Prodigal Father (20 page)
I will make your name to be remembered in all generations.
â
Psalm 45
Psalm 45
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The arrest of Stanley Morgan was good news, of course, but it did not set Amos Cadbury's mind at rest. In the narrow perspective of his present professional interestâthe defense of the will of Maurice Corbett, as well as the deed of transferal of his estate to the Athanasiansâthe tragic death of Father Nathaniel was merely an incident. An aggravating incident, to be sure, since it put a bloody exclamation point to the scurrilous newspaper account of the recent history of the Order. How pathetic a band the community had seemed, a mere remnant of what had once been a thriving Order and an important factor within the local community. Now those vast grounds and buildings accommodated seven old men while the grandson of the man who had turned his estate over to them was all but destitute. “Is this justice? Is this fairness? Or, to put it in a more appropriate key, is this Christian charity?” Thus wrote Tetzel in the
Fox River Tribune
in his culminating story on the plight of poor Leo Corbett. And Amos Cadbury detected the hand of the ineffable Tuttle behind this campaign.
Fox River Tribune
in his culminating story on the plight of poor Leo Corbett. And Amos Cadbury detected the hand of the ineffable Tuttle behind this campaign.
How differently a lawyer concerned for the good of his client
would have proceeded. Approached properly, Amos might have joined in a petition to make some suitable provision for the grandson. If that had been done, if a favorable judgment had been given, Leo Corbett would accept it and render himself harmless in the future. That is the kind of solution a lawyer looks for, with everyone getting something, no big winner, no big loser, equity. But Tuttle had engineered a scorched-earth policy indicating his client was going for all or nothing. And, of course, what he would receive was nothing.
would have proceeded. Approached properly, Amos might have joined in a petition to make some suitable provision for the grandson. If that had been done, if a favorable judgment had been given, Leo Corbett would accept it and render himself harmless in the future. That is the kind of solution a lawyer looks for, with everyone getting something, no big winner, no big loser, equity. But Tuttle had engineered a scorched-earth policy indicating his client was going for all or nothing. And, of course, what he would receive was nothing.
It was in this mood that Amos was told that a Miss Charlotte Priebe would be gratified to have a few minutes of his time.
“She is the administrative assistant of Lars Anderson,” Miss Nitti, his secretary, reminded him.
With this little exchange as overture, Amos was not prepared for the very young lady who was shown in at two o'clock. He rose from his chair, as he would have done for any client, particularly a woman, and for a moment found himself without words. Miss Nitti, as if sensing his surprise, chirped, “Miss Charlotte Priebe. Mr. Cadbury.”
She came right to the desk and extended her hand. “I am the administrative assistant of Lars Anderson.”
“Please, sit down.”
She sat. “As you know, Mr. Anderson very much wants, for purposes of development, property which is covered by the will and recorded wishes of a client of yours.”
“A departed client.”
“But his will and wishes are very much present. In order for Mr. Anderson to do what he wants to do, he would have to break that will.” She paused. “I don't think that would be possible, given your reputation.”
“It is not a matter of reputation, Miss Priebe, but of the law.”
“Of course. But you will agree that a case can be made for the other side.”
“Mr. Anderson's side?” A small smile was Amos Cadbury's comment on that.
“Not quite.”
She let a short silence develop. Very effective. Amos was not insensible to the attractiveness of his visitor, although the assaults of concupiscence had long since lost their sting. She was quite pretty, somewhat severely dressed in a suit under which there seemed to be no blouse. But it was her intelligence that was most apparent in her manner and in her way of speaking.
“I subscribe to the belief that half a loaf is better than none. Or even a slice or two of the bread.”
“Go on.”
“Since Mr. Anderson would surely lose everything if he sought to obtain everything, the question arises as to whether some compromise might be reached.”
“As a matter of conjecture?”
“As a matter of conjecture.”
“Are you a lawyer, Miss Priebe?”
“No, sir.”
“You would make a very good one.”
“It's kind of you to say so. But not all lawyers are like yourself.”
“And I daresay not all administrative assistants are like yourself.”
“I would not like to be a lawyer like Mr. Tuttle.”
“Indeed not. One Tuttle is more than the profession can abide. It is because of Tuttle and the slanderous publicity campaign he has engineered through the press, that your visit comes too late.
Total war has been declared, it matters little by whom.”
Total war has been declared, it matters little by whom.”
“By Leo Corbett.”
“Manipulated by Tuttle.”
“Tuttle does seem to be the sand in the machinery, doesn't he? I have undertaken to speak to Leo Corbett directly. I made some of the same comments about Tuttle that you have. I told him how very likely it would be that he would end up with nothing if he persisted in the course Tuttle had laid out.”
“Did Mr. Anderson ask you to do this?”
“I acted on my own.”
“Is that the prerogative of an administrative assistant?” Why was he so fascinated by this young creature?
“If administrative assistants had to be told what to do they would be useless to their employer.”
“So you talked to Leo Corbett. What did he say?”
“He came to adopt my point of view on the matter entirely.”
“And Tuttle?”
“Tuttle will no longer serve Leo as lawyer. I hope you will agree that there is now an entirely new setting in which matters can be discussed.”
“I wish you had gotten to Leo Corbett before Tuttle did.”
“I have tried to undo the damage.”
Amos Cadbury spoke with supreme confidence that the law was on his side in this matter, but he knew how much the law was now influenced by what was called public opinionâthe manipulation of the many by the few who controlled the media. Murderers were acquitted in the face of overwhelming and damning evidence because the mob was aroused. There were circus lawyers who argued not to the judge or jury but to the television cameras, who massaged newsmen outside the courtroom, campaigned with the public for pressure to be put on judge and jury to give the
people what they demanded. And if a murderer was convicted, immediately a campaign was begun to prevent punishment being exacted. People kept vigil outside prisons, holding lighted candles like pilgrims to a shrine, members of a new cult against capital punishment. Of course, it was punishment itself that was the target, the notions of responsibility and guilt. Agents were separated from their deeds, deeds from their consequences, crime from punishment. There were days when Amos was certain he would not willingly be an hour younger than he was. God only knew what lay ahead for the law, and for society. Now the pope and bishops were seemingly aligned with this antinomian crusade, albeit for different reasons, but did they not see the company they were keeping?
people what they demanded. And if a murderer was convicted, immediately a campaign was begun to prevent punishment being exacted. People kept vigil outside prisons, holding lighted candles like pilgrims to a shrine, members of a new cult against capital punishment. Of course, it was punishment itself that was the target, the notions of responsibility and guilt. Agents were separated from their deeds, deeds from their consequences, crime from punishment. There were days when Amos was certain he would not willingly be an hour younger than he was. God only knew what lay ahead for the law, and for society. Now the pope and bishops were seemingly aligned with this antinomian crusade, albeit for different reasons, but did they not see the company they were keeping?
No court was untouched by such developments. Tuttle and that dreadful journalist understood this too well. Those articles had been aimed at whatever magistrate might have to decide if a case were brought against Maurice Corbett's will, and Amos no longer believed there was anyone on the bench with the courage to stand against such an onslaught. And so it was that he gave Miss Priebe to understand, with much circumlocution and committing himself to nothing, that the old maxim about half a loaf might still be considered to be in effect. She rose, again she offered her hand. Only then did she give him the benefit of her radiant smile and the daring decolletage. These, he reflected after she had gone, were far older weapons in influencing the course of justice than the manufacture of public opinion. But with Miss Priebe, feminine charms had followed rather than preceded their conversation. A most impressive young woman.
Rise up, O judge of the earth; render punishment to the proud.
âPsalm 94
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Tuttle had returned from the scene of the crime with his tweed hat on the back of his head and the chest of a pouter pigeon. Hazel rose from her desk like the angel of judgment.
“Where have you been till this hour?” She put the wrist on which she wore her watch beneath her chin, but her eyes did not leave Tuttle.
“Any calls?”
“Do you have any idea what's been going on all morning?”
“Tell me about it.” He sauntered into his office, swept off his tweed hat, and sailed it toward the coat rack in the corner. It dropped on the pole, rotated several times, and was hung. Tuttle stared. He had never done that before. Clearly a new epoch had arrived. He dropped into his chair, pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, and propped his shoes on it. Hands behind his head, he looked insolently at Hazel. Her expression changed. Something like doubt came into her eyes.
“You know about the murder of the priest?”
“Father Nathaniel? I've spent the morning there, as the guest of the police.”
“You mean that Pianone?”
“Officer Pianone and I were admitted at the barricaded entrance and then were briefed by police, coroner, and reporters. I came away satisfied that an already tight case had now become a walk in the park.”
Hazel sat. Was that an admiring smile? Did this harridan who had acquired squatters' rights in his office realize the caliber of the man to whom she had presumed to attach herself?
“Tell me everything.”
There are triumphant moments in every life, a time when everything has suddenly fallen into place in one's favor, enemies vanquished, all hopes realized, legitimate enjoyment in victory permitted. Such moments were rare to the point of nonexistence in Tuttle's life. All the more reason for him to wring from this one every ounce of satisfaction. He recounted his activities of the day in minute detail and he had in Hazel Barnes a listener transfixed by his narrative. Even without embellishment, it would have been an interesting story. Nor did Tuttle fail to underscore the role that his friendship with Peanuts had played.
“You should take him to lunch,” she said.
“Peanuts and I frequently have lunch together.”
“You should ask him here, order something in.”
“He wouldn't come.”
“I'll ask him myself.”
Oh, how sweet is the taste of victory. Tuttle might be slouched behind his desk, feet in a drawer, hands behind his head, but metaphorically he stood tall with his foot pressing on the neck of his humbled oppressor. She would call Peanuts! He could imagine her wheedling voice, the honeyed words, the begging.
“We'll see.”
“Leo Corbett should hear this. Have you talked to him yet?” The question was asked with a trembling voice, as if she feared the extent of his declaration of independence.
“Get hold of him, would you? I'd like to see him.”
But Hazel's efforts to locate Leo were in vain. At his apartment, she got only the message on his answering machine, a droning, psychotic request that she say something after the beep. The voice descended into the depths at the end of the message. Nor was he at the country club.
“Keep trying.”
Hazel kept trying with similar results and gradually the atmosphere in the office altered. Leo's mysterious absence was interpreted as points against the hitherto triumphant Tuttle.
“You should have gone to get him and brought him here.”
“But he isn't at home.”
“Not now. You should have had that Pianone pick him up before you went to the scene of the crime.”
Sensing the turn of the tide, Tuttle scrambled to his feet. “I'm going to track him down.”
“He's not a fugitive, Tuttle.”
He remembered the scene in the kitchen of the lodge, when he had seen a man who could only have been Stanley Morgan slip out of the house. Should he tell this now, to regain the ascendancy? But he feared that the results would be negative. He slapped on his tweed hat, circled Hazel, and took the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator and feel her malevolent eye on him.
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Hazel said Leo wasn't a fugitive, but Tuttle was experiencing the all-too-familiar feeling that a client thought safely in the bag had made his escape. That the grandson's prospects had been brightened by the murder of Father Nathaniel and the further lowering of public esteem for the Athanasians would have occurred to others and Leo's susceptibility to professional advice made it all too plausible that some vulture had gotten to him. But what lawyer would welcome the thought of going mano a mano with Amos Cadbury in any Fox River courtroom? And then the darkest thought of all occurred. Cadbury had alienated his client from him! Oh, he could do this in the most ethical way, manage to have Leo banging on his door and demanding admission, all too willing to repudiate the lawyer who had stood by him when no one else would have given a plugged nickel for his chances. Tuttle jerked open the door of his car and Farniente, the private investigator, nearly fell onto the sidewalk, sputtering with indignation as he came awake.
“For crying out loud, Tuttle, you trying to kill me?”
“Just the man I want to see.”
“What do you think I'm waiting here for?”
“Waiting?”
“I know something you want to know.”
“Leo Corbett?”
Farniente's sly smile faded. “You know.”
“Move over.”
Farniente eased himself with considerable concern for his manhood over the shift which separated the two front seats. Tuttle got behind the wheel.
“What about Leo Corbett?”
“He's thick as thieves with Lars Anderson's Girl Friday.”
“Leo? Don't be nuts. He's more likely to join the Athanasians.”
“Tuttle, think about it. You want to lose your client?”
“How am I going to do that?” Tuttle turned the key and listened to the engine emit a series of complaints before it finally turned over.
“It suits you fine that Corbett is in bed with Anderson?”
“I thought you said his administrative assistant.”
“A figure of speech, a figure of speech. She is Anderson's indentured servant, anything she does, she is doing for Anderson. When your client moves in with her, I smell a deal. Admit it, you didn't know anything about it.”
Tuttle felt desolated. An hour ago he had been on an emotional high, king of the mountain. Now he was shagged out his office by Hazel on a comeback and confronted by Farniente with the confirmation of his worst fears. Anderson, of course. The wily builder would want his hooks in Leo now that the young man might be the way of getting hold of that property.
“How do you know this?”
“I never reveal my sources.”
“Neither does the Mississippi. Who told you?”
Farniente was silent. Tuttle turned and saw that the private detective was jabbing himself in the chest. “Me. I saw her lead him into corporate headquarters like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“When was this?”
“Two days ago.”
“And you rushed right over to tell me?”
“Tuttle, it could have meant anything. You're a busy man. Then, when that priest gets killed and the stock of those other priests is bound to plummet and your client looks to be in a much better position, I put two and two together.”
“So why didn't you come upstairs?”
“Hazel would have wormed it out of me and then what good is my information?”
“The question is, what do I do with it?”
“You go see Leo.”
“He doesn't answer his phone.”
“Does that mean he isn't there?”
The apartment house in which Leo lived had been built during the 1920s, the last word at the time, but many architectural words had been spoken since. He was on the third floor, back, and there wasn't an elevator. In the entryway, unlocked, was a wall of mailboxes, arranged according to the floors of the building. There was no name in the box for Leo's apartment.
“You sure this is the building, Farn?”
“You want to call Hazel and have her check the address he gave you?”
“Let's go up.”
Three flights, and the huffing and puffing he heard was Farniente's as well as his own. Tuttle felt like a process server. He beat on the door of 3D the way he would like to beat on Leo if he was pulling a rat on him. Farniente reached forward and turned the knob. The door opened. They walked into a minimally furnished apartment, a sofa and an easy chair, another chair with a padded seat, a lamp from whose shade dangled the kind of chain Tuttle hadn't seen in years.
“He rented it furnished,” Farniente concluded.
But Tuttle had gone down the hallway and pushed open the bedroom door. A queen-size mattress on a frame, no headboard, a chair in the corner, an empty closet.
“He's moved,” Farniente said.
“I didn't need a detective to tell me that.”
Downstairs in the lobby, they opened the door to stairs leading down. The basement apartment was occupied by an old guy, sitting before a blaring television with a headset clamped over his ears, looking bug-eyed at the screen. Farniente removed the headset.
“Hey, what the hell?”
“Police,” he lied, then covered it with a truth. “I'm Detective Farniente. Where is 3D?”
The old man studied the remote control he grasped as if 3D might be there. “This is a black-and-white.”
“Leo Corbett,” Tuttle explained. “The young man who lived on the third floor back. He's wanted for questioning.”
The old man's milky eyes lit up like Newton's when he got hit with the apple.
“He moved! He's gone.” And then, in a semblance of indignation, “What do you mean, busting in like this? That's the White Sox.”
“Where'd he go?”
“How should I know? He was paid up and he waived his deposit. He can go wherever he wants.”
“Was he alone?”
“Let me see your identification.”
“I was about to ask you for yours,” Farniente said. “How do we know you are who you say you are?”
“But I didn't say.”
“That's what I mean.”
Tuttle turned and dragged himself up the stairs. Farniente followed a few minutes later. They went back to Tuttle's car and sat in silence for five minutes. Then Tuttle spoke.
“You're hired.”
“You want me to find Leo Corbett.”
“That's right. Where can I drop you?”
“My car is parked near your office.”
“Take a cab. I'm not going back.”
“It'll be on your bill.”
Tuttle nodded. Farniente opened the passenger door. “I'll find him.” The door slammed. Tuttle adjusted his tweed hat. He took it off and looked at it. He remembered sailing it at the coatrack and making a ringer, the first in his life. When he looked up, he turned on the windshield wipers. It's wasn't raining. There were tears in Tuttle's eyes.
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