Death Penalty (7 page)

It sounded good and I meant most of it.

“I'll tell you what, Becky. I'll call Sue Gilli and see if there's any special problems. I don't think there will be. If Trembly calls again, refer him to the cops or to me.”

“What do I owe you?” she asked. “I don't have much money.”

“The phone call to the police will be gratis. If I have to do something more than that, we'll work something out. Okay?”

She carefully replaced the scarf and stood up. “I appreciate this very much. Just talking to you makes me feel better.”

I walked her to the door.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I said.

I hoped I was right.

THE DAY SPED BY
without my accomplishing much. I dictated some letters, made some calls, and saw a man who was having trouble with his teenage son. What he needed was a social worker, not a lawyer, so I gave him the name of the person to call.

I had promised Becky Harris I would call and check on her case. The promise was made merely to make her feel better, but it was a promise.

I called the sheriffs office and asked for Sue Gillis. Sue was a cute little thing who looked very young but was almost forty. She looked more like a school cheerleader than a very experienced cop. She had started life as a registered nurse but had switched careers and gone into police work, beginning as a patrol officer in Pontiac, Michigan. After that she had come up to Pickeral Point and worked as a detective.

She was quiet, and smart. Her schoolgirl looks fooled a
lot of people. And they certainly fooled the guy who tried to rob a local drugstore while she was inside shopping. He wouldn't drop his gun so she blew his brains all over the foot powder display.

From that point on, no one gave Sue Gillis a hard time.

She had been the investigating officer on several cases where I had defended people charged with sex crimes. She was quick to laugh but she could be as tenacious as a bulldog chewing on a postman.

“Mrs. Gillis,” she answered as she came on the line.

“It's Charley Sloan, Sue. How are you?”

“Fine, Charley. What's up?”

“I'm calling on behalf of a client.”

“Which one? It's been a busy day. I have two child molesters and a dick waver. Give me the name.”

“None of the above. This concerns Howard Wordley.”

“I thought Trembly was representing him.”

“He is. Wordley's victim is my client.”

“Rebecca Harris?”

“Is there more than one Wordley victim?”

She chuckled. “Not today. What's your interest?”

“Informal mostly. Becky Harris came to see me. She's worried that Wordley might walk away on this.”

“The investigation's in progress,” she said quickly, maybe too quickly.

“C'mon, Sue, is there a problem here? Did you see her neck?”

There was a pause. “Yes. We took photos. The doctors say she could have been killed.”

“So?”

“I shouldn't be talking to you, Charley.”

Suddenly I was interested. “Why not?”

“You know the rules.”

“Look, tell me off-the-record, okay? You know me, Sue, I'm not going to go off half-cocked.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Also off-the-record?”

“Sure.”

“I didn't go into it very deeply, Sue. She said she started seeing Wordley a couple of months ago. They used to go to a motel for a little sweaty love until Wordley decided he didn't want to waste time and money and asked her to service him in the inn's parking lot. Apparently she did until the other night, and when she refused he grabbed her throat and forced the issue.”

“That's about what she told me, too,” she said.

“Well?”

“We took a statement from Wordley. Trembly was there. Wordley says he's been paying for it.”

“Bull.”

She laughed again. “It's been known to happen. Not everyone is as handsome and attractive as you, Charley.”

“I can't, or won't argue that, Sue, but it's obvious Wordley is lying.”

“Why?”

“They've been having an affair.”

“He says not. He says he's paid for everything he's gotten.”

“Then how come the near strangulation?”

“He said he had sex with her and gave her twenty bucks. He said she wanted more and when he refused she went nuts and tried to stab him. He says he had to fight her off.”

“Well, I suppose there isn't a hell of a lot he could say. Probably Trembly cooked up that story for him. It sounds like something he'd think up.”

“Maybe.”

“Sue, you got serious injuries to the woman. And he admits having sex with her. The injuries substantiate her version. So what's the problem?”

She paused and then spoke in a softer voice. “Well,
Becky Harris has a past conviction for accosting and soliciting.”

“What?”

She sighed. “In Cleveland, about ten years ago.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“I called her after we ran her prints. She said she had some trouble in Cleveland. She tried to deny the conviction, but finally she admitted it.”

“Damn it.”

She laughed. “So, now you can see our little problem, can you?”

“That conviction is older than some of the judges up here. Besides, a woman's past sex life isn't admissible.”

“Charley, it is when it's germane to the defense. He says she was hustling. He can bring it in to support his defense that she was charging for services rendered. She's the complainant, she has to take the stand. A jury would bounce her without blinking an eye, and you know it.”

“How about dropping the rape business and go for assault.”

“Same story, same defense. He might plead to it, but I doubt it. Trembly wouldn't let him. Not under these circumstances.”

“Sue, he damn near killed the woman. You can't let him just walk away.”

“Charley, if he was your client you'd be howling to have the charge dropped.”

She did have a point. “So, what do I tell her?”

“The truth. We're digging into the secret life of Howard Wordley, as you can imagine. If this is part of a dangerous pattern, that could change things. We'll let her know what the prosecutor finally decides.”

“And when will that be?”

“A week, maybe less. I want to check the motel records and a few other things before we go to the prosecutor.”

“So, what's your position going to be?”

She sighed. “I can't get the sight of that woman's throat out of my mind. I'll recommend prosecution, even if I don't think we can really nail him. I'm fair, but not that fair. A few more pounds of pressure and this would have been a murder.”

“Keep me advised, okay?”

“It's odd to find you on our side, Charley. It's disorienting. I'll let you know what I can.”

“Thanks, Sue.”

I hung up.

We had had a change in prosecuting attorneys for Kerry County. Mark Evola, the former prosecutor, had jumped at the chance for appointment as a circuit judge. He believed, because I had beaten him in the Harwell murder trial, that I had ruined all his chances for other political offices. He' was now one of the county's three circuit judges. However, he was up for election in the fall, so he always made it a point to smile at me. But only with his teeth, his eyes never smiled. He would eventually try to stick it to me. I knew that. He knew I knew.

It was now only a matter of time.

The new prosecutor, named to Evola's old job, would also have to run for election in the fall. Until then he was playing everything so safe that nothing even slightly controversial was being considered for official action. The charge of rape against the town's leading auto dealer would be controversial.

Becky didn't have a chance.

MICKEY MONK CALLED
a few minutes after three. He sounded drunk.

“We got a court date. Jesus! I didn't expect it so soon.” His voice was so strained it sounded like he was about to scream. I wondered if he was tipsy or just plain terrified.

“What's the date, Mickey?”

“The twenty-fifth of May. Too fucking soon.”

“We have three weeks before we argue. That's plenty. All the pleadings are in. What are you worried about?”

“Charley, you know what I got riding on this thing. If you don't win this, my ass is grass. My creditors are getting edgy as it is.”

“Relax, Mickey. We'll give it our best shot.”

“You know those guys you read about on death row, the ones waiting for the date with the executioner?”

“Yeah?”

“I know exactly how they feel.”

“This is a hell of a lot different, Mickey.”

“Maybe for you, but not for me. I think maybe a quick death would be preferable to what will happen to me if you lose it.”

He paused and then spoke, this time in a calmer voice. “I think you should meet my client.”

“Why?”

“I think it's important that you see the poor son of a bitch for yourself. It might help when you argue the thing.”

“Can you bring him up here to my office?”

“I can't, Charley. He's a fucking vegetable, damn near. Look, you set the day and we'll drive out to his place.”

“I don't think it's necessary.”

“Maybe not for you, but it is for him. His future rides on this too. It's one thing to tell about someone you've only seen on paper. It's better when you really know the problem, when you've seen it firsthand.”

“I'm pretty busy, Mickey.”

“We're all busy, but this is important. I'm asking as a special favor, Charley.”

I sighed. “Okay. When do you want to go?”

“Next week, Monday. Is that good?”

I flipped through my desk calendar. I had a few things
to do but nothing that couldn't be put off. Mickey sounded as if he was coming apart. I could afford to lose a day, if for no reason other than charitable concern for a brother lawyer.

“Okay,” I said.

“I'll drive up there and pick you up.”

Mickey, I knew, couldn't exist the day without drinking. It would be inconvenient, but safer, if I did the driving.

“I'll pick you up in front of your office building. What time?”

“Ten o'clock okay? It's about an hour's drive from here. We can see the guy and then have lunch. Sort of make a day of it. Like old times.”

“Ten o'clock,” I said and hung up.

I had a bad feeling about the case, although I didn't really know why.

I marked the date and time on the calendar.

I spent the rest of the day preparing for some motions I had the next day in circuit court. The matters weren't earthshaking. I wanted a client's temporary alimony reduced. My client was getting desperate, and poor. He didn't mind a bit of desperation, but without relief he soon would be sleeping in his car. The judge had been divorced twice and I thought we had a fair chance, on empathy if nothing else.

The second motion was to reduce another client's bond. He was a nice quiet little man unless you said something to him in a bar. He didn't need much, maybe just a request to pass an ashtray. Little or not, he regularly inflicted great damage to flesh and property. He was going to trial on his third assault charge, having smashed one nose and broken three bar stools before being subdued. Without booze he was a mild family man who worked as an accounting clerk. Add alcohol and he was transformed into a hundred-and-thirty-pound hurricane.
Bail had been set at $100,000 by the judge who had let him out on probation the last time. He would lose his job if he didn't get out. His wife and children would suffer.

But, despite that, I was just going through the motions. The judge's patience had run out, and my man had as much chance of getting out of jail as I did of winning the lottery.

My preparation for both cases was merely to recheck the pleadings and review what I was going to say.

That done, I would dine at my usual greasy spoon restaurant and then drive into Detroit, an hour away, for the weekly meeting of my club. The club was what we called the folks who regularly came to the Thursday night AA meeting in the basement of St. Jude's Church.

It was not so different from any other club. We have kind of a ritual, the reading, usually of the Twelve Steps. We know and like one another, more or less. And we have a common interest—staying sober. The only thing missing is dues.

Mrs. Fenton made her usual quiet departure precisely at five o'clock and I was left alone.

The phone rang almost as soon as she had closed the door behind her. I could hear her walking down the outside steps. She was not rushing back, so I picked it up on the fourth ring.

“Charley Sloan,” I said.

“Please hold for Victor Trembly,” an officious woman demanded.

I waited as she patched me into recorded music. I was about to hang up when he finally came on the line.

“Charley, how are you!” The greeting was as enthusiastic as it was insincere.

“Never better, Victor. What can I do for you?”

“I was told by the police that you have some connection with Rebecca Harris.”

“The same connection you have with Howard Wordley. I'm Ms. Harris's lawyer.”

“To what purpose?”

“Why do most people hire lawyers, Victor? To sue the living shit out of someone, right? Maybe that's the purpose, maybe not. What business is it of yours?”

Even his chuckle was arrogant. “Charley, the bitch is a hustler, a cheap lying hustler. You never used to represent hookers. How come?”

“I represent this one, whatever she is. You called me, remember, what's on your mind?”

“I want the woman to drop the charges against my client.”

“Who wouldn't? Sexual criminal conduct or rape, it's still something that doesn't look too good on the old résuméd. Wordley damn near killed her, you know that? Nothing's going to get dropped, Victor.”