The Touch of Treason (15 page)

“I was only pulling that prick lawyer’s leg. Come on.”

Perched on a stool inside the coffee shop, Cooper spotted Francine in the public phone booth. “Hey,” he said, poking Hoffman, “isn’t that the babe that just huffed out of his office?” He slid off the stool and placed himself to the side of the booth where she couldn’t see him. He leaned his ear against the wooden booth. Oldest trick in the world. He could hear as clearly as if she were talking into his ear. “Dad,” she was saying, “Dad, remember you asked me to urge George to take on a young client. I think I just saw him brought into George’s office. Short, wildish brown hair, lots of freckles. Is that the one?”

Cooper strained to hear.

“No,” Francine said. “I didn’t catch his name, but I swear that he’s the same one I saw—”

Detective Hoffman, sipping hot coffee, was looking straight at her, the same man she just saw in Thomassy’s office. “Hold the line, Dad.” She opened the accordion door. Cooper pulled his head away, but she recognized him, too. Back in the booth, she picked up the dangling receiver. “Sorry. Someone’s been listening in. I’ll call later from another phone.”

Cooper watched her leave the coffee shop. Some ass, he thought. Wonder if that lawyer’s banging her? He jotted a few words into his notebook. The DA might want to have a talk with the lady. He wouldn’t mind having a little talk with her himself. But he had learned early not to make a play for a woman that was out of reach.

Hoffman said, “I guess I shouldn’t have stared at her.”

“Never mind,” Cooper said, stuffing his notebook in the side pocket of his jacket. “I got what I wanted.”

*

Inside his office, Thomassy gestured at the straight-backed chair he wanted Porter to sit in. Then, as a reflex, he sat on his desk, overlooking Porter, his knees on a level with Porter’s head. Until he got to know a criminal client, he always wanted to be in a position to kick a head quickly if he had to.

This isn’t your usual client,
he told himself.
This is a well-educated pothead.

“All right,” Thomassy said. “Why did you kill Martin Fuller?”

Blood rushed to Ed Porter’s face. He put a hand quickly through his hair, as if to quiet his reaction.

“Why don’t you ask me questions,” Porter said, “instead of assuming things. I didn’t kill anybody.”

Thomassy looked at Ed Porter’s eyes. The kid’s gaze did not waver.

The clock on the shelf ticked.

“I have never physically hurt anybody,” Porter said.

This kid can testify on his own behalf,
Thomassy thought. He looked away so that the kid could look away.

Instead Porter asked him, “Who have you defended?”

“You. I got you off at the arraignment, didn’t I?”

“This seems to be a more serious matter,” Porter said.

This kid had nerve. “You want references?”

Porter nodded.

Thomassy took a piece of scrap paper from his desk and wrote a name and phone number on it. “You can call him,” he said. “Be my guest.” He pointed to the phone.

“Who is this?” Porter asked.

“The DA. He probably remembers who they were better than I do. I forget about cases when they’re over. He remembers.”

“How often do you lose?” Porter said.

“I don’t lose. Clients lose,” Thomassy laughed. “Don’t worry, kid. I don’t lose cases that go to trial. If I don’t think I’ll win, I plea-bargain.”

“I won’t bargain. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You smoke grass, don’t you?”

Porter shrugged his shoulders. “Well?”

“You just lied. You said you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t do anything illegal.”

Good boy,
Thomassy thought. Roberts will have a hard time sandbagging him if I put him on the stand.

“You going to call the DA for references?”

Porter stuck the piece of paper into his jeans pocket.

“Do you know why your ass is in a sling? Why they picked you to charge?”

Porter looked at Thomassy for more than a few seconds. “Don’t they have to charge somebody,” he finally said, “before the public gets antsy?”

“Not this soon. And why you?”

He was waiting for Porter to squirm. The kid looked reflective.

“I don’t think this Cooper fellow likes people who work with their brains.”

“He works with his brains.”

“I mean intellectuals,” Porter said.

“That would include pretty much everybody who visited the Fullers. Why you?”

“I use grass. In some people’s minds that’s three steps from murder, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be facetious. What is his evidence?”

“He found an empty flask on the back shelf of the closet in my room.”

“Empty of what?”

“Of whatever’d been in it. How’m I supposed to know, it isn’t mine.”

“Whose is it?”

“Do you know how many people use that room? He found skin magazines in the closet, too. I like skin, not magazines. I don’t know why he’s sniffing in my direction. You tell me.”

“I don’t know yet. Are you foreign born?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“Answers can be stupid, not questions.”

“I was born in Connecticut, is that foreign?”

“What kind of ID do you have?”

Porter took out his wallet. Thomassy could see cash, checks, the usual debris. Porter put a driver’s license in front of Thomassy.

“I want to see all of it. Including dirty photos.”

“I don’t carry dirty photos.”

“All of it, on the table.”

Thomassy looked at the driver’s license closely. Connecticut all right. “What are you doing with two driver’s licenses?” Thomassy asked, picking up the second one. “Who is Richard W. Bates?”

“I don’t know. I bought the card years ago when I was below drinking age.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Sure. Lots of kids do that.”

“You’ve been drinking age for four or five years. Why didn’t you tear up this second ID. Or sell it?”

Porter sulked in silence.

“Mr. Porter,” Thomassy said, “you go around thinking you’re smarter than most people you meet?”

“I am.”

“Maybe you are,” Thomassy said, putting the ID right under Porter’s nose to see if he’d grab it. “But some people have a lot more experience. Why didn’t you get rid of this?”

“I thought you were supposed to defend me?”

“I haven’t agreed to do anything. I want to know what I’m supposed to be defending. Why the other ID?”

“My father had people looking for me. We didn’t get on for a while. Hey, don’t tear that card up!”

Thomassy hadn’t intended to tear the card. He just wanted to see Porter’s reaction. “I’ll keep it. Anything else in your wallet we might not want them to see when they book you?”

“No.”

Thomassy handed Porter an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pad, and a pencil. “Draw a human being,” he said.

“Draw a what?”

“I said a human being.”

“You a psychologist?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“What’s this, some kind of thematic aperception test?”

“No, and you’re flunking it by asking a lot of questions. Draw the picture.”

Thomassy looked at the result of his infallible test carefully. Aggressive, yes, crazy, no. He wrote the name Edward Porter in the corner, and the date. “If I’m to undertake your defense, I’ll need a retainer of twenty-five thousand dollars.”

All his childhood Ed Porter had lived in a world without money. There was always someone with him, a governess at first, a companion, a tutor, whatever she was called, who paid for anything he wanted and marked it down on a three-by-five card for reimbursement. In high school he secretly saved most of his allowance. His high energy enabled him to be a good student and still put in work for pay—in the library, waiting on table—that his parents didn’t know about. When he finally cut loose, the bonds that were to provide his tuition had been irrevocably committed by his father for the required ten years and a day to a Clifford Trust. When he stood next to his packed suitcase in the living room to tell them he was off, his books and stereo had already been shipped off to a friend via UPS. He felt immensely free that day because there was nothing his father could do to stop him.

“That twenty-five thousand,” Thomassy said, “includes the six hundred you owe me for the arraignment.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Porter said.

“If we have to appeal, it’ll be double. You’re lucky. I usually don’t have to appeal. If you can’t afford it, I’m sure they can arrange for someone cheaper. Or legal aid.”

“I can get the money from my father. I think.”

“Use that phone,” Thomassy said, pointing to the second phone on the side table in the rear of his office, away from his desk.

Thomassy shut the door of his office behind him. He held up two fingers to Alice, her signal to use another line to get time and charges and number called so they wouldn’t have to wait till the bill came in to know the number Ed Porter was calling.

On the table next to the phone he’d let Porter use were several old telephone message slips held down by a silver dollar, head side up. Sometimes he’d find the silver dollar tail side up, evidence that the client had fingered the coin, perhaps been tempted to pocket it. Four teenage clients had actually taken it, enabling Thomassy to ask for the coin casually. They’d always given it to him and Thomassy had thus communicated his message:
I know you’re a crook and can’t be trusted.
It helped control a young punk more than any other trick he used.

After a few minutes, Porter came out of the office, saying, “My father wants to talk to you. I didn’t tell him the trouble I was in just yet.”

Thomassy went in and picked up the phone. The silver dollar was gone.

“George Thomassy, Mr. Porter,” he said into the phone.

A voice laced with dust that might have come from an Egyptian tomb, said, “Mr. Thomassy, my name is Sturbridge. My son tells me that he needs a check for twenty-five thousand dollars immediately for some business scheme that you and he are engaged in. Is that correct?”

Sturbridge?
I could have asked for a hundred thousand, Thomassy thought. Why didn’t Widmer tell me? Did he know? Did he not tell me because he knew?

“What else did your son tell you, Mr. Sturbridge?”

“That the check was to be made payable to you. It sounds like some kind of swindle to me, Mr. Thomassy. I think I’d best have Franklin Harlow, general counsel for my firm, be in touch with you. I don’t want Edward involved in any hanky-panky.”

“Mr. Sturbridge, why does your son use the name Ed Porter?”

“I imagine he likes his mother’s name better than mine. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be identified with Sturbridge Pharmaceuticals. As to this deal of yours—”

Thomassy cut him off. “Mr. Sturbridge, this isn’t a deal. Did your son tell you I was an attorney?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you the hanky-panky he’s involved in is a charge of murder in the second degree and that the twenty-five thousand dollars was my retainer for defending him?”

Sturbridge’s dusty voice started to say something that proved unintelligible. There was a moment’s silence at the other end and then a woman was on the phone saying, “This is Mrs. Sturbridge. My husband wears a pacemaker. He is not supposed to be exposed unduly to upset. I don’t know what you just said to him but I’m afraid he can’t go on with this phone conversation.”

Ed Porter stood in the doorway. Behind him, Thomassy could see Alice, always alert for trouble.

Thomassy said into the phone, “Mrs. Sturbridge, I had no idea of your husband’s condition. Is he all right?”

“Yes. I just don’t think he should continue the conversation.”

“Mrs. Sturbridge, please don’t hang up. This is a matter of some urgency. Is your maiden name Porter?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why does your son use your name instead of his father’s?”

“He’s not supposed to. He shouldn’t. I don’t know why he does. What is the matter?”

“Your son has been charged with second-degree murder here in Westchester County. He has asked me to represent him. He will be booked today and arraigned as soon as possible. I’d asked him for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer and apparently he gave your husband some unconvincing reason for needing that money. Perhaps it would be best if you’d reach your husband’s general counsel and have him call me right away.” He gave the woman his number. He asked her to repeat it to be sure she got it right. Her voice had undergone a marked change, from protector of her husband to despair.

“Who is dead?” she asked.

The newspapers were out.
He had to tell her.

“Martin Fuller.”

The voice said, “Oh my heavens, oh my dear God.” Then, “Ed worshiped him. Ed’s a scholar, not a killer. It must be some mistake.”