About forty-five, he looks like the former pitcher Jim Palmer, though the only image I can now summon of that Baltimore great is the man in his underwear. What people won’t do for money!
The way things are going on TV, pretty soon we’ll see Palmer slipping his briefs down to his knees and demonstrating how to put on a rubber.
“You got that Razorback football player off,” he informs me.
“That’s how I got your name.”
“The jury acquitted him,” I say, politely.
In my office Longley gets right to the point.
Neatly dressed in a suit patterned in slate and black mini-tooth that looks one hundred percent wool, he perches on the edge of the chair across from my desk and says, “My wife ran off with another man, and I want to sue the bastard.”
I wince, explaining, “The Arkansas legislature abolished the suit of alienation of affection a few years ago. There’s no cause of action in this state any longer.”
Longley almost bounces out of his chair.
“You mean a man can steal my wife,” he thunders, “and I can’t even get a dime?”
“I’m afraid not.” Woman as property—obviously a concept still alive in our hearts if no longer on the books. Damn. On the witness stand, as good as Longley looks, this guy would have gotten some female juices flowing in the jury box. Still, I wonder what he did to run his wife off. In this day and age, women aren’t exactly tied to a slake in the bedroom to await their husband’s return. The longer I think about it, the more obnoxious the notion of a suit for alienation of affection becomes. The law, in its infinite wisdom, turned what should have been a consensual relationship between two people into a legal monopoly.
Good for the legislature. It gets blamed for everything bad that happens in the state, but rarely gets credit for anything positive. But probably there was more to it than a mild outbreak of feminism. It’s not unlikely that some of the members were afflicted by a “there but for the grace of God go I” mentality. I know the feeling. Less than a month after Rosa died I found myself being consoled in a motel by her best friend. This
grief-induced madness could have, in theory, brought on a lawsuit by the innocent husband, but the real villain of the piece was the Grim Reaper, and, so far as I know, no lawyer has ever figured out a way to have the last word in that conversation.
Longley’s face is mottled with rage.
“I’ll go to the prosecutor then and have the motherfacker put in jail.”
I sigh. The only thing that is entirely predictable in human history is that the messenger always gets it in the neck.
“Adultery,” I tell him as gently as possible, “isn’t a crime in Arkansas.”
Longley shoots up out of his chair and looms over me.
“What in the hell are you lawyers good for?”
I roll my chair back against the wall. Longley is too handsome to be a philosopher, but I have a weakness for purely rhetorical questions, myself.
“The jury’s still out on that one,” I concede.
His chin high, Longley marches righteously to my door sill but once there smartly executes an about face.
“Do you know what lawyers and sperm have in common?”
Actually, Julia, purporting to quote the wisdom of Rush Umbaugh, informed me yesterday, but feigned innocence may be the only way to get rid of Mr. Longley.
“No, what?” I ask.
Mr. Longley’s sickly expression convinces me that his wife made the right decision.
“Only about one in a million,” he shrieks, “ever grow to be a human being!”
Afraid to laugh for fear I may encourage him to launch into a morning’s worth of lawyer jokes, I stare reverently at his chin as if I were contemplating one of the great scientific discoveries of the century.
God only knows what he thinks is really going through my brain, but after a brief silence, he wheels again and is gone. Nonplussed, I shrug. We lawyers are supposed to play the role of verbal hit men in our society. When the rules, in their quirkiness, forbid this part of licensed character assassins to us, it frustrates the hell out of Americans. Dan, who, after a couple of drinks, enjoys woolgathering on these matters, claims that TV violence, which includes pro sports like hockey, football, and basketball, provide surrogate physical expressions of our hostile national character, and attorneys are merely the intellectual equivalent of a generalized aggression.
Thinking of Dan’s boozy expression when he pontificates on these subjects, I suspect he accords the profession a little too much dignity.
Rocket scientists, I think, trudging down the hall to the reception area to make sure Mr. Longley isn’t harassing Julia, he and I ain’t.
“What did you say to that man?” Julia says indignantly.
“He was furious when he came by here.”
I nod glumly.
“That there’s not a right for every wrong.”
“He was so beautiful!” Julia wails.
“Most of the people who come in here don’t look any better than you and Dan. And you run him off in ten minutes. How can you make a living this way?”
I’m a lot better looking than Dan. I glance down at my stomach. At 5’ll” I am battling a paunch, but Dan is obese. Gray as a fox, Dan, his hair thinning, looks older, too.
“If you want to send him a bill,” I say more snidely than Julia deserves, “be my guest.” Hell, I would have done his divorce, but he didn’t give me a chance.
Five minutes later I tell Julia I’m headed to Bear Creek and will see her Monday. She asks, “You’re not going to get any lunch?”
I tell her I’ll stop at the Mcdonald’s in Brinkley, about an hour from now. She replies, “Get the salad bar, or you’ll never lose that gut
you’re getting.”
I suck in my stomach, thinking of Paul Taylor running the Dallas Marathon.
“How would I do without you?”
“You probably don’t do it very often,” she says, still smarting over our loss of that jerk who was just in here.
“Little do you know, Julia,” I say.
“Little do you know.”
The only thing worthwhile I have accomplished by five o’clock Friday is to obtain a copy of Bledsoe’s file from the prosecutor. The bond hearing was a formality, since it wouldn’t have made any difference if the judge had made it fifty thousand as I requested instead of the $500,000 we ended up with. The arraignment, where the defendant enters his formal plea, has been set for Monday afternoon, and I pull into the Bear Creek Inn thinking of the expression on my client’s face as he was led out of the courtroom. I told him that I would come talk to him Monday. He had looked more resigned than sad. Despite the fact that the judge, sheriff, and prosecutor are all black, he must think that it is business as usual in Bear Creek. The white man is out of jail, the black man is in. No progress there. One other thing I have accomplished. Lattice’s check is good. A trip by Farmer’s Bank has removed that concern.
Now, it is time to get to work.
The Bear Cre k Inn (an “e” appears to have been missing from the sign outside for some time) is a nine-unit motel almost across the road from the cemetery where my parents are buried.
Though a willowy female clerk greets me warmly, I am relieved there is no hint of recognition by either of us. After my appearance at the bond hearing, already I feel as if I am being watched by half the town. She is a woman in her forties; her friendly smile cannot quite make me overlook her narrow, wedge shaped face and brown eyes that are too close together. Still, her expansive manner makes me instantly forget her almost startling homeliness. When I was a boy, this place was called Horton’s Motel. Alongside it was a restaurant by the same name, an early morning rendezvous for duck hunters. In answer to my question, Betty confides that the restaurant was destroyed by a fire set by the former owner in an unsuccessful attempt to collect the insurance.
“It’s the only way people can make any money these days. I got this place for a song.”
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br /> I nod. Arson has always been a mainstay of the free enterprise system.
She tells me to wait for a moment and disappears behind a curtain and soon returns with a small yellow canister filled with ice cubes I decide not to inspect too closely.
“The machine outside hasn’t worked for years,” she explains without apology.
“Are you a salesman?”
It is probably pointless even to think about privacy.
“I’m a lawyer involved in the murder case that was filed here a couple of days ago.”
“You’re that old boy who used to live here,” she says excitedly, “who’s come back to defend that nigger charged with killing that old Chinaman!
You think that Paul Taylor would a hired somebody?”
Maybe I should drive on to Forrest City and stay at the Holiday Inn tonight. I don’t know how much of Betty I can take. On the other hand, I better get used to people like her.
“I don’t know,” I say, innocently.
“What do you think?”
Happy to be asked, Betty smooths her hair down with her right hand, raising an ample breast in the process.
“Hell, no. These niggers here are just power crazy—that’s what I think. Yet I’m not so sure your guy is guilty either. It could of been that old man’s wife. She’s the one who found him. You don’t really know what goes on between those old people. You never hardly saw them out together except in the store. The young ones are fine, pretty much like the rest of us.”
“How long have you lived here, Betty?” I ask, wondering if there is any negative feeling about the Chinese in Bear Creek. When I was growing up,
they were respected because the kids were likable and all of them worked so hard.
“Just five years,” Betty says, “but this town is dead as a doornail. If I had any competition, I’d probably have to torch the place, too.” She cackles merrily at the thought of it.
I smile and take the bucket from her, anxious to make some phone calls and then settle down with the file.
“If you need more ice, don’t be shy about knocking on my door. I stay up real late,” she says suggestively, handing my key to me with her left hand. She isn’t wearing a ring.
This is one offer even I can turn down.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Afraid she’ll volunteer to feed me, I decide not to ask her to recommend a restaurant.
In room number nine, which, logically enough, is on the end farthest from the office, I consider my surroundings. I have no desk to write on, but in the corner by an iron floor lamp there is a padded chair with big arms. I test the double bed, which proves to be a little hard, but better a firm mattress than one I need a rope to help climb out of in the morning. On top of a scarred brown dresser across from the bed rests a small color TV of indeterminate age and brand. I click it on and remember I am watching television beamed from Memphis, which lies across the Mississippi fifty miles to the east. I enter the bathroom and try out the plumbing, mentally lowering my expectations.
Plumbing standards in this country seem to have undergone a decline in the last twenty years. However, I am pleasantly surprised to find that though it takes a while, the commode flushes, and though not exactly gleaming (I’ve seen too many commercials lately), it is cleaner than the commode the old owner in my new house left me. There is no tub, only a shower, and since except for my feet I won’t be coming in contact with it, I decide not to worry about the walls too much. The color scheme, hospital-scrubs green, is not my favorite, but if the heater works, it’ll do. I try it and initially get as much noise as heat. Maybe, like Betty, it just needs to calm down. For twenty-five dollars I can’t ask for much. I unpack and mix myself a bourbon and Coke in the one plastic cup (I must have the salesman suite) Betty has provided, and add a couple of ice cubes. I turn down the sound on the TV, and from a built-in shelf next to the bed, I take the phone and fulfill my promise to call Amy and let her know for certain I won’t be coming back tonight.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice sounding fatigued. Like myself, Amy is a morning person, which may be the only thing we have in common.
I rehash the afternoon’s events while staring at an animated and charming black female newscaster on Channel 5. It is amazing how much things have changed since I lived in this part of the state.
“How’s Jessie doing?” I ask, not wanting her to ask me too much about what I’ll be doing tomorrow.
“She’s so sweet!” Amy exclaims.
“I hate that crate you make her stay in. It’s terrible, isn’t it sweetheart? Here, I’m putting the phone next to her ear. Say something
nice. She misses you.”
Hoping Betty isn’t listening in, I say, “Jessie, don’t shit on the floor again, okay?”
Jessie doesn’t deign to respond, and Amy yelps, “That wasn’t nice.
She’s done good today, haven’t you sweetheart? I just took her out.”
“I appreciate you taking care of her,” I say sincerely.
“I’ll be by about this time tomorrow to pick her up.”
There is silence on the other end.
“Maybe we can go out to eat or something,” I add.
“That’d be nice,” Amy says promptly. She is still young enough to think of Saturday as “date night.”
“What are you doing tonight?” she asks, sounding more curious than suspicious.
How could she be? Even the most cynical girlfriend surely wouldn’t expect me to bed down after an hour with a woman I haven’t seen in a quarter of a century.
“First, I’m going to call Mrs. Ting and see if she’ll talk to me. I want to arrange to get out to see the plant as soon as possible.” “Well, hurry back,” she says, and adds, her voice suddenly insecure, “I miss
you already.”
“I miss you, too,” I say.
“We’ll have fun tomorrow night.” She knows something is wrong. I do, too.
After I get Amy off the phone, I look up Mrs. Ting’s number and give her a call, but it is Connie, Tommy’s younger sister, who answers. I haven’t seen her since I moved away. My main memory is of a busty, ponytailed girl in a white T-shirt who practiced cheers on the sidewalk while Tommy and I played tennis. Cute as a ladybug, she was even smarter than her brother. She must have already heard the news that I’m representing Bledsoe, for there is an understandable lack of warmth in her voice as she explains that tonight would not be a good time to see her mother. She puts the phone down and then tells me that I can come by tomorrow morning about ten.
“I’m really sorry about your father, Connie. I know he was a good man.” She doesn’t respond. I ask and get Tommy’s number in Maryland before she practically hangs up on me. I wonder what she is doing now.
Surely, she didn’t stay in Bear Creek.
I put down the phone, feeling as if I am a salesman who is accustomed to regarding the rudeness of the human race as normal.
Disappointed that I have not been able to establish any rapport with Connie, I dial Tommy’s number. When I go through that plant, I want the workers to open up and talk to me. If Class has been set up by Paul,
someone out there may know who did it. I recognize Tommy’s voice as soon as he answers the phone. Even after all these years, and despite having been born in the United States, Tommy has never quite managed to sound like he was a Caucasian. There was always a slight burr in his speech, and that is what I hear now.
“Tommy, this is Gideon Page,” I announce.
“I assume Connie’s told you I’ve been retained to represent Class Bledsoe.”
There is silence on the other end while he absorbs the fact that he is getting a phone call from the attorney who represents his father’s alleged murderer. Finally, he says, “She called me this morning.”
I tell him that I am genuinely sorry that his father has been killed.
“I had nothing but the profoundest respect for him. All of you worked so hard and did so well that I drew inspiration just knowing
you. I can remember how persistent you were when we used to play tennis. You were Michael Chang before there even was one.”
“Why are you calling me, Gideon?” he asks.
“Shouldn’t you be dealing with the prosecuting attorney?”
I watch as a gorgeous blonde flits all over the national weather map.
What he wants to say, but is too polite, is, if you have such admiration for us, why are you taking the case of the man who murdered my father?
“I am,” I say.
“But I know you want the right person to be convicted of your father’s murder. If my client did it, the jury should convict him, but he swears he was set up, and I think that’s a real possibility.” “Why?” Tommy asks, his voice unyielding.
“My father’s blood was on his knife. He has no alibi, I’ve heard he wouldn’t take a polygraph test.”
“I’m just starting to investigate this. Tommy,” I say, watching the blonde draw squiggles over the Rockies, “but it’s obvious that Paul could have hired any number of people in that plant to murder your father and pin it on Bledsoe, who seems like a decent man but probably isn’t the brightest guy down there.”
“So at least you’re convinced Paul Taylor was behind this,” Tommy says, his voice fading in and out, “because he thought he could buy the plant for a fraction of its worth.”
“I’ve heard the tape,” I say, watching the blonde flash her best Karen Mcguiness smile, and return the program to the black newscaster.
“I know you have. What do you think?” “He threatened my father,” Tommy says, his voice not at all confident, “but I don’t know if there is enough to tie him to the murder.”
“I don’t know how well you knew Paul,” I say, “but that entire family has spent a lifetime cheating people out of their land and property.” I
briefly tell Tommy about my family’s financial dealings with the Taylors.
“You may not be aware of this, but in the last several years they lost a lot of their land. He needed your father’s business to maintain his lifestyle. I understand it was quite profitable.”
Gideon - 05 - Blind Judgement Page 8
