Try Try Again (15 page)

After five hours and a few minutes, the jury filed in. A
bailiff took a slip of paper from the foreman and handed it to the judge. The
judge nodded sagely and handed it back to the bailiff, who handed it back to
the foreman.

Murder in the second degree.

Liv saw Brent was clearly annoyed. Although she had argued
for manslaughter, she never thought it would sell, and so she was relieved the
jury had not gone for First Degree, which was of course what Brent had been aiming
at.

After the verdict was read, Charley thanked Liv for her
work; then he was cuffed and escorted out of the courtroom, head down on his
chest as Liv watched. Liv followed Charley to jail and commiserated with him as
best she could. Then she went home and had four aspirins and two jiggers of
bourbon, and overslept the next day. Then she visited Charley briefly, more as
a courtesy than anything else, to see how he was holding up. He finally
admitted he’d been promised money, but that wasn’t the reason he killed Barnes,
which reason he wouldn’t say.

If normal procedure were followed, Charley would remain in
the county jail for two or three days and then be transferred to a state
prison. The nearest prison was in Frackville, about an hour’s drive north of Grantwood.
The townspeople there were tired of jokes about the town’s name, first owing to
Battlestar Galactica
and then to shale mining. There had been
efforts to change the name of the town, but no two citizens could agree on a
new one.

Sebastian George’s usually steady nerves were severely
frayed for fear a conspiracy theory would be, even if not taken seriously,
publicized. He wasn’t worried he would be tagged as ‘Art’ by anyone; and even
if he were, there wouldn’t be enough evidence to locate him, much less to
arrest him. No, he was worried about Haskin. Charley was supposed to be dead after
all, not in prison. Haskin would not be pleased. Was not pleased, he was sure.

Ordinarily, disappointing a client in some slight fashion
(after all, the target had been killed as promised) would not have worried
George, just given him a few minutes of self-deprecation. But in Haskin’s case
– her connections were very high up, he was sure. Senator Conning? Yes, he’d suspected
that. But perhaps even higher – and more dangerous.

He waited for Haskin to call him, worried what she would
say. But she didn’t call. That worried George even more.

And what about Charley? Well, George thought, if he hadn’t
talked by now, he wasn’t apt to later. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea to
keep an eye on him. George made a few calls to people he knew in the Pennsylvania
State Prison System – people who could be bought, cheap.

Sybille Haskin had been following the trial as well. In
person, actually, in the courtroom, seated among the spectators as if she, like
they, were innocent of a large conspiracy of which the murder of Ezra Barnes
was just one small piece.

Like George, she was relieved a conspiracy theory had not
been suggested, and Charley had not taken the stand, therefore couldn’t have
given anything away or made up any crazy new stories. Her employers would not
have liked this very public trial to have included any hint of a conspiracy,
even if no one had believed it. This concern was the reason why she, unusually,
had appeared in Grantwood in person. She had noted the presence of cameras, but
her alarm at this was assuaged when she found out it was only a junior college
media class on a field-trip assignment.

George, therefore, had accomplished his two major goals,
although not cleanly. There was still great risk. It was obvious that Charley
had no idea what had been going on; but he could still implicate George, and
possibly her as well, if George had made an unprofessional slip.

It would be best to have Charley killed. She knew people who
could make that happen. After all, if you’re looking for a violent felon to
commit a violent felony, what better place to look than a prison?

 Thomas Conning was acutely aware that Dukes trial had been
proceeding, but it bothered him so much he avoided hearing about it, didn’t
watch the evening webV news shows. He hoped Dukes couldn’t implicate his ConDyne
contact, because that would lead straight to the Russell Senate Office Building,
and to him. If that hadn’t happened by now, it wasn’t likely to, ever. But as
long as Charley was alive, he’d be a threat
. My God
, he thought,
what
am I thinking here! Another murder on my conscience?
For the next few days,
he struck his staff and colleagues, as even more pale and withdrawn than usual.

JTJ began assembling the trial footage in two different
ways. First, to show her Media class examples of good and bad technique; and
second, to be the great classic documentary film of the great courtroom drama,
emphasizing the conflict of personalities and the agony of the defendant, and
how the valiant defense attorney had, verdict to the contrary, won a kind of
victory. If front of her eyes she saw the premiere, the red carpet, the adulation
and Oscars. Or, more modestly, she could settle for a spot at the Cannes
festival where she would be courted by several of those Frenchmen whose mouths
look so funny when they try to pronounce their language.

Jillian Hall, in Pimmit Hills, Virginia, was only dimly
aware a man had been tried for murder in Grantwood, Pennsylvania, for killing
Ezra Barnes, M.C. She did not make it a habit to listen to an allnewsradio
station, or read a newspaper: she concentrated all her efforts on her
challenging job, on her friend Ellie, and on what the hell to do with her
husband Roger, that fraud, bastard, adulterer, and coward.

Arriving at the law offices of Holmes & Epperly the day
after the trial, Liv Saunders was immediately summoned into Belinda Chase
Epperly’s office. “OK,” Epperly said. Liv knew whenever Belinda began a
sentence with “OK,” nothing was OK.

Epperly began without additional prologue. “We’ve kept you
on until the conclusion of the trial, but it’s over.” Liv said nothing, but
knew “over” didn’t just refer to the trial.

“There’s a matter of temperament here, and likability, and
failure to focus on important matters, that is, the well-being and
profitability of the firm. You could have used this pro bono as an opportunity
to reach out to clients who could be paying us. And the drinking – yes, I’ve
heard about that, and gathering evidence like you were some kind of private
detective in one of those bad thriller novels.

“I will say, you handled the Dukes case as well as anyone
could in the circumstances. That is, you argued capably in a lost cause, did
well in cross, made thoughtful and warranted objections, swayed the jury for
second degree murder instead of first degree, and all that. But you didn’t get Holmes
& Epperly the kind of notice you could have in this very public trial. To
be broadcast on webV at some point, apparently, thanks to that junior college
woman. You missed a great opportunity here, one the firm may never see again,
to praise and spread our name far and wide. How many times did you speak with
the press? And when you did, you never once mentioned the name of our firm.
Never.”

“Therefore, Ms. Saunders, as you are an at-will employee,
I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate you, effective immediately. We’ve
deposited a month’s salary into your bank account in lieu of notice.” She got
up from her chair. “Maggie has your cardboard box of personals ready. She’ll be
at the elevator by the time you get there. Thank you for all your fine work on
behalf of the firm.”

Epperly held out her hand. Liv ignored it, turned and left
her office. She took the cardboard box from a sad-looking Maggie, who was
trying to express something as Liv pressed the down-button and walked into the
arms-wide elevator. Liv had always been uneasy around people who were trying to
express something; elevators were more predictable.

Liv climbed the creaky wooden stairs, entered her apartment,
and placed the cardboard box on the first table in sight. The apartment
building was an old place, but those who occasionally visited called it
“picturesque” and “charming” and “airy,” although sometimes they worried it
might be a fire-trap. When entering her apartment, visitors saw a narrow but
very long room, the walls and ceiling in pure white, windows on each end. Doors
on the right-hand side led to a small bedroom, a small bathroom, and a small
kitchen.

She sat down at the table that served for dining and
computing and daydreaming and everything else. She took a deep breath and
allowed herself to feel, painfully, how unemployed she was.

She mulled her prospects. She had money in the bank, for she
seldom bought anything, even the occasional dinner out. Check. She could be
unemployed for several months and never notice the difference. Financially
anyway. Check. Especially, if she gave up those infrequent dinners out.

She was an experienced attorney, had handled both civil and
criminal work. Still kept in contact with a few law-school professors (now
retired) who would say a good word about her. When she felt like working again,
she might be able to find a new job in a few weeks, although likely a very
ordinary one.

Who would hire her? Well, she had those contacts. And if
nothing came of them? Perhaps some public interest group for a few bucks a
week. She drank up, envisioning a much lower quality of bourbon in her future,
and that future would begin as soon as her current glass was empty.

Finally, she let herself understand the really awful thing.
Not being unemployed, but having been fired. Got the boot. Got the axe. Canned.
Shit-canned. Shit-shit and O, Shit! Canned! Several more synonyms occurred to
her, including “transferred to the special-projects department” – the one with
white porcelain furniture.

She got angry. Her breathing deepened and then fragmented.
She lay her head on the table and tried to sob, but nothing came. After a while
she stopped trying.

So let’s think positive shall we! Positively, and all that
BS. Maybe it was too early to think. Maybe she should just pour herself two
more jiggers of Knob Creek and get dizzy and curl up.

She did that.

Three hours later she felt better, made a mental list of
people she could call. She knew some people at Fogle Harsh Weaver – a CPA firm,
small but stable, and they frequently used attorneys. Or she could call Brent –
an idea that made her smile. Well, she was pretty sure Brent respected her
legal skills. He encountered numerous criminal-law firms in the course of
screwing their clients, so he could give her some leads, and maybe a reference
as well.

Over the next few days, Liv slept late every morning. What
would she do next, even if she found a job? She had a sister in L.A. she sent a
gift to every year, no one and nothing else. Except Charley and the people at
the Stirrup.

She should visit Charley, she thought. She’d see him again
once he as was settled down at Frackville state prison. He’d been convicted,
escaped death, would have a long time to think it over. Maybe now he’d be ready
to tell her what the killing of Congressman Barnes was all about, who’d paid
him or otherwise persuaded him to commit the crime.

Or maybe Charley knew more than he knew he knew.

What good would that do? None for him. But she wanted to see
him again, at least to apologize for his sentence but remind him it could have
been a lot worse without her. Okay, she’d do that. Charley should have been processed
into his new home by then, installed there to gather dust and be forgotten.

But first, one more try to interest Brent Nielsen in the big
picture.

Two days later, as the sun was setting over Grantwood, Liv
caught up with Brent Nielsen just as he was leaving his office. He attempted to
hurry by her, but she stepped in front of him and said, nose to nose, “Fifteen
minutes. Then you can go home.” Her boldness startled him, and he nodded. They
retreated to the Not Another Continuance!, a bar across the street from the
courthouse. Liv ordered a bourbon on the rocks; Brent asked for water.

“Look, Brent,” she said, “When I visited Charley in jail, he
admitted he took money for Barnes’ death, as I suspected.”

“A little late for a confession,” Brent retorted.

“He admitted he was paid, or was promised to be paid but
never got the money, except just a few hundred.”

“OK,” said Brent, “But now Dukes is convicted and locked up,
and you’re not going to appeal – are you? Especially since you don’t represent
him anymore, so I guess not. If there’s someone who ordered the hit and you can
prove it, yes, I’d be delighted to go after him. Now I’m ready for that step,
if it really amounts to anything, since I’ve got my man securely behind bars.

“So,” he said, taking a sip of water, “who do you suspect? The
mysterious man Charley met a few times in the bar? But if he was connected to
the crime, he was probably just an agent for someone else. It’s the kingpin I
want, if I’m going to get involved and spend resources on this.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what I think. Someone wanted Barnes
dead, and worked through another intermediary, not just Charley, to make it
happen.”

“Someone with money.”

“OK,” she said. “Maybe not super-rich, but – with say a
hundred thousand to spend on this.”

“So – who’s on the suspect list?”

“Ah – I don’t have a list.”

Brent looked up, annoyed. “You’ve got nothing!”

“You’re the God damn prosecutor; go find somebody to
prosecute!”

“Fishing expedition, and you can’t even find the creek.”

She looked down at her drink, swirled it in the glass.

“You don’t have any resources, do you,” Brent said, in a
more kindly tone. “Without a law firm behind you, you’ve got no leverage, and
you didn’t have much leverage even then, or so I heard.”

Liv and Brent looked at each other for a few seconds.

 “Look,” Brent said, “even suppose we ID some mastermind, a
second prosecution would be a lot chancier than the first, would require a lot
of investigation, and I’ve got other cases to think about, and not much staff
to think with. Besides, it’s not my problem; why don’t you go to the FBI?”

“It may not be your problem,” Liv retorted, “but it could be
your opportunity.”

Brent paid the bill, then left. Liv finished her drink and left,
too.

Charley Wayne Dukes, pursuant to an impressive amount of
paperwork, was scheduled to be transferred to the Frackville, Pennsylvania, State
Penitentiary, about an hour drive from Grantwood. This was the nearest State
facility and had several vacancies, especially after the latest prison riot.
The warden was pleased to host such a famous criminal, and one who seemed not
likely to be a discipline problem.

After a few days, Liv called Brent’s office and ascertained
Charley had indeed been transferred to Frackville. She called the prison and
was informed Prisoner Dukes was being ’processed’ (
like meat, maybe?
she
thought) and she could see him any time after, oh, three days unless it’s an
emergency. The word “emergency” was spoken with unhidden venom. Those lawyers,
the implication was, always said everything was an emergency. Disrupted
standard prison procedures, they did, caused everything to get confused. A blot
on the Commonwealth.

Three days later, she called the prison and was assured
she’d be able to meet with their new prisoner, seeing that she was his attorney
of record and might be planning an appeal, even though she was no longer with
her previous firm. Actually, of course she wasn’t his attorney anymore, and
there wouldn’t be an appeal, but she didn’t mention that.

But before seeing Charley, though, she thought she should
revisit the Stirrup Bar and Grill. The trial over, perhaps a few tongues would
be loosened. Maybe someone would remember more about Art. Art had been the sore
thumb, the sport, the square peg, to cite only the three most convenient metaphors.

Besides, Liv thought, she’d enjoyed her hours there, the
house bourbon, even if it was undistinguished and watered, the honesty of the
people who hung out there. Not
honesty
in the sense of no brushes with
the law, but honesty in the sense of not caring what impression they were
making. Impressions were things they’d lost, along with the need for them.

She didn’t think the Stirrup’s regulars would be broken up
about Charley, considering he hadn’t been a regular, but – who knows? She needed
the closure, anyway. And – oddly enough – she thought of those people at the
Stirrup, as her friends. Friends-to-be, anyway. Drinking buddies. Almost.
Lacking anything better. Or anyone closer.

She was apprehensive, because she hadn’t been able to get
Charley off. That, of course, had never been a possibility. But maybe the
Stirrup crowd didn’t know that. They could be angry. They could be dangerous
when angry. Oh, well, I’ll do it anyway. No, just skip the whole thing. Yes,
I’ll go there. No. Yes. No.

Yes.

Thursday late afternoon, it was raining on I-83 as Liv
approached the Baltimore Beltway headed for I-95 and D.C. She’d never felt safe
driving in the rain, had even researched auto accident statistics by weather
condition. That had made her feel even less safe. Nonetheless there she was on
her way to the Stirrup, where she arrived about ten o’clock that evening.

Cautiously opening the door, she found herself immediately
in the center of fifty or sixty cheering men, and a few women as well. Mike called
out “Let’s hear it for the lawyer!” and there was a chorus of shouted “Goddamn
right!”s and “You did it!”s and “Fuck, yes!”-es. She stood amazed, and her
normal lack of confidence cranked up two more notches.

Bella showed Liv to a table and ordered a whiskey; “the best
in the house” which was Old Grand-Dad, eighty proof, but what the hell? The
others gathered around and almost pounded her on the back, but didn’t quite.
All were yelling at her, grinning, raising beer bottles of various provenance
or glasses of whiskey.

She sat down, finally, and Mike and two other men sat across
the table from her. “You’re famous here, y’know.” He waved his arms around
somewhat recklessly. “You kept Charley alive, didn’t let that creep give him
the chair.”

 “Injection,” said Liv, still not believing the crowd really
meant what they were saying, but no one heard her say “injection.” Might as
well be “chair,” she thought, since neither grim reaper technology applied to
Charley now.

Whiskey arrived and was consumed, and Bella stood around
looking obvious. An embarrassing situation was avoided when Liv paid for the
drinks, for which she received another round of huzzahs.

There was a moment of quiet as drinks were being guzzled. Liv
took the opportunity to say “I’m here because I believe Charley was forced to
do the killing. He didn’t do it because he wanted to, he did it because, for
some reason, he had to. It wasn’t just to make money. Does anyone here know
more about, ‘Art’ that used to sit with Charley, for example? I think ‘Art’
might have put some pressure on Charley, had something on him. – Or anyone
else? – Or anything else?”

Heads moved sideways back and forth, looks assumed a
hang-dog,
shit I’d love to be able to tell you, but…
expression.
Gradually, the crowd drifted back to other tables or the bar, leaving Liv alone
with Mike. With an embarrassed glance at her, he got up and left also.

My fifteen minutes of fame,
she thought
. And it
cost me two hundred bucks
. But she felt pleased, warm inside and not just
from the whiskey. That fifteen minutes was more sincere, than anything she’d
ever got from anyone at Holmes & Epperly.