The smile turned wicked. “Morgan and Maguire.”
I tried to hide my dismay. Harvey Morgan and Phil Maguire were known to defense lawyers as M and M, two gray-haired old cops, retired Detroit homicide detectives, who looked and acted like kindly grandfathers, never raising their voices or their hands in anger. Smooth, intelligent, and for the defendants in the cases they handled, absolutely deadly. They built their cases like master bricklayers putting up a wall.
“What are you going to charge her with?” I asked.
The smile became even more wicked. “First-degree, what else?”
“Aren’t you overreacting, Mark? Even if she did do it, it was a family hassle, a spur of the moment thing. Where’s the intent, the malice?”
He chuckled. “Charley, the next thing I know you’ll ask to have the charge reduced to carving without a license. Hey, she killed her father. A very important man. Not that it makes any difference, but this is a front-page case. People all over America are reading about it as we speak. What we got here is a modern day Lizzie Borden. I’m not going to send a message that it’s suddenly okay to knock off your parents. Angel — what a wonderful name — is going to have the full flame of the law’s Bunsen burner applied to her cute little ass. There’s going to be no deals in this one. She did it, and I’m going to see she pays for what she did.”
“Are we still going to have a trial, or are you planning to bypass all that and send her directly to prison?”
The smile vanished, but only for a second, then it became almost oily. “Hey, Charley, there is nobody more devoted to due process than I am, you know that. You supported me in the last election.”
I had bought a fifty dollar ticket to his campaign cocktail party. Every local lawyer, except the one running against Evola, did that. It was the smart political thing to do. I had gone, sipped tomato juice, and had shaken the great man’s hand. It wasn’t what one would consider the political act of a wild-eyed fanatic.
“It isn’t first-degree, even if she did it,” I repeated.
He looked solemn, but his eyes were smiling. “She confessed, Charley. Her prints were all over the knife handle. Believe me, we can make it stick.”
“I want to see that so-called confession.”
The mouth had formed that irritating small smile again. “It’s being typed up. I’ll tell Morgan and Maguire to send you a copy.”
“Today?”
He shrugged. “Well, you know how these things are. God knows when one of the girls will get to it. But you’ll get it as soon as it’s available.”
Nice comforting words, but they meant I’d have to kick, fight, and scream to see the thing.
“Who are you going to assign as the trial lawyer?”
“The best man in the office.”
“Olesky?” Stash Olesky, a young guy who looked like he just got off the boat from Poland, had proved himself a wizard who had the ability to hypnotize jurors as if he were old Svengali come back to life.
Evola laughed. “Close, but no cigar. I’m going to try it myself.”
I was surprised. Prosecutors avoid trying cases. If a mistake happens and the public is outraged the blame can be prudently placed on the assistant prosecutor who tried the case. Prosecutors are elected every four years, and those who have enough staff lawyers handle only the pretrial stuff that can’t backfire, the stuff that looks good in print and is perfectly safe. Officeholders never gamble where their own careers are concerned.
That is, unless the stakes are high enough to make it worth the gamble.
The Harwell murder case was the kind of publicity gold mine that merited betting all the chips. Mark Evola was the kind of ambitious politician who dreamed not just about being elected to Congress, but maybe someday to the White House itself.
“Angel is on a suicide watch at the jail,” I said. “Is there some indication that’s necessary?”
He shrugged. “It’s only a routine precaution.”
“I presume you people think she’s insane.”
“What?” No smile this time.
“Well, only insane people kill themselves. If you have put that sort of thing into operation, I think it’s a fair inference that you think she may be mentally ill.”
“Bullshit!”
I was amused. Evola rarely used earthy language.
“Well, it’s a possible inference isn’t it?”
“Like hell it is. She killed her own father, murdered him. If she has any shred of decency, she has to think about the grotesque thing she’s done. She might try suicide, because of guilt.”
“Shouldn’t you have a psychiatrist see her? I mean, if you really think she’s ...”
The little smile came back, but it flickered like a light burning out — on again, off again. “She’s perfectly fine,” he said. “She’s being handled the same as any other person charged with murder.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I suppose I could subpoena the sheriff’s jail records to see if that’s true.”
“Charley, relax. Do you want the suicide watch taken off? Hey, I’m not a tough guy. I’m easy. I’ll call over and take care of it.” He grinned now as if he had just done me an immense favor. “Anything else you want?”
“I want to see the confession.”
“That will take time. You’ll get it. I promise.”
That promise had the same ring as being told the check was in the mail. He stood up, indicating that our meeting was over, and walked me to the door, his arm around my shoulders.
“Actually, this should be fun, Charley. I haven’t tried a jury case in a long time. And they say you used to be pretty good.”
There was a condescending tone in that phrase, “used to be,” and I resented it, although it reflected my own attitude to a T.
Life for me seemed to be filled with more than just one “used to be.”
“We’ll have a ball, Charley, with this case, a real ball.”
I knew he wouldn’t feel that way if he thought there was even the slightest possibility he might lose.
All games are great if you win.
I wondered if Angel Harwell would think it was all a game.
I know I didn’t.
*
I TOOK another long look at Evola’s ladies as I left the office. They looked back. Mine were looks of admiration. Theirs were looks of amusement, not interest. I sighed and waved good-bye. They smiled and waved back.
I took the stairs to the first floor.
“Hey, Charley!”
I turned toward the source. It was my day for walks down memory lane.
He hadn’t changed. A little bulldog of a man with pocked skin and receding red hair, he wore a rumpled sport shirt and no tie. It was his uniform. He grinned, exhibiting crooked tobacco-stained teeth. I hadn’t seen him since my sentencing.
His eyes were large and hooded, like a lazy reptile watching the world, looking for something choice to eat.
Those reptilian eyes flickered over me in quick appraisal. I knew what they saw. “Average” is a word I’d use to describe myself — average height, average weight, dark brown hair with a little gray around the ears, average blue eyes. But there was a difference since the last time he saw me. My face has lost the puffiness since I quit drinking and has a sort of roughness to it now, like an old car driven too long and too hard. It crinkles up like worn leather when I smile. Gone are the thousand-dollar custom suits, the gold Rolex and the fancy Italian shoes. My off-the-rack blue suit almost fits, my shoes are comfortably worn and my watch cost thirty bucks and keeps better time than the Rolex ever did. But then, maybe having the correct time isn’t everything.
His name is Daniel P. Conroy. It often appears as a byline for the really hot stories exposing graft and corruption that appear in the Detroit News. He has the instincts of a hunting shark and, like the shark, is incapable of mercy. He is beloved by some, hated by others, but all agree that his word is his bond. He is the most respected and feared investigative reporter in Detroit.
“Hello, Danny.”
He didn’t offer his hand but merely walked alongside me. We left the county building as if no time had passed, as if nothing had ever changed and we were lawyer and reporter once more, just walking out of a government building together, meeting by chance.
There was a slight breeze but the air seemed even warmer. This early heat heralded the possibility of a long and simmering summer.
“I hear you got the Harwell case, Charley,” he said.
“How come a hot shot like you is up here, Danny? Have you pissed off the editors at the News again?”
“They love me. They think I might have a chance at the Pulitzer with my series about the mayor.”
“I followed that. It was good.”
“Coming up here was my idea,” he said. “I needed to get out of the Detroit sewer for a while. The Harwell story has potential. And it’s nice up here.” He sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
I laughed. “Fresh air.”
“The hell it is.”
“That’s the aroma from the Canadian chemical plants across the river. We only catch a whiff now and then when the wind is right. You get used to it.”
He grunted. “You remember Morgan and Maguire, the homicide dicks? They’re up here now. They’re working for the sheriff.”
“Did you talk to them?” I asked as we strolled along.
“Just now. It was like a class reunion.”
“What did they say about the Harwell case?”
He grinned. “Hey, they only say what they want you to hear. Those guys are as slick as sheet ice.”
“What did they want you to hear?”
“Angel — Jeez, I wish every killer was named Angel — is supposed to have confessed to chilling dear old dad. Her little angelic paw prints were all over the knife, and dear old dad’s blood was all over her. Outside of planning a jail break, I can’t think of anything you can do for little Angel, Charley. Or do you have other ideas?”
“For the record?”
“Whatever way you want. I’m just gathering up little nuggets of information at the moment, some for use, some for reference.”
I thought before I spoke. Unless I went off the record every word I said was fair game. “I spoke with Angel briefly in the jail. She denies killing her father. She denies confessing. She found him. That’s how she got the blood on her, and how her prints got on the knife. She tried to get it out.”
Conroy snorted. “Jesus, Charley, you used to come up with better stories than that.”
“It’s what she told me.”
“It’s early, Charley, but how about popping in somewhere for a drink?”
“I don’t drink anymore, Danny. You should know that. But I’ll go with you and have a soda or something.”
“Still off the stuff, huh?” Danny Conroy’s laugh always came out a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. He laughed. “Jesus, they still call the ambulance entrance at Receiving Hospital the Charles Sloan memorial. That was a great photograph.”
He was referring to the front-page photograph of my car sticking out of the hospital ambulance entrance, looking like the rear end of a misfired missile. The car had been wrecked, my ribs had been fractured, and what little reputation I still had then had been ruined. It had been a miracle that I hadn’t killed anyone. I was arrested for drunk driving, the third time, and was sent to a substance-abuse clinic. It was the last straw in a very big bundle and my alcoholic world had come tumbling down around me.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but my life had been saved.
“That’s all behind you now, Charley,” he said.
“Not quite. I’m existing under the first-bite doctrine as far as the bar association is concerned.”
“I don’t understand.”
I smiled at him. “Dogs, under the common law, are allowed one bite, but if they do it again, they’re destroyed. That first-bite doctrine can apply to lawyers too.”
“C’mon, Charley.”
“Flying my car into the hospital was just the visible tip of my iceberg, Danny. I was committing all kinds of legal sins, adjourning cases for no good reason, missing filing dates, doing everything but stealing from clients, and I’m sure I would have gotten around to that next if I hadn’t ended up publicly disgraced. The bar suspended my license for a year, as you know. I have had my first bite. If I cause any additional problems the bar association will jerk my license forever. And they’ll do it quickly and efficiently.”
“So you’re hiding out up here, is that it?”
“No. Just leading a nice quiet life, and being very careful not to get into any trouble. How about coffee, Danny? There’s a little restaurant in the mall,” I said.
He looked at his watch. “I’m not much on coffee, Charley, and I should be getting back to Detroit. I’ll be around a lot while this thing is going on. We’ve known each other a long time. If you do anything in this case, you know, get a writ or stir up the pot in any way, give me a call at the paper. Maybe we can help each other out. Okay?”
“No harm in it. Okay.”
Conroy nodded, started to walk away, then stopped and turned. “Just a tip, Charley. To show good faith. I’d tiptoe a little on this case until you find out more. Morgan and Maguire have questioned the Harwell servants. I think they’ve come up with something that may show why the adorable Angel nailed her father. They hinted at it when I talked to them.”
I watched as he walked away, thinking that maybe Angel Harwell didn’t need a lawyer. Maybe she needed a magician, a very, very good one.
*
I SAW him as I walked toward my building, not that you could miss him. I saw the car first, an enormous gray limo with tinted windows parked in front. He was lounging against the car. I didn’t recognize him until I got closer.
He wore an expensive cashmere sport coat tossed casually about his shoulders. His clothing sang a song of gobs of money, even at a distance. He wore his jet black hair like a lion’s mane, only this mane was cut and tucked by experts, every hair a work of art. His thin ferret face was topped by tinted glasses that concealed gray fish eyes. He held a long cigarette in a hand graced by a diamond ring Elizabeth Taylor would have envied, even bigger than the ring I used to wear.
He looked like a movie star or a gangster. He was neither.
He was S. Hopkins Crane, the reigning American king of the courtroom. His picture ran in magazines alongside profiles of his latest celebrity clients, who ranged from sultans of industry to real sultans. Crane had gone far for a Detroit boy. He owned a racing stable in Kentucky and an office tower in New York. The face was the same, but everything else had changed. When I was at my zenith, I knew him as “Hoppy” Crane, the king of tarts. He represented Detroit whores then. They had been the first rung on his ladder up. He had climbed quickly.
“Hello, Sloan,” he said. “I was wondering if you were going to show up. Your girl didn’t know where you were.”
“Hello, Hoppy.” I nodded at the limo. “Nice car. Do you do weddings?”
He didn’t move except to inhale on the cigarette, then he smiled without warmth. “Still the smartass, I see.”
“I try, Hoppy. Why do you want to see me?”
“I want to represent the Harwell girl.”
“She’s already got a lawyer. Me.”
He nodded. “Shall we get in the car and talk? I’ll put up the glass so my driver can’t hear.”
“It’s a nice day, Hoppy. Let’s try talking right here. I don’t really care if anyone’s listening.”
“Suit yourself, Sloan. Here’s the deal. You withdraw from the case in favor of me.”
“Some deal.”
“Hey, I’m not done. I got ten thousand in cash to hand over as soon as you do. Nice clean profit. No strain, no pain, no taxes.”
“I’ve been given a twenty thousand retainer. What would I do with that? Give it back?”
His expression never changed. “That’s a lot of money for a broken-down drun
k.”
“You know how it goes, Hoppy, an apple is only worth what you can get for it. At the moment, I’m a twenty-thousand-dollar apple.”
“What’s your connection? The widow? The kid? I hear she’s nuts.”
“Nuts enough to hire a drunk, is that what you mean?”
The cold smile returned. “Don’t get your hackles up, Sloan. I deal in reality. I leave romance for other people. Look, you’ve got the inside track so I’ll make you another offer. Keep the twenty thousand. I’ll still give you the ten grand. We’ll be cocounsel. I’ll handle the public stuff, the trial, and you can do the research.”
“And what’s your fee going to be?”
There was no smile now. “That’s negotiable. I’ll work something out. Maybe I won’t even charge. It’ll be a kind of public service.”
“Pro bono work, even though the girl is rich?”
“Look, let’s knock off the bullshit. You know exactly why I want this case. A lawyer would have to pay millions for the kind of publicity this case will produce. You used to do the same thing, Sloan.”
There was that “used to do” phrase again.
“You mean, hustle a case just for the potential business it might bring in?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
I couldn’t refute it. He was right. I had done just that. Discreetly, but I did it.
“Hoppy, get lost. This is my case and I’ll handle it without any help.”
He tossed the cigarette to the ground and snubbed it out with shoes that cost enough to send a kid to college for a year. “Okay, let’s be practical. You’re a drunk, Sloan. And you damn near lost your license once. It wouldn’t take much to see that it happens again, this time permanently. And I could see that it happens. I got friends, important friends. Look, I’m doing you a favor. You don’t have it anymore. This is a major case and I want it. You can’t play in my league, Sloan, not anymore. Why risk everything when you can sit back, make money, and enjoy life? Work with me and everything will be just fine.”
“Hoppy, you were a cheap sleazy little shit when you were representing hookers. You dress better now, no taste, but more expensively. You haven’t changed a bit. Go on, get out of here. I got better things to do.”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 3
