Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Nate, let’s go. You don’t want to miss your plane.”

  “All right,” Rosen said softly, still looking at the window and floor as if waiting for them to tell him something. “All right.”

  They walked across the room to the foyer. Jesse paused and nodded good-bye. Simon Hobbes lit another cigar and waved him away, while young Danny uncurled from his rocker and watched Claire dabbing her eyes. He seemed about to walk toward her, when his mother bent close and whispered something, making him settle back into the chair.

  The two men left the same way they had entered, through the garage. Reaching the Porsche, Rosen sat on the hood and looked back down the alley.

  Jesse said, “Your plane.”

  “I’m not leaving today. Could you put me up a little longer?”

  “Of course. What’s this all about?”

  Rosen shook his head. “I’m not sure, but that business with the window. I think Ben Hobbes was murdered.”

  “No.” When Rosen didn’t respond, Jesse continued, “Even if it’s true, why’d you want to come here? What do we have to do with it?”

  “Whom did Ben Hobbes hate? Whom did he recently threaten?”

  “You mean Gideon McCrae?”

  Rosen nodded. “Maybe McCrae took those threats seriously. Maybe he decided to do something first, before Hobbes carried out his threats.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Is it? Your cousin Bobby said there weren’t any marks or signs of violence on the body. How else can you kill a man?”

  “I don’t know . . . poison?”

  “What did you see McCrae sipping last Friday night?”

  Jesse leaned heavily against the car. “Oh, Lord.” He suddenly felt dizzy and broke into a sweat. “Maybe the police don’t know about all that.”

  “Sure they do. We told them. Remember the transcript, and how ‘enlightening’ Grimes said it might be?”

  “That’s right. No, I can’t believe Reverend McCrae could do something like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we believe. If the D.A. can make a case against McCrae, he will. Who better to put on trial than the leader of a snake cult? A little bit of California right here in Tennessee. Won’t Grimes just eat it up.”

  “What’re we going to do?”

  Rosen gave a short, hard laugh. “I don’t know. But I’m such a wiseass. I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter Six

  tuesday morning

  Rosen awoke to a soft ringing, like an alarm clock slowly running down. Reaching toward the night table, he fumbled for the alarm that wasn’t there. The noise was a telephone somewhere down the hall. He glanced from his watch, which read 9:05, to the light melting like butter around the edges of the shade.

  Yawning, he sank back in bed and tried to recall his dream. Something about his ex-wife, Bess. They were walking in a park, like the one in her old neighborhood where he had proposed. He had been trying to tell her something. What was it?

  “Nate?”

  Wearing a burgundy silk robe, Jesse stood in the doorway. With a towel he was wiping some shaving cream from his cheek.

  “That was Popper Johnston, Reverend McCrae’s cousin, on the phone. You were right—it’s a murder charge. He wants me to come right down to the courthouse.”

  Rosen swung his legs over the bed. “That damn transcript must’ve supplied the motive. Johnston want you to arrange bail for McCrae?”

  Jesse began to nod then shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. The police have arrested Claire Hobbes, not McCrae.”

  Rosen remembered her from the day before, thin and frightened and half out of her mind. What were the lab results? How had Ben Hobbes died?

  Jesse said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve done any criminal law. I’d appreciate your coming along.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you going to wear your corduroy jacket?”

  Rosen rubbed his eyes. “What?”

  “You wearing the same jacket as yesterday?”

  “Uh . . . I guess so.”

  “I’ve got a paisley tie that will make it almost presentable.”

  Rosen smiled. “I feel better already.”

  A half hour later they arrived at the courthouse in downtown Earlyville. Gideon McCrae and Popper Johnston sat on a bench a few yards from the entrance. The Reverend wore a green work shirt and slacks; Johnston sported a sharkskin suit and cowboy boots.

  “Thanks for coming,” Johnston said, pumping both their hands. “Sister Claire was arrested around eight this morning. The one call she made was to Cousin Gideon. We need to have you gentlemen arrange bail.”

  McCrae took Rosen’s arm. “Popper, you ’n’ Mr. Compton do what has to be done. I need to talk to this man here.”

  Jesse hesitated, but Johnston said, “I know exactly where to go. We can get Sister Claire processed real quick. Come on.”

  After the other two men went inside, McCrae said, “None a’ my congregation never been in trouble like this. Want ya t’know that Sister Claire is an upright woman. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “The Lord knows she’s innocent, but that don’t seem enough for the state a’ Tennessee. That’s what I wanted to tell ya. Now about your fee . . .?”

  “There’s no fee.”

  “I appreciate that, but we don’t take no charity.”

  “Reverend McCrae, my organization is privately funded for the purpose of protecting people’s constitutional rights. That’s what brought me to Earlyville—the serpent-handling charges against you. If the D.A. drops those charges, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay. Perhaps a day or two.”

  “Well, then, the Lord will provide.” He extended his hand.

  McCrae spoke with a quiet dignity common among working men, but again there was something more. Rosen saw it in the Reverend’s dark eyes and felt it in the grip of his handshake.

  It unsettled Rosen, so he said, “When Jesse first told me someone had been arrested for murdering Ben Hobbes, I thought he meant you.”

  McCrae’s expression remained unchanged, as did his tone. “Why’s that?”

  “Because of what Hobbes said at Friday’s service. How you were hurting his wife and that he’d get you for it.”

  “We’re used t’threats and mockery. That’s why the Lord warned us t’ separate from unbelievers. Ben Hobbes was an unbeliever. Couldn’t stand that his wife loved the Lord even more’n she loved him.”

  It was maddening, the way McCrae diverted Rosen’s questions with talk of love and God. Too simple an answer for anyone but a simpleton or a saint, and Rosen didn’t believe the Reverend was either.

  “Don’t you think Ben Hobbes had the right to protect his wife from harm—the poisonous snakes?”

  “When Daniel went into the lions’ den, did he have anything t’fear? When the Lord’s hand is on your shoulder, what can hurt you?”

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” Rosen half whispered.

  “That’s right. You do understand.”

  Rosen turned away to stare at the statue of the lone Confederate soldier. In a way they were the same, the granite rifleman’s resolve and McCrae’s simple faith in God’s will. The more desperate the situation, the greater their belief. He shook his head. It seemed so perverse, and yet . . .

  Johnston appeared in the doorway. “They’re bringing Sister Claire to the judge now.”

  “Already?” Rosen asked.

  “When we mentioned the name Hobbes, everybody jumped. Besides, the district attorney was real nice about moving things along. He and Jesse seem right friendly. Jesse went to get Sister Claire.”

  A wide hallway stretched the length of the interior, with courtrooms on either side. Plaster walls were painted a green that had faded to the color of old dollar bills. Near the entrance, Rosen expected to find policemen standing beside an X-ray machine, ready to search briefcases and purses, but instead an old man with red suspenders sat behi
nd a newsstand with boxes of candy on the counter.

  “We’re in Courtroom B,” Johnston said, pointing to the second door on the left.

  It was a handsome old room. Fluorescent light emanated from an overhead circular fixture about ten feet in diameter. Beneath its soft glow, six rows of benches led to a railing with a swinging gate. A crescent-shaped wooden barrier separated the jury box, to the left, from the two attorney’s tables. Flags of the United States and Tennessee, droopy as sails under a listless sky, stood on either side of the judge’s bench.

  About a dozen people sat in the courtroom, the usual assortment of defendants, attorneys, and witnesses. Women in matching blouses and skirts clutched their purses, hoping to beat a parking ticket; another in a supermarket uniform snapped her gum, probably waiting to testify in a shoplifting case. A short stocky man with a thin blond mustache stood with his lawyer and a young prosecutor before the judge, getting a continuance on a charge of selling marijuana.

  As the defendant and his lawyer walked up the aisle, Johnston whispered to Rosen, “I got to run an errand or two. I’ll be waiting for you all in the lobby.”

  A side door opened to admit Jesse and Claire Hobbes, followed by District Attorney Grimes carrying a manila folder. Grimes whispered something to the young prosecutor, who sat down. While the D.A. handed the folder to the judge, McCrae took a seat in the back row and Rosen approached the bench.

  The nameplate read judge wilbur halleck. He was a small round man with mint-green eyes who peeked over the bench like a frightened rabbit. His nose wiggled, trying to adjust the bifocals he peered through. Reading the folder he cleared his throat. “My, my, this is a serious charge.”

  Grimes’s left hand gripped the lapel over his heart, and he cocked one eye toward the judge. The fluorescent light encircled his balding head, as if he were some beatific vulture awaiting sainthood.

  “That’s why I personally wanted to bring this matter to Your Honor’s attention and ask that the accused not be allowed to post bond. The state believes she killed her husband in a cold-blooded fashion. Moreover, she is a relatively recent member of our community and, therefore, has no real roots in Earlyville. One might even call her a transient. She may have access to her late husband’s wealth, using it to flee the state’s judicial system. In addition . . .” He paused for emphasis. “This woman is a member of an unsavory cult. We all know what kinds of perversions these people can perpetrate. Remember Charles Manson.”

  The judge’s eyes widened—Rosen expected him to disappear under the bench. “Uh . . . who is representing the defendant?”

  Jesse said, “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Jesse Compton? Why, I haven’t seen you here in years. I didn’t know you still practiced law.”

  Grimes said, “I’ve been told it’s like riding a bicycle.”

  “What’s that?” The judge scratched his head. “I do hope your mamma’s feeling better. You give her my regards.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jesse said.

  “Fine man, your daddy. I do believe he was about the best bridge player I ever did see.”

  “Your Honor, this is Mr. Nathan Rosen, an attorney from Washington, D.C. Hell be assisting me.”

  Rosen said, “Your Honor, we ask that this woman be released on her own recognizance. Contrary to what the district attorney has said, Mrs. Hobbes was married to one of the most prominent citizens in Earlyville and has established roots in this community.”

  Grimes gave a long shake of the head. “They’d barely been married a year. Up until that time, to the best of our knowledge, she was a transient, traveling with her church like it was some circus sideshow.”

  “Your Honor, our client resents this constant reference to her church as something unsavory or evil. Her church is not on trial—”

  “We’ll see about that,” Grimes cut in.

  “Because the district attorney has nothing else to use against our client, he resorts to guilt by association, linking her to a church that, though unpopular, has not been convicted of any criminal act. It is patently absurd to refuse bond to someone like Claire Hobbes.”

  “Well, well,” the judge muttered, pulling the papers toward him. “Mr. Rosen does have a point. Of course, this is a most serious offense and, therefore, a bond of some significance does seem to be in order. Shall we say . . . one hundred thousand dollars? I trust you gentlemen will find that satisfactory.”

  “As Your Honor wishes,” Grimes said, nodding slightly. “We ask that the preliminary hearing be set as soon as possible.”

  Rosen nodded. “The sooner we hear the specific charges the better.”

  Judge Halleck smiled, pleased he could make both sides happy. “Of course. Shall we say a week from tomorrow at . . . uh . . . nine o’clock? Good.” Turning to the bailiff he said, “Next case.”

  A policeman touched Claire’s arm, about to lead her back through the side door.

  Rosen said to her, “We need to discuss posting bond.”

  She looked at him with vacant eyes.

  “Mrs. Hobbes?”

  Turning, she let herself be led away.

  Jesse said, “Come on, Nate. We’d better talk to Reverend McCrae. He’ll get through to her.”

  As the three men left the courtroom, they found Grimes waiting near the door. He drew Rosen into an alcove, then took a gold watch from his vest pocket, as if considering how much of his valuable time he could spare.

  Finally Grimes said, “I have some good news for your client—your other client, that is. We sent a doctor to examine Lemuel Banks. It seems he’ll fully recover. Therefore we’ve decided to drop the charges against Reverend McCrae.”

  “Was it because you knew the case was a loser, or because you figured to take care of McCrae and his church by putting Claire Hobbes on trial for murder?”

  “‘Why’ isn’t important. You just run along and tell McCrae the good news. Then keep running all the way back to Washington. With the serpent-handling case closed, your organization’s services are no longer needed.”

  “Aren’t they? I’m not so sure. That crack to the judge about Claire Hobbes belonging to a cult and that little dig about Manson. You are bringing her church into the murder case.”

  “That’s no longer any of your affair.”

  Feeling his face grow warm, Rosen fought hard to control his temper. He was angry at the D.A.’s arrogance but, even more, angry at his own complicity. That damn transcript he’d given Grimes . . . Rosen was certain it figured in the charges against Claire Hobbes. And the fact that Grimes was handling the case himself meant two things—it was a big case and he thought it was a sure thing.

  Rosen said, “This must be an election year.”

  The D.A. pursed his lips, then allowed a small smile. “Isn’t it always?”

  Rosen had taken the wrong tack trying to put Grimes on the defensive. “Look, I may be here another day or two to help Jesse Compton prepare a defense. Would it be possible to see the evidence against Mrs. Hobbes? The medical examiner’s findings, the police and lab reports?”

  “They should be available for Mr. Compton this afternoon.”

  “Would we be permitted to examine the crime scene, Ben Hobbes’s bedroom?”

  “Yes. We took the seal off this morning. Look around to your heart’s content.”

  “You made a very quick arrest. The evidence must be—”

  “If you’re planning to pump me for information, I can save us both some time. On the night of the murder, Mrs. Hobbes came home about nine-fifteen; we have a witness to substantiate that. Her husband arrived about a half hour later. He died from poison in his milk—strychnine, to be precise. The same kind of poison used in the serpent-handling service. Claire Hobbes had both motive and opportunity, and we have physical evidence to back up the charge. She’s guilty as sin.”

  Rosen asked, “Has she confessed?”

  “No, but how many murderers do? I’ll tell you something strange—she didn’t deny the charges. Didn’t sa
y anything.”

  “You must have more than that. You said you have a motive. What is it?”

  “That Mr. Compton will learn at the preliminary hearing. I don’t want to take away all the surprises. You’ll excuse me.” The D.A. took a step then paused. “You know, Rosen, I wouldn’t mind you working on the defense. Jesse Compton’s too new at this. Besides, we move in the same circles, and there are proprieties. But you bring in a certain foreign element.”

  “You mean I’m a Jew.”

  “Let’s just say, an out-of-town lawyer, from Washington no less. You’d stand there like a lightning rod taking everything I threw at you, until your case just finally burned itself up. Ashes to blow away in the wind.”

  While Grimes walked away, Rosen bit his lip to prevent some bit of sarcasm that would only make things more difficult for his friend.

  Reverend McCrae stood at the candy counter with Jesse, who bought a roll of breath mints. Popper Johnston was grinning, emerging from a telephone booth in the corner.

  “I talked with Ben Hobbes’s banker. Hobbes and Sister Claire shared a joint checking account. Banker wouldn’t tell me how much, but there must be plenty. I explained the situation, and he’s sending someone over with a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars. That’ll take care of the bail, and she’ll be out within the hour.”

  Rosen said, “For a layman, you seem to know a lot about the legal system.”

  “I been in court more’n most lawyers. I seen it from the other side. Course, that’s all in the past.”

  “When Mrs. Hobbes is released, Jesse and I will take her home. We need to look over the house, especially the bedroom where her husband died.”

  “You want Cousin Gideon and me to go along?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Depending on what they found, Claire Hobbes might need to stay away from Reverend McCrae during the trial.

  “Just as well. I wanted to drive into Nashville with Cousin Gideon. We’re gonna talk serious business with some folks about expanding his congregation.”

  Rosen said, “I almost forgot. The district attorney’s dropping all serpent-handling charges against Reverend McCrae.”