Death Penalty

by William J. Coughlin

  He smiled at me. “Boy, I could sure use a drink. You sure you’ve sworn off, Charley?”

  “Yes, Judge, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll have to stick to my guns too or end up bleeding again.” He took out another small cigar. “Both you boys had better be prepared to meet the press out there.”

  He frowned at Eddie. “Be a little charitable in your remarks, Eddie, at least about me. I’d appreciate it. And I’ll remember it.” His high cackle sounded. “We do a lot of business, you and me. It’s best to be friends.”

  He was right about the media. They were beginning to sound like an unruly mob, and it was a mob that had to be faced.

  I stood up and started for the door.

  “Did I hear you say you were seeing The Bishop tomorrow?” Hathaway asked me.

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  He beamed. “Be sure to say hello for me, Charley, will you? It pays to stay on the good side of a powerful man like The Bishop. Am I right, or am I right?”

  29

  I knew they were only doing their job.

  Still, that could have equally applied to the Mongols who swept into Europe burning and looting. It was a mix—newspaper people, magazine writers, freelancers, television crews, both legitimate and of the O’Malley brand. In combination they resembled an angry-eyed, many-mouthed monster. Each had an angle to shoot, something different that would give them a slant or a lead that was unique.

  And it was the story of the day, I had to admit that. The notorious Doctor Death had escaped the clutches of the law. Miles Stewart, M.D., had apparently committed murder and had gotten away with it. The rule so eloquently stated by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, freely translated from the Russian, “Man, you do the crime, you gotta do the time,” apparently didn’t apply in Broken Axe, Michigan. They wanted to know why.

  Cork Miller, in his usual efficient country way, had set up a press conference in the lobby of the jail. A bank of microphones and a lectern had been positioned facing what might easily have passed for a lynch mob.

  Eddie Rand went first. He made a clean statement, saying he thought he had shown sufficient evidence to bind Stewart over for trial, but that he didn’t quarrel with Judge Hathaway’s decision. He said it was a close question legally and could have gone either way. He was being absolutely fair, but they went after him as if they had just discovered he had a new Swiss bank account paid for by Doctor Death.

  He wasn’t prepared for the barrage of questions that ranged from normal inquiry to allegations about his manhood and honesty. He was sweating, and the more they attacked, the more he began to shift from fair to ferocious. They were pushing him into making a statement that would play well on the evening news, film at eleven, a wild-eyed prosecutor yelling like a maniac.

  I decided he had done me enough favors and that I owed him one back. I stepped up to the lectern and politely elbowed him aside declaring that I wanted my say.

  Eddie had enough smarts to realize what I was doing. He looked at me the same way a puppy might who had just been saved from being gassed.

  I insisted on making an opening statement, which was a repeat of the argument I had made to Judge Hathaway in court, calling into question the findings of the autopsy.

  It sounded good to me.

  Then I took the questions, smiling like a man running for office. They were all shouting, so I started pointing, like the president does at press conferences. That was something they understood, and pretty soon a measure of order was restored. I tried to pick people I knew and whom I thought wouldn’t try to nail me upon a verbal cross.

  O’Malley was jumping up and down with his hand up like a schoolboy who urgently had to go to the bathroom. His face was becoming as crimson as his hair.

  To his surprise, I pointed at him. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had obviously forgotten what he wanted to ask. I smiled indulgently and pointed at another newsman. I could see humiliation mixed with hate in O’Malley’s livid eyes.

  I won some, I lost some, but overall I thought I came out even. I had said nothing that I would regret seeing later on television or reading in a paper or magazine.

  They howled in protest when I thanked them for their kind attention and said it was late and that I had to return to my office downstate on urgent business.

  Some of them followed me out to my car. I smiled and waved like President Reagan used to do, pointing to my ear as if I couldn’t quite hear what they were shouting.

  I returned to the motel and grabbed my bag. I thought they might be waiting for me, but they weren’t.

  Driving out of town, I felt like a prisoner making a successful escape.

  It was a feeling that lasted for a few miles.

  And then I remembered what awaited me.

  The prisoner hadn’t escaped after all.

  THE THREE-HOUR DRIVE back seemed longer. It grew dark and started to rain, slowing most traffic but not all. A few idiots roared down the slick highway with suicidal abandon, passing recklessly in the face of oncoming traffic.

  I stopped at a roadside restaurant for a hamburger and coffee. The hamburger was greasy and the coffee bitter, almost as bitter as my mood.

  The victory back in the courtroom counted for nothing. My mind was occupied by what lay ahead for me. I had won other cases, over the years, but nothing would count tomorrow when I met with The Bishop.

  It was Thursday, my usual meeting night, but it was too late now even to try to make the drive into Detroit, and so I drove back to Pickeral Point.

  I didn’t go to my office. Whatever waited for me there either in mail or messages seemed unimportant at the moment. I went to my small apartment.

  I thought about calling Sue Gillis, maybe even dropping by her place, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, even Sue. So I sat in my darkened apartment and watched the rain hit the parking lot below.

  My mind was in neutral. I just watched the rain. I wondered what doomed prisoners thought on the last night before execution. I wondered if they might feel as I did, devoid of concrete thought, empty, just passing the time. Waiting.

  Eventually I tired of the rain. I set the alarm for six. It was an hour’s drive to Detroit and I had to be in Bishop’s chambers at eight o’clock.

  I really didn’t expect to sleep, but somehow I did.

  I awoke before the alarm went off, mechanically going through the routine of shaving and showering. I had some cereal although I didn’t feel much like eating. And coffee.

  I dressed carefully, not knowing whether I might be on camera, one way or the other, before the day was through. I made sure I had Wally Figer’s telephone number, just in case I might have to make that one allowable phone call.

  The drive was fast until I hit Mt. Clemens, but then the traffic on the expressway clogged up, and within a few minutes I was part of the rush-hour, slow march into Detroit.

  I parked in a nearby lot and walked to Detroit’s City-County Building, taking the elevator up to Judge Bishop’s floor.

  My timing was faultless, arriving as I did at exactly eight o’clock.

  I walked across the courtroom, past the bench, and entered the judge’s clerk’s office. It too was empty.

  The door to the judge’s chambers was open. I looked in.

  He was seated behind his desk in shirtsleeves. His head was down, his eyes fixed on the paperwork in his hand.

  “Judge, you wanted to see me,” I said.

  He looked up, his eyes above the level of his reading glasses. That peculiar half smile flickered on his lips, the Mona Lisa smile, more enigmatic than welcoming.

  He looked at his watch. “Charles. You’re probably the only punctual attorney in practice today. Come in.”

  He indicated a chair in front of the desk.

  “I’ve made fresh coffee. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Let me just finish this,” he said, returning to the papers in front of him. As he read, he made a few notes in the ma
rgins.

  It seemed a very long time. I could hear traffic noises creeping up from the streets below, muted but proof that there was life somewhere outside the deathly stillness of this deserted courtroom and offices.

  Finally he finished. He stood up. “Sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  I shook my head.

  He poured himself a mug from his coffee maker. Then he came back to the desk and sat down.

  He sipped the coffee, smacked his lips, then put the cup down next to the papers he had been reading.

  “I saw you on television last night,” he said. “You’re amazing, Charles. How you got the doctor off must rank with sawing a woman in half.”

  “They couldn’t prove the deceased had died of anything except natural causes,” I said. “No magic tricks, I’m afraid, just a matter of law.”

  That peculiar smile was refixed on his face again. “Usually, on a close question, most judges will bind a defendant over for trial and let a jury decide. Especially someone as, well, famous as your client.”

  “Broken Axe is a small town. I think the media army scared the hell out of everyone. They didn’t want to think of being invaded again. Besides, the main witnesses were the deceased’s daughters. I think Rudy Hathaway thought going through a trial would be too hard on them.”

  “Rudyard’s a pretty fair judge. I’m surprised he’d let something like that influence him.”

  “It wasn’t a gift, believe me. The prosecutor didn’t have the proof. He knew my client did it. I knew my client did it. Everybody knew my client did it, but they couldn’t prove it. It was a fair call.”

  “Justice triumphed, guilty or not, I take it?”

  “The law triumphed. Procedure triumphed. Justice may have taken a kick in the ass. It depends how you look at it.”

  He sipped again at the coffee.

  “Why did you want to see me, Judge?” I asked.

  He studied me for a moment. “Can we put the answer off for a while?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to ask you to indulge me, Charles. I wanted you here with me for a purpose. Before the morning is out you’ll know why. Until then, unless you have strong objection, I will ask you to stay here with me.”

  “There must be some explanation you can give me.”

  “Not at the moment, but soon.” He chuckled. “I’m going to ask you to trust me on this, Charles.”

  I wondered what other options I might have. I could think of none. I was in too deep now to object.

  “But. . .”

  He held a finger to his lips. “I know this must seem somewhat juvenile, but let us speak of other things. At least for a while.”

  Again he sipped the coffee. “As I remember, you have a daughter. How is she doing?”

  We talked. I bragged on Lisa for a while until the subject was exhausted. Then we talked about sports.

  There was an unreal quality to the conversation, a lot like a condemned man chatting up the executioner. The axe was there, you just couldn’t see it.

  “I’ve adjourned my motions until this afternoon,” he said. “I didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Funny, isn’t it?’ he said. “When you’re waiting for something to happen, time always seems to move so slowly.”

  I didn’t think it was funny at all.

  THE JUDGE’S SECRETARY and clerk reported for work. They looked at me like an intruder, but said nothing.

  We continued to sit there, the judge and I, trying to make small talk.

  I felt like I was coming out of my skin.

  Finally, his phone rang, and he quickly picked it up. He listened and then said, “Put him on.”

  Judge Bishop listened intently to whomever was speaking, silently nodding several times.

  “Did he make a statement?” he asked.

  Of course, I could not hear the answer. I just saw the judge move his head.

  “Who’s taking him up?” he asked. Again, he nodded in response.

  “Everything go as you planned?”

  He chuckled at whatever was said.

  He looked at me. “Yes. He’s here now. Sitting across the desk as we speak.” He smiled. “I’ll tell him.”

  He hung up and again studied me before speaking. He sipped the last of his coffee, then smiled again, this time just a trifle wider.

  “You are, Charles, probably the luckiest man in the world.”

  Judge Bishop got up and now poured two cups of coffee. He handed me one without asking if I wanted it.

  He sat down and looked at me.

  “That was Harry Sabin,” he said, “and that was the telephone call I was waiting for.”

  I was once again conscious of sounds. The secretary outside was typing something. Horns honked from somewhere below. A distant siren wailed. I was so aware I could have probably identified dust settling if I had thought about it.

  “This would all have been so much easier, Charles, had you agreed to wear the wire as Harry asked. Although I understand your reasons, I must say I did not agree with them. However, that is all water under the bridge now.”

  His eyes met mine, and he continued.

  “They just arrested Franklin Palmer.”

  “What?”

  “They set him up rather cleverly, I think. He was arrested coming out of Jeffrey Mallow’s office. He had fifty thousand dollars in marked money in his briefcase. Franklin has refused to make a statement, but the case is airtight. They are going to drive him up to Lansing to be arraigned privately up there. It’s all been arranged. He’ll be freed on personal bond. The press will not be informed until after the arraignment. Harry Sabin is scheduling a press conference for later this afternoon.”

  The Mona Lisa was smiling at me. “You took a terrible risk, Charles, in not cooperating. Fortunately, for your sake, things have worked out, despite your reluctance.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He took out a key from his pocket and unlocked his desk. “When you met with Harry and Captain Hagan in my basement, Charles, you suspected we didn’t believe you, isn’t that right?”

  The thought had occurred to me.”

  He nodded, taking out a small tape for a microcassette recorder. “We had other knowledge, in addition to that which you offered. Both Franklin Palmer and Jeffrey Mallow were known to be in very dire financial straits. There was a persistent rumor that a judge, or judges, on the appellate court were corrupt. But nothing of a concrete nature presented itself until you came to me. As you know, I served on the judicial tenure commission and have continued to enjoy a certain unofficial relationship with the bar and police in cases where judicial corruption is suspected.”

  He opened the recorder and inserted the tape. “It was fortunate that you came to me. I was most flattered that you did.”

  He held up the small recorder. “Do you play poker, Charles?”

  “On occasion.”

  “Then you know that sometimes a good player, lacking good cards, can still win if he’s canny enough to run a convincing bluff.”

  “It happens.”

  “I could tell you what happened, but I think this recording—Harry Sabin gave me a copy—will explain more quickly and efficiently. No poker player ever ran a more successful bluff. By the way, it was all the idea of that state police officer, Lucas Hagan. You owe him a lot, Charles.”

  Before I could reply, he hit the play button and pushed the tape recorder across the desk toward me.

  I heard Harry Sabin’s voice.

  “Good morning, Judge Mallow,” he said. His tone was not warm. “And this is Captain Lucas Hagan of the state police.”

  Jeffrey Mallow’s deep voice boomed. “Good to meet you, Captain. And welcome to my office. Now, Harry, you sounded quite mysterious over the phone. What’s up?” He sounded self-assured, congenial, but with just a touch of arrogance, the kind of condescension displayed by some people when they’re meeting with those they consider to be a little bit lower on th
e social scale.

  “A sad duty, Judge. You are under arrest for solicitation of a bribe, and—”

  “What the hell is this?” Mallow demanded, his words cracking like a whip.

  “I am required to give you your Miranda rights.” Harry gave them in a singsong voice, despite being interrupted by Mallow, and he continued to the end.

  “I know my goddamned rights,” Mallow’s voice was full of menace.

  “Knowing that you don’t have to answer any questions, do you wish to make a statement?”

  “Hell, yes. I have nothing to hide, nothing.” Mallow’s tone was full of outrage.

  “All of this is being recorded. Do you know an attorney by the name of Charles Sloan?”

  “The drunk? Sure, I know him. Why?”

  “He claims you—”

  “Oh, let’s cut out the shit!” It was Captain Hagan’s rough voice. “We have the whole thing on tape, Mallow. We set you up and we got you.” The cop’s tone was nasty, malevolent.

  “Bullshit,” Mallow snapped back.

  The cop’s laugh was even nastier. “You thought you were being clever, didn’t you, meeting him at that fancy health club, looking at his bare ass to make sure he wasn’t wearing a wire.”

  “What do you mean?” This time Mallow’s tone was a degree less arrogant.

  “You’re a stupid shit. What were you doing, playing James fucking Bond?” The cop’s laugh was like a slap. “We had him wired, you pompous asshole. We had the wire in his watch.”

  “What?” The single word was barely above a whisper.

  “Why did you think he didn’t go for a swim? He couldn’t get the watch wet.” Now the laugh was like barbed wire. “You even looked at it. We damn near shit but in the truck when we heard that. But you didn’t notice it wasn’t working. It wasn’t a watch, it was a microphone. Jesus, what a jerk.”

  Sabin’s voice was low but strong. “He’s right, Judge. We got it all on tape. Everything.”

  For a moment there was nothing but silence.

  Then Mallow spoke, but this time there was no arrogance. “Look, perhaps we can work out something here.”