I wondered now whether it was my ethical sense or the sense of self-preservation that stayed my hand the few times in the past when I could have easily stepped over that line.
The law protected itself. Like cancer, corruption was slashed away when it was found. And, also like cancer, sometimes it was buried deeply. But a judge or a lawyer who took or extended a bribe, when caught and convicted, always did time. There was never any probation, or any sentencing break of that kind. Prison was a certainty for anyone who was caught doing what was being asked of me.
When I had been a prosecutor, and during those times when I was trying a defendant who might have inspired pity in the jury, I always told them this: men are not hung for stealing horses, they are hung so that other men don’t steal horses. In the old West, I told those juries, a man’s life depended on his horse. To let a horse thief off easy was to encourage others to try their hand at the same thing. No mercy could be shown. Rough justice. But real justice, nevertheless.
The life of the court system depended on its being free of taint, so while hanging might be reserved for horse thieves, prison terms awaited judges and lawyers who corrupted the system. The same rule applied. It was done without mercy, so that other lawyers and judges wouldn’t be tempted to try the same thing.
The people who wrote “Dragnet” understood that.
Everything was black and white.
I wished I was back selling shoes.
IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED to me that Judge Bishop might have been out visiting a lady friend. It should have. He seemed embarrassed when I told him over the phone that I had stopped by his place the night before and hadn’t found him in.
He might look like a bishop, but he was a widower, and he was as human as the next man. But if he was flustered, it didn’t last long.
“So you met with him,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I briefly filled him in on what happened. I worried that his court phone might be tapped. It happens—and for sometimes innocent reasons—but I went ahead and gave him the details of the meeting anyway. My risk priorities were changing daily.
“You got a problem, Charley,” he said when I had finished.
“You’re telling me.”
He paused for a moment. “If you don’t go along, do you really think they’d accuse you of anything?”
“Mallow said they would. He said it would be self-defense. He sounded like he meant it. He said they were both desperate men.”
“Sounds that way,” Judge Bishop said. “I need some time to think about this, Charley. Maybe a day or two.”
“They said they want a fast answer.”
“Stall them, if it comes to that. Let me put my thinking cap on and see what I can come up with. Then, you and I can sit down and thrash this thing out. Okay?”
“Fine. I appreciate your help, Judge, I really do.”
“Don’t be foolish. Glad to do it. Sit tight, Charley, and I’ll get back to you. And don’t worry.”
It was like being told not to breathe.
STASH OLCSKY PHONED almost on the heels of my conversation with Judge Bishop.
“What can I do for you, Stash?”
“When did you plan to run the Becky Harris plea past Evola?”
“I don’t know. There’s no real hurry.”
He grunted. “That depends. Look, you know I handle the major felony trials for this office, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, the citizens have been more active than usual and I’m looking at a long list of trials. Some murders, some robberies, and the occasional rape. Some will plead, some not. Frankly, I’m trying to get rid of the possible pleas so I can arrange my schedule.”
“Efficient.”
“Yeah. Besides, my new employer wants all major cases moved along fast so he can go to the voters with a record of accomplishment, a nice long list of convictions.”
“I’d rather put off facing Evola,” I said. “I don’t expect to gain any ground with him. In fact, it might be a little painful for me.”
“So’s a dentist, but it’s best to get it over with. Do you think the passage of time will help your position?”
“I suppose not. He’s lurking over there in the courthouse, waiting for me to show myself.”
Stash chuckled. “Yeah. This might be fun to watch.”
“Just so we understand each other, the plea I offer will be manslaughter with the provision that she serve no more than six months.”
“Plus she never comes back here. That’s what Mrs. Wordley wanted,” Olesky added.
“That would be part of the deal. Have you talked it over with your boss?”
“I did. He said to go along only if Evola approves every detail. My worthy employer has the fighting spirit of an inchworm.”
“They can be fierce if cornered.”
“Sure. Well, what about it? You want to go to the dentist or not?”
“Would you count it as a personal favor?”
“I would.”
“Would that get me special consideration in the future?”
“No, but you would have the warm glow associated with helping your fellow man.”
“If Evola doesn’t go along, I’m going to trial, Stash.”
“Look at it this way. He gets to do it to you one way or the other. Might as well put your toe in the water now and see what happens.”
“How do you want to work it?” I asked.
“I can call and set up a meeting. Or you can.”
“It would be best, Stash, if you did it.”
“You going to be there at your office for a while?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call and see what I can do. I’ll get back to you one way or the other.”
It didn’t take long. Stash called almost immediately.
“He’ll see us tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock, sharp.”
“Did you talk to Evola?”
“Yeah.”
“How did he sound?”
Stash laughed. “Like a tiger being told someone was bringing him a nice fat antelope.”
“Oh, great.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Charley. Wear a pie plate over your ass. You may need it.”
AFTER LUNCH I WENT to the jail to see Becky Harris. She sat behind the glass and tried to smile. She looked as if every day she was getting older.
“How are you doing, Becky?”
“I’m all right.”
“Are you being treated well?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Becky, tomorrow I’m going to see the judge who is assigned to your case, Judge Evola.”
She nodded. “I know him. He used to be a regular customer at the inn.”
“Yes. Well, I’m going to try to work out a plea.”
“I told you I’ll plead guilty. You don’t need to work out anything.”
“It’s my job, Becky. If you approve, I’ll offer a plea of guilty to manslaughter on the provision that you serve no more than six months.”
“I don’t care, one way or the other. Work out whatever you want.”
“As part of the plea, you would have to promise never to return to Pickeral Point.”
For the first time she showed some interest. “Why would that be?”
“It would be a condition.”
“I understand that, but why?”
I wondered how best to approach the subject and decided head-on might be best. “Mrs. Wordley insists on it.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I had to. I couldn’t work out the plea unless she agreed. It’s still up to the judge, but she was the first hurdle.”
“Does she hate me?”
“No. I don’t think so. As you told me, it wasn’t a happy marriage. I guess she just doesn’t want to risk running into you when you get out.”
In what looked like understanding, she nodded her head.
“Where would you go, Becky, if I can work this out?”
She thought for a moment. “Cleveland, I suppose. I have a sister still living there. I could probably get work as a waitress.”
She seemed to brighten for the first time.
“Well, the probabilities are that the judge won’t go along, so please don’t get your hopes up. Please.”
“Hopes.” She shrugged. “There’s no hope in a place like this.”
“I’ll be seeing the judge tomorrow. In the unlikely event he will agree, he may want to take the plea tomorrow afternoon.”
She again tried something that looked like a smile. “I have no other appointments.”
“If he takes the plea, he will ask you if you shot and killed Howard Wordley, and you will have to answer yes, without qualification. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We’ll see what happens. If it’s no, I’ll stop back tomorrow and tell you.”
I stood up. She looked at me with those haunted eyes. “You’re doing a lot of work for me,” she said. “I can’t pay.”
“The ring’s plenty, Becky. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s probably not even a real diamond.”
“It is,” I lied. “I’m being well paid for my services, Becky. Don’t worry.”
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
I WENT BACK TO MY OFFICE. Mrs. Fenton handed me the messages. Judge Bishop was not among the callers. Nor was Mallow.
I had some office work to do. Nothing particularly challenging, just some provisions for a will and a review of a real estate case.
“I’m expecting a call from a Judge Bishop,” I said to Mrs. Fenton. “If he calls, put him right through.”
There were some calls to be made to clients, and I did that. There were some calls to be made to media people, and I did a few of those, but only ones that I thought might be helpful to Miles Stewart, M.D.
The will provisions were easy, and I dictated them to Mrs. Fenton. She would fire up the computer and insert them into our standard language. When printed out, it would look like I had spent three months slaving over getting just the right words. It helped justify the fee.
The real estate problem required not a lot of work, and I did that without having really to think about it.
The day passed quickly enough and Mrs. Fenton went home, which gave me the opportunity of sitting around the office with the lights out, watching the river.
There were a few calls. I listened to the answering machine take the messages, in case The Bishop called. But he didn’t.
Finally, I packed it in, grabbed a quick sandwich at my favorite local restaurant, and then headed to Detroit for the usual Thursday night meeting.
I was tempted to count the Grosse Pointe meeting as a substitute, but I was in parlous waters, and I knew it would help my general state of anxiety if I went again.
And this one was with people whom I knew and liked.
Tomorrow I would have to face Judge Mark Evola. It wouldn’t be pleasant. A big shot of courage was needed, and the AA meeting was just the place to get it.
FRIDAY CAME AND I WENT to the office. Perhaps if the sun had been shining I might have felt better. But it was dark, drizzling, and grim. If I had something scheduled in court it would have helped pass the time, but nothing was on my docket.
Judge Bishop was notable by his telephonic absence.
Time was running and Mallow would want an answer.
My anxiety was running, too, so I left the office, grabbed a quick lunch, and killed some minutes over coffee until it was time to go to court.
Usually, Friday mornings were set aside for motions in our circuit court. Mornings were hectic. But judges tried to dispose of most business so they could sneak out early and get a head start on the weekend.
Evola must have swept things clean quickly. I got up to his courtroom a few minutes before two o’clock and found I was the only customer in the deserted courtroom.
The clerk glanced up at me.
“We’re closed,” he growled.
“I’m waiting for Stash Olesky. We have an appointment with the judge.”
He frowned. He knew me. He had been the clerk to a succession of judges. For whatever reason, he’d decided rudeness was the best defense against a hostile world and had developed it into an art form without parallel.
“Stupid time to see any judge, on a Friday,” he growled again. “Stupid.”
“The judge set it up,” I said, smiling. “But you’re right, it was stupid.”
He didn’t like that, and his deepening frown damn near drowned his eyes.
At that moment Stash came in carrying the Harris file.
“I’ll let the judge know you’re here,” the clerk snapped and departed toward the judge’s chambers.
“Got your pie plate in place?” Stash asked.
“Double strength,” I replied.
The clerk returned. “The judge will see you now. Go right on in.”
MARK EVOLA HADN’T CHANGED MUCH since he’d become a judge. He was nearing forty, but he looked much younger. His blond hair and blue eyes made his smooth face look babylike. He didn’t stand when we came in, just sat there in shirtsleeves behind his large desk. Had he stood, he would have towered above both of us. At six foot six, Judge Evola was probably the tallest judge in the state.
His chambers had been decorated with the same photos he used to have on his walls when he had been prosecutor. They showed him during his basketball days as a star at Michigan State University. He looked exactly the same, except the teeth he had now were made by a dentist, the originals having been left in a number of famous elbows under the basket. The other photos were of Evola with politicians, living and dead. The walls were full of grinning faces.
Evola smiled warmly at Olesky, flashing his perfectly constructed teeth. When he looked at me, the smile was there, but then it diminished, like a light slowly going out.
“Sit down,” he said, nodding toward chairs just in front of his desk. “What can I do for you boys?”
Stash opened the file. “It’s about the Becky Harris case.”
“So you said on the phone,” Evola replied. “What do you have in mind?”
“As you know,” Stash said, “the Harris woman has been charged with second-degree murder in the death of Howard Wordley.”
“Right.”
“Mr. Sloan has offered to plead Ms. Harris guilty to manslaughter, if he can be assured that she will serve no more than six months. Also, as a condition, Ms. Harris agrees not to return to Pickeral Point after being released.”
“How’s the widow feel about that?” Evola asked.
“She’s agreed to it. I have it in writing.”
“Let me see it.”
Stash gave the document to the judge, who studied it for a moment, and then handed it back.
“And how does your boss, my successor, feel about accepting this offered plea?” Evola asked Olesky.
“It’s okay with him if it’s okay with you.”
Evola looked at me. “And your client?”
“She’ll plead under those conditions.”
“I’ll bet,” Evola said.
We waited while Evola studied the ceiling. “Becky Harris used to wait on me on many occasions when she was working at the inn. I remember her as a quiet, decent person.” He looked at Olesky. “Does she have a record?”
“One arrest and conviction. In Cleveland. A misdemeanor, accosting and soliciting.”
“A mistake,” I said.
Evola looked at me. “Oh? It’s still on the record though, is it not?”
I nodded.
“I knew Howard Wordley, too,” Evola went on. “He was always trying to sell me one of his fancy cars. He’d talk to me and hot eye my wife while he was doing it. I wasn’t exactly fond of him. Still, shooting car dealers is a crime, although some may think it shouldn’t be.”
Olesky laughed, but he was only being polite. Lawyers are always quick with polite laughter for judges
who are in the market.
“What’s your opinion, Stash? You used to work for me. Give it to me just like you used to do, hair and all.”
Olesky nodded. “I recommend the plea. Looking at it from all angles, justice is served. Becky Harris isn’t Likely to shoot anyone ever again. A long prison term would serve no real purpose, given all the circumstances.”
Evola nodded. Then he looked at me. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If your client will plead guilty to manslaughter, I’ll sentence her to one to fifteen years. If she doesn’t get in trouble, she’ll be out in six months. That suit you?”
“How about allowing her to serve the time in a halfway house. Like Stash says, she really isn’t a criminal in the usual sense.”
Evola shook his head. “I’ll do this. I’ll recommend that after three months she be considered for a halfway house. It will be up to the prison boys, but they’ll probably go along. They usually do. Also, I’ll make it a condition that when she’s released she can’t return to Pickeral Point. Now, that’s probably illegal, but if no one has any objection, it should be no problem.”
He studied me for a moment. “Well, Charley?” It was the first time he had used my name. “Is that agreeable?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Good. Stash, run out and have the sheriff bring Ms. Harris over here. Tell my clerk to hunt up a court reporter. We’ll take the plea now. I’ll put all the conditions on record. I’ll have to wait for a probation report before actually sentencing her, but that’ll be just a formality.”
“Okay, Judge.” Stash got up.
I did too, but Evola called me back.
“Close the door on your way out,” he called to Olesky.
For what seemed like a very long time, we sat in silence.
“You thought I was going to give you a hard time, didn’t you, Charley?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“Because of the Harwell trial,” he smiled, those big teeth smiling, taking over the room. But his eyes weren’t smiling.
“I was thinking about you yesterday, Charley, and that trial. You know, if I had won that thing, I’d be in Congress now. I mean it, I would have won easily if it wasn’t for the egg you left on my face.”
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