Primal Fear (9 page)

He had three joys in life. The first was his morning seminars at Butterfly’s, where he challenged the minds and hearts of young lawyers. The second was his afternoons at Wall Eye McGinty’s,
where he practiced his hobby among the side-talking fringe elements of society, spoke the speak of the trade, enjoyed the vitality of post time, the exhilaration of the stretch and the jubilation of winning. He always sat in the back of McGinty’s lavish suite over a garage on Wildcat Street. A lush emporium for horse players, it looked like the office of an uptown brokerage. A traveling neon board kept the players apprised of changing odds, scratches and the other bits of information that would be foreign language to most humans. A bar in the corner provided free drinks to the heavy hitters. Softly cushioned easy chairs offered comfort to those who watched and listened as the ponies did their stuff.

His third joy was matching wits with Marty Vail, for this was more than a challenge, it was a test of his forty-five years on both sides of the bar. His forays and collaborations with Vail provided a euphoria unmatched by his other enterprises. The call from Naomi promised exciting days afoot.

But first things first. He had fifty imaginary bucks across the board on a three-year-old mare named Wishful Thinking who was running in the last heat at Santa Anita and who proved better than her name. A long shot, she came in second, paid $8.80 to place and provided the Judge with a $3,426 overall day, which he dutifully entered in his log before going downstairs to the waiting cab.

Vail took a single silver dollar out of his pocket and spun it like a top on the desk. The Judge immediately accepted the challenge.

“Ah-hah. Well, now, let’s see, you’ve got the entire Gas-house Gang here in the freezing cold, on the spur of the moment … the roads virtually impassable … so obviously we are dealing with a matter of more-than-ordinary import.”

“Uh-huh,” Vail said.

“We have a new client.”

“I’ll give you that,” Vail agreed.

“Hmm.” The Judge walked from one side of the desk to the other, staring at the coin. “A new client,” he said to himself. He looked back at Vail.

“Did you see anybody after we had breakfast?”

Vail nodded and held up a finger.

“So you visited someone—unexpectedly or you would have mentioned it at breakfast—and as a result of that visit, we have
a new client. So, was this person you visited the client? Or did he represent the client? Obviously, since you threw down the silver gauntlet, it would have to be someone I know, or something I know about. A new client, someone I know about…”

He walked to the window and stared out at the icy landscape, pulled on his lips, mumbled to himself, walked around the room. It was quite a performance. He walked back to the edge of the desk, stared hard-eyed at Vail, and said, “Aaron Stampler.”

“Amazing,” Goodman said as Vail slid the coin into the Judge’s waiting hand.

“Elementary,” Vail said. “When you think about it, who else could it be but Aaron?”

“Are we really defending the kid who did in His Eminence?” Goodman asked.

“
Suspected
of doing in His Eminence,” Vail corrected.

“Didn’t wait long to extract their pound of flesh, did they?” said the Judge. “Fate provided the perfect setup.”

“What do you mean?” Naomi asked.

“Payoff time,” Vail said. “Their way of getting even for the settlement. Hand us a case we can’t win with a client everybody thinks makes Manson look like Little Bo Peep. Well, let’s kick some ass.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Naomi asked.

“With the power of righteousness!” The Judge laughed.

“Oh shit, here we go again,” Goodman moaned.

While they were making sandwiches, the phone rang. Naomi went into the other room, mumbled into the mouthpiece, hung up and came back.

“Want to know who your opponent is?” she asked grandly.

They all looked at her expectantly.

“Jane Venable.”

“Impossible,” Vail said. “She’s going to work at one of the prestige firms at the end of this month. She’s already given notice!”

“Well apparently she ungave it. That was my inside man. It’s gospel.”

“They haven’t missed a trick,” the Judge said. “Everybody’s getting even on this one.”

“Son of a bitch,” Vail said with a tight-lipped smile.

They gathered around the big table. Vail ignored food, striding around the room using a ruler as a rapier and slashing the air with it as he spoke. He had peeled off the sweater and was
wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt which was tucked half in and half out of his jeans.

“Well, they need one thing to tie their case up and they don’t have it yet,” he said.

“What’s that?” Naomi asked.

“Motive. They may have the hardware, they may have the prints and Aaron’s bloody little body on film and that scene in the confessional, but they need a motive to clinch this case.”

“Why? If they can put the knife in his hand, put him in the room, put him in the confessional…”

“Nature of the crime, Tommy,” said Vail. “It’s too nasty. The jury’s gonna want to know
why.
When they see this kid up there, they’re going to want to know why he committed such an act. You can bet your VW that Venable’s got Stenner and his whole bunch working overtime on that one.”

The Judge said nothing. He sat quietly in his chair, eating a pastrami on rye and sipping a cream soda, watching as Vail started developing his case.

“What if they don’t find one?”

“Then they’ll manufacture one.”

“So what do we do about it?” Goodman asked.

“We find it before they do,” said Vail. “So we can figure out how to tear it apart in court. Right, Judge?”

“Without a viable motive, I don’t think they’ll burn him. Life maybe, but not the hot seat. So, Martin, tell us about our client.”

“You’re not gonna believe me,” he said.

“Is he nuts?” Tommy asked.

“He acts as normal as anybody in this room.”

“Which is not really saying a lot,” the Judge threw in.

“I’m telling you, this is the sweetest kid you’d ever want to meet. Looks like a choirboy. If he was six years old he could pass for Shirley Temple.”

“Does he have a halo?” the Judge asked sarcastically.

“Swear to God, he could pass for an angel. I talked to one of the sisters at Saint Catherine’s, you know how she described him? Generous, thoughtful, helpful—”

“Thrifty, brave, clean and reverent… that’s the Boy Scout creed,” said Tommy. “Maybe he’s got a merit badge in carving.”

“Not funny. You want to hear or not?”

“Testy, testy,” Naomi said.

“I spent twenty, thirty minutes with the kid. I’m giving you first impressions, okay? He’s from someplace in Kentucky called Crikside.”

“
Crikside?
” the Judge said.

“Crikside. That’s because it’s beside a crik.”

“Great,” Goodman groaned. “This is gonna be mine, I can feel it.”

“You’re right, Tommy. It’s about an hour’s drive south of Lexington near a place called Drip Rock.”

“Oh, Drip Rock. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Kid says it’s not even on the map, but he says anybody in Drip Rock can tell you how to get there.”

“Who’s gonna tell me how to get to Drip Rock?”

Naomi came back into the room with a large road atlas. She flopped it on the table and traced the highway south from Lexington. “Hey,” she said. “Here’s Drip Rock. It’s just north of Kerby Knob and south of Zion Mountain.”

“Beautiful,” said Goodman, “and probably buried under about ten feet of snow this time of year. What do I do, parachute in?”

“You’ll think of something,” said Vail. “I want to know everything there is to know about Aaron Stampler, from the day he was born until they found him in that confessional. I want to know where he grew up, what his parents were like, what he did in school, who his friends were, what he read, what kind of music he liked, did he play sports, when did he get laid first, who his friends are here. I want to know what he thinks, why he thinks it, what makes him mad, what gives him a hard-on … I want to know it all. That’s you, Tommy. The kid’s yours. Chapter and verse. Fly to Lexington, rent a car, get down there as soon as possible. That’s where it starts. But first I want you to check him out locally. Go to Savior House and also his place—it’s on Region Street.”

“Great!”

“Check ’em both, then head for Crikside after the arraignment.

“Judge, the law’s your problem. We need to get case histories on murder by mutilation, murder by stabbing, murder by religion, including sex, denomination and age. And murder by insanity. I want to throw law at Shoat so fast and hard he’ll fall off the bench trying to catch it.
Anything
that might apply. I want to know what kind of people commit this kind of crime—and
why. Shit, I don’t have to tell you. Naom, check your insurance sources on this. They have statistics on everything, just maybe you’ll turn up something we can use.”

“That’s my job?” Naomi said.

“Also files, reports, autopsies, rumors,
progress,
that’s you. The old tracker back at work. Shoat’s giving us a lot of headroom on this because of the time element. All their reports are ours, without having to go through discovery—although we’ll probably do that, too. We want to know everything they’re up to. Stenner and Venable will give you only what’s required, so snoop around, keep your ears open, anything you hear could be important. And background on Rushman, everything you can find out about him as far back as possible. Check newspaper microfilm, magazines, anyplace you might pick up something. Tommy, here’s a subpoena. That’ll get you into the archbishop’s apartment where it all happened. Stenner was still in there this afternoon, playing cut and paste. Wait until you get back from Kentucky to do the search. By that time we should have access to their reports and a shot at the physical evidence.”

Vail shoved letters and files into a pile and cleared a place on his desk. He threw a legal pad down and made a rough sketch showing the layout.

“The apartment’s on the second floor,” he said, pointing out features as he mentioned them. “This is the bedroom. Bath here. Hallway here and the kitchen here in the corner. This must be a living room beside it. Stairs leading down from the kitchen. This is the back door of me rectory, here’s a corridor to the church.”

“Okay, so what does Shirley Temple say happened?”

Vail took a deep breath. “Now let’s assume that he’s innocent for the moment. Agreed?” They all nodded.

“Here’s Aaron’s story,” Vail started. “He says he was in the room when the bishop was hit but didn’t actually see it happen. There was a lot of action, things breaking, lamps overturning. The next thing he remembers is seeing Rushman dead on the floor and his ring and the knife lying beside the body. So he puts the ring on, grabs the knife and starts out—”

“He put the ring on?” Naomi said.

“Let me finish.” Vail took a pencil and traced Stampler’s movements on his sketch. “He starts out and he hears somebody downstairs, so he goes out the back way, down these wooden steps to ground level. There’s a patrol car coming down the alley, over here, so he dodges back through the door here, runs
into the church, down this corridor, and hides in one of the confessionals.”

Goodman started to laugh. “That’s absolute horseshit, Marty. That’s a horseshit story, pardon my French, if I ever heard one!”

“And that’s an understatement,” the Judge said. “It’s ludicrous! Why did he pick up the knife? Why did he put the ring on? How did he get covered with blood? Why did he do
anything
? Why didn’t he just call the police?”

“He was scared. He panicked.”

“Shit,” said Tommy. “Shoat’ll throw his gavel at you, you go into court with that story.”

“He’s a smart kid. Why would he make up a dumb story like that unless it’s true?” Vail asked.

“Because that’s the way it happened,” said the Judge. “Except for one minor detail—
he
chopped up His Eminence.”

“We’re assuming he’s innocent, remember?” Vail said.

“Not anymore,” said Goodman.

“Is there any motive here?” Naomi asked.

“Not so far. He says he and the bishop were friends.”

“Well if he didn’t do it and he was there, who the hell did?” the Judge asked.

“He won’t say.”

“Why the hell not?”

“He says he’s afraid of the real killer.”

Tommy shook his head emphatically. “His story’s still for shit,” he said.

“But it’s his story,” the Judge said, staring at the ceiling.

“What’s that mean?” said Tommy.

“That means we’re stuck with it until we either break it or find a better one,” Vail answered. “And that’s my problem. I’ve got to get under his skin and to do that he’s got to trust me. I’ve got to find out what happened that night. And then we have to put it all together and make it work for us. And we need one more thing.”

“A shrink,” the Judge said.

“Right, Judge, we need a shrink,” Vail said. “Not one of those jaded old farts from up in Daisyland, that’s who they’ll use for the psychiatric evaluation.”

“What if they don’t do a P.E.?” Naomi said.

“We’ll demand it in the arraignment. And we want him moved up to Daisyland, keep him out of the public eye and mind for a while. ‘No comment’ the press to death and hope
Venable and company are too busy to manufacture news. Maybe the public’ll cool down.”

“Unlikely,” the Judge said, “although I agree we should keep him out of sight for a while.”

Vail was pacing again, slapping a ruler into the flat of one hand. “We need somebody young. Real sharp. Somebody with a fresh approach. New ideas. We need to hit them from the side, knock ’em off balance. They’re going to do everything but dig up Freud to prove Stampler’s sane.”

“We’re saying he’s not?” said Naomi.

“We’re saying maybe. Between us? The best chance we’ve got right now is an insanity plea and they know it, so they’re going to try to step on that one early in the game.”

“Let me find the shrink for you,” the Judge offered. “I have good friends up at the university. I’ll check it out, see if they can recommend somebody good, somebody who can find the mental loopholes while I work on the legal ones.”