A Handy Death (11 page)

“Everyone keeps wishing me good luck,” Ross said with a smile. “This time I may very well need it.”

Sharon looked at him. “What do you mean, H.R.?”

“Well,” Ross said, “I suppose that Billy Dupaul could really report me to the Bar Association for ambulance chasing. An attorney—unsolicited—offering himself as defense counsel to a client he's never met? That's considered to be very naughty.…”

He winked at her and went out the door, his attaché case in hand, the envelope tucked in his jacket pocket.

CHAPTER

7

The visiting room at the recorder in this attache case.Tombs Prison in New York City is as gloomy as the long rows of dingy cells that make up the interior of most of the multiple floors of the gloomy building. Ross, no stranger to the place, signed the lawyer's register and then waited patiently in the lawyer's visiting room for Dupaul to appear.

The door on the far side of the room opened and Ross found himself watching a tall, heavy-set, blond young man being led in. There was a wary expression in his deep blue eyes. Although he no longer looked much like the youngster who had signed the Mets contract years before, there was a familiarity about him. The correction officer accompanying the prisoner turned away and went to sit beside the door through which the pair had entered; his billy club, his only weapon, lay carelessly across his lap. Dupaul walked over to the small cubicle allotted to Ross for the interview; he sank into a chair across from the lawyer and stared at him coldly.

“I hear you're the great Hank Ross.”

“My name is Hank Ross, if that's what you hear.”

“I also read in the papers that you think you're defending me.”

“I would like to defend you in this case.”

“You mean you've been hired to defend me, isn't that it?” Billy Dupaul looked at Ross sardonically. “I'm sure you're not offering your services. That's a no-no.”

Ross smiled. “I should have known a man would learn a bit of law in prison.”

“More than a bit. Who's picking up the tab?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“It does to me,” Dupaul said flatly. “The last time I got handed a lawyer, I ended up in Attica on a bum rap.”

“That's not quite the way I heard the story,” Ross said mildly. “I heard that a capable lawyer was assigned to you by the court, and that you fired him. And accepted a far inferior lawyer from the court the next time. And
then
went to jail.”

Dupaul looked at him pityingly. “You call Gorman a good lawyer?”

“You're apt to find out just how good in a very short time,” Ross said evenly. “He may or may not be in the courtroom, but he'll be directing the prosecution every step of the way.”

“Some good lawyer! He thought I was guilty. He didn't believe a single word I told him.”

Calmly, Ross replied, “A lawyer doesn't automatically have to believe every word his client tells him in order to defend that client.”

“
My
lawyer does,” Dupaul said flatly. “Believe it! And even if a lawyer doesn't have to believe every word his client tells him, he also doesn't have to broadcast the fact that he thinks his client is a liar.” The deep-set blue eyes held those of Ross steadily. “Or do you consider that good legal practice also, Mr. Ross?”

“No,” Ross said, “I don't.”

“Plus the fact that there's one time my lawyer better damned well believe me, and that's when I'm telling the truth! Or he gets fired—good, bad, or indifferent. Hell!” Dupaul said angrily. “Maybe Mr. Hogan wasn't the best lawyer in the world, but at least he believed me. I wasn't lying. In fact, if I'd paid attention to him the way I should have instead of being a meathead, I'd never have seen the inside of a jail! Mr. Hogan had this story cooked up for me to say—”

“That Neeley made a sexual advance?”

The hard, suspicious look returned to Billy Dupaul's face.

“How'd you know?”

“I know about the case. It would have been a logical defense.”

“Well, I wouldn't let him use it, but he doesn't rate the blame on that score. It wasn't his fault I was a hard-nose. But at that time, nineteen stupid years old, I figured everyone would think I was queer looking, like I looked like the kind of guy pansies pick out. I figured the hell with that argument.”

“And four years in Attica Prison was worth that attitude?”

Dupaul took a deep breath and leaned forward.

“Mister, let me tell you something. Nothing on this green earth is worth five seconds in Attica. But I didn't know that then. And I was telling the truth. I never figured I'd have to lie to get off. I never rated that sentence. I saved that dame's life as well as my own. Well, sure, I figured maybe I rated some small amount of grief for shacking up with another guy's wife, because I knew she was married—or I thought so at the time—but when I pulled that trigger, I was just saving a couple of lives. So why should I have to pretend I was queer-bait?”

Dupaul considered Ross a moment as if waiting for the silent lawyer to comment, but when Ross remained quiet, Dupaul went on.

“Look, Mister—I came out of Attica the same way I walked in, but it took a few guys eating their teeth to convince them I wasn't interested. God save the little guys up there! But I learned one thing: There isn't any big sign over a guy's head that reads ‘Pansy-bait.' But I didn't know it before then. And I wasn't guilty—that's what all you guys can't get through your heads! I was innocent! So why should I go for some crocked-up story that Mr. Hogan came up with?” He shook his head. “Man, if I knew then what I know now, I'd have given them a story about Neeley to curl their hair!”

Ross chose to drop the subject.

“And what about the baseball game up at Attica last week? Last Friday. What was the true story of that?”

“What's the ball game got to do with it?” Dupaul studied Ross a minute while his blue eyes got harder and harder. At last they widened with sure knowledge. “Why, you miserable bastard! I get it! You aren't here to defend nobody! You're part of that fink investigating team from Attica! Why, you miserable, lying—!”

He came to his feet with a lurch, towering over the seated attorney. The correction officer at the door came to his feet equally quickly, his fingers winding themselves tightly about his billy club. Ross paid no attention to the guard, looking up at the angry face of Billy Dupaul calmly instead.

“Sit down.”

“I'll sit down in my cell, you screw!”

“I said, sit down. If you want to be believed, you have to extend a little belief to others. I'm not here as part of any investigation. I'm here as your attorney to defend you on a first-degree murder charge. Don't be a fool. Sit down.”

Dupaul stared at him for several tense moments and then slowly, almost reluctantly, sank into his chair again. At the door the correction officer relaxed, his fingers uncurling from the heavy ash club.

“That's better,” Ross said.

“If you're my lawyer,” Dupaul said, “who's paying you?”

“If you insist—Charley Quirt of the Mets.”

Dupaul snorted incredulously.

“Now I know you're lying! Quirt would maybe pay to put me in here—he sure did everything except that the last time—but he sure as hell wouldn't give a dime to get me out!”

Ross frowned at the young man curiously.

“What makes you say that?”

“Never mind, it's a fact. So who's paying you?” Dupaul held up a big hand, calloused from work in prison. “And no more lies, please. If you want to be believed you have to extend a little belief to others. A phrase I heard somewhere, I don't remember.”

Ross smiled at him pleasantly.

“Well, if you don't want any more lies, I suggest you stop asking that question. Anyway, as I said before, what difference does it make?
You're
the one who has to hire me, and I have a paper here for you to sign to that effect.
You're
the client, and nobody else. I'm only interested in your welfare. Now, if you believe that, anything else doesn't count. Well?”

“Well,” Dupaul said slowly, “they talk about you up at Attica quite a bit, of course. And I never heard anything except you were a hundred percent square. So why in hell I'm making it so hard on myself, damned if I know.” He suddenly grinned; it took years from the prison-hardened expression. “Good enough. Where's your paper?”

“Right here.” Ross reached into his jacket pocket, bringing out the retainer agreement. Dupaul took the extended pen and scrawled his signature on the proper line. He handed back the pen.

“Okay,” he said. “Nobody can grab you for unprofessional conduct now.” He smiled. “Where do we begin?”

“Before we start,” Ross said, “I have a cassette tape recorder in this attaché case. It has been recording since I arrived here.” He saw the frown on Dupaul's face and smiled. “I want your permission to continue recording. Or, if it bothers you, I'll erase what I've recorded so far. Which will it be?”

There were several moments of silence as Dupaul's eyes went from the attaché case to the calm man patiently awaiting his answer. At last he sighed.

“In for a dime, in for a buck,” he said. “Where do we begin?”

“With that baseball game,” Ross said evenly as he folded the agreement and put it away. “Was the riot fixed?”

“If it was, I wasn't part of the fix,” Dupaul said, and shrugged. “Anyway, if I had a hand in it, would I admit it, even to you? Three guys killed, what do you think? But the truth is, I wasn't.” He frowned. “Anyway, like I asked before, what's the ball game got to do with the Neeley charge?”

“It is probably going to have a lot to do with the attitude of the jury,” Ross said. “The public gets their attitudes from newspapers, radio and television, and a jury is chosen from the public. Besides, I like to have more, rather than less, information, whether I use it or not. What about the game?”

“What about it?” Dupaul shrugged. “The umpire was a blind screw. He calls four wide ones, they're right down the alley.”

“And you didn't complain?”

Dupaul smiled, a grim, humorless smile.

“Back in high school, on a call like that, I probably beat him to death with my resin bag. But you learn, up in Attica. That umpire carries a loaded cane when he's tramping past your cell at night …”

“I see,” Ross said. “They were really
right
down the alley?”

“Well, maybe on the corners, but definitely over the plate. Ask Millard, he was catching me. He called for the pitches and I gave him what he wanted. I was hot that day; strong, real strong! And as far as being
right
down the alley, no pitcher in his right mind throws them that way unless he wants the ball back in his teeth.”

“Even if he's throwing to a batter like Ryan?”

Dupaul suddenly tensed. Ross interpreted the gesture instantly.

“No, I'm still your lawyer and not part of an investigating committee, but obviously I have a few facts of the matter. Why don't you relax and just answer the question?”

“You mean, I already signed the paper, so shut up and keep swimming, huh?” Dupaul grinned. “What about Ryan?”

“He's pretty slow, isn't he?”

“So what?”

“Look, Billy,” Ross said patiently, “I'm only asking questions a lot of other people have been asking and are going to be asking. They're going to question the necessity of throwing fancy corner breaks, or pitches the umpire might consider doubtful, to a batter as slow as Ryan.”

“Why, for chrissakes?”

“Because those four pitches were the reason for a riot, that's why. And during that riot three men including a guard were killed. You know why. Just answer the question.”

Dupaul leaned over, his face close to Ross's, his voice earnest.

“Mr. Ross, first of all I only pitched what Millard called for, but don't go laying anything off on Millard because he was dead right on his calls. I'd have argued every inch of the way if he'd have signaled for any fast, straight ball. Sure, some hitters are slower than others, but nobody is so slow you can shove three straight fast balls past him in a row. Not and play on
that
team!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, slow is relative. Ryan's got a .270 average. If he's so slow, how does he rate that average? Especially when he has to practically walk down to first base he's so fat? Remember Ernie Lombardy? He was before I was born, but he was slow. He had to hit a home run to get to first. But did anybody throw them right down the alley to him?” He shook his head. “Nobody with brains. Remember Herb Score? He threw one right down the alley to a slow hitter one day … What are you smiling at?”

“Not at what happened to Herb Score,” Ross assured him instantly. “It's just that I think you've given me the answer to a certain wise-guy newspaperman.” He straightened his face. “All right. Then what caused the riot? Nobody is going to believe it was just a coincidence that the men rioted over a bad call just at the moment an escape attempt was being made.”

Billy Dupaul considered the other a moment before answering.

“Look, Mr. Ross. I may not be the brightest guy in the world, but I'm not the biggest dummy, either. I know the riot looks fixed and that I had to be in on it. But I wasn't, and that's all I can tell you.” He shook his head in disgust. “Hell, you don't need four balls to start a riot during a ball game. A guy slides into base and whether he gets called safe or out, there's enough for anybody to start a rumble!”

“Except for the timing,” Ross pointed out. “In this case, that was very important. They couldn't wait for a man to reach base. The riot started just a few minutes after the game started.”