Death Penalty (33 page)

“Oh?”

He sighed. “It's a long story and none of your goddamned business but I'm going to tell you anyway. You remember our famous alumnus Jacques Mease, the fucking financier, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Franklin and I made the mistake of getting too close to that rotten son of a bitch. I didn't invest with him, but Franklin did. Made money, too, a truckload of it, at least on paper.”

He appeared to be looking at something only he could see. “Franklin is a smart man, but not too smart in this case. He bet the ranch, so to speak. It looked good, I have to admit that. He used the paper profit to finance the boat and the life-style that goes along with it. He loves that yacht club crap, always has.”

He sighed again. “Franklin was like the rest of us, a poor boy to begin with. He really gets into those clubs and those honors. Becoming commodore was a much bigger thing to him than becoming judge. The big boat was part of it. He finally went all the way out on a limb and bought the thing he has now.

“When Mease took the fall on the insider trading, Franklin was clean of any criminal charges but he lost every goddamned cent. The boat is mortgaged for more than its worth.”

He looked up at me. “Commodores don't go bankrupt, Charley. It's a matter of pride with Franklin. He's going to work his way out of this. He retires in three years. I know what he's going to do. He'll unload the boat, when he can afford to, buy a place in Florida and live out his life like a make-believe nautical king, prancing around those fancy clubs, commodore flag, rank, and all. All he'll need down there is his pension and a little extra.”

“That explains him. What about you?”

He stood up and towered over me. “You probably already know what happened. I quit the court to be Mease's private attorney. The firm that hired me tossed me out the second he was indicted. And, I've had a few other problems. I need some money, too, Charley. Badly, as a matter of fact.”

He looked down at me. “We wouldn't do this, Franklin and I, unless it was absolutely necessary.”

I wondered what Caitlin Palmer would think of her father if she found out he was soliciting bribes to fix cases.

“Charley, look at it this way. You can probably get the entire fifty thousand from Doctor Death. Jesus, that guy must be a nut case, but he's got money. Again, no one gets hurt. Right?”

“If I did decide to go along, and I'm not saying that I will, when would you need the money?”

He laughed; it was a laugh that reverberated throughout the pool, the water, the strange circumstances of this meeting. “Jesus, don't you listen? We're in desperate trouble here, Charley. We need the money like yesterday.”

I thought about Will McHugh. I wondered what he was watching on his blurry television set. I wondered where Mickey Monk might be. Probably at some bar and well on his tortured road to oblivion.

Monk and McHugh. They had gambled everything on me.

“Just so you know where you stand, Charley. This isn't a bluff. Franklin said to tell you just that. No money and you lose the case.”

“A nice sense of justice.”

“Also,” Mallow growled, “in case you're thinking of blowing the whistle, it's just your word against mine. They'll think you're up to something. Franklin and I will
both be sure you get nailed, if only to protect ourselves. Clear?”

“Very.”

“We might have to do that anyway, if you don't agree. It's a tough world, Charley. We have to protect ourselves.”

I needed to talk to Bishop, or to someone. I did owe Judge Palmer a great deal. And, as Mallow had said, no one would be hurt.

Except maybe me. I wouldn't be a criminal lawyer anymore.

I would be a criminal.

“I'll let you know,” I said, climbing out of the pool.

“You go ahead, Charley. I'm going to swim some more.”

I went in, back to the locker rooms.

I showered. I dressed.

But I felt dirty.

The urge to drink had returned full force. I tried not to think about it. I drove to Judge Bishop's home without stopping to call. Most pay telephones are located in establishments that serve liquor. I didn't need any extra temptation.

He wasn't home. A light was on, but that was the only sign of life. I rang the bell and I could hear the empty echo inside.

I needed a meeting the way a storm-tossed boat needs a harbor. Like most members of AA, I know most of the locations and times without having to check. There was a regular meeting in Grosse Pointe only a few blocks away, in a school. I would be late. It would already be in progress, but that made no difference. I was just glad of someplace to go; I knew I could go there.

I went but I didn't participate. You don't have to if you don't want to. I sat next to a well-dressed man who was obviously drunk. No one looked askance, we all had walked in those shoes.

He seemed to be trying very hard to pay attention. I noticed that because I wasn't.

There is a physical calm to just being at an AA meeting, even if your mind is somewhere else. I found that calm now and relished it, but my thoughts were full of Mallow and Palmer and what I might be able to do to escape the situation, if there was an escape.

The drunk got up and made a little speech. It was a nice speech, although the logic was about as off as he was. No one laughed. It was too much like looking in a mirror.

I left before the formal part of the meeting was over. I saw a lawyer I knew sitting in the back row. We both nodded and smiled, like members of any other exclusive club might do. AA was exclusive. You had to be a drunk to get in.

I drove to Bishop's house and tried again, but he still wasn't there so I slowly drove back to Pickeral Point.

WHEN I GOT HOME
I thought about calling Sue Gillis. But I knew I would be using her to get over a rough patch, and that didn't seem fair. She deserved better than that. I couldn't tell her about my problem. She was, despite everything else, a cop.

My problem was whether or not I was about to be in the position of becoming a criminal. It wasn't the kind of thing to be discussed with a police officer, or anyone else for that matter, except perhaps a wise counselor, someone like Judge Bishop.

It wasn't as if I couldn't raise the money. I had my
thirty thousand plus the thirty thousand retainer Dr. Death had given me. Getting the fifty thousand was merely a trip to the bank.

Back at my apartment, I sipped a Coke and watched some old reruns on television. I tuned in to an old “Dragnet” episode. There, everything was crystal clear. It was a black-and-white show, both literally and in terms of issues. Sergeant Joe Friday knew right from wrong, and there was no in-between for him, or for the people who wrote the teleplay, or for that matter, the vast audience that once watched “Dragnet.”

I had cut a few corners in my career, every trial lawyer has. But there was an ethical line, sometimes hard to see, but it was there, and I had never crossed it. I had never bribed anyone or attempted to fix a case. I was repulsed by lawyers and judges who did, and I felt nothing but contempt for them.

I wondered now whether it was my ethical sense or the sense of self-preservation that stayed my hand the few times in the past when I could have easily stepped over that line.

The law protected itself. Like cancer, corruption was slashed away when it was found. And, also like cancer, sometimes it was buried deeply. But a judge or a lawyer who took or extended a bribe, when caught and convicted, always did time. There was never any probation, or any sentencing break of that kind. Prison was a certainty for anyone who was caught doing what was being asked of me.

When I had been a prosecutor, and during those times when I was trying a defendant who might have inspired pity in the jury, I always told them this: men are not hung for stealing horses, they are hung so that other men don't steal horses. In the old West, I told those juries, a man's life depended on his horse. To let a horse thief off easy
was to encourage others to try their hand at the same thing. No mercy could be shown. Rough justice. But real justice, nevertheless.

The life of the court system depended on its being free of taint, so while hanging might be reserved for horse thieves, prison terms awaited judges and lawyers who corrupted the system. The same rule applied. It was done without mercy, so that other lawyers and judges wouldn't be tempted to try the same thing.

The people who wrote “Dragnet” understood that.

Everything was black and white.

I wished I was back selling shoes.

IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED
to me that Judge Bishop might have been out visiting a lady friend. It should have. He seemed embarrassed when I told him over the phone that I had stopped by his place the night before and hadn't found him in.

He might look like a bishop, but he was a widower, and he was as human as the next man. But if he was flustered, it didn't last long.

“So you met with him,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And?”

I briefly filled him in on what happened. I worried that his court phone might be tapped. It happens—and for sometimes innocent reasons—but I went ahead and gave him the details of the meeting anyway. My risk priorities were changing daily.

“You got a problem, Charley,” he said when I had finished.

“You're telling me.”

He paused for a moment. “If you don't go along, do you really think they'd accuse you of anything?”

“Mallow said they would. He said it would be self-defense. He sounded like he meant it. He said they were both desperate men.”

“Sounds that way,” Judge Bishop said. “I need some time to think about this, Charley. Maybe a day or two.”

“They said they want a fast answer.”

“Stall them, if it comes to that. Let me put my thinking cap on and see what I can come up with. Then, you and I can sit down and thrash this thing out. Okay?”

“Fine. I appreciate your help, Judge, I really do.”

“Don't be foolish. Glad to do it. Sit tight, Charley, and I'll get back to you. And don't worry.”

It was like being told not to breathe.

STASH OLCSKY PHONED
almost on the heels of my conversation with Judge Bishop.

“What can I do for you, Stash?”

“When did you plan to run the Becky Harris plea past Evola?”

“I don't know. There's no real hurry.”

He grunted. “That depends. Look, you know I handle the major felony trials for this office, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, the citizens have been more active than usual and I'm looking at a long list of trials. Some murders, some robberies, and the occasional rape. Some will plead, some not. Frankly, I'm trying to get rid of the possible pleas so I can arrange my schedule.”

“Efficient.”

“Yeah. Besides, my new employer wants all major cases moved along fast so he can go to the voters with a record of accomplishment, a nice long list of convictions.”

“I'd rather put off facing Evola,” I said. “I don't expect to gain any ground with him. In fact, it might be a little painful for me.”

“So's a dentist, but it's best to get it over with. Do you think the passage of time will help your position?”

“I suppose not. He's lurking over there in the courthouse, waiting for me to show myself.”

Stash chuckled. “Yeah. This might be fun to watch.”

“Just so we understand each other, the plea I offer will be manslaughter with the provision that she serve no more than six months.”

“Plus she never comes back here. That's what Mrs. Wordley wanted,” Olesky added.

“That would be part of the deal. Have you talked it over with your boss?”

“I did. He said to go along only if Evola approves every detail. My worthy employer has the fighting spirit of an inchworm.”

“They can be fierce if cornered.”

“Sure. Well, what about it? You want to go to the dentist or not?”

“Would you count it as a personal favor?”

“I would.”

“Would that get me special consideration in the future?”

“No, but you would have the warm glow associated with helping your fellow man.”

“If Evola doesn't go along, I'm going to trial, Stash.”

“Look at it this way. He gets to do it to you one way or the other. Might as well put your toe in the water now and see what happens.”

“How do you want to work it?” I asked.

“I can call and set up a meeting. Or you can.”

“It would be best, Stash, if you did it.”

“You going to be there at your office for a while?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll call and see what I can do. I'll get back to you one way or the other.”

It didn't take long. Stash called almost immediately.

“He'll see us tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock, sharp.”

“Did you talk to Evola?”

“Yeah.”

“How did he sound?”

Stash laughed. “Like a tiger being told someone was bringing him a nice fat antelope.”

“Oh, great.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Charley. Wear a pie plate over your ass. You may need it.”

AFTER LUNCH I WENT
to the jail to see Becky Harris. She sat behind the glass and tried to smile. She looked as if every day she was getting older.

“How are you doing, Becky?”

“I'm all right.”

“Are you being treated well?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Becky, tomorrow I'm going to see the judge who is assigned to your case, Judge Evola.”

She nodded. “I know him. He used to be a regular customer at the inn.”

“Yes. Well, I'm going to try to work out a plea.”

“I told you I'll plead guilty. You don't need to work out anything.”

“It's my job, Becky. If you approve, I'll offer a plea of guilty to manslaughter on the provision that you serve no more than six months.”