Death Penalty

by William J. Coughlin

  I wondered what reason propelled Rebecca Harris. I didn’t have long to ponder.

  Mrs. Fenton ushered her into my office and then shut the door discreetly behind her.

  I did recognize her, although she looked very different dressed in something besides the black dress uniform all the waitresses at the inn wore. She had on well-cut slacks and a black sweater. A puffy silk scarf covered her throat. She carried a black raincoat. She was the one I thought she was, hair pulled back and all.

  Her hand was warm but her grip tentative as I directed her to a chair in front of my desk.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s good to see you again. May I call you Becky?”

  She nodded.

  “How may I help you, Becky?”

  “I’m not sure that you can.”

  “Tell me your problem and we’ll see.”

  “It’s, well, embarrassing.”

  I tried to look reassuring. “Everything you tell me is confidential. Just relax and tell me the problem.”

  She studied me for a moment, as if trying to make a decision and then she finally spoke. “I’ve been raped,” she said without any evident emotion.

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “Yes. The sheriffs office here.”

  “And?”

  “They said they’d do an investigation.”

  “Becky, you had better tell me what happened, from the very beginning.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No.”

  She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it, expelling a large cloud of white smoke. I noticed that her hands trembled slightly. “I’m trying to stop,” she said. “But I’m just too nervous to think about that now.”

  “Understandable. Go on.”

  “Do you know Howard Wordley?”

  “The car dealer?”

  She nodded. “He did it.”

  I didn’t laugh, although just the visual picture of Howard Wordley as a rapist was hilarious. He owned Wordley’s World of World Class Cars, a dealership that handled all imported luxury cars, plus a few upscale Japanese models. I had met him a few times at civic functions. Wordley I thought was approaching seventy, a short stout little man with a jaunty bantam cock swagger and little beady eyes, eyes that seemed predatory. He resembled a bowling ball with legs, and he wore his white hair cut short, military style. Becky was a half-foot taller.

  She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and continued. “It happened the night before last.”

  “Where?”

  “In the parking lot behind the inn.”

  “Your car?”

  She shook her head. “His car.”

  “Go on.”

  “He was going to drive me home. When I got in his car he wanted to make love. I didn’t. He started to get rough and I tried to get out. He tore my uniform and hit me.”

  “He’s not very big,” I said softly.

  She didn’t seem offended. “That’s true, but he’s surprisingly strong.”

  “Go on.”

  “I tried to fight him but he grabbed my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I passed out. I suppose it was only for a moment. When I came to, he was on top of me. Finishing off, if you understand.”

  I nodded. “Did you call the police then?”

  “No. He told me it wouldn’t do any good. He thought it was funny. He let me out and one of the other girls drove me home.”

  “And you then called the police?”

  She shook her head. “Not then. I did yesterday, when I woke up. They came to my house. They took me to the hospital. It was all very embarrassing. Humiliating, really.”

  “Did they talk to Wordley?”

  “I don’t know. They said they would.”

  “How was it that you came to get in his car that night?”

  She shrugged. “He often picks me up after work.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  She drew on the cigarette before answering. “I’m forty-eight years old, Mr. Sloan. I’ve been married three times. Nothing to show for any of it, no money, no children. As you probably know, there aren’t many available men up here in Pickeral Point, at least not for single ladies my age.”

  She crushed out the cigarette. “Howard is married. He never meant to leave his wife, I knew that. He was, how shall I say it, just someone to pass the time with.”

  “Did you ever sleep with him?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Often?”

  “I’ve been seeing Howard for approximately three months. I have slept with him.” She paused. “At first he used to take me to a place just past Port Huron, a nice little beach motel and restaurant. It was nice, dinner, drinks and then the motel.”

  “And then?”

  She sighed. “The dinner and drinks were eliminated. The motel, too. He just wanted me to service him occasionally in the parking lot.”

  “Did you?”

  She looked away and nodded.

  “And this time you said no.”

  “I have that right, I believe.”

  “You do.”

  “I wonder,” she replied.

  “What do you want me to do, Becky? Sue Wordley?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What then?”

  She looked as if she might cry, but then she got back in control. “I just want justice,” she said in a near whisper. “Howard is a big man up here, an important man. I just don’t want him to think he can get away with doing something like that to me.”

  “The sheriffs office is professional. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. If they think they have a case, they’ll prosecute. But cases like this are extremely difficult to prove. It boils down to one person’s word against the other. Without more, there’s no real way they can show a crime really happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “Becky, without a witness who heard screams, or proof of a weapon, it’s difficult to prove something like this. If there had been injuries, then it might be something else.”

  “Like this,” she asked as she gingerly pulled the silk scarf away from her throat. Her exposed skin was as indigo as spoiled meat, streaked with yellowish red. The flesh was puffy and swollen. It looked as if someone had tried to twist her head off.

  “Jesus!”

  “I said he was strong. The doctors told me I was lucky he didn’t fracture my neck. Or break my ribs. My chest is all black and blue. They took X rays at the hospital but nothing was broken. It hurts to turn my head, or even breathe.”

  “Who did you talk to at the sheriffs?”

  “A detective Maguire and a woman, I think she’s a detective, too, her name is Gillis.”

  “I know them both. They’re both very competent. Sue Gillis handles sex crimes. You’re in good hands. You don’t need me.”

  “Howard’s lawyer called and demanded that I drop the whole thing.”

  “Who is the lawyer?”

  “Victor Trembly. Do you know him?”

  Trembly, a criminal lawyer with offices in Port Huron, had a reputation slightly more murky than my own. His was earned.

  “I know him.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Sloan.”

  “You don’t need to be, Becky. The court will handle everything.”

  “I don’t trust the courts, to be frank.”

  I smiled. “Sometimes it pays to be wary, but I think you’re safe enough in this case. They’re pretty honest up here. The courts are really the foundation of our government. If the foundation is rotten, the whole house comes falling down.”

  It sounded good and I meant most of it.

  “I’ll tell you what, Becky. I’ll call Sue Gilli and see if there’s any special problems. I don’t think there will be. If Trembly calls again, refer him to the cops or to me.”

  “What do I owe you?” she asked. “I don’t have much money.”

  “The phone call to the police will be gratis. If I have to do something more
than that, we’ll work something out. Okay?”

  She carefully replaced the scarf and stood up. “I appreciate this very much. Just talking to you makes me feel better.”

  I walked her to the door.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” I said.

  I hoped I was right.

  THE DAY SPED BY without my accomplishing much. I dictated some letters, made some calls, and saw a man who was having trouble with his teenage son. What he needed was a social worker, not a lawyer, so I gave him the name of the person to call.

  I had promised Becky Harris I would call and check on her case. The promise was made merely to make her feel better, but it was a promise.

  I called the sheriffs office and asked for Sue Gillis. Sue was a cute little thing who looked very young but was almost forty. She looked more like a school cheerleader than a very experienced cop. She had started life as a registered nurse but had switched careers and gone into police work, beginning as a patrol officer in Pontiac, Michigan. After that she had come up to Pickeral Point and worked as a detective.

  She was quiet, and smart. Her schoolgirl looks fooled a lot of people. And they certainly fooled the guy who tried to rob a local drugstore while she was inside shopping. He wouldn’t drop his gun so she blew his brains all over the foot powder display.

  From that point on, no one gave Sue Gillis a hard time.

  She had been the investigating officer on several cases where I had defended people charged with sex crimes. She was quick to laugh but she could be as tenacious as a bulldog chewing on a postman.

  “Mrs. Gillis,” she answered as she came on the line.

  “It’s Charley Sloan, Sue. How are you?”

  “Fine, Charley. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling on behalf of a client.”

  “Which one? It’s been a busy day. I have two child molesters and a dick waver. Give me the name.”

  “None of the above. This concerns Howard Wordley.”

  “I thought Trembly was representing him.”

  “He is. Wordley’s victim is my client.”

  “Rebecca Harris?”

  “Is there more than one Wordley victim?”

  She chuckled. “Not today. What’s your interest?”

  “Informal mostly. Becky Harris came to see me. She’s worried that Wordley might walk away on this.”

  “The investigation’s in progress,” she said quickly, maybe too quickly.

  “C’mon, Sue, is there a problem here? Did you see her neck?”

  There was a pause. “Yes. We took photos. The doctors say she could have been killed.”

  “So?”

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you, Charley.”

  Suddenly I was interested. “Why not?”

  “You know the rules.”

  “Look, tell me off-the-record, okay? You know me, Sue, I’m not going to go off half-cocked.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Also off-the-record?”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t go into it very deeply, Sue. She said she started seeing Wordley a couple of months ago. They used to go to a motel for a little sweaty love until Wordley decided he didn’t want to waste time and money and asked her to service him in the inn’s parking lot. Apparently she did until the other night, and when she refused he grabbed her throat and forced the issue.”

  “That’s about what she told me, too,” she said.

  “Well?”

  “We took a statement from Wordley. Trembly was there. Wordley says he’s been paying for it.”

  “Bull.”

  She laughed again. “It’s been known to happen. Not everyone is as handsome and attractive as you, Charley.”

  “I can’t, or won’t argue that, Sue, but it’s obvious Wordley is lying.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve been having an affair.”

  “He says not. He says he’s paid for everything he’s gotten.”

  “Then how come the near strangulation?”

  “He said he had sex with her and gave her twenty bucks. He said she wanted more and when he refused she went nuts and tried to stab him. He says he had to fight her off.”

  “Well, I suppose there isn’t a hell of a lot he could say. Probably Trembly cooked up that story for him. It sounds like something he’d think up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Sue, you got serious injuries to the woman. And he admits having sex with her. The injuries substantiate her version. So what’s the problem?”

  She paused and then spoke in a softer voice. “Well, Becky Harris has a past conviction for accosting and soliciting.”

  “What?”

  She sighed. “In Cleveland, about ten years ago.”

  “Did you ask her about it?”

  “I called her after we ran her prints. She said she had some trouble in Cleveland. She tried to deny the conviction, but finally she admitted it.”

  “Damn it.”

  She laughed. “So, now you can see our little problem, can you?”

  “That conviction is older than some of the judges up here. Besides, a woman’s past sex life isn’t admissible.”

  “Charley, it is when it’s germane to the defense. He says she was hustling. He can bring it in to support his defense that she was charging for services rendered. She’s the complainant, she has to take the stand. A jury would bounce her without blinking an eye, and you know it.”

  “How about dropping the rape business and go for assault.”

  “Same story, same defense. He might plead to it, but I doubt it. Trembly wouldn’t let him. Not under these circumstances.”

  “Sue, he damn near killed the woman. You can’t let him just walk away.”

  “Charley, if he was your client you’d be howling to have the charge dropped.”

  She did have a point. “So, what do I tell her?”

  “The truth. We’re digging into the secret life of Howard Wordley, as you can imagine. If this is part of a dangerous pattern, that could change things. We’ll let her know what the prosecutor finally decides.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “A week, maybe less. I want to check the motel records and a few other things before we go to the prosecutor.”

  “So, what’s your position going to be?”

  She sighed. “I can’t get the sight of that woman’s throat out of my mind. I’ll recommend prosecution, even if I don’t think we can really nail him. I’m fair, but not that fair. A few more pounds of pressure and this would have been a murder.”

  “Keep me advised, okay?”

  “It’s odd to find you on our side, Charley. It’s disorienting. I’ll let you know what I can.”

  “Thanks, Sue.”

  I hung up.

  We had had a change in prosecuting attorneys for Kerry County. Mark Evola, the former prosecutor, had jumped at the chance for appointment as a circuit judge. He believed, because I had beaten him in the Harwell murder trial, that I had ruined all his chances for other political offices. He’ was now one of the county’s three circuit judges. However, he was up for election in the fall, so he always made it a point to smile at me. But only with his teeth, his eyes never smiled. He would eventually try to stick it to me. I knew that. He knew I knew.

  It was now only a matter of time.

  The new prosecutor, named to Evola’s old job, would also have to run for election in the fall. Until then he was playing everything so safe that nothing even slightly controversial was being considered for official action. The charge of rape against the town’s leading auto dealer would be controversial.

  Becky didn’t have a chance.

  MICKEY MONK CALLED a few minutes after three. He sounded drunk.

  “We got a court date. Jesus! I didn’t expect it so soon.” His voice was so strained it sounded like he was about to scream. I wondered if he was tipsy or just plain terrified.

  “What’s the date, Mickey?”

  “The twenty-fifth of
May. Too fucking soon.”

  “We have three weeks before we argue. That’s plenty. All the pleadings are in. What are you worried about?”

  “Charley, you know what I got riding on this thing. If you don’t win this, my ass is grass. My creditors are getting edgy as it is.”

  “Relax, Mickey. We’ll give it our best shot.”

  “You know those guys you read about on death row, the ones waiting for the date with the executioner?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know exactly how they feel.”

  “This is a hell of a lot different, Mickey.”

  “Maybe for you, but not for me. I think maybe a quick death would be preferable to what will happen to me if you lose it.”

  He paused and then spoke, this time in a calmer voice. “I think you should meet my client.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s important that you see the poor son of a bitch for yourself. It might help when you argue the thing.”

  “Can you bring him up here to my office?”

  “I can’t, Charley. He’s a fucking vegetable, damn near. Look, you set the day and we’ll drive out to his place.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “Maybe not for you, but it is for him. His future rides on this too. It’s one thing to tell about someone you’ve only seen on paper. It’s better when you really know the problem, when you’ve seen it firsthand.”

  “I’m pretty busy, Mickey.”

  “We’re all busy, but this is important. I’m asking as a special favor, Charley.”

  I sighed. “Okay. When do you want to go?”

  “Next week, Monday. Is that good?”