Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  Ben shakes his head, no.

  “Or he to you?”

  I clear my throat. “At least fill me in here, Detective.”

  Paley regards me a moment. I suppose he could tell me to go screw myself. But all things considered, he seems to be going pretty easy. “Neighbor heard shouting,” he tells me.

  Bennett frames his hands on the table. “It’s what I said before. If you tell me he was yelling, I accept that. But I didn’t hear it. I suppose my ears were ringing from firing the shots. I know my heart was pounding like crazy. Everything was happening so fast—”

  “The point being,” I say, “Ben didn’t hear anything.”

  The detective considers Bennett for a moment, then gives a definitive nod of the head. “It was probably shock,” he says. “He obviously didn’t expect you to shoot him.” Paley rises from his chair and moves to Bennett. He grips his shoulder. “I’d a done the same thing as you,” he says. He shakes Ben a little. “Only I’d a dropped him in the bedroom.”

  “Where do we stand, Detective?” I ask.

  He makes a face. “From your end? This is clean. Justifiable. Guy can’t shoot a home intruder, who can he shoot?”

  I say a silent prayer. I look at Ben, who acts as if he didn’t hear Paley. “What do you mean ‘our end’?”

  “Well.” Paley looks over my head. “If I thought someone was coming after Mr. Carey, I’d want to know the whos and whys. But this guy just wanted to steal. He must’ve seen the car missing from the garage, figured Mr. Carey was out of town. It’s a nice neighborhood, nice house—plenty of nice stuff to take. The guy had a crowbar and a bag, to throw valuables in. He wasn’t looking for violence.”

  I sigh. “So we’re done.”

  “We’ll get an ID on this guy. We’ll investigate what we see fit.” He leans into me. “But let’s say, other than the ID, you shouldn’t expect to be hearing from me again.”

  I stand up and offer a hand. “Thanks.”

  Bennett is shaking his head slowly. We are alone in the kitchen now. The din throughout the house has subsided. Anything they wanted to see, they’ve seen. Cops are filing out.

  “You gotta try to put this behind you, Ben,” I say quietly. “A bad dream.”

  “He was gonna kill me.” Ben is staring out the kitchen window, though he couldn’t see more than his own reflection. He probably needs to believe that. He doesn’t want to think that he killed someone who just wanted a Rolex or a diamond to fence. I turn to see Paley waving a silent adios, telling me he’s the last of them. Then I turn back to Bennett, whose expression has deteriorated to pure agony.

  3

  I’M IN MY car, headed for the west side. I stayed with Ben at his house after the cops left. He didn’t even try to sleep, just stared aimlessly over the steam from the coffee clutched in his hands. Once dawn broke, Bennett and I took a cab uptown to my place, where I grabbed my car and drove Ben to his gym. I don’t know if Bennett would want or need to work out, but at a minimum he could shower there and throw on a change of clothes.

  State Senator Grant Tully is giving a speech today at a union hall on the west side. He is addressing an African-American audience that is probably the most politically powerful coalition of minorities in the state.

  Grant Tully is the son of former State Senator Simon Tully, who held office seemingly forever, handing the reins to his son ten years ago. Grant was elected to his first term as state senator at the ripe age of twenty-nine. He was re-elected twice, at ages thirty-three and thirty-seven, and now he’s in the middle of his third four-year term. The district he represents basically consists of the city—or its southern half, I should say—which is overwhelmingly Democratic. This means the senator could hold this office the rest of his life, with no fear of a primary challenge and no credible risk of defeat by a Republican.

  But the senator is running for governor. He won a contested primary with almost seventy percent of the vote. His opponent in the general election—the Republican nominee—is the state Attorney General, Langdon Trotter. Trotter had no challenge whatsoever, keeping with the Republicans’ discipline in ferreting out challengers and avoiding bickering within the party.

  Grant Tully currently is the Majority Leader of the state senate. That means he basically runs the senate. The Democrats hold eighteen of the twenty-seven seats. That means if you want a bill to pass in the senate, you have to get Senator Tully’s approval.

  My title is Chief Counsel to the Majority Leader, which is a fancy way of saying I’m Senator Tully’s lawyer. I advise the senator on pending legislation—let him know what a bill does, whom it affects—and guide him through the legal hurdles that come with the office. Bennett Carey is my deputy counsel, the only other full-time lawyer on the staff.

  Those are our roles as state employees. In addition, Grant Tully is the chairman of the state Democratic Party. He controls the purse strings, decides where to spend how much on whom when it comes to campaigns. So I’m also the counsel to the state Democratic Party. In this role, I steer the senator, as well as other elected Democratic officials, through the maze of laws governing ballot access, elections, campaign finance disclosures, and the like. In this political job, as well, Bennett Carey is my deputy.

  The long and short of it is, Grant Tully is the most powerful Democrat in the state. He runs the senate—the state house of representatives is Republican—and he runs the state Democratic Party. No Democrat with half a brain makes a move without Tully’s say-so, and everyone gets out of the way if he wants to run for governor.

  At this point on the calendar, the senate is not in session, so I’m working almost full time on the elections. And by far the most important one is the race for governor. It is the highest priority, not only because my boss is the one running, but because the governor gets to appoint thousands of people to paid positions. That’s really the key to politics—jobs. The people you employ become your off-the-clock workers as well, your army to sell fund-raising tickets and canvass the neighborhoods and make phone calls when they’re not working on state time. These people work hard, too, because in a very real way, their jobs depend on your re-election. The bigger your army, the better you can campaign, and the more easily you can lend out your workers to other campaigns and then call in the favor when you need it.

  The Republicans have controlled the governor’s office for sixteen years. That means a whole generation of GOP staffers have settled into the state capital. It becomes circular, an obvious advantage to Republicans in terms of manpower. But the current governor is stepping down, and Senator Grant Tully is hoping to break the Republican stranglehold.

  The timing of this incident with Bennett—in the heat of the general election season—is less than optimal. Senator Tully likes to hear bad news quickly. So I’m making a personal visit.

  I make it to the union hall at about the time the senator should be closing up his remarks. I can hear applause as I wander down the hallway.

  Senator Grant Tully stands at a podium on a stage, behind three African-American leaders seated in chairs; they are sitting along with the senator’s chief of staff, Jason Tower, also an African-American. The banner over the curtain reads “Tully 2000” in red and blue lettering.

  The audience is the Coalition for Racial Progress, a politically active group that has become increasingly powerful over the last decade. They have increased voter registration in the African-American community by almost twenty percent and, more importantly, they have increased voter turnout by almost thirty.

  “I will appoint minorities to my staff,” says the senator, pounding the podium to much applause. “I will appoint minorities to the highest posts in this state.”

  I walk into the back of the auditorium, where I will stay. By my head-count, there are over three hundred people.

  “On this very special day, ladies and gentlemen, I pledge to you: I will increase African-American involvement in this political system to heights never before seen!”

  The senato
r can get away with rhetoric like this in a way that no other white guy in this city could. The reason is that he means what he says. The city’s west side is part of the senator’s district and contains the poorest neighborhoods in the state. The old line is, on the south side, they’ll kill you for a twenty-dollar bill. On the west side, they’ve never seen a twenty-dollar bill. But Senator Tully has made it a point to promote tax incentives for businesses out here and take a personal interest in the improvement of the schools. He’s rolled up his sleeves for the west side, and they know it.

  “Let’s bring back free health testing for our children,” he says. “Free eye testing. Free hearing testing.” The crowd erupts—this is a topic that’s been covered before. “Because a child who cannot see will become a child who cannot read. And a child who cannot read”—the senator’s voice continues to elevate with the rise in applause, to the point he’s almost shouting—“is a child who cannot compete. Let’s not turn our backs on innocent children!”

  Senator Tully casts a confident look over his audience. He recognizes plenty of faces. He spends a lot of time in these neighborhoods. His big thing is to play piano at the churches, a different one each Sunday. I think he made two stops at churches before the speech today. That’s his personal thing. In terms of legislation, he’s been a good leader, too. He never misses an opportunity to remind them of that fact.

  “I call on the leaders of the house of representatives to pass my legislation to stop predatory lending! Let’s help the poorest and the weakest in our society from falling under the burden of outrageous interest rates! It’s not about black or white—it’s about wrong and right!”

  The senator sure has found his audience’s sweet spot. This last term, he sponsored legislation to regulate the practice of finance companies who convince elderly and poor people—and far more often than not, minorities—to take out ill-advised, high-interest home equity mortgages on their homes, locking them into long-term deals with huge prepayment penalties and, typically, ending up in foreclosure. The coalition to whom the senator is speaking played a major role in the effort, so they know they can count on Grant Tully.

  “Let us not turn back the clock! Let us not roll back affirmative action! Let us not cut subsidies to neighborhood programs and schools! Let’s not turn back what we’ve started! Let’s take it to the next level!” The senator pounds the podium with the last point.

  The crowd rises to its feet. The speech is done. I move down the aisle and find the senator’s spokesman, Donald Grier, standing in the front row applauding. He looks at me like I just accosted him in the shower. He leans toward me. “How’s that thing?”

  I cock my head. “In the car,” I say.

  It’s another twenty minutes before the senator has finished shaking hands and receiving hugs. In the meantime, I have tossed my keys to one of the two aides accompanying the senator and Don Grier. He’ll drive my car back. I need to speak with the senator.

  “Okay, Jon.” The senator’s voice, when he’s offstage, is soft, almost boyish. The senator is sitting in the back of the luxury sedan with Don and me. One of the perks of being the Senate Majority Leader is a car and driver. Jason Tower has stayed back to talk with the coalition members before moving on to yet another meeting today.

  Grant Tully looks like a senator. He is just under six feet, sandy hair, a baby face at age thirty-eight. The beginning slashes of gray at his sideburns and the newly formed crow’s-feet at his eyes do just enough to offset what otherwise might be perhaps too youthful an appearance. He looks young and handsome and dignified.

  “Tell me about Bennett,” says the senator.

  “I just dropped him off at his gym to let off some steam and get a shower,” I answer. “He’s doing okay.”

  “What are they saying? The police?”

  “They’re calling it a justified shooting. Justifiable, I think they say. Ben’s in the clear.”

  “Good, good.” The senator, sitting by the door, rattles his fingers off the window.

  “Ben thinks the guy was trying to kill him,” I add. “Cops think it was a straight burglary.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The senator nods absently. He’s less concerned with the details. He’s thinking ahead. News stories, reflection on the campaign.

  Don Grier, stuck in the middle seat, turns to me. “What do you think?”

  I sigh. “Don’t know. The guy had this iron bar to break in and a bag to collect stuff. Doesn’t sound like an attempt on his life to me.”

  “Either way,” says Don, “it’s someone breaking into his house.”

  “There is an issue with appearances,” I say. “Shooting a guy in the back.”

  “Tell me about the guy who broke in,” says the senator, seeming to ignore my comment.

  I shake my head. “No identification yet.”

  Silence. Conversations with Grant can be awkward at times. He never feels the need to fill in the spaces, and he’s rarely in a hurry to speak.

  “White or black?” asks Don Grier.

  “White.”

  The senator doesn’t respond. Don Grier chews on his lip.

  “Good timing, though,” I say. “By the time they’re writing the print edition tomorrow, it’s not news.”

  “It’s not the same news,” says Grant.

  True. There will be a spin by tomorrow’s news cycle, no longer just the alarming facts, more likely a reaction of some kind. Will there be a reaction?

  “The Watch is probably covering it on-line,” says Don. “We need to find the reporter.”

  “You talk to him, Jon,” the senator says. “This doesn’t come from Don.”

  “Well, I am his attorney.”

  Senator Tully looks at me. “Ben doesn’t need an attorney if they’re not looking at him. You’re a friend who was there, so you’re able to comment.”

  “Right. I think Bennett wants to talk to you, Senator.” I always call Grant “Senator” in front of others.

  “Sure. That’s fine.”

  We sit in silence. I look out the window. We’re driving past a school, empty on a Sunday. A couple of black kids in leather jackets and bandannas wrapped around their heads sit on the steps of the school, eyeing our car suspiciously.

  “This isn’t the best timing,” I say.

  “It is what it is,” says the senator. “We deal with it.”

  4

  BACK IN MY office after lunch, Sunday. I am a partner at the law firm of Seaton, Hirsch and Sharpe. Seaton, Hirsch is two hundred lawyers located across from the state courthouse in the center of the commercial district. We have a good fifteen different departments—corporate, bankruptcy, health care, wealth management. You name it, the firm has formed a department for it. I do a little work in the litigation department, along with Bennett Carey, but Ben and I are basically a two-man department on election law. We do the political work for the Democratic Party and bill it through the firm. Aside from his state work as senator, Grant Tully takes in some big commercial clients who want to be associated with him and then palms off the work on other lawyers. He brings in some decent revenue, but more than anything the firm likes having the two Tullys on their letterhead. I say the “two Tullys” because Grant’s father, former State Senator Simon Tully, still wanders in the door every now and then.

  I work at Seaton, Hirsch because Grant wants me close, whether it’s work for him or other Democrats. In my role as counsel to the state Democratic Party, I essentially represent every Democratic state representative or senator, at least in their official capacities. All in all, this means that I spend the vast majority of my time steering the senator and the party through the minefield that is our state’s election and campaign laws. There are rules governing political advertising, financial disclosures, ballot access, and so on, and I have become an expert. The rules are very complicated, which is exactly how the political establishment wants it. The elected officials have people like me to tell them what’s what. The outsiders, seeking entry without the backing of
the Republicans or Democrats, typically play catch-up.

  It’s more than a two-man job, but essentially Bennett Carey and I handle all the work. I have been with the senator since he launched his political career ten years ago, so by now I know most of the rules by heart—hell, I’ve written half of them for the Senate to pass. What this means is that my knowledge is a rare and valuable commodity. It also means that a vast majority of the Democrats in this city and the rest of the state owe me. Some more than others.

  That’s me, in a nutshell. I know elections, and I know people.

  I go on-line on my computer to check the news stories. The senator’s spokesman, Don Grier, was right—our local paper, the Daily Watch, is covering the story on the Internet edition. It’s not the top story, which is heartening. Maybe in a city where people are murdered every day, the story won’t play up so much. It’s the third story down, below a news event about a U.S. submarine that inadvertently crossed into Chinese waters and a story about a tax-cut debate in Washington.

  But third story or not, the headline is enough to increase the adrenaline. It was reported as of 9:15 a.m. LOCAL MAN KILLS HOME INTRUDER. The article says that police are investigating the circumstances surrounding the death late last night of a burglar who broke into a home on North Vine Street. The home intruder was named Brian Denning O’Shea, age thirty-seven, lives on the southeast side. William Bennett Carey, twenty-nine, a local attorney, apparently shot O’Shea in the back as he was exiting the house.

  I find my hand cupped over my mouth. Nice spin they put on it. Forget about the fact it was pitch-dark in the house. Forget about the fact that a man was standing in his bedroom when he woke up. Forget about the fact that the police have cleared him.

  I swivel my chair. Bennett Carey is standing in the doorway.

  “How are you, Ben?”

  Bennett shrugs. He is wearing a white dress shirt with no tie, navy trousers. His hair is still wet. No socks with his loafers, you can excuse him for forgetting.