Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  “Thank you, Doctor, that’s all.” Ben returns to scribbling on his notepad. Dr. Mitra Agarwal gathers her papers and leaves the witness stand. I can’t help but feel slight disappointment. I muster a silent pep talk. We had nothing to lose with the ME. Our primary defense is the truth—that even if Garrison were strangled, it wasn’t by me.

  Bennett looks at me with a poker face but nods shortly. He wouldn’t give me a big thumbs-up under any circumstances, even if the judge weren’t here, but I imagine his assessment is the same as mine. I lean in and whisper “Well done” to him as the judge recesses for the day.

  44

  “THE SECURITY GUARD’S tomorrow,” says Ben. “And the secretary. We might even get to the police detective.”

  I sit up in the chair. I’m in the conference room at Seaton, Hirsch with Ben, working this evening after the first day of trial. Our war room looks more like a warehouse for banker’s boxes and manila folders.

  “Tomorrow night’s the debate,” I say, referring to the first of three televised debates between Grant Tully and Langdon Trotter. “I want to go.”

  “If there’s time,” says Ben. “The security guard could be big.”

  “Do you have anything good?”

  “Not really, no. I don’t know that I need to beat him up, anyway.” The phone in the corner of the conference room rings. Ben walks over and answers. “Send him up,” he says. Then he turns to me. “It’s Cal Reedy.”

  Ben sits and awaits our private investigator, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “Yes or no,” I say. “Does the judge buy our cause of death?”

  “No,” says Ben. “My best bet.”

  “Mine, too.” I deflate for some reason, hearing the official prediction from my lawyer.

  We sit in silence a moment. “What’s Cal want?” I ask.

  “Don’t know, Jon.”

  Cal Reedy speeds into the conference room. He’s wearing a yellow T-shirt and dirty jeans, a grungy baseball cap on his crown. “Big news,” he says.

  Bennett and I await the word.

  “Lyle Cosgrove,” he says. “Cosgrove didn’t show for work the last two shifts. The guy who runs the pharmacy is supposed to tell the parole officer if he misses a single day. But the guy’s a bleeding heart, I guess, so he gave him another day. Then he called. So the parole officer calls his apartment, no answer—”

  “Cal, for Christ’s sake,” I say.

  “He’s dead,” Cal says. “They found him dead in his apartment. Dead as disco. Strangled.”

  The three of us do not move initially. My eyes dart at Bennett Carey, who is staring back at me.

  “They think he was killed a few days ago. Late September, sometime.”

  Ben whispers something I don’t catch.

  I sit back in my chair and battle the nerves.

  “They found some stuff, too,” Cal continues. He wipes at some sweat across his forehead, then notes our reaction. “I still have friends on the force.”

  “But you didn’t ask on our behalf,” Ben says.

  “No, no—come on. Just a curious George, I was.”

  “Tell me what the hell they found,” I say.

  Cal turns to me. “They found a sealed envelope containing a pair of women’s undies.”

  My mouth drops open. Cal has done enough work on this case that he probably knows what we’re thinking. Gina Mason’s underpants, and all the evidence that may come with it. It tells me more, too. It tells me that Lyle was ready to back up his blackmail with more than his word. He had physical proof. DNA, semen, pubic hair, whatever. The thing is, I always admitted I had sex with Gina that night.

  “They also found a key to a safe-deposit box,” Cal says. He has settled into a chair now, between Ben and me. “They’re going to go the bank it’s assigned to and search it.”

  I close my eyes a moment. Ben’s voice comes next. “Are they making any connection between Cosgrove and Dale Garrison?”

  “No.” Cal’s voice. “Not so far as I can tell. They figure, it was probably a drug deal gone bad, or maybe some payback for something Cosgrove did before he went in the clink twelve years ago. He’s a lifelong jailbird. They won’t waste too much time on this.”

  I open my eyes again. “You’ll keep on it, Cal? See what the safe-deposit box shows?”

  He taps the table. “You got it, partner.”

  “Thanks, Cal.” The investigator rises and leaves the conference room. I’m left with Bennett Carey, who’s wondering if he’s looking at a murderer.

  “Well,” he says, “I guess we have our empty chair, don’t we, Jon?”

  I divert my eyes and don’t bother with a denial. I don’t even look at my lawyer.

  “Is there anything you want to say to me?” Ben asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Tell me how this changes our strategy.”

  “Oh, you want to know how this changes our strategy? Okay.” I can hear Bennett, in his anxiousness, move in his seat. “Okay. The county attorney finds the connection between Lyle and Dale. That will happen. They’ll do a routine cross-check. They’ll see Lyle was a preliminary suspect in Garrison’s death and put two and two together. Sooner than later, they throw you into that mix. Then they look hard at the idea that you killed Cosgrove.”

  I rub my hands together slowly and absorb that reality.

  “I need to know,” says Ben.

  “All you need to do is get me acquitted,” I answer. “Look at that guy Rick from 1979.”

  “Rick? You think he’s involved in this, too?”

  “Maybe.” I grit my teeth, the darkness rising within me again. “Or maybe Cosgrove’s death is unrelated. The guy’s an ex-con. He lives among ex-cons. Maybe it was a grudge. Maybe an old prison score was settled.”

  “I need to know,” Ben repeats.

  I leave my chair and head for the door, still without looking at my lawyer. “Just win the damn case,” I tell him on my way out.

  45

  WHEN I RETURN to my home, there is a blue sedan parked in my driveway. I don’t recognize it and see nothing through the driver’s side window to give me any indication.

  When I try the door, it’s open. I open it slowly and hold my breath. The dogs, Jake and Maggie, come racing to me from the kitchen. I hear the scraping of their nails before I see their chubby little bodies rushing toward me. Then I catch the luggage, the traveling bag I bought three years ago, Christmas, sitting by the staircase in the hallway. Next to it, a pair of heels.

  My former bride, Tracy Stearns Soliday, walks out of the kitchen and stops at the threshold. She’s in work attire, a cream turtleneck, muted plaid skirt, and simple jewelry. Her dark hair, grown out some, is clipped back. She looks thinner than even when we were married. Her cheekbones, her chin, her nose all seem more defined. She’s out of her heels and has taken off her earrings.

  Her green eyes are defiant. “I have a say in this, too,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “In whether I come out for a visit. I don’t need your permission.”

  My mouth eases into a smile. “No, I suppose you don’t.” I wave my hand about the room. “Technically, you’re still on the mortgage.”

  “Darn right I am.”

  I sniff the air. “Don’t tell me you cooked.”

  “Well, hey, every once in a while.”

  I reach for my heart, feigning surprise. I’m just buying time. We’re still standing across the room from each other and we haven’t yet negotiated how we’ll greet each other.

  She looks different. This woman, whom I saw every day for the last eight years of my life, looks different from any time I’ve seen her. Better, I guess, though in some ways better is worse.

  We gradually make it toward the center of the room. I take the lead and extend my arms. She is relieved I’ve made the call. Our hug is platonic. Not brief but not intimate, either, ending with pats on the back. When we pull away, she measures me. “We always promised we’d be friends. Didn’t we pr
omise that?”

  I smile at her. “We are friends.”

  “Then what’s this ‘I don’t want you to see me like this’? You had me worried.”

  I pat her arm but do not respond to the statement. “You look good, Tracy. You look great.”

  She is very pleased by the compliment. She’s never been particularly vain. It’s not that she’s flattered. She’s glad I feel sufficiently at ease to say such a thing.

  She returns the compliment and I laugh at the thought. “I’ve got gray hairs on my feet.” I’ve dropped about ten pounds since I was arrested, weight I could afford to shed, but I’ve aged. I’ve seen it mostly in my eyes, not so much bags or wrinkles but a darkness beneath them.

  She tells me she made a stew so I could eat it for a few days; it will be ready in a half hour. She brings in a bottle of red wine and we sit, immediately joined by the dogs. Jake remembers her but he’s always been more my dog. Maggie never met Tracy but she throws herself at her, rubbing her face in her lap.

  I start by asking Tracy about herself. She gives me the skinny on life on the East Coast. She’s already been promoted once in her PR firm, now a vice president. Funny that I didn’t even know that. She hadn’t called to tell me. She’s even done a little bit of work on a political campaign, a mayoral race, which she presents to me as ironic. With a little prodding, she reluctantly informs me she’s been dating. A doctor, she tells me, a surgeon, which I accept with a smile on my face and a shot to the gut. She checks on the stew and announces another half hour before it’s ready.

  She completes her summary and we occupy ourselves a moment by doting on the dogs. I am suddenly nervous, for some reason. There have been so many things about the breakup of my marriage that seem to lack reason. Or maybe it’s just that the reasons themselves lack any meaning.

  “I was thinking terrible things,” she says. “After talking to you on the phone. You sounded spooky.”

  “Sorry. This thing, y’know. Brings out some weird emotions.”

  She brings a hand to her forehead. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “We’re gonna beat this, Tracy. You should know that.”

  “I do know that.”

  “No you don’t.” I smile at her. “I appreciate the sentiment. But the evidence is pretty weak. They’ve got me caught in a bad coincidence. But there’s not much for proof. Not much for motive.”

  She waits me out but I don’t elaborate. She gives me a hopeful expression and we both pray like hell that I’m right. Her cell phone rings and she rushes to her purse to shut it off.

  “Someone expecting you?” I ask.

  “Oh—no. No.”

  “Go have some fun, Trace.”

  “No, Jon. It’s just Krista.” She shrugs in apology. “I didn’t know when you’d be home. Or if you’d be up for company. I know you’re in the middle of trial—”

  “Tracy.” I touch her hand. “I should probably get some sleep. The trial, like you said. Thank you for making the dinner. I look forward to eating some home cooking. I have some stuff to go over. How long you in town?”

  “I don’t know. As long as—I don’t know.”

  “You’re not here on business,” I say. “You took vacation.”

  “Well, why not?”

  I give her the most reassuring smile I can. “I really appreciate that. It was—it was really great seeing you. Maybe before you go, we can get together.”

  “As much as you want. You have to tell me—”

  “Okay. Great. I will. I know your cell.”

  “No, it’s a different one.”

  Oh. She has a different cell phone, too. Funny how minor things can pull at you.

  She gives me her new number. “I’m staying with Krista.”

  “Great. I have her number.” I wink at her. “Go see your friends. Have fun.” I get up from the couch to move this along.

  She does, too, but she’s ever stubborn. “I came here to see you, Jonathan. I want to help.”

  “You have. It means a lot.” I touch my heart. “Really. I just—I need to focus.”

  “Sure. Of course. Of course.”

  I give my former wife another hug. I close my eyes and, as discreetly as possible, breathe in her scent—the perfume, she has not changed. She’ll let me take the lead again. I could hold her for an hour, she wouldn’t budge. I could ask just about anything of her at this moment, and I truly believe she’d comply.

  “I’ll call you,” I promise her.

  “I’ll think good thoughts.” She brings her hands together in prayer. I see Tracy Soliday to the door and watch her drive away. Then I return to the couch and wait for the drumming of my heart to subside.

  46

  THE PROSECUTION CALLS Leonard Hornowski to the witness stand. This is the security guard who found me in Dale’s office.

  Hornowski wears a frown naturally. Maybe it’s the downward turn of his handlebar mustache, but it seems to fit his demeanor. He is beyond serious, more like glum. His eyes are set close together, separated by a thin nose and pointy chin. His hair is stiff, chocolate brown. He is trim but appears to be well built; his neck is thick, with prominent veins.

  He states his full name with an official authority. His voice is strong, a south-side accent. He comes on a little strong, the physique and the energy, and he appears to be nervous.

  Erica Johannsen takes him to the big day. His shift began at five p.m. and lasted until the wee hours of the morning. Security works all day, all night, every day of the year.

  “Let’s go to the hour of seven o’clock that evening,” says the prosecutor. Once again, she’s standing at the lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. She feels no need for dramatic positioning or gesturing at a trial where the judge is the finder of fact.

  “I received a call on my radio of a disturbance on the eighth floor.”

  “Who was the call from?”

  “The lobby.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About seven-thirty.”

  “Was the call any more specific than the eighth floor?”

  “North end,” says Hornowski.

  “And what suite of offices are on the north end of the building?”

  “The law offices of Dale Garrison and a realty company.”

  “And where were you when you received the call?”

  “Sixth floor. I took the elevator to eight. The elevator’s on the north end, so I got off and went to the realty company first. I went to the door but it was locked.”

  “The outside door was locked.”

  “Right.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I went to the Garrison offices.”

  “Was that door locked?”

  “No, it was unlocked. So I went in.”

  “Tell us what happened next.”

  “I walked into a lobby—a reception room, I guess. There was no one in there so I kept going.”

  “Did you announce yourself?”

  “Oh—yes, I did. When I first walked in. I went into the hallway and saw the defendant standing in the corner office. I walked up to him. I went into the office.”

  “What did you see when you entered?”

  “I saw an older gentleman lying facedown on his desk.”

  “What was the defendant doing? Oh, wait.” The prosecutor stops herself. “Do you see the person you saw standing in that office in court today?”

  “He’s right there.” Hornowski points at me.

  “Stipulate to identification,” Ben says in a bored voice.

  “All right, Mr. Hornowski.” Erica Johannsen shuffles her notes on the lectern. “You’re in the office. You see a man sitting at the desk with his head down on the desk.”

  “Right.”

  “What was the defendant doing?”

  “He was standing in the middle of the room. He seemed nervous. Not happy to see me.”

  “Move to strike,” Ben says without standing.

  “Don’t read his mind,
sir,” the judge tells the witness. “Sustained.”

  “Did you have a conversation with the defendant at that time?”

  “I did. He told me to be quiet. He said the man was sleeping.”

  “How did you respond to that, Mr. Hornowski?”

  “Well—I looked at the man. He coulda been sleeping, I guess, but he didn’t look like it to me.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “Objection.”

  The prosecutor points at Bennett. “I believe the defense will argue that Mr. Garrison appeared to be asleep. The witness’s observations on this point are relevant.”

  The judge overrules the objection.

  “Well, all I had to do was stare at him for a good ten seconds or so, and I could see he wasn’t breathing.”

  “His body wasn’t moving?”

  “No. He wasn’t taking breaths.”

  “So you went to him.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he was dead. He was dead.”

  “What did you do at that time?”

  “I told the defendant not to move. To stay right there. And I called down to the lobby to send everyone up.”

  “Did the defendant say anything else to you?”

  “He told me that he had left the office for a short time, but then the—Mr. Garrison called him back into the building. And when he came back into the office, Mr. Garrison was ‘asleep.’ Or dead.”

  “Did you move the body from its original position, Mr. Hornowski?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did the defendant?”

  “Yes, he did. He pulled him out of the chair and laid him on the floor. I think he was pretending to perform CPR. But he was altering the scene.”

  Oh, right. I turn to Ben but he slowly shakes his head. Show no emotion, he’s told me.

  The prosecutor asks a few questions about the follow-up with the police. She concludes by asking him five different ways whether anyone else was in that suite of offices besides me and the security guys. Hornowski says no way, no how. He checked every office, covered the exits, and all that. The prosecutor takes her seat.