“Armed robbery,” Pete snapped.
His father glanced at him as if he disapproved of his choice of words.
“Tell me what happened,” I said to Pete.
“Well, they were—” his father began.
I held up my hand to stop him. “Please. I’d like to hear this from your son.”
Denton frowned.
Pete shrugged. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly. If anything it bordered on sullen.
“Me, Chris Baker, and Norris Child were here for the weekend. They were staying with me at my parents’ place. It’s on the river.
“Anyway, we went into Port Huron on Saturday and cruised around that big mall there for a while. There wasn’t much to do. We came back to my house. My parents had gone to a party. We started drinking beer, you know, having our own party.”
“I don’t like Pete to drink and drive, so I allow him to drink when he’s home. We, my wife and I, entertain a great deal, so there’s a fully stocked bar.”
“The three of you started drinking, then what happened?” I asked Pete.
“We got into a discussion about crime. About robbery, mugging, and things like that.”
“And?”
“Chris Baker said I wouldn’t have the guts to commit something like that. Norris agreed. They were egging me on. Like I said, we were drinking.”
“Go on.”
“Finally we bet some money. I got one of my father’s pistols.”
“I’m a gun collector and a hunter,” the older Denton interjected, defensively.
“We drove to the gas station at Main and Elm. It was the only thing open.”
“I know the place,” I said.
“They waited in the car and I went in with the gun. I stuck it up, just like I said I would, took the money from the till, and came back to the car.”
“The police arrested them about a mile away,” his father volunteered.
I sat back in my chair. “Did they tell you that you didn’t have to make a statement?”
“Yeah, just like in the movies.”
“Did you make a statement?”
He shrugged. “It was just a gag, just something to prove a bet. Yeah, I told them. Wouldn’t have made any difference. Chris and Norris were so scared, they were blabbing and told them everything they wanted to know anyway.”
“Were they charged, too?”
Young Denton nodded. “At first. But the cops dropped the charges on the promise they would testify against me. So much for good friends.”
“Did the gas station attendant identify you?”
“Sure. I knew him. He knew me. We went to high school together. At first he thought it was a joke, that is, until I fired a shot into the ceiling. That scared the shit out of him.”
I nodded. “Undoubtedly.”
“It was a joke,” his father said. “They didn’t need the money. It was just a coDege-boy prank. It wasn’t a robbery.”
“After you fired the shot, did the attendant say anything?”
Pete half smiled. “He begged me not to shoot him. He always was a wimp, even in school.”
“Have you ever been arrested before, Pete?”
He shrugged again, it was becoming an irritating gesture. “Speeding, a couple of times. Fighting once.”
“Assault?”
“At a football game. I got a fine and probation, that was all.”
“Are you on probation now?”
His father cleared his throat. “He is. It’s up next month. But on this other thing, I think when this is all explained, just some college boys out for fun, it’ll help clear things up. Of course, what happened was serious, Pete knows that now. I was thinking that you might get the charge reduced. A fine, probation, public service. Pete is prepared to do whatever he must. He knows he’s stepped over the line.”
I looked into his father’s eyes and I saw the prayer there. He wanted some reassuring words, something that would let him know his son would be all right, that nothing serious was going to happen to him.
“Let me explain what Pete faces here. The charge is robbery armed. In Michigan, that calls for a sentence up to life in prison. Also, I’m sure they charged him with the possession of a firearm during the commission of a crime.”
Pete nodded. “They said something like that.”
“That charge, unless there’s a plea bargain, calls for a mandatory two years in prison, all on its own. Mandatory. The word means you have to do the time, all of it.”
Sidney Denton paled. Pete showed no reaction.
“Even if it was just as Pete says, to win a bet, it’s still an armed robbery plus an assault on the attendant. A pistol was used, fired, and money was taken.”
I looked at the kid. “You do drugs, Pete?”
“No.”
His father frowned. “He smoked some pot in high school and got in trouble for it. As far as I know, Pete doesn’t use anything now.”
“When the cops arrested you, did they run a Breathalyzer on you?”
He nodded.
“Did they say you were drunk?”
The half smile returned. “It showed I was drinking, but I wasn’t legally drunk.” He said it with a kind of smirking pride.
“If you had been drunk, it might have been a defense, not a good one, maybe, but one that would show that you were too stiff to form the necessary intent.” I paused. “And you’re sure you weren’t high on something else? A little cocaine, maybe?”
“Beer, man, that’s all we had.”
Sidney Denton looked even more pale. “What can you do for my son?”
I sat back and tried to form the words so that they wouldn’t hurt too badly.
“If it’s as Pete says, there isn’t much anyone can do. He planned an armed robbery and carried it out. He used a loaded gun and fired it, even if it was only to make a point. His two companions will testify against him, saying they never thought he would actually go through with it. Pete confessed to the police after they read him his rights. In other words, they have an ironclad case of armed robbery, plus the weapon charge I just spoke about.”
“But it was a prank. A judge would take that into consideration.”
I nodded. “He would. Also, Pete’s a college boy, comes from a good family, and the judge would also take all that into consideration. But Pete’s on probation now. That’s another crime, violation of probation. So, for openers, you’ve got the robbery armed, the gun charge, plus the violation of probation.”
“What exactly are you saying?” his father asked.
“My guess, and it’s only that, is that even if a lesser plea could be worked out, Pete is looking at one to two years in prison.”
“Bullshit,” Pete snapped. “I’ve read about murderers getting probation.”
I nodded as I thought of Becky Harris. That was exactly what I was trying to work out for her. “That does happen sometimes. Usually, it’s in Detroit, where murder is a kind of hobby. But this is Pickeral Point, and they look at things a bit differently in these parts.”
“I know all the judges here,” Sidney Denton said. “They know me, they know my family. Surely something can be worked out?”
“Maybe. Six months in prison, the rest in a halfway house. It would depend on the judge and would also depend on luck.”
“What about a jury trial?” the kid asked. “That’s why we came here. They say you can get anyone off.”
“That would be nice, if true. And if it were true, you would have had to wait in line. I do my best, but that’s all I can do. I doubt a jury would look on a college boy sticking up a gas station as amusing. You stand a better chance if you can get the right judge and a plea bargain.”
“Probation?” his father asked.
“Anything’s possible, but I’m afraid Pete’s looking at more than that.”
“You said this guy was good,” Pete snapped at his father. “He’s a fucking asshole.”
I smiled. “He’d do well in front of a jury,�
� I said to his father. “Tell you what. Just like the doctors, why don’t you get a second opinion?”
Sidney Denton nodded.
“And, then, if you want to come back, I’ll do everything I can for Pete.”
“How much do I owe you?” Sidney Denton asked, his voice deep with defeat.
“If you decide to come back, we’ll work out a fee for services.”
The kid smirked, got up, and swaggered out the door. He was, like his old man, half-fat, half-muscle, but there wasn’t enough muscle to protect him from what would happen to him where he was going.
Pete Denton was about to get an education that would be unobtainable in any college.
I felt sorrier for his father.
Justice sometimes wreaked havoc on the wrong people.
18
Sue Gillis prepared dinner at her place. She made pasta with Italian sausage, having added oils and spices that made everything speckled with green and red. When I first looked at the heaping bowl, I thought I might be able to nibble a forkful or two, if only to be polite. Hamburgers are usually as fancy as I get. Of course, on the first mouthful I found the kind of delight usually associated with sex. I ate until I was near bursting.
Much to her amusement, I had to pass on dessert.
“You don’t run into too many cops who can cook,” I said, sipping coffee.
“I have many talents, Charley. You’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“So it would seem.”
Sue had laced her coffee with brandy. She had done it so I couldn’t see, but a recovering drunk has the nose of a hunting dog when it comes to alcohol. I said nothing.
“So, Charley, have you solved your mysterious problem?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I wish I could, Sue, but I can’t. Especially not with an officer of the law.”
“Turning criminal, are you?”
“I’m trying not to.”
She frowned. “That serious?”
“Well, not really, just a touch sensitive. I’ll tell you about it when I can. It’s a little like the Becky Harris case. You can’t discuss that, right?”
She made a face. “I’m not supposed to. Stash Olesky says you got Mrs. Wordley to agree to a lesser plea. How’d you do that?”
“I slept with her.”
“Charley, I don’t like those kind of jokes.”
“I didn’t really. I just let her think I would. Old women are funny like that. They’ll believe anything.”
“According to Stash, you won’t be able to get Evola to agree.”
“Probably not. All I can do is try.”
She sipped her coffee. I could sense she was thinking about something else. She had that quizzical look in her eyes.
“Charley, how many times have you been married?”
“I’ve already told you. Three. Each was a unique human experience, not unlike being in a plane wreck or having been a prisoner of war.”
She didn’t smile. “That bad?”
I sighed, wishing I could loosen my trousers without looking like a dolt. “Worse in some ways. There are things alcoholics can do to each other in a marriage that would turn the stomach of a Gestapo officer. Frankly, it wasn’t all a one-way street. I developed my own nasty brand of cruelty.”
“I doubt that.”
“Sober, I am as you see me. Drunk, I am something altogether different.”
“So, I presume that means you would never marry again?”
There it was: It was the question. Eventually they all asked it. Even I asked it, but only of myself. I never got a clear answer, nor could I really give one.
“What’s on your mind, Sue? Is this leading to a proposal?”
“No.” She looked away. “I guess experience shapes how we see life.”
“Usually.”
“My marriage,” she said quietly, “for as short as it was, was a beautiful experience. I never believed two people could be as close as we were, or share life so completely.”
I said nothing in reply.
“I suppose I miss that sharing most of all. I have a good life here, Charley. I like my job. I have a ton of friends. I get out, and I do things. But that sharing is still missing.”
“So you’d like to get married again someday?”
She nodded. “Yes, but it would have to be just as special as the first time.”
“That’s a tough order. You can never truly duplicate anything in this life, at least never the way it once was. Everything is a compromise, one way or the other.”
“Don’t you get lonely, Charley? I don’t mean for sex, or even friendship, just to be close to someone, so close . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I understand what you’re saying, Sue, I really do. I get as lonely as the next person, perhaps more. But marriage hasn’t worked for me, not in that way.”
“Things have changed, Charley. You’ve changed.”
“I’m sober. That’s the biggest change.” I looked at her. The cheerleader vivacity seemed to have flown. There was something different in her eyes. A need I hadn’t before seen.
“Sue, staying sober is my number one job. I haven’t been off the stuff all that long. It takes a lot of energy, it really does. I don’t know if I’d have enough left over to make a marriage work.”
“Even with someone you loved?”
“Even with someone who loved me.”
“So marriage is out, then?”
I shook my head. “Never say never. But at the moment, I’m not prepared to take the risk.”
She paused, then spoke. “At least you’re honest, Charley.”
“Sometimes.”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “More coffee?”
“Sure.”
We sat quietly then, just talking. Various subjects, about family, old friends, schools, one subject leading easily to another.
But we didn’t mention marriage again.
When the evening began, I had entertained carnal thoughts and expectations.
Now, it was late, and those thoughts and expectations had somehow evaporated.
I kissed her good night. It was a chaste kiss.
I drove home.
And I was lonely.
TUESDAY MORNING I had a drunk-driving trial. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, no injuries, no damages, just my man clocked at eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the road, right after the bars closed. He had had previous drunk-driving convictions. The policeman was professional on the stand, and the standard Breathalyzer evidence stood up, despite all my efforts to discredit the machine.
I lost, which didn’t surprise anyone, including my client. He would have pleaded guilty, but mainly he wanted to cause the police some inconvenience. He got a large fine and several weekends in the county jail. He would have received more, but he had a job and a family. His driver’s license was now a memory. I tried to get a restricted license for him, one that would allow him to drive only to work and back. The judge merely shook his head.
My client seemed content. I tried to interest him in AA or some rehabilitation program, but he indignantly informed me, as I knew most drunks do, that he didn’t have a drinking problem.
It had been a wasted morning, but I had been paid my fee up front, so that helped ease the frustration somewhat.
I grabbed a quick hamburger and then went back to my office.
Mrs. Fenton handed me my messages.
Mallow hadn’t called.
There were other calls I would have to answer, but at the moment I didn’t feel like doing so immediately.
I swung my chair around and watched the traffic on the river. It was a clear and sunny day. Boats, looking like water bugs, zipped up and down past fishermen who were trolling, moving but almost imperceptibly.
A large freighter was coming up the river, gray and weathered, looking as though it had come from the other side of the earth, which was probably exactly the case.
Mrs. Fenton buzzed the phone and I picked it up.
There’s a sheriff who wants to talk to you. He says his name is Miller.”
“It probably is,” I said. “Put him through.”
I heard the click. “This is Charles Sloan,” I said.
“Mr. Sloan, I’m Sheriff Miller. Cork Miller. I’m sheriff of Harbor Beach County.”
“Right up there in the tip of the Thumb, right?”
“Michigan’s thumbnail,” he said. “That’s what our chamber of commerce calls it.”
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Got a man here who wants to talk to you. This is his one official phone call.” He chuckled. “Long-distance, too. Hang on. Here he is.”
“Get up here!” The words were spoken hysterically. “They have me in jail!”
I knew the voice, but I couldn’t resist.
“Who is this?”
He yelled in response. “This is Doctor Miles Stewart!”
“Well, Doctor, why do they have you in jail?”
“They have accused me of murder.”
Suddenly my amusement evaporated.
“Listen to me,” I said, “and listen to me carefully. I don’t want you talking to any policeman, prosecutor, or anyone else. I will get up there as fast as I can. It’s about a three-hour drive.” I glanced at my new diver’s watch, a gift from a client. “I should be there about five.”
“Can’t you call someone and get me out on bail?”
“Not until a degree of murder is fixed by a judge.”
“This is outrageous!”
“I’m sure it is. Would you ask Sheriff Miller if I can talk to him? Put him back on.”
“He wants to talk to you,” Stewart snapped. The good doctor wouldn’t be making too many friends up there, not with his usual arrogance.
“Miller here.”
“Sheriff, I will be representing Doctor Stewart. I should be up there in about three hours. I’ve instructed Stewart not to make any statements. I don’t want him questioned unless I’m present.”
“No problem, Mr. Sloan. We’re a friendly bunch up here. Have you ever been to our jail?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s not much, not by big city standards. I’ll see your man gets a private cell. That’s the least we can do for a celebrity.”
Death Penalty Page 22
