He sighed. “Well, perhaps they misunderstood. In any event, they’ll both be back Monday. I hope this isn’t going to cause any trouble?”
“It won’t if she gets back and there aren’t any incidents. You’d think Mrs. Harwell would know better.”
“This has been quite a strain on all of us, Mr. Sloan. She probably just forgot about the bail-bond restrictions.”
“Maybe.”
So that the phone call wouldn’t be a total waste I thought I’d try again to pry some inside information out of good old Bernard. He had been cleverly tightlipped so far, but it wouldn’t hurt to try again.
“Mr. Bernard, I — ”
“Please. Call me Bernard. It’s customary to use a butler’s last name. I’m more comfortable with that.”
“Okay, Bernard. Did you know that Mr. Harwell was planning to divorce Mrs. Harwell?”
“No. I’m wasn’t aware of anything like that,” he replied evenly. “And I’d know if such a thing were true.”
The lie detector needle would have jerked wildly on that answer. His manner was so positive it was phony.
Theresa Hernandez, the maid who claimed Harwell was boffing her, had told me he talked of getting a divorce. I had doubted her story then. Now I wondered.
“Is that young maid, Theresa Hernandez, working today?”
“She’s no longer here,” he said.
“She’s been fired?”
“No.” He dragged the word out slowly to give it emphasis, as if he thought she should have been fired. “She’s been assigned back to the main house staff in Florida,” he said.
“Sheridan Key?”
“Yes. However, Theresa isn’t there now. I understand there’s a serious illness in her family. Mrs. Harwell was kind enough to give her several weeks off.”
“Do you have an address or phone number where I could reach her?”
“She’s in Puerto Rico. I don’t have the address. Perhaps Mrs. Harwell does. You can ask her when she gets back.” He sounded sure that I would believe him. I didn’t. A butler would know details like that since it was his job to run the staff.
“Bernard, there’s talk that Mr. Harwell occasionally knocked Mrs. Harwell and Angel around. Is that true?”
“Certainly not.”
“There are official Florida police reports to that effect.”
“Well, if something like that happened, I didn’t know about it.” He paused, then spoke again. “Married people do get into shouting matches, Mr. Sloan. It happens in many families. Perhaps someone misunderstood something like that and called the police.”
If nothing else, Bernard was a consistent liar.
“What time do you expect Mrs. Harwell and Angel back on Monday?”
“I’m not really sure. Early evening, I believe.”
“Isn’t anyone picking them up at the airport?”
“No. Mrs. Harwell drove to the airport. She said it was less complicated that way.”
“Where are they staying in New York?” I asked.
“Usually, Mrs. Harwell stays at the Plaza, but I understand this time they’re staying with friends.”
“Which friends?”
“I don’t believe she said.”
“Did she leave a number where you could reach her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange, Bernard?”
“No,” he replied easily. “The trip was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She really didn’t have time for any kind of planning. If I knew where she was, sir, I would tell you.”
I had a mental image of Bernard’s nose growing inches longer with every easy answer.
“Have her call me when she gets in.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sloan.”
“You’ve been a great help, Bernard.”
“I try to be.”
*
THE rain had become one of those steady all-day downpours. My view of the river was distorted by rivulets of water trickling down the office window glass.
Nothing moved out on the water now. A sense of loneliness settled on me, so strong it was almost physical. It was Saturday. I had nowhere to go and no one to see. Loneliness is a common condition among alcoholics, recovering or not. Go into any bar on any afternoon. There’s always a couple of people sitting by themselves, staring straight ahead as if they expect the answer to life’s puzzle to appear from behind the bottles in front of the mirror.
Those of us who no longer sit at bars all too often feel that same gnawing emptiness.
The telephone rang and I was grateful.
“Sloan,” I said.
“It’s Bob Williams, Charley. I just got through seeing my last patient for the day. How about lunch?”
“Fine. Where?”
“Let’s go upscale. I’ll meet you at the Inn. This rain will keep the tourists away so we can get a table.”
“Ten minutes?”
“Good. I’ll see you there.”
*
THE Inn at Pickeral Point isn’t as posh or as famous as the St. Clair Inn a few miles up the river, but it’s more casual and comfortable, although the prices are about the same.
The rain was keeping people away, leaving the Inn’s restaurant only half full. In good weather the place is usually packed on weekends.
Bob Williams sat at a table near the windows, looking like he’d been there forever. A massive man, he was framed in the dull light from the river, his high cheekbones making his impassive features look more like metal than flesh. He could have been a model for Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse, a chief staring out at the future, or perhaps the past.
Those slate-gray eyes turned my way as I came up to the table. “We missed you Thursday night,” he said, referring to the regular meeting of our Club.
“I couldn’t make it. You know what I had waiting for me in court Friday morning.”
“I saw you on television. How’s it going?”
“So far, so good. I’m going to try the case.”
He studied me for a moment. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Are you asking as a psychiatrist, a friend, or a fellow drunk?”
“All three.”
“To be frank, I’m not sure. I guess there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
He nodded. “So long as you remember what’s really important. Don’t get so busy you can’t make the meetings.”
“Is this a lecture, Doctor?”
A small smile flickered tentatively across his lips. “In my profession, we don’t lecture. We just sit there and let people lecture themselves.”
“At a price.”
“Everything has a price tag on it, one way or another, Counselor.”
“Speaking of professions, I’m going to have to hire some of your colleagues, even you, if you’re interested.”
“To what purpose?”
“My cute little client gave a statement to the police in which she says she may have been responsible for her father’s death. They say it’s a confession, and a jury might agree. She said this after many hours of interrogation. Angel Harwell in the past has been hospitalized for emotional problems. I want to keep that alleged confession out of the trial, obviously. One way is to show that she wasn’t competent when she made it.”
“Are you planning an insanity defense?”
“That’s a sure ticket to a conviction, given the new verdict of guilty but mentally ill. No, we’re defending on the basis that she didn’t do it. But there’ll be a separate hearing on the confession. It’s nonjury. It’s called a Walker hearing. If Angel is fragile emotionally, it’s only logical that the long, incessant interrogation by the police would cause her to finally break and say something they wanted to hear just to get them to stop.”
“Stretching things, aren’t we?”
“Not really. That argument’s worked in other cases. Anyway, I’ll need someone to test her and to testify.”
He nodded slowly. “What do you think about her?”
“She’s bright, as far as I can tell. But vulnerable, I think. Besides, there’s something about her that strikes me as odd.”
“Like what?”
“I really can’t put my finger on it. She doesn’t seem to show any emotional response. Fear, anger, frustration, whatever, if she does feel them it’s not obvious. Not to me, anyway.”
I could see he was becoming interested.
“Do you know why she was hospitalized, specifically?”
“No, but I plan to find out.”
We both ordered. The place was famous for its fish. Then he spoke as he looked out at the river. “I could evaluate her, if you like, but I’ve never been especially good on the stand. There are psychiatrists who specialize in testifying in these cases, as you know.”
“Forensic psychiatrists,” I said. “The woods are full of those guys. I can always find one who will take my point of view and run with it.”
“So why would you need me?” he asked.
“I need to get an honest reading on her, if that’s possible, so I can know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“Curiosity?”
“More than that. If she’s really nuts, my whole strategy changes. Eventually I’ll have to decide if she can be risked on the stand without sinking the case. I have to know what’s she’s like to make that kind of decision.”
He sat back and thought for a moment. “I can have all the psychological tests administered. Some are pretty good, some not so good. None of them is infallible. We try to get a cross-sampling to develop some kind of reasonably accurate emotional or mental profile. After that, I can examine her in light of those tests. The garden variety stuff, schizophrenia, dementia, is evident right off the bat. But usually it’s not that easy. Nothing on earth is as complex as the human mind. I can probably get a handle on what land of personality you’re dealing with. But you’d have to call in one of the hired guns to do the court work.”
“Timewise, what are we talking about?”
“A day, maybe two. Usually, if we give the standard tests, the old ink blot and draw-a-stick-figure-of-your-mother stuff, plus the multiple-choice exams and others, it takes up the better part of a day.”
“How long would your examination take?”
He shrugged. “Depends. If she tells me she’s hearing voices or seeing things, it won’t take long at all. The condition of people who are desperately sick is usually quite apparent. However, those who are just as ill but look and talk normally can take much longer. Especially if they’re clever. I’d like an hour, maybe two. I should be able to come up with a reasonably accurate appraisal.”
“How accurate?”
He smiled. “As close as I can make it. But if you’re looking for a wizard you should seek someone with a funny hat and a stick with a star at the end. I’m generally pretty much on the mark in diagnosing what’s wrong with patients. That’s not the big problem.”
“What is?”
“Curing them. But since I won’t have to worry about that with your young lady, I should do all right.”
He looked out at the river. “Did she do it?”
“I thought she did, but now I’m not so certain.”
The waitress brought our food and served it.
She smiled in a friendly way. “Are you sure I can’t get you gentlemen something from the bar?”
I noticed that we both paused for a telltale instant before saying no.
*
WHEN I left the Inn, it was still raining, but not as hard. I had a choice of activities. I could go back to my little apartment, sit around, and look out the window. Or I could go back to my office, sit around, and look out the window. My office had a better view, so that’s where I went.
I pulled into the lot next to the building. A battered pickup was the only other vehicle. It was parked near my stairway.
As I hurried past the truck, a man got out and followed me up the stairs.
“Mr. Sloan, can I talk to you?” he asked.
“Let’s get out of this rain.” I opened the door and let him in.
He wore faded work clothes, laundered so many times it was impossible to tell their original colors. His skin had the leathered look of a farmer. There were still a few farmers in Kerry County.
“I saw you on television,” he said.
I nodded.
“I don’t know many lawyers.”
“Some people might envy you.”
“My name’s Wagner,” he said, extending a hand that was as hard as concrete and just as rough. “David Wagner.”
He sat in the chair I indicated as I took my place behind the desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wagner?”
“You do criminal law, right? I mean, I saw you on the television.”
“That’s right. What’s the problem?”
“It’s not me,” he said, smiling nervously, showing a gap where a bottom tooth used to be. “It’s my son.”
“Tell me about it.”
He shifted as if he was not used to sitting very much. Then he spoke. “Christopher is nineteen,” he said. “I have six children, three girls, three boys.”
“Big family,” I said. “You’re blessed.”
He sighed. “I’ve never looked at it quite that way. Anyway, Chris is my youngest. They’re all problems, one way or the other, but Chris holds the family championship.”
“It happens sometimes with the youngest in a big family.”
“Perhaps. Chris is being held over at the jail.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Breaking and entering, they told me. A felony.”
“Do you know what he’s accused of?”
His smile was sad. “They caught him inside the Pointeside Gallery about four this morning.”
“The place with all the paintings of ships?”
He nodded. “Some of those paintings are quite valuable, as you probably know. Chris was after the paintings and any cash he could find.”
“Who said?”
He shrugged. “Chris. I talked to him at the jail.”
“Has he ever been in trouble before?”
“He got caught a couple times as a juvenile. Once as an adult, but they dropped the charge for lack of evidence.”
“What was that charge?”
‘The same as this, breaking and entering.” He shook his head slowly. ‘The police seem to think Chris is a burglar, not without cause. I’d like you to defend him.”
“It sounds as if they have a very good case.”
“They do. I’m hoping you can work something out, probation or something like that. Chris is small and scrawny. I’d hate to think of what might happen to him in prison.”
“Mr. Wagner, the fees in this sort of thing can run into some pretty serious money. The county has a public defender. They work free of charge in cases like this.”
“You have to be poor, right?”
I shook my head. “Not poor, exactly. A working man with a big family, they’d take that into consideration.”
“I have money,” he said quietly.
He was a proud man, obviously. “Mr. Wagner, even if this doesn’t go to trial, a lawyer has to spend a great deal of time talking with police, witnesses, working out a deal, if that’s possible. The fee can add up, maybe a thousand or two, maybe more.”
“Will you take the case?”
“This Harwell case is keeping me pretty busy. Why don’t you try the public defender?”
He looked even sadder. “I have three hundred and sixty acres in Orion township. I had more land but I sold it. They’re starting to develop there because it’s so close to the freeway.”
“I wouldn’t want you to put up your farm.”
“I wouldn’t. The land there is going for ten thousand an acre. How’s your arithmetic?”
“You’re a millionaire. A couple or three times over.”
He nodded. “Even the public defender can figure that out.” He pulled a checkbook from his shirt pocket and qu
ickly scribbled out a check. “How about a thousand as a retainer?”
“How about two thousand?”
He looked up at me for a moment, then wrote out the figure. He handed me the check.
“I don’t care what you do, Mr. Sloan. I don’t care what kind of deal you have to make, just so long as you keep Chris out of jail.”
“I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I know.”
“How come Chris is into stealing?”
“You mean, because I’ve got so much?”
“Something like that.”
He stood up. “I’m not a hard man. But I’m careful with my money. Chris never lacks for essentials. He has two flaws, and the way I see it, that’s the cause of his problem.”
“And those are?”
“He likes excitement. I think he likes the thrill of being a burglar, that’s one flaw. The second flaw is he’s stupid.”
“I’ll go over to the jail and talk to him. He’ll be arraigned Monday morning at the courthouse. It isn’t necessary that you be there.”
“Maybe not. But I’d feel better if I was. I’ll meet you there.” He got up and left the office without another word.
I looked at the check. Fame, however fleeting, has a dynamic all its own. The only reason Wagner sought me out was because he saw me on television. The Harwell case was changing my life. Last week I would have been excited to get a nice easy burglary case. Last week I would have charged only two hundred dollars and I would have been damned grateful for that.
Fame. It tends to make the price of everything go up.
I tucked the check into my wallet and went over to the jail to see my newest client.
*
THE Wagner kid knew as much about the practical aspects of criminal law as I did. Maybe more.
He had an ideal build for a burglar. He was about as thick as a snake, with the kind of rail-thin body that could wiggle through even the smallest opening. He had long hair and a terminal case of pimples.
The true mark of any real professional is a comprehensive knowledge in his chosen field of endeavor. He had that. Chris Wagner told me which assistant prosecutors were tough on B-and-E artists like himself, and which were easy. He told me what the going sentences were from each of the three circuit judges. He knew his one arrest would work against him at sentencing, but he thought I should be able to work around that if we got the right judge. He was a treasure-trove of practical information.
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