The Devil Amongst the Lawyers

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “So Henry wants to leave tonight?”

  She nodded. “We both do. I need to get back to New York as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.”

  “But we can’t leave now. The case isn’t over. The verdict isn’t in yet.”

  Rose sighed. “Just get downstairs, Shade. We’ll hash it out when I finish Henry’s packing.” Before he could reply, she had hurried back toward the stairwell, clattering away on her high heels like a stampeded pony. Shade sighed. There was enough drama in the job without reporters trying to have private lives, as well. He wondered what his chances were of calming them down enough to get a decent night’s sleep and finish the job at hand.

  NORA BONESTEEL HAD NEVER BEEN inside a jail before, and she wasn’t exactly frightened. Carl was waiting for her upstairs, pacing the first-floor hallway of the courthouse, and she knew that there would be plenty of lawmen around. Besides, Nora didn’t think a lady schoolteacher was much to be scared of, no matter what folks claimed she did. But Nora didn’t much care for strange places and new people, and the live folks at the jail were not what concerned her. What with one thing and another, a lot of sorrow settled in on places where prisoners were kept, and some of that misery went on even after those who had felt it were long gone. She thought that, regardless of her encounter with Miss Erma Morton, she was likely to see and hear some unpleasant things before she got out again.

  She headed down the steep wooden steps, clutching four old copies of National Geographic against her chest, and trying to work out whatever in the world she was going to say when she got there. Nora didn’t get much practice in talking to strangers.

  “Well, young lady, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  At the bottom of the steps she came face-to-face with a deputy sheriff, a genial hawk-faced man who looked about the age of her father. “What might you be doing down here of an evening, miss?” he said, staring at her as if he were trying to find some local family resemblance that would identify her. “Your daddy’s not in here, I hope?”

  Nora could feel herself blush with shame at the thought of such a thing, but she forced herself to look the officer in the eye. “No, sir. I have come a-visiting Miss Erma Morton, and bringing her something to read.” She held out the yellow-bordered magazines, in case he wanted to inspect them to see if she had put a razor blade within the pages.

  She pointed to the topmost issue: June 1934. “There’s an article here on wild gardens of the Southern Appalachians, and I thought she might like to see it.”

  Solemnly, humoring her, the deputy examined the magazine. “I don’t think the prisoner is overfond of gardening, but she does seem partial to having company, so if you don’t stay too long, I reckon you can go see her. Follow me.”

  He led her through the corridor, and through a doorway on the left, where there was a desk piled with papers, and then through an opening cut in the stone wall support of the original basement to a room containing more cells, all but one of which were empty. From the other side of the passageway, Nora heard male voices shouting and bellowing bits of songs.

  Seeing her shrink back against the wall, the deputy smiled and patted her arm. “Don’t you worry about them, young lady. Mostly drunks and layabouts. Anyhow, they’re locked up.”

  Well, one of them wasn’t, but she could tell by his clothes and the sheet still looped around his neck that he had been there a long time. And he wasn’t saying anything. Just standing there against the wall of the passageway looking sorrowful. Since there was nothing she could do for him, she edged past the spot and followed the deputy, who had stopped in front of Erma Morton’s cell.

  “Somebody to see you, Erma,” he said, nodding toward the pale schoolgirl clutching her magazines. “She comes bearing gifts. ’Bout ten minutes, if you’d like some company?”

  Nora was surprised to see that the cell was furnished as if it were a tiny apartment, an easy chair and a wooden trunk next to the neatly made bed, presumably to hold the clothing for her court appearances. On the small table beside the chair, a cigarette burned in an ashtray. If the local citizens had taken against her, as the big newspapers said they had, they had certainly not shown it in the quality of her accommodations.

  Erma Morton had been sitting in the rocking chair under the reading lamp, but when she heard footsteps approaching she got up and came to the bars. She gave the deputy a brief smile and turned her attention to Nora, who stood there meekly, willing herself not to blush under the scrutiny of this notorious stranger.

  Erma Morton was older than Carl, and not much taller than Nora herself, but there was a current of willfulness around her, as if she were used to getting her own way, and her narrowed eyes and grim expression made it plain that, if she had ever trusted people, the last few months had cured her of that.

  Without taking her eyes off Nora, she said to the guard, “That might be all right. Ten minutes, then.” She nodded as if she were dismissing a servant, and the deputy left them.

  “Good evening,” said Nora, deciding, under the circumstances, not to smile.

  Erma Morton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe I know you.”

  “My name is Nora Bonesteel, ma’am.”

  A mirthless smile. “I believe you know who I am. You weren’t one of my students. Or a neighbor who has slipped my mind?”

  “No. I’m not from Wise County. I am visiting a cousin who lives here in town.”

  Erma Morton cocked her head and studied her young visitor through narrowed eyes. “Come to see the show, did you?”

  Nora looked down at the floor. A shiny pair of high heels stood in the corner beside the bed. The prisoner was wearing heavy hand-knit socks, just visible under the brown flannel robe that she had slipped on over her dress. The jail didn’t feel cold to Nora, but perhaps it was. She said, “I did come because of the trial, I reckon. My cousin runs a boardinghouse here in town, and she needed the extra help this week.”

  “Lots of out-of-town lodgers this week?” Erma Morton retrieved her cigarette from the ashtray and took a deep drag on it. “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, isn’t it?” She said it lightly, but there was steel in her soft voice.

  Nora didn’t know what to say to that, so she held the National Geographics up to the bars. “I thought you might like some magazines, ma’am. They’re full of color pictures, which is what I’d want if I was cooped up in here. The newest one has an interesting-looking story about the national parks in these parts.”

  With her cigarette dangling in the corner of her mouth, Erma Morton drew the magazines through the bars. “National parks?” she said with the first note of enthusiasm she had shown. “Are there pictures of the Breaks in there?”

  Nora shook her head. “No, but there’s a lot about the Great Smoky Mountains Park that they opened over in North Carolina last year.”

  The light faded from Erma Morton’s expression. Shrugging, she set the magazines on the table beside the ashtray. “I heard about that park. They built it over near Asheville, where rich people build mansions. I’ll bet it’s not a patch on the Breaks, but since it’s out in the middle of nowhere, they’ll never make a national park out of it. We’re short on rich people around here.”

  “Where I live, too,” said Nora.

  “Well, missy, I thank you for the magazines. They will help pass the time, though I don’t expect to be here much longer. You know that I am not allowed to discuss the case, don’t you? My dear brother, who is the rooster on this dung heap, has made a deal with a newspaper chain. In exchange for exclusive access to my story, they are defraying the expenses of my trial, so I must comply with their rules. We are not rich.”

  “I’m just a kid,” said Nora. “There’s no call for you to talk to me.”

  “So you are.” Erma Morton studied her with the idle interest of one who has nothing better to do. “You don’t look like the sort of busybody who would come to the jail to gawk at a prisoner, either.”

  “No.”

  “But
you brought magazines to a total stranger.” Nora said nothing, and after a little silence, Erma Morton spoke again. “Just a kid. And do you look after your mama, Nora?”

  Nora hesitated. She was twelve. Looking after her mama? What did she mean by that? After a moment’s reflection, Nora said, “I help out at home. I bake bread, and I help can the beans and tomatoes for the winter. My grandmother taught me to quilt and sew, and I reckon by now I can do most anything around the house that needs doing.”

  A faint smile. “A regular grown-up woman, then, aren’t you? They’re not fixing to marry you off right soon, are they?”

  “There wouldn’t be any takers,” Nora muttered, blushing to her hairline.

  The prisoner smiled. “Well, there’s no hurry, and don’t let anybody tell you different. I was never in any hurry to get married, because I didn’t like what I’d seen of it. Sometimes the best thing a girl can do is stay home and be a help to her mother when she’s old and tired.”

  Nora blinked. Her own mother, who wasn’t yet thirty-three, didn’t seem in need of any help from Nora beyond the usual household chores that she’d been doing since she was seven, but Nora was not in the habit of contradicting her elders, so she merely nodded to show that she understood. She didn’t think that her family had much in common with the Mortons’ situation.

  “My mama could have been a fine lady in a big house, if she’d a mind to. Her people were lawyers and quality folks. But I suppose she fell in love with my pa, and that was her ruin. She lived to regret it. So I reckon it was up to me to look after her. I’m young and strong.” She waved her hand to indicate her present quarters. “This cell is nothing to me. But my sweet little mama wouldn’t last a week in here.”

  Nora nodded. She understood about looking out for family. “But what about the rest of your life?”

  “The rest of my life?” Erma Morton laughed and patted her permed curls. “Why, I’m twenty-one and beautiful. Maybe after those old men acquit me tomorrow, I’ll go out west and become a movie star.”

  Nora looked away and sighed, but Erma Morton wasn’t really talking to her anymore. She was gazing off into some Technicolor distance, imagining a roseate future on the silver screen.

  With a faraway smile she said, “Maybe I could be the heroine of some tearjerker. The brave young woman who—I don’t know—fell on top of a grenade to save a general or sacrificed herself so that her family would survive.”

  “I think you’d play that part real well,” whispered Nora.

  “WE HAVE TO GET OUT of here, Shade. You see that, don’t you?”

  At a secluded table in the hotel dining room, Rose, Henry, and Shade sat staring at heaping plates of food, but only Shade was making any pretense of eating. Rose, more homely than ever with her red-rimmed eyes and her blotchy, tear-streaked face, kept crumpling and smoothing her lace handkerchief, occasionally dabbing her eyes and sniffling.

  After his second drink, Henry had finally ceased to tremble, and was staring off into the distance as if he had forgotten that the others were there.

  Half an hour earlier, when Shade found him in the lobby, he was pacing and swearing quietly under his breath, stopping every now and then to glare balefully at the terrified desk clerk. After watching him for a few moments, trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation, Shade decided not to notice Henry’s agitation. He went up to him and began to talk as if nothing was amiss. Henry did not answer him at first, but that didn’t matter, because nothing he was saying was of any consequence. The important thing was to be calm and make soothing noises until Henry caught the rhythm of his mood. Shade had learned this trick on skittish horses back in Iowa, but later he found that it usually worked on people as well.

  When his patter had lulled Henry into a more manageable state, Shade steered him into the dining room and commandeered the most out-of-the-way table he could find, well away from the fireplace. When a waiter headed in their direction, he sent the man beetling away for two whiskies, hardly missing a beat in his monologue. Henry wasn’t listening, which was just as well, but the sound of Shade’s soft voice with its flat Midwestern vowel sounds seemed to calm him down. When the whiskies came, he lapsed into silence for a few moments while Henry drained the glass. Shade nodded to the waiter for another around.

  “Rose will be joining us soon,” said Shade, as casually as he could. “Have you given any thought to dinner?”

  Henry shuddered, and his eyes glittered with tears. “It was horrible,” he whispered.

  “Yes. But you weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Tonight, I mean. Tonight. You weren’t hurt. You put out the fire.”

  Henry waved away tonight. “It was years ago now. Tokyo. Sometimes I think I must be over it, but then some small thing happens, and it all comes rushing back, and . . . I find that it might as well have been yesterday.”

  Rose might have asked about the memory that was haunting him, but Shade didn’t really want to know. He couldn’t help him. Besides, who didn’t have troubles these days? With all the tragedy they saw on the job, they did not need to hear any more sad stories. Shade gave what he hoped was a sympathetic nod and went on sipping his drink.

  The protracted silence might have been awkward if Henry were in any shape to take notice of the social niceties, but he wasn’t. Finally he murmured, “I don’t talk about it anymore. People used to ask me how I survived it, and every time I gave a different answer.”

  Another ten minutes passed before Rose hurried into the dining room, with her hair disheveled, her nose in need of powder, and still wearing the clothes she had worn to the trial. When she appeared, Henry struggled to his feet from force of habit, but she waved him back down and slid into the chair at the empty place.

  “All right, Henry. You’re packed. I’m not, but I decided not to keep you waiting for dinner. Besides, the dining room might close. Is that whiskey? God, I could use one. Have you ordered? No? Well, let’s take care of that so that we can talk without interruptions. We have to get out of here, Shade.”

  “But I told you, Rose, we don’t have the verdict yet.”

  “Uh-huh. Henry and I are past caring. We’ll fake it from home. Henry, you need to ask a porter to bring down your luggage.”

  He nodded and patted her hand.

  Shade stared at them for a few moments, but Henry was oblivious, and Rose, who had snatched up the menu, was running her finger down the list of entrees. “All right,” he said. “I can see that Henry has had a bad time of it. That is evident. But what has made you so hell-bent on leaving?”

  She peeped at him over the top of the menu. “It’s personal.”

  He sighed. “It always is. If it was a news story, you’d be shouting it from the rooftops. So this personal business—nothing that can be fixed from here?”

  “No.” She closed the menu, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s Danny.”

  Shade felt a momentary twinge of guilt that he had been flippant. “I’m sorry, Rose. Was it a crash?”

  She shook her head. “No. He has been arrested. He tries so hard to be smart at business, but he’s . . . well, it’s like he’s tone-deaf, ethically. He really can’t tell the difference between a bit of sharp practice and something that the feds will put you in jail for.”

  “Maybe he just thinks he won’t get caught, Rose.”

  “Oh, he’s not a crook, Shade. Not really. He’s just single-minded. It’s all about that plane of his. About flying. When somebody waves money at him, Danny doesn’t stop to think if it’s risky or not. And of course the more money they offer, the more likely that the job is illegal, and the less likely he is to pass it up.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I wish I had been around.”

  “What has he done now?”

  “An old guy wanted to go back home to New York, so Danny flew down south and picked him up, and took him back to the city. At least, that’s how he looked at it. But the homesick fellow was a big-time gangst
er, wanted for a couple of murders, and Danny brought him back from Cuba. Him and his suitcase full of drugs. It’s a million to one chance that the cops would catch them when he landed, but they did.”

  Shade sighed, wondering who was the bigger fool, Danny for his moral myopia or Rose for her romantic blindness. Call it a tie.

  “A million to one? I wouldn’t give you those odds. The way I see it, somebody in the syndicate would have been glad to see the big guy out of the way so they could take his place. I don’t suppose they were too pleased to hear he was coming back. An anonymous phone call to the cops is a small price to pay for job security.”

  Seeing the tears glistening in Rose’s eyes, Shade stopped talking. Danny would never think of anything so inconvenient as a rival mobster tipping off the cops to his passenger’s arrival. He always seemed to think that the universe would order itself in such a way that he would attain his heart’s desire—preferably without any prolonged effort on his part. The idea of receiving an exorbitant fee just for taking a passenger on a flying jaunt was exactly his idea of working. But there was always a catch in Danny’s good fortune: unforeseen difficulties, unreliable business associates, or legal troubles. He would never change. He would try to sail through life on his looks and charm, expecting a free ride and wishes granted, and, only because he was so handsome and affable, somebody would probably always be there to clean up the messes he made. Shade was very much afraid that person would turn out to be Rose—at least until she caught him pursuing some chorus girl incarnation of his “heart’s desire.” Rose Hanelon was useful to Danny, and Shade thought that he was probably fond of her and flattered by her devotion, but he didn’t suppose that Danny’s gratitude would extend to fidelity or even commitment.

  He sighed. “So you’re going back to New York to get your Prince Charming out of trouble? Can you do it?”

  “For Danny there isn’t much I wouldn’t do. I can call in a few favors with some of the cops I know. And I can get him a good lawyer, who can cut him a deal for his testimony, maybe. Danny is hopeless. He can’t handle this on his own. Don’t you see? I have to go. Funny, I was always so afraid that Danny would die in a plane crash. But this—this is the kind of trouble I can fix. I know I can.”