Death Penalty (40 page)

If they came after my license, Henry Sheridan would be my lawyer.

I might not win, but I would go down swinging.

THE REST OF MONDAY
seemed to move along but at a snail's pace. I saw clients, made necessary phone calls,
and dictated a few letters. I tried to keep busy so that dark and dreadful thoughts would be kept at bay.

It didn't work too well.

I took Sue Gillis to dinner. Nothing fancy, just hamburgers at the local greasy spoon, my restaurant of choice.

She was trying her best to be bright and cheery. The story of my antics at the examination were being woven into one of those cop legends. The way she was telling what she'd heard, I could see that in a few days the poor policewoman would be reported as being topless, at the very least.

She asked if I had heard from anyone.

I knew what she meant. I said no.

We both tried to make conversation but there were long and painful pauses, silences neither of us knew how to fill.

“When are you going up to Broken Axe?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tuesday? The examination isn't until Thursday, right?”

“I want to have all Wednesday free up there. There's a lot of things I have to do.”

“Like what?”

“I have to take a look at the official autopsy report. If I'm not satisfied or need to know something, I can call a doctor here or see one up there.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not a doctor. I gathered a lot of knowledge at Doctor Stewart's first trial, but I may need some background on the more technical findings, if it's new, the blood work and so forth. Besides, I may want to question some of the prosecution's witnesses.”

“Will they allow that?”

“Probably. They're pretty confident. And, I have to talk to my client.”

“I thought you didn't like him.”

I smiled. “I don't like him. He doesn't like me. But that's not important. I've taken a job and I'll do my best. You'd be surprised at some of the people I've defended in the past.”

“You mean people you didn't like?”

“Actually, I liked most of them. You know, when a burglar's not climbing through a window he can be as charming as the nextguy.”

“But not Doctor Death?”

“Charming is not a word that would pop into my mind when asked for a word association with the good doctor.”

“Will you win, Charley?”

“I don't think so. Apparently, this time they really have a case. I'll give it my best shot, but I expect he'll be bound over for trial.”

“First-degree murder?”

“Maybe. I might be able to get it down a notch, but it all depends on how their witnesses do on the stand. The judge is an old law school buddy, he might give me a small gift, but the coin could fall either way.”

“St. Benedict?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Like The Bishop, Palmer, and Mallow.”

“Younger, but yeah, a graduate, like them. And me.”

“Do you suppose he might . . .”

“What?”

The frown deepened. “This Bishop apparently has a long arm, Charley. Maybe you shouldn't take anything up there for granted.”

“That's really paranoid.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Judges, like cops or doctors, stick together, Charley. I'm just saying you should know that and you should be careful.”

We finished and then had coffee at her apartment.

Again, conversation was strained, and sex was obviously out of the question.

I kissed her good night and left.

As I drove home, I began to think that maybe this paranoia thing might be contagious.

I began to wonder if she might just be right.

I would be careful. Very careful.

I MADE A STAB
at doing some work on Tuesday, but my mind was on other things. When I wasn't thinking of my own situation, I was thinking of how I could best defend Miles Stewart.

Finally, after lunch, I gave up. I told Mrs. Fenton I was going and wouldn't be back until Friday. I didn't tell her I might be spending Friday night in some jail. I thought she just might enjoy that image too much.

I went to my apartment and packed. Then I drove up to Broken Axe. Again, there wasn't much traffic on the two-lane state road going up.

It gave me ample time to think, which this time out wasn't relaxing at all.

It was Tuesday. According to my imaginary and projected timetable, Harry Sabin would be taking Judge Franklin Palmer's statement. Palmer would sink me, if by some chance Mallow hadn't.

There was no way I could stop it, nor could I interfere. It was at this point only an investigation in progress. One that I had caused, and one that I felt would come back at me like a wronged woman.

I tried to think of other things. Even the Buffett tapes didn't help.

It was a long three hours before I pulled into the small Michigan town. It had one hotel, called the Broken Axe Inn, a red brick building that had been there for over a
hundred years according to the date carved above its entrance. It was an old railroad hotel; long ago the railroad had closed, but the hotel apparently served some purpose. It looked as inviting as a jail.

I drove through the small town and saw an old motel. It was a museum piece. It consisted of the owners' home and office and ten small units, one next to another, like rabbit warrens. Despite that, it looked better than the brick antique in town.

The vacancy sign was lit, although the middle letters didn't fully work.

I parked and went into the office. It wasn't much, just a battered counter and a couple of dingy plastic chairs, well worn and cracked.

I could hear the sound of television from somewhere inside. There was no door, just a single-sheeted curtain covering the source of the televised noise.

One of those old-fashioned hand bells, the kind you hit on top with the touch of a button, sat on the counter. I hit it twice.

At first there was no sign that I had been heard, then the sound of grumbling was mixed in with the noise of the television. I recognized the program as a game show. Apparently, amusement in Broken Axe was hard to come by.

A little old man, dressed in an undershirt, slacks, and slippers, shuffled out from behind the curtain. He poked his thick glasses up and stared at me.

“What's ya want?”

“A room,” I said.

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

He looked out at the car, as if trying to see where I was hiding the woman.

“There's two rates,” he said. “Single is twenty-five dollars a night. A double is thirty-five dollars. If you bring a woman in, that counts as a double.”

I smiled. “That's okay, I'm alone.”

“One night.” It was a statement, rather than a question.

“I'll be here at least to Thursday. I may stay over Thursday night. I won't know until then.”

“I can only let you have a room for one night. They've been booked for the rest of the week. We got a big court thing up here and the newspaper people have booked all the rooms.”

“That's why I'm here,” I said, “the big court thing. My name is Sloan. I'm Doctor Miles Stewart's lawyer.”

The old eyes widened, and then he grinned. I was looking at store-bought teeth. “Death's lawyer?”

“Well, we prefer his regular god-given name, but yes.”

“Jeez, that would be something, I mean, you staying here at my place.” The smile vanished. “But I got no room.”

“Suppose you made a mistake,” I said. “Airlines do that all the time. They overbook. You could call one of the people and say you had miscounted. You know, tell them they would have to get another room someplace else. I wouldn't suggest that, but if all the rooms here in town are taken, it would make it very inconvenient if I had to go to Bay City or someplace to sleep every night.”

“That makes sense, but—”

“Suppose I paid you double double?”

“What do you mean?”

“A double is thirty-five dollars. I'd be willing to pay seventy dollars and guarantee you three nights, even if I didn't stay Thursday.”

Money was as important in Broken Axe as it is in New York. Probably more, a whole lot more.

His eyes narrowed conspiratorily. “Up front?”

“I'll give you the money now.”

“I don't know. Who would I bump?”

“Let me see your list.”

He handed me a scrawled list of reservations. They
gave the name and the affiliation. Most of them were television people. A couple were Detroit reporters. One was Sherman Martelle of the
Free Press
. I liked Sherman. He would stay on the list.

But Connie Shine of the
News
was also on the list, the last name on it. Connie, a short loud Irishwoman, thought of herself as the last real reporter. Most of her stories centered on herself. If the pronoun
I
were ever eliminated from the English language, Connie would no longer be able to write, or speak for that matter.

“This woman,” I said to my host, pointing at Connie's name, “is a horrible drunk and troublemaker. She's a walking disaster. If I were you that's the one I'd notify.”

“All drunks are trouble,” he said, not knowing he was talking to a former champion, “but a drunken bimbo is hell on wheels. I know. I married two of them.”

He grinned his plastic grin. “You got yourself a room.”

I paid the money by credit card and wrote out the registration form.

He looked at it with obvious satisfaction.

“Imagine! Death's lawyer, and staying with me!”

I was assigned the last unit, number 10. My host explained that way I'd only have to listen to the noise from one neighbor.

The room, like the motel, was a museum piece, a permanent musty odor being part of its charm. The linoleum floor tiles were curling up in places, and above, the ceiling panels were marked by various stains, all old and unidentifiable. The furniture was mismatched. The small bath had a shower, a tin box with a spigot, and the toilet seat was cracked.
The
wash basin was rusted in places.

But it was home. At least for the next few days.

My bed sagged a bit but was comfortable enough.

I lay down and looked up at the ceiling.

A truck rumbled by on the highway. The place seemed to shake. Somewhere I could hear distant music. I
couldn't tell what was being played but I could catch a few notes of a saxophone sounding very lonely.

Old motel rooms held a kind of fascination for me. I wondered what had happened in this place over the years. Love, hate, despair, the little room had probably been the stage for all kinds of human dramas. Adultery and every other kind of human sexual behavior would have taken place here. Women would have cried here, men would have cursed. A parade of drunks had probably passed out on this bed.

Suicides too. Motels were always popular for that. Maybe even murder, but given the tranquil nature of this small town, probably not. Here, murder would be an occasion, not just a statistic.

All kinds of people before me had stared up at the ceiling. Most of them probably wondered what the future held for them.

Beneath the musty air I thought I detected the lingering odor of fear.

It was the last thought I had before I fell asleep.

Several times during the night, dreams awakened me. Anxiety dreams. I was being chased, threatened, put at peril by one thing or another. Each time I was jolted awake, I took a minute to figure out where I was. When I did, I realized I had enough real anxiety in my life to fuel a year or two of nightmares.

But each time I went back to sleep, so that when morning came, announced by passing trucks that sounded as if they were in the room with me, I was well rested.

The old shower had two kinds of water, red hot and ice cold, with nothing in between. I managed to get clean and still keep my skin on.

I dressed and found a little restaurant in town. A cluster of trucks was parked outside the place, usually a sign
of good food. The drivers learned on their routes which places were good and which bad.

My order of eggs, bacon, and toast came and in a quantity sufficient to feed a platoon. The coffee was excellent and the young waitress seemed to think her existence depended on keeping my cup full.

I had bought a
Free Press
at the door. My case was on the front page, lower left-hand corner. Sherman Martelle had the byline. It was a kind of overview of the history of Dr. Miles Stewart and his brushes with the law. Martelle used the piece as a curtain raiser for what was yet to come in the courthouse at Broken Axe. I got a few good mentions, although I was characterized as “the sometimes controversial defense lawyer.” I chose to think that meant a fighter for truth and justice. Another reader might think it was a way of calling me devious and possibly crooked. Like beauty, different people would see it in different ways.

The bill wasn't much. Prices up here were much different than downstate. I paid and left a generous tip for my hovering waitress.

I stepped out of the restaurant, took a deep breath, and began the first step in my defense of the very famous Doctor Death.

I drove to the courthouse. I wanted to talk to the prosecutor and get a copy of the autopsy report. I parked and was walking toward the entrance when I was intercepted by a very thin, very disreputable-looking man, about forty. He had the kind of evil face usually associated with child molesters. When he grinned, the effect was heightened.

“The great Charley Sloan,” he said, extending a bony hand. He wasn't tall, and a shock of reddish hair stood out on his head like a wild brush. His accent was so Australian that he made Crocodile Dundee sound Polish.

His grip was strong but disgustingly wet.

“What can I do for you?”

“If you recognize me, you know what I want,” he said, in that throw-another-shrimp-on-the-barbee voice.