I wasn’t able to see his reaction.
“What’s the total fee here, one third of any award?”
“That’s right. It’s Mickey Monk’s case. He won it at trial. I just argued it. If we win I get twenty percent of Monk’s fee.”
Mallow was silent. “A lot of money,” he said, finally. “If the case is won, Monk makes—what—better than a million and a half?”
“We talked about this before,” I said.
“So, given the interest growing during the appeal, you would see—what—maybe three hundred or four hundred thousand as your cut of the fee, right?”
I said nothing.
“A lot of money,” he repeated softly.
“So?”
“Suppose someone could arrange it that you won?”
“Is this the favor you talked about?”
If he was smiling, I couldn’t tell. For a moment, all I heard was the sound of his heavy breathing.
“How much would something like that be worth?” he asked.
“Well, for openers, probably five years in prison, disbarment, and God knows what else.”
He didn’t laugh, nor did he react in any other way.
“I know the law, probably one hell of a lot better than you. I’ve been at it longer. I’m talking money, and you know it.”
“It wouldn’t be worth a penny. I don’t do business that way.”
He laughed. “You think I’m wearing a wire, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Want to search me, Sloan?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I think a favor like that would be worth at least half your fee.”
“Mine, or Monk’s, too?”
“Just yours. We don’t know Monk. We don’t trust anyone we don’t know well. We deal strictly with you. Only you. We’re talking your cut, what, two hundred thousand, one and a half, something like that.”
“What does this money buy?”
“A vote,” he said softly. “Just one little vote. Of course, that’s all you need anyway.”
“What kind of scam are you trying to pull, Mallow?” I knew it always irritated him if someone refused to call him judge.
“Scam?”
“Shakedown, extortion, fraud, solicitation for a bribe, there’s all kinds of terms to cover it, both in the law books and on the street.”
“What are you going to do, report me?”
“It’s a possibility, you keep this shit up.”
Mallow snorted. “Oh, just think of it, Charley. You waltz into the feds, whatever, and say Judge Jeffrey Mallow, former chief judge of the Michigan Court of Appeals, tried to shake me down.” He laughed. “Hey, they’d check. They have to, by law. It would be your word against mine, Charley. The word of a busted-down drunk lawyer versus one of the most important men in this state. This time they’d jerk your license forever.”
To let it sink in, he paused. “And you know goddamn well I’m telling the truth, don’t you?”
The problem was that I did.
“And suppose I pay you money and still lose? I’m in the same position, as I see it. No one would believe me.”
“You won’t lose. I guarantee that.”
“Did you ever sell roofing material?”
He laughed. “No. Believe me, I’d see to it you were satisfied before one dollar was paid.”
“Who gets the money?”
“I would think that was obvious.”
“Noonan?”
“Noonan is too stupid to even let in on a thing like this.”
“Chene?”
Mallow shook his head. “Chene is already in your corner.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, you’re not trying to tell me Franklin Palmer can be bribed.”
“Bribe is such an ugly word, Charley. I’d suggest we toss it from our vocabulary from this point on.”
“I’ve known Palmer since law school. He’s as straight as they come. I don’t believe you.”
He sighed. “Charley, everybody needs help sometimes. You needed help when they were trying to lift your goddamned license. Frank Palmer helped you then. Now, he needs some help. We all get in financial binds, eh? So, it’s payback time, Charley.”
“You’re full of shit!”
He stood up and loomed over me. “We’ll need an answer soon, Charley.”
Mallow walked to the door, then stopped. “Think it over. It’s a lot of money. You came in on it late, Charley. The other guy, Monk, did all the real work. It’s really a windfall for you. Try to think about this, then, as a kind of sharing of the wealth.”
Before I could even think of replying, he was gone.
15
You were pretty quiet tonight,” Bob Williams said as he eyed me over the lip of his coffee cup. Only a few members of the club still lingered in the basement of St. Jude’s church. Williams, like me, is a recovering alcoholic, and a psychiatrist. Beyond that, he is about as close as anybody comes to being my best friend.
We waved good night to the last few to leave. That left us with the task of cleaning up—emptying the ashtrays, cleaning the coffee urn, setting the chairs in order, and turning off the lights.
“Problems?” he asked.
I shrugged. “A few.”
I was still shaken from my encounter with Mallow. I could think of nothing else. Somehow, I was frozen mentally, unable to conjure up alternatives, able only to replay the incident over and over and over again. I thought I might be going through something like shock, the same thing that happens to people after a serious accident.
The meeting had gone on without my conscious notice. My preoccupation must have showed.
“We’re alone,” Bob said. “Want to talk about it?”
“Your usual outrageous rates, I presume?”
“Depends. If it’s something really dirty, I may just waive the fee.”
“This is one I can’t talk about, not even with you.”
Bob Williams is as big as a small mountain and looks like a tackle for the pros. He wears his hair in a tight military cut, and his face could be the model for any painter or sculptor who wanted to depict a ferocious Indian. He was only part Native American, but he looked like Sitting Bull’s kid. His appearance was forbidding, but he was much the opposite, a gentle man who cared about people, sometimes maybe too much. That had caused him to drink originally. The alcohol crutch was gone now, but not the concern.
“Charley, you’re a lawyer. Let’s do this on a patient-doctor relationship. That way my lips are sealed.”
“Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. No offense, but this is something I don’t want anyone to know about. There are reasons.”
Williams frowned.
“It’s a legal matter,” I added quickly so he wouldn’t feel offended. “I really can’t talk about it.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“It’s possible.”
“Did you do something wrong, Charley? Screw something up?”
I laughed. “Actually, quite the opposite. I didn’t screw anything up, and I didn’t do anything wrong. At least, not yet.”
The place was a little spooky. The only light left on was hanging just over us, shining down like a small spotlight on the two of us and the big coffee urn. Beyond the ring of light, the huge basement was as shadowy as a dark forest.
“The word wrong in our culture can mean many things, Charley,” he said softly. “Going through a red light is wrong, even if you can see there’s no traffic. Tossing an old lady down a staircase is also wrong. The word has many tints and shadings. What kind of wrong are we talking about here?”
“I haven’t thrown any old people down stairs, so I guess that’s one kind of wrong eliminated.”
“This problem of yours,” he asked, “does it mean hurting people, if say, it’s merely technically wrong?”
If Mallow weren’t merely running a scam and the proposed bribe was on the level, and paid, I thought about who would be hurt. Ford Motor would ha
ve to pay the judgment, but I honestly believed that they should, anyway. Even if the result was fixed, the end would still be just. If it went the other way, the fate of Will McHugh and Mickey Monk was almost unthinkable. And, in my judgment, unjust.
“Let’s say no major damage would be caused anyone,” I said. “But if discovered, the jail population could see a nice little statistical jump.”
“Including you?”
I nodded.
“Well, in that case, it would seem the answer is obvious. Why risk it?”
I looked off into the darkness. “It isn’t that easy.”
Williams made no reply, just waited until I spoke again.
I didn’t believe Mallow, but I wondered what I would do if he had been telling the truth about Palmer. It seemed impossible, but then, nothing ever was entirely impossible. Improbable, but not impossible.
“In the mood for a hypothetical question?” I asked.
“Best kind. Go on.”
“Suppose you owed someone very big.”
“Money?”
“No. Maybe something closer to life itself. Maybe your career.”
“Okay.”
“Now suppose that person asked you to do something that you could do, relatively easily, but was a felony, a big one. But no one would be really hurt if you did it.”
“And if you refused?”
“A lot of people would be hurt, badly.”
He played with his now-empty coffee cup. “If that isn’t entirely hypothetical, you’ve got yourself one big problem. It sounds like something you might find on an ethics exam.”
“Suppose it was an exam question, what would you answer?”
“I can’t,” he said bluntly. “I don’t have enough facts to even consider an answer. You want to take this out of the hypothetical and tell me what’s going on?”
“I just told you, at this point, I can’t.”
We sat in silence for what seemed like a very long minute.
“Obviously, I can’t advise you, Charley. But it’s this kind of thing that’s dangerous for all of us alcoholics. You know that.”
“What? Stress?”
He shook his head. “No. Indecision. I trust you still recall the serenity prayer.” He said it with a sense of irony, since it was the cornerstone of much of the AA philosophy. Each of us knew every word of it by heart.
“God,” he said quietly, repeating the prayer, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
“I don’t know if any of that even applies in this case.”
“It always applies, Charley. Use it. It’ll keep you from trying to find a solution at the bottom of some bottle.”
He got up, and we finished cleaning up. We walked out and locked up. The last person out always got the job.
Bob walked me to my car.
“If I can be of any help,” he said, “let me know.”
“Sure.”
“And, if this is a legal problem, maybe you can find someone who can help you. A judge, an old friend, someone you can trust. There’s usually somebody if you think hard enough.”
I nodded.
“And, if it’s something you can’t change, accept it.”
WHEN I GOT TO THE office Friday morning I half expected another message from Mallow, but he hadn’t called. Mrs. Fenton broke the silence barrier, but her voice still carried the bitter tinge of lingering resentment.
She had prepared coffee. At least it was warm.
According to the previous day’s obituary, Howard Wordley was being laid to his final rest even as I sat behind my desk. He had been laid out at P. J. Anderson’s, bullet holes artfully concealed by deft cosmetology, for the public to express their sorrow.
Howard himself wasn’t much of a draw. Car dealers who extracted the last dime from their customers seldom were, but Mrs. Claire Wordley brought out the crowds. I had heard the funeral home had been packed with numerous delegations from the charities she supported, the businesses she owned, and from fellow members of exclusive clubs to which she belonged.
P. J. Anderson’s was handling the whole show, which meant Howard would be transported for his last ride not in a Mercedes but rather in a Cadillac hearse, since that was the only kind Anderson owned. It seemed like a final irony, being transported by the opposition company. Nearly on a par with being shot by a gun he himself had loaded.
I didn’t attend. Lawyers defending people who are responsible for the funeral being held in the first place are seldom welcome. Anyway, I never did like Wordley.
I sipped my coffee and watched the river. It was funeral weather, heavy, gray clouds and a slight drizzle. The kind of weather that provokes somber thoughts.
It had been a bad night for me. I slept, but it seemed only in half-hour intervals. The Mallow problem curled through my mind like a twisting snake.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that he had been lying. When he called again, I would tell him just that, as I had before, and turn down his bogus offer.
Still, the possibility loomed before me: maybe he wasn’t lying.
I gulped down the coffee and got to work.
Stash Olesky called to inform me that his new leader had finally made a decision on what Becky was to be charged with. Olesky said it was to be second degree, since Becky had made no statement and they really couldn’t show she had gone to get the gun as Stash had surmised.
That in and of itself was a victory of sorts. Becky, even if she pled guilty, was probably looking at eight years as a practical matter. The hope of eventual freedom beat no hope at all.
Stash asked about the examination.
In Michigan there are two ways to bring a person before the bar for trial. The first is by grand jury indictment. The second, and more popular, is by a charge by the prosecutor to be heard in open court at a hearing called a preliminary examination. A judge determines then if a crime has been committed and if there are reasonable grounds to believe the defendant may have done the dirty deed.
Holding a formal examination in Becky’s case would serve no purpose. I already knew what kind of a case they had against her and I didn’t want to give her a chance to plead guilty before I had a crack at dickering for a lesser plea or sentence.
“I’ll waive the examination, Stash,” I said. “I’ll put it in writing and drop it off today, if you like.”
“Monday’s good enough,” he said. “Look, Charley, my boss tells me I’m not to consider manslaughter. And, if a plea is offered, the term of punishment is to be left up to the judge. I will have no discretion. I wanted you to know that. Now, having been informed, do you still want to waive examination?”
“Suppose I got the widow to okay manslaughter?”
“He might change his mind. You should know that he changes his mind about every three minutes. Still, even then, I doubt he’d want to risk any criticism. He might be afraid the sentencing judge might have some unkind words.”
“Suppose I got the judge to agree, too?”
He snorted. “I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Charley, the case will go to Evola. He’s set up for the next major felony. It’s the vacation season, after all. He’s the only judge around.”
“Damn.”
“You should have been nicer to him in the Harwell trial.”
“Fuck him.”
He laughed. “If that’s your thing, Charley. But what about the examination? Still want to waive?”
I couldn’t think of a thing I could do for Becky by insisting on an examination.
“I’ll still waive, Stash.”
“Okay. To tell you the truth, Charley, I don’t think you’ve got a chance at trial. I know you’re good, but unless you’ve got one of your famous tricks up your sleeve, poor Becky is a goner.”
“What, Stash, are you worried?”
“Not me, Charley. I got sleeves too.”
I KEPT BUSY THE REST OF THE DAY, although most of it turned out to be make-work. Every time the phone rang, I kept thinking it would be Mallow. I had geared myself up to talk to him, to get it over with, but each time it was someone else.
I didn’t call him because I figured he might interpret such a call as a hooded invitation to negotiate. I didn’t want any ambiguity about what I planned to do.
Several times I considered calling Judge Palmer himself, to let him know how his name was being used. Once, I even looked up his number. But the haunting thought that he might actually be involved stopped me, although I was almost positive that couldn’t be the case.
Almost was the key word.
I made up my mind to wait for Mallow.
Mrs. Fenton went home, as usual, precisely at five. I waited around until it was time to pick up Sue Gillis for our dinner date.
I took a couple of calls, people who wanted appointments. But no Mallow.
My anxiety level escalated with every call. I tried to think of the serenity prayer. It wasn’t helping.
I took Sue to a small restaurant on Lake St. Clair. It was the kind of place that looked awful from the outside. A large shack, half of it hanging out over the water, held up by ancient and insecure piles. Peeling paint, warped wood, and rusting gutters only added to the negative impression.
Inside, it was better, but not much, with mismatched tables and old kitchen chairs.
Tourists took one look and drove on. The locals knew that when the cook wasn’t drunk, the fish he prepared was probably the best in the world.
I had called to make reservations. It was done in two stages. First, I asked if Harry the cook was drinking. If he was, there would be lots of tables available. No local went there to eat when Harry was loaded. The girl on the phone sounded as though she were giving a weather report. I was told Harry was stone cold sober and it looked like that dry condition might just last at least into the early evening. There was one table left for eight o’clock; there had been a cancellation, so I grabbed it.
By the time we got there, Harry was nipping but still straight enough to prepare two perch dinners of a quality that would make the best cordon bleu chef resign from sheer envy.
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