Death Penalty

by William J. Coughlin

  “There’s nothing to work out,” Sabin said. “I’m sorry.”

  Mallow’s voice had almost left him. “You don’t understand. I was just a messenger boy.”

  “Fof who? Franklin Palmer?” Sabin asked. “Frankly, we don’t think Palmer had anything to do with any of this. As far as we can see, this was a one-man operation. Yours.”

  “No, no, not at all,” Mallow said. “This whole thing is Palmer’s idea. I just told you, I was his messenger boy, nothing more.”

  “We don’t have Palmer,” the cop snapped, then laughed. “But we’ve got you, and that’s enough.”

  “I can give you Palmer,” Mallow said quietly, very quietly.

  Again there was silence on the tape.

  “What do you mean?” Sabin asked, just as quietly.

  “He has nothing,” the cop snapped. “He’s just trying to wiggle off the hook.”

  “I can give you Palmer,” Mallow repeated, his voice shaking.

  “How?” Harry Sabin sounded doubtful.

  “I can wear a wire. I’m the one who delivers the money. I can do that. You can use marked money.”

  Again there was a pause.

  “And what would you want in return?” Sabin asked tentatively.

  “Immunity.”

  “Fat chance,” the cop growled.

  “Look,” Mallow said, close to whining. “Palmer set this whole operation up. I’m just his messenger. Oh, I get a commission, but a small one. It’s Palmer’s thing. I’m just a minnow here. Palmer’s the fish you want.”

  “He’s your friend,” Sabin said.

  “A business arrangement,” Mallow replied shakily. “That’s all, just a business arrangement.”

  “C’mon, Harry, let’s arraign this asshole and get it over with,” the cop said harshly.

  There was a pause.

  “I can’t give you immunity,” Harry Sabin said. “I’d have to talk to the attorney general.”

  “Talk to him,” Mallow pleaded. “He’ll want Palmer.”

  “I can’t grant you immunity, Judge,” Sabin continued, “and I’m not going to the attorney general unless you tell me everything right from the beginning. But remember, if immunity isn’t given, it can all still be used against you. Knowing that, will you answer my questions?”

  “Jesus,” Mallow said. A peculiar sobbing sound reverberated through the tape.

  “Well?” Harry asked softly. “Is that agreeable?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mallow repeated, but his voice sounded stronger. “Okay.” The word caught in his throat. He paused for a moment and then sounded as if he had pulled himself together. “You see, none of this was my idea. But one day Palmer and I were talking—”

  Bishop reached over and snapped off the tape recorder.

  “Spilled his guts,” he said, “as the saying goes. Of course, he put everything on Palmer, but that was to be expected.”

  “Did they grant him immunity?” I asked.

  “They played with him a while, and then they did, on the condition that he cooperate fully. He did. He helped them make a hell of a case on Palmer.”

  Bishop sipped his coffee. “Of course, Mallow will be disbarred for life, obviously. It’s a shame there won’t be harsher punishment, but they couldn’t have gotten Franklin Palmer without Mallow’s help.”

  “Do they have him?”

  He nodded. “They wired Mallow and set up a meeting. Mallow was instructed on what to say. Palmer walked into the trap without suspecting a thing. That was Tuesday. Today, they set up and taped another meeting, and Mallow passed the marked money to Palmer. Everything was recorded. Palmer was arrested as he left Mallow’s office a few minutes ago.”

  “My God.”

  “It could have gone the other way, Charles. If Mallow hadn’t gone for the bluff, they’d have only your unsubstantiated statement, nothing more. Mallow would have gone after you. Your license might well have been in jeopardy. Of course, you knew that.”

  I nodded.

  “You have nerve, Charles. Guts, as they say in the street. I’m impressed.”

  “Now what happens?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “As we speak, Captain Hagan is driving Franklin Palmer up to Lansing to be arraigned on the charges. It will be done privately. Franklin will be released on personal bond. He will be allowed to drive back here on his own. Of course, everything will explode when Harry Sabin holds his press conference.”

  “When?”

  “Today. Three o’clock. Up in Lansing. That’s when you become a hero, Charles.”

  “What!”

  He chuckled. “None of this would have happened, Charles, if it hadn’t been for you. Harry Sabin is going to give you full credit.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I take it that you’re not pleased.”

  “You take that right. Look, I really didn’t want anything to happen. I just wanted to do my job, try my case. All of this is like a nightmare. Now, it’s going to look like I’m the prime whistle-blower in Middle America.”

  “Oh, Charles, people will know you are an honorable man. They’ll respect that.”

  “People? What about judges? Jesus, every time I walk into a courtroom the judge will think I may be coming after him. It’ll be like Jonah coming on board a ship. This is a personal disaster.”

  He smiled, a little warmly for the first time. “You did the right thing, Charles. Judges, lawyers, many others, will honor you for that. Many wouldn’t have done what you did. Corruption is always so very easy. And opposing it is very difficult. Believe me, by the end of the day you will be a popular hero.”

  “What about Palmer and his family? You suppose I’ll be a hero to them?”

  “Franklin Palmer, whom I like, became a thief,” Bishop said. “He did it voluntarily. He knew there would be a price if he were caught. He is going to pay that price now.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Bishop got up. He came over and extended his hand. “For what it’s worth, you have my respect.”

  He shook my hand, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I wondered what Judge Palmer might be thinking as he was being driven up to Lansing. I wondered what he might be thinking about me.

  “The press will have this at three o’clock, Charles. I suggest you make yourself available. It’s always best to get these things over as quickly as possible.”

  I got up.

  He chuckled. “This will make two nights running that I will be seeing you on television, Charles. You’re going to be famous.”

  I had escaped the personal destruction that I had expected, but I didn’t feel any better for it.

  In fact, I felt worse.

  30

  I drove back to Pickeral Point, staying in the right-hand lane and driving slowly. I was conscious that annoyed drivers were whipping past my slow-moving car, but I didn’t care.

  Franklin Palmer had been arrested in Detroit, according to The Bishop, sometime around nine o’clock. Lansing was about two hours away from Detroit by car. The arraignment would take only minutes. Unless he stopped along the way, Franklin Palmer would drive back to Detroit and arrive somewhere around one or two o’clock. I wondered where he would go. I wondered if he would duck the press, go into hiding, or perhaps handle the charge defiantly.

  I glanced at the car clock. If I was correct, Franklin Palmer would now be driving back from Lansing.

  I wondered if he might also be driving slowly in the right-hand lane.

  I wondered what he might be thinking.

  I wondered if he thought about stopping and having a drink.

  I know it was something I was thinking about.

  THE STORM BROKE before the three o’clock news conference in Lansing, but only minutes before.

  I was in my office, trying to organize my thoughts so that I could make a careful reply to the avalanche of reporters that I knew would soon descend upon me. I even made some notes.

  Mrs. Fenton had been informed to hold all calls until after
three, and to screen everything after that. I asked her to work late, and to my great surprise she agreed. She sensed something big was up and curiosity won out over established routine.

  If Franklin Palmer didn’t plead guilty I would be called as the main witness against him. I wondered how I would feel, sitting in the witness chair, his eyes on me, listening as I drove the final nails in the case against him.

  I tried to put it out of my mind. Given the circumstances, I was sure he would plead guilty. Prison was certain, but maybe he could bargain for a shorter term.

  “I know you don’t want to talk to anyone,” Mrs. Fenton said, peeking into my office, “but there’s a state police captain on the phone, and he won’t take no for an answer. His name is Hagan.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  I picked up the receiver. “Hello, Captain.”

  “Harry Sabin asked me to call you,” he said. His voice was professional, emotionless. It was a voice I knew well, the voice of a working cop.

  “Are you in Lansing?” I asked.

  “Yes. The Detroit police just called. Franklin Palmer has shot himself.”

  “What!”

  “Apparently he drove directly from the court here to the boat he keeps at that yacht club on Belle Isle. Several people, the police say, talked to him but noticed nothing unusual. He seemed distant, but that was all. He went directly to his boat. He was the only one on it. A boat boy heard a noise and reported it. They found him in his cabin. He used a .38 caliber pistol, registered to himself, put it in his mouth, and blew the back of his head off.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “The police checked. He called no one that they know of. He left no note. At least none has been found. Harry Sabin said I should let you know immediately. This ends our case, of course, but it will just make the publicity that much more. The newspapers know he killed himself. In a few minutes, Harry will tell them why.”

  He paused. “Harry said you should know right away, to be prepared to handle the questions. He suggested you might want to prepare a written statement to hand out. He said that might take off some of the heat. Maybe he’s right.”

  “Palmer’s daughter. I presume she’s been notified?”

  “As far as I know.” He paused again, and then spoke in a different tone, not quite so cold. “It wasn’t your fault, Sloan,” he said. “He brought it all down on himself.”

  “What he did doesn’t carry the death penalty.”

  “He was a judge. Apparently, he thought it did. Anyway, it’s done. He was a thief, a high-placed one, but he was still a thief. You did the right thing, Sloan. In fact, I kind of admired that you wouldn’t wear a wire. I use finks all the time, but the fact is, I hate them. And I don’t like lawyers as a general rule, but I might make an exception in your case.

  “Anyway,” he said, his voice reverting to his normal cop tone as he prepared to hang up. “He saved the state of Michigan the cost of a trial. You take care, Sloan.”

  MRS. FENTON LOOKED UP as I walked out.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “Are you coming back?”

  I didn’t reply.

  I got in my car and drove to the inn.

  The lunch crowd was gone and it was too early for dinner. Other than a few tourists, the place was almost empty. I walked past the reception desk to the bar.

  I took a stool near the windows facing the river.

  The bartender came over and smiled. “Yes, sir?”

  “A double scotch, on the rocks,” I said.

  “You’re Charley Sloan, the lawyer, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw you on television last night. Boy, you must be really good to have gotten that guy off.”

  “Just a journeyman doing his job.” I was annoyed that he wasn’t getting me my drink.

  “I was just watching the television. They broke in with a bulletin about a Detroit judge shooting himself. Palmer, I think they said the name was. Did you know him?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head as he moved down the bar and splashed a generous amount of scotch into a nice big glass. “It makes you wonder about people,” he said, adding ice. “Man, there are sick people who would give a fortune for just a day or two more of normal life, and a guy like that blows it away, probably for nothing.”

  He put the drink on a paper napkin in front of me. I stared at it. The color was as beautiful as an autumn day.

  “This guy did it with a gun,” he went on. “I used to work in a hospital. Man, people would find the damnedest ways of killing themselves. They’d gas themselves, hang themselves, poison themselves. Human ingenuity.” His laugh was big, at least as big as the scotch in the glass. “I suppose if you really want to do it, you’ll find a way. Right?”

  I looked at the beautiful scotch, and then up at him. He was still grinning.

  “There are lots of ways,” he said.

  I got up and left a ten spot on the bar.

  “Hey, your drink!” he called after me.

  I didn’t reply.

  One suicide a day was enough.

  AS EXPECTED. THEY CAME ON like the beginning of a rainstorm, just a few drops at first, and then the deluge.

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. I gave an interview to Sherman Martelle of the Free Press and Danny Conroy of The Detroit News, plus a number of others, including the stringer for The New York Times. The newsmen piled up in my waiting room like patients waiting for a doctor during a flu epidemic. I handled them all. But I refused all on-camera interviews for television. They would have to rely on Harry Sabin’s press conference for film clips. Even the best statement in the world could be made to look like something else with a little careful editing. I declined to take the risk that what I said might be turned into that something else.

  Everyone, for a change, seemed friendly enough. There were a few hostile-sounding questions, but apparently they were going to treat me as a civic hero, just as The Bishop had predicted.

  But that didn’t make me feel any better.

  I got rid of the last one about nine, and Mrs. Fenton departed, with enough stories and gossip to feed her lady friends for at least six months. She looked as happy as I had ever seen her, which wasn’t very happy, but at least several steps up from her usual dour appearance.

  I was alone when the phone rang. Without thinking I picked it up rather than let the machine take the call.

  As soon as I recognized the voice, I regretted it.

  It was Mickey Monk, but he didn’t sound drunk. Not at all. Every word was spoken crisply with the snap of anger.

  “You are a rotten son of a bitch, Sloan,” he said. “You’ve blown the McHugh case. The poor bastard was relying on you. I was relying on you. He’s done for, you miserable excuse for a lawyer. All you had to do was pay the fucking money. And even if you couldn’t do that, you could’ve told me and I would have found a way to come up with it.”

  “Look, Mickey—”

  “Don’t give me that honesty bullshit. Your first duty was to McHugh, nobody else. I don’t know what you expect to get out of this civic hero crap, but it better be good. It should be good enough to bury your fucking conscience so that you won’t think about that poor bastard in his wheelchair. You fixed him for life, you sanctimonious prick.”

  “Mickey, there was nothing else I could do.”

  “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “The case isn’t over.”

  He snorted. “Jesus, I hope you don’t think I believe that! You must think I’m stupid. It’s over. They’ll order a rehearing and then find for the company. Very quietly. They do that in this kind of circumstance. They’ll kill the case like a fucking dying sheep. McHugh has no voice, no money. He had nobody but you, you prick. Now he has nothing.”

  “Mickey—”

  “I never hated anyone in my life, never. Until now. I hope something really bad happens to you. You goddamn well deserve it.”

  “Mickey . . .”

&n
bsp; I realized I was talking into a dead phone.

  I hung up. The phone rang again almost instantly. But I had learned my lesson. The ringing stopped and my recorded voice was telling the caller a message should be left after the long beep.

  I heard the beep, and then I heard the message.

  “You are a murderer.” The words were spoken in fury. For a minute I didn’t recognize the voice, and then I knew it was Caitlin Palmer. “My father trusted you. He helped you. You killed him. I know you did, and you know you did. I hope to God your rotten soul burns in hell.” She started to sob and then the message tape ended.

  The machine made a small beeping noise, signifying it was ready to receive another message.

  The little red light blinked at me like an accusing eye.

  I almost ran from the office.

  31

  Sue Gillis was home when I got to her apartment. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. She was dressed in jeans and a floppy shirt.

  “I called you,” she said. “Several times. But your secretary said you weren’t taking phone calls.”

  “Mrs. Fenton has her good points. They escape me at the moment, but I’m sure she has them. Anyway, I should have told her you were on the A list.”

  She kissed me lightly. “I called you last night, too, but all I got was the machine.”

  Then she grinned.

  “You’ve won, Charley. I thought in all honesty that they were framing you, but you won. The radio is full of what happened. You were a star on the six o’clock television news. They ran clips of everybody involved, including that judge, Palmer. They even showed his boat. It’s a yacht.”

  “It was his love object.” It came out flippantly, but I was saddened at the price he had paid to keep his boat and his commodore flag. Silly things in the general scheme, but he had been willing to risk dishonor and death to keep them.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No. I’ve been too busy becoming a folk hero.”

  “How about I whip up some bacon and eggs?”

  “Great.”

  She busied herself in the small kitchen. “You were terrific on television last night. Did you see it?”