Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  “Don’t say that, Jon.” He hands me a soggy sandwich. “And anyway, we just need reasonable doubt.”

  “She thinks I’m a killer.” I start for the sandwich but can’t muster the appetite. “She thinks I’m a killer, and the prosecutor made the point well—if Grant learned it, he’d have no choice but to can me.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Ben says.

  “He probably wouldn’t,” I agree. “But he can’t admit that in public.” I shake my head. “I had motive and opportunity. The judge knows both of those things. She knows I was the only person in that office because of me—I told the cops that. And she knows about 1979 because we told her.”

  “They would have found out,” Ben says. “It was only a matter of time. They already had connected you to Lyle in some way. It would be a matter of simple investigation before they found out about 1979. And they’d get the arrest notes. You were a suspect, Jon, even if you weren’t arrested. We look better fronting the issue, looking like we have nothing to hide.”

  “We don’t have anything to hide.” I hurl the sandwich across the room. I bounce out of the chair. “Goddammit, we just ruined this election for Grant and probably gained nothing in the process. We can’t pin anything on Trotter. This judge is ready to convict me.”

  Ben watches me a moment, a mouthful of food in his cheek.

  I take a seat on the piano stool. “Sorry about the sandwich.”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite, either.” He places his food back in the wrapper. He rubs his hands together and then laces them between his knees. “Jon, you want me to do whatever it takes to win. I’m doing that. And I’ll keep doing it. We’re going to win.”

  “How the hell can you say that?” I exhale, air deflating from a balloon. The ceiling is an ornate pattern, an Italian design, I think. My question is rhetorical. There’s little my lawyer can say to me right now.

  “I’m leaving after this, Jon.”

  I look back at my lawyer. That one, I didn’t expect.

  “I’m quitting and getting out of town.”

  “When did you decide this?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t know. Leaving the big city, though. Probably, I’ll find a prosecutor’s office somewhere. I don’t know.”

  “I might need you.”

  “What—for an appeal? You aren’t going to be convicted, Jon. We’re going to win.”

  “Then why leave? If you’re going to win, you’ll be a celebrity.”

  “My name’ll be mud. I’m taking down Lang Trotter, or at least trying. Who’s going to want me?”

  “That’s naïve. Every criminal defense firm in the city, for starters. By tonight, you’ll have CNN and the Times and the Wall Street Journal covering this thing. You’ll be a star.”

  “Not my style.” Bennett smiles softly. “It was probably a weird time to tell you. But I wanted you to know. I also want you to know that I believe you’re innocent and I believe you didn’t kill Gina Mason. I do believe that.”

  “Well—thanks.”

  “And I promise you, we’re going to beat this.”

  I move from the piano and sit on the couch next to my lawyer. “Well, before we say our goodbyes, maybe we could work on my examination. I’m up next, I believe.”

  Bennett nods and removes some papers from his bag. “The first thing I’m going to ask you is whether you killed Dale Garrison. What’s the answer?”

  “No, I did not kill Dale Garrison,” I say. “And then I turn to the judge and say the same thing. And then I say, ‘Judge, I swear to God that I didn’t.’”

  Bennett smiles. That last part was my idea. He didn’t like it so much at first, but his first rule is that it has to be natural, so he went along with it.

  “We’re ready, Jon,” he says. “We’ve gone over it a hundred times.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re right.”

  Bennett stares into space. “You know something, Jon? You’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.” He looks at me. “I imagine that surprises you. It surprises me. I didn’t even think I’d like you at first.”

  I look at Ben a moment. This is an odd time for him to say such a thing, but the high tension of this trial has brought out more than one unexpected emotion in me. And I do appreciate the sentiment, even though at the moment I need a lawyer more than a friend.

  I check my watch, the evil hands of the clock that are quickly approaching the close of our one-hour recess. Only fifteen minutes from now, it will be time to go to court and convince Judge Nicole Bridges of my innocence.

  57

  BENNETT IS PORING over his notes as Grant Tully resumes his position on the witness stand. The judge reminds him that he is still under oath.

  “Ready?” I say to Ben.

  He looks at me. He is not smiling, no attempt at reassurance. He looks haunted, his face drawn and solemn, his eyes red and watery. He leaves his folder open and rises again, to face Senator Tully.

  “Senator, this morning, Ms. Johannsen asked you if you knew for a fact you received the memorandum from Dale Garrison on August fourth—the memo about Mr. Trotter’s petitions.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said that you did recall specifically receiving the memo on the fourth.”

  “Yes.”

  “You recall that because of the birthday card that Dale Garrison also sent you.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Because it was early. It was the first card I received.”

  “And you recall my handing that birthday card to you.”

  “Yes, you did. I imagine that was because you and Jon had opened the package from Dale and found that card.”

  “Right,” says Ben. “And I believe I accidentally opened that card, before realizing it was for you.”

  “I think that’s right,” says the senator. “Most of my mail is opened for me before I see it. Although usually it’s my secretary, not my lawyer, who does it. It’s not in your job description.”

  A light chuckle from the audience. The senator seems more composed now. I can’t imagine he can be looking so good, after the revelations of today’s trial. I figure he spent the entire lunch hour on the phone with Don Grier, his press guy, working on a spin.

  Ben doesn’t even smile. “Senator do you recall this morning that Ms. Johannsen asked you if you knew for a fact that Langdon Trotter sent this blackmail note to Jon?”

  “I recall that, yes.”

  “And you said you couldn’t know for a fact.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ben approaches Grant and hands him a copy of the note. “And I believe it was you who made the point that we don’t know who this note even references.”

  “I believe that’s correct.”

  Ben stares at his copy of the letter. I remove one from Ben’s notes and do the same.

  I guess I’m the only one left who knows the secret that nobody knows. I think $250,000 should cover it. A month should be enough time. I wouldn’t presume your income source, but I imagine if anyone could find a way to tap into the campaign fund without anyone noticing, you would. Or I suppose I could always just talk to the senator. Is that what you want? One month. Don’t attempt to contact me about this. I will initiate all communications.

  “In fact,” Ben says, “this notes references the ‘senator.’ It doesn’t say ‘Grant Tully,’ does it?”

  “No, it does not.” Grant puts down the letter and looks at Bennett.

  “How many senators currently serve in this state?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “This note could have referred to any one of those senators.”

  “Of course.”

  Bennett leaves the defense table and paces behind the lectern. “In fact,” he continues, “this note could even refer to retired senators, right?”

  “I suppose it could.”

  “Retire
d senators often go by the title ‘senator’ afterward, don’t they?”

  Grant Tully pauses a moment. His eyes move to me, then back to Ben. “Yes.”

  “There are lots of retired senators, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, there are.”

  “This note could have been referring to any one of them, as well.”

  “I suppose.”

  My eyes move to the documents by Bennett’s side of the desk. Since he removed the copy of the blackmail letter, the document on top of his stack is the memorandum that Cal Reedy prepared for us, summarizing Lyle Cosgrove’s history.

  No juvenile history obtained. Driver’s license revoked on 12/18/78, following DUI convictions on 2/24/78, 8/29/78, and third arrest on 11/04/78. Pleaded no contest to final charge. Agreed to surrender license for five years.

  Arrested for sexual assault on 6/19/81. Pleaded guilty to simple assault. Served fifteen months in medium-security prison.

  Arrested on 4/15/88 for armed robbery. Convicted on 8/28/88. Served twelve years, paroled on 7/22/00.

  Bennett has placed a circle around one sentence in the first paragraph:

  Agreed to surrender license for five years.

  My head whips up at Bennett Carey.

  “In fact, Senator, your father is a retired senator isn’t he?”

  “Excuse me, Your Honor.” I’m on my feet. “Could I have a word with my attorney?”

  “Of course.”

  Bennett looks at me curiously but eventually comes to my side.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper. “Sit down.” “I’m making the point that this note could have referred to—”

  “I know your point, Ben. Everyone knows your point. Stop it. Sit down.”

  “You sit, Jon,” he replies. “Trust your lawyer.” He walks away from me again, over toward the jury box. He casts a look back at me, the guy standing without purpose in the middle of the courtroom. I finally take my seat.

  “Senator?” Ben asks.

  “Yes, Mr. Carey, my father is a former senator.”

  “And he goes by ‘senator,’ doesn’t he?”

  “He does, yes.”

  “So, I mean”—Bennett expels a laugh—“this note could have referred to your father.”

  The senator smiles, but not for the purpose of being pleasant. “I suppose in theory, yes.”

  “I mean, maybe this note refers to a secret you were keeping from him.”

  “I don’t have any secrets from my father,” says Grant.

  “Oh, sure. But the point is, this note could have been written to you, right, Senator? Threatening to expose a secret that you wouldn’t want your father to know?”

  I jump to my feet again. “Your Honor, I want to terminate this examination. We’re done. I don’t authorize my attorney to continue.”

  The judge’s eyebrows lift. She looks between my lawyer and me. “Mr. Carey?”

  “I’m not done, Your Honor.”

  “Maybe you and your client would like to confer.”

  “Fine.” Ben shrugs and makes his way back to me.

  I draw him closer and whisper in his ear. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m defending my client.”

  “You already did that, Ben. Sit down.”

  “You wanted me to do everything I can,” he whispers harshly. “That’s what I’m—”

  “Not this,” I say.

  “And why not, Jon? What are you afraid of?”

  I shake his arm. “Sit down.”

  He draws into me, so close he’s almost kissing my ear. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me it’s never crossed your mind—if you can look me in the eye and swear to God and say that—I’ll sit down.” He pulls away from me and stares at me.

  I am speechless. My heart is pounding furiously, the white noise echoing through my head, the sound of my pulse banging through my body. Noise from every part of my being, except for my mouth. It’s as if I’ve never seen the man standing two feet from me. His look is beyond intense, closer to a bitterness. He is silent but his chest is heaving. A trickle of sweat zigzags from his hairline.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says.

  “Are we ready, Counsel?” the judge asks.

  Ben doesn’t address the court. He says it to me. “I think we are, Judge.”

  I sit back down, more a response to my wobbly knees than in compliance.

  My lawyer strolls across the courtroom, his hands behind his back. “Senator, I think we left off with the notion that this blackmail note could have been threatening you, threatening to tell your father—the ‘senator’—about a secret. Right?”

  “That is where you left off, Mr. Carey. I assume you were offering the example out of pure speculation. Because it’s certainly not true.” The senator’s face has reddened, but he is more angry than worried, from my take. He turns to me but I look away a moment, then return my stare to him. We lock eyes as the next question comes.

  “You have access to your campaign money, don’t you, Senator?”

  “Not directly, no, I do not.”

  “But you tell your people when and where to spend, don’t you?”

  “I certainly have a say, of course.”

  “Well, then, let’s talk about your father, the ‘senator.’ As far as you understood it, what was your father’s understanding of the alleged rape and murder in 1979?”

  “His understanding? I don’t catch your meaning.”

  “Did your father think Jon had committed rape and murder?”

  “I’d imagine he did not. But you’d have to ask him.”

  “Well, as far as you knew, what was your father’s understanding of your involvement?”

  The senator draws back. He takes a moment to be sure he heard the question correctly. “My involvement?”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  “I didn’t have any involvement. I went home.”

  “And that’s what you told your father, wasn’t it?”

  “Well—of course it is.” Grant looks at me.

  “So your father thought you had nothing to do with what happened to that young woman.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that woman’s death.”

  “And that’s what your father thought.”

  “Objection.” Erica Johannsen gets to her feet. This is not the first objection she could have made. She’s a little off guard herself. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Senator?” Ben asks. “Didn’t you tell your father that you had nothing to do with that girl’s death?”

  That question has already been asked. Bennett is not his normal polished self. He’s not himself at all. There is an animation to him, an emotion I’ve never seen in my lawyer.

  “Of course I told my father I had nothing to do with the woman dying,” says Grant. “I just said that.”

  “But Dale Garrison”—Bennett wags a finger, his voice rising—“Dale knew differently, didn’t he?”

  “I have no idea what you mean, Bennett.”

  “Take you back to 1979, Senator.” Ben approaches Grant. “Who’d you leave the party with?”

  “I left with—with Rick.”

  “You did?” Bennett makes a point of looking confused. It’s an act, courtroom theater. “Rick took you home?”

  “Right.”

  “And Lyle drove Jon home in his car, later?”

  “I can’t say for sure what happened with them.”

  “But that was the story, right, Senator? The party line? Jon went with Lyle Cosgrove, you and Rick left together?”

  The prosecutor makes some objection. The judge sustains. I find myself furiously rubbing my forehead, staring into the table only inches from my face.

  “Are you sure, Senator? You’re sure Rick drove you home?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s a good forty-five minute ride, isn’t it?” Ben waves a hand. “You had to get on the interst
ate, right?”

  “That would be the case, yes.” Grant has reddened. He didn’t expect this from Bennett, but now he sees where it’s going.

  “It was your car you took,” says Ben. “You drove to that party in Summit County in your car, right? You and Jon?”

  Grant adjusts in his seat. “Yes.”

  “So if Rick drove you home in your car, how’d he get home? He hitched a ride back to Summit County?”

  Grant opens his hands. He answers weakly. “That much, I cannot tell you.”

  “And Senator,” Ben says. He moves across the courtroom and stops. “What would you say if I were to tell you that Lyle Cosgrove didn’t own a car back then?”

  My eyes involuntarily move to the memo on Lyle Cosgrove again.

  Agreed to surrender license for five years.

  “Objection,” says the prosecutor. “Assuming facts not in evidence. Calling for speculation.”

  “Sustained,” the judge replies, with little conviction.

  “Weren’t you aware, Senator, that Lyle Cosgrove had his driver’s license revoked in 1978? A five-year revocation?”

  “No, in fact I was not aware of that, Mr. Carey.”

  “So how did Jon get home that night, Senator? In fact, how did Jon get to Gina’s house?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained,” the judge answers quickly.

  Bennett’s hands rise and drop to his sides. He stares into his witness, who is making every effort to compose himself. He’s waiting a moment for the drama, for the unexpected question. I could ask the question myself.

  “The truth is,” Ben begins, “that you went to Gina’s house that night, too. Isn’t that the case?”

  “What?” Grant rises from his chair as he answers. He turns to the judge. “Your Honor, this is unfair. This was not my under—” He shakes his head and settles back into his seat.

  This was not his understanding of how this examination would proceed, he was going to say. It was not his understanding that a friendly lawyer, one of his employees, would be turning things around on him. But Grant surely understands that this is no basis for refusing to answer. And the moment he pleads the Fifth, you’ve got your headline tomorrow. He’s trapped in that seat. And I suddenly find myself unwilling to come to his defense.