Death Penalty (6 page)

“Let him. You have nothing to worry about.”

“We'll see. Women, boats, no matter what, if you love something enough it makes you crazy.”

I finished my soda and flipped the can. Only I missed. I walked over and stuffed it into the wastebasket.

“You going?”

“I've got things to do.”

“Okay. You owe me sixty-five cents for the pop.”

“Nice of you. What about my legal advice?”

“Hey, I can get that free in any bar in town. There's always a drunken lawyer or two around who wants to show off. On the other hand, the soda pop has value.”

“Put it on my tab.”

He grinned, showing the missing teeth. “What the hell, I'm a softy. We'll call it even.”

I left. It wasn't the first sixty-five-cent fee I had earned. Sometimes my advice went for even less.

Out in the boatyard I detected the faint odor of burnt wood, an aftereffect of the explosion. It mixed in well with all the other aromas.

I saw a man working with a sander on a hull of an old boat that sat on wooden supports. I presumed he was Snodgrass. I waved, but his concentration was total and he didn't see me.

He was making a kind of love with that sander, not sexual, nothing like that, more the kind of love that Michelangelo might have put into that famous ceiling. Every brushstroke a caress.

I wondered what Snodgrass would do for the object of his love. From the look of satisfied rapture, probably anything.

For some reason, I felt more lonely than before.

BACK AT MY APARTMENT
the little red light on my answering machine was blinking. Each blink in the series represented a recorded call and message. Any voice, even a recorded one, was welcome in my present mood.

I filled a Manhattan glass with ice and diet ginger ale. It looked like the real thing and I sipped it as if it were. Then I sat down by the phone and pushed the button to summon the genie of the tape.

The first call was my insurance man reminding me that a premium would be due in a few days and asking me to come in to reconstruct my insurance package. Fat chance. He had already talked me into more coverage than I could ever need.

The second call was from Mrs. Emily Proder. Mrs. Proder had stipped in the local supermarket and fractured her wrist. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in her seventy years. I was suing the store on her behalf, and I had carefully explained it might be months, perhaps years before we got a settlement or judgment. That had been a week ago. She called every day. If she missed me at the office she called my apartment. She was one of the reasons I was considering getting an unlisted number again. A hungry lawyer looks for every advantage to bring in business, a listed phone is one. A successful attorney always makes sure his home number is unlisted. I was slowly becoming successful again, so I was rethinking the telephone situation.

The third recorded message was different.

“Mr. Sloan, my name is Rebecca Harris. You know me, I think. I'm a waitress at the Pickeral Point Inn. I go by the name of Becky there.” She had paused. Her voice sounded strained, not an uncommon thing for people who need to call lawyers after business hours.

“I need to see you,” she continued. She gave the phone number. I jotted it down on the pad I kept by the phone.

All the waitresses at the inn tended to look alike. Harry Sims, the manager who did the hiring there, liked older blondes, women who had once been beauties and who, while still pretty, had the tested look of old cars, worn some but carefully maintained. The attitude of the inn's waitresses, apparently by policy, was friendly but not familiar, at least that was the attitude I saw on the rare occasions I went there to eat.

I tried to conjure up a Becky.

I thought I knew which one she was. If I was correct, Becky was a tall woman who, while trim, had a sturdy look to her, the kind for whom toting a heavy tray isn't much of a chore. The one I was thinking of seemed tough and wore her blond hair pulled back into a stylish ponytail.

Like most ex-drunks I have a soft spot for waitresses. For most of us, they, along with bartenders, constituted the major social contact of our lives, a kind of extended family. Waitresses dealt with all kinds of people, good and bad, and seemed, generally, to be tolerant of drunks. Which was a nice quality if you happened to be a drunk.

I dialed the number. It rang several times and then I heard a blip and a recorded message. It was the same voice, but the prerecorded tone was untroubled and rather bouncy.

The little bleep sounded and I spoke. “This is Charley Sloan, Ms. Harris. If you're unable to get back to me tonight, I'll be at my office tomorrow morning. You can reach me there. Thank you.”

I hung up.

I smiled. Just have your machine call my machine and set up an appointment. It was a wonderful age in which to be alive.

I sipped my drink and pretended.

Mrs. Fenton, my secretary, was at the office when I arrived. Every morning at nine o'clock precisely she appeared. I always got the impression when I arrived later that she felt I was late, even though I was the boss. She never said anything. The disapproval was in her expression.

“I made an appointment for you. A Rebecca Harris. She'll be here in a few minutes.”

“Did she say what her trouble is?”

Mrs. Fenton frowned. “I never ask. You know that.”

“Sometimes they volunteer things.”

“She didn't.”

Much to my annoyance, Mrs. Fenton had once again straightened up my desk. Everything was in perfect square piles. The problem was I didn't know what was in which pile. I had spoken to her and politely asked her to
curb her neatness compulsion, at least as far as my desk was concerned, but it did no good.

I fished out a yellow pad so I would have something to make notes on when Rebecca Harris arrived.

Big corporations, when they have legal problems, seek out the big law firms that specialize in big firms and big bucks. People come to a lawyer like me when the old man has blackened their eye and they want out of marriage, or when the bills are choking them to death and they're thinking about bankruptcy. Some have been injured in an accident, some fired by a boss they consider biased or unfair. Some want to make a will or attack one made by a dead relative. There are as many reasons as human beings. Many, if not most, of the people who come looking for me do so because some cop or prosecutor has voiced the suspicion they have done something the law considers bad, bad enough to spend some time in prison. Fear, anger, or greed, and sometimes a mix of all three, are the root reasons people come to a lawyer like me.

I wondered what reason propelled Rebecca Harris. I didn't have long to ponder.

Mrs. Fenton ushered her into my office and then shut the door discreetly behind her.

I did recognize her, although she looked very different dressed in something besides the black dress uniform all the waitresses at the inn wore. She had on well-cut slacks and a black sweater. A puffy silk scarf covered her throat. She carried a black raincoat. She was the one I thought she was, hair pulled back and all.

Her hand was warm but her grip tentative as I directed her to a chair in front of my desk.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“Yes. It's good to see you again. May I call you Becky?”

She nodded.

“How may I help you, Becky?”

“I'm not sure that you can.”

“Tell me your problem and we'll see.”

“It's, well, embarrassing.”

I tried to look reassuring. “Everything you tell me is confidential. Just relax and tell me the problem.”

She studied me for a moment, as if trying to make a decision and then she finally spoke. “I've been raped,” she said without any evident emotion.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Yes. The sheriffs office here.”

“And?”

“They said they'd do an investigation.”

“Becky, you had better tell me what happened, from the very beginning.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it, expelling a large cloud of white smoke. I noticed that her hands trembled slightly. “I'm trying to stop,” she said. “But I'm just too nervous to think about that now.”

“Understandable. Go on.”

“Do you know Howard Wordley?”

“The car dealer?”

She nodded. “He did it.”

I didn't laugh, although just the visual picture of Howard Wordley as a rapist was hilarious. He owned Wordley's World of World Class Cars, a dealership that handled all imported luxury cars, plus a few upscale Japanese models. I had met him a few times at civic functions. Wordley I thought was approaching seventy, a short stout little man with a jaunty bantam cock swagger and little beady eyes, eyes that seemed predatory. He resembled a bowling ball with legs, and he wore his white hair cut short, military style. Becky was a half-foot taller.

She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and continued. “It happened the night before last.”

“Where?”

“In the parking lot behind the inn.”

“Your car?”

She shook her head. “His car.”

“Go on.”

“He was going to drive me home. When I got in his car he wanted to make love. I didn't. He started to get rough and I tried to get out. He tore my uniform and hit me.”

“He's not very big,” I said softly.

She didn't seem offended. “That's true, but he's surprisingly strong.”

“Go on.”

“I tried to fight him but he grabbed my throat. I couldn't breathe. I passed out. I suppose it was only for a moment. When I came to, he was on top of me. Finishing off, if you understand.”

I nodded. “Did you call the police then?”

“No. He told me it wouldn't do any good. He thought it was funny. He let me out and one of the other girls drove me home.”

“And you then called the police?”

She shook her head. “Not then. I did yesterday, when I woke up. They came to my house. They took me to the hospital. It was all very embarrassing. Humiliating, really.”

“Did they talk to Wordley?”

“I don't know. They said they would.”

“How was it that you came to get in his car that night?”

She shrugged. “He often picks me up after work.”

“Boyfriend?”

She drew on the cigarette before answering. “I'm forty-eight years old, Mr. Sloan. I've been married three times. Nothing to show for any of it, no money, no children. As you probably know, there aren't many available men up
here in Pickeral Point, at least not for single ladies my age.”

She crushed out the cigarette. “Howard is married. He never meant to leave his wife, I knew that. He was, how shall I say it, just someone to pass the time with.”

“Did you ever sleep with him?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Often?”

“I've been seeing Howard for approximately three months. I have slept with him.” She paused. “At first he used to take me to a place just past Port Huron, a nice little beach motel and restaurant. It was nice, dinner, drinks and then the motel.”

“And then?”

She sighed. “The dinner and drinks were eliminated. The motel, too. He just wanted me to service him occasionally in the parking lot.”

“Did you?”

She looked away and nodded.

“And this time you said no.”

“I have that right, I believe.”

“You do.”

“I wonder,” she replied.

“What do you want me to do, Becky? Sue Wordley?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What then?”

She looked as if she might cry, but then she got back in control. “I just want justice,” she said in a near whisper. “Howard is a big man up here, an important man. I just don't want him to think he can get away with doing something like that to me.”

“The sheriffs office is professional. I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. If they think they have a case, they'll prosecute. But cases like this are extremely difficult to prove. It boils down to one person's word against the other. Without more, there's no real way they can show a crime really happened.”

“Like what?”

“Becky, without a witness who heard screams, or proof of a weapon, it's difficult to prove something like this. If there had been injuries, then it might be something else.”

“Like this,” she asked as she gingerly pulled the silk scarf away from her throat. Her exposed skin was as indigo as spoiled meat, streaked with yellowish red. The flesh was puffy and swollen. It looked as if someone had tried to twist her head off.

“Jesus!”

“I said he was strong. The doctors told me I was lucky he didn't fracture my neck. Or break my ribs. My chest is all black and blue. They took X rays at the hospital but nothing was broken. It hurts to turn my head, or even breathe.”

“Who did you talk to at the sheriffs?”

“A detective Maguire and a woman, I think she's a detective, too, her name is Gillis.”

“I know them both. They're both very competent. Sue Gillis handles sex crimes. You're in good hands. You don't need me.”

“Howard's lawyer called and demanded that I drop the whole thing.”

“Who is the lawyer?”

“Victor Trembly. Do you know him?”

Trembly, a criminal lawyer with offices in Port Huron, had a reputation slightly more murky than my own. His was earned.

“I know him.”

“I'm afraid, Mr. Sloan.”

“You don't need to be, Becky. The court will handle everything.”

“I don't trust the courts, to be frank.”

I smiled. “Sometimes it pays to be wary, but I think you're safe enough in this case. They're pretty honest up here. The courts are really the foundation of our government.
If the foundation is rotten, the whole house comes falling down.”