It Happens in the Dark (29 page)

Mallory, of all people, had made the breakthrough into verbalized memories,
real
ones, of home and family. The psychologist held his tongue as the young detective conducted a rather original, quite ruthless therapy session lasting precisely four minutes, and it was agreed that Bugsy would play the role of Alan Rains for his court appearance tomorrow.

Well, perhaps a Ph.D. in the mental-health field was overrated, but amateurs should not be allowed to tinker with the psyches of madmen. Oh, and Mallory’s idea?
Totally
mad.

After Riker had completed a telephone call to Mrs. Rains in Connecticut, he made it clear to the gopher that he would see his mother in the morning when she brought his clothes to town. “You treat her with respect—like a good son.”

“Got it,” said Bugsy. “Alan
loved
his mother.” He smiled, showing no resistance to this ludicrous plan.

On the contrary, he seemed to be looking forward to it.

No, this was all wrong.

It came too easily to Bugsy, this idea of stepping out of the gopher character to act like his true self in court; it was nothing forced, not something he need grapple with. But then, Mallory was not challenging the false persona. She had only given him another part to play—the role of the man he used to be.

Something had changed.

And Charles died a little. Bugsy was not role-playing tonight. Metamorphosis complete, he
was
the gopher. Truly lost. And it seemed that Alan Rains had met a death of sorts.

So much for hope. Stomp
that
.

ROLLO:
Everything will be all right. . . . And now it’s your turn to lie.

—
The Brass Bed
, Act III

Sunlight flooded this public room of century-old wainscoting and decorative molding. The large space was divided by a gated rail to keep the gallery visitors in their place, apart from the tables reserved for lawyers and clients. All faced the judge’s vacant bench. Affixed to the wall behind it was an emblem that bore the words
In God we trust
, a phrase akin to
God, help us all
, and Charles Butler thought it lent the judicial system the air of a dice roll.

A clean-shaven Bugsy entered the courtroom, his hair no longer a bird’s nest but cut and combed. The black suit and red silk tie helped him to blend well in the company of lawyers, though he was much better dressed than his public defender. And there were other changes in him. He exuded the confidence of a privileged life—as he played the role of a madman playing sane.

He was quite as handsome as the young man he used to be. This was the opinion of his mother, who had come to town early this morning with a selection of clothing and shoes from the closet of Alan Rains. She would have outfitted her son with a better attorney as well, but Mallory’s advice had prevailed. The detective had insisted that, if she could find Bugsy a worse attorney for this proceeding, she would do it.

Mrs. Rains sat beside Charles Butler in the gallery. She smiled. She
glowed.
“Alan doesn’t want me to stay for the arraignment. And I don’t want to make him anxious. I promised I’d go straight home. . . . He called me
Mom.
I suppose that’s enough excitement for one day.” With a goodbye and a handshake, she rose from her seat and left to catch the next train back to Connecticut.

Mallory took the mother’s place on the gallery bench and whispered to him, “We won’t need you unless this goes sour. If that happens, you give the judge your assessment of Bugsy, and that should kill a trip to the psych ward. You only have to say he’s crazy but harmless.”

“That’s true enough,” said Charles. “So . . . why did he confess to a murder?”

“I told him to.”

“What? . . . What did you say?”

At the bailiff’s command, everyone stood up as the Honorable Judge Margo Wicker entered the courtroom in her long black robe. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore no makeup, no nail polish or any other sign of artifice. By the depth of the frown lines in her face, and particularly that angry furrow between her eyes, Charles pegged her for a no-nonsense type, and the term
hanging judge
came to mind. In a hushed voice, he said, “I don’t see Bugsy getting much sympathy from her.”

“It doesn’t hang on sympathy,” said Mallory. “It hangs on law. We lucked out with the judge. Nothing gets past Wicker. She doesn’t do thirty-second arraignments.” When the gallery was seated again, the young detective turned to search the faces in the back row.

Following the track of her eyes, Charles caught a nod from a prominent civil rights attorney, James Todd, a well-dressed man with a boyish face at odds with hair gone to gray. But he was better described by reporters as a cannon among hired guns—just Mallory’s style.

At the front of the courtroom, Bugsy’s public defender, Eddy Monroe, was an altogether different character, a slovenly impatient man in a checkered clown suit, who tapped one scuffed shoe, so bored as he listened to charges leveled by the assistant district attorney, a young man who might have graduated from law school only the previous day.

“On the first charge,” said the judge, “flight to avoid prosecution. How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” said the public defender.

“Not guilty,” said Bugsy.

The opposing lawyer, the young one, had the look of a child shortchanged at the candy store. In the spirit of
I’m telling Mom
, he said, “Your Honor, the facts are indisputable. Mr. Rains was under arrest when he ran from the police station.” He handed her a sheet of yellow paper. “And that’s his confession.”

The room was silent as the judge read every line. She raised her eyes to glare at the young man from the DA’s Office. “Mr. Rains confessed to interference with a corpse
and
murder . . . but you decided to let the murder slide? Now
I
call that interesting. But we’ll get to that later.” This sounded somewhat like a threat. She turned her frown on the older man in the checkered suit. “Mr. Monroe, apparently you didn’t take your usual two minutes to meet with the client and get your stories straight.”

“I didn’t run away,” said Bugsy.

“Mr. Rains,” said Judge Wicker, “your attorney will speak for you.”

After a glance at the public defender, Bugsy turned back to her. “But I’ve never even
seen
this guy before.”

“How
do
I know these things?” The lady picked up her gavel and spun it by the stem. “I must be psychic.”

Bugsy pulled crumpled bits of paper from a pants pocket and reached up to lay them before the judge. “Those are my receipts. I delivered lunches to detectives in the squad room. If you look at the order for the ham on rye, that one was for Detective Kay. Oh yeah, and a coffee light, extra sugar. He liked my shades.” The gopher pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket and waved them for the entire courtroom to see.

Very distinctive—and expensive. Charles turned to Mallory. “Aren’t those
your
—”

To quiet him, she only needed to raise one finger, and he noted that it was her trigger finger.

Bugsy held the dark glasses high for the judge’s inspection. “Detective Kay asked me if the rims were real gold. I know he’ll remember me. Well, after I got paid, I didn’t know what else to do . . . so I left.”

“You just walked out the door . . . of a police station?”

“Yes, ma’am. I
walked
out. I didn’t run.”

The judge smiled, though this was far from a happy expression—more on the maniacal side. “So . . .
while
you were in custody, you ran errands for the detectives of Midtown North.”

“Yes, ma’am. That was
after
my confession.”

“I could check that out with one phone call,” said the judge, handing the receipts to the assistant district attorney. “And then, if you like, we can enter this embarrassment into the public record.” This was phrased not as a question, but more like a dare.

“The people withdraw the charge of flight to avoid prosecution.”

“Good choice,” said Judge Wicker. “Next charge. Interference with a corpse. How does the defendant plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor,” said the public defender.

The judge looked at Bugsy, who shook his head in denial. Her eyes moved on to the man in the checkered suit. “Shot in the dark, Mr. Monroe. I’m guessing you didn’t have time to—”

“I was
there
, Judge. My client waived his right to an attorney during questioning. But I
still
got ’em to drop the murder charge.”

“That’s right, Your Honor,” said the younger lawyer. “Since his client has a history of mental illness, the people ask for two weeks’ psychiatric observation.”

Charles noted a subtle shift in Bugsy’s posture, a slight sag of the shoulders, perhaps signaling the intrusion of a memory from that other life—real life.

“You have some proof of the mental history?” The judge sifted through the paperwork in her hands. “Am I missing something here?”

“I never saw the document,” said the ADA. “Well, I saw Captain Halston hand it to the public defender, Mr. Monroe.”

Eddy Monroe wore a look of confusion, something forgotten—and then an
aha
of remembrance. He retreated to the defense table for a search of his briefcase. “One sec, Judge.” And now he rushed back to the bench with a fistful of wadded papers, and he handed them up to her.

Feet were shifting in the gallery, and whispers were heard among the restless visitors while the document was silently read,
every word
. Done reading, the judge stared at the man in the checkered suit.

Oh, if only a look could gut the lawyer like a fish knife.

“You never read this document,” said Judge Wicker. “I bet you wonder how I know that.” She turned to the ADA. “And you never even
touched
it? Well, that’s all that saves
your
hide, young man. So . . . when Mr. Rains was taken into custody, the police had this document in their possession. It lists the attorney of record as James Todd. Did anyone call Mr. Todd to—”

“Hell, no!” yelled a voice from the back of the gallery.

“Mr. Todd, always a pleasure,” said the judge, clearly lying, not welcoming one more complication. “Approach the bench.”

The civil rights attorney had chosen his corner position well. The court waited in silence as he moved
slowly
past the seated visitors in the back row, building anticipation and tension on his leisurely stroll toward the judge. “The ADA got
one
thing right,” he said as he passed through the gate in the railing. “My client has a history of mental illness. He wasn’t competent to waive his right to an attorney during questioning.” Turning to the little man beside him, Todd said, “Hello, kid. How’ve you been?”

Charles noted a wince before Bugsy forced a smile. Another indicator of unwanted recall? Yes. The little man waved one hand, waving memory away.

“Mr. Rains,” said Judge Wicker, “would you prefer Mr. Todd as your attorney?”

Bugsy looked back at the gallery, searching faces until he found Mallory’s, and, with her nod, he turned back to the judge to say, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Done.” The judge turned to the assistant district attorney. “And the confession is out. Would you like to beat a tactical retreat? . . . You want three seconds to think that over?
One, two—
”

“The people would be satisfied with a psych evaluation,” said the young ADA.

“Defense counsel would
not.
” James Todd glanced at his watch, then looked back over one shoulder as the doors opened, and Axel Clayborne strode into the courtroom. All heads turned toward the celebrity. And the judge slammed down her gavel three times to still the
oohs
and
ahs
.

“Your Honor,
I
stole the body.” The actor raised both arms in a crucifixion stance. “I’m at your mercy.”

Very
stagy.

Charles turned to Mallory, who had undoubtedly orchestrated this event. But why? In view of the lack of evidence, a tossed confession
and
a prosecutor perched precariously on his last leg, Axel Clayborne’s appearance was over the top. Overkill.

“These people will only remember the movie star,” said Mallory. “They’ll forget that Bugsy was ever here.”

But Charles sensed that was not quite
it—
not
all
of it.

The gavel banged on until the crowd was hushed.

“Mr. Clayborne,” said the unhappy judge, “I don’t tolerate theatrics in my courtroom. If you want to confess to a crime, your local police station is the proper venue. There
is
a procedure to be followed—even for celebrities.”

One hand to his breast, the actor overplayed a wounded affect. “Well, I didn’t
plan
to cut corners. Last night, I tried to confess to Captain Halston, but he wouldn’t listen.” Clayborne rested both hands on Bugsy’s shoulders. “The captain seems determined to condemn my young friend to a psych ward. No idea why. He’s innocent. And Captain Halston
knows
it.”

To Charles’s ear, this had the sound of a rehearsed speech, and Mallory’s smile completed the case for conspiracy. Evidently, she disliked this Captain Halston.

“I’m going to regret it,” said the deadpan judge, “but I have to ask. . . .
Why
would you steal a body, Mr. Clayborne?”

“Dickie Wyatt was the director of a play, but he died before opening night. He never got to hear one round of applause. A travesty. Well, he’d been dead for a few days. Getting a bit ripe. So I figured, now or never, it was Dickie’s last chance to—”

A bang of the gavel ended this speech, and Clayborne’s smile faltered, perhaps correctly guessing that the judge was not a fan.

Mallory folded her arms, and this was Charles’s first indication that the actor had gone off script.

Judge Wicker pointed her gavel at the assistant district attorney. “Do we have a cause of death for Mr. Wyatt?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The young lawyer handed up a small sheaf of notebook pages. “Personal notes acquired from Lieutenant Coffey, commander of Special Crimes. The lieutenant called the Medical Examiner’s Office the morning after the body was found. He was told that the cause of death was a heroin overdose. The formal autopsy won’t be released for a few more days, but it’s—”

“
Not
murder,” said Judge Wicker. “And that neatly explains why you agreed to discount that part of Mr. Rains’s confession. But now it seems that Captain Halston suppressed an exculpatory confession.” The judge looked out over the courtroom. “Would anyone else like to pile on? Maybe add to the confusion?”

Charles leaned close to Mallory’s ear. “But Edward ruled that death as a—”