I turned and almost dropped the lemonade.
Angel stood there. She wasn’t naked, but she was close. She had a small yellow towel draped over her shoulders. She wore a bathing suit, if it could be called that. If you cut your finger you’d want a bigger bandage than what she was wearing, just three little crimson patches held together with scarlet string.
“I was sunbathing,” she said as she walked past us to the bar.
Angel had a truly remarkable figure, the kind New York model agencies would recognize as the source of instant riches. But she was so perfect it was like looking at a statue in a museum, so coldly beautiful and so aesthetically pure that lust was not evoked, only awe.
Robin called to the maid. “Get Angel a robe.”
Angel didn’t protest. She fixed herself a mixture of vodka and some kind of juice I didn’t recognize.
The maid brought a thin silk garment and Angel slipped into it. Sexuality is a mystery to us all. Naked, she wasn’t provocative. Now, with the red silk clinging to every concealed curve, I felt an impulse statues wouldn’t evoke.
“That’s somewhat more civilized, Angel. We want Charley to be able to concentrate on dinner after all.”
I had hoped Angel might smile, or frown, or do anything that might give a clue to what she was thinking, but the mask remained in place. She sat down and sipped her drink.
“We were talking about who should try the case,” Robin said.
“That’s all settled,” Angel answered. “Charley will do it.”
Robin looked at me.
“In a few days we’ll know what judge will be assigned to hear the case,” I said. “There are three circuit judges here. One of them will get it. I’m not really popular with any of them. What you need, Angel, is a lawyer who either knows the judge or who has such a heavyweight reputation that the judge will be awestruck. It’s no guarantee of victory, but it can help on the close calls.”
“I thought this was going to be a jury trial,” she said.
I nodded. “Under the circumstances, it has to be. These three judges aren’t known to be easy. A jury trial is an absolute necessity.”
Angel didn’t reply, but she looked at her watch. “I’d like to see the six o’clock news,” she said. “I’d like to hear what they’re saying about me.”
The atrium had a television set. We shifted our chairs around and Robin used a remote to switch it on.
The first segment of the local news was devoted to a Detroit school board incident. A board member had taken a shot at the chairman, but had missed. The drama in the commentator’s voice seemed to place it on par with the assassination of Lincoln.
The second segment concerned a highway accident and showed a car mangled by a big truck. They would have shown the bodies but they had been removed before the camera crew had got there.
We were number three.
It was a national story, and the local guy gave it the kind of emphasis an important story demands. He sounded incredulous when he reported that the charge had been reduced. They showed footage of Angel coming into the courtroom. I even got on for a few seconds out in the hall. I said Angel was innocent. Although his bit was edited for brevity, they gave Evola much more air time, piecing together several high points of his statement. They had got to him just after the ruling and he was obviously still upset, his actor’s face stern with outrage. He vowed that justice would triumph despite the setback. Then, in response to a question, he said Charles Sloan, the local attorney, would not try the case. Angel was a rich girl, he said, and a really competent attorney would be brought in, but no matter who they imported, he, Evola, guaranteed a conviction.
The anchorman promised the viewers that his station would keep them up to date with every juicy development in the murder trial. Then they went to a commercial.
“That wasn’t very nice, was it,” Robin said quietly.
“It was edited,” I said. “I know Evola. He’s not a bad guy. They probably took that business about me out of context. That happens.”
“He did everything but call you an incompetent asshole,” Angel said.
It was true. Anyone seeing that segment would think I was some kind of boob, possibly brain-damaged, just a local hanger-on who bumbled his way through something he didn’t fully comprehend. Evola’s segment was edited, but he was probably angry enough to let some of his rage slip my way during the interview. No one likes to lose, especially a competitor like Mark Evola.
I silently downed the lemonade.
Robin switched to another local channel in time to catch the story there. This station didn’t give me any air time, but they used the same filmed statement by Evola. This anchorman told his audience that a really big legal gun would be brought in to try the case. He mentioned several names, big names, hinting that he really knew the answer but couldn’t go public just yet.
I was steaming.
It was the guy substituting for Dan Rather on CBS who really did it. This was national, but they too used Evola’s courthouse-steps speech. Evola was photogenic. The Dan Rather substitute elaborated on the different qualities of representation in American justice, saying that a really good lawyer would be brought in now and things would reflect that change. Money talks, he said.
Robin looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Charley,” she said. “That was just awful. Especially since you did so well today.”
Angel had finished her drink and had made another, standing now by the bar.
“Well, does that change things?” she asked, looking directly at me.
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“The world thinks you’re some kind of idiot. Do you like that, Charley?”
“I’m not thrilled, but nothing’s changed.”
Her cold, intense blue eyes never left mine. “If you don’t know what will happen,” she said, “I’ll tell you. If you withdraw, they’ll bring in whoever is king of the courtroom nowadays. He’ll strut and fuss, use the television like he owned the network, milk the case for a billion dollars’ worth of publicity, put on a great act, and then the shitkicker jury up here will still send me to prison. That’s what will happen, and you know it.”
There was some truth in what she said.
“Angel, Nate Golden and others will see that doesn’t happen.”
She shook her head. “No. You see, no one really cares whether I go to jail or not. They really don’t. They care only about themselves, that’s all. I don’t trust any of them, not one of them.”
She stared at me. “The only one who cares is you, Charley. I sense that. I know it. I trust you.”
“Angel, I —”
“If you don’t try the case, I’ll plead guilty and try to get the best deal I can. Maybe a few years can be shaved off that way. If someone else tries the case, it will become a circus and the judge will be the ringmaster. When it’s all done, he’ll be able to look wonderful to the public by giving me the toughest sentence he can. He’ll love seeing his name in all the editorials saying the little rich girl got what she deserved for killing her father. People do things like that, Charley, they’re human.”
“Did you kill your father, Angel?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t even think about pleading guilty.”
For a moment I saw the beginnings of a wry smile, but it faded. “I refuse to become a circus animal. And I’m not going to gamble on someone I don’t trust. I’ll make the best deal I can.”
“Angel, that’s —”
“Unless you try the case.”
“I told you I can get into a lot of trouble.”
This time she did smile. It was like an unexpected sunrise, although there was no real warmth in it.
“That’s all the better, from my point of view,” she said. “That way, we both have a lot to lose.”
“Angel —”
“And, maybe, when you show what you can do, they’ll stop referring to you as an incompetent asshole. That has to be worth some r
isk, Charley.”
Robin had only listened. I looked over at her, but she looked away.
“Make up your mind now, Charley,” Angel said sharply. “Right now.”
I believed she meant what she said. It was a little like being caught in a dangerous whirlpool, being swirled around faster and faster, being drawn toward the center and whatever waited there.
“Will you do exactly as I tell you?” I asked.
She nodded, slowly and deliberately.
She was right, I didn’t much like anyone thinking of me as an incompetent asshole.
“Okay,” I said, feeling like I had just been sucked into the vortex of the whirlpool, “I’ll do it.”
9
THE SOUND OF RAIN WOKE ME. IT WAS NO LONGER night. A squint at my cheap but accurate watch informed me it was just after seven o’clock, and it was Saturday.
Sometimes, in the mornings, just like when I used to drink, I can’t remember what happened the night before. This was one of those mornings. I had to concentrate hard to kick my memory into life.
The phenomenon occurred often enough that I had developed a method for retrieval. I rolled my consciousness back like a film until I hit something I remembered, then I worked forward.
I remembered the courtroom. And I remembered getting Angel out on bail, and her provocative behavior in my office. And I recalled going to the Harwell place for dinner.
Then, nothing. For a moment I wondered if I might have been drinking, but suddenly it all began to come back, as if some inner lens brought everything into sharp focus.
I wished it hadn’t.
I had agreed to try the case, I remembered that clearly enough. And I remembered that I had lost my appetite for dinner because of that dangerous decision. I recalled that it had provoked a feeling like walking into a dark alley in the worst part of town. There wasn’t much hope of anything good happening, and there was a near-certainty that any number of very bad things probably would happen.
I realized Angel had maneuvered me into it, but I still wondered at my own motivations.
It was a foolish decision. Even if Angel carried out her threat to plead guilty, what was that to me? I had known her only a few days, and even in that short time I had found her strangely remote, prompting me to suspect that perhaps a psychosis was being artfully concealed beneath that beautiful but emotionless face. So it wasn’t as if I was absolutely convinced of her innocence.
And it wasn’t as if the prosecutor had a weak case. Defeat was almost assured. And if I lost, even if I was able to keep myself sober and together, I’d be defenseless against Nate Golden and others who would see the courtroom loss as the ultimate proof of my incompetence. I’d be disbarred with the speed of an executioner’s axe.
But I had agreed to do it. My reasons for trying the case were many and complex, but pride was woven through all of them. Pride, as Sister Marie Celeste always reminded us in school, was the deadliest of all the deadly sins. Why I had agreed no longer mattered. It was done. Someone had to defend Angel Harwell, and the defense had to begin at once. I was committed.
I sat up and put my feet on the worn carpeting. The rain beat a steady tattoo against the window.
There hadn’t been even a hint of an invitation by Robin to stay the night. If anything, I felt like a guest whose departure would be welcome. Following dinner the conversation between the three of us had seemed formal and strained, but despite that, Angel and Robin demonstrated an easy ability to communicate with each other silently. Again, I sensed they were sincerely fond of each other. Given the circumstances, I had found that touching. Both Women had been drinking. Robin knocked back imported vodka with a sure hand. Angel sipped, consuming substantial amounts of brandy. I drank diet soda, but I had watched their glasses going up and down the way a hungry man might watch other people wolf down a steak.
I excused myself early, saying I had a lot to think about. I did, but when I got home I couldn’t concentrate on anything for long. I had gone to bed anticipating a wakeful night but sleep had come quickly and unexpectedly.
I got up and padded into my tiny kitchen. The milk in my refrigerator was about to go sour, but it was probably good enough for one more bowl of cereal. I was out of regular coffee, so I heated water for instant.
I flipped on the television as I gulped down the murky-looking coffee. The networks were providing their usual Saturday-morning fare, hours of screaming cartoons with more violence than a major war I used the remote to click around the stations until I got to a cable news service.
It was just past the half-hour mark and I came in at the middle of the lead news item, showing policemen in some foreign country beating the hell out of fleeing protesters. I wondered sometimes if they used the same footage over and over, since no matter which country the protest occurred in, the nightstick-swingers and their victims always looked the same.
That item was followed by a clip of our president’s speech about farms and farm produce. He emphasized the importance of increasing production without the character-sapping help of federal money. From the distressed look of his audience of farmers, it appeared that they might not object to having their character sapped a little.
The third item was the Harwell murder case. I saw myself briefly in some courtroom footage as the commentator rattled on about crime and the rich. Then they replayed the same Evola segment I had seen the night before. I knew it was my imagination, but Mark Evola appeared to get better each time I saw the thing. He reminded me of a young blond Jimmy Stewart, better looking maybe, but just as sincere and intense. If this kind of coverage kept up, Mark Evola would sneer at a mere seat in Congress. He might catch the big wave and end up having a shot on the national ticket.
But the conclusion to be drawn from Evola’s speech didn’t change. Anyone seeing it would know that the evil Angel Harwell had been defended by a local bumbler who got lucky but who would be quickly replaced by someone competent.
The incompetent local bumbler resented it as much as he had when he had first seen it.
I turned off the television. The rain rattled even louder outside. It was a perfect day to go back to bed. But I couldn’t, not now. My decision to try the case, whether foolish or self-destructive, had changed everything.
I was the general in charge, and it was time for me to set about gathering an army.
*
BY the time I had showered and dressed, it wasn’t raining so hard. I drove the rain-slick road to my new office. I was surprised to see small boats moving out from the marina across the road, braving the probable thunderstorms and the possibility of being instantly microwaved by a bolt of lightning. It was Saturday, by God, and the boat owners were going to enjoy their investment, even if it killed them. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who made potentially dangerous decisions.
I opened the office door and discovered why the place had such a constantly musty odor. The roof leaked in one corner, and water dripped slowly down on an out-of-date set of tax manuals whose pages must have contained more mold than a penicillin factory. I’d have to call Mitch and ask that the leak be fixed.
In another age a person’s history and life could be traced from entries recorded in family Bibles or in diaries. But Bibles and diaries had gone out of style. Now the history of a person’s life can be reconstructed by looking through his Rolodex. I retrieved mine from the boxes Mitch’s girls had packed. A thousand years from now maybe some archaeologist will dig up my Rolodex and study it, flipping it around and around, wondering at the possible significance of all those little cards attached to the center wheel. He might think it is some kind of primitive religious artifact. Mine damn near is.
My cards contained the phone numbers and addresses of hundreds of cops, lawyers, judges, medical doctors, investigators, experts of all kinds, and clients, including thieves, killers, con men, and call girls. Then there are my friends, many of whom are cross-referenced since they qualify for a number of those same categories.
I flipped to
the S section of cards.
He was there. Sidney Sherman, complete with his Penobscot Building phone number in downtown Detroit, and his unlisted residence phone.
It was Saturday, so I called his home.
A boy answered the phone with that peculiar voice that male children develop as their hormones propel them through puberty, alternating between a squeaking soprano and baritone.
“This is Charley Sloan,” I said. “Is Sidney Sherman there?”
“Who is this again?”
“Charley Sloan.”
“Hang on,” he said to me, then I heard him yell, “Pa!”
Pa was Sidney Sherman, one of the more interesting creatures to inhabit the planet. He was my age, midforties, a slim man with protruding watery eyes set above sallow sunken cheeks. He wore a perpetual smile on his skinny face, an apologetic smile, as if he had done something stupid and was sheepishly sorry about it. His mop of washed-out brown hair looked like a bad wig, but it was all his.
Frederico Fellini would have loved Sidney Sherman’s face.
He had once been a Detroit cop, a detective who had specialized in undercover work since he looked like anything but a cop. And he was good at it. Sidney had been approaching legend status when a suspect with a shotgun blew away half of his intestines, an injury so extensive Sidney said it left him able to eat nothing spicier than boiled carrots, while crapping only rabbit pellets.
The rabbit analogy was enhanced by the fact that Sidney was married and had fathered seven children by last count. The gunshot blast hadn’t affected that function.
After taking a disability pension Sidney became a private investigator, specializing in workmen’s compensation and other business cases. He had done very well; he lived in an expensive Grosse Pointe home, drove a Cadillac, and sent his children to the best Eastern universities.
But Sidney never did criminal work. Except for me, in the old days.
“Yeah,” he said, his tone friendly. I could almost see that well-remembered smile.
Shadow of A Doubt Page 14
