Indefensible (25 page)

Flora and I lived in the cabin. I used to keep my suits at the office so they wouldn't smell of wood smoke. I'd been in the job only a short time when my boss died of octogenarianitis. When Toby died, I lost my focus and was about to resign ahead of being fired when a dilapidated home in the county burned to the ground. It turned out the owner had recently increased his insurance to well above the value. I charged him with arson and insurance fraud. He somehow got enough money together to hire a flamboyant lawyer from the city who made the trial into a public spectacle, attempting to turn things around and put the town itself on trial because of the recent mill rate increase. It was a good strategy, poorly executed. The news stations took an interest, and I found myself cast as the country lawyer going up against the big-city smoothie. It was in my favor that the defendant, Jimmy Luther, was an obscenity-spewing loser. In news interviews, he couldn't keep track of whether he was saying he hadn't burned the house or that he'd been justified in doing it. He also had a well-publicized history of domestic abuse.

Conversely, I looked young and jaunty on camera. I had a conspiratorial smile, which made viewers feel smart, and I had a voice “like hot buttered rum” (according to some TV people I spoke with). I tried the case recklessly, and in interviews, I fell naturally into a Will Rogers role of innocent country boy with brilliance born of a pure heart. The other guy's flamboyance failed to cover his ineptitude, and I won easily.

“Don't act so surprised,” Flora said of my newfound fame. We were on stools at the lunch counter in town. She was out of our cabin for good but hadn't switched from wearing jeans to dressing in long gossamer skirts and crystal necklaces. “I always knew you could be
smart
if you'd stop fretting about every goddamn pebble in your way and
do
something. Anyway, congrats.”

The arson case got me enough attention that when, in an unrelated case, I brought murder charges against the husband of a “suicide” victim, the news stations were all over it. We even got some national mention. It was an easy case. The cause of death was an overdose of fentanyl, but there was fentanyl residue in the empty beer cans, and in the leavings of the McDonald's burgers, and in the grounds left in the coffeemaker, and even on the victim's toothbrush. There was residue on the bathroom sink where her husband had crushed the pills. He claimed he'd gotten drunk and passed out, and by the time he woke up, she was dead. But his prints were everywhere on the pill vial and the beer cans and the burger wrappers and the coffeemaker. I argued that he'd gotten her drunk enough to be persuadable, fed her a bunch of pills straight, plus burger, beer, and coffee, all laced with more fentanyl. He'd recently upped the life insurance and had an affair in the background. The guy was convicted, and suddenly I was a household name in our little corner of the woods. Invitations to do public service announcements and personal appearances followed.

I liked my shot at fame. Our Republican congressman had announced his retirement, so I decided to get away from the small town, the cabin in the woods, and the site of Flora's and my misery. I mentioned around that I was thinking of a run. Word reached the party—the Republican Party—and some men visited to say they'd already picked the congressman's replacement, but if I would be willing to step aside, they could promise me something nice. Otherwise, they'd crush me in the primary and snuff any future I might have within the party. This was all communicated subtly, the overriding message was that I was an up-and-comer with lots of promise, and they were thrilled with my success and would like to be part of my
future. We talked about what they could offer that would fit my talents and interests. They would work on it and call me back. I didn't tell them I had planned to run as a Democrat.

A few days later, they had a firm offer: assistant U.S. attorney, chief of the criminal division. It was already greased for me. I could spend a few years there, get experience, and make a name.

I accepted, and here I still am, twenty-plus years later.

•  •  •

Any notion I'd had of playing God in my role as a prosecutor—of defining criminality and being the one to make moral distinctions—it ended with Flora and Toby and Dr. Wallis. Doc, with his concealed belief in eugenic culling, was—in my view of the world—evil but apparently not criminal. Flora was arguably criminal but not evil. And if I'd killed the doctor, as I wanted to, what would I have been? Criminal, certainly, but what else? Evil? Immoral? Or heroic?

Navigating the reefs and channels of all this morality is beyond me. Make me the helmsman, not the captain. Tell me what to do and I'll do it, but let someone else chart the course; I don't have the stomach for it.

•  •  •

I slept in my office and was up and out before the place came to life. Now in the town of Ellisville, I stop for breakfast and—craving a bit of comfort to wedge between me and the world—I call Tina.

“Hullo,” she answers crisply. She knows it's me but pretends not to.

“Hi,” I say, “it's Nick,” and I wait to see if she wants to add something, like how glad she is that I've called. She doesn't. I could blurt out a hurried, self-analytical apology for my anticlimactic snuffing of last night's romantic possibilities, but I'd find myself entangled in the briar patch of stupid word choices and ambiguous meanings. Better to keep my trap shut and launch corrective action later, so I switch tactics. I say, “I informed TMU that we won't be retrying Tamika Curtis.”

“I'm pleased with your decision,” she says.

“Yes, you made quite a convincing argument last night.”

“Glad you think so.”

Then there is silence, so in a call-ending tone, I say, “I won't be in till late.”

“I'll spread the word,” she answers, all business.

•  •  •

Fuseli the tattoo artist told me of another con, a guy named Tipper who knows things. He was a bookie who got too ambitious. His real name, I learn, is Larry Green. He was convicted on mail fraud, extortion, and attempted bribery of federal regulatory officials.

The guards sit him in the same chair where the dissipated Fuseli told his tale. Tipper's eyes are tired, with pleats of flesh stretching down his cheeks and disappearing into a graying jungle of beard. He is a bland guy who speaks quietly. I tell him as much of my story as he needs to know.

“Can you help me with my parole?” he asks.

“If you were to be very helpful, Mr. Green . . .”

He shrugs. “I don't know shit, but if I was you, I'd go ask Platty.”

“Who?”

“Guy on the outside. Connected. We did business. Tell him I sent you, and he might have something for you. Platypus, that's what he goes by. I don't know where he's hanging out these days, but try the Elfin Grot.”

“Elfin Grot. What is that? It sounds familiar.”

“A bar in Rivertown.”

“Of course,” I say, thinking aloud. “Upton has mentioned it. A place where deals get made.”

Tipper was slouched over the table; now he straightens some.

“So this Platypus: What's he into?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just information.”

“I don't know, Larry, giving me the name of one guy on the outside who probably doesn't know squat isn't all that helpful.”

“I'd really like to get out of here,” he says. “Really like to get a
friendly word on my parole. And maybe I don't got much to offer about what you was asking about, but maybe I got something else might be of interest to you. How about that? How about I give you this freebie—some info you might find useful. Right?”

“Useful is useful, Mr. Green. I'm not buying information, I'm merely saying that if you proved helpful, I might be moved to put in a word.”

His eyes are alight with something. “You just said something about a guy named Upton. Is that Upton Cruthers?”

I nod.

“Upton. Uptown Upton. Uptown Cruthers. I'd forgot he was in with the feds.”

“You know him?”

“I used to do business with him. Lots of business. When I was making book. He'd bet on anything. Fucker'd bet on pro wrestling, and nobody bets on wrestling, 'cause it ain't real. But Uptown would bet. Had a problem, if you know what I mean. He got in over his head a few times. Had to get visited by some guys, okay? But this was just while I knew him. There was rumors, though.”

“What rumors?”

“From before. Way back. Like some debts he owed got canceled because he helped out.”

“Helped how?”

“Remember, I ain't involved in this shit, okay? Some guys want to improve the odds, it's all on them. I just take the action. Most times I don't even know about it beforehand. 'Course, in my business, you learn to spot it. You get a few Big Louis types putting money on the same outcome, then you notice the QB gets sacked an extra time or two, pass gets completed when it should have been blocked, that shit. Or maybe some kicker misses an easy three-pointer. You got me?”

“This is bullshit,” I say.

He shrugs.

“You're telling me Upton sold games?”

Tipper shakes his head. “Not that simple. You can't buy a game from a guy who makes that kind of money. You got to persuade.”

“Persuade how?”

“Different for everybody. Maybe a ballplayer likes his nose candy too much; maybe another guy's got some old girlfriends who weren't exactly eighteen or weren't exactly willing. Shit, a football team ain't a church choir. You got guys with vulnerabilities and some big money changing hands. Let's say you got a big game coming up: You go to the files, find three or four players with issues, guys on the favored team, pay 'em a visit. Maybe one of 'em's a kicker who likes to gamble, and maybe he's betting on his own games. There you go. That's money in the bank. You haven't guaranteed anything, but you've sure as hell changed the odds.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Everybody knows.”

“I mean about Upton.”

“Everybody and nobody. Everybody knows he was vulnerable. But whether your man Uptown got an actual visit from someone expressing an actual interest in the outcome of an actual game, nobody knows. He's been gone a long time. Guys die. Guys forget. What good is having dirt on a player who hasn't suited up in twenty years? Am I right?”

“But if someone wanted to hold something over him . . .”

Tipper shrugs.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, suddenly pissed off by the whole thing.

“Just trying to help,” Tipper says.

“Bullshit,” I answer furiously. “You accuse an assistant U.S. attorney of . . . well . . .”

I stop myself. This guy isn't a witness; I don't have him on the stand. I'm not trying to debunk his story in front of a dozen persuadable John Q's. He's just a tipster, and my moment of rage is exactly what it is: a moment of rage from the frustration of not having a clue what to do next.

R
ivertown isn't a real town, it's just part of the city that started out as squatters' shacks in the early days and has remained an economic sinkhole. Houses are small and decrepit, with rotting porches and abandoned cars. But driving through, I see a new restaurant with a spiffed-up stucco facade and decorative lamps on either side of the door. The Dromedary, it's called. I guess times are changing.

“The Platypus?” I ask a woman on the street. She looks at me blankly and doesn't answer.

Oops. Platypus is the contact. Elfin Grot is the place. I ask someone else for the Elfin Grot and get directions. Just around the corner.

It is a bowling alley–shaped place: The bar and stools take up most of the width, leaving a narrow corridor that stretches from the small window on the street back into the hidden, smoky distance. The bartender is a woman. She studies me a second, then yells at the three guys on barstools, “For the millionth time, put out the goddamn cigarettes.” They ignore her.

I laugh. “No,” I say, “I'm not public health, I'm just looking for someone.”

She reaches under the counter, takes out a lit cigarette, inhales deeply, and blows smoke out nose and mouth. “Who?”

“Platypus.”

“Platty don't come around much now.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Who are you?”

I hand her a card.

“Looks serious,” she says.

“How do I find him? What's his real name?”

“He don't have a name.”

I wait. She keeps washing glasses. The place is dim and thick with smoke. The stench of spilled beer is an ecosystem where these four organisms—bartender and three patrons—exist. Barnacles: The patrons look inert to the casual glance, but with more scrupulous observation, a subtle rhythm is revealed as they respirate and ingest. And the barkeep, she darts around with perplexing busyness.

“Do
you
have a name?” I ask her.

“I might.”

“And it would be?”

“Go ahead and guess,” she says. “I'm betting you'll get it first try.”

“Huberly.”

“There now, you got it.”

One of the barnacles laughs, and I sit down on the stool beside him. Huberly was my freshman dorm in college. I'm always reminded of it by the reek of beer and cigarettes. My barstool neighbor is of some non-Caucasian mix, and I sense he's inconvenienced by my presence.

“You drinking?” Huberly asks.

“North Woods amber.”

“Bud, Miller, or PBR.”

“Okay, Granddad on ice,” I say, then wave a hand at the barnacles and add, “Set them up again.”

“A philanthropist.”

The barnacles make grunts and shifts of posture that I interpret as thank-yous.

“So how can I find this guy Platypus?”

“Is it about his granddaughter?”