Indefensible (27 page)

“I'm sorry,” I say, “of course you're not naive, but you may be mistaken. In any case, I wouldn't think of exposing Upton to suspicion without more evidence.”

“Quite right,” Kendall says, “to say nothing of what it would do to your own career.”

He's right. Timing matters. If my name gets attached to this
thing, regardless of whether Upton is guilty, that'll be the end of my shot at the circuit bench.

“So tell me,” Kendall says, “why aren't you speaking to Harold Schnair?”

“Several reasons,” I say. “For Upton's sake, I'd like to keep it as contained as possible until something is decided. For Harold's sake, I don't want to burden him with a crisis until I can recommend something. And just between you and me, counselor, I'm trying to avoid looking indecisive. Oh, and one more reason—Harold's been odd for a few days.”

“Odd?”

“Can't explain it. Just preoccupied. I'm wondering if he's gotten some kind of, you know, biopsy report or something.”

“But you have no reason to . . .”

“No. Just conjecturing.”

“What about the FBI? Aren't you friendly with . . .”

“Special Agent d'Villafranca. Chip. Yes.”

“Confidential inquiry?”

“Normally, I'd ask him. He'd do it for me, you know, a very confidential poking around to see what he could learn.”

“But?”

“Something's up with Chip.”

“Something's up with Chip. Something's up with Harold. Something's up with Upton.”

“Something
is
up with Upton.”

“No doubt.” He looks at me with his eyes wide. “Anybody else acting strange?”

I consider. Who else is there? Nobody. Dorsey, Isler, Tina. “No. Nobody else. What are you thinking?”

He shrugs.

“What?” I ask.

“You haven't thought of this?”

“What?”

“Have you ever heard the saying that the only thing all your dysfunctional relationships have in common is you?”

“What are you getting at, Kendall?”

“Maybe you're a suspect, Nick.”

I laugh derisively.

“Think about it. You tell me that Scud threatened your daughter. You tell me you've said to both Upton Cruthers and Chip d'Villafranca that you wanted to kill Scud—that you said so on Upton's voice mail, no less. You tell me you've made public cause of these feelings. You tell me you vigorously and openly opposed your boss when the FBI considered using Scud as an informant because you wanted to see him convicted and executed. You tell me you became emotionally connected to both Cassandra Randall and the Phippin boy. You've made public cause of these feelings. And then there's the small matter of your assaulting Scud in his own front yard the day of the search.”

“I thought you didn't see that.”

“Of course I saw it. Everybody saw it. Given all this, Dorsey and Chip would be in dereliction of their jobs if they didn't suspect you.”

“This is insanity,” I say. “Everybody knows I wouldn't—”

“Nick,” Kendall says, “what's the first thing you look for when identifying suspects in a murder?”

“Motive.”

“Have you demonstrated to the entire world that you have motive?”

I don't answer.

“What's the second thing you look for in a murder suspect?”

“Opportunity,” I say quietly.

“Yes, and you've told everybody that you spoke with Scud on the phone the night he was killed. You say that Scud previously begged to be taken on as an informant. So tell me, Nick: How easy would it have been for you to set up a secret meeting with him? And of course Scud would agree to meet you if he thought it was about offering him a job as informant.”

“Yes, but—”

“And let's talk about access to the murder weapon. If Scud was in fact killed with his own gun . . . You had the run of the house the
day you executed the search warrant. Maybe you found it before the agents did: pocketed it.”

I try to laugh again, but it won't come. I'm a suspect. Of course. Why wouldn't I be a suspect? At least for Scud's murder. Everyone knew I hated him. But this is ridiculous; I'll just prove . . .

I try to remember where I was, what my alibi would be. It's difficult, because there's no exact time of death. They found Scud in the river midday on a Monday, dead for thirty to forty hours. So where was I on Saturday night? Lizzy and I came back Saturday afternoon from the lake; I dropped her at Flora's. From Saturday night until leaving for work on Monday, I was alone.

I'm still staring at Kendall. My mouth, I realize, is pumping like a grouper's. “Kendall,” I say, “I didn't—”

“Of course you didn't,” he says, “I know that. I also know the Bureau would be hard-pressed to come up with a more likely suspect. It seems to me, Nick, that you've gone to great lengths to put yourself right in the crosshairs.”

I stand up, but then I can't remember why, and I sit back down.

Kendall says, “I know you didn't come to me seeking representation but just to bounce some ideas around. At this time, however, it may be prudent to engage in a more, let's say, formal structure to our conversation. We're still off the clock, so don't worry about that. If you decide you need representation, we'll have a head start. If you're more comfortable with someone else, I'll cooperate in bringing another attorney up to speed.”

He's watching me with that intent stare. And without taking his eyes from mine, he finds the legal pad with his right hand and drags it toward him. He looks down at it, picks up his pen, and writes in quick even letters, “Conversation with Asst. U.S. Atty. Davis.”

“Now,” he says, “let's start back at the beginning.”

M
y office. Where else would I go? Not home, always an unsatisfying place without Lizzy there. What I'd like to do is to hightail it to the lake, lick my wounds, and hide until all this blows over. Office is the next best thing.

Tina is out, so I handwrite a quick note and slip it in her door-jamb. I pass Upton's office; his door is half open and he's at his desk.

“Hi, boss.”

“Hi, Upton.”

I tell Janice not to put through any calls, then I close the door and settle behind my desk to let in the whoosh of fear that Kendall has set loose.

I don't know if Kendall Vance is completely nuts. Could anyone really believe I killed Scud? What I've learned in the long years of my career is that you can look back at a perpetrator's life and see symptoms and predisposition and secret behavior. Like Upton, for example. I can believe he might have killed Scud
because
I know of his erratic past; his secret addiction, his tangling with bookies and their henchmen, possibly throwing games. It would be consistent. But who would believe it of me—that I could shoot Scud Illman and dump him in the river?

Or have I been erratic, too? I did willy-nilly fall in love with Cassandra as soon as I met her. I did make public cause of my hatred for Scud. I did ill-advisedly snatch the prosecution from the more qualified Upton. And isn't it too convenient that, just when it looked like my case against Scud had fallen apart, when it looked like the only thing we could pin on him was accessory in a deer poaching, he ended up a floater with a hole in his head?

And there was the time some years back, a Friday afternoon at the office, a half rack of beer, all of us talking about cases and crime and criminals.
What is it like to cross the line,
someone wondered aloud, and the discussion spun into confessions.
Have you ever considered . . . did you ever come close . . . can you imagine . . .
Everyone had tiny confessions, nobody wanting to be the goody-goody. And before the afternoon was done, to my unwitting amazement, I'd told them all about wanting to kill Dr. Wallis and of actually obtaining the gun.

Does anyone remember?

Kendall's theory seems far-fetched, because a case needs evidence. And there's no evidence. At most there's suspicion. Has it been talked about, though? Have there been secret meetings? Is Upton part of it? And if he is part of it, is he feeding that fire? Because if Upton is the snitch who sold out Cassandra and Zander, and if he killed Scud, then it's in his interest to divert suspicion from himself and focus it elsewhere. And beyond diverting suspicion, he might want to plant suspicion. Upton might try to set me up. If my suspicion of him is justified, framing me would be consistent. I doubt he'd choose me as his target, but my extraprofessional interest in the case has given him an opportunity. I wonder how he'd go about framing me. If he's the one who killed Scud, he could plant the gun; he might bury it in my yard, or hide it inside the door panel of my car, or take a trip up to the lake and stash it there, then call in an anonymous tip. That's the classic frame-up: Plant the murder weapon, call it in. It would be so easy for him to plant an item with my fingerprints someplace incriminating (that being the other classic frame-up). Maybe he's already done that. Maybe they
have
found the scene and my prints and other evidence incriminating me. Upton is shrewd, he could do it.

No, I'm getting paranoid. Upton isn't involved in anything. He's the true believer. The one who speaks of the urban utopia, the shining city on the hill.

But he also thinks I'm soft. He's told me. He says I'm too ready to go for the plea instead of the hard time. Too willing to let small
cases slide. And he's a better trial lawyer than I am. Maybe he thinks that getting rid of me is the collateral damage from keeping himself in the game. I know he wants my job. He wants TMU's job. We're good friends but not close friends. We talk about work, we don't share confidences. So maybe I wouldn't be collateral loss but a necessary loss. Maybe removing me isn't an accident, it
is
the game. I'm the obstacle that has to go.

The only thing for me to do is expose him for the gambling. Get ahead of him. Remove him. Except if he's already planted evidence, already set his trap, it's too late. Maybe the gambling is nothing but rumor. I have no evidence. If I'm wrong—if Kendall is wrong—and if I come out trying to sink Upton with no real evidence, I'll be the one who pays, and if there isn't already suspicion of me, then my reckless accusation will invite it.

These thoughts are a fist buried deep in my gut. I need to strategize, to anticipate what Upton will do and what the others will think. I pick up the phone and dial Kendall, but he's not in, so I leave a long message detailing my fears. When I hang up, I worry that I sounded befuddled and disorganized—unlawyerlike, because being a lawyer, more than the knowledge we possess, is about how we think. It's the linear and considered compilation of ideas. I pride myself on it, but here I was, babbling at Kendall's voice mail like any common criminal. I call Kendall again to try to smooth the message out, but it just gets worse.

Tina knocks at my office door and opens it enough for her voice to snake its way through the crack. “Nick?”

“C'mon in.”

We've scarcely spoken since a couple of evenings ago, when I dodged romance. She sits across from me and fixes me in her generous gaze: “You look . . .”

“. . . like hell?”

“Preoccupied.”

“I am.”

“Do tell.”

“Usual bullshit,” I say. I can hear my voice teetering on hysteria. I
wish she'd leave. My predicament engulfs the universe of speech and focus and normal interaction.

“Look,” she says. She reaches up and grabs her ears and wiggles them. “I have two; I'd be happy to lend you one.”

She looks goofy, pulling her ears forward like that, and her mouth twists into a befuddled smile. When I see beyond the haircut, when I catch sight of the idealistic elementary schoolteacher, I see a pretty young woman who is probably lonely—like so many of us—but manages to contain it inside the chaos of a hectic, high-powered, professional life. For an instant, everything else is gone, and I feel a stab of regret at having simply dropped her at her car several nights ago.

How I'd love to blab, but along with everyone else in this office, she is the government, the people. Even to show her how upset I am is ill advised. Anything I say can and will be used . . .

“How about a drink later?”

She smiles stoically, assuming I'm planning to have the “I like you but not that way” talk. “It'll have to be late,” she says. “I've got something right after work.”

“Too bad. I've got something late, but I'm free right after work.”

“Too bad.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

My cell rings. It's Kendall. “I need to take this,” I tell Tina. “Hi,” I say into the phone.

“Nick, it's Kendall. I got your voice mails. You need to relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're not a suspect at all. It's just a theory.”

Tina slips out the door.

“Maybe I should go to Harold Schnair and the Bureau with the gambling stuff on Upton,” I say into the phone. “I need to protect my position.”

“No,” Kendall says, “I wouldn't advise it. Think. What have you really got? Accusations from a washed-up bookie who's been at Ellisville for the past six years.”

“And the resignation letter.”

“You'll make yourself look foolish, paranoid even.”

“I am paranoid. But I've got good reason.”

“I promise you, you're not going down on this, Nick. Take your lawyer's advice: Do your job, keep the intel on Upton under your hat. Let it play out. Act normal.”

“I'm going to keep investigating.”

“Fine. Investigate. But promise you'll talk to me before doing anything.”

I promise, and we hang up.
Act normal,
Kendall told me, as though such a thing is possible. What is normal? How do I pretend not to know that people might think I killed Scud? Is it different from how I'd act if I
had
killed Scud but was trying to seem like I hadn't?