Shoat looked annoyed. He closed his eyes and said, “Don’t get obstinate with me, Mr. Vail.”
“Just stating the facts, Your Honor.”
“And poor old Al Silverman. You really did a number on him, didn’t you? The man spent three weeks in a hospital and now I understand he’s applied for a teaching job at City University.”
“Why are we suddenly feeling sorry for poor old Al, Your Honor? He got his ass whipped. It happens.”
“Not to you, though. Not in the last… what is it, four years since you lost a case?”
“There were some plea bargains in there, if I remember correctly.”
“As you know, I don’t look kindly on plea-bargaining,” Shoat said almost viciously. “I say go to the bar with it, make or break, that’s what courts are for.”
“Yes sir, I know your predisposition on that question. As for Al Silverman, he’s a damn fine lawyer. He just got hung by a bad case.”
“A gangster, Mr. Vail? Everybody knows Pinero is a hit man for…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Whoever.”
“Which has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that three cops used him as their personal punching bag. Is that what this is about? Chewing me out for winning a case?”
“I told you what this is about. What this is about, sir, is that I am asking you to take on this pro bono as a personal favor.”
One did not deny a superior court judge a personal favor.
“I was hoping I could get away for about two weeks, do some fishing down in the Keys,” Vail said. “You know, recharge my batteries. I assume this can wait a couple of weeks—”
“No, no, no,” Shoat said sharply. “The hearing’s tomorrow and I hope to be able to go to court in, oh, sixty days maximum.”
“What’s the charge?”
“First degree murder.”
“Murder one! You want to go to trial on a murder one in sixty days? Who’s the client?”
Shoat leaned forward and smiled.
“Aaron Stampler,” he said.
“Aaron …” Vail started to say, and then remembered the name. My God! He stared across the desk at Shoat for several seconds. “The Rushman thing,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Vail. The Rushman thing.”
Aaron Stampler was the kid they’d nailed for killing Archbishop Rushman.
Shoat reached in a desk drawer, took out a slender dark cigar, unwrapped it and carefully snipped off the end. Vail took out a cigarette.
“Do you mind?” Shoat said. “I really detest the smell of cigarettes.” Vail put the pack back as Shoat lit the cigar with a gold lighter, twisting the stogie slowly to make sure the end was evenly fired. Then he leaned back and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
“Preliminary tomorrow at nine. I’ll set the date then. I was thinking perhaps … oh, the first week in April.”
“That isn’t even sixty days.”
“What’s the difference, Counselor? We’re going to fry him anyway.”
Vail’s shocked expression drew an immediate response from the judge.
“Just so it’s all on the table, I have it on excellent authority that this little monster knew the good bishop, was caught with the murder weapon in hand, and his bloody fingerprints are spread from the rectory to me confessional.”
“You seem to know a lot about the case. Are you trying it?”
“What I just told you is all I know, sir, and yes, I am trying it. And I sure as hell don’t expect any problem from you on that score.”
“I see. Well, if it’s that open and shut, maybe we’ll just plead him guilty and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.”
“There’s not going to be any mercy in this court, Mr. Vail. Archbishop Rushman was the closest thing to a living saint this city has ever seen. Even the knee jerkers are going to look the other way if Stampler gets the chair. And he will. He’ll be the most despised defendant since Charles Manson. Even if you plead him guilty, he’ll get the bloody chair.”
So that was it. This was the payoff for the Pinero win. Make him try an open-and-shut case, turn public opinion against him, and break his back. Let’s bring Vail to his knees, that’s what it was all about.
Vail said, “The first thing we’ll do is file for change of venue. There’s no way—”
“Absolutely not. No change. You don’t get it, do you, Counselor? Go out on the street, in the restaurants, ask people what they think. People are outraged, as well they should be. They deserve satisfaction, Mr. Vail. They demand requital. They require that release.”
“Why don’t we just string him up in front of the church? There’s a nice big oak tree up there.”
“I warned you …”
“Warned me what? You sit there, tell me to try this case when you’ve already picked out his death cell. You tell me the city’s on fire over this but I can’t change venue …”
“Vail, this is a conversation strictly between you and me,” Shoat said quietly. “If push comes to shove, it never happened.”
“Good, then I can tell you what I think of—”
“I am not in the slightest interested in your opinion, so save your breath. I know some of you young hotshots call me Hangin’ Harry. That doesn’t bother me one damn bit. In fact, if hanging were still in vogue I’d be the first one to pull the handle on the trapdoor.”
“Maybe they’ll let you throw the switch on Stampler.”
Shoat leaned forward slightly. “There will be a very long line for that. We’ll probably have to raffle off the privilege. Perhaps divide the proceeds up among the dozens of charities His Eminence started and supported in this community.”
Vail stood up and walked back to the window. He needed a cigarette to balance out the foul smell of Shoat’s cigar. He took a long swig of his drink.
“What if I say no?”
“I don’t think even you would be that arrogant,” Shoat said. “Besides, you know what the city would think of you, turning down a pro bono after winning yourself a half-million-dollar settlement?”
“Tell you me truth, Your Honor, I really don’t give a big shit what the city thinks. If I wanted to be popular I’d have a sex change operation and enter the Miss America contest.”
“You don’t turn down a judge’s request, Vail, and you know it. That would be suicidal. Turn me down and you’ll insult every judge on this circuit. They’d eat you alive every time you walked in a courtroom. Care for another drink?”
“No thanks, it’s a little early for me. But I’m going to have a cigarette. You want me to step outside?”
“Oh, go ahead,” Shoat said irritably, getting up and pouring himself another scotch.
Vail lit up and watched a wrecker hook up one of the two cars in the fender bender. He leaned forward and looked up and down the street. There wasn’t a pedestrian in sight. It was a very strange sight, particularly in mid-afternoon. As the wrecker towed the black car away, Shoat walked to the window behind his desk and also looked out.
“Still sleeting?” he asked.
“No. But it’s below freezing so it’s not going to melt. Better drive carefully on the way home.”
“I don’t have to drive, Mr. Vail, one of the perks of the job. I have a car and driver. Quite an impressive fellow, actually. Quite well read for a colored. Keeps up on things. I sometimes try out my written decisions on him. Get their side of the picture.”
“Their side?”
“Coloreds, Spanish. I like to be fair and open. Hear their side of the story.”
“That’s very commendable. Ever pay any attention to them?”
Shoat did not answer. He just glared at Vail. Then the sneer crept back. He took another long pull of scotch and clamped his teeth around the cigar.
“This case is generating a lot of national attention,” he said, his eyes as lifeless and cold as pebbles. “The bishop was well known all over the world. That means the national press will be here in force. I want this Stampler to have the best defense possible. When we burn him,
I don’t want anybody saying he didn’t get the fairest possible trial. And I’m going to give you a lot of leeway, just so there’s no criticism of the justice system here.”
“Sixty days to prepare his trial is no leeway at all. Who’s prosecuting?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yancey doesn’t have a good prosecutor left. Jane Venable’s leaving this month to go into private practice with, you know, Winken, Blinken and Nod or whoever.”
“I assume he’ll find somebody equal to the task.”
Vail walked across the room and back. He had no choice.
“Slam-dunk and I’m the basket,” he said to himself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Vail said. “Look, I haven’t even met this kid yet. All I know about the case is what I read in this morning’s paper. I want ninety days. I want the preliminary hearing postponed until Friday so I can spend all day tomorrow with my client. I want a subpoena so I can get into the scene of the crime without any hassle. And I want the D.A. out of my hair for the next thirty-six hours—he’s been working this case since last night. I want the same consideration. And I want full disclosure from the D.A.’s office, I don’t want any bullshit about that.”
“Sixty days, Vail. That’s all you get. We have to get this over with. However, I concede your other points, they’re all reasonable requests.”
“Also I get court expenses, that’s standard.”
“Court expenses yes. Personal expenses, expert witnesses, travel, all your problem.”
Vail finished his cigarette and ground it out in an ashtray.
“Double feature, huh?” he said finally. “Society gets a human sacrifice and you bust my balls at the same time.”
Shoat puffed on his cigar and thought about that for a moment before nodding.
“I like that, Counselor. That’s quite an accurate appraisal of the situation. Double feature—punishment and retribution. My two favorite subjects.”
Outside, it had begun to sleet again. A county worker was sprinkling salt on the icy steps and Vail went down them slowly, hanging on to the brass railing. The fender bender had been cleaned up, but a dark blue limo was now parked in front of the courthouse. Some big shot working late, Vail thought. Maybe it’s Shoat’s car? But as Vail reached the bottom step a face appeared for a moment in the rear window, then moved back into the shadows. It was Roy Shaughnessey. The driver got out, scurried around the car and opened the door.
Vail peered in at Shaughnessey.
“There’s not a cab running in town,” Shaughnessey said. “Get in, I’ll run you home.”
Vail got in. The limo driver got in the front seat and turned back toward Shaughnessey.
“One-oh-two, Fraser,” Shaughnessey said. “It’s out in the Yards.” He turned to Vail. “How about a brandy?”
“Oh, what the hell. Why not?”
Shaughnessey opened a compartment in the back of the front seat. It revealed a small bar stocked with three-ounce airline bottles of liquor. Shaughnessey opened two of them and emptied the contents into old-fashioned glasses.
“Sorry I don’t have snifters,” he said. “Always thought that was a lot of bunk anyway, swirling it around in those glasses and sniffing it.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to you, Martin—okay if I call you Martin?”
“Sure, Roy.”
“You’re one helluva piece of work,” the old war-horse said, clinking Vail’s glass. “Ever thought about moving up in the world?”
“Up to where?” Vail asked.
“Look, son, you’re tighter than a nun’s pussy when it comes to talkin’ about yourself. I know you come from downstate. No credentials. No family to speak of. Some bad breaks along the line. I pulled the package on you. Hard pull up by your own bootstraps. All that crap.”
“What’s your point?”
“Time to let it out. You’re Robin Hood right now. Start capitalizing on that hard road up. Self-made man, overcoming the odds, it’ll sell, know what I mean?”
“I don’t have anything to sell right now.”
“C’mon, son, you know how hard it is to break into these platinum law firms without a pedigree. You’re the best lawyer in the state. Nobody wants to go up against you.”
“Is this some kind of an offer?”
“Let’s just say it’s part of your continuing education. You’ve got to slick up a little.”
Vail laughed. “You mean go legit?”
Shaughnessey laughed harder. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he said, “go legit.”
“Why bother?”
“Because you want to move to the other side of town. You want what everybody wants, bow and scrape, tip their hat, call you Mister and mean it. You don’t want to cop pleas for gunsels the rest of your life. Ten, twelve years from now you’ll have the bank account but you’ll be sick of having scum for clients. You still won’t be legit, as you put it.”
“Is that why you dumped this Rushman case on me?”
Shaughnessey laughed. “Don’t give it a thought. You need a little humility, Martin. Besides, they want a monkey show out of that trial and you’ll give it to them. You’ll make them work for that conviction.”
“So that’s what it’s all about, getting a good show and teaching me a little humility?”
“It’s the way the process works. You don’t go anywhere without help, Martin. You can’t do it alone, you need friends.”
“Oh, so this was a friendly gesture?”
“You’re getting a favor and doing a favor at the same time. Now’s a good time to start planning your future.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
“Jane Venable’s moving out. The D.A.’s office is wide open.”
“C’mon, you think Jack Yancey and I could spend more than ten minutes together without killing each other?”
“Yancey needs you. He’s lazy. And he’s lost all his gunslingers. Jack’s balls’re hanging out. Hell, he never did have the stones for that job. He’s a politician in a job that calls for an iceman. He has to do something fast before everybody finds out how incompetent he is. What he wants is to make judge—eight, nine years down the line—and live off the sleeve for the rest of his time. To do that, he needs to rebuild his reputation because you’ve been makin’ him look like Little Orphan Annie. Twice in one year on headline cases and burned up his two best prosecutors to boot. Silverman’s still in a coma from the Pinero case and Venable’s on her way to Platinum City. He needs you, son.”
“I can’t afford to work for an assistant D.A.’s salary. This case alone could cost me seventy-five, one-hundred thousand.”
“C’mon, son, you made a half million off Pinero and you live like a hermit.”
“My nest egg.”
“I have some people who can turn your nest egg into a portfolio worm a million, million and a half over the next few years. That’s where it counts.”
“All of a sudden everybody wants to do me favors.”
“That’s because you’re a winner. You take your beating on this Rushman thing, just shows you’re human.”
“Why is everybody in such a hurry to convict this kid?”
“Because it’s bad for the community, bad for the state. A thing like this? The sooner it’s behind us, the better. Anyway, you see Yancey’s going to get his robes. Then who knows? You play the other side of the street for a while—hell, you might like prosecuting, don’t know unless you try, right?—three, four years from now who knows where it could end? You want to be doing pro bonos when you’re fifty?”
He looked out the car window. “Hell, you want to be a man of the people, do it where it counts. Let them pick up the tab.”
“What the hell’s in it for you?” Vail asked.
“I don’t like to fight people I can’t beat,” Shaughnessey answered.
EIGHT
Charlie Shackleford watched from his cubicle in the rear of the big room as Jane Venable burst out of the elevator. She was
huddled in a navy pea jacket, a blue knit cap pulled down over her forehead, a bulky turtleneck pulled up around her ears, galoshes flopping at her feet. As she entered the sprawling, noisy office, she swept the knit cap off her head, loosing a forest of red hair, and stuck a Virginia Slims in her mouth which she lit as she wove her way through the jungle of paralegal desks and file cabinets, nodding to the staff as though she were royalty and they were her subjects. Charlie sighed. She was gorgeous. She was brilliant. She was everything in the world Charlie wanted and knew was beyond his reach. She reminded him of one of those models on TV who demonstrate furs in the international fashion shows. Tall, distant, untouchable, classy, arrogant, self-confident. She had it all. Venable had been her own Pygmalion, turning liabilities into assets and capitalizing on what other women might consider physical drawbacks. Her nose, which was too long, became part of an equine mystique that added to her haughty allure. Her neck, which was too slender, was masked in turtlenecks and high lace collars that became the trademark of her classy appeal. She was almost six feet tall, with irreverent splashes of red hair and a stunning figure she usually disguised inside bulky sweaters and loose-fitting jackets.
Except, of course, in court.
Charlie looked forward to those days when she would perform before the bench in outrageously expensive tailor-made suits designed to show off every perfect parabola of her body—from her broad swimmer’s shoulders to the tight melons of her rear. She would pull her hair back into a tight bun to accent her professionalism. She would slash the air with designer glasses to make her point. Contact lenses would enhance her piercing green eyes. A year of speech school had fine-tuned her voice into a husky, authoritative alto. The men in the jury simply salivated, while the women secretly yearned for just a touch of her poise and taste. Devastating packaging. Shackleford adored her from afar, hiding his attraction behind sardonic, passionless sarcasm.
She came back to the office a little before three, collapsed at her desk and peeled off her overshoes, then spent five minutes rooting around one of them in search of a stuck shoe.
“Charlie!” she yelled. A moment later, the short, chubby, somewhat joyless little paralegal appeared in the doorway.
Primal Fear Page 6
