Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  How could John Milton have known the sins Beverly Morgan had locked in her heart: that she had stolen from Maxine Shapiro’s mother while she was taking care of the old lady after her stroke, and that she had been doing the same thing to Maxine—pilfering jewelry, loose cash, robbing from the dead; she had characterized it herself, for they were in death’s grasp. Once he knew those things, how easy it was for him to blackmail her, telling her she would become a prime suspect now, not accidentally killing Maxine through negligence brought on by her alcoholism, but deliberately, planned. Maxine had found out what she was doing and what she had done, as had, God forgive her, Maxine’s mother.

  Too much digitalis, undetectable unless the pathologist had reason to look for it. She had pushed the old lady on to glory and kept herself from being exposed.

  Kevin had heard it all, but, unlike a confessor, he gave her no hope of redemption, for at the moment he wondered if he had any hope for redemption himself.

  But he had no time to think about himself now. Helen Scholefield’s warning was for Miriam, not for him. Helen had said the same thing that had happened to Richard Jaffee’s wife would happen to Miriam. How much of what he felt and knew had Richard Jaffee known?

  Now that his curiosity about the firm and the other associates had peaked, he decided to go to the offices and do some research himself. He had an idea about where to look, and he knew he had to have something more concrete to go on, something more, that he could tell Miriam and anyone else, for that matter.

  Diane was surprised to see him. “Oh, everyone’s left for the day, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “Matter of fact, Mr. McCarthy just walked out.” Kevin knew that. He had seen Ted emerging from the office building and had remained back so Ted wouldn’t spot him.

  “That’s all right. I just wanted to clean up some loose ends and look up something.”

  She smiled and then shook her head sadly. “Did you hear the latest about Mrs. Scholefield?”

  “No. I was out of town most of the day. What’s happening?”

  “She’s gone into a comatose state. Won’t respond to anything. They might use electric shock treatment eventually,” she whispered.

  “Uh-huh. That is too bad. Mr. Scholefield still over at the hospital?”

  “Yes. Will you need anything, Mr. Taylor? Wendy left early today.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said and went back to his office, where he found a new file on his desk and a note on top that said, “Kevin, a new case for you. We’ll discuss it today. J.M.” Of course, Mr. Milton hadn’t intended for him to discuss it until tomorrow. He opened the cover and perused the first page.

  Elizabeth Porter, a forty-eight-year-old woman, the owner and operator of a rooming house specifically for elderly people, and Barry Martin, her forty-five-year-old handyman lover, had been arrested and charged with the murder of four of the elderly people, killing them for their social security checks. All four were found buried behind the rooming house. He was to represent and defend the handyman, who was now apparently willing to turn state’s evidence against his former lover to save his own neck.

  The material in the folder delineated each murder, who the victims were, how long it had been going on, the landlady’s past, as well as the handyman’s past. Once again, Kevin saw thorough, detailed reports worked up and ready at instant notice. It fanned the fires of his suspicions, and he went to the computerized law library. He flicked on the library light. The neon lights blinked and then came on to illuminate the long, narrow room with its walls of bookshelves. The computer station was directly on his right. He pulled the chair up before the keyboard and turned on the machine. The screen blinked and, with a beep, lit up before him.

  The secretaries kept a template beside the keyboard for quick, easy reference. Studying it for a moment, Kevin was able to tap the right keys and bring up the menu of files in the computer’s hard disk. He wanted to run through the past cases, the firm’s history, so to speak. He saw that cases were organized by the name of the associate who handled them. Since Paul was the earliest to join the firm, he called up his first.

  He flipped through each quickly, noting the clients and the outcomes. Then he moved on to Ted’s cases and finally to Dave’s. On and on he went, reading and confirming a premise that he knew in his heart was true. Every client that John Milton and Associates had defended was either guilty and argued down to a lower plea or a reduced sentence, or apparently guilty and exonerated through legal maneuvering. No one could say that John Milton and Associates had lost or done poorly with any of their cases.

  No wonder the three of them looked so arrogant when they said, “We don’t lose,” he thought. They knew. They don’t.

  Kevin saw that his own name was already listed, so he called up his file and was shocked to discover a description of the Lois Wilson case. But why was it in these files? He hadn’t been working here at the time. Of course, the Rothberg case was there, and now, already entered, was the rooming-house case.

  But what brought the blood to his face was the discovery that the outcome was already written in. Was that just confidence or what? He could screw something up, couldn’t he? Or the prosecution could introduce something they knew nothing about, couldn’t they? It would be a while before the case came to trial. How could this be written in?

  He sat back and thought for a moment. Then he leaned in and brought up the main menu of files again. One in particular caught his eye. All it said was “Futures.”

  He called it up and sat waiting tensely. He read slowly, noting the dates. His heart was pounding before he got down the first page. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  John Milton and Associates was listing more than two years of future legal work based on crimes yet to be committed!

  13

  I’m leaving now, Mr. Taylor,” Diane said. She was suddenly standing in the library doorway. He hadn’t heard her come down the corridor, because he was entranced with what he saw on the computer screen. Even though she spoke softly, he spun around so abruptly, he felt as if he had leaped out of his skin. The beautiful secretary smiled innocently at him, seemingly unaware of what he was doing or what he was looking at. Perhaps she didn’t know. Perhaps none of them truly knows, he thought.

  “Oh, yes, Diane. I’ll be going myself in a moment or two.”

  “No need for you to rush, Mr. Taylor. The door’s set to lock when you leave.”

  “Thank you. By the way, where has Mr. Milton been all day?”

  “He had various appointments throughout the city, but he’s been fully informed about everything, including Mr. Scholefield’s wife. He’ll definitely be in tomorrow. See you in the morning then,” she added.

  “Yes. Good night.” He waited for her to turn away before looking at the screen again. No one would believe this unless he saw it for himself, he decided, so he tried to print out the “Futures” file, but when he went through the function keys, the screen responded with “File not formatted for printer.” He started to go through the process of doing just that when, suddenly, the screen went blank. He drew the files list up again and tried to retrieve “Futures,” but this time the screen responded with a demand for the password.

  How could that be? he wondered. Why was he able to bring it up once and not again without knowing the password? It was as if the computer were tormenting him, as if it, too, were a part of this . . . evil.

  He lifted his fingers off the keys, fearful that somehow it could do something to him, but the computer screen remained bright, innocuous-looking. He shook his head. Madness, he thought. His paranoia was rapidly expanding. He flicked the computer off quickly, retreated from the library, and went into his office to call home.

  After four rings, Miriam’s answering machine came on, and in a sweet yet unfamiliar voice, she asked the caller to leave a name, number, and message. Then, after a short laugh, she said, “Thank you,” and the beep was sounded. He held the receiver in his hand, listening to the soft whir of the turning tape on her machine. Why
hadn’t he heard it in her voice before—this thin, distant tone, the tone of someone quite distracted, someone only vaguely paying attention? Had he been under some spell, a spell that had cracked as soon as he felt guilty about the things he had been doing?

  A cold sweat broke out over his forehead and down the back of his neck. He cradled the receiver slowly without leaving any message. Where was she? Was she upstairs, in the penthouse again? Maybe with him? What kind of hold did he have on the women, and why didn’t the other associates see it, or if they did, why didn’t they care? The three of them were so competent and so bright, surely they were just as aware of things as he was now. He couldn’t trust them. He couldn’t trust any of them; he especially couldn’t trust Paul, for Paul had brought him here, and Paul had permitted his wife to be incarcerated in Bellevue.

  Yet what was he to do with what he had learned? He thought for a few moments, looked at the clock, and then went through his phone directory to find the number of the district attorney’s office. As soon as the receptionist answered, he asked to speak with Bob McKensie. He was switched to McKensie’s secretary.

  “He’s just leaving,” she told him. “I can have him call you tomorrow first thing in the morning.”

  “No,” he snapped, almost shouting into the receiver. “I must speak with him now. It’s an emergency. Please . . .”

  “Just a moment.” From what he heard, he surmised she had put her palm over the mouthpiece and that Bob McKensie was standing right by her desk. “All right,” she said. “Mr. McKensie will be right on the line.” A moment later he was.

  “Kevin, what’s up?”

  “I know you’re on the way out for the day, but believe me, Bob, I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t critical.”

  “Well, I was going home. What is this about?”

  “It’s about every case you’ve tried against a suspect represented by a John Milton associate. Not only you, but every member of the district attorney’s office,” Kevin replied, his voice a deep whisper. There was a long pause. “I promise you, you won’t regret seeing me.”

  “How soon can you get here? I do have to be home.”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  After another pause, McKensie said, “All right, Kevin. Everyone else could be gone by then, so just come in. My office is the third door on the left.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  He cradled the receiver and hurried out, flicking off lights as he went. Just before he closed the front door behind him, he turned back and looked at the dark corridor. Perhaps it was only his overworked imagination, but it seemed to him that there was a glow coming from the law library, a glow that might be coming from a computer screen. But he was positive he had turned it off, so he attributed it to his stimulated imagination and didn’t hesitate a moment more.

  When he told McKensie twenty minutes, he hadn’t considered the end-of-the-day traffic. It was closer to forty minutes before he finally pulled into the garage servicing the prosecutor’s office. He parked and hurried to the lobby and elevator. He was so intent on getting to McKensie as quickly as possible, he hadn’t thought much about how he was going to present what he had discovered and what he believed. Now that he was at the door of the prosecutor’s office, the full impact of what he was about to do struck him, and his hand froze on the doorknob.

  He’ll think me mad, Kevin thought. He won’t believe a word. But I’ve got to tell someone, someone who would care and would want to investigate further. Who better than the man John Milton and Associates had defeated and embarrassed a number of times? He opened the door and entered. All the lights were still on in the lobby, but there was no receptionist at the front desk. Kevin made his way quickly to the third door on the left and opened it.

  McKensie was standing by a window, gazing out at the darkened city, his hands behind his back. The tall, lanky prosecutor turned quickly when the door was opened and raised his eyebrows. Kevin thought McKensie’s face looked longer, glummer, his eyes deeper and sadder than usual.

  “Sorry. I got caught up in some traffic.”

  “Knew that would happen.” He looked at his watch. “All right, let’s make this quick, please. I phoned my wife, but I forgot we were having company tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Bob. I wouldn’t do this if . . .”

  “Sit down, Kevin. Let’s hear it. What’s gotten you so worked up?” He moved to his own seat. Kevin sat down and leaned back a moment to catch his breath.

  “I don’t know where to start. I hadn’t thought about how I would present this to you until now.”

  “Just cut right to the heart of it, Kevin. We can discuss details later.”

  Kevin nodded, swallowed, and then leaned forward.

  “All I ask is that you give me a chance,” he said, holding his left hand up like a traffic cop, “and don’t dismiss what I have to say out of hand, all right?”

  “You’ve got my full attention,” McKensie said dryly, gazing at his watch again.

  “Bob, I have come to the conclusion that John Milton is an evil man with supernatural powers. Probably he’s not a man, or, what I mean is, he’s more than a man. He’s most probably Satan himself.”

  McKensie simply stared, the only reaction in his face coming with the raising of his eyebrows again. The absence of disdain or laughter encouraged Kevin.

  “I visited Beverly Morgan today. You see, I was just as surprised as you were by her testimony. When I interviewed her before trial, she rejected Rothberg’s story, even ridiculed it. She evinced a deep dislike for the man and wanted no part of anything that would help him.”

  “Yeah, so . . . she had pangs of conscience, maybe. You know as well as I do that there are often witnesses to crimes who refuse to testify. Most rationalize away their guilt,” he said and shrugged. “She couldn’t when it came right down to it.”

  “Mr. Milton sent me a note just before I began to question her in court. He knew she was going to change her mind.”

  “And you think that took supernatural powers?”

  “No, not that. I told you. I visited Beverly Morgan today. She had had an accident . . . drinking. She fell down some stairs and was already in the emergency room in the hospital when I arrived at her home. I went to the hospital emergency room and asked her why she had changed her story. Perhaps because she thought she was near death or maybe because her conscience finally got to her, she confessed things to me, things she had done in the past. Bob,” Kevin said, leaning over the desk, “she told me she had killed Maxine Shapiro’s invalid mother after the old lady discovered she had been robbing her. She gave her an overdose of digitalis. No one knew; no one suspected. She had been robbing from Maxine as well, a little jewelry here, some money here and there.”

  “So she killed her, too?”

  “No, Maxine didn’t know what she was doing, or, if she did, she didn’t care. Stanley Rothberg killed his wife. I’m convinced of that, and I’m convinced Mr. Milton knew he had. In fact, I know that he knew he would.”

  “Huh? What are you saying?” McKensie sat back. “John Milton was in on this?”

  “In a way, I suppose he is. He knows the potential for evil in our hearts,” Kevin said, thinking a moment. Then he looked up quickly. “I thought it was just a clerical error when I was first given the Rothberg file, but John Milton had been working up information before Maxine Rothberg had been murdered. He knew she would be killed and Stanley would be charged.”

  “Or maybe you were right when you thought it was just a clerical error, Kevin,” McKensie said softly.

  “No, I’ll tell you why I’m sure it wasn’t. He not only knows what evil men will do; he knows what evil we have done and hidden in our hearts. He went to Beverly Morgan and blackmailed her. He knew what she had done, and she knew she was confronting some terrible evil force. So she submitted and did what he wanted.”

  “And she told you this in the hospital today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kevin, you said yourself s
he got drunk and had an accident. I was almost ready to discredit her testimony by showing she was an incompetent alcoholic, but I knew you would use that to suggest she could have killed Maxine Shapiro accidentally, so I didn’t bother. But what kind of a witness would she make against the likes of John Milton?”

  “Bob, John Milton and Associates have won or done well with every criminal case they’ve been involved in,” Kevin replied. “If you examine the court records carefully, you’ll see that. And note the kinds of clients . . . many are guilty beyond doubt, but they get their sentences reduced or . . .”

  “Any defense lawyer would try to do that, Kevin. You know that.”

  “Or they find ways to get evidence thrown out.”

  “Just good defense lawyers, Kevin. That’s their job. We understand that. Why do you think I’m on the tails of the police all the time? They’re so fed up and eager, they make mistakes, and they hate me and the other AD’s for pointing out what they can and can’t do.”

  “I know all that. I know all that,” Kevin said impatiently. “But there’s more to it here, Bob. They—especially he—enjoy getting guilty people off. He’s the true defender of evil, the devil’s advocate, if not the devil himself.”

  McKensie nodded and sat forward. “What else do you have to support such a wild story, Kevin?”

  “I just came from the office. I went in and used the computer to review all the firm’s cases. As I said, they haven’t lost one. They had me in there, too, but not only credited with the Rothberg case. They had my first real criminal case, the one I tried on Long Island.”

  “Defending an elementary schoolteacher accused of sexually abusing children.” Kevin looked at him sharply. “I had my people do some research on you, Kevin. I had to know what kind of an attorney I was up against.”