A Ghost of Justice (19 page)

42

"Don't
be fooled by the way things look," Eric Sheafer said at the top of the stairs.  He reached in and switched the light on.

John Hardy came up beside him and looked in the room, taking in the wallpaper with its sparse but pleasant design of tiny flowers, bees and bluebirds.  The bed had a high headboard with built-in shelves, which were bare.  The remaining furniture consisted of a desk and a very old-fashioned and stained beanbag seat in the corner to the right.  But there was also a generous supply of tissues.  He would finally be able to sneeze cleanly and blow his nose.

Eric was saying, "This room is well fixed with alarms and locks.  The windows are reinforced Plexiglas in ceramic frames and sash."  Pointing, he added,  "Same for the bathroom there.  The sashes are bolted shut, from outside.  The bolts are welded to imbedded steel."

At a glance John saw the double window was large enough, but the individual panes were small and the assembly indeed looked very substantial.

"You're not getting out.  And if you try, one or both of us will be up here long before you could get out," he said as if reading his mind and confirming the lack of escape through the window.

John turned toward him.

"I'll bring you a sandwich in a little bit.  I'm sure you'll find this more comfortable than the cemetery."

John waited as the door was closed.  "For how long?" he whispered after the deadbolt clacked home.

Sitting downstairs in the kitchen, Emily propped her head up on the table.  Her eyes felt as if they would close of their own volition, despite that her lids felt more like sandpaper than soft, damp folds of tissue.

Her father busily unloaded the car and carried the stuff in.  It didn't take long Then he was phoning on the house data manager com unit.  She could hear him fine, but the volume was down on the replies.  Didn't matter; they were implied.

"Bob, we're back… Yeah… The room's fine, really good.  Listen: Tomorrow I want to do something…"

She must have fallen asleep for she jumped as he came back in the kitchen.  She couldn't remember anything else of the call.  Yawning, she rubbed her dry eyes.

"Tired?" he asked.

She nodded, a shiver running through her.

"This place does feel a little cold," he said.  "I think I'll turn the heat up."

Good, she thought as he went back to the house DM.  She thought of the hot sands outside Siwah.  Was it really less than two weeks ago?

Eric came back in and started making sandwiches.

She covered her mouth as she yawned again.  "What did Bob have to say?"

He looked at her oddly, eyes a bit wide.  "You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"  Emily straightened, suddenly alert.  "Is there something wrong?  Anyone sick?  Grandma…"

Eric shook his head.  "Everyone's okay.  Well, in the family.  It's just that they found Joan Devereux beaten to death in her office."
"What?  When?"

"Today."  Turning back to the counter, he said, "This afternoon, actually."  He shook his head again.  "No leads, yet.  The police think it may have been robbery but they're not sure."

"At her office?"

He shrugged with one shoulder.

"Dear God," she said softly.  "We saw her just days ago."

"Yeah."  He finished the sandwiches without another word.  He put them on the table and sat across from her.  Looking at her (pinning her with his eyes was more like what he was doing) he said, "What do you think about what was said in the car on the way back?"

Emily massaged her temples, trying to stave off a threatening headache.  "I…don't know, Dad.  What should I think?  That he's some sort of poor soul gone astray or something?  Not really a killer?  You tell me."  She challenged him with a sullen glance.

A hint of pique lined the corner of one eye, but left quick as it came.  "I can't tell you what to think.  I'm not sure myself," he admitted.  "We'll know more tomorrow afternoon."

Dimly, Emily remembered the legal pad.  "Something to do with your
plan
?"

"Yeah.  I've got to make another call tonight.  I hope I can get someone on such short notice."

"Who?  What are you talking about?"

"I can't come to any conclusions about this.  Not by myself, Em.  I need some help, some more opinions.  Professional ones."

"What do you mean?"  She was fully awake now, looking squarely at her father.  Irritation swelled and she gave vent to it.  "You can't take the word of the court?  I know: you haven't the nerve to do it without at least the tacit approval of someone.  Well, I give you approval.  Give you an opinion, too:  He's guilty as hell.  Gimme my bullets back.  I'll do it myself.  Right now."

"It has nothing to do with nerve or approval.  Didn't you listen to anything I said back in Richmond?"  Eric held up a hand, shaking his head.  "I don't want another argument, Em.  We're in this together.  It's just… Damn.  How can I make you understand?"  He brushed his fingers through the hair above his ear.  "I don't mean to sound corny, or repeat myself, but life, once you take it, you can't undo that, Em.  I just have to be sure.   The whole thing seems to me to be incomplete, and I don’t know what's missing.  So…what if he's innocent?"  He held up a hand again, forestalling her comment.  "I know you don't even want to entertain the possibility, but you
must
."

"I…"  Emily started to refute, but the words failed to come.  She closed her mouth, waiting for him to continue.

He didn't right away.  Thoughtful for a moment, he evidently took her silence as acquiescence.  When he did speak, it was on a different subject.  "I guess I'll never know what Joan Devereux wanted to tell me."

43

John
Hardy felt more trapped than ever.  Sitting on a straight back chair in the dining room, he was the center of attention.  Late afternoon sunlight poured into the space between him and six pairs of eyes, all seeking to bore into him.  And he had nowhere to hide.  He dabbed at his nose with a tissue.  At least he was no longer coughing so much.

The table had been off to one side under the windows and six people sat in their own chairs across from him in the small room.  Emily sat off in a corner, seeming to sulk and ignore him.  Eric stood.  He appeared to assume the role of a moderator.  Or judge.

"You can ask him anything," he said to the four men and two women.  One of the men, a large man, seemed only a little older than himself, a tall one a bit older, and the third about Eric's age.  The fourth man was ancient.  The women matched the middle two men.  Eric continued in his smoothly authoritative voice.  "Don't any of you leave your chairs until I say this is over.  Then leave the room and go into the study."  Turning to John, he said, "This is my family, excepting the children and my mother."

The ground rules were thus laid and participants identified.  Eric went over and leaned against the room's inner wall.  John waited for the verbal assaults.  It occurred to him that Eric very much wanted him to know of these people.  And that a certain two were missing.

He thought of the ways to respond, but the only one that made any sense was to be confident with the truth.  John didn't feel any confidence, but he vowed to stick with exactly the truth.  He wished his story was stronger.

He remembered seeing some of them at the trial.  Bob, Eric's brother, had sat with the prosecution.  He was the first to speak.

"Mr. Hardy, I, ah, my brother tells us that you deny committing the murders.  So said your attorney at the trial.  What I want to know is, ah, what you can say to convince us of this."

So there it is, John thought.  Instant retrial.  That's what Eric wants.  He missed the official one, so he wants to make up for it.  Once these people are through with me, he'll probably haul me into the back yard and blow my brains out.

He swallowed with difficulty, his palate dry and sticky.  He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to work up saliva.

Looking Bob Sheafer in the eye, he said, "You have heard what was said on my behalf in court.  It's the truth."

Before he could continue, Ed, the large young male Sheafer, said, "Maybe you ought to tell us again, yourself, without some free lawyer doing it for you.  If you can.”

John tried to hold his gaze on the big man's face, but couldn't against the hate that resided there.  He looked back at Bob.

"I don't know how Steve Sheafer died that night.  I was never inside.  The woman …um, Kelly…was already bleeding badly when she came out the back door.  I…"  John paused to collect his thoughts.  He didn't want to ramble in front of them.  "I had been sleeping in the house next door.  You see, I had a job with the contractor who--"

"We heard all this at the trial, Uncle Eric.  Why do you want to go through it all again?" the taller nephew, Frank, said.  For some reason, he would not make eye contact with John, except fleetingly.

Bob held up a hand and answered for Eric.  "Don't forget, son.  Eric wasn't there.  Besides, during the trial, I couldn't concentrate very well and Mr. Hardy was never on the stand.  Now we have the chance to hear from him directly.  If this is something Eric wants, then we will do it."

"I still think it's a waste of time," Frank grumbled.

Ed said, "I agree with you, but it's like Dad says:  If this is what Uncle Eric needs from us--"

"All right!  We do it!  I get it."  Finally looking at John, Frank said, "Okay.  You were doing bit work for the carpenter renovating the Turner's house.  So what then?"

John looked down at his shoes.  He took a deep breath and concentrated on The Night.  "I wasn't really asleep.  I wasn't drunk, either.  I'd only had a couple of swallows to help me relax and feel warmer.  The carpenter didn't pay me all that well, and most of the money went to replace my old clothes and for food.  I'd been taking sips from the same wine bottle for over a week and it was only half gone, so I wasn't drunk.

"I was just laying there, in the kitchen, when I heard a scream.  No.  Two screams.  The second one was cut short.  That scared me.  You see, they weren't the screams of someone having fun or getting startled.  They were full-throated, terrified screams.  And I didn't know where they were coming from.  They were muffled some but still sounded real close.  I guess I figured I should get away from there, so I went out the back door and away from the Turner's.  I was trying to decide which way to go."

"What do you mean?" Bob asked.

"I…ah, sort of knew the area.  I went to school there."

"What class?"

"'34.  But I didn't graduate."

Bob's wife said, "Did you drop out?"  She looked at him, betraying no emotion.

"Yeah," he answered, suddenly embarrassed.  He glanced at the floor, then back to Bob.  "So, while I was trying to think, I crossed into the next yard, um, their yard.  And that's when she came out."  John's eyes squeezed shut involuntarily at the memory.  He quickly reopened them and rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand.  "That's when I got her blood on my shirt."

Ed said, "Their neighbor said he saw you throw Kelly down on the bricks."

"I didn't.  She fell back after bumping into me," John said, unable to hold back all of his anger. 
That fat old man on the witness stand, pointing at him, saying he actually struck her
.

He took a couple of breaths, forcing himself to be calm.  "I don't think she ever saw me.  Then that light came on.  Scared the…  I don't know how I could be made more afraid, but it did, so I ran.  That's all, I guess."

"What about the money," the old man croaked.  "You had my grandson's blood on you, too."

John had forgotten that.  "Oh, yeah.  That's right.  It… I found it in the alley."

Frank crossed his arms.  "Sure.  That sounds like the truth all right."  He put as much contempt in the statement as he could.

"But I did.  Don't you remember my lawyer's testimony?  About how a car nearly backed over me?  That's when I found it.  The car took off and I saw the money fluttering in the dirt it kicked up."

"I thought it was muddy that night," Ed said.

"This happened in the alley.  The pavement was all broken up.  I guess the tires kicked up a bunch of grit or something."

"'Or something,'" Ed echoed.  "I think I've heard enough, Uncle.  Can we go now?"

"Not yet Ed," his mother said.  "I want to ask a couple of questions.  What were you studying, Mr. Hardy?"

This woman had a knack for bringing up subjects he didn't expect.  "Several things."

"Like?"

"Liberal arts, mostly."

"What did you like the most?"

"All of it, really."  John felt a smile inside him.  He kept it inside.  "I guess if I had to choose, it would be History, although Music was a favorite, too."

"What's this proving, Mom?" Ed snapped.  His brother nodded to that.

"Never mind," she said.  "I guess I’m through, Eric."

Eric Sheafer straightened.  "Does anybody have anything else to ask or say?"

"I didn't have anything in the first place," Frank said.

Bob glared at his elder son, then turned to Eric.  "I guess we're finished."

"Okay.  I'll see you all in the study in a minute."

The clan filed out of the room.  That was how John was beginning to think of them: a Scottish clan, no matter their German name.  He should call them McSheafer.

When Bob had closed the old-fashioned French doors behind them, Eric turned to his daughter.  Hardy expected him to gesture for her to follow him out.  Instead he stayed in the room and said, right in front of him, "What do you think, Em?"

John Hardy watched her.  She held her silence a moment longer.  Tossing her head unsuccessfully to get the bangs off her eyebrows, she uncrossed her legs.  After rubbing her thighs, she stood.  "Not here, Dad.  Not in front of…"  She met John's eyes, but quickly switched to her father.  Something in the way she held herself was different.  She didn't seem so stiff and unyielding.  "And I'm not ready to discuss it yet."

"Okay," Eric assented.  He turned to John.  "Wait here."  Then father and daughter went in to join the others.

And so he was suddenly alone in the dining room, but he could still see Eric through the glass doors and the younger man was watching him.  He tried to hear what they were saying, but the sounds were too muffled.

Standing, he went and looking out the side window.  At a sharp angle, he could see a small park down the street.  In the drive below the window were the several cars of the clan.  Nearest was a large Ford, with some sort of minivan behind it.  He couldn't really see the next car.  All he could tell was that it was a dark color.

The doorbell grabbed his attention.

Eric disappeared.  Emily was still there, staring at him impassively. Or was it distractedly?  Frank's eyes still held the hate and anger he had displayed in the mock trial.

More voices, louder.  He could make out Eric saying, "I'm glad you could make it with so little notice.  Victor said you're the best in the department."

John heard a female voice answering, "That's his way of acknowledging that I'm still in private practice."

The talk grew softer and he couldn't understand anymore until Eric said, "Okay.  I'll take him up."

'Him' could only mean John.

Eric entered the dining room and said, "Let's go back to the room."

In the hall John caught a glimpse of a casually dressed woman standing in the foyer. 
Who's she?
he wondered while climbing the stairs.

Eric came into the room with him and pulled the door almost closed behind him.  "There was something bothering me about the court summary.  I didn't figure it out until yesterday on the way back from Richmond.  Do you have any idea why they didn't do a complete psych eval on you?  Didn't your defense attorney bring that up?"

So that was it.  The woman was a psychiatrist or something.  "I had a court- appointed lawyer.  She wasn't very energetic."  John sat on the bed.  "I don't think she believed me.  Just went through the motions, doing her job."

"In other words, no one evaluated you."

"No."

"Not even a competency hearing?"

"No.  Why should they?  I'm not crazy; just an unemployed bum."

"Yeah," Eric said as he opened the door wide.  As he left, John heard him mutter, "A bum that knows Mozart and Wagner."

After the door had closed, he heard Eric Sheafer call out, "Okay, Debra.  Come on up."

After only a short wait, the door reopened.  John saw a middle-aged woman with thick black hair enter.  The door closed again, firmly.  The deadbolt was clacked home.

He waited, tense, as she smiled at him and leaned against the wall.

She did something with her PDM that didn't cause it to make an image.

"I am Dr. Debra Angelucci, Mr. Hardy," she said.  "I'm a lecturer in Psychology at the university.  I'm not sure how much Dr. Sheafer has told you about what he wants me to do."

"He said something about an evaluation."

"That describes it well enough.  Basically, we're just going to talk."

"About what?"  John figured he knew, but he asked anyway.

She cleared her throat.  "About you, Mr. Hardy.  May I call you John?"