Death Penalty (16 page)

Mallow ordered two coney islands and a beer.

I asked for one and a mug of coffee.

Our waiter shouted in Greek to the cook—stationed at the front of the place with his grill in full display—who shouted back in Greek.

“So how did it go, this product liability case of yours?” Mallow asked as the waiter slapped down the coffee and beer in front of us.

“Hard to say. Judge Chene seemed favorable.”

Mallow snorted. “Don't let that fool you. Chene just likes to be everybody's friend. He could smile and shoot you in the ass at the very same time. I never really liked him much.”

“Noonan seemed hostile to my side.”

Mallow laughed. “He was born hostile. Mean Noonan, the name fits him like a glove. Besides, he almost always sides against injury plaintiffs. He can't help it. I think it's a habit with him.”

He took a long pull at the beer directly from the bottle, eschewing the glass. “What about Frank Palmer? He was on that panel, right? How did you read him?”

“I couldn't. As far as I can tell, no one can.”

Mallow chuckled. “On the bench we used to call him the Sphinx.”

The waiter returned and again slapped down the dishes, as if to do otherwise would have been impolite. A kind of Greek cultural flourish.

A Detroit coney island, I'm told, is unique to the Motor City. It is a long hot dog in a bun, covered by a watery chili and enough chopped onions to ski on. All of this mixed with a river of strong mustard. There's no easy or dainty way to eat the things. One coney island requires at least a dozen napkins, and even then clothes and skin are stained almost forever.

In my opinion, it's all worth the sacrifice.

We attacked them in silence. There was no other way. Conversation was not possible. Trying to eat the sliding, sloppy concoctions required absolute concentration.

Finally, we were both done. A mountain of stained napkins lay between us. I sipped the coffee. It was almost as good as the hot dogs.

Mallow signaled for another beer. “Well, Charley, what's your gut hunch? Did you win?”

“Frankly, I don't know. I hope so, but you know how those things go. I won't know until the decision comes down.”

Mallow gulped down half the new botde of beer. “Tell you what. I've got to be up there later today. They want me to sit as a visiting judge in a month or two. Let me nose around and see what I can find out.”

“I appreciate the thought, but that's not necessary.”

He smiled broadly. “Hey, we St. Benedict boys have got to stick together.” He stood up and looked down at me. “I used to run the joint, remember. I'll look into it.”

“There's no need, really.”

He shook his head, as if shaking away my protest.

“It's a favor, Charley. I do them all the time. I'll let you know what I find out.”

Before I could protest further, he was gone.

Also, I noticed, I got stuck with the check.

I sipped the last of the good coffee. Jeffrey Mallow was probably just putting on a show for my benefit, a performance to remind me that once he was an important man.

If that's what it was, I felt sorry for him.

I paid the cashier and then went looking for a public phone.

MICKEY MONK SNAPPED UP
the phone as soon as his secretary told him I was on the line.

“Jesus, what took so long?” he almost screamed at me.

I decided to lie a little, out of kindness. If I told him I had stopped for lunch, he would have thought I was a monster. “The first case took longer than expected, and
the judges were out for a while after that. Anyway, it's finally over.”

“Well, what happened?”

“It went according to plan, Mickey. There were no big surprises on either side, no miracles.”

“You must have
some
idea of how it looks for us?” It was a question, but it sounded more like begging.

He had bet his whole life on the outcome. I knew I'd have to pick my words carefully so he wouldn't be crushed or falsely elated.

“I can't say for certain, but I think Chene bought our argument. Every question seemed to indicate he was on our side.”

“God bless the little son of a bitch.”

“On the other hand, Noonan sounded like the opposition attorney. He got rather nasty at times.”

“He's a prick. Everybody knows that. What about Palmer?”

“He hardly asked a question, either way. I saw nothing that would even let me guess which way he might be leaning.”

Monk chuckled softly, the way people do when they know a secret. “Hey, Charley, he's your buddy, hell, he's your mentor. He'll go along with us. I know it.”

I almost wished he was right, but I knew he wasn't. “You don't know him, Mickey. He follows the law as he sees it. Even if it was his mother arguing the case, it wouldn't make any difference. We'll get no special advantage. He goes strictly according to the law. I told you that from the beginning.”

“I know, I know. But, people, even judges, are human. You watch and see. We got just as much law on our side as they do. He'll go for us. I know he will.”

I sighed. Mickey desperately wanted a world far more kindly than the one he presently occupied.

“Will you call the McHugh family, or should I?” I asked.

“I'll call them. They know me better.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mickey, this thing is still a crap shoot.”

He snorted. “Maybe. But what the hell, why not make them feel a little good about things for a while. What can it hurt?”

“It could hurt a lot if we end up losing.”

There was a pause, and then he spoke quietly, without emotion. “Yeah, it could, and it will, if that happens. In the meantime, what can a little hope hurt, huh? Let them fantasize about spending the money, at least for a while.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

There was another pause. “I'm going to tell Will McHugh you think you've won the case.”

“But—”

“Fuck it, Charley. Even if it goes bad eventually, let's allow the poor fuck a few dreams before the world caves in on him.”

“When will you call them?”

“In a half hour or so. I have to prepare. This is going to be a three-martini call. I feel real good, real optimistic after three quick ones. I should sound natural enough. At least I hope I will.”

He paused. “Tell me the truth, did you do your best, Charley?”

“Of course I did.”

“That's all anyone could ever ask.”

Saturday came and I picked up Sue Gillis at her apartment. As far as floor plans went, her apartment was almost a duplicate of my own—two small bedrooms, a combination living-dining area and a compact kitchen. Her apartment complex bordered a local golf course; sliding doors that opened to a small balcony off her living room provided an unobstructed view of towering trees, manicured lawns, and hedges. It was like having a private park just beneath the front window.

My place looked out on a parking lot.

There were some other basic differences between our two apartments. Hers was an honest-to-god home, tastefully decorated, lots of plants and paintings, an inviting nest that suggested comfort and sanctuary.

Mine looked like a transient hotel, just a place to sleep and not much more.

I liked her place better.

Sue, dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt with a printed photo of Elvis above a slogan saying he was alive and in Kalamazoo, looked even younger than usual. She wore no makeup, at least none that was apparent to me, and her ponytail swung with a life all its own. In short, although she was closing on forty, she not only looked like a healthy and vibrant teenaged cheerleader, she looked much more like my daughter than my date.

When she had inspected me at the door, I wasn't sure she liked what she saw.

“You look uncomfortable without a suit and tie, Charley. Are you?”

I nodded. “I even wear them to bed. It saves money on pajamas.”

Actually, I thought I looked pretty snazzy. My summer slacks, a nice deep tan, were pressed. My shirt, a pullover, also tan but lighter, fit reasonably well, and I wore my docksiders with tan socks. But, not even in the wildest imagination, might I be mistaken for a cheerleader.

Sue had prepared a tray of exotic cheeses and even more exotic crackers. I drank a highly spiced iced tea; I wasn't sure what she had in her glass, and it seemed impolite to ask.

The sliding doors were open and a gentle breeze was as relaxing as a cloud of Valium. I hated to think about having to leave.

“I could only get lawn seats,” Sue said. “But I go to a lot of concerts out at Pine Knob and I kind of like that better than being jammed into the pavilion seats. I prefer lying out on the grass, watching the night sky, and listening to the music.”

“If it doesn't rain.”

She laughed. “Should I bring an umbrella, Charley? Are you one of those?”

“Those?”

“Rigid people. Everything has to be planned, every contingency envisioned. Schedules kept, clothes hung on numbered hangers. Are you one of those?”

“Jeez, I hadn't thought about numbered hangers. What a great idea.”

“I packed a picnic lunch,” she said. “We can dine under the stars, if that suits you?”

I grinned. “Fancy French things?”

“Baloney sandwiches.”

“Let me warn you. I'm sort of the Craig Claiborne of baloney sandwiches. As a critic, I'm merciless. They had better be good. Shall we go?”

PINE KNOB, NORTH OF DETROIT
, is like a lot of other outdoor summer pavilions on the fringes of big cities throughout the country, booking big name entertainers, and, mostly, selling all available space to thousands who pay a healthy price to see and hear the star attractions.

Ushers guided all of us motorists, whose vehicles were kicking up clouds of dust in the unpaved fields used as parking lots. It went smoothly enough. Then we joined the others, and like an army of ants, we all trudged toward the entrance, moving through checkpoints, showing tickets and allowing search of all hampers so that no guns, hard liquor, or antitank missiles might be brought in that could possibly later cause temptation among the less disciplined.

The show was good. Merle Haggard hypnotized the crowd, which moved and danced to his thundering songs of broken barroom loves and homesick prisoners. His act and his band were professionally slick, but they appeared really to get into it just as much as the crowd.

Sue got into it as much as anyone, jumping up, dancing to the rhythms, moving with the agile grace of youth. I
watched, first amused, then, aroused. Even the baloney sandwiches failed to curb my fired-up imagination. It was seldom that I lusted after cops, but this was one of those exceptions.

After the performance we found our car and waited in a river of other cars as the thousands slowly began the trip back home.

Sue, still on a high from the music, found a country and western radio station to continue her mood.

“Did you have a good time, Charley?” she asked as we inched slowly toward the highway.

“Sure.”

“Really? You didn't look it. Mildly amused, that's how you looked.”

“More than that, Sue. I enjoyed the music, but I think I enjoyed watching the people more. Some of those folks looked like they'd just stumbled out of the backwoods. Others looked like they had come from a country club. Dogpatch and debutantes. It's a fascinating mix.”

“So that's all it was for you, people watching? Didn't you at some point want to stand up and dance?”

I glanced over at her, but she was smiling.

“Sue, to tell you the truth, I haven't got up and danced around since the day I got discharged from the army. It's not my style.”

“I guess you thought I was a bit ditzy.”

“Oh, I already knew that. Everybody in Pickeral Point knows that.”

She laughed. We finally reached the interstate, and traffic began to move along at the usual suicidal rate.

But while the speed picked up, conversation didn't. One of those uncomfortable long pauses happened, and it was still an hour's drive back to Pickeral Point. I hoped it wouldn't be driven in silence. Finally, she spoke. “What made you want to become a lawyer, Charley? A childhood dream?”

“I never really thought about being a lawyer. I didn't know what I wanted to be. I got a liberal arts degree and still had no idea what I wanted to do.”

I laughed. “I worked in a couple of factories, did some construction, that sort of thing, while I was going through college. I did learn, though, that hard, sweaty work didn't call out to me as a life's occupation.”

“So, then what happened?”

“I was giving serious thought to becoming a dentist.”

“You've got to be kidding me. There's nothing wrong with that, obviously, it's just that you don't seem like the type, frankly.”

A big semi went barreling by. “A friend of mine had enrolled in dental school.” I glanced over at her and smiled. “Listen, if you've earned your money digging ditches as I did, the idea of wiggling a little tool around in someone's mouth and getting big bucks for it sounded like a pretty good idea. I could get into dental school. My grades weren't good enough for medical school, but I had a shot at the other.”

“What changed your mind?”

It was as if I could still remember every detail. “I went down to St. Benedict's to register for dental school. In those days St. Benedict's had a law school and a dental school and they were in the same building. I saw someone there I knew, and he said he was in law school. He said he liked it and suggested I give it a try. He made it sound more interesting than teeth, and perhaps even easier work.

“So I went to the law office and got the paperwork to register there.”

“No aptitude test or anything?”