Death Penalty (47 page)

He paused. “Harry said you should know right away, to be prepared to handle the questions. He suggested you might want to prepare a written statement to hand out. He said that might take off some of the heat. Maybe he's right.”

“Palmer's daughter. I presume she's been notified?”

“As far as I know.” He paused again, and then spoke in a different tone, not quite so cold. “It wasn't your fault, Sloan,” he said. “He brought it all down on himself.”

“What he did doesn't carry the death penalty.”

“He was a judge. Apparently, he thought it did. Anyway, it's done. He was a thief, a high-placed one, but he was still a thief. You did the right thing, Sloan. In fact, I kind of admired that you wouldn't wear a wire. I use finks all the time, but the fact is, I hate them. And I don't like lawyers as a general rule, but I might make an exception in your case.

“Anyway,” he said, his voice reverting to his normal cop tone as he prepared to hang up. “He saved the state of Michigan the cost of a trial. You take care, Sloan.”

MRS. FENTON LOOKED UP
as I walked out.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “Are you coming back?”

I didn't reply.

I got in my car and drove to the inn.

The lunch crowd was gone and it was too early for dinner. Other than a few tourists, the place was almost empty. I walked past the reception desk to the bar.

I took a stool near the windows facing the river.

The bartender came over and smiled. “Yes, sir?”

“A double scotch, on the rocks,” I said.

“You're Charley Sloan, the lawyer, right?”

“Yes.”

“I saw you on television last night. Boy, you must be really good to have gotten that guy off.”

“Just a journeyman doing his job.” I was annoyed that he wasn't getting me my drink.

“I was just watching the television. They broke in with a bulletin about a Detroit judge shooting himself. Palmer, I think they said the name was. Did you know him?”

I nodded.

He shook his head as he moved down the bar and splashed a generous amount of scotch into a nice big glass. “It makes you wonder about people,” he said, adding ice. “Man, there are sick people who would give a fortune for just a day or two more of normal life, and a guy like that blows it away, probably for nothing.”

He put the drink on a paper napkin in front of me. I stared at it. The color was as beautiful as an autumn day.

“This guy did it with a gun,” he went on. “I used to work in a hospital. Man, people would find the damnedest
ways of killing themselves. They'd gas themselves, hang themselves, poison themselves. Human ingenuity.” His laugh was big, at least as big as the scotch in the glass. “I suppose if you really want to do it, you'll find a way. Right?”

I looked at the beautiful scotch, and then up at him. He was still grinning.

“There are lots of ways,” he said.

I got up and left a ten spot on the bar.

“Hey, your drink!” he called after me.

I didn't reply.

One suicide a day was enough.

AS EXPECTED. THEY CAME ON
like the beginning of a rainstorm, just a few drops at first, and then the deluge.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. I gave an interview to Sherman Martelle of the
Free Press
and Danny Conroy of
The Detroit News
, plus a number of others, including the stringer for
The New York Times
. The newsmen piled up in my waiting room like patients waiting for a doctor during a flu epidemic. I handled them all. But I refused all on-camera interviews for television. They would have to rely on Harry Sabin's press conference for film clips. Even the best statement in the world could be made to look like something else with a little careful editing. I declined to take the risk that what I said might be turned into that something else.

Everyone, for a change, seemed friendly enough. There were a few hostile-sounding questions, but apparently they were going to treat me as a civic hero, just as The Bishop had predicted.

But that didn't make me feel any better.

I got rid of the last one about nine, and Mrs. Fenton departed, with enough stories and gossip to feed her lady friends for at least six months. She looked as happy as I
had ever seen her, which wasn't very happy, but at least several steps up from her usual dour appearance.

I was alone when the phone rang. Without thinking I picked it up rather than let the machine take the call.

As soon as I recognized the voice, I regretted it.

It was Mickey Monk, but he didn't sound drunk. Not at all. Every word was spoken crisply with the snap of anger.

“You are a rotten son of a bitch, Sloan,” he said. “You've blown the McHugh case. The poor bastard was relying on you. I was relying on you. He's done for, you miserable excuse for a lawyer. All you had to do was pay the fucking money. And even if you couldn't do that, you could've told me and I would have found a way to come up with it.”

“Look, Mickey—”

“Don't give me that honesty bullshit. Your first duty was to McHugh, nobody else. I don't know what you expect to get out of this civic hero crap, but it better be good. It should be good enough to bury your fucking conscience so that you won't think about that poor bastard in his wheelchair. You fixed him for life, you sanctimonious prick.”

“Mickey, there was nothing else I could do.”

“We both know that isn't true.”

“The case isn't over.”

He snorted. “Jesus, I hope you don't think I believe that! You must think I'm stupid. It's over. They'll order a rehearing and then find for the company. Very quietly. They do that in this kind of circumstance. They'll kill the case like a fucking dying sheep. McHugh has no voice, no money. He had nobody but you, you prick. Now he has nothing.”

“Mickey—”

“I never hated anyone in my life, never. Until now. I hope something really bad happens to you. You goddamn well deserve it.”

“Mickey . . .”

I realized I was talking into a dead phone.

I hung up. The phone rang again almost instantly. But I had learned my lesson. The ringing stopped and my recorded voice was telling the caller a message should be left after the long beep.

I heard the beep, and then I heard the message.

“You are a murderer.” The words were spoken in fury. For a minute I didn't recognize the voice, and then I knew it was Caitlin Palmer. “My father trusted you. He helped you. You killed him. I know you did, and you know you did. I hope to God your rotten soul burns in hell.” She started to sob and then the message tape ended.

The machine made a small beeping noise, signifying it was ready to receive another message.

The little red light blinked at me like an accusing eye.

I almost ran from the office.

Sue Gillis was home when I got to her apartment. She didn't seem surprised to see me. She was dressed in jeans and a floppy shirt.

“I called you,” she said. “Several times. But your secretary said you weren't taking phone calls.”

“Mrs. Fenton has her good points. They escape me at the moment, but I'm sure she has them. Anyway, I should have told her you were on the A list.”

She kissed me lightly. “I called you last night, too, but all I got was the machine.”

Then she grinned.

“You've won, Charley. I thought in all honesty that they were framing you, but you won. The radio is full of what happened. You were a star on the six o'clock television news. They ran clips of everybody involved, including
that judge, Palmer. They even showed his boat. It's a yacht.”

“It was his love object.” It came out flippantly, but I was saddened at the price he had paid to keep his boat and his commodore flag. Silly things in the general scheme, but he had been willing to risk dishonor and death to keep them.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. I've been too busy becoming a folk hero.”

“How about I whip up some bacon and eggs?”

“Great.”

She busied herself in the small kitchen. “You were terrific on television last night. Did you see it?”

“No.”

“Of course, they twisted things a bit. They made it sound as if you had used some kind of trick to get that doctor off.”

“That's show business.”

“You looked great up there in front of all those microphones. I was very proud, Charley, despite what they seemed to be saying about using legal tricks.”

“Thanks.”

By the time I finished eating it was time for the eleven o'clock news. Sue switched on the set and each station—we switched around to see how they covered it—devoted almost the entire program to the story.

It was a natural. Every station had film clips in their library of everyone involved. I saw Franklin Palmer at a bar convention. I saw Jeffrey Mallow making a speech to businessmen. There was plenty of footage from the past to cover everyone. I saw myself. They didn't have to reach deep for me; they used my appearance before the microphones up at Broken Axe, only they cut my voice and the anchorman did a voice-over, giving some personal history about Charley Sloan, the lawyer. Flamboyant, was one adjective. Controversial, was
another. He referred to my having had problems in the past with-the bar, and the law. He did everything but call me a crook, stopping just short of that. His point was that the police had set a thief to catch a thief, although he didn't say it exactly that way. Almost.

It took a little gloss out of my status as hero. I imagined that the other media would take a similar tack.

We both sat quietly as the various news programs killed the last few minutes with sports results.

“You looked nice,” Sue said quietly.

“And a little crooked. A dishonest man who turned honest for some secret reason known only to himself. Well, at least they got the name right.”

“You're overreacting, Charley. It wasn't that bad.”

“It'll be the lead story for a week. They'll do background pieces on Mallow and Palmer and me. They'll cover everything, including my license being suspended in the past. It can't be helped.”

“Oh, Charley . . .”

“Then the editorials will call for a revamping of the courts, reform, that sort of thing. Then, you know what'll happen?”

“No.”

“It'll all the away, like an old movie. People will remember feelings more than facts, if that. Six months from now most of the people glued to their sets tonight won't even be able to remember Palmer's name, or mine.”

“Maybe it's better that way.”

“Maybe it is.”

She hesitated, almost shyly. “Would you like to stay the night, Charley?”

I looked up at her. “What, you think I'm easy?”

“There have been rumors.”

I NOT ONLY SPENT THE NIGHT
, I spent the whole weekend. We didn't go out except for a drive. Sue
cooked, and I slept a great deal of the time. And we made love. Sue didn't mention marriage, but I found myself thinking about it. But that was a decision to be shelved for a less turbulent time.

For me the weekend was a time of healing. In my dreams I sometimes saw Franklin Palmer's accusing face, but during the waking hours I began to focus on the guilt that plagued me.

I felt bad that it had happened. But the state cop had been right: Franklin Palmer brought it all on himself.

He should have known better than to have Mallow approach me. Palmer did know me. He knew the man behind the sometimes questionable reputation. He should have known I was honest. But apparently he had forgotten the man and adopted the truth of the illusion.

Monday I went back to the office. The story was blowing out, but I still had newspeople calling. It was local. There didn't seem to be the kind of national interest generated by Doctor Death's case. Apparently crooked judges didn't spark a national taste. Maybe it was a familiar story elsewhere.

In any event, most of the calls were from local media people. Except one, just before eleven o'clock.

Mrs. Fenton was always impressed by judges. She was nearly swooning when she came into my office.

“The chief judge of the appellate court is on the line,” she said, sounding as though she had just been conversing with God.

I nodded and picked up the receiver.

“Sloan,” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Sloan. This is Judge Duckworth.”

“What can I do for you, Judge?”

“This is all a terrible business for our court, as you can appreciate.”

“Yes.”

“Could you arrange to meet with me here in my
Detroit office about four? I've spoken to Craig Gordon, your opposite number on the McHugh case, and that's convenient for him.”

I noted he had called the high-powered Gordon first.

“I can be there,” I said. “What's the purpose of the meeting?”

“The death of Judge Palmer has thrown the court into turmoil at a number of levels. One, of course, is the situation in cases where he sat as a member of the panel and no decision has yet been made. The McHugh case is one of those, obviously, in addition to being the catalyst in all of this business.”

He said it with a slight air of disgust.

“In any event, it is the disposition of that case that I would like to discuss with both of you.”

“I'll be there,” I said.

JUDGE DUCKWORTH'S OFFICE
was large, befitting his title. He was a short and stout man. I had had cases before him and he had always been extremely serious. He was now as serious as a mortician as he faced Craig Gordon and me across his big desk.

Craig Gordon was as dignified and convivial as he had been when we had argued the McHugh case. He seemed to have a perpetual smile, a gambler's smile, a smile of a man who liked the cards he was holding.

Duckworth veered toward the emotional as he told us what a shock Palmer's death had been, and the circumstances. He said he had a duty to see the court wasn't dragged in the mud because one judge had violated his oath.