“That’s a big part of it, Harry, but that’s not the main reason, not this time.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a beautiful girl, dynamite figure, good voice.”
“Perfect.”
“Perfect, except that she’s apparently incapable of registering any emotion, good or bad. Talking to her is a little like speaking with a robot, or maybe an alien.”
“That’s just a matter of technique. I can teach her. When I’m through with her she’ll be so goddamned good she’ll be able to go on the stage.”
“Angel’s been in mental hospitals, Harry. I’m having some experts examine her in depth. I can’t risk putting any pressure on her until I know exactly what she can take. So, for now, anyway, she can’t take an active role.”
Hickham slowly shook his head. “The kid is cooked in the media if she just sits on her ass.”
“You’re the expert, Harry. I’m sure you can figure a way —”
“Nobody is that expert,” he interrupted. “She’s going to be a sitting duck unless her side of the story is effectively pumped out to the world, and repeatedly.”
“Can’t you do that?”
“Charley, the story is the kid, not me, not you. We couldn’t buy time, but the media people will fall all over themselves to get her on camera. People want to see the tears in the eyes, the lower lip trembling, the tremulous voice when she talks about lately departed, dear old dad. And if the media moguls can’t have her, they won’t accept anybody else.”
“There’s got to be some other way.”
He shook his head. “Oh, we can put out press releases, maybe line up an expert or two that the talk shows might go for, but without her it would be an almost impossible sell.”
He started to get up.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” he said. “There’s not a thing I can do for Angel Harwell. Not under these circumstances.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m being honest with you.”
“There must be something.”
He shook his head. “Without her it would be like trying to put out a forest fire with a squirt gun, a no-win situation. I can’t afford to be connected with something that’s doomed from the start. I’m sorry, Charley, but that’s how it is.”
“What do I owe you, Harry?”
He smiled wryly. “I suppose I should charge you for my time, but what the hell. If you decide to let her out into the sunshine, let me know. But you had better do it quickly. The more time goes by, the worse it’ll be. People get tried and convicted in the press. Sometimes that’s a lot worse than anything that could happen to them in court.”
He walked to the door, then stopped and turned back to me.
“You might think about diving out of this thing before it’s too late, Charley. If the girl is as ditsy as you suspect, she might be your ruin. All I know is what I read in the papers, but this whole thing sounds like something that could really blow up on you. If I were you, I’d approach all of this with extreme caution. Crazy people. You can’t trust them. You could end up holding the proverbial bag.”
*
HARRY’S dour words lingered in my consciousness like a ghostly warning. I jumped when the phone rang.
“Mr. Sloan?” The female voice had a commanding quality, brisk bordering on unfriendly.”
“Yes.”
“This is Clarice Taylor, Judge Brown’s law clerk. The judge would like to see you in his chambers before court tomorrow morning. He suggests eight-thirty.”
“What’s this about?”
“The Harwell case. The file indicates you are still the attorney of record.” Her tone indicated she disapproved.
“I’m Angel Harwell’s lawyer,” I said. “What does the judge want to discuss?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Just me?”
“Mr. Evola will be there. I’ve already called him.”
“Can I talk to the judge for a minute?”
“No, you can’t. I presume you’ll be here tomorrow?”
I laughed. “Do I have a choice?”
“This is entirely informal,” she snapped. “Is there some reason you can’t make it?”
“Oh, I’ll be there. But no one likes surprises. Can’t you give me a hint?”
“I’m just the judge’s law clerk,” she said, but the tone indicated that she considered herself much more important than that. “He asked me to call, that’s all.”
“I understand Judge Brown is assigned to try the case.”
“Yes.”
“Is he about to recuse himself perhaps?”
She snorted. “Of course not! There’s no reason why he should step aside.”
“Then what is this going to be, just a review of the ground rules?”
“I told you,” she said, this time sharply, “I don’t know what he wants. Just be there.”
She hung up abruptly.
Lawyers try to ingratiate themselves with law clerks, knowing the clerk’s opinion might be sought on key issues. It didn’t sound like Clarice Taylor was yearning to be my adoring fan.
I dialed Mark Evola’s office and eventually was put through to him.
“Charley! I was just thinking about you. You did one hell of a fine job the other day. I don’t know if I told you that.”
“You didn’t.”
“Well, you were just marvelous.”
“Are you priming me for a campaign contribution, or what?”
He laughed without embarrassment, the typical hearty politician’s laugh, full of good will and enthusiasm.
“I’m being sincere, Charley, Can’t you tell?”
“Not really. I understand we have an appointment with Judge Brown tomorrow morning. His law clerk called.”
“Did you ever see her?” Evola asked.
“Not that I remember.”
The laugh this time was more of a snicker. “Hey, you’d have remembered. There’s three things about her you can’t forget — two of the best jugs this side of Dolly Parton, balanced by a disposition worse than a wounded lion’s.”
“Just your type, I take it.”
“Hey, not this one.” I could almost see the toothy smile. “I’m a brave man, but not that brave. I don’t think anyone scores with Clarice, not even the judge.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. What’s this conference about?”
“Have you done much work before Brown?”
“Not much. Is he going to try to force a plea?”
Evola chuckled. “That’s not his style. He just wants to establish that he’s the boss. He sets up rigid schedules and expects attorneys to toe the mark. He’s a tough old guy. This is his last year on the bench. He can’t run for re-election because of his age. I think that’s making him even nastier than usual. He’s one of those old ducks who loves the job. They’ll probably have to pry him off the bench when the time comes.”
“Did you have anything to do with him getting the case?”
“You know I’d never do anything like that.” Evola’s laugh was distinctly less hearty. “But if I had, Charley, the case would have gone to one of the other black robes over there. Old Brown is just too unpredictable for my taste. Sometimes he likes us, sometimes he doesn’t. If I’m going to fix something, I’ll do a proper job of it. Brown wouldn’t be my choice.”
“Are you still going to try the Harwell case yourself?”
“Didn’t you see me on television? I looked terrific. Of course I’m going to try it. You couldn’t buy publicity like that.”
“Suppose you lose, Mark?”
This time there wasn’t even a trace of good humor. “I won’t lose,” he said flatly.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Are you sending someone over tomorrow or are you coming yourself?”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Charley.” He paused. “Look, you and I are friends, but I hope you realize the gloves are off on this one. Brown isn’t Mulhern. I don’t think
you’re going to do so well from here on, frankly.”
“My heart is pure and my cause is just.”
This time he laughed out loud. “Okay, Sir Lancelot. I’ll see you tomorrow. But bring along your shield, buddy, and keep it over your ass. You may need it.”
*
I CALLED the Harwell place. Dennis Bernard answered. Robin and Angel had not yet returned. He reminded me that they were scheduled to arrive later in the evening — gently, so it didn’t sound so much like the rebuke it was.
I said I would call later.
Then I sat there needing a drink.
The bottle of brandy was still concealed in the desk. I regretted I hadn’t poured it out. But now the need for a drink made it too risky to think of handling the bottle, even with the good intention of tossing the stuff down the drain.
What I did was leave. A cheeseburger was about to become a substitute for a bourbon and water. It wouldn’t be the same. It never was.
They were waiting in the parking lot.
The Rolls was parked so the occupants could see both the street and the building.
Little Mike climbed out of the passenger side as I came down the stairs.
“Let’s walk down by the river,” he said, talking as usual in a very soft, almost feminine voice.
Another young man got out and leaned up against the car. He looked like a sentry, and he was.
We strolled down the grass to a rotting dock. The river gurgled below as it flowed past the old wooden posts.
Little Mike hadn’t changed. He seemed even taller than I remembered. He was dressed in black leather that looked as soft as butter. A small gold necklace dangled from his black silk shirt. A diamond the size of a walnut swung at the end. That, except for one small ring, was his only jewelry. In his profession, he was woefully underdressed, but it was his trademark outfit.
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Just took the chance. It’s a nice day for a drive. You’re looking good,” he said. “Thinner.”
“What’s up?”
“I got some work for you.”
“Bell invented the telephone. It’s a great invention. You ought to try it out sometime.”
He looked down the river at a small boat moving with the current.
“Man, the feds have more wires aimed at me than a NASA rocket. When I pick up a phone, a dozen FBI agents automatically listen in. I like to do business in the great outdoors. They can still pick up what you say but it makes it more difficult for them.” He turned and looked at me. He had dark brown eyes, large and docile like a deer’s. If I didn’t know who he was I wouldn’t have been afraid. But I did know.
“I got a murder case in Detroit I want you to take,” he said.
“Detroit’s a little far for me now. Why don’t you get one of the local recorder’s court guys?”
He smiled. “I need someone with a special knack. I always said you were the best, Sloan.”
“What do they have you charged with? Second-degree, manslaughter?”
“It’s not me,” he said. “It’s one of my associates. Rick Allen. Do you remember him?”
“Ferrari Rick? Sure, I remember him. I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
He nodded slowly. “They got him on first-degree. It’s not a really good case, you know. I thought maybe you could get the charge knocked down to second or something. We would like to get Rick out on bail. Maybe you could do for him what you did for the little girl up here.”
“The Harwell girl has no record. You could paper a small house with Rick’s.”
“We just want him out. If anyone can do it, you can.”
“Rick used to be a rival of yours, as I recall. How come all of a sudden you’ve become such great pals?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Business. We got together on a few things. It was not a wise thing to do on my part.”
“You’re worried that he might turn on you?”
“He’s just a friend, a business friend. I’m interested in getting my friend out, that’s all.”
I shook my head. “And how long would he last on the street? An hour, a day? As I remember you have a pretty direct way of dealing with potential witnesses.”
His smile flickered. “Name your price. Cash. Easy money and it can’t be traced.”
Now it was my turn to watch the small boat. “I’m a lawyer, not a bird dog. I’m not going to flush him, even if I could, just so your people can blow him away. You’re trying to use me.”
“Everyone uses everyone else,” he said quietly. “Lawyers, accountants, bankers, they’re all tools to be used by the businessman.”
“This tool has got his hands full up here. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. Get whoever is hot back in the city. I don’t even know the key people there anymore.”
“Money’s awfully good,” he said. “Just give me a figure.”
“I can’t do it.”
He nodded slowly, then reached equally slowly into the folds of his leather jacket. I felt my heart pound.
When his hand came out it wasn’t holding a gun or a knife, but a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He handed it to me.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t owe me anything. This is on the house.”
“Take the money. It’s a fee. If you take money, I’m a client and you can’t testify about any of this.” Little Mike wasn’t smiling now, and the effect was chilling, like a dangerous thunder cloud suddenly blotting out the sun. “The money’s for my protection. Have dinner tonight on me, Sloan.”
I took the bill and pocketed it.
He turned and walked with a kind of quick animal grace back to the Rolls. The sleek car was beginning to move as he got in.
Then it was gone.
If he had life insurance, Ferrari Rick’s beneficiaries were about to collect. Rick had a terminal disease, and it had just driven away.
12
MY QUICK LUNCH OF CHEESEBURGERS AND FRIES SAT at the bottom of my stomach like a bowling ball. I tried to work it off by doing some shopping. I bought a telephone-answering machine, a cost I would charge against the Harwell case. Then I returned to my office.
The answering machine was easy enough to install. I listened to my own voice after I recorded the little opening message. “Hello, this is Charles Sloan. My secretary and I are away from the office right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the sound of the beep we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
The secretary bit was stretching things, but I didn’t want to sound like a shoestring operation, which, of course, I was.
That chore done, I went to my magic Rolodex and found the name of a New York insurance attorney who had worked with me on a personal injury case. Five years had passed since then.
His name was Jack Flynn and he had prospered. He was now vice president and general counsel of his insurance company. Luckily, he remembered me, and we spent a few minutes rehashing that old case we had done together.
Then I got down to business.
“Jack, I’m defending a murder case and I need to get the name of a good pathologist.”
“The Harwell case, right? I read about it. Doesn’t sound like you have much of a chance.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, Jack.” I then explained the possibility that the death might have been a suicide.
“So, what you need is a doctor who will say death was self-inflicted, right?”
“I’ll need someone who is legitimate. A medical whore won’t do it for this kind of case. Obviously, it wouldn’t hurt if the doctor were inclined to rule on the side of suicide.”
“We have a list of both kinds of experts. As you know, Charley, insurance policies have suicide clauses that can go both ways. Sometimes we want to show a death was a suicide to escape paying on an accidental death provision. Sometimes we need to show it wasn’t a suicide for similar reasons. Anyway, we have a raft of pathologists. Who we pick depends on which way we want to go.
Some will say Abraham Lincoln was a suicide. Some will say Socrates didn’t know hemlock was poison. These guys are real specialists. You’ll want someone who will say Harrison Harwell jumped on the knife all by himself, I presume?”
I laughed. “That, and the ability to handle himself on the witness stand. For obvious reasons I’d prefer a qualified expert who honestly believes what he says, based on the evidence.”
“Right. I think I can suggest the exact guy for you. Hans Voltz. The good doctor worked as a pathologist in major cities, taught in medical schools, and even wrote a textbook on pathology. He has credentials up the wazoo. Good-looking older guy, tall, thin. A German with just enough accent to sound authoritative. And, for your purposes, he thinks damn near every death is a suicide. Usually, he does a pretty good job of proving it. We use him a lot.”
“Sounds like the man I’m looking for. Where can I contact him?”
“I’ll have my girl get the number for you. There is one problem with Doctor Voltz.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s nuts.”
“How bad?”
“Not too bad. It’s more of a word-of-mouth thing among pathologists. No reputable medical examiner will hire him anymore, or any medical school either. He makes most of his money by testifying. He stands up pretty good on cross-examination. But look out if religion is mentioned. That’s when the lunacy emerges.”
“And you still think he’s the best?”
“I don’t think it. He is. Hold on. I’ll get his number for you.”
*
ON the telephone Dr. Voltz had a deep, soothing voice. His accent was hardly evident. I described the problem. If he was crazy he didn’t sound it when he discussed his fee, which was enormous.
After a bit of unsuccessful haggling I agreed to the money and the advance he required. I said I would send a copy of the autopsy report. From my brief description he said the death might well have been suicide. He asked the right questions and he sounded legitimate. Dr. Voltz said he would study the report, prepare a written opinion, and testify at the trial.
Then he asked if Harrison Harwell had been a religious man. The question was gently put, but his tone rose slightly, and his words seemed suddenly strained. It was the sound of a man who had cut up one body too many. He asked if Harwell had had a deep personal relationship with God.
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