by Ron Levitsky
“Maybe, but it’s not the same as a trial. The grand jury only needs to find sufficient evidence for Basehart to stand trial for your sister’s murder. With the gun and Basehart’s background, even if the Commonwealth’s Attorney ate his cereal with vodka, he’d be able to persuade the grand jury to bind the accused over.”
“Do you really think Basehart is innocent?”
He sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temples. “I don’t know. Right now I don’t really think much about anything.” He stood and steadied himself.
Trac put a hand on his arm. “Do you have to go? Maybe stay a little longer.”
“I’ve got some other things to do.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to be careful, that’s all. I’m worried about you.”
He bent to kiss her. Afterward he dressed and took his jacket from the chair.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
Putting a hand into his pocket to find his car keys, Rosen felt the wad of tissue. “I’m not sure. Soon.” He walked to the door.
“Don’t forget me,” she said.
“Not a chance.”
Chapter Ten – FRIDAY AFTERNOON
“Don’t feel like answerin’ any more damn questions. How ’bout you lettin’ me outta here, and I get us a couple women?”
Tilting back so that his chair balanced precariously on two legs, Basehart squinted across the table at Jimmy Wilkes and laughed sharply. The interrogation room seemed even hotter and closer, the prisoner’s odor permeating the warm dank air. It sickened Wilkes, as did everything about Basehart.
“How ’bout it, Jimmy? Bet you ain’t had a good lay in years. Sounds like a pretty fair deal to me.”
Swallowing hard Wilkes said, “You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying. The grand jury’s scheduled to convene next Wednesday. Once it finds reason to bind you over for trial, with all the publicity there’s not much I can do for you. But if you clear your conscience and confess now, we could avoid the death penalty.”
Basehart’s chair fell forward with a bang. “Death penalty! You ain’t cookin’ me! How many times I gotta tell you, I didn’t kill no Slant woman!”
Wilkes shook his head wearily.
“Where’s my lawyer? Ain’t I supposed to have a lawyer here when you’re askin’ all these questions? Yeah, sure, I know my rights—you’re just tryin’ to trick me. Where the hell’s my lawyer!” Basehart looked wild-eyed past Wilkes to the door then crumpled back in his chair, legs drawn up so that his arms curled tightly around them, hiding his face except for the eyes which darted everywhere until finally closing tightly.
Despite his contempt, Wilkes felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach. “I called Lester Collinsby. He said he’d try to get down here. As for Mr. Rosen, I left a message at his hotel. Of course, you needn’t make a formal statement without your attorney present. It’s just that I want to give you every opportunity to help yourself before it’s too late.”
He had done it again, Wilkes thought to himself, pressing a fist against his lips. Saunders would’ve gone for the jugular, jumping all over Basehart with the gallows rope in his hand until the poor bastard begged for a chance to confess. That’s what Edgar Simpson called “the killer instinct.” So what did Wilkes feel for his prey—pity. Pity for the accused and, at that moment, for himself as well. And how did Basehart react to his kindness?
“Shit. You’re just tryin’ to trick me.”
Wilkes stood. “I don’t think this is doing either of us any good. I’ll talk to Mr. Collinsby, and if he so advises and you accept, we’ll meet sometime before the grand jury. For your sake, I hope there’s enough time.” He turned to leave.
Basehart shouted, “I ain’t scared!”
“Then you’re even crazier than most people believe.”
Wilkes reached for the doorknob, when it opened from the other side, and Rosen walked in.
“Where the hell you been!” Basehart demanded, pounding his fist on the table.
“I’ve been thinking of you too, Edison.” He held out his hand to Wilkes. “I’m Nate Rosen. We met a few days ago, in this room as a matter of fact. I’m helping Lester Collinsby defend Chuckles here.”
“Of course. It’s nice to see you again.” He couldn’t help staring at the bruises on the other man’s face.
“Why don’t we sit down.”
Wilkes returned to his chair. Rosen sat between the two men and took out a pen and notepad.
“What the hell happened to your face?” Basehart asked. “Looks like some dog’s been usin’ you for a bone.”
“A few guys worked me over last night at Top o’ the Evenin’s nightclub.”
“Why?” Wilkes asked.
“I don’t know. They didn’t take any money. Whoever it was really enjoyed their work.”
Basehart laughed. “That’s what ya get for hangin’ ’round some nigger bar.”
“Please, not so much compassion, Edison. Your heart’s already too filled with the milk of human kindness.”
“Did they hurt you badly?” Wilkes asked.
“Only when I laugh. Which is a real danger representing Edison with his rapierlike wit.”
“Shit,” Basehart drawled.
“See what I mean. Glad I brought my notebook.”
“’Bout time you showed up.”
“Sorry, I was busy. I made a quick stop at the post office then came right over. What’s up?”
Shaking a finger at Wilkes, Basehart shouted, “What’s up is that he wants me to say I killed that Slant!”
“Well?” Rosen replied.
“Huh?”
“Tell the man.”
“I’m gettin’ pretty goddamn tired a’ tellin’ everybody I’m innocent.”
“Then let’s try something new. Why don’t you tell us why your buddy Billy Lee Pelham didn’t provide you with an alibi? In fact, he may be your ticket to the chair.”
Basehart wrung his hands and looked at the floor.
“Well?” Rosen demanded.
The prisoner’s words were slightly muffled, “Don’t know.”
“Maybe I have the answer. Maybe it’s because you weren’t with him at the time of the murder. Maybe Pelham doesn’t want to perjure himself and be your accessory to murder. Why should he get his brains fried over scum like you?”
“Damn you!” Basehart tried to continue but only managed a gurgling deep within his throat.
“What’s the matter, Edison, catfish got your tongue?”
Wilkes cut in, “That’s enough, counselor. Don’t you think you’re going too far?”
“I’m the one who’s had to listen to all his lies. I’m the one who got beat up. If it wasn’t for him I’d be in Chicago helping my daughter celebrate her birthday, surrounded by family and friends.” To Basehart, “But you wouldn’t know anything about friends, would you? Not with someone like Pelham as your pal.”
Basehart muttered, “Well, mebbe . . . mebbe Billy Lee ain’t such a friend after all.”
“Apparently not.”
“No, I mean . . .” He eyed Wilkes suspiciously. “He got to be here?”
Rosen clicked his tongue disgustedly, but Wilkes said, “Of course not. You have every right to consult privately. Mr. Rosen, if you’d like to meet with me tomorrow, I’m sure it could be arranged.”
Yawning, Rosen shook hands with Wilkes. “Thank you.”
As he closed the door behind him, Wilkes heard the other lawyer say to Basehart, “This better not be wasting more of my time.”
Canary was waiting for him in the parking lot, leaning against his car and blowing a chain of oblong smoke rings into the sky, continuing even after Wilkes stood patiently like a schoolboy in front of his teacher. Finally the cigarette was finished; the policeman obliterated the butt with his foot and grinned. “Did you make him spill his guts?”
Wilkes ignored the sarcasm. “He hasn’t changed his story at all. If anyt
hing, he’s even more adamant about his innocence.”
“Like a dying fish wiggling on the line. I seen a hundred others just like him. He’ll crack.”
“Did you get the search warrant?”
Canary lit a cigarette and took a few drags before replying. “Yeah, Judge Spencer loved having his golf game spoiled. We’d better turn up something. Let’s go.”
Canary eased himself behind the driver’s seat, but Wilkes hesitated, looking back toward the courthouse.
“What’s the matter—forgot something?” the detective asked.
“Wait a few minutes.”
“Huh?”
“We may have some company.”
“Company? This ain’t no damn party.”
“Wait,” Wilkes said, surprised at the firmness of his command.
Canary grunted. “While we’re waiting, I have some information you wanted. Checked with the bank where Basehart does his business. The bait and tackle shop isn’t owned by him. It’s under the name of his organization, Guardians of an Undefiled Nation. The balance of the mortgage, almost six thousand dollars, was paid off last year in cash. Basehart and Pelham brought the money in together and said somebody donated it to their cause.”
“Who was the generous donor?”
Canary shrugged. “They didn’t tell the bank. Guess we’ll have to ask them. Basehart’s personal account is just under five thousand dollars. Small deposits and withdrawals over the last few years—nothing special. Funny thing is that Pelham has about twice as much in his personal account. Not bad for someone who earns a living as an assistant worm digger.” He lapsed into silence, working on a series of perfectly round smoke rings.
After a few minutes, Rosen walked from the courthouse, his legs taking the steps gingerly as he reached the sidewalk that led to the parking lot. Pausing to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief, he continued slowly onto the blacktop, stopping at a dented Dodge a few spaces from Canary’s car.
“Your car’s beat up worse than you!” Wilkes called out.
Rosen nodded wearily and opened the door.
Wilkes quickly walked to his side. “I take it your client is still asserting his innocence.”
Rosen nodded.
“Look, Mr. Rosen, I’m not asking you to reveal what Mr. Basehart said in confidence, but if there’s anything you’re at liberty to share, I think we might help each other get at what we both want.”
The other attorney smiled. “What’s that?”
“The truth—is Basehart innocent or guilty?”
Closing the door Rosen said, “The truth? If you can find it in this town, you should take out a patent. I’ve just had another go-around with my client and yet another truth.”
“Does it have to do with Billy Lee Pelham?”
“Uh huh.” He paused. “You said something about a quid pro quo.”
“Yes.”
“Well, since we’re in the South, I’ll remember my manners. You go first.”
Wilkes said, “I’ve obtained a search warrant for Basehart’s bait and tackle shop. That’s also where he and Pelham share living quarters. It was simply to seek additional evidence against your client, but if he really is innocent and Pelham is somehow implicated, we may find something to help your client’s case.”
“Sure. And how am I supposed to be certain that this evidence, which unties your neat little conviction, appears in court? You wouldn’t mind if I went along for the ride, would you?”
“I was just going to suggest that.”
Rosen stared at him. “All right. Let’s go.”
As the two men walked to the squad car, Wilkes said, “Quid pro quo. I’d like to know what Basehart said about Pelham. It could help in our search.”
Rosen replied, “He’s not so sure about his good friend anymore. For several months Billy Lee’s been sneaking off now and then—never says where. At first Basehart thought it might be a woman, but Pelham usually brags about that sort of thing. Also he’s been getting the feeling that Pelham’s trying to take over his precious Guardians of an Undefiled Nation. They’ve had a few arguments about it lately, even a fistfight. Pelham takes the men drilling on certain nights but won’t say where.”
“How does that fit into the murder of Nguyen Thi Nhi?”
“If I knew that, I’d be on my way home.”
They reached Canary’s Ford where the policeman sat impatiently, one arm hanging over the window and flapping like a seal against the car door, while the other worked a cigarette in and out of his mouth.
“You remember Mr. Rosen,” Wilkes said. “He’s assisting in Basehart’s defense.”
The policeman grunted and looked straight ahead.
Rosen leaned against the car. “I’m sorry about what happened between us last Monday. Probably my fault.”
Wilkes continued, “I’ve invited Mr. Rosen to join our search of the bait and tackle shop.”
Passing the cigarette from his right to left hand, Canary flicked a long ash out the window. “This is getting to be a regular party.”
Rosen watched the cigarette dangle from the detective’s hand. “That’s a real killer. Extra long with no filter. What kind is it?”
“Bushnells, a local brand.”
“Pretty popular around here?”
“Old men and kids. It’s what boys start out with—makes you a man if you don’t choke first. After that, only a few of us keep on. Sort of a badge of honor, you might say. Besides, I like the way I can work the smoke in my mouth, sort of like taffy.” Inhaling, he blew a giant smoke ring which paused momentarily like a halo around Wilkes’s head. “Wanna try one?”
“No thanks. Just curious.”
“Well, then, let’s go.”
Wilkes sat next to the detective, while Rosen leaned against a corner of the back seat and carefully stretched his legs. He groaned softly.
“You all right?” Wilkes asked. “We could stop at your hotel if you need anything.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Rosen snuggled deeper into the corner and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”
The car slipped easily through traffic and soon passed the downtown area. The three men rode in silence, Canary idly puffing a cigarette, Rosen dozing in the back seat, and Wilkes watching the city break into open land covered with rows of tobacco plants, their broad leaves hanging heavily in the listlessness of late afternoon and causing him to yawn at their monotony. For a moment a dozen images flashed behind his eyes—Basehart, Edgar Simpson, Saunders, Collinsby, and the murdered woman among others—but he shook his head until his mind cleared of everything but the color of the tobacco plants. Each one was green and moist with heavy nodding leaves, and so Wilkes too closed his eyes, the last thing he remembered until feeling his shoulder nudged.
“All right, boys, naptime’s over.” Canary’s voice.
Eyes fluttering open, Wilkes turned to wake Rosen but found him staring down the road.
“You planning to surprise Pelham?” Rosen asked.
“Yeah,” Canary drawled. “Billy Lee just loves surprises. Besides, I can use the exercise.”
They stepped from the car and walked slowly along the shoulder, the two lawyers following the policeman’s waddle, Rosen wincing with an occasional sigh. As they neared the shop, Wilkes thought at first it was empty; neither Pelham’s truck nor any other vehicle was in the driveway. Everything was still, a picture postcard of a cottage, except that the flowers in the window pots were beginning to wilt. So, it must have been Basehart who tended them so carefully.
Suddenly three men bolted from the garage at the end of the driveway and ran toward the back of the house.
“Hold it, Billy Lee, Rupert, Burl!” Canary shouted, unbuttoning his suit coat so that his holster showed, the handle of his gun glinting in the sunlight.
The three men stopped dead in their tracks, whispered a few words to each other, and grudgingly walked down the driveway to the storefront. Pelham was wiping his hands with an oily rag, which he s
tuffed into his back pocket. The six men met on the front stairs, Rupert and Burl sitting on the top step while their friend swung into his hammock, propping his head with a tattered pillow so he could view the proceedings like some hobo Caesar.
“Afternoon, Lt. Canary,” Pelham said with a toothy grin. “Didn’t expect you. Maybe we should fix some tea, boys.” Rupert grimaced, his lower lip showing a scar from the cut Canary had given him a few days before. “We were busy out in the garage,” Pelham continued, “workin’ on the truck. Havin’ a helluva time. Carburetor’s leakin’ oil like a Dago.”
The policeman asked, “Where were you off to in such a hurry just now?”
“Why, Rupert just remembered his favorite cartoon show’s on, that’s all.”
“You don’t say. Now what’s that?”
Rupert’s lips curled into a smile. “Porky Pig.” The smile faded quickly under the policeman’s gaze.
“What you all doin’ here anyway?” Pelham demanded. “Man’s got a right not to be exposed to all this police harassment. I ain’t sure I like this.” He jabbed a finger into the air. “Ain’t sure I shouldn’t get me a lawyer to protect my rights. Then maybe you all’d leave me be.”
Now Canary was smiling. “You want a lawyer? Well, this is your lucky day.” He nodded at Rosen. “This here’s one of Edison’s attorneys. You ain’t been properly introduced. This is Mr. Rosen, all the way from Washington.”
Pelham bent forward in his hammock and looked Rosen up and down. “Nah, Lieutenant,” he finally said, “nice joke . . . you’re jokin’, ain’tcha?” When Canary shook his head, Pelham continued, “I’ll be. You see what jail can do to a man, boys. Must addle your brain. Why else would ol’ Edison get himself a Hebe lawyer? That’s rich—Edison Basehart bein’ defended by a kike. What’re all the loyal members of the Guardians of an Undefiled Nation gonna think?”
Rosen kept silent, his face impassive, but Wilkes said, “None of that, Pelham. Hate’s already caused the death of one woman. This town doesn’t need you or your friends stirring up any more.”
“I ain’t stirrin’ up the hate. It’s them.”
“Who?”
“Them that’s comin’ here where they don’t belong. First the Slants and now this here Hebe. Nobody told him to come here anyways.”
