Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  “And at the time you left, was it just you and Dale in the office?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “No paralegals? No clerks? Nobody?”

  “Nobody but Dale and me.”

  “All right,” says Erica Johannsen. “Now, when you left, did you say good—” The prosecutor stops in her tracks. She was about to ask Sheila Paul whether she said goodbye to Dale before she left. Given the significance of their moment in hindsight, it’s probably better to ask the question more delicately. “Ms. Paul,” she starts again, “before you left, did you let Mr. Garrison know you were leaving?”

  Regardless of the rephrasing of the question, Sheila Paul is now recalling her final conversation with her boss of over twenty years. Before the prosecutor has finished her question, the witness has retrieved some tissue from her purse. Her eyes glisten, though no tears have dropped as of yet. She freezes a moment, with a tissue balled in her fist, the fist against her mouth, before she releases with an exhale. “I told him I was leaving. I said have a nice weekend. He told me to have a good weekend, too. He made a remark about my husband, how I should make him fix the radiator this weekend. Dale was always poking fun like that.”

  “Can you describe his appearance?” asks Erica Johannsen. “His mood?”

  “Same old Dale,” she says. “Grumpy but sweet. He looked about the same as always.”

  “Okay.” The prosecutor’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Just a couple more questions, ma’am, and then my examination will be completed.”

  Dale Garrison’s secretary waves the fistful of tissue in response.

  The prosecutor is pacing. She waits a moment before continuing. “There’s a front door to your office, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there another door?”

  “Yes.” She blows her nose, a loud honk. “Excuse me. Yes. There’s another door that leads into the hallway.”

  “Is that door locked or unlocked?”

  “Unlocked from the inside,” she answers. “Locked from the outside.”

  “You’re sure it’s locked from the outside?”

  “I’m positive. It’s an automatic lock. It’s so the attorneys can take a shortcut to the hallway restrooms. You can’t get in from the hallway without a key.”

  “All right, Ms. Paul. Thank you.” The prosecutor sits, assuring herself that there’s no way someone could have sneaked in surreptitiously, strangled Dale, and escaped.

  “Counsel?” the judge says to Bennett.

  Ben has already gotten to his feet. He walks back and forth slowly behind the defense table. No need to be too confrontational with this witness. “Dale was a good man,” he says.

  “He was a great man.”

  “Helped a lot of people.”

  “He sure did.”

  Bennett is expressing opinions here, something that is technically inappropriate but harmless. In fact, as I’m thinking about it, what’s my attorney doing making the victim more sympathetic?

  “And not just people who could pay,” says Ben. “He did a lot of free work.”

  “He was very generous with his time.”

  “His door was always open.”

  The witness nods. “Yes.”

  “If someone needed a minute of his time, they’d get it.”

  “Always.”

  Bennett stuffs his hands in his pockets. Before we started the afternoon’s proceedings, he emptied his pockets of change so that he wouldn’t play with the coins while on his feet.

  “And Ms. Paul, I realize you have no idea what happened at the law office after you left for the night, but isn’t it possible that someone might have dropped by to see Dale? That could have happened, right?”

  “Of course that could have happened.”

  “A lot of people came to Dale for advice.”

  “Sure.”

  “And if that happened, it wouldn’t be unusual for Dale to invite that person in.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “In fact, Ms. Paul, based on the configuration of the office and where Dale’s office was, it’s possible that someone could have walked in without Dale knowing it, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Because the front door to his offices—the main door—that was still unlocked when you left.”

  “Yes.”

  Ben nods. He rests his hands on the back of his chair. “Mr. Garrison was sick, wasn’t he, Ms. Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “He suffered from lung cancer and lymphoma.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did he tell you about that?”

  Sheila Paul’s eyes move to the corner of the room. At first I think she’s looking over there, but probably she’s just trying to recall. “Maybe—six months ago.”

  Ben nods. “He’d been sick before that, though.”

  A smile plays on the witness’s face. “That was so like Dale, to keep that private.”

  “Ms. Paul, do you know how long he had suffered from cancer?”

  “I think it had been about four months before he told me.”

  “Dale didn’t treat his cancer, did he? Didn’t take chemotherapy, didn’t take radiation?”

  Ms. Paul’s expression tells me that she struggled with Dale Garrison on this point. “He had seen both of his parents die from cancer,” she says. “He said the treatment beat them up worse than the cancer. He didn’t want to do it.”

  “Dale had lost weight, too, isn’t that so?”

  The witness is fixed on Bennett now. It’s probably more appropriate to say she is looking through Ben. She has no agenda, doesn’t appear to take issue with me, certainly wouldn’t have a problem with a criminal defense attorney representing a client. “He lost weight over the last year, yes.”

  “Did Dale ever—” Ben inclines his head and pauses. “Hate to ask questions like this.”

  “Dale would tell you to go ahead,” says Ms. Paul. She’s really handling herself with dignity. I would find it moving were it not for the fact that she has been a good prosecution witness. The judge is going to have a hard time finding fault with her credibility. And that’s a problem for me, because she has said that it was my idea to change the date of the meeting and that it’s unlikely that anyone came into the offices between the time she left and I came in. These are not things we want the judge to believe.

  “Did Dale ever talk about wanting to die?” Ben asks.

  I turn to get a better look at my lawyer, a breach of courtroom decorum. I’m not supposed to let the judge see my emotions. But what a question. The thing is, Ben interviewed Ms. Paul and he wouldn’t be asking the question unless—

  “Sometimes he did,” says Sheila Paul.

  “He was afraid of a slow death.” Ben says it quietly.

  “Yes, he was.” She chuckles, sort of a bitter laugh. “He said he knew he would have his ticket punched—that’s the way he talked, if you knew him—but he wanted it to come fast.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that he might be suicidal?”

  “Objection.” Erica Johannsen belatedly stands, holds out a hand. “The witness is not qualified to render that opinion.”

  “I’m just asking for a lay opinion,” says Ben. “The witness observed Dale Garrison more than probably anyone else over the last year. Things he said, things he did, feelings he shared with the witness. That’s all I want to know about.”

  The judge stares straight ahead a moment without movement, save for a quaint biting of her lower lip. “I will overrule the objection,” she says.

  Bennett nods at the witness. “Did you think he might be suicidal?”

  “Not as phrased, counsel,” the judge calls out.

  “Thank you, Judge.” Ben looks at the witness. “Ms. Paul, did Mr. Garrison ever give you the impression that he was depressed about his illness, that, in fact, he wanted to die very soon?”

  Sheila Paul’s eyes drop, hooded. It brings prominence to the flesh beneath her eyes.
She swallows hard. When she speaks, it is in a haunting, even tone. “It was usually in the evenings,” she starts. “When it got dark. It was something about darkness. He’d get very—I don’t know, depressed. He hadn’t gotten really sick yet. But he was starting to feel it a little. He didn’t eat much. He lost weight. He was a little weak, I guess—he said he could feel it coming on a little, if that’s possible. But he still felt good enough to keep going. He figured he had another six months or so. He used to say he was tired of hearing the ticking of the clock. He wanted it to come quick. Like lightning, he said.”

  Erica Johannsen is uneasy in her seat. This testimony, some of it, at least, is hearsay. She’s probably done a calculation here—the judge already allowed the answer, so she probably wouldn’t overturn herself. More to the point, the judge heard the witness’s words even if she rules them inadmissible.

  “Ms. Paul,” says Ben, “do you leave room for the possibility that Dale Garrison hired someone to kill him?”

  The prosecutor is no longer uneasy. “Your Honor,” she cries, leaping to her feet.

  The judge seems to disapprove of the question. She looks at Bennett like a mom looks at a child who did something bad. “The question calls for speculation,” she says firmly. “The objection, such as it is, is sustained.”

  Bennett accepts the ruling without comment but moves on quickly. “To your knowledge, did Dale have financial problems?”

  Now I’m the one who’s uneasy. This would explain the blackmail note—that Dale needed a quarter of a million dollars. The better position for the defense is that Dale didn’t need the money. He was a successful attorney. He had a client list that most lawyers would envy. Thus, the blackmail note doesn’t make sense. What’s Bennett doing?

  “Not that I knew of,” says the witness.

  “You helped him with his checkbook, didn’t you, Ms. Paul?”

  She smiles meekly. “I paid his bills for him. Dale wasn’t so good with that kind of stuff.”

  “So you knew his finances, at least in his checking account.”

  “Sure.”

  “Was he hurting for money?”

  “No. Not at all. He had—something like twenty thousand dollars in his checking account. I always used to tell him to invest it, but by the end that became like a bad joke. You know, what was the point—” Her face turns sour.

  “And you had knowledge of some investments, true?”

  “Yeah. He had some mutual funds and stuff. I’d get his statements at the office and file them.”

  “Sure.” Bennett smiles at her generosity. “Dale had over a hundred thousand dollars in investments, didn’t he?”

  The witness blinks and looks off. “I think it was close to a hundred and twenty thousand.”

  “He owned two houses. One here, one down in Florida.”

  “Right.”

  “And even at the end, Dale had plenty of clients coming through the door.”

  “Oh, yes.” The witness is eager to talk up her boss. “He was shipping out clients to other lawyers and keeping a referral fee.”

  “Okay.” Bennett paces now. “So he had some money on hand, and he had plenty of clients, and he wasn’t spending any money on treating his cancer. True?”

  “True.”

  “So, Ms. Paul, knowing Dale Garrison as well as you did, can you think of any reason why he would need two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “No,” says the witness, as the prosecutor jumps up.

  “Objection—”

  “That’s what I told them—”

  “Calls for speculation.”

  “—when they showed me that blackmail letter.”

  “Ms. Paul,” says Judge Bridges, “I realize you were talking over each other, but when someone objects, I’d like you to wait until I rule before answering. Okay?”

  “Sorry,” says Sheila Paul. “When they showed me that note—”

  “Ms. Paul,” says the judge. “I haven’t ruled yet.”

  The witness lowers her head, scolded.

  The judge lightens her expression. “Actually, I think the question is proper. So now, Ms. Paul”—the judge allows a brief smile—“please finish what you were saying.”

  I smile as well. This is playing out pretty well.

  Sheila Paul begins again. “When the prosecutors showed me that document—about Dale saying he needs all that money—it didn’t make sense. What did he need money for?”

  Bennett purses his lips. “Maybe so someone could help end his suffering?”

  “Counsel.” The judge doesn’t need prompting from the prosecutor, who is on her feet but silent now. “Next question.”

  Bennett opens his hands. “Actually, I’m done, Your Honor. Thank you, Ms. Paul.”

  The judge looks at the prosecutor, who says she has no redirect.

  The judge shuffles some papers and addresses the lawyers. “I have some matters I need to dispose of this afternoon,” she says. She looks over what I assume is her calendar for tomorrow. “And I’m going to need part of tomorrow morning for some other matters,” she says. Judges in the criminal courts have trouble setting aside too much time for a single trial. Criminal defendants have the right to a speedy trial, so judges have to fit in hearings wherever they can to move cases along. Because this is a bench trial—no jury—Judge Bridges can be more flexible with moving us around to accommodate her schedule. “Why don’t we reconvene tomorrow morning at eleven?”

  Both lawyers say eleven will be fine. Erica Johannsen tells the judge that she thinks the prosecution can conclude its case tomorrow.

  We all stand as the judge leaves the bench. Day two of my trial is over. “No worse for the wear?” I whisper to Ben. All in all, we’ve made it through more than half of their proof without too much damage.

  Bennett relaxes, truly relaxes for the first time today. He blows out a sigh as the crowd behind us shuffles out. I try to gauge his emotions—satisfied versus disappointed—but he’s typically Bennett, unflappable. Erica Johannsen snaps her briefcase shut and leaves. Before long, Ben and I sit in the courtroom alone. There will be some press outside, but by court rule they can’t accost us inside.

  “They’ll finish tomorrow, early afternoon,” says Ben. “So we’ve got a long night ahead of us.” Even Ben seems to acknowledge what I already believe—that the judge will not direct a verdict in our favor after the prosecution closes its case. Which means I will have to testify. We agree to meet back at the law firm for a working dinner and a night of preparation. I follow him to the door out of the courtroom. He will be my shield behind which I will penetrate the reporters. I put on my face for television—head up, calm and confident but not cocky—and lightly push Ben’s back, signaling that I’m ready.

  48

  THE FIRST OF three debates in the Trotter–Tully race is tonight. The League of Independent Voters is sponsoring and holding it in an auditorium in the city. William Gadsby, a local news anchor, is the moderator. He’s walking around mumbling lines to himself on the stage, preparing his television voice. He offers a hand to me without comment, not acknowledging my current predicament, which is fine by me. I’ve spoken to Bill dozens of times over the years, even been on his program a few times. His best years are behind him, but he’s a staple in city news.

  Langdon Trotter and Grant Tully are in rooms behind the stage. They are rehearsing their lines with their aides and getting made up by the PR people.

  It’s Tuesday night. Ben and I have been working late hours and we need a break. Or at least I do, and Ben wanted to come with. The police still haven’t put Lyle Cosgrove together with me, at least not as far as I know, but I’m waiting any moment for that bomb to drop.

  I debated the idea of coming here but ultimately decided to attend. It will provide diversion. It will also be the decisive moment in this campaign. Lang Trotter has a solid double-digit lead in the polls. Grant Tully has to beat him tonight. This is not going to be Lincoln-Douglas by any means. But the voters have
to see Grant as their governor. Form over substance, in my opinion, and given Grant’s substance—I’m speaking of his position on a tax increase—I hope he’s solid on the form.

  I walk over to Langdon Trotter’s side and knock on the door. The woman who answers is Maribelle Rodriguez, one of Trotter’s press people. We’ve always gotten along all right. I’ve made it a point to get along with everyone in the capital.

  “Jon, how are you?” Maribelle takes my hand with both of hers. She’s wearing a perfume that reminds me of a former girlfriend, something with a strawberry scent. Maybe it’s her shampoo, on second thought. Her hands sure are soft.

  It’s tough for me to answer her question, as we both understand.

  “I’ve wanted to call, I really have meant to. I mean, this is awful. I mean—”

  “I appreciate that, Mari.”

  “I mean, politics is politics, but all of us like you so much.” She’s still holding on to me with both hands, shaking. “I’m hoping for the best.”

  “That makes two of us,” I say. Mari’s laugh is overly accommodating. “I wonder if I might say hello to Lang.”

  “Well”—she looks over her shoulder—“maybe after the debate?”

  A voice calls out from within the room. “Jon Soliday waits for no one.” Lang Trotter. Mari lets me in and Attorney General Langdon Trotter stands. He looks like an actor on Broadway, a makeup bib hanging from his collar, a touch of rouge on his cheeks. His hair is stiffly combed and parted—too perfect, in my opinion. A half-dozen people, most of whom I recognize, recede into the background as Lang approaches. The room is big enough that we can get some distance, and Trotter finds that area and stops.

  “Jon.” Say what you will about him, Lang Trotter is charming, a focus in his address that leaves the recipient with the impression that nothing is more deserving of his attention at the moment. With me, at this moment, however, he seems uncomfortable.

  “I always wish my opponent the best of luck,” I say. Lang’s line when I saw him at the diner.

  He accepts the comment with a gracious laugh. “Jon.” He turns sober, lets out a theatrical sigh. He’s not looking at me. He waves absently. “You know I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he says to the floor. “What your lawyer’s been saying. I would never instruct anyone to prosecute someone for political motive.”