Death Penalty (23 page)

“Still. . .”

“We'll see,” she said as she turned and walked away.

I thought about things from her father's viewpoint. I wonder what I would do if my daughter, Lisa, said she was interested in a recovering drunk, a three-time loser in the marriage wars who had almost lost his law license once, a man who would be one drink away from destruction for the rest of his life. And a man twenty years older than my daughter, who, in addition to everything else, lived from fee to fee with no worldly goods to endow anyone with.

I doubt I'd be ecstatic.

I was absolutely sure Judge Franklin Palmer wouldn't be either.

Poor Will McHugh.

I FOUND A LITTLE CUBBYHOLE
in the law library and was almost halfway through the assisted suicide essay when it seemed as if a mountain had blocked off my light.

I looked up into the florid face of Jeffrey Mallow. A very angry florid face.

“There you are,” I said, whispering cheerfully. “I've been trying to get hold of you.”

Lying is often an excellent defense, although I didn't think it was going to work this time.

“I want to see you,” he snapped, teeth clenched. “Now.”

I started to get up.

“Take your things,” he commanded.

I shrugged, deciding to humor him. I slipped the article into my briefcase and snapped it shut.

This time there were no bear hugs. He moved ahead of me like a blocking back, so swiftly that I was having trouble keeping up. He exited the library and moved down the hall to a darkened classroom. He tried the door and opened it, motioning me to go inside. The only light was from the outside through the classroom windows, but it was sufficient, since a big gas station across the street was brighter than any moon.

“Sit,” he said, tossing a one-armed student chair at me.

Anger can be contagious; now I began to feel the urge to respond in kind.

He half stood, half sat on an instructor's desk about five feet away.

“What the hell's the matter with you, Sloan? I'm breaking my ass trying to do you a big favor and you don't even have the courtesy to answer my phone calls?”

“It's been a busy time for me,” I snapped.

His face was mostly in shadow, including his eyes, so I couldn't read any expression in them.

“Besides,” I added, “I'm not looking for favors.”

“You may not be looking for one, but, by God, you need one.”

“You mean, in the McHugh case.”

“I mean exactly that.”

“What kind of favor are we talking about?”

He hiked himself up on the desk, hunching forward, his face closer, but still in darkness.

“You saw the memo?”

“Yes.”

“It could go either way, but the memo indicated the court should favor the position of the other side.”

“I saw what it said.”

“There's a lot of money at stake here,” he said. His voice had dropped to a near whisper. “A lot of money.”

“So?”

“Money can talk, very loudly.”

“Then I'm going to lose because Ford Motor has a hell of a lot more money than I do. If there's going to be an auction, I'm in no position to bid.”

I wasn't able to see his reaction.

“What's the total fee here, one third of any award?”

“That's right. It's Mickey Monk's case. He won it at trial. I just argued it. If we win I get twenty percent of Monk's fee.”

Mallow was silent. “A lot of money,” he said, finally. “If the case is won, Monk makes—what—better than a million and a half?”

“We talked about this before,” I said.

“So, given the interest growing during the appeal, you would see—what—maybe three hundred or four hundred thousand as your cut of the fee, right?”

I said nothing.

“A lot of money,” he repeated softly.

“So?”

“Suppose someone could arrange it that you won?”

“Is this the favor you talked about?”

If he was smiling, I couldn't tell. For a moment, all I heard was the sound of his heavy breathing.

“How much would something like that be worth?” he asked.

“Well, for openers, probably five years in prison, disbarment, and God knows what else.”

He didn't laugh, nor did he react in any other way.

“I know the law, probably one hell of a lot better than you. I've been at it longer. I'm talking money, and you know it.”

“It wouldn't be worth a penny. I don't do business that way.”

He laughed. “You think I'm wearing a wire, don't you?”

“No, I don't.”

“Want to search me, Sloan?”

“No, I don't.”

“I think a favor like that would be worth at least half your fee.”

“Mine, or Monk's, too?”

“Just yours. We don't know Monk. We don't trust anyone we don't know well. We deal strictly with you. Only you. We're talking your cut, what, two hundred thousand, one and a half, something like that.”

“What does this money buy?”

“A vote,” he said softly. “Just one little vote. Of course, that's all you need anyway.”

“What kind of scam are you trying to pull, Mallow?” I knew it always irritated him if someone refused to call him judge.

“Scam?”

“Shakedown, extortion, fraud, solicitation for a bribe, there's all kinds of terms to cover it, both in the law books and on the street.”

“What are you going to do, report me?”

“It's a possibility, you keep this shit up.”

Mallow snorted. “Oh, just think of it, Charley. You waltz into the feds, whatever, and say Judge Jeffrey Mallow, former chief judge of the Michigan Court of Appeals, tried to shake me down.” He laughed. “Hey,
they'd check. They have to, by law. It would be your word against mine, Charley. The word of a busted-down drunk lawyer versus one of the most important men in this state. This time they'd jerk your license forever.”

To let it sink in, he paused. “And you know goddamn well I'm telling the truth, don't you?”

The problem was that I did.

“And suppose I pay you money and still lose? I'm in the same position, as I see it. No one would believe me.”

“You won't lose. I guarantee that.”

“Did you ever sell roofing material?”

He laughed. “No. Believe me, I'd see to it you were satisfied before one dollar was paid.”

“Who gets the money?”

“I would think that was obvious.”

“Noonan?”

“Noonan is too stupid to even let in on a thing like this.”

“Chene?”

Mallow shook his head. “Chene is already in your corner.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, you're not trying to tell me Franklin Palmer can be bribed.”

“Bribe is such an ugly word, Charley. I'd suggest we toss it from our vocabulary from this point on.”

“I've known Palmer since law school. He's as straight as they come. I don't believe you.”

He sighed. “Charley, everybody needs help sometimes. You needed help when they were trying to lift your goddamned license. Frank Palmer helped you then. Now, he needs some help. We all get in financial binds, eh? So, it's payback time, Charley.”

“You're full of shit!”

He stood up and loomed over me. “We'll need an answer soon, Charley.”

Mallow walked to the door, then stopped. “Think it over. It's a lot of money. You came in on it late, Charley. The other guy, Monk, did all the real work. It's really a windfall for you. Try to think about this, then, as a kind of sharing of the wealth.”

Before I could even think of replying, he was gone.

You were pretty quiet tonight,” Bob Williams said as he eyed me over the lip of his coffee cup. Only a few members of the club still lingered in the basement of St. Jude's church. Williams, like me, is a recovering alcoholic, and a psychiatrist. Beyond that, he is about as close as anybody comes to being my best friend.

We waved good night to the last few to leave. That left us with the task of cleaning up—emptying the ashtrays, cleaning the coffee urn, setting the chairs in order, and turning off the lights.

“Problems?” he asked.

I shrugged. “A few.”

I was still shaken from my encounter with Mallow. I could think of nothing else. Somehow, I was frozen mentally, unable to conjure up alternatives, able only to replay
the incident over and over and over again. I thought I might be going through something like shock, the same thing that happens to people after a serious accident.

The meeting had gone on without my conscious notice. My preoccupation must have showed.

“We're alone,” Bob said. “Want to talk about it?”

“Your usual outrageous rates, I presume?”

“Depends. If it's something really dirty, I may just waive the fee.”

“This is one I can't talk about, not even with you.”

Bob Williams is as big as a small mountain and looks like a tackle for the pros. He wears his hair in a tight military cut, and his face could be the model for any painter or sculptor who wanted to depict a ferocious Indian. He was only part Native American, but he looked like Sitting Bull's kid. His appearance was forbidding, but he was much the opposite, a gentle man who cared about people, sometimes maybe too much. That had caused him to drink originally. The alcohol crutch was gone now, but not the concern.

“Charley, you're a lawyer. Let's do this on a patient-doctor relationship. That way my lips are sealed.”

“Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. No offense, but this is something I don't want anyone to know about. There are reasons.”

Williams frowned.

“It's a legal matter,” I added quickly so he wouldn't feel offended. “I really can't talk about it.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“It's possible.”

“Did you do something wrong, Charley? Screw something up?”

I laughed. “Actually, quite the opposite. I didn't screw anything up, and I didn't do anything wrong. At least, not yet.”

The place was a little spooky. The only light left on was
hanging just over us, shining down like a small spotlight on the two of us and the big coffee urn. Beyond the ring of light, the huge basement was as shadowy as a dark forest.

“The word
wrong
in our culture can mean many things, Charley,” he said softly. “Going through a red light is wrong, even if you can see there's no traffic. Tossing an old lady down a staircase is also wrong. The word has many tints and shadings. What kind of wrong are we talking about here?”

“I haven't thrown any old people down stairs, so I guess that's one kind of wrong eliminated.”

“This problem of yours,” he asked, “does it mean hurting people, if say, it's merely technically wrong?”

If Mallow weren't merely running a scam and the proposed bribe was on the level, and paid, I thought about who would be hurt. Ford Motor would have to pay the judgment, but I honestly believed that they should, anyway. Even if the result was fixed, the end would still be just. If it went the other way, the fate of Will McHugh and Mickey Monk was almost unthinkable. And, in my judgment, unjust.

“Let's say no major damage would be caused anyone,” I said. “But if discovered, the jail population could see a nice little statistical jump.”

“Including you?”

I nodded.

“Well, in that case, it would seem the answer is obvious. Why risk it?”

I looked off into the darkness. “It isn't that easy.”

Williams made no reply, just waited until I spoke again.

I didn't believe Mallow, but I wondered what I would do if he had been telling the truth about Palmer. It seemed impossible, but then, nothing ever was entirely impossible. Improbable, but not impossible.

“In the mood for a hypothetical question?” I asked.

“Best kind. Go on.”

“Suppose you owed someone very big.”

“Money?”

“No. Maybe something closer to life itself. Maybe your career.”

“Okay.”

“Now suppose that person asked you to do something that you could do, relatively easily, but was a felony, a big one. But no one would be really hurt if you did it.”

“And if you refused?”

“A lot of people would be hurt, badly.”

He played with his now-empty coffee cup. “If that isn't entirely hypothetical, you've got yourself one big problem. It sounds like something you might find on an ethics exam.”

“Suppose it
was
an exam question, what would you answer?”

“I can't,” he said bluntly. “I don't have enough facts to even consider an answer. You want to take this out of the hypothetical and tell me what's going on?”

“I just told you, at this point, I can't.”

We sat in silence for what seemed like a very long minute.

“Obviously, I can't advise you, Charley. But it's this kind of thing that's dangerous for all of us alcoholics. You know that.”

“What? Stress?”

He shook his head. “No. Indecision. I trust you still recall the serenity prayer.” He said it with a sense of irony, since it was the cornerstone of much of the AA philosophy. Each of us knew every word of it by heart.

“God,” he said quietly, repeating the prayer, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“I don't know if any of that even applies in this case.”

“It always applies, Charley. Use it. It'll keep you from trying to find a solution at the bottom of some bottle.”

He got up, and we finished cleaning up. We walked out and locked up. The last person out always got the job.

Bob walked me to my car.

“If I can be of any help,” he said, “let me know.”

“Sure.”