The Disposable Man

by Archer Mayor

  “I was pressured into that.”

  I felt like pinching his face in my hand, and totally lost control of my voice. “Pressured? You fucking little weasel. You told me you didn’t want the publicity.”

  He stepped back nervously, and I thought for a moment he might slam the door. “I told you what you wanted to hear.”

  I paused, breathing deeply, feeling out of touch with my brain. “Henri,” I tried again more calmly, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Did somebody pay you? Are you in a jam we could help you with?”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What?”

  My blood rose once more. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you can’t help what you’re doing. Does somebody have something on you?”

  He straightened as if stung. “I’m a respectable man. I have nothing to hide. I have always followed the rules. You’re a crook and now you’ve been caught. That’s not my problem. Please get off my property.”

  I sized him up for a moment, considering that since I obviously had nothing left to lose, I might just pop him one for fun. But the adrenaline that had propelled me up here suddenly drained away, and I barely felt able to walk back to the car.

  “I guess I had it wrong, then. You’re just a nasty little bastard after all.”

  He didn’t answer, choosing to look indignant instead.

  I left him and drove back to Brattleboro on autopilot, my mind numb. At home I found a note from Gail, telling me she’d gone to spend the night with her friend Susan, that a little breathing room might do us both some good. She ended with “I love you,” which I knew was supposed to be significant, but by then such sentiment had scant meaning for me. I was feeling as I had a lifetime ago—a teenage warrior in full retreat—empty, alone, beaten, and like the most disposable man on someone else’s game board.

  Chapter 12

  RICHARD LEVAY LOOKED AT ME CURIOUSLY, as if I were located at the business end of a microscope. “You realize what a jackass you’ve been?”

  I chewed my éclair in silence. We were hunched across from one another in a window booth at the most fashionable coffee shop in town, a couple of blocks south of the courthouse where I was to be arraigned in half an hour. It was down the street from Dunkin’ Donuts, whose more gluey concoctions I much preferred, but Richard had arranged the meeting and was far more discriminating than I. Also, I wasn’t in the mood to argue about pastries.

  “If arraignments didn’t just happen to fall on Mondays in this county,” he continued, “you would be cooling your heels in Woodstock right now. Coffin filed an obstruction of justice charge against you two seconds after he hung up on Henri Alonzo, and I seriously doubt the judge would’ve cut you slack twice in two days, not for something like that. In fact, I think the only reason Coffin didn’t nail you just for publicity’s sake, arraignment or no arraignment, is that he set the whole thing up from the start.”

  I gave him a blank look, realization only slowly dawning.

  Richard shook his head. “You thought he was so full of himself he didn’t know Harrowsmith wouldn’t lock you up. He played you like a fiddle, Joe—got you to lower your guard, convincing you he was a jerk, and then he leaked that crap about Alonzo to Sammie so she could feed it to you and get you all fired up. Didn’t you think it was a little weird the press was at your house when they busted you, but not at the jail or back home afterward? That’s because he used them to turn your crank. He didn’t tell them what jail you were headed to because he knew you’d be kicked loose. He was willing to look bad in the short run, but even his ego has its soft spots—he was only going to give them one photo-op.”

  He sat back in his chair. “You seen this morning’s paper?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s a gift-wrapped present from you to Coffin—Katz’s editorial is a sanctimonious warning to all us poor innocents to be wary of tin gods, meaning you and every other cop that’s been held up for public admiration. If it ever comes time for Coffin to wax eloquent in front of a jury, he’ll have more ammunition than he needs. If the public had any doubts about your guilt before, they’re pretty much history by now.”

  I turned in my chair to face the window, sightlessly staring at the steady flow of pedestrians and traffic outside.

  “I know I screwed up.”

  He took the time to tear off a piece from his croissant, dab it with some butter, and put it in his mouth. “Did you get anything out of him?” he asked.

  “Alonzo? A lot of self-righteous indignation. Maybe Coffin did pull my chain, but I went up there ’cause I thought Alonzo might’ve been pressured somehow.”

  Richard gave me that familiar worried look. “Pressured how? He was robbed.”

  I was reluctant to feed his concerns. My theories were increasingly becoming mine alone, viewed by everyone else as paranoid ravings—not that waving guns at motorists and flying off the handle with Alonzo had helped my cause.

  Wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject, I explained: “In order for this whole thing to work, that brooch had to get into my pocket before the burglary. I don’t mean slipped in there as I ducked under the tape—that would’ve been too risky. I mean earlier, like a day or more. I can’t figure out the hows or whens of it, but when Alonzo brought up that crap about Mickey Mitchell, I started thinking he might know the who.”

  “But he didn’t,” Richard said.

  “He held his ground.” Richard checked his watch and stood up, ignoring the rest of his croissant. “We better get going, and if I were you, I’d keep my fingers crossed that Coffin doesn’t ask the judge to toss you in jail, and that the judge doesn’t agree with him.”

  · · ·

  Arraignments in Windham County are scheduled for one o’clock, Monday afternoons, in the courthouse across the street from where the PD has its offices. They are democratic affairs, reminiscent of some soup kitchens I’ve visited. Twenty to thirty defendants mill around the second-floor hallway outside the clerk of court’s offices, most of them without lawyers, waiting to be told what to do. They are a predictably scruffy lot, consisting of people one would expect to be lined up before a judge. Mostly men, a few of them try to spiff themselves up a bit, sometimes wearing other people’s Sunday clothes. The rest don’t bother, having been through the system often enough not to care any longer.

  There is a tension in the air, although everyone’s been told most arraignments are strictly routine—the standard price of admission to the legal maze. The building, with its many locked doors, armored glass, and watchful, armed court officers, instills an element of defeat in those being serviced, and the dehumanizing routineness with which they are dealt doesn’t help.

  Unless, of course, you’re on the other side.

  I remembered how I’d used the bureaucratic weight of the court to my own advantage in the past, implying that by some miraculous means, talking to me early on would somehow spare the person I was questioning from a slow strangulation by python-like red tape.

  Now that I was on the threshold of the same journey myself, the memories of such behavior tasted bitter. Approaching the courthouse doors, and the cluster of journalists outside them, I realized for the first time that despite my best efforts—and even because of them—the fate being designed for me might in fact become reality.

  This mood was not enhanced by hearing the first reporter say, “Here he comes,” and being surrounded by a jostling herd of shouting, demanding people, some of them acquaintances, but whose friendship here mattered not at all. As we passed through the metal detectors, losing some of the crowd but picking up more on the other side, the torrent of questions fell on us like hail.

  “Lieutenant Gunther, do you have any comments regarding the accusations made against you?”

  “Are the charges true or false?”

  “How do you feel about being here today?”

  “Do you intend to plead guilty or not guilty?”

  “Have you made any deals with the attorney general?�
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  “How do you feel about the way Fred Coffin’s been talking about you to the press?”

  “What about your confrontation with Henri Alonzo? He said you were pretty rough on him.”

  Richard had prepared me for this and had urged me to keep quiet. At the time, I wasn’t sure how I’d fare, but it wasn’t too difficult. Very quickly, the questions overlapped one another, blending into one long indecipherable babble. Richard pushed us through the throng, speaking for me, mostly with “No comments,” slowly defusing the excitement our entrance had stimulated.

  He led us straight to the privacy of one of the tiny conference rooms lining the second-floor hallway and left to find the court officer for the prosecution’s “Information”—Vermont’s version of a written indictment. He slipped back through the door a few moments later, accompanied by a small burst of noise from outside, and handed me the packet—the Information, the affidavit, and a calendar of relevant dates. My mood continued to deaden as I read through the charges and their possible sentences, feeling the full impact of the same judicial language I’d employed so often against others.

  I finally put the packet down and stared out the window.

  Richard hesitated before breaking the silence. “It shouldn’t be too long. Forty-five minutes at most for any deals to be worked out by other defendants, and for the judge to review applications for public defender services. We’ll be in the first group to be called, since you’re represented by private counsel. After that, it shouldn’t take more’n ten or fifteen minutes.” He tried to make it sound like an application for an auto loan, but I didn’t have the heart to help him out. The silence swelled between us.

  Finally, there was a knock on the door, a sheriff’s deputy stuck his head in and said, “Five minutes, gentlemen,” and we shuffled across the hall to the courtroom, rejoined by our phalanx of reporters.

  There, the atmosphere was more controlled. All press except print reporters were restricted to the jury box, and all conversation—until the judge arrived—was kept to a dull murmur. Richard and I found seats in the gallery about halfway up.

  Normally, the gallery was filled only with those waiting their turn, and maybe a few relatives or gawkers. Today, it was packed, including, it seemed, half the citizens of Brattleboro. Looking over my shoulder, I saw people standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the back wall, as if waiting for the start of a momentous event. Permeating the air was the almost constant snap and whir of cameras hard at work.

  In prior times, high publicity cases like mine were given special treatment. They were processed through the back door at off hours and arraigned in something approaching privacy. Those days had vanished long since, for both appearance and efficiency, and I had been one to herald their passing. Now, I sat and watched case after case being rapidly dealt with—Judge Harrowsmith sitting high above like a hawk-nosed gargoyle. The inevitability of my turn coming up, coupled with the metronomic slowness of its arrival, made me feel increasingly stretched between numbness and anticipation.

  When the moment arrived, it was thankfully undermined by the theatrical response of the press. Instead of feeling alone and exposed as I rose and walked past the bar to the defendant’s table, I found everyone’s attention was diverted by the sudden clatter of a dozen people in motion. The mechanical snap and whir of cameras rose up again like a swarm of locusts.

  Harrowsmith frowned deeply as Richard, I, and Fred Coffin settled in. This was the first close-up glimpse I’d had of Coffin, who was immaculately dressed, his hair stylishly long at the collar. He was tanned and good-looking and had an arrogant way of tilting his chin up slightly and looking at people from just off center, as if ready to dismiss them. He was also young, given his position and ambitions, and had the narrow face of a hungry man. I was in no position to be lacking in prejudice, but he gave me the creeps.

  Judge Harrowsmith began our proceeding in the monotone of a seasoned professional, reciting my name and the charges against me, introducing both Richard and Coffin to the record, and asking the defense whether we’d received the Information and affidavit.

  Richard stood, acknowledged receipt, went through his own automated routine of announcements and waivers, pleading not guilty on my behalf. He then asked the judge to release me on my own recognizance.

  Harrowsmith addressed the prosecution, “Mr. Coffin, I’ll now hear the State on conditions of release.”

  Turning slightly toward the cameras, the AG cleared his throat to better project his voice. “Your Honor, the affidavit before you is clear on the motivation and subsequent actions of this defendant. As the older, financially frustrated male companion of a wealthy woman—”

  Richard was on his feet complaining, amid a small fluttering from the press. The judge, as sensitive as anyone to a photo-op, sat him down, with a warning to both parties.

  Coffin resumed. “This man has obviously taken it upon himself to act utterly outside the law, not only daily conferring with fellow police officers, but also badgering and intimidating witnesses in the case pending against him.”

  Again, Richard protested, with similar results.

  “The State is therefore requesting,” Coffin continued, “the first three conditions, in addition to numbers five—reporting to the Vermont State Police barracks once daily—six—restricting Mr. Gunther to Windham County—fourteen—barring him from contact with any member of his department or anyone associated with this case—and seventeen—that in lieu of incarceration, he be issued an ankle monitor so he may be tracked at all times.”

  “Your Honor,” Richard burst forth once more. “My client is one of the most highly regarded law enforcement officers in this entire state, with multiple commendations—worthy enough, in fact, to have recently been assigned as a temporary investigator to none other than the attorney general’s office. The case against him is extremely circumstantial and, as we will clearly establish at trial, totally fabricated. This man,” he said, pointing me out, yielding to a little grandstanding himself, “is totally innocent. The conditions put forth by the prosecution are so ludicrous I’m frankly surprised they didn’t tack on a diet of black bread and water just to round things out.”

  The news hounds loved it, of course, but Harrowsmith squelched them by half rising out of his chair and glowering them into silence. He then announced his decision: I had to report to the state police once a day, not contact any colleagues, not leave the county, and sure as hell stay out of the case against me. Richard and I had l80 days to prepare for trial. The first three conditions Coffin had begun with were routine keep-your-nose-clean-and-show-up-for-court items and were not debated. The ankle bracelet wasn’t mentioned again, either.

  That should have been it, except the judge had one last bit to deliver to the cameras. “Mr. Gunther,” he intoned, “whether guilty or not of the charges filed against you, you have recently demonstrated at least some pretty poor judgment. I do not argue your lawyer’s high opinion of you. In fact, I will invoke it myself as being the precise reason you had better heed the conditions you’ve just been given. If I hear of you stepping out of line again, I will deal with it to the utmost of my authority.”

  With that, he sent us on our way—complete with noisy escort—having made me feel like the only mutt at a pedigree dog show. Given what Coffin had gained with his chicanery through the Woodstock trip and the leak to Sammie about Alonzo, I swore to never belittle his underhanded talents again.

  · · ·

  I waited for Gail in the parking lot behind her office, sitting in my car, struggling to read a book, mostly trying not to think. She held long hours, pushed as much by her own drive as by the workload. I also knew her job to be a traditional haven from unhappiness. If she was feeling like I was, I might be waiting until midnight.

  But it was only eight-thirty when I caught sight of her, which made me happy she wasn’t overdoing it. I got out and showed myself under a nearby streetlight. I hadn’t parked too near her car, allowing her to ignore me if sh
e chose, and for the same reason I didn’t call out. I knew she’d see me. She never ventured outside without carefully looking about—a caution I wished she hadn’t learned so brutally.

  To my relief, she didn’t hesitate but immediately headed my way. I met her at midpoint and we embraced without a word, clinging to each other with exhausted desperation.

  Finally, we separated long enough for me to take the briefcase she’d dropped and escort her to her car, parked as always under a bright light.

  “How’d it go today?” she asked.

  “You’ll be reading all about it. They put a pretty tight leash on me.”

  “Which you’ll be ignoring, no doubt.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “No comment, much as I’d like to. Things settled down at the office?”

  She tilted her head and smiled sadly. “I shouldn’t complain. I’ve lost thirty percent of my caseload, and I sit undisturbed for hours on end. The whole place is as quiet as a library because everyone stops talking when I enter the room. Life’s become very peaceful.”

  “I’m sorry, Gail.”

  She kissed my cheek. “It’s not your fault. I forget that sometimes, but it’s true.”

  “You doing okay at Susan’s?”

  She pursed her lips and silently unlocked her car door. “That a veiled invitation to come back?” she finally asked.

  I hesitated before answering. In many ways, she knew me as well as I knew myself, which meant we both were aware of my options—and of how I might address them. “I wish it were,” I said, “but given the restrictions on me, and Coffin’s appetite, it might not be a good idea.”

  She relieved me of her briefcase and tossed it onto the passenger seat. “Joe, I know you can’t say anything—I don’t even want you to—but I also know you’re going to have to do something about this, probably illegally. I told you earlier to let other people do their jobs to get you out of this. That was wrong, I guess, and pretty naive. Seems like that’s a sure road to jail.”