Desperate Measures (20 page)

“A calm monster? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?”

“A more highly evolved monster than the ones who will collar you,” she said. “That's what I'm asking for. They will try to make you out to be a monster; I want you to demonstrate that you're a reasonable human being.”

“I'll be good,” he said.

“Okay. Next order of business. Bail. If they agree to bail, it will be high, a million dollars probably. Can you raise ten percent of that much?”

Very quietly Dr. Minick asked, “Does it have to be cash? Can it be property?”

“Either. But it should be available immediately, whichever it is.”

“We can do that,” he said.

Will cleared his throat; he knew as well as she did that bail for an accused murderer was a near impossibility. She did not give him a chance to speak. “For the next few days will you stay here at Will's house? Until there's a formal statement or arrest? They'll be looking for you at Dr. Minick's, and I don't want them to find you. When the time comes, if it comes, I want to surrender you on my terms.”

“Have you ever thought about how strange some of these terms are?” Alex asked. “I surrender. You surrender. I understand both. But you surrender me. That's pretty weird, don't you think? I'll stay here until you give the word. But afterward, assuming you can pull off bail, then what?”

“Then you go home. You can take your computer home at that time; they can't get it then. They can't even question you again after the case is turned over to the district attorney for prosecution. I'll give my pledge to deliver you for trial. And Dr. Minick will have to pledge the same, that you won't leave the country.” She did not mention Bailey; she would deal with that problem later.

“And I,” Will said. “Three upright, responsible citizens all promising you won't skip, to say nothing of a hundred grand on the line.”

“But what happens immediately if they arrest me?” Alex asked. He had turned away almost completely; his hand on the arm of his chair was clenched hard.

“You'll be fingerprinted, and they'll take mug shots,” Barbara said matter-of-factly. “It's routine. Going in and coming out, I'll have someone to run interference for you, keep the photographers at bay, keep the reporters back. I'll hand you something, a book or something to screen your face from them. And, Alex, you don't say a word or answer a single question unless I'm at your side. Be polite about it, but keep silent unless I'm there.”

She watched his hand open, the fingers spread and start to tremble. He clenched it again. His fingers were long and shapely, tanned. “Okay,” she said. “Now on to your financial situation.”

Alex had a few questions, and Dr. Minick did, but soon they were done. Barbara and Shelley both had more work to do over the weekend than there were hours for, and Barbara did not want to linger.

“I'll have to go out to the house and pick up my stuff again,” Alex said. “I took my toothbrush home; now I'll bring it back.” He turned to Shelley. “Care for a ride in the country?”

She nodded. “I'll pick up the hate posters and newspapers, whatever Dr. Minick has,” she said.

And, Barbara thought, there wasn't a thing she could do about that. They left together in the leased car. Dr. Minick left at the same time.

“Alone at last,” Will said. “It really bothers me for you to let him believe he'll be released on bail. Not with murder one. Is that quite fair?”

“I'll try my damnedest to get bail,” she said. “If it works, great. If it doesn't, he has hope now. He needs to keep up his hope, or fall into despair. One or the other. Is it so terrible to give him hope?”

“I don't know,” Will said. “It depends on how far he has to fall if the hope vanishes.” He shook his head. “More wine?”

“Let's get me home now,” she said. “I have so much work to get to.”

18

Frank had said
once that when judges got too old to undergo the rigors of a court trial, they retired to their chambers and met with attorneys pleading for writs of habeas corpus or restraining orders, or with the police for search warrants. “You jolly them along,” he said, “and pray that you don't get one with gout or an upset stomach and that your time slot isn't pressing against the lunch hour, and keep in mind at all times that the old boy would much rather be home watching the roses grow than listening to you plead for a faceless client.”

Barbara remembered his words as she waited in Judge Hardesty's outer office on Monday morning. The judge's secretary, Mrs. Delacourt, had advised her to arrive early because sometimes the judge didn't take a full ten minutes to reach a decision. So far Barbara had watched one attorney leave the judge's chambers, and another go in. She could always tell the attorneys; they were the ones with briefcase implants. The one who left had walked stiffly, as if controlling anger with great effort. To her dismay, the second one appeared equally angry when he came out and stalked away. Mrs. Delacourt beckoned Barbara.

Judge Hardesty's inner office was quite large and well lighted, but it looked musty, everything in sight old and much used, and even abused. And the judge looked as old as Methuselah on his deathbed. He was very tanned and wrinkled, his hands on the desktop were heavily veined, with prominent knuckles; mostly bald, he had a white fringe of hair that bristled as if charged with static electricity. His eyes were keen and sharp behind thick spectacle lenses.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” Barbara said, approaching his desk. It was cluttered with papers, paperweights, two cups of pencils and pens, a rack of pipes, what looked like ticket stubs…. “Thank you for granting me this time.” She nodded to the second man in the office, his law clerk, she assumed.

“I wouldn't have missed it, Miss Holloway,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice. “The audacity of your petition has made my day, frankly. Have we ever had such a petition, Lon?”

“Never,” the other man said. He looked to be nearly as old as the judge, completely bald and overweight, slouched at a table with a legal pad before him. The paper didn't have a mark on it, as if nothing of interest enough to note had occurred that morning.

“Your Honor,” she said, “my request is not without precedent. I am prepared to cite seven instances in which counsel has requested and been granted the same restraining order. In one instance where the police disregarded the court order, the accused man, later exonerated of all charges, died of a seizure and his estate was awarded a million dollars when they sued.”

She looked around for someplace to set down her briefcase. Neither the judge nor Lon moved, and the judge watched her narrowly, as if this was part of his test. She put the briefcase on an end table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “My citations,” she said. Judge Hardesty motioned toward Lon, and she handed the papers to him. He didn't glance at them.

“Why should your client be treated any differently from all the others they haul in here?” Judge Hardesty asked then.

She took out two hospital pictures of Alex and put them on the desk. “My client,” she said.

Judge Hardesty showed no interest in the pictures. Jolly him along be damned, she thought angrily.

“Your Honor, if they arrest that young man and hold him in custody, he could die. It's that simple. Death sentence first, trial later is not an acceptable procedure.”

Now he looked; he grunted, then said, “Jesus Christ! What happened to him?”

As briefly as possible she told him about Alex and the series of operations he had undergone. “This is his surgeon's assessment of his physical condition at present,” she said, placing another sheet of paper on his desk. “Any blow to the head could be fatal, or it could lead to a massive, catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage. A shove against a wall could do it. Today he's a self-sufficient man, self-supporting through his art, which allows him to work out of sight of the world. He has no criminal record, not even a traffic violation. The state's case is circumstantial. There are no witnesses—”

“Don't argue your damn case,” Judge Hardesty snapped. “You have reason to believe an arrest of your client is imminent?”

“Yes, sir. They sent a detective to question his parents in New York City and to collect his medical records.” She paused; when he remained silent, she said, “What I am asking for is a restraining order to prevent the investigators from seizing him into custody, even temporarily. If there is an arraignment, I will plead at that time for him to be allowed to post bond and remain at large pending trial.”

“And a prior restraining order would help your cause a lot, I bet,” he said, scowling.

“I believe it would, Your Honor.”

He made his peculiar grunting noise again. “What time is it, Lon?”

“Ten-fifteen.”

“Time's up. Come back at one. I'll let you know then.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. She reached for the pictures.

“Leave them.”

She supposed that when she walked out, she appeared as stiff and angry as the two attorneys she had seen earlier, but she could not help it. Such arrogance, such power in the hands of one old man. Life-and-death decisions in the hands of a man old enough to bury. She became angrier as she walked through the upper corridor, down the stairs, and out through the tunnel to her car across the street.

When Barbara entered her office reception room, Maria took one look at her, then without a word handed her a memo of three calls. Barbara said thanks and went on into her office and shut the door.

Almost immediately there was a tap on her door and Shelley came in carrying a Nordstrom box. “Maria said you're in a snit. What happened?”

“God, do you two give temper reports routinely? Never mind. I have to go back at one. The bastard couldn't decide. I don't know. You've been shopping. When did you have time?”

“Friday at the restaurant I kept looking at Martin in his white beret.” Martin was the owner and cook for the restaurant where Barbara and Shelley worked as storefront lawyers two afternoons each week. “It's so cool. Anyway, I got to thinking, and things were pretty slow, as usual, so I got on the Internet and ordered some berets. They just came.” She opened the box and pulled out a tan beret. It appeared to be chamois or something equally soft. She put it on the table and brought out a black glove-leather beret. In all she had six different styles, different colors, all expensive looking.

“Six? Good heavens!” Barbara exclaimed. “What do you want with so many?”

“Not for me. For Alex. That baseball cap makes him look like an idiot. But a beret. He'll look like the artist he really is.”

Barbara stared at her. “Shelley—”

“Don't say it,” Shelley pleaded. “I know there's nothing I can really do for him, but maybe one of these will help when he has to appear in public. If he'll have it, that is. He could be offended. I thought I might pick one out, but then I thought he should choose, and now I just don't know. What do you think?”

I think you're in a bit of trouble
was Barbara's unspoken response. But she wasn't the one to tell Shelley to put the brakes on. Gratuitous advice resulted only in defensive posturing, resentment, or even hostility; in any event, it went unheeded. She eyed the berets lined up and said, “Let him choose.”

“Thanks. Exactly what I wanted to hear,” Shelley said, putting the berets back in the box. “Maybe all of them, a different one each day, depending on his mood. Are you going to lunch later on?” she asked, heading for the door.

“After I see the judge at one.”

“Would it be okay if I show up, hang out in the corridor or something when you go in?”

“I may come out in a real snit,” Barbara warned her.

She tried to concentrate on routine matters, but it was no use. In the past she would not have dreamed of taking this step without consulting her father, who knew every judge in the state. Was such an order even legal in Oregon? She had searched for a precedent in the state, had come up with nothing. Other states, yes; Oregon, zilch. She should have looked harder, spent more time. It was the sort of thing Frank would have known….

At ten minutes before one she stood outside the door to Judge Hardesty's chambers, drew in a long breath, and entered. Mrs. Delacourt was not at her desk, but a young woman came to meet Barbara.

“Ms. Holloway? Please have a seat. Mrs. Delacourt will be out in a minute or two.”

Barbara sat down and waited. At ten minutes past one Mrs. Delacourt emerged from the inner chamber carrying a large manila envelope. She crossed the office to Barbara, who had risen at her appearance.

“Judge Hardesty said to hand this to you,” she said.

Barbara took the envelope. “I'm not going to see him?”

“No. I'm afraid not. He's gone to lunch now.”

Dully Barbara walked out clutching the envelope. She had not taken half a dozen steps away from the door when Shelley caught up to her.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He had his secretary give back the stuff I took in.”

Shelley's expression became tragic. “Nothing! How could he just—? Have you looked in the envelope yet?”

Barbara shook her head. The courthouse was busy with people scurrying in all directions, probably no busier than it had been that morning, but then she had not noticed; now she did. People were straggling out from Courtroom B, secretaries hurrying out to lunch, attorneys clutching briefcases, clerks….

“Down there,” Shelley said, taking Barbara's arm. Against the wall near the end courtroom was an empty bench. They walked to it and sat down, and Barbara opened the envelope. She riffled past the pictures, the cases she had cited, and then she came to an official document that had not been among her papers before.

Carefully, almost fearfully, she withdrew the single sheet and scanned it; she leaned back and closed her eyes. “He did it,” she whispered, and passed the document to Shelley.