The place was packed with locals. Everyone knew everyone else.
Sue had some former customers in attendance—a couple who ran a very successful sex therapy business until they were convicted of prostitution. Sue said the man was doing well as a boat salesman. His partner, a flashy and fleshy blonde who laughed a lot, was doing secretarial work. Sue wasn’t entirely convinced that therapy sessions weren’t still being offered to selected customers. But we were all out for a social evening, not business, so cordial waves of hello was how it went.
A man I had gotten a divorce for sent over drinks, a martini for Sue and an orange juice for me. He was with a hard-eyed woman half his age. The way she looked at him seemed to me like the way a Bedouin might look at a particularly promising camel. I figured there might be even additional divorce business sometime in the future. We saluted each other with raised glasses across the crowded room.
Harry came out of his kitchen to say hello. He was a steady client of mine. He no longer had a driver’s license, no one could have saved that, not with the number of convictions he had accrued, but I had managed to keep him out of jail, except for a night or two, for assorted assaults and other numerous disturbances of the peace.
Harry’s nipping was obviously increasing in frequency and amount, and I pitied the later diners who would come and find that Harry’s culinary magic had floated away, lost in an alcoholic fog.
I had tried several times to get Harry into the club, but he wasn’t interested. I suspected that one day he would topple over into a giant skillet, and there, amid bubbling butter and onions, he would sauté his soul into the hands of that great maître d’ in the sky.
“Something’s bothering you,” Sue said after we had eaten and were sipping coffee.
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re unusually quiet.”
“Maybe you’re seeing the real me, ever think of that?”
“If it’s the Becky Harris case,” she said, “I can’t talk about it, you know that.”
“It’s not that.”
“What then?”
“Nothing.”
“A family problem? Your daughter?”
“No.”
She raised the coffee cup to her lips, watching me.
I smiled, trying to look as though I hadn’t a care in the world.
She just shook her head. “If you refuse to talk, I can take you back to my place and force it out of you.”
“Blackjack and handcuffs?”
“You know, Charley, sometimes I wonder about you.”
SHE DIDN’T USE ANY weapons or restraints, and we made love in the most gentle fashion. I had almost forgotten my problem, and she, thankfully, had forgotten to continue to pry.
My secret, such as it was, remained mine.
I spent the night, but Sue had to go to work Saturday morning, so after a quick cup of coffee with her I went back to my own place to clean up. It was raining softly and the air had the chill feel of another all-day drizzle.
The red light on my answering machine was blinking. I wondered if it might be Mallow.
I played back the messages. One was from a former client who wanted to get a divorce. Even on the short message tape, I could hear his wife screaming at him in the background. I thought the call was more for effect than a serious inquiry about my legal services. He said he would call my office on Monday.
The other was from an old friend, Jason Bishop, a judge who was lining up a St. Benedict alumni golf outing, who asked if I might be interested. He left his home phone number.
It was while I was taking my shower that I realized that Judge Bishop knew all the players in my little drama, and he knew them well. Including me. He was one of the centers in the so-called St. Benedict Mafia.
To his face, he was called Judge. To his close friends, Jase. But other than face-to-face encounters, he was known to bench, bar, and press as The Bishop.
It wasn’t only because of his last name. He looked like a bishop, or at least Hollywood’s idea of a British bishop. He was rotund, with a wisp of white hair that lay like a low halo around the back of his head. He wore tiny reading glasses that were perpetually perched near the tip of his nose. His face was forever solemn. A small, tight smile was the only expression he ever allowed himself, although, in fact, he had a wild sense of humor He favored black suits, which contributed to the priestly look. It was as if he had been conjured up by the casting directors for Masterpiece Theatre. He had everything but the traditional gaiters.
Always, he spoke quietly—even in the midst of the most violent courtroom battle. But his words carried surprising force, empowered by a superior intellect, quick mind, and an uncanny knowledge of people in all walks of life. His gentle eyes, a blue as pale as milk glass, seemed to see more than any other eyes.
He had sent me to jail once for contempt when I got carried away in a trial before him. I sat in a cell for an hour, which, together with my apology, had constituted what he considered adequate punishment.
Over the years, even during my most turbulent times, he had become my friend, and later, one of my advisers.
He was as much a state political fixture as had been his father before him. The elder Bishop, a legendary state senator, had been one of the most powerful men in Michigan. His son, the judge, was the same. There wasn’t anyone who held important office in the state whom he didn’t know and who didn’t know him.
They might kid about The Bishop, but I had never heard anyone speak of him with anything but respect.
He was a wise man.
Bob Williams had suggested that I might seek out someone, someone I could talk to, someone I could trust, someone I could talk to in confidence about my situation.
I toweled off.
Before I even had a chance to give it a second thought, I dialed The Bishop’s number.
16
The last time I had seen The Bishop had been at his wife’s funeral, almost a year before. Since then, he had moved from the big house in Grosse Pointe to a smaller condo only a few blocks away. He gave me the new address.
It was about an hour’s drive from Pickeral Point, and he invited me for lunch. Saturday, he said, was customarily reserved for golf, but the rain had washed that plan away. He said his only other alternative was to sit around the golf club and play cards. He liked golf, but he didn’t like cards, so he sounded genuinely glad to have something else to do.
I didn’t give him a clue about why I had called.
The drive down wasn’t bad, the rain wasn’t that hard, although the mist thrown up by big trucks made passing hazardous.
I wondered if I was really doing the right thing.
In the shower, my looking for The Bishop’s advice seemed like an inspiration. Now driving in an entirely different cascade of water, I wondered about the wisdom.
Jason Bishop had graduated from St. Benedict with Franklin Palmer, and was only a year or two ahead of Jeffrey Mallow. Bishop had been elected as a Wayne County Circuit judge almost before his law diploma was dry, thanks to his politician father. He had helped many others, including his old classmates, to attain high political office. I wondered if talking to him about Franklin Palmer and Jeffrey Mallow might turn out to be one of the biggest blunders of my life.
No question, he was an oddity. Judge Bishop could easily have gone up the judicial ladder but had turned down a federal judgeship as well as a nomination to the state supreme court. He liked what he did and where he did it. If power and influence were money, he would be a very rich man. But The Bishop lived comfortably, quite content on his judicial salary. For him, wealth, like ambition, apparently held little allure.
His condo was a luxury row house built during the 1930s, the units looking like something you’d see in the older, more elegant streets of Philadelphia or Baltimore.
I located his number, parked the car, and jogged through the rain toward the front door.
There he was, opening the door, before I even got there.
&nb
sp; From the waist on up, he looked more like a bishop than ever, wearing a gray pullover with a white collar buttoned at the neck. The impression was definitely clerical.
But from the waist down, things were different.
He wore garish plaid trousers, golfing attire, I presumed. The plaid was woven of sickly reds and decaying greens. If an animal looked like that, a vet would have put the poor thing to sleep.
I’m of average height, more or less, and The Bishop was several inches shorter.
He shook my hand solemnly and led me through his rather sparse living room into a small kitchen, a room that had the look and feel of where he did most of his living.
“You’ve saved me from a fate worse than death, Charley,” he said in his surprisingly soft voice. “I faced a day of pinochle with dullards who don’t understand the game.”
He gestured to a kitchen chair. “I’ve prepared sandwiches, complete with pickles and fixings. Now what to drink, eh? I have coffee, tea, soft drinks, beer, liquor, even bottled water. That’s courtesy of my daughter, who thinks tap water is poisonous and designer water is just like being in heaven.”
“Coffee’s fine, Judge.”
“Still in the program, I take it, Charles?”
I nodded.
“Good. Would it bother you if I had a beer?”
“Not at all.”
He had gone to some trouble with the sandwiches. Apparently from living alone he was learning about kitchens and cooking. The coffee was a special blend, imported, and tasted like it.
“I called a number of the St. Benedict crowd about the golf outing, Charley. But you’re the only one who responded immediately. Have you become a devotee of the game, by any chance?”
“I don’t play anymore. It frustrates me, frankly.”
He nodded, as though I had just said something terribly profound.
“The game was created by God to teach man humility,” he said. “If you’re not here as a golfer, Charley, may I inquire what dark need my phone call unearthed?”
I watched as he sipped his beer. Suddenly I felt the need to drink. I looked away.
“I need some advice,” I said.
“Advice is like flatulence, Charley. I’m full of it.” He stood up, poured out the beer, and in its place, took coffee.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.
“I know. Now, Charley, let’s hear your problem.”
Looking into those soft blue eyes had a hypnotic effect on me. I began awkwardly, but soon, soothed into comfort, I told my story, beginning with Mickey Monk’s request through my latest conversation with Jeffrey Mallow.
He listened as though we were in court, nodding occasionally, asking a few questions, but otherwise evidencing no discernible reaction.
Finally, I was finished.
He poured fresh coffee for us both, then sat down and studied me for a moment before speaking.
“I was a senior in law school when Jeff Mallow was a freshman. We go back a long way.”
My heart sank. Maybe I had managed to pick the wrong wise man.
“In those days, Charley, after admission to the bar, the law practice was a lot tougher to get into. Most of our boys went into work as insurance adjusters, things like that, something to bring in a steady income while they ran around like mad dogs trying to dig up clients. Some made it, some didn’t. Darwin didn’t have to travel all the way to the Galapagos Islands. He could have studied one of St. Benedict’s old graduating classes. He would have learned all he needed to know about the survival of the fittest.”
He got up. “How about a cigar, Charley?”
I shook my head. “That’s something I gave up, too.”
“You’ll be sprouting white wings any day now. It’s my last vice, and I cling to it, despite my doctor and my children. I limit myself to two cigars a day.”
He produced a cigar that was long enough to lift a truck. It was the equal of three normal cigars. He lit it with a kitchen match, then turned on the blower over his kitchen range. The cloud of smoke was sucked up, but the pungent aroma still permeated the small room.
He studied the glowing tip as a doctor might inspect a lab specimen. Satisfied, he drew again on the cigar, blew out the smoke, and continued.
“I was lucky, of course. My father got me a job with the prosecutor and then had me appointed to this job when old Judge Herbert got caught with a lady—not his wife—and resigned.”
He smiled at the memory. “The old man rigged the thing. He didn’t frame Herbert, but as soon as it happened, he saw a way he could provide a lifetime job for his son, and he did.”
He laughed. “He had a vote the governor needed. Badly. Very badly. Cynics might call it selling out. Even extortion. In any event, I got the job, and I have had it now for forty-two years.”
He fondled the cigar. “We were a tight group, those of us who survived old St. Benedict. I used my new position and power to help my classmates and friends. Frank Palmer was one. Jeff Mallow was another.”
“Judge, I’m sorry if I’ve . . .”
The Bishop shook his head, indicating that I should remain silent.
“Frank Palmer got a job as criminal law professor at the school. They do that now with nationwide searches when they need a professor. Then, it didn’t pay much, and it was considered a part-time job for one of us who needed it. Frank did, and he got it.
“Later, as you know, he was appointed to the appellate bench. I had something to do with that, not a lot, but I helped.”
As he drew in another long puff, the cigar tip glowed an oddly vibrant red. “Jeff Mallow followed the same career track, more or less.
“You have to understand, Charley, we were all Detroit boys, mostly from the working class, and we didn’t have many friends besides ourselves. We tended to cling together, a sort of ragtag, self-help society, if you will.”
I nodded. The same thing had applied to my own graduating class.
“Jeff Mallow was always a little brash, but likable. Did you know why he quit as chief judge of the appellate court?”
“To join Armstead Meade, so the papers said.”
The Bishop nodded. “True enough—Armstead, Meade, Slocum and Herman, the biggest law firm in the state, and the most expensive. They took him on as a full partner, too. Of course, he was bringing something to that firm far more valuable than his former judicial title.”
“Oh?”
“Jeff had managed to persuade our most famous and most affluent alumnus, Jacques Mease, the wizard of Wall Street, to sign aboard as his client. Obviously, Mease’s business would mean millions of dollars in future legal fees, so Armstead Meade grabbed Jeff Mallow like a hungry cat might go after a big fat fish.”
He chuckled, but there was a sadness in that sound. “Unfortunately for all concerned, about a month later, the feds dropped the net on Mease. As you know, he turned in almost everyone but his mother. Did a year. Kept millions. Escaped to the South Seas.”
“Mallow must have made some money before that happened,” I interjected, “perhaps as a defense lawyer for Mease?”
The Bishop shook his head. “Not a penny. Mease made his own deals with the feds. Of course, having lost the fat fish as a client, Armstead Meade showed Jeffrey the door so fast he didn’t know what hit him.
“He’s been going downhill ever since. He talks like he owns the world, but he’s almost bankrupt. I understand he’s about to file.”
“So that’s why he’s so desperate for money?”
The Bishop nodded, then relit the cigar.
“Jeffrey,” he said through the smoke, “has borrowed from every one of us, some more than others. He has, financially, hit the very bottom.”
“Judge, what should I do? If I turn him in, it’s his word against mine. Financial problems or no, I wouldn’t be believed.”
“You could turn him in and wear a wire.”
For one long minute, I thought he had to be joking.
“That would eliminate the credib
ility problem,” he said.
I shook my head. “No. I’m not a cop. The man’s desperate. He’s running a fraud. God, maybe if I were in his shoes I might do the same. I’ll just tell him it’s no deal, and let it go at that. Besides, lawyers who blow the whistle on judges, even ex-judges, aren’t the most welcome people in court. It could hurt me worse than him. Anyway, there’s no point in doing it.”
“It’s your decision to make, obviously.” The Bishop nodded slowly, then spoke again, this time in an even softer voice. “Charley, I would appreciate it if you’d keep me advised on this.” The last was spoken in a voice that was just above a whisper, but there was no question that the statement had the snap of a command.
“Sure. If you like. But, given what you’ve told me, there’s no real problem. I’ll just tell him to go to hell, and that’s the end of it.”
I got up. “Well, then, thanks for the lunch and the advice.”
“Any time. Tea and sympathy, that’s my true calling.”
He walked me to the door. “Let me know as soon as you hear from Jeffrey.”
“Any special reason?”
“Perhaps.”
“Like what, if you don’t mind telling?”
“I’m interested. Frank Palmer also has been borrowing heavily.”
There it was again, the same quiet voice.
DRIVING BACK TO PICKERAL POINT, every bar I passed seemed to be blinking a special invitation just for me. I saw the cars parked in front of the places. I knew inside it would be cool, dark, and a baseball game would be on the television above the bar. A man could forget trouble there for a while. Just sip and watch the game, the mind out of gear, human intelligence coasting.
I could even conjure up the tart taste of a fresh, cold beer.
Thoughts like that were dangerous.
There were no Saturday AA meetings unless I drove all the way back into Detroit, and there were a lot of saloons to pass before I got there. Sue Gillis was staying overnight at her sister’s in Toledo. Bob Williams was away at a medical seminar.
I had two choices. I could go to my office and watch the rain on the river, or I could go to my apartment and watch the rain on the parking lot.
Death Penalty Page 19
