Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  She pointed a warning finger at him. “Get that out of your head, right now. Their job is to put you in jail. My job is to keep you out.”

  ~ ~ ~

  This time he wasn’t bolted to the floor like a television in a cheap motel, but neither was he in the same space as his lawyer. An inch thick plate of Plexiglas separated them with holes to let them speak. He pushed away the thought of a lifetime in cages.

  Judy complained, “That policeman downstairs was a real bastard. He had me cooling my heels for a half hour while your were being questioned. I had to threaten him to get up here; in the nick of time I might add.” She looked at her watch. “Dick will be here soon. Despite this mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” she disarmed it with a smile, “we have issues with the sale. Okay?”

  He laughed. “Sure, it’s not like I’m going anywhere. My attention is pretty cheap these days.”

  She jabbed her finger into the glass wall. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Robin. You’re in big trouble.” She felt sad when the smile disappeared, but she got by it; “First, you’ve got to stop talking to the police.” She tapped the stack of paper on her side of the divider. “This is the first transcript. You’re a regular chatty Barbie. Let them get their evidence the old fashioned way, by working for it.”

  Robin shook his head. “They’re investigating Mona’s murder. I was doing my civic duty. I’m not willing to stiff them.”

  The lawyer chided, “I tell them not to listen in. Gee, I must be nuts.” She whacked the glass wall hard. “I’m your friend, like forever, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I read this and it says you’re guilty. If any cop does anything other than what is required to nail your butt to the wall, they’ll be pounding a beat. I don’t want you talking to them. Is that clear?”

  He protested, but with less steam; “The police aren’t my enemy.”

  Anger clouded her voice; “Robin, I’m your attorney. If you’re not going to listen to me, I’ll walk away.”

  This time he grinned. “Don’t you threaten me, Ms. Jacobs, there’s too much water under our bridges for that.” His chin rested on his clasped hands, a smile turned pensively inward. “Look, I won’t talk to them unless you’re there.”

  Judy tapped the sheath of papers again. “I know about your first close encounter. It’s another hour before the last transcript is done. Why don’t you tell me what I missed?”

  Robin told Judy about Mona’s pregnancy.

  The lawyer intoned, “More motive.”

  Robin took a tangent; “One of the cops, Simpson, she believes me. The other one, McMartin, she wants my head as a trophy.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve done some research there. First off, Simpson’s the beat cop who found Mona. She’s a flatfoot; she doesn’t count for squat. She’s McMartin’s gopher, no more. McMartin’s partner is in the hospital. She makes big points if she gets you signed, sealed and delivered. Powerful people don’t want a lot of prying into your wife’s sex life, and I don’t need rumors to tell me that. So she’s not going to be your friend.”

  Robin asked, “Then why’s the DA offering me a plea? I mean, no one offers a plea before the evidence is in. It’s not like I’m going to turn state’s evidence and crack a drug ring.”

  “You mean when I came in. Murder Two?” She waited for him to nod. “That’s not so unusual, considering the circumstances, and Mona’s proclivities. He wants his conviction without the heavy lifting, and definitely without the trial.”

  “And the second offer?”

  “What was it?”

  “Manslaughter. He said I could be free in eleven years.”

  She rubbed her fingers over her lips. “That’s interesting.”

  Robin continued, “The first offer, the one concocted by the DA and McMartin’s captain, I thought the detective was going to blow a gasket.”

  Her mind was still on the last plea offer, but she answered him; “Why not, they were going to shut down her case, without even telling her. When you refused it, she was probably considerably relieved.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t make a friend of the captain.”

  She said, “You come up guilty and he’s got the connections to make your life miserable forever.”

  “I’m not guilty.” He chewed the end of his thumb. “Back to the plea bargain, Judy. McMartin was on board this time.”

  An expectant question marked her face; “Why now? A week from now, a month.”

  “It’s why they met with me before you got here. It’s why you got the runaround downstairs. They didn’t want me to cop a plea, they needed me to cop that plea.”

  The lawyer was voice was shaky, hesitant; “So where’s this leading us?”

  Robin’s mind closed in on an elusive idea. “There’s a problem with the evidence. Something doesn’t jibe.”

  She shook her head. “There’s an awful lot of evidence.”

  He switched topics. “Will I get bail?”

  “Not a chance,” she answered quickly.

  “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “That’s why they tried the plea. They’re afraid the judge will set bail.”

  “But why?”

  He banged his hand on glass. “They’re afraid of the evidence.” He asked, “Do you see everything they have before the hearing?”

  She nodded. “Yes, probably an hour before we see the judge.”

  “It’s going to be thick.” His tone made it a question.

  She nodded.

  He pointed a finger at her. “Well, you look close. They’ll bury it deep, but I trust that detective. She won’t lie, doesn’t even know how.”

  “Trust like that’s going to land you in prison,” she warned.

  There was a knock and Dick Kaye stuck his head in the door. “You guys ready for me?”

  Judy motioned him in. Robin asked, “I take it King knows about my current troubles?”

  Dick wore his worry on his face. “Yes, it’s all over the news, nationally even. He called me two hours ago. He said if this isn’t resolved soon, he’s pulling out of the negotiations.”

  “You believe him?”

  Dick was skeptical. “No, he’s posturing. To tell you the truth, I think he’s happy as a pig in shit; he’ll be shooting for twenty-five percent off.”

  “So what should we do?”

  Dick wouldn’t meet his gaze. “We could go with his price, get him to sign today. It would be one less thing to worry about.”

  Robin waited for Dick to look up from the table. “No, Dick. I’m innocent, and that’s how we’re going to play it. If we have to, we walk away.” He asked, “Can you live with that?”

  Dick’s tone was positive; “Of course I can. We all can.”

  “So what do the troops know?”

  “Only what’s in the papers, and on the news. They’re worried for you.”

  He smiled. “Tell them I’m all right. Tell them I won’t let them down.”

  Dick was confused; “What do you mean?”

  He put his lips close to the glass. “I value their friendship. I want them to know they’re not friends with a murderer. That’s all.”

  “I can do that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  There are times when a man glimpses the potential future. There are reasons for the forks in the road of life not taken, either for luck, or because the traveler was pulled back, or he saw the error of his way and retraced his steps. The accumulation of these choices, good and bad, decide the past and the future. Robin didn’t recall the specific decision points, but he knew his life was a process of mostly conscious choices. Still, he came close to losing his way a couple times, saved as much by serendipity as reason. Then Rebecca came along. Her map was written in bolder lines as she helped him navigate the rough patches. When she died, he looked within and found the map; she’d left it for him. And, after a brief trip down that bumpy side street of Mona, he got back to the main road.

  In the cell in county lockup, he had no problem viewing the potentia
l future. Suddenly he was sharing his space with a hardened criminal, about whom the guard warned, “Don’t get used to Jack here, he’s one mean son of a bitch. Next Monday he’s off to the big house for nine years.”

  Jack scowled to the guard’s receding back, then proceeded to co-opt the lower bunk, tossing Robin’s book to the floor.

  Even bad roads have right choices. “That’s my bunk, Jack.”

  “That was your bunk, asshole.”

  Jack stood up, six inches shorter than Robin, but fifty pounds heavier.

  Choice time; Robin swung with everything he had, driving his fist into the soft gut, bending Jack forward. He sank to his knees, his face reddening from the pain. Robin grabbed his hair with his left hand and twisted his face until Jack’s eyes met his.

  He cocked his right fist again. “Whose bunk is it, Jack?”

  Through clenched teeth, “Yours.”

  Was this his future, marking and defending territory in a never ending series of turf wars? Jack was merely the first of the foot soldiers that would wear him down. They were the markers on a roadless frontier where even good choices have bad results. After eleven years, what would become of the Robin Morgan who’d made his Rebecca proud?

  He watched stone-faced as a skulking Jack moved himself to the upper bunk. Robin didn’t want to be the lead dog, but he’d taken his first cautious step into his uncertain future.

  ~ ~ ~

  Too much of Maureen’s future was held captive by her past of choices more bad than good; until she joined the police force. Lately she spent a lot of time reflecting on who she was. She was taught self respect in high school; but that was wrong, they bestowed it on everyone, as if self respect is earned by no more than being alive. The key word was earned, and to earn it one had to be worthy. Maureen wasn’t sure when she found the missing self-respect; or why she hadn’t even known she didn’t have it. Then one day she it was there.

  It was the accident that took the life of Armando Franconi’s wife. She was the first cop on the scene, two months on the force. She called in the Jaws of Life, directed the arriving cops and held the hand of the dying Marlena Franconi who wouldn’t stop talking about her husband, right up until her final breath. “Tell Armando not to wear black. He looks horrible in black, like some B movie Mafioso.”

  For the first time in her life she was the person in charge, and it was so natural. Maybe it came with loving her job. She respected the job of cop, and she took respect from it. If only she’d found the inner strength earlier.

  She used to tell herself, hey, not all mistakes are bad. She had Meg, and wasn’t Meg the apple of her eye. Well, to tell the truth, no, she wasn’t. If she had it to do over, Meg’s father would never have bedded her, and she would be in a better place. Self-respect let her admit that. Until the day of that accident, her life was dominated by a thread of self pity. Then it was gone, and with it the victim’s whine of ‘at least I have my daughter.’

  So she became Meg’s mother instead of her erstwhile sister. In a way she gave up being Meg’s friend to become her role model. It wasn’t working out.

  She checked her watch. Where was Meg? She pulled the casserole out of the oven and put a towel over it to keep it warm.

  If I knew she was going to be late, I’d still be working.

  It was only a glitch. There was an explanation. Jake was rounding up everyone to find out who contaminated the evidence. She should be there. She didn’t want to tell someone else to get it done, and walk away. But she had; she was a mother.

  The door slammed. Meg stalked through the kitchen.

  “Whoa, Meg. Where have you been?”

  “I got lost on the way home.” An ‘I dare you’ defiance marked her face.

  “Well, supper’s ready.” To say it, or not; “I take pains to be here for you.”

  Where is the pleasant child I left at school this morning?

  Meg sneered. “Fulfilling your matriarchal duties? Maybe if we ask around we can find someone who gives a shit.”

  Maureen reared up to her daughter, controlling the urge to slap her. “Don’t you speak to me like that.” Frustration constricted her throat; “What are they teaching you in school?”

  The aggressive Meg pushed forward to do battle. “The question Mom is, what are you teaching me at home?”

  Her confusion was real; “What’s that mean?”

  “You’re never here, at least not mentally. You cook my meals, and you think you’ve done your job. But you don’t talk to me.” Meg brushed away a tear. “Do I have to break the law to get your attention?”

  Maureen stepped back. “No?”

  Meg let the tears flow. “Well, I feel that way. Don’t you understand, it’s not me or your job, it’s me and your job?”

  Maureen lied, “I’ve always put you first.”

  Meg rocked her head from side to side. “No, Mom, your job is first. It’s what you like; it’s what you do; it’s what you think about. With me you have to think of what to talk about, like you’re going through some magazine checklist.”

  Maureen controlled the quaver in her voice; “What should I talk about?”

  Her daughter used both hands to wipe her face. “Mom, I like you, I want to talk about what interests you. Is that so tough?”

  Maureen was silent.

  “I know you love your work. Why don’t we ever talk about that? We used to, back in the old days, before you became detective.”

  She chose a reflex response; “A lot of bad things happen on my job.”

  Meg did not relent. “Mom, if you don’t talk to me about something you like, we’re going to stop talking. I don’t want to do that.”

  The detective moved to fallback position number two; “But I talk all day about my job.”

  “So don’t stop when you come home. I need to be part of your life.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “You can’t be a teenager again, mom. My life can’t interest you. I’m becoming an adult, and hard as it is for you to believe, I’m interested in what you do.”

  Maureen looked away, to the safety of her casserole. She scratched her neck and looked sideways at her daughter. “Okay. Right now, though, let’s try for a civil supper.”

  Meg squelched a smile, turning quickly towards her bedroom. “I’ve got to change. Can we eat in the living room? I want to see the news.”

  Maureen felt she’d been manipulated, and not so subtly at that. She set up the trays at the couch and turned on the five o’clock news.

  Meg poked at the casserole before speaking; “I talked to Miss Robbins. No, that’s not right, she spoke to me.”

  “About Robin Morgan?”

  They were interrupted by the news reader. “And now with the expanding story of sex and murder, let’s go to Dennis Morrow at police headquarters.” The reporter filled the screen before the camera zoomed out to include the steps of police headquarters. “Dennis, can you tell us what’s happening there?”

  “Yes, Jessica.” A picture of the seedy Sandhurst Motel came up. “This noontime police identified the woman murdered in a motel as Mona Morgan, the wife of Robin Morgan, CEO of FindIt. From unassailable sources we’ve confirmed that she is a well known frequenter of the local singles scene. She and her husband of less than a year were in the process of divorcing …”

  The reporter droned on until the station cut to footage of Maureen saying, “Yes, Mr. Morgan is a person of interest, but we cannot elaborate further at this time.”

  The camera cut back to Morrow. “We have now learned that Robin Morgan is under arrest for the murder of his wife. He will be arraigned tomorrow at Superior Court.”

  The talking head switched to a pretty black-haired reporter who spoke with the clipped tones taught so well in the Ivy League schools; “Jessica, I’m outside the lobby of FindIt. There hasn’t been a word from management,” the camera panned the glass door, stopping on the chubby receptionist Maureen had seen earlier, “and none of the employees have spoken to the media, either on or off the
record. It is an eerie wall of defensive silence.”

  The receptionist left her desk and came out the glass doors. She distributed a single sheet to the gathered news hounds.

  The reporter scanned it. “Jessica, I’ve been given this news release. Let me read it to you.” She snapped the paper. “‘The management and employees of FindIt stand unconditionally behind the complete innocence of Robin Morgan.’ That’s all it says.”

  There was the dreaded dead space as she turned the sheet over looking for more words. She segued, “Earlier today, when I asked the vice president, Dick Kaye, whether the murder was affecting the negotiations for the sale of FindIt, he declined to comment.”

  Maureen hit the mute as Robin Morgan’s picture filled the screen.

  Out of the blue Meg asked, “He’s really good looking, don’t you think?”

  It was like seeing the man for the first time. “I guess so, but I try to keep that kind of thing out of my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I keep my distance from the suspects, hon, I have to remain objective. If I start to like Robin Morgan, then it’s going to affect how I prosecute my case. I can’t have that.”

  The prescient Meg asked, “Do all cops work like that?”

  Maureen shook her head. “No. I wish they did, but it’s not so easy. Me, if I’m going to spend my sympathy, I’ll do it for the victim.”

  Meg mulled that over. “What if he’s not guilty? Doesn’t that make him a victim too?”

  Where’s this leading? “I guess so.”

  “What are you doing to prove Robin Morgan is innocent, Mom?”

  It was Maureen’s turn to think before speaking, and then, “Nothing; it’s not my job to find out who didn’t murder Mona Morgan. I need to find the killer.”

  The young girl asked, “Then whose job is it to protect Mr. Morgan?”

  “From me?”

  “Yes, Mom, from you, from the police.”

  Maureen shrugged. “I don’t know. His lawyer. Himself.” She grabbed onto a passing thought. “He should be protected by his innocence.”

  “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “No.”

  The pretty teenager with her mother’s red hair and green eyes frowned. Her young heart led her; “I do. Miss Robbins knows you’re in charge of the investigation, and she wants to help Mr. Morgan. She told me he’s the most moral man she’s ever known. She said he would never kill anyone.”