing looked exactly the same. If he had
more than one set, they all had to be identical. He turned and his yellow eyes inspected me suspiciously.

Uninvited, I stepped in and found another battered chair, cleared it of papers, and sat down.

“You see 'em out there?” he asked.

“The boat owners?”

He nodded. “They're all out there in their little bitty boats, snug and sipping beer or bourbon or whatever, telling each other they're having a helluva good time.”

He sighed. “The problem is, they probably are.”

He squinted. “What brings you here?”

“Thinking about people drinking.”

He nodded slowly. “Maybe it's something in the air.” He gestured toward the boats. “Usually, it doesn't bother me. Today it does.”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“As I see it,” he said, “you and I got two choices.”

“And they are?”

“We can walk over to O'Hara's saloon, get blind, stinking drunk, ruin our lives, and end up as street bums.”

“Sounds good. What's the other?”

He stood up. “We can go fishing.”

“It's raining.”

“It just so happens, I got rain gear in my boat.”

Much of Herb Goldman's wealth comes from the water, so I presumed his boat would match both his affluence and his vocation.

I was wrong.

We climbed into an overlarge metal rowboat, badly dented, powered by an outboard engine that looked like the inventor's original model. I slipped into a rubberized poncho that smelled of oil and dead fish. Herb loaded on a bucket of minnows and a six-pack of diet Pepsi.

The engine sounded like an airplane, but the motor took us out into the river.

“Do you swim?” Herb asked.

“Not all that well.”

He kicked a life preserver to me. “Put it on,” he said. “I understand there's some kind of medal they give for drowning lawyers, but I'm too busy to go to the ceremony.”

The rain became more intense and the wind was causing choppy waves.

Herb quickly and expertly rigged two trolling rods and gave one to me. The rods were the only equipment that looked as if someone cared. Well used, they had the feel of a loved and polished weapon.