The Judgment (24 page)

I nodded, returned to the kitchen, and pulled a torn T-shirt out of the box in the utility closet.

He beckoned and we went quietly out the door and into the hall. We backtracked to the elevator and took it down to the first floor. He took the T-shirt and began ripping it into strips on the trip down, saying nothing. I looked at Tolliver; there was a knowing smile on his face; I was glad
that at least somebody seemed to know what was going on;

Out of the elevator, I turned toward the exit to the parking lot in back, more or less out of habit, I suppose. Conroy jerked me back and pointed in the other direction, toward the front door of the building. He led us out through the lobby outside, toward the trees on one side of the building.

About half a grove of trees, elms and spruces, had been leveled to provide space for the building and the parking lot behind it. That left half of the trees surrounding the lot in a kind of rectangular crescent. And so it was into the trees we went, moving quietly along one side of the building, the depth of the parking lot, and halfway across it to the van, which stood exactly as it had before. All the while we moved through the cover of the trees. They were thick enough and old enough so that we remained fairly well hidden, even though the elms were bare; the leaves were wet from the successive snowfalls, so we made little noise as we came up behind the van.

It had been backed into its parking space. We approached it from the rear. There were great fluffy clouds of smoke pouring out at us from the exhaust pipe. Conroy knelt down, selected a strip of T-shirt from those he had torn up, wet it in a patch of unmelted snow, and wadded it up. Motioning to me and Tolliver to remain where we were, he hopped forward and jammed the wet rag into the exhaust pipe.

He motioned Tolliver to the passenger side of the van and ran to a place just behind the driver’s door. I followed Conroy.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said with a wink.

It didn’t.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before the motor of the van began sputtering and missing, and only seconds after that when it shut off altogether. The driver’s door flew open, and a figure tumbled out, coughing. Conroy jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the
side of the van, face first. He gave the driver a fast frisk and came up empty-handed.

From the commotion on the other side of the van, I assumed something similar was happening there.

“You got your guy?” Conroy called out to Tolliver.

“I got him.”

“He give you any trouble?”

“You gotta be kiddin’.”

“Then bring him over here.” Conroy turned to me. “Sloan,” he said, “stick your head inside and see if there’s anybody still in there.”

There wasn’t. There was, however, enough exhaust smoke inside, even with both doors open, to start me coughing. I got it under control quickly enough and told Conroy the van was empty. By that time Tolliver had hustled his man over and had him up against the van beside his partner. Neither he nor Conroy was waving a gun around—though I was fairly certain that Tolliver, at least, had tucked one away. What they had done they had managed to do by pure physical mastery, helped out of course by the element of surprise.

Not that the two from the van were likely to offer much resistance. Both men were on the small side, about five-eight or five-nine, thin, young, and sort of nerdy. That’s what my daughter, Lisa, would call them. I didn’t recognize either of them from the team of phony Michigan Bell repairmen who had invaded my office—though the driver could have been the guy down on the ground, working from the truck. Each looked about equal parts scared and indignant at the moment. Tolliver was patting down his man.

“We don’t got guns,” the driver said. “We’re tekkies.”

“We’re working on contract,” said the other one.

I decided it was time for me to speak up. “What you did on contract is against the law. I’m an officer of the court, and I speak with some authority on this matter.” That ought to impress them.

“It can’t be against the law. It was the cops who hired us.”

“The Detroit cops,” I said. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re in Kerry County.”

Neither of them had anything to say to that.

“The time has come,” said Conroy, “for you to leave. Only first I’d like to see you take down that directional receiver on top of your van.”

One turned to the other. Both shrugged. There were clamps on either side of the van roof holding the dish antenna in place, as well as wires that had to be detached. The two tekkies, working under close supervision, managed it all in a minute or two. That was all the time I needed to go back inside the van, this time covering my nose with a handkerchief, and pull off the reel of audio-tape that was still revolving slowly on the oversized professional recording deck. I got a nod of approval from Conroy when he saw it.

“You don’t need that,” said the guy with Tolliver. “I wasn’t getting anything on tape anyway, just radio and water running.”

“We’ll keep it as a souvenir,” Conroy said. “That, too.” He nodded at the dish antenna that Tolliver held cradled in his arms.

“Hey, man, you can’t do that,” said the driver. “We need it for work. That baby’s worth ten long ones.”

I pulled out my wallet. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, whipping my business card from it. “Wait a while and check with me, and you might get it back. I’ll let you know.”

“But…”

The other one flashed him a warning look that shut him up. Then he said to me, almost apologetically, “We’re kind of new at this. Can we go now?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

They piled back into the van. Conroy removed the rag plug from the exhaust pipe, and the three of us aided with a push as the motor coughed unwillingly back to life. They were out of the parking lot in no time at all.

“Whatta you want me to do with this?” LeMoyne Tolliver pointed down where he had put aside the dish antenna as he set his solid right shoulder to the van.

“I don’t know, in my car, I guess. Is it heavy?”

“Heavy enough.”

It was too big for the trunk, but Tolliver managed to wedge it into the backseat. From there we adjourned to Conroy’s Cadillac to keep warm as we continued our talk. Tolliver picked up where we had left off, turning in the front seat to address me in the back as Conroy stared out the windshield.

“I got a pigeon,” he said. “Now, he ain’t no ordinary pigeon ’cause he’s been a trusted man in one of the big organizations in Detroit for about five years.”

“What kind of organization?”

“Well, I ain’t talkin’ about no Big Three automaker.” He giggled at that. That sounded a little silly coming from such a big man.

“Narcotics, Sloan,” said Conroy. “One of the big dealers in town. Go on, LeMoyne, tell the man.”

“I
know
he’s trusted because he’s a bagman. He not only did the collections; he did the payoffs, too. So this man’s
very
trusted, if you get my meaning. He made deliveries first day every month to Manoogian Mansion, and he stood right there in that big red dining room while they did a count on the cash. Now, he was a good bagman, no sticky fingers on my pigeon, didn’t do no skim. But still, they made him stand right there while they counted it out, goodly sums, too—went up and up as the organization prospered, so it was in the nature of a percentage instead of a flat sum, see?

“There was two there, one to count and one to check. From way back he remembers Benjamin Timothy, but not after he went into the prosecutor’s office. But a few times, at least three but no more than five, he remembers the mayor himself was present. He just sort of watched over it all, made some remarks, joked with my pigeon about
how his boss could surely afford a great contribution to his campaign fund, shit like that.

“He’s still doin’ it. Come first of December he’ll make another visit. But he’s suddenly been seized by a fit of conscience, wants to be a good citizen, and he’s made a generous offer to assist us. Maybe even wear a wire, ’cause they so used to him after five years, they don’t even pat him down. Oh, he’s a good pigeon. He’s an
outstanding
pigeon, wouldn’t you say?”

Then LeMoyne Tolliver giggled again.

“He’s better than that,” said Conroy. “He even knows the mayor’s bank and his special account number.”

“Well, I’m impressed, all right,” I said, “but since the safe has been emptied, how’re you going to compensate him for his good citizenship? It seems to me he’d need all you had to get as far away from Detroit as he’d need to.”

“Not a problem,” said Tolliver. “I got something on my pigeon. I got it on so tight, he
knows
he’s goin’ to Jackson for the term of his natural life if he don’t come across for us. Besides, he get put in that Federal witness program, and he got a good chance. He knows that.”

“We figure to wrap up the package and present it to the Feds unless the mayor calls off the prosecution,” Conroy said. “We give him the option.”

“Supposing the mayor takes the deal, how’s he going to call off the case? It’s in the court now. We’ve gone through preliminary examination. The trial’s on the docket.”

“He’ll find a way.”

“And what happens to your pigeon?”

“That’s his lookout, right?” Tolliver seemed fairly indifferent; he probably hadn’t given the matter much thought.

“We’ll make leaving-town money for him part of the deal with the mayor.” Conroy seemed to be improvising. “But don’t worry about him, Sloan. The guy’s no angel, believe me. You want to know what LeMoyne’s got on him?”

“Not really.”

A silence of some duration followed. All this time Conroy had been sitting behind the wheel of the Cadillac with his back to me. He seemed almost to be ignoring me physically even while he spoke, although once or twice I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. But at last he turned around and gave me a hard stare.

“LeMoyne set up a meeting with this guy tomorrow night. We want you to come along.”

“Why? You seem to have it all worked out on your own.”

“We want you to take his statement. It has to be perfect for the Feds.”

“I don’t like it. It’s messy.”

“What’s the matter with you, Sloan? You said yourself that the only way out of this was to apply some sort of counterpressure. This is the only kind that the mayor will understand. Of course it’s messy!”

“You worried about my pigeon,” said Tolliver, “he’ll feel better if you along. He’ll see we’re serious about the Feds and the witness protection, all that. We’ll take care “of him, don’t you worry.”

“Look,” I said, “what you’re asking is out of line for an attorney. For a defendant awaiting trial, it’s way over the line. I advise you against it.”

“Sloan, do you call tapping your office telephone and sending those two after us to listen in with a directional receiver playing fair? Forget your tennis rules for once, why don’t you?”

I sighed. “If you want an answer now, it would have to be no. The best I can do is say that I’ll think it over. Maybe I’ll consult my book of tennis rules and see what it has to say.”

He wasn’t amused. “I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it again. I think there are good reasons for you to be along on this. But it’s going to happen with you or without you.”

I could tell he meant it.

I was exhausted. It wasn’t just all that running around, but what I’d heard from Tolliver and Conroy at the end had left me feeling so utterly wasted. Now, as I sat at my desk, I was trying to go over it, bit by bit, fact by fact, to see how something might be worked out that wouldn’t be quite so risky. I’d brought up the possibility of counter-pressure. What could I offer as an alternative?

How far could Tolliver’s talking pigeon be trusted? After all, if he was as desperate as they said, he would tell them whatever he thought they wanted to hear, wouldn’t he? Evidently he was out on the street with something, probably murder, hanging over him. What was to prevent him from leaving town, permanently? Just disappearing completely? I had my doubts.

And as for the fabled corruption of the mayor’s administration, I still had my doubts about that, too. There were three views on the matter. What Mark Conroy said was true: There was a lot of money out there on the street, most of it from the huge Detroit drug market. Money corrupts; absolute money corrupts absolutely. But
who
was it corrupting? The popular view was that all that dirty money went right into the mayor’s pocket. He was the big boss. A more sophisticated view, the one held by Conroy until he found himself in his present, desperate situation, was that the mayor accepted tribute from the local barons and allowed them to run things in their respective territories just about as they wanted. Finally, the one held by only a few was that others in his administration or under his protection might be making money, but that he himself was clean, satisfied with wielding the power that came with the office. I’m not quite sure why, but that last was the one that I had tended to support. Maybe it was because for years I was a student of Richard M. Daley, the late mayor of Chicago. Bad as his reputation was, and after the Democratic Convention of 1968 no politician in America had a worse one, nobody ever came even close to
proving that Daley, himself, was corrupt; the man just loved the power he had. I’d also heard somewhere that the mayor was a fan of Dickie Daley’s.