Death Penalty

by William J. Coughlin

  She laughed quietly, exposing perfect teeth, whether her own or her dentist’s dream, it was impossible to say.

  She was dressed in a fashionable tennis outfit, pure white with specks of red trim.

  I wondered if this was considered standard mourning gear for Peach Creek widows.

  As if by magic, a young waiter appeared.

  “A drink, Mr. Sloan? I’m having a martini.”

  “Orange juice,” I said.

  She suggested we order. I got the impression that anything she suggested was converted immediately into law at Peach Creek.

  She ordered a salad and, at her suggestion, I ordered something called the back-swing sandwich, a mix of meats, specially broiled.

  The waiter must have possessed Olympic speed. He was back with the drinks before the olive had sunk to the bottom of Claire Wordley’s martini.

  She sipped, then put the glass down.

  “Again, Mrs. Wordley, I must apologize for having to do this so soon after the funeral. If it wasn’t that you were leaving. . .”

  She held up a hand. “I understand the necessity. But let’s make this as brief as possible.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please go on, Mr. Sloan.”

  “I represent Rebecca Harris.”

  “So you said.”

  “She’s been charged with second-degree murder in connection with the death of your husband.”

  “Any question that she didn’t do the shooting?”

  “No.”

  “Self-defense, I suppose?”

  I sighed. “That will be the defense.”

  There was a pause.

  “You really are uncomfortable talking to me, aren’t you, Mr. Sloan?”

  “That’s right. This is hardly the time, I know. And, obviously, this is a delicate situation.”

  She sipped the martini again. “Let me make this easier for you. I was married to Howard for more than forty years. Like many marriages, it was stormy. For the last ten or fifteen years it was a marriage in name only. I stayed because in my circle divorce just isn’t done. I know what Howard was, and I know his weaknesses. There was no point in a divorce. I happen to own everything anyway. We stayed together for appearances, nothing more.”

  Her green eyes met mine. “But he was still my husband. He was murdered and I believe justice should take its course.”

  She played with the martini glass. “The police told me all about Howard’s little fling with your client. I wasn’t kept in the dark. I know what was going on between them.”

  “How about the rape?”

  Her eyebrow raised slightly. “What rape?”

  As quickly as I could, and as delicately, I ran down what had happened.

  “These photographs,” she said, “of the damage he did to the Harris woman. Do you have them?”

  “They’re in my briefcase.”

  “May I see them?”

  “They aren’t pretty, Mrs. Wordley.”

  “Let me see them.” She spoke softly, but it was, nonetheless, a command.

  I took them from my briefcase and handed the file to her. She thumbed through, showing no emotion, even when she studied the close-up of the neck injuries.

  Then she handed them back.

  “So, if this goes to trial, everyone will see these pictures?”

  “They will be the basis of the self-defense claim.”

  “If it goes to trial and she’s convicted, what will happen, as a practical matter?” She asked the question as though she were asking a sales clerk about the quality of an item of interest.

  “The charge is second-degree murder. If convicted, Becky Harris would probably be sentenced to life. But, as you say, as a practical matter, that would mean she’d serve seven, maybe eight years, tops.”

  Those green eyes locked onto mine. “Hardly worth it, is it? A trial, I mean. The whole town would be abuzz, the whole sordid mess dragged out all over again. And”—she paused—“those pictures would become public. That certainly wouldn’t do much for Howard’s memory. Or, to be frank, for me.”

  She finished the martini. “I presume there’s an alternative or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m going to offer a plea to manslaughter. That carries tip to fifteen years. But the prosecutor won’t even consider it unless you approve.”

  Our food was served, but neither of us touched it.

  “Let me be candid, Mrs. Wordley. If the plea were accepted, I would try to get probation for her, if I can.”

  She shook her head. “I may not have been overly fond of Howard, but I think probation is quite out of the question. That is, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “You do.”

  She signaled for another martini. “I would insist that the woman do some time.”

  “How much?”

  “Do I actually get to set the term?”

  “No, but the judge will take your wishes into consideration.”

  She thought for a while. “I would think nothing less than six months. I feel the community would probably see that as sufficient punishment. That, plus the promise that she never return here to Pickeral Point. Does she have family here?”

  “No. I’m sure there would be no problem that way.”

  She nodded. “Well, what happens now?”

  “I’ll notify Mr. Olesky, the prosecutor in charge, and tell him you have no objections to a manslaughter plea, providing Becky Harris serves at least six months and never comes back to Pickeral Point. He’ll want to talk to you, perhaps even get that in writing.”

  “But there are no guarantees, are there?”

  “No. I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Wordley. The judge will also have to approve the plea and sentence.”

  “You didn’t even touch your sandwich,” she said.

  “I’m really not hungry.”

  She nodded.

  “How is she paying you?”

  “Becky?”

  “She was a waitress, I believe. I doubt she has much.”

  “The only asset she has is a ring your husband gave her.”

  “Howard gave her an expensive ring?”

  “She thought it was. It turns out it’s cubic zirconia.”

  She smiled. “And that’s your fee? You certainly work cheap, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Maybe. But look at it this way. I’m taking everything she has.”

  She chuckled. “You are a villain, after all, aren’t you? Do have your Mr. Olesky call me.”

  “Thank you,” I said, standing.

  She wasn’t smiling. “Should I ever shoot anyone, Mr. Sloan, I shall hire you immediately. I like someone who’ll work for zircons.”

  17

  When I got back to my office, my sense of elation was tinged by a heavy echo of self-disgust at having coerced Claire Wordley. She had agreed not to oppose a lesser charge. But it was the threat of the trial, where the alleged rape and the photos would be made public, that did it. It wasn’t extortion in the usual sense. No angry threats, no raised voices. We had both been civilized alxnit the whole thing. Smooth or not, I preferred triumphs that didn’t leave such a terrible taste in my mouth.

  There still had been no message from Mallow.

  I called Stash Olesky and told him what the Widow Wordley had agreed to.

  “You’re an amazing man, Charley,” he chuckled. “How did you do that? Hold a gun on her, or did you show her pictures of her youthful self engaged in disgusting sex acts?”

  “Photographs,” I said. “I’m not much on guns. But she’s leaving town tonight for the rest of the year. I’d appreciate it if you’d call her and confirm what she told me.”

  He sighed. “Well, tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to grab a steno and hop right out there. Given the man I now work for, unless it’s in writing, it won’t count.”

  “I appreciate that, Stash.”

  “Glad to do it. It’ll get me out of the office. Of course, that’s only the first task, Mr. Hercules. Getting Judge Evola to
agree is something I’ll bet considerable money against. No ill wishes, Charley. But he’s just waiting to stick it up your candy ass, and this seems like the first chance fate has been good enough to provide.”

  “I am a weaver of magic and spells,” I said. “You might be surprised.”

  “No might about it. Anyway, I’ll take care of Mrs. Wordley, if only to see what Evola eventually does to you.”

  “Fear not. Blessed are those who seek justice, for they will see heaven.”

  He laughed. “Fat fucking chance. But good luck anyway.”

  IT WAS GETTING TOWARD the end of the day when Mickey Monk called. He didn’t sound drunk.

  “How’s it going, Charley?”

  “Not bad. You?”

  “I’ve seen better days. Obviously, there’s nothing new on our case, right?”

  “Nothing new.” I didn’t dare even hint about Mallow’s offer. Mickey couldn’t be trusted with that kind of information.

  “I thought maybe you might have heard when a decision might come down. I mean, you know, from your friends over there.”

  “Nothing so far.”

  He paused. “I hope to Christ it won’t be much longer.” Again he paused, then continued in a more quiet voice. “The bank foreclosed on my house today.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Well, it’s just a legal paper at the moment. I still have the redemption period. If I’m lucky, we’ll win our case before they actually evict.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Big house, Charley.” He laughed. “And a bigger mortgage. Even if I sold it now, with prices going down where I live, I’d still owe. Right now, I’m three months’ payments behind, a little over six thousand.”

  “That’s a big house.”

  “My wife has expensive tastes.”

  I thought of my bank account. Even with paying for my daughter’s education, I had managed to squirrel away over $30,000. There had been some big fees after the Harwell case, but none recently, except for Dr. Death.

  “I can loan you the six thousand, Mickey,” I said.

  “I appreciate that, Charley, but I couldn’t pay it back if the McHugh case goes down the tubes. I’ll stand pat.”

  “It’s there if you need it.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, I’m a gambler. I’ve put everything on the McHugh case. It would be bad luck to hedge that bet now, not while we’re so close. I’ll let it all ride. Let luck decide the thing.”

  I wondered what he would say if he thought luck might have nothing to do with it. That his luck, perhaps, was a crooked ex-judge offering a deal.

  Mickey wouldn’t have hesitated. He would jump at the chance, even if it meant going to the wise guys to come up with the front money. At this point, he would be willing to toss his life onto the pile of things he had already wagered.

  “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” I said.

  The whole thing is in your capable hands, Charley. I’ve got no worries.”

  Mickey Monk hung up, leaving me holding onto the telephone and at least a ton of guilt.

  MRS. FENTON HAD GONE HOME when he called.

  I picked it up before the machine issued the usual message. For whatever strange reason, somehow I hadn’t expected the call. I thought he might have decided to drop the whole thing.

  “Hello, Charley.”

  It was Mallow.

  “I’m glad you called,” I said. “This has gone far enough. I’m not in the market for what you suggest.”

  “Now, Charley, there you go, jumping to conclusions.” He laughed. “How do you know this is even about the other thing?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “Well, in a way, I suppose it is.”

  “I told you I’m not interested.”

  There’ve been some changes, Charley.”

  “I suppose the price has gone up.”

  He laughed. “My god, you’ve become a cynic. You have to develop a more tolerant attitude. You’ll get an ulcer if you don’t.”

  He paused, then spoke more softly. “We have some time here, as you know. As I said, there have been some changes. Changes, by the way, favorable to you. My friend and I have been having some serious discussions about the problem.”

  “How about I call your friend? I’ll bet he hasn’t the slightest idea of what you’re trying to pull off here.”

  “I’m not trying to pull off anything, Charley.”

  The hell you aren’t. I’ve been asking around. You’re up to your eyeballs in debt, with no way to pay it off. If you think I’m a chump, and if you think I’m going to make a contribution, you’re badly mistaken.”

  He paused, then replied. “You’re wise to check things out, Charley, so long as it’s done in a confidential manner. Obviously. But you’re right. I am in some financial difficulty. It happens to all of us at times.” He paused. “As I recall, it happened to you and not so long ago.”

  “It did. But I sold shoes and real estate to get by. I never tried extortion.”

  He laughed, and that surprised me.

  “Charley, you’re losing your sense of humor. Believe me, this is strictly a business matter, nothing more.”

  “Take a trip to Jackson Prison, it’s full of guys who tried the kind of business deal you’re talking about. I don’t know how I can make this any clearer, but the answer is no.”

  “I understand,” he said quietly. “But please do me the courtesy of talking to me face-to-face.”

  “It won’t change the answer.”

  “Perhaps not. But I think you owe it to us. If not me, then certainly to my friend.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “That’s probably true. But I don’t think that applies to my friend, does it?”

  “If you don’t get off my back and drop this, I’ll call him myself and let him deal with you.”

  “If you like. Do it.” He sounded confident. Much too confident. “All I’m asking is to meet and talk this over. Then, if you still feel the same way, no harm’s done.”

  “It won’t—”

  “I’ll let you know the place and time.”

  He hung up.

  I sat staring at the telephone. I decided that if he did call, I’d refuse the meeting.

  What could he do to me?

  Nothing.

  As if that thought summoned up a ghost, in my mind I saw once again Will McHugh, tied to that dreadful chair, a prisoner in that equally dreadful trailer.

  AS A COURTESY. I called Judge Bishop at his courtroom. He had just heard a motion and was preparing to hear another, so he was in chambers and took my call.

  “Good morning, Charley. I presume there have been developments?” Even over the phone, his quiet voice still had that odd force of command.

  “Mallow called,” I said. “I wouldn’t disturb you, Judge, but you did say you wanted to be informed.”

  “You’re not disturbing me, Charley. What did he say?”

  “He said there had been some changes proposed. He wants a face-to-face meeting. When I told him no, he said I owed it to Judge Palmer.”

  “Did he use Palmer’s name over the phone?”

  “No. He referred to him as ‘my friend,’ but we both knew who he was talking about.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I would call Palmer direct.”

  “And?”

  “He said to go ahead if I liked.”

  “He wasn’t upset?”

  “Didn’t seem to be.”

  There was a pause. “When is this meeting supposed to happen?”

  “He didn’t say. He said he’d let me know.”

  “Don’t call Palmer,” Bishop said.

  “Why not?”

  “Just a hunch, Charley. Let’s see what happens.”

  “I don’t intend to meet with Mallow.”

  There was another pause. “Let me know when he contacts you.”

  “This has gone far enough.”

  Now the v
oice grew even more soft, but ever more commanding. “I’d meet with him, Charley. Play this thing out. You never know what it might lead to.”

  “Supposes it leads to Judge Palmer? I’m not going to have any part in bringing him down.”

  “I understand that. But, so far, it’s more curiosity than anything else, isn’t it? Humor me on this, Charley. I’d consider it a favor.”

  That’s what Mallow says all this is, just a favor.”

  “Let’s see.” I heard someone speak to him. “I have to go now, Charley. Keep me advised.”

  I didn’t have time to speculate on what The Bishop had in mind. Mrs. Fenton buzzed and advised me that I had two unscheduled visitors. Prospective clients. I told her to bring them in.

  They were father and son, and looked it. I knew the father. He owned the local radio station and several other businesses in town. I had represented his chief talent in contract negotiations, a disc jockey who used the name River Rat. The negotiations had been amicable.

  “Mr. Denton,” I said, “it’s good to see you again.”

  We shook hands.

  “This is my son, Peter.”

  Sidney Denton was fifty-ish, with a square and heavy body, half-fat, half-muscle. He was blond. His white skin was freckled.

  His kid was an absolute duplicate, only younger. I guessed about twenty.

  Both men had exactly the same meaty and strong grip in their handshakes.

  “Please sit down,” I said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Sidney Denton smiled. It was one of those board-of-commerce smiles, the smile of a confident businessman who expected to either sell you something or to buy, but at a bargain.

  “Pete has gotten himself into a bit of trouble,” he said. “I’d like you to represent him.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I looked at Pete, who seemed as supremely confident as his father.

  “A kid prank,” his father answered. “Pete is a junior at Central Michigan University. He was home for the weekend with a couple of his buddies, and they got into some trouble. They had something to drink, you know how college boys are.”

  “Go on.”

  “We just came from the jail. I posted bond for Pete.”

  “Bond? What’s he charged with?”

  “It’s all a mistake,” the father said.

  “Could be, but what’s the charge?”