Death Penalty

by William J. Coughlin

  Much worse, I felt like I needed a drink.

  Which made me, of course, rush out of the office.

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Fenton called after me.

  “For a walk,” I yelled back. “A long walk.”

  20

  The walk had been very long, and by the end of it that sudden urge to plunge into a bottle had mostly gone. Not entirely. If it didn’t completely let up, I knew I could find a meeting somewhere later.

  I got in my car and headed for Detroit. I had tried to reach Judge Bishop, but he was gone for the day and there was no answer at his home.

  I was completely on my own.

  I took the expressway exit that would get me to Jefferson, one of the few main streets in Detroit that didn’t look as if a terrible battle had been recently fought there.

  There was new development down along the river. Some old warehouses and breweries had been turned into trendy hotels and apartments, complete with a sprinkling of high-end restaurants. Most of the complexes were in foreclosure, and the restaurants existed in the shadow of the neighborhood crime, relying on valet parking and their own private police to lure customers with the sometimes tenuous promise of security.

  The early evening traffic was heavy and I wiggled my way over to the right-hand lane.

  Once, in the area just before the bridge to Belle Isle, there had been two huge factories, a rubber plant that made the tires for all of Detroit’s many makes of cars, and a stove works that had existed before the turn of the century, making a brand of cast-iron stove that was standard in kitchens from one coast to the other.

  But it became more economical to make the tires elsewhere, and the stoves. Rubber was out, as was cast iron. Like old trees, the plants died, and were vacant for years. Then the bulldozers came, leveling the huge old structures and leaving behind a mass of crumbled bricks. And a lot of memories.

  The factories had been located on the river so that the raw materials could be brought in by boat; the razed land became prime riverfront, or as prime as it gets in Detroit.

  The Riverside Hotel now occupied the site of the old stove works, looking like a mountain of glass and steel girders. It was almost new, just a year or two old, but had been around long enough not to draw sufficient customers for the optimistic developers to pay the bank note. Now the bank owned it.

  I found the health club. It was a one-story building standing just across from the hotel’s main entrance. It was all brick, with windows set high up near the top of the roof. The architect had tried to make it blend with the hotel, but somehow he had missed. It looked like an orphan cub, discarded and pushed aside by its hulking and embarrassed mother.

  The parking lot was attended, so I felt reasonably safe in leaving the car.

  When I got inside, I found a small counter and a bored woman doing a crossword puzzle. She deigned to look up when I entered.

  “My name is Sloan, Charles Sloan. I’m looking for Judge Jeffrey Mallow.”

  She blinked a couple of times as if I was speaking a foreign language. “Oh, yeah,” she said finally. “He said you’d be here.”

  She shoved an open book at me. “Just sign the register, there, as a guest.”

  I did as instructed and she bent over and came up with several large towels, a small swimsuit, and an elastic wristband with a key attached.

  She handed them to me. “The judge is in the members’ lounge. That door over there. He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked past several stationary bicycles and through the door she indicated. It was like a small hotel lobby, mostly leather furniture. He was sitting in a large chair reading The Wall Street Journal.

  “You’re late,” he said in that deep voice.

  “Traffic. It’s a long drive from Pickeral Point.”

  He didn’t seem impressed.

  “Ever been here before?” he asked.

  “No, never.”

  “I’ll give you the twenty-five-cent tour.”

  I wasn’t allowed an option. He led the way up several stairs to an exercise room. It was all chrome and pulleys and looked like a space-age torture chamber.

  “They got every goddamned exercise machine known to man here. You can build up every part of your body except your dick, and I suppose that’s next. C’mon.”

  Mallow was wearing a dark blue jacket and gray trousers. I followed, clutching my towels and equipment.

  “This is why I’m a member,” he said, leading me into a sparkling shower room. “Here.” He pulled open a door and cedar-laden air poured out. Steam, but it smelled like a forest.

  “This is the best damned sauna in the city. Unlike you, Charley, I still drink a bit. If I drink too much, I come over here, take a steam and a few laps in the pool, and I’m as good as new.”

  He led the way through an open door. “These are the lockers. Your key has a number, use that one.” He threw open a narrow locker and began to undress. He did it with purpose, not hurriedly, but as something he wanted to get done.

  I located my locker and did the same.

  As I disrobed, I was aware that he was looking at me. Mallow—who seemed even larger out of his clothes—was mostly fat and hair, with thighs that were thick and clogged and calves that were riddled with ribs. He stood there naked.

  I slipped out of my shorts.

  “Turn around, Charley,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Turn around. I want to take a look.”

  “You haven’t started batting from the other side of the plate, have you, Judge?”

  He chuckled. “No. I’m just checking for wires. You’re clean. Now you look.”

  He slowly turned, then slipped into black swim trunks. I did the same.

  “You going to wear your watch?” he asked.

  I held it up for inspection. “It’s a diver’s watch,” I said. “Waterproof to three hundred feet.”

  He studied it. “Cheap.”

  “I don’t know. It was a gift from a client. I didn’t ask.”

  He smiled. “That model runs about a hundred and a half.” He held up his wrist. “This is what you want, Charley. A Rolex Submariner. It’s good to a thousand feet.”

  “I seldom get down that far,” I said.

  He laughed, becoming more of his booming, self-assured self.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you the pool.”

  I followed him through yet another door and up two tiled steps. The pool was Olympic size. A large round Jacuzzi occupied one part of the huge vaulted room. Enormous windows looked out on the hotel.

  “Why are we the only ones here?” I asked.

  “This place isn’t a grand success. Once in a while the hotel guests use the place, and sometimes some succulent young members show up, but usually you have the place to yourself.”

  He ambled toward the pool. “If you want to join, now’s the time. They’ve cut their rates to practically nothing. Interested?”

  “It’s too far for me,” I said.

  He hopped into the pool. At this end, it was about waist level. “It’s like bathwater. Come on in.”

  I hoped he was right, and he was.

  “We could use the Jacuzzi over there, but the goddamn bubbles make it hard to hear. This suit you?”

  I nodded.

  “Want to do a lap or two?”

  “You go ahead. I’m not much of a swimmer.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Despite his large size, he moved easily through the water with a powerful stroke. He swam up and back twice, and then stopped. He shook his hair and then shook off the water from his face.

  “I tell you, it makes you feel like a million bucks.”

  We were standing almost shoulder to shoulder. He leaned back against the pool and let himself down until only his head was out of the water. He smiled up at me.

  “Frank called you, right?”

  “He did.”

  The smile became a grin. “See, you thought I was pulling some
thing. I’m surprised you didn’t trust me, Charley. But at least now you know this isn’t a one-man operation.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Surprised, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. “The world is full of surprises, Charley. Now here’s the deal.”

  “I don’t want the deal, whatever it is.”

  “Have the courtesy to at least listen.”

  “Go on.”

  “Frank and I discussed this very carefully. Your fee, as you said, should run somewhere around three hundred thousand. Frank said the original deal we offered was unfair to you, since you would have to pay taxes on the entire amount.”

  “Thoughtful of him.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Charley. Just listen.” His voice seemed to echo off the surface of the water, only inches away from his mouth. “Frank figures that after taxes you would have roughly two hundred thousand. We split that. You get one hundred thousand and we get one hundred thousand.”

  “Look—”

  He shook his head. “Wait, I’m not through. That’s a lot of money up front, both Frank and I realize that. What we need from you is fifty thousand in cash now, and the rest when the decision comes down. We trust you, and that arrangement is fair.”

  “It’s bribery.”

  He smiled up at me. “I look on it as a kind of insurance premium.”

  I slowly shook my head. “I want no part of this. If you want to make a deal, I’ll step out of the case and you can talk to Mickey Monk directly.” I didn’t want Mickey or McHugh on my conscience.

  “No way, Charley. We deal only with you. We trust you, both Frank and me. Like I told you, Monk isn’t a part of this. Monk isn’t one of us, Charley, he isn’t one of the old St. Benedict crowd. We take care of each other. Besides, Monk’s got a big mouth on him and he’s a drunk. We only deal with people we know are discreet.”

  “So I’m not the first?”

  He eyed me. “It’s a tough world. No, you’re not the first.”

  “You’ll get caught. Eventually. You know that, don’t you?”

  “No. We are extremely careful. We have far too much to lose.” He ducked his head beneath the water, then came up and snorted out water. “Here’s the deal. For the money, you get to write the opinion yourself. Frank will put it into his own words of course, but you’ll be the author. Chene will vote with Frank, so the decision will be two to one. It’ll look better that way.”

  “It’s still no deal.”

  He paused and looked down at the other side of the pool. “You owe Franklin Palmer a lot, Charley. He got you your job on the court. He saved your fucking law license. What kind of a price would you put on what he’s done for you over the years? It would be a hell of a lot more than a mere one hundred thousand, and you know it.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “He’s the one who needs the help now. So do I, for that matter. Look, no injustice is being done in this case, is there? Ford has deep pockets. No one gets hurt.”

  “Why does Judge Palmer need the money? I’ve seen his boat.”

  Mallow laughed. The sound reverberated over the pool’s smooth surface. “That’s part of his problem, the goddamned boat.”

  “Oh?”

  He sighed. “It’s a long story and none of your goddamned business but I’m going to tell you anyway. You remember our famous alumnus Jacques Mease, the fucking financier, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Franklin and I made the mistake of getting too close to that rotten son of a bitch. I didn’t invest with him, but Franklin did. Made money, too, a truckload of it, at least on paper.”

  He appeared to be looking at something only he could see. “Franklin is a smart man, but not too smart in this case. He bet the ranch, so to speak. It looked good, I have to admit that. He used the paper profit to finance the boat and the life-style that goes along with it. He loves that yacht club crap, always has.”

  He sighed again. “Franklin was like the rest of us, a poor boy to begin with. He really gets into those clubs and those honors. Becoming commodore was a much bigger thing to him than becoming judge. The big boat was part of it. He finally went all the way out on a limb and bought the thing he has now.

  “When Mease took the fall on the insider trading, Franklin was clean of any criminal charges but he lost every goddamned cent. The boat is mortgaged for more than its worth.”

  He looked up at me. “Commodores don’t go bankrupt, Charley. It’s a matter of pride with Franklin. He’s going to work his way out of this. He retires in three years. I know what he’s going to do. He’ll unload the boat, when he can afford to, buy a place in Florida and live out his life like a make-believe nautical king, prancing around those fancy clubs, commodore flag, rank, and all. All he’ll need down there is his pension and a little extra.”

  “That explains him. What about you?”

  He stood up and towered over me. “You probably already know what happened. I quit the court to be Mease’s private attorney. The firm that hired me tossed me out the second he was indicted. And, I’ve had a few other problems. I need some money, too, Charley. Badly, as a matter of fact.”

  He looked down at me. “We wouldn’t do this, Franklin and I, unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  I wondered what Caitlin Palmer would think of her father if she found out he was soliciting bribes to fix cases.

  “Charley, look at it this way. You can probably get the entire fifty thousand from Doctor Death. Jesus, that guy must be a nut case, but he’s got money. Again, no one gets hurt. Right?”

  “If I did decide to go along, and I’m not saying that I will, when would you need the money?”

  He laughed; it was a laugh that reverberated throughout the pool, the water, the strange circumstances of this meeting. “Jesus, don’t you listen? We’re in desperate trouble here, Charley. We need the money like yesterday.”

  I thought about Will McHugh. I wondered what he was watching on his blurry television set. I wondered where Mickey Monk might be. Probably at some bar and well on his tortured road to oblivion.

  Monk and McHugh. They had gambled everything on me.

  “Just so you know where you stand, Charley. This isn’t a bluff. Franklin said to tell you just that. No money and you lose the case.”

  “A nice sense of justice.”

  “Also,” Mallow growled, “in case you’re thinking of blowing the whistle, it’s just your word against mine. They’ll think you’re up to something. Franklin and I will both be sure you get nailed, if only to protect ourselves. Clear?”

  “Very.”

  “We might have to do that anyway, if you don’t agree. It’s a tough world, Charley. We have to protect ourselves.”

  I needed to talk to Bishop, or to someone. I did owe Judge Palmer a great deal. And, as Mallow had said, no one would be hurt.

  Except maybe me. I wouldn’t be a criminal lawyer anymore.

  I would be a criminal.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, climbing out of the pool.

  “You go ahead, Charley. I’m going to swim some more.”

  I went in, back to the locker rooms.

  I showered. I dressed.

  But I felt dirty.

  21

  The urge to drink had returned full force. I tried not to think about it. I drove to Judge Bishop’s home without stopping to call. Most pay telephones are located in establishments that serve liquor. I didn’t need any extra temptation.

  He wasn’t home. A light was on, but that was the only sign of life. I rang the bell and I could hear the empty echo inside.

  I needed a meeting the way a storm-tossed boat needs a harbor. Like most members of AA, I know most of the locations and times without having to check. There was a regular meeting in Grosse Pointe only a few blocks away, in a school. I would be late. It would already be in progress, but that made no difference. I was just glad of someplace to go; I knew I could go there.

&nbs
p; I went but I didn’t participate. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I sat next to a well-dressed man who was obviously drunk. No one looked askance, we all had walked in those shoes.

  He seemed to be trying very hard to pay attention. I noticed that because I wasn’t.

  There is a physical calm to just being at an AA meeting, even if your mind is somewhere else. I found that calm now and relished it, but my thoughts were full of Mallow and Palmer and what I might be able to do to escape the situation, if there was an escape.

  The drunk got up and made a little speech. It was a nice speech, although the logic was about as off as he was. No one laughed. It was too much like looking in a mirror.

  I left before the formal part of the meeting was over. I saw a lawyer I knew sitting in the back row. We both nodded and smiled, like members of any other exclusive club might do. AA was exclusive. You had to be a drunk to get in.

  I drove to Bishop’s house and tried again, but he still wasn’t there so I slowly drove back to Pickeral Point.

  WHEN I GOT HOME I thought about calling Sue Gillis. But I knew I would be using her to get over a rough patch, and that didn’t seem fair. She deserved better than that. I couldn’t tell her about my problem. She was, despite everything else, a cop.

  My problem was whether or not I was about to be in the position of becoming a criminal. It wasn’t the kind of thing to be discussed with a police officer, or anyone else for that matter, except perhaps a wise counselor, someone like Judge Bishop.

  It wasn’t as if I couldn’t raise the money. I had my thirty thousand plus the thirty thousand retainer Dr. Death had given me. Getting the fifty thousand was merely a trip to the bank.

  Back at my apartment, I sipped a Coke and watched some old reruns on television. I tuned in to an old “Dragnet” episode. There, everything was crystal clear. It was a black-and-white show, both literally and in terms of issues. Sergeant Joe Friday knew right from wrong, and there was no in-between for him, or for the people who wrote the teleplay, or for that matter, the vast audience that once watched “Dragnet.”

  I had cut a few corners in my career, every trial lawyer has. But there was an ethical line, sometimes hard to see, but it was there, and I had never crossed it. I had never bribed anyone or attempted to fix a case. I was repulsed by lawyers and judges who did, and I felt nothing but contempt for them.