Ross could see that Molly was mentally testing the sound of the name, Molly Carter. He couldn’t help himself.
“And he wants you to meet his family? You mean, his wife and children?”
Molly made a face at him. “His mother and father.”
“Congratulations,” Ross said, and meant it. “When do you meet them?”
A slight creasing of Molly’s broad freckled forehead marred her cheerful smile for an instant.
“I don’t know. Jimmy says they live far away and he can’t get time off for awhile, so it may be some time.”
“Well,” Ross said, smiling, “it has all the sounds of a commitment. From a legal standpoint, Molly, remember that a verbal contract is sometimes considered binding. You might mention that fact to your Jimmy, if it will help. By the way, how did he make out with his dentist?”
“That was funny! Did Sharon tell you?”
“She told me he walked in here thinking this was the office of Dr. Ross, a dentist. I never knew I had a namesake who pulled teeth. I ought to have him collect my bills for me.”
“Oh, Jimmy’s teeth are fine,” Molly said airily. “He was just going in for a check up. He was looking for a Dr. Ross over on the West Side, same street but west instead of east, but the poor man gets so panicky at the very thought of a dentist that half the time he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or where he is. Still,” Molly added with her wide smile, “I guess I shouldn’t complain. His mistake was my good luck.”
Ross was frowning at her.
“Your friend Jimmy was looking for a Dr. Ross who has an office on the West Side and he walked into this office by mistake?”
“That’s right,” Molly said cheerfully. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Ross said evenly. “What does Jimmy do for a living?”
“He’s a salesman,” Molly said. “I think.”
“You think?”
“What he ought to be is a professional dancer,” Molly said, her grin back. “Though I’m sure he must be a wonderful salesman, too. He could sell me anything, anywhere, any time.” She suddenly remembered something else, disassociated from her Jimmy. “Oh, yes. Mr. Kuwoit—I mean, Mr. Quirt—wants you to get in touch with him as soon as you come in.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Ross said, and pushed through the barrier.
Sharon was sitting at her desk, typing answers to that large portion of the morning’s mail that did not require Hank Ross’s personal attention. She looked up with a smile as he sat down and rested his hand on the telephone. Something in his expression caused her to pause in her work.
“What is it, H.R.?”
Ross frowned at her across his desk.
“Sharon, have you ever met Molly’s friend, Jimmy?”
The telephone under his hand suddenly shrilled its usual signal. “Later,” Ross said shortly, and raised the instrument. Sharon automatically picked up her phone as well, drawing her pad close. There was the click of switches and the line was through. Ross put on a cheerful tone.
“Hello, Charley.”
“Hello, Hank. What’s new?”
Ross was tempted to tell him that what he had learned from Mike Gunnerson regarding the other’s opposition to Dupaul’s contract was certainly new, but he felt it was neither the time nor the place.
“Not much so far, Charley. I’ll be seeing Billy Dupaul later today sometime.” Sharon looked up and made two vertical strokes in the air with her pencil. Ross nodded to her, smiling. “My office has arranged a visiting permit for two o’clock—”
Sharon was shaking her head at his ignorance. She repeated the twin strokes emphatically, scoring the air.
“—I mean eleven o’clock,” Ross said, and shrugged for Sharon’s benefit.
“That’s fine.” Quirt hesitated a moment; when at last he spoke he seemed a bit embarrassed. “Look, Hank—anything that Billy says …” The deep voice trailed away to silence.
Ross frowned at the instrument.
“Yes? Go ahead, Charley.”
“Well,” Quirt said diffidently, “I just meant, maybe it would be better if—well, if he doesn’t know that I’m—I mean the club, that is—is paying your fee …”
Ross stared at the telephone in amazement.
“Do I understand you correctly, Charley? Do you mean that I’m going down to the Tombs in an hour or so to see this boy, and you haven’t seen to it that he knows I’m representing him?”
“What the hell, Hank! He’ll be damned glad you’re representing him,” Quirt said forcefully. “They have newspapers in prison, and radios and television, too. I’m damned sure he knows who you are—every prisoner in the state knows who you are. And a hell of a lot of them undoubtedly wish you’d been defending them instead of whoever did.”
“Well, thank you very much for the plug, Charley. If I ever need a PR man, I’ll be in touch. But it just strikes me as a bit odd. You didn’t seem to be so shy as far as telling the newspapermen goes; I naturally assumed you’d have let the client also know.”
“The newspapermen? Well, maybe a couple were standing around when I was talking to you, but what the hell, Hank! It won’t hurt our case any to have the public know you’re handling the defense. And I didn’t think it was any great secret, anyway.”
“I guess not,” Ross said, and sighed. “I just don’t want to spend half of my life trying to select a jury the prosecution objects to because they read papers. However …”
“You mean Gorman can do it but we can’t?”
“I mean I don’t think anyone should do it,” Ross said. “Let’s get back to business. What did you start to say before with that ‘Anything Billy says’? You let it drop.”
“I just meant—” Quirt sounded uncomfortable. “Well, Hank, the truth is I guess he doesn’t particularly like me. He was pretty vindictive because the club didn’t stand back of him more, eight years ago.”
Ross’s voice was completely innocent.
“But he shouldn’t take that personally, should he? After all, you were the one who signed his contract, weren’t you? There was a picture in the papers of the signing, as I recall.”
“That’s right. I was always on the kid’s side; I was the one who pushed for that high a bonus, but, well, like I told you—I was out of the country. There was nothing I could do …” The embarrassed tone strengthened. “All I’m trying to tell you is to take some of the things he might say—especially about me—with a grain of salt.”
Ross smiled faintly, an enigmatic smile, but his voice remained expressionless.
“I take everything anyone tells me with a grain of salt, Charley. But thanks for the tip.”
“And let me know what happens, eh?”
“You’re paying the bills,” Ross said noncommittally. “I’ll be in touch.”
“And Hank—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” Quirt said. He hesitated a moment more, his breath clearly audible in the telephone, and then abruptly hung up.
Ross placed the telephone back in its cradle and looked at Sharon thoughtfully. He said, “I wonder what Charley was about to say there at the end?”
“Probably nothing very important,” Sharon said, “or he would have said it.”
“I wonder,” Ross said. “The fact is I just learned that he fought against signing Billy Dupaul eight years ago, fought very hard. He only gave in under heavy pressure from above. So why would he suddenly want to help the boy?”
“That’s not what he said.”
“I know it’s not what he said.”
“But—are you sure of your information?”
“I got it from Mike Gunnerson.”
“Then you’re sure.” Sharon shrugged. “I can’t imagine why, then.”
“Nor can I,” Ross said, and dropped the subject, returning to an earlier one. “As I was saying when we were so pointlessly and unsatisfactorily interrupted, have you ever met Molly’s new boyfriend, Jimmy Carter?”
“Just the f
irst day he came wandering in here like a lost lamb. Or a lost sheep would be closer, I guess, at his age.” She looked at him closely. “Why?”
“I’d hate for Molly to make a mistake …”
Sharon studied him shrewdly. She said, “You never worried much about Molly’s many loves before, H.R.”
“Maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my middle years,” Ross said with a smile. “Still, why don’t you double date with Molly and Jimmy one evening? To get a better opinion of him; just to make sure he isn’t leading our Molly—or anyone else, as far as that goes—down the garden path. What do you say? You can put it on the expense account.”
Sharon said, looking at him steadily, “Using who for an escort?”
“Steve,” Ross said easily. “He’s been working extremely hard these days. A little relaxation at the firm’s expense should be both enjoyable and beneficial for both of you.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Sharon said, “Well, all right, Mr. Devious, but it’s going to be a very good restaurant, followed by a very good show, followed by a very good night club. And no complaints about the size of the tab.”
“It’s a promise.”
“And exactly what excuse do I give Molly for being—or rather, for Steve being—so generous?”
“You’re celebrating your birthday.”
“Or Steve won the lottery. I like that one better,” Sharon said. “Someone might ask me ‘Which birthday’ and the evening would be off to a poor start. Which account do I charge it to?”
“Make it an open account,” Ross said, and thought a moment. “You know, it just might end up on Charley Quirt’s account before we’re through.”
Sharon frowned at him in silence a moment.
“In that case, change that ‘very good restaurant, show, and night club’ to the most expensive in town.” Her frown changed to a puckish smile. “Maybe spying isn’t such bad work after all.”
“It’s like everything else,” Ross said with a smile. “The object is not to get put up against a wall and shot.” He shuffled through the papers neatly arranged on his desk, put them back in their original order, and came to his feet. “Well, I’m off to meet Mr. Billy Dupaul. Do me a favor; type me up a standard retainer agreement, will you?”
“With pleasure.” Sharon reached for her copy of The Complete Manual of Criminal Forms, opened it to the proper page, and started typing. She finished quickly, zipped the paper from the machine, folded it and slipped it into an envelope, handing it over. “Well, good luck.”
“Everyone keeps wishing me good luck,” Ross said with a smile. “This time I may very well need it.”
Sharon looked at him. “What do you mean, H.R.?”
“Well,” Ross said, “I suppose that Billy Dupaul could really report me to the Bar Association for ambulance chasing. An attorney—unsolicited—offering himself as defense counsel to a client he’s never met? That’s considered to be very naughty.…”
He winked at her and went out the door, his attaché case in hand, the envelope tucked in his jacket pocket.
CHAPTER
7
The visiting room at the recorder in this attache case.Tombs Prison in New York City is as gloomy as the long rows of dingy cells that make up the interior of most of the multiple floors of the gloomy building. Ross, no stranger to the place, signed the lawyer’s register and then waited patiently in the lawyer’s visiting room for Dupaul to appear.
The door on the far side of the room opened and Ross found himself watching a tall, heavy-set, blond young man being led in. There was a wary expression in his deep blue eyes. Although he no longer looked much like the youngster who had signed the Mets contract years before, there was a familiarity about him. The correction officer accompanying the prisoner turned away and went to sit beside the door through which the pair had entered; his billy club, his only weapon, lay carelessly across his lap. Dupaul walked over to the small cubicle allotted to Ross for the interview; he sank into a chair across from the lawyer and stared at him coldly.
“I hear you’re the great Hank Ross.”
“My name is Hank Ross, if that’s what you hear.”
“I also read in the papers that you think you’re defending me.”
“I would like to defend you in this case.”
“You mean you’ve been hired to defend me, isn’t that it?” Billy Dupaul looked at Ross sardonically. “I’m sure you’re not offering your services. That’s a no-no.”
Ross smiled. “I should have known a man would learn a bit of law in prison.”
“More than a bit. Who’s picking up the tab?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“It does to me,” Dupaul said flatly. “The last time I got handed a lawyer, I ended up in Attica on a bum rap.”
“That’s not quite the way I heard the story,” Ross said mildly. “I heard that a capable lawyer was assigned to you by the court, and that you fired him. And accepted a far inferior lawyer from the court the next time. And then went to jail.”
Dupaul looked at him pityingly. “You call Gorman a good lawyer?”
“You’re apt to find out just how good in a very short time,” Ross said evenly. “He may or may not be in the courtroom, but he’ll be directing the prosecution every step of the way.”
“Some good lawyer! He thought I was guilty. He didn’t believe a single word I told him.”
Calmly, Ross replied, “A lawyer doesn’t automatically have to believe every word his client tells him in order to defend that client.”
“My lawyer does,” Dupaul said flatly. “Believe it! And even if a lawyer doesn’t have to believe every word his client tells him, he also doesn’t have to broadcast the fact that he thinks his client is a liar.” The deep-set blue eyes held those of Ross steadily. “Or do you consider that good legal practice also, Mr. Ross?”
“No,” Ross said, “I don’t.”
“Plus the fact that there’s one time my lawyer better damned well believe me, and that’s when I’m telling the truth! Or he gets fired—good, bad, or indifferent. Hell!” Dupaul said angrily. “Maybe Mr. Hogan wasn’t the best lawyer in the world, but at least he believed me. I wasn’t lying. In fact, if I’d paid attention to him the way I should have instead of being a meathead, I’d never have seen the inside of a jail! Mr. Hogan had this story cooked up for me to say—”
“That Neeley made a sexual advance?”
The hard, suspicious look returned to Billy Dupaul’s face.
“How’d you know?”
“I know about the case. It would have been a logical defense.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let him use it, but he doesn’t rate the blame on that score. It wasn’t his fault I was a hard-nose. But at that time, nineteen stupid years old, I figured everyone would think I was queer looking, like I looked like the kind of guy pansies pick out. I figured the hell with that argument.”
“And four years in Attica Prison was worth that attitude?”
Dupaul took a deep breath and leaned forward.
“Mister, let me tell you something. Nothing on this green earth is worth five seconds in Attica. But I didn’t know that then. And I was telling the truth. I never figured I’d have to lie to get off. I never rated that sentence. I saved that dame’s life as well as my own. Well, sure, I figured maybe I rated some small amount of grief for shacking up with another guy’s wife, because I knew she was married—or I thought so at the time—but when I pulled that trigger, I was just saving a couple of lives. So why should I have to pretend I was queer-bait?”
Dupaul considered Ross a moment as if waiting for the silent lawyer to comment, but when Ross remained quiet, Dupaul went on.
“Look, Mister—I came out of Attica the same way I walked in, but it took a few guys eating their teeth to convince them I wasn’t interested. God save the little guys up there! But I learned one thing: There isn’t any big sign over a guy’s head that reads ‘Pansy-bait.’ But I didn’t know it before the
n. And I wasn’t guilty—that’s what all you guys can’t get through your heads! I was innocent! So why should I go for some crocked-up story that Mr. Hogan came up with?” He shook his head. “Man, if I knew then what I know now, I’d have given them a story about Neeley to curl their hair!”
Ross chose to drop the subject.
“And what about the baseball game up at Attica last week? Last Friday. What was the true story of that?”
“What’s the ball game got to do with it?” Dupaul studied Ross a minute while his blue eyes got harder and harder. At last they widened with sure knowledge. “Why, you miserable bastard! I get it! You aren’t here to defend nobody! You’re part of that fink investigating team from Attica! Why, you miserable, lying—!”
He came to his feet with a lurch, towering over the seated attorney. The correction officer at the door came to his feet equally quickly, his fingers winding themselves tightly about his billy club. Ross paid no attention to the guard, looking up at the angry face of Billy Dupaul calmly instead.
“Sit down.”
“I’ll sit down in my cell, you screw!”
“I said, sit down. If you want to be believed, you have to extend a little belief to others. I’m not here as part of any investigation. I’m here as your attorney to defend you on a first-degree murder charge. Don’t be a fool. Sit down.”
Dupaul stared at him for several tense moments and then slowly, almost reluctantly, sank into his chair again. At the door the correction officer relaxed, his fingers uncurling from the heavy ash club.
“That’s better,” Ross said.
“If you’re my lawyer,” Dupaul said, “who’s paying you?”
“If you insist—Charley Quirt of the Mets.”
Dupaul snorted incredulously.
“Now I know you’re lying! Quirt would maybe pay to put me in here—he sure did everything except that the last time—but he sure as hell wouldn’t give a dime to get me out!”
Ross frowned at the young man curiously.
“What makes you say that?”
“Never mind, it’s a fact. So who’s paying you?” Dupaul held up a big hand, calloused from work in prison. “And no more lies, please. If you want to be believed you have to extend a little belief to others. A phrase I heard somewhere, I don’t remember.”
A Handy Death Page 8
