Final Appeal (12 page)

Neal was still grinning up at the camera as he tugged on his earlobe a second time and pulled the lever again. People might think he had a problem with his hearing, but he didn't care. Naturally, they'd edit the footage before they ran it, and Neal wanted to make sure at least one tug stayed in for Tom's father.

As his safe little room started to lower the second yard he remembered the other mobile unit below and turned slightly so they'd get a good shot. Maybe he'd call his mother tonight and tell her the tug on his earlobe was meant for her. She didn't know Tom's father, so she'd never find out the truth. The ladies in her bridge club would be green with envy.

Another pull of the lever, and Neal was down to the first connection. This was fun in a crazy kind of way. He could learn to like being a media star. He reached in his backpack with a flourish and pulled out the long U-shaped tube that would light up with a strong, vivid purple. He'd written to the Torgesens last night with instructions on how to mix the gases. If they ran
On the Town
in Minnesota, Deke and Sally would be thrilled that such an important artist had taken the time to answer their letter.

As Neal reached up to connect the tube he realized that his hands were dry and steady. No sweating, no trembling at all. Was it possible he'd conquered his fear of heights through some sort of aversion therapy? He sure as hell didn't want to lean over the sides and look down to check.

Neal made the second connection, a bright green. And then the third. It was childishly simple. Every socket was perfect. The electricians had done their work well.

The fourth connection was a foot to his right, but that was no problem. Neal leaned against the side of the scaffolding and reached out to slip the fourth tube—a double-humped fuchsia—into place. He could feel his fellow scarf fluttering in the breeze, and he gave a cavalier wave to the camera below. Then there was a sound like a gunshot high above his head, and the scaffolding lurched, throwing him hard against the far wall. Another shot—oh, God! The cable had snapped and then he was falling, clutching at the empty air where the platform had been, the freeway hurtling up to meet his horrified face.

Several cars swerved and crashed as motorists attempted to avoid the human obstacle that had dropped from the sky. Brakes squealed and locked in all five lanes and there was a series of sickening crunches as fast-approaching cars rammed into an impenetrable barricade of twisted steel. The effect of the massive pileup would be felt for miles in both directions.

The cameraman from the second unit swore loudly Christ! It was bedlam out there! But he was a professional, and he kept his camera steady and rolling. It was a cinch he'd win an award for this footage, but he felt for that poor guy who'd fallen off the scaffolding.

The award winning live footage of the “Disaster on the Interchange,” as the announcer would call it, would run barely an hour later. And the editor of
Avant Garde
would see it as he ducked into Winchell's to pick up a jelly doughnut for his midmorning break. When he rushed back to his office, his secretary would bring in the morning mail with Neal's questionnaire on the top of the pile. And there would be an emergency staff meeting where everyone would agree to change their layout to feature the tragic artist on the cover. Neal Wallace's fondest dream would be realized. But right now he was much too dead to care.

Michael pressed the escape button and then the letter R for replace. The program asked him which word he wanted to replace, and he typed M ... I ... C ... H ... A ... E ... L. When it queried WITH WHAT? He typed in B ... O ... B. Then he hit the enter button and watched as thirty-seven MICHAELs were replaced with BOBs. A message flashed on the screen, “37 REPLACEMENTS MADE.” Michael nodded. Using the search and replace program was easy, once Toni had coached him. In just a few seconds he'd turned his true story about Oakdale into what everyone would think was fiction. Now what should he call Oakdale? Elmwood sounded good. The Elmwood Facility for the Criminally Insane.

It took only moments to make that replacement. Michael pressed the proper sequence of keys to save his file and leaned back in his chair as the computer did the work. Toni was an excellent teacher, and he'd gotten the hang of it right away. Stan had been worried for no reason at all when he'd called last night.

Michael shut off the computer and leaned back in his chair. Why had Stan thought that using a computer would be frustrating? It was easy if you followed the prompts that appeared on the screen. Stan had even asked Michael to promise to quit if he ran into a snag. Naturally, he'd promised, but now it seemed rather silly. He'd finished his run with Toni, taken a quick shower, and sat right down to work. And everything had gone perfectly. Of course, Stan might find it frustrating. He'd never been good at things that were mechanical.

Michael thought back to Stan's college days. He'd needed a lamp for his living room, and they'd found a beauty in a thrift shop. It hadn't worked, but Michael had convinced Stan that lamps were simple to fix. There were only a couple of things that could go wrong, and it was easy to spot them. Poor Stan had almost come unglued that night, trying to rewire the lamp. He'd been ready to throw it against the wall, and Michael had come in just in time to rescue it. Michael had found the loose wire and connected it, and the lamp had worked just fine. It was probably still working unless Stan had tried to fix it again.

Now that he thought about it, Michael realized that Stan had a terrible temper when he got frustrated. He always got flustered when things didn't go exactly the way he'd planned. That was probably why he was so worried about the computer. Since it would be a frustrating experience for him, he was afraid it would be frustrating for Michael. And since Stan blew his top when he got rattled, he assumed that Michael would react in the same way. Michael chuckled a little. Stan was projecting, and that was a defense mechanism. He heard a psychiatrist at Oakdale explain it to one of the nurses. Defense mechanisms were a normal part of human behavior, but when they become exaggerated they could cause all sorts of havoc. Were Stan's defense mechanisms exaggerated? It made Michael feel better to think that his seemingly perfect brother might have a quirk or two.

Stan had always regarded Michael as the flighty one, the baby brother he had to keep in line for fear he'd do something impulsively stupid. In all honesty, Michael had to admit he'd pulled some stupid stunts to warrant Stan's concern. Perhaps part of the reason he'd done them was that Stan had expected him to. Then Stan could play his role as the stable older brother.

Michael stretched and got up. He was hungry now, although he hadn't felt like eating breakfast. He guessed he'd still been a little upset about the dream. It had started the same as all the others, with the courtroom and the jurors' faces as the judge read the verdict. Then he'd found himself on a city bus, riding through the dark streets to a destination that filled him with fearful exhilaration.

Had he actually done it? He still wasn't sure. He'd been taping a string across his bedroom doorway every night and checking in the morning to see if it was still in place, but that certainly wasn't a definitive test. He'd done some pretty complicated things in his sleep. One night at Oakdale, he'd dressed and gone into the nurses' lounge without being noticed. He'd put on a fresh pot of coffee and had been in the process of drinking his second cup when they'd discovered him. For all he knew, he could have taken down the string, gone out the door to do whatever it was he did in his sleep, and then replaced it again before he climbed back into bed.

For some strange reason, the dreams didn't upset him as much anymore. He was still worried about what he'd done, but that was normal. The first night he'd had the dream in this apartment, he'd spent the next day in a state of anxiety, attempting to recall every little detail. Now he accepted the dreams as something he'd have to cope with, and he refused to spend too much time dwelling on them. The morning jog with Toni and Doris helped, he was sure of it. They really ought to use jogging at Oakdale to exorcise the demons of the night.

There was some leftover roast that Toni had given him, and Michael used it to make a sandwich on whole wheat bread slathered with plenty of Gulden's mustard. The mustard jar was almost empty, and Michael checked the list by the phone to make sure he'd ordered more.

The day after Michael moved in, Stan gave him the number of a grocery store that delivered and told him that he'd opened an account in Mike Kruger's name. All Michael had to do was call in an order, and Stan would pay the bill at the end of the month. There was also some cash in the billfold, in case Michael hadn't noticed. A couple hundred bucks in small bills. That was for later, when it was safe for Michael to go out.

Since the refrigerator had been so well stocked, Michael hadn't called in an order until today. They promised to deliver by noon, so his groceries should come any minute. He'd ordered everything he craved plus a big leg of lamb as a gift for Toni. She'd asked him if he liked lamb last night, and they'd both decided it was one of their favorites. Of course she'd have to cook it. Michael knew nothing about preparing lamb. But it was a way for him to help out on her food bill. He'd been enjoying those fabulous meats at her apartment every night, and he wanted to contribute something.

 

 

The doorbell rang just as he was about to bite into his sandwich. Michael covered it with a paper towel and started to take off his shirt. Stan had told him not to open the door, just to tell the delivery boy to leave the groceries in the hall. But Michael figured he'd pull the same stunt he'd used when they'd delivered the computer. He'd be remembered if he didn't give the boy a tip.

“Just a second!” Michael hesitated and then rebuttoned his shirt. The whole sham seemed ridiculous. He was more than a hundred and fifty miles away from Oakdale, the Los Angeles police had a mug shot that didn't even resemble him, and the delivery boy would have no reason to be suspicious. Stan's paranoia was just as exaggerated as his projection with the computer.

Michael glanced through the peephole. That wasn't paranoia, it was just good sense: A delivery boy was standing in front of his door with a cart piled with groceries. He hadn't ordered that much, had he? He opened the door, and the boy gave a friendly smile.

“Hi. I'm Rick from Culbertson's Market. I've got an order here for Mr. Kruger?”

“That's me.” Michael smiled back and gestured toward the table by the door. “Just put it down over there.”

Michael watched as the boy carried in four bags with Kruger written on the side. Then he handed the kid a couple of ones for a tip.

“Thank you, Mr. Kruger.” The kid seemed pleased as he tucked the money in his pocket. “I hope you'll call Culbertson's again. By the way, is there a holiday or something this week?”

“I don't think so.” Michael was puzzled. “Why?”

“I was just wondering, that's all. I've never delivered two legs of lamb to one building before except at Easter. Well thanks again, Mr. Kruger. I've got to get this other order over to Mrs. Evans. She told me she needed her lamb by noon so she could serve it for dinner tonight.”

“Mrs. Doris Evans?”

“That's right. I've delivered an order to her every day this week, and she says our meat is the best in town.”

Michael smiled. “That's what Miss Novak says, too.”

“Miss Novak? In 305?”

Michael nodded, and the delivery boy shrugged. “That's funny. Miss Novak never orders anything but junk food and frozen pizza. She told me she's a terrible cook.”

After the delivery boy had left, Michael went right to the phone. It took only a moment to find out what he needed to know. Toni had already ordered the lamb for their dinner tonight. From Culbertson's.

Michael was chuckling as he stuffed his lamb in the freezer. Toni didn't know how to cook, so she'd hatched a plot with Doris. And all those nights he'd raved about Toni's delicious meals, he'd really been eating Doris's cooking. His first instinct was to go right over and tell Toni that he didn't care if she could cook or not. But the fact that he'd caught on to her little ruse might embarrass her terribly. Perhaps it would be better to wait until she trusted him enough to admit the truth.

It was almost noon by the time Michael had everything put away. He carried his sandwich to the living room and switched on the television. At least he no longer had hang-ups about his eating only in the kitchen. He was much less rigid than he'd been a couple of days ago. And he was beginning to trust his own judgment about things, except for women.

Michael flipped through the channels to catch the news, but it didn't seem to be on anymore. NBC had
Days of Our Lives
opposite ABC's
All My Children
. Michael turned to CBS and was relieved to see that they hadn't climbed on the soap wagon.

There was a news team Michael didn't recognize, sitting behind a U-shaped table. The station officials must be saving their big-name anchormen for the evening ratings. Michael fiddled with the volume. The sound was so low, he couldn't hear it, and the button on the remote control didn't seem to be working right. He took another bite of his sandwich and got to his feet. He'd turn up the volume manually and fix the control later.

Michael was just crossing the room when the night anchorman came on. This must be a special report if they were bringing in their “A” team. Michael moved closer and as he watched, the anchorman's face disappeared and was replaced by some footage of a man on a scaffold. The platform tilted, and he fell to a freeway below. At first Michael assumed it was some daredevil stunt for a movie, but the man actually hit the pavement. The result was horrible, and Michael felt a little sick to his stomach. As motorists on the freeway crashed into each other right and left, the telephone rang.

Michael reached for it without a second's hesitation. If it was anyone other than Toni or Stan, he could hang up.

“Mike? Stan here. I wanted to catch you before you saw the news.”

“I'm watching the news right now. Did you see the guy who fell from the scaffolding?”

“I saw it, and that's why I'm calling. I didn't want you to get nervous.”

“I'm not nervous. I mean, it was a horrible thing, but—”

Stan broke in before he could finish. “Then you didn't catch the man's name?”

“No. The sound was off.”

“Thank God for that! Now listen carefully, Mikey. That fall was an accident, got it? I checked to make sure. A tragic accident, got it?”

Michael was thoroughly puzzled. “Okay, Stan. It was an accident. But why did you think I'd—?”

“The man's name was Neal Wallace. He was a—”

This time Michael broke in. “I know, Stan. He was one of the jurors at my trial.”

“That's right. You're not too upset, are you?”

“No Stan” Michael sighed. “I'm not too upset. It's a tragedy, though. Neal Wallace seemed like a pretty nice guy.”

“He was. I ran into him a couple of years ago at a Cal Arts fundraiser. He was talented, too. Are you sure you really are all right?”

“I'm fine, Stan.” Michael paused a second. “I'm really glad you called me to tell me it was an accident. Neal Wallace is the second juror who's died since you helped me break out.”

“The third, Mike. Remember that older woman? The one with the blue hair?”

“I think so. Wasn't her name Sotherby?”

“That's right. Helen Sotherby. She died in a hospital the day before yesterday. Bone cancer.”

“Then only nine jurors are left?”

“Fewer than that, Mike. Do you remember the heavyset man with the beard dozing off during the medical examiner's testimony?”

“Yes. His name was Cassinger, wasn't it?

“That's right.” Stan sounded pleased. Oscar Cassinger. You've got a good memory for names, Mikey.”

Michael wasn't sure what he should say. Of course he remembered the jurors' names. They were the people who had condemned him to a life without hope. But Stan went on before he had time to think of a response.

“Oscar Cassinger had a fatal heart attack seven years ago. That brings it down to eight. And then there's Sylvia Weintrob. She was killed in an auto accident last March. The others are out of the country. Gayle Hochsdorf—you remember her, don't you, Mike? She sat in the front row next to the nun.”

“I remember.”

“She married a man from England, and she's living in Northumberland, on his family estate. And Chong Lee?”

“Yes. The Chinese intern.”

“He finished his residency and went back to China. There are only five jurors left, not counting the two who've moved out of the country.”

Michael frowned. Stan certainly knew a lot about the jurors. “It sounds like you kept tabs on them, Stan. Why?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Stan laughed.