I knew what he wanted, so I gave it to him.
“To be brutally frank, Mr. Farley, she was completely insane. She didn’t know who she was or what had happened. How she managed to hang herself, I don’t know. It might even have been an accident. She was completely out of her mind. She wasn’t responsible, Mr. Farley. It’s terrible but it happens to people sometimes. It’s like getting hit by lightning. There’s just no explaining it.”
I could hear his labored breathing. “She was such a good daughter, never any trouble. She loved her children —” And then he started to cry.
“There was no help for it, Mr. Farley. Something snapped. It wasn’t her fault.”
“You may be right,” he said slowly, trying to control himself. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Sloan. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, Mr. Farley. I didn’t do anything.”
“But you went to the hospital last night —”
“There’s no charge, Mr. Farley.”
“Will you come to her funeral?” he asked quietly. “I don’t think many people will, not after what happened.”
“I’ll be there.” I thought about telling him how sorry I was, but that seemed unnecessary.
His breathing sounded even louder. “You’re a good man, Mr. Sloan.”
I hadn’t heard that for a while.
16
IT WAS THURSDAY NIGHT. THURSDAY NIGHT MEANT the meeting of the Club. No one had to tell me how important the weekly meeting was. It was an anchor in the stream. Lately my stream had become much more turbulent, so I knew it was time to set my anchor firmly.
I had missed the last two meetings and I was determined not to miss another.
I was late so I pushed the old Ford harder than it deserved up the main northeast artery in and out of Detroit. I kept an eye peeled for the state cops who patrolled 1-94 for road crazies.
The meeting had started by the time I made my way down the stairs to the church basement. I smiled a greeting to those who looked my way. The usual suspects were in attendance, plus some people I didn’t recognize. Like most newcomers, they looked nervous, ashamed, and ready to run for the door.
Nobody likes to admit he’s an alcoholic, but that’s what you eventually have to do.
Our group, the regular Club members, were comfortable with each other the way old loose clothes are comfortable. The reading of the twelve steps progressed. The meeting was like church for me, although the members were usually as boisterous and contentious in this basement as they had been long ago in saloons. Despite the easy rowdiness, I always felt an inward calm, both physical and spiritual. I drew strength from the others present, knowing that here, at least, I was in control of myself.
As usual, after the meeting everyone gathered around the big coffee urn and knocked back the liquid caffeine as if it was vodka.
Bob Williams, looking like a well-tailored mountain, stood talking to a small elderly woman who could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Mary Ricci had that serene face, that placid air that Rockwell liked to evoke for holiday illustrations — grandma bringing in the turkey.
Mary was a white-haired grandmother, but the similarities stopped there. She ran one of the toughest bars in Detroit, a place where even a Hell’s Angel would get nervous. She took it over after her fourth husband died following a fight in the joint. She ran it even after she quit drinking. Mary admitted that she had worked her way up to two quarts of the hard stuff a day by then. But her past didn’t show in her gentle face. She would have stumped any panel on the old What’s My Line show.
Mary giggled at something Bob Williams said, then waved good night and made her way out. Thursday night was always a busy one at her bar. Every night was.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and walked over to Williams.
“Were you hitting on Mary just now?” I asked.
“Widows are known to be mad for sex,” he replied evenly. “And that’s not just my opinion. Ask any of my fellow psychiatrists. However, I was not hitting on Mary, for two very good reasons.”
Playing straight man for the doctor, I asked, “And they are?”
“First, she’s twenty years older than I am. Despite Ben Franklin’s advice, older women don’t move me. At least not when they are that much older.”
He came as close to a smile as he ever did. “Second, she’s tougher than I am, a lot tougher. If I said stop, how do I know she would?”
“Good point. Speaking of the ladies. How did Angel do today?”
The look he gave me was inscrutable. His eyes, emotionless, peered down at me. For a moment, he reminded me of Angel.
“She performed all the tests,” he said. “The psychologist brought the results over just before I came down here. I glanced through them.”
“So?”
“There are some surprises, Charley. I hope I’ll know more after I talk to her tomorrow.”
“What kind of surprises?”
“Let’s hold off until I have a chance to see her. Now, she’s just a bunch of test results to me. I prefer to see the lady herself before I start interpreting what those results might show.”
“How accurate are these tests?”
He paused for a moment. “Ever take them, Charley?”
I laughed. “Sure. When the court sent me in to dry out they ran me through everything before assigning me a bed. I don’t remember much. It was all a jumble then, to tell you the truth.”
“There are three main areas of testing,” he said, as if lecturing a child. “We test the subject’s intelligence. When appropriate, we may test for aptitude. We didn’t do that with Angel, just the standard IQ test. We call that an objective test.”
He nodded to a member of the Club who was leaving, then directed his attention back to me. “When the clinic took you in, they probably had you do a test called the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, the old MM PI. It’s multiple-choice questions. You mark the answer you think is closest to the truth for you. We use it to test personality and behavior. It’s one of a group we call subjective tests. Actually, it’s my personal favorite.
“The last area is projective testing, stick-figure drawings and the like. Depending on how these tests are given, you can tell a great deal about how a patient’s mind works.”
“How did Angel do?”
One eyebrow raised up in a silent objection. “Tomorrow, Charley. I’ll tell you tomorrow. But don’t be misled, these tests are only tools. Sometimes they work well, sometimes not at all. The results can vary with how a patient is feeling at the time, or sometimes even with how the examiner is feeling.”
“Whatever happened to the feathers and bones you guys used to use for diagnostics?”
There wasn’t a flicker of a reaction, none. “Most physicians don’t use those methods anymore,” he said sternly. He paused, then continued in a whisper. “Of course, I still do, but don’t tell anyone. People have odd ideas about psychiatrists as it is.”
He chuckled, amused at his own joke.
“By the way,” I said’. “I sent a medical release to Buckingham Hospital. It’s not on the list of places Angel gave me, but I think there’s a chance she might have spent some time there recently.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps Angel will tell you.”
He shook his head. “Charley, let’s be clear on my function. You want my opinion as to the state of Angel Harwell’s mental health. That’s what you’ll get. But it would defeat that purpose if you expected me to act as some kind of back-door investigator for you.”
“Well, it may come up. Buckingham, I mean.”
“We’ll see,” he said. “You drove down?”
I nodded.
“Do you think that decrepit old car will make it all the way back or would you like me to drive behind you?”
“I’ll take my chances. Call you tomorrow.”
He left. I stayed behind to talk with some of the other Club members who like me, seemed reluctant to leave.
We talked, laughed, joked. None of us talked about the problem that had brought us all together. We stood around the coffee urn. Most of the lights in the basement had been turned off. Only the light above the coffee table remained. Everything else was in deep shadow.
I was reminded of paintings of cowboys gathered around the comfort and protection of a campfire, a light that kept the lurking dangers of the night at bay.
This really wasn’t all that different.
*
FRIDAY morning was as humid as the tropics. The air was sticky the way it usually is before a bank of thunderstorms rolls in. Until the storms hit, everyone moved slowly, even in air-conditioned buildings.
My new office had an ancient window air conditioner. It worked surprisingly well, although it was loud as an outboard motor. I had to cup my free hand over my exposed ear to hear telephone conversations.
Dan Conroy called from the Detroit News. He was their number-one reporter and he asked me some questions about the case, but I got the impression that wasn’t the real reason he was calling.
“Charley, I take it you know who Mary Beth Needham is?”
“I’ve met the lady. She tells me she’s doing a book about the Harwell case.”
“She’s pretty good at what she does. She really digs into things.”
“So?”
“I thought I’d tip you off, she’s been doing some digging here in Detroit about you.”
“Since I’m the defense lawyer, I suppose that’s to be expected.”
“Maybe, maybe not. She’s been nosing around, looking at old clips about you. Talking to people, lots of people.”
I could hear him lighting a cigarette. “And she’s been hanging around the courts, too. From what I hear, she’s been talking to a lot of people who aren’t your greatest fans.”
“Like who?”
“Judge Regan, for instance.”
“Oh, shit!”
Judge Arthur Regan hated me. It had begun when he was an assistant prosecutor and I had beaten him in several high-profile cases. It continued after his election to Detroit’s recorder’s court, and later when he was appointed to the federal bench. I had tried cases before him in both courts. If hostility was liquid I would have drowned. Regan liked to think he was on the inside of things. He was the type who whispered about the scandalous “real” facts, which he usually had wrong. I could imagine what he had whispered in Needham’s eager little ear.
“She’s talked to one of your ex-partners,” Conroy said.
“Wiener?”
Conroy chuckled. “He likes to tell people you were responsible for him doing time and being disbarred.”
“I had nothing to do with that. His problem was trying to cheat the IRS, not to mention our clients, and me. He got caught. I tried to help him but the case they had on him was airtight. He’s nuts if he says it was my fault. How come you know all this, Dan?”
“The little lady talked to me, too. Hey, she’s got a few miles on her but she’s still kind of cute. She uses her allure rather well, I thought. Anyway, based on what she said and what I found out it looks like she’s going to try and nail your ass in that book of hers. I thought you should know.”
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you take her out and give her a jump, Charley? Then, if she rips into you, you can scream that she’s a disenchanted lover, something like that.” He chuckled. “Of course, she’s probably too smart for that, but you could give it a shot.”
“When you went to school, Dan, what kind of marks did you get in your journalism ethics class?”
“I flunked.” I could hear him suck on the cigarette. “Anyway, when this Harwell thing starts to heat up keep me in mind, eh?”
“Did she talk to Squint Kelley?”
Conroy sighed. “He was among the first. Take care, Charley.”
He hung up.
Squint owned Harp’s, the bar where I used to hang out and regularly disgrace myself. Squint loved me, the way drunks love drunks, and he kept enlarging those old stories about my escapades and polishing them until they gleamed.
I could just imagine how he loved having Mary Beth Needham’s full attention. Squint, who never drew a sober breath, wouldn’t have even noticed that her little tape recorder was running.
*
I DROVE over to the Harwell place. My next car would definitely have to have air conditioning. Even with the windows open my Ford felt like an oven and my body was soon as hot as a roasting squab. There were few cars on the road; not even the tourists were out.
The Harwell home was pleasantly air-conditioned. My wet shirt clung like gooey plaster as Dennis Bernard guided me into a small sitting room near the front door.
Robin and Angel were there, bags packed and dressed to travel, both attired in light summer dresses that seemed more like colored clouds than fabric. The women could have been models about to go on a photo shoot.
“I’m so glad you came, Charley,” Robin said. “We wanted to say good-bye but things got so busy we just couldn’t find time.”
“You could come with us if you wanted to,” Angel said.
“I have things to do here,” I said, “mostly to do with you. How did things go with Doctor Williams?”
“What’s his problem?” Angel asked, one eyebrow rising over her expressionless features.
“What do you mean?”
“Christ, it was like talking to a rock. You didn’t tell me he was so big.”
“Big psychiatrist, small psychiatrist, I don’t think that makes a difference, do you?”
“I found him intimidating. I don’t think you’re going to like whatever he has to say about me.”
“Why not?”
She looked at Robin and then again at me. “He doesn’t like me.”
“How do you figure that?”
“He was cold, right from the start. He didn’t believe me most of the time. I could tell by the way he asked his questions.”
I sighed. “Angel, his purpose was to test you, not charm you.”
“He’s a pedophile,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He gets his sexual kicks from little kids. He kept asking me about my childhood. He always came back to that, no matter what else we were talking about. I mean, really. I think if I had showed up in a little girl’s dress and pigtails he would have raped me.”
Robin laughed.
“Did he talk about the psychological tests you took yesterday?”
“Not directly, except he showed me the drawings I had made and asked me to explain them. Again, he loved it when I talked about little girls. I think he probably hangs around school yards. He’s that type, Charley. Where did you find this guy?”
I decided that telling them we met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting wouldn’t do much to bolster their confidence in my selection of an expert.
“He’s a leader in his field,” I said. “How long did he spend with you?”
“About two hours. I think he even canceled another appointment to continue. He did some of that whispering doctors do with their secretaries. Anyway, it was a long two hours for me. I certainly hope that’s the end of that kind of thing.”
“Did he go over the times you were hospitalized?”
Angel nodded. “It’s easier to talk about what he didn’t go over.” She smiled that peculiar emotionless smile. “Charley, you need a vacation. Come with us, at least for a week or two.”
Robin smiled too, but I thought hers lacked enthusiasm. “You’d be more than welcome,” she said politely.
“I can’t,” I said.
I wondered if I imagined that Robin seemed relieved.
“We’re going to have Bernard and his wife stay up here since well be coming back for the trial,” Robin said. “I’ve instructed him to make this place available to you whenever you need it. I’ve left the numbers where we can be reached with him.”
“Numbers?”
She smiled. “Our house down in She
ridan Key, obviously. But we belong to clubs there, too. Bernard has those numbers, just in case.”
“Will you visit us?” Angel asked.
“Maybe. It depends on how things go here.”
“It’s different down there,” Angel said quietly. “You make your own rules, Charley. Nobody cares what you do. Doesn’t that sound appealing?”
It did, but I didn’t want to admit it. “What happened with the court case?” I asked Robin.
She shrugged. “I don’t know why Nate Golden wanted me there. It took all of ten minutes. Just as Nate said, the lawyers for both sides spoke and then the judge threw Nancy’s case out.”
“Was she angry?”
“She wasn’t even there. I think she knew what was going to happen anyway.”
“How’s my greatest living fan?”
“Nate?”
“He loves me.”
Robin chuckled. “Nothing’s changed there. He still insists that Angel get another lawyer.”
“He can go to hell,” Angel said evenly.
“Nate was a great help,” Robin said. “There were a number of reporters there. I suppose because of the case up here. Anyway, Nate talked to them and kept them away from me.”
“So, the sale to Gillespie is still on?”
Robin nodded. “Yes. It’s just paper-shuffling from here on, according to Nate. The payment will be made later, probably in September. Gillespie is doing that for some tax reason. Nate says it has to do with an accounting period. He tried to explain but I really didn’t understand the details.”
“We’re going to miss our plane,” Angel said.
“We do have to leave, Charley.” Robin turned to Angel. “Honey, I think I left our tickets on my bed. Could you run up and get them?”
Angel nodded and hurried out.
Robin waited until she was out of earshot, then spoke. “I’m sorry we haven’t had any time together. I’ve thought about it a lot, though. I hope you realize that.”
“Me too.”
She smiled. “Good thoughts?”
“Depends. If you count erotic, yes.”
“Me too.” She paused. “Will you come to see us?”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 24
