The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “And do you know the moral of the story?” Dylan chimed in.

  “Be kind to animals?” Mason offered, still off balance.

  “If you have a big dick, you don’t need a Porsche.” Dylan delivered the punch line stylishly, with a raconteur’s polish.

  “Or a limo,” added Strong.

  “Or,” Dylan said more plainly, “to muscle your fellow man in a parking lot because he won’t help you get your important deal done. That would be tiny. Coarse.” He held his index finger millimeters away from his thumb. “Not my style.”

  The phone played a grating, electronic, tinny, accelerated version of the “William Tell Overture,” datta-dut, datta-dut, datta-dot-dot-dah, and Mason snatched it from the table and pushed the green talk button. He was in the jury room at the courthouse and Custis was with him, the door shut and locked, a handwritten DO NOT DISTURB sign taped to the outside, although it was unlikely anyone would happen by, as circuit court was not in session and there was no reason for people to be in the building. Mason and Custis had been waiting for over an hour, trading sections of the Roanoke Times, and when they’d finished with the paper, they began speculating about what Gates and Perry might be up to, the possibilities and pitfalls in Powhatan, two hundred miles distant.

  “I’ll wager this is my famous brother, the commonwealth’s attorney,” Gates said as soon as Mason clicked on, before he’d so much as said hello.

  “It is.”

  “Amazin’ what you can accomplish when you’re motivated, huh, Mason? When you have a vested interest.” He laughed sarcastically. “I was about to take a dump, a real pleasure for me, you see, the luxury of a private stall and a bit of dignity, and not only do I get to relieve myself without an audience, but holy cow, a big black deputy gives me a cell phone and free minutes. He’s probably not supposed to do that. Kinda like it would be bending the rules to help me have my sentence reduced. Depends on whose ox is bein’ gored as to how hard you work on things, doesn’t it?”

  “What is it you want, Gates?” Mason asked. “Plain and simple, name your price. Why in the world are you doing this? You damn well know I didn’t shoot Wayne Thompson.”

  “Yesterday was July Fourth. I’d like for you to describe your holiday.”

  “Why? We don’t have much time.”

  “Oh, I doubt your lackey’s gonna rush in here and pull me off the crapper. So humor me, make me happy, tell me about your Fourth.”

  Mason spoke mechanically: “Mom came over and two friends of Grace’s, and I grilled hamburgers for them. The kids had some sparklers. Mom made a pound cake.”

  “And me, Mason, I sat here, like I have year after miserable year, eatin’ shitty food and listening to crazy motherfuckers rant and rave. No pound cake, no fresh air, no fireworks, only the same horrible day repeated.” Gates paused to let his complaints sink in. “There’s your answer, Mason, the key to your legal woes. Nothing new. Same as it’s always been. I think if you spent as much effort on gettin’ me free as you did settin’ up this call, I’d be munching pound cake and lighting sparklers, too. You need to put your shoulder to the task, boy.”

  “You have less than two years left. We both know you were sentenced before the state abolished parole. You’re virtually through anyway.”

  “Less than two fuckin’ years, huh? If it’s so minor, how about you come down here and serve it for me?”

  “It must make you feel great, whoring yourself for a handful of months and slitting your brother’s throat. Selling your conscience for next to nothing. Maybe I can scrounge up thirty pieces of silver for you.”

  “Hell,” Gates spat, “what really bothers me is you shootin’ a boy and walkin’ free while I’m locked up for half my life. I’m only tryin’ to see justice done.”

  “I’m not taping this. You don’t have to recite your bullshit for the record.”

  “The truth’s the truth, Mason.”

  “But if I somehow get you released,” Mason probed, “the truth might change?”

  “I’m just lookin’ for some brotherly love, you understand? I’m sorry I had to come forward on this Thompson deal, but I’ve acquired a profound respect for our legal system. I’m into truth and honor now. The flag and our great American country. You do what’s right, and it’ll all pan out. Even if you did pull the trigger.”

  “I understand,” Mason said.

  “Excellent,” Gates replied. “You think your cop buddy will mind if I call my lady pen pal? I’m in high cotton here for a little long-distance sex.”

  “I have no idea why a policeman would offer you a phone, and I certainly didn’t put him up to it. I was surprised as heck to hear from you.”

  “Better go heavy on those law books, Mason. Find that special case.”

  “Good-bye,” Mason said dryly. He folded the phone shut and handed it to Custis. “Major surprise. He wants out of the slammer. He’s such a piece of trash, he’ll destroy me and my daughter and our mother to save himself the last year and few months of his sentence. Naturally, he’ll forget the murder accusation if I spring him. Or so he says—you can never be too certain with a jackal like Gates.”

  “Well, we got two months till September term,” Custis remarked. “Maybe the fucker’ll drop dead.”

  “Superb legal strategy, my friend. Congratulations. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  A week later, Mason caught sight of Gail Harding, the Enterprise editor, as she was leaving her basement office under Stuart Drug and locking up, finished for the day. Mason was swinging by the pharmacy to fill a prescription for Grace, medicine for a mild sinus infection, and Gail waved him over and said she was glad to see him and had been meaning to pay him a visit at the farm. “I have a question for you,” she announced mischievously. She withdrew her key and checked the door, grabbing the knob and simultaneously pulling and twisting.

  “I have one for you first,” Mason replied. “What’s with that crazy story about the raccoon? The ‘Man Bitten by Raccoon on Main Street’ piece? Was it satire or something?”

  “If it were satire, Mason, you’d know. It’s true. Hard news, as we say in the biz.” She was spirited, ironic, her glasses dangling from her neck on a beaded chain.

  “You want me to believe a man or woman, whose name you won’t print, is strolling down Main Street—right here—and a rabid coon materializes from the vapors and bites him? Or her? The story wasn’t a lark or goof? Heaven forbid—you didn’t get snookered, did you?”

  “I doubt anyone would go through those excruciating rabies shots as a joke. It’s just a quirky, weird story, accurate to the last period.”

  “So why not print the name? Preachers with dope charges, politicians with ugly secrets, information you know will decimate people—you’ve never sanitized a story before.”

  “Yeah, a watershed edition for us. It was such dreadfully poor luck, I felt sorry for the guy. I figured everybody and his brother would make fun of him. He’d be a laughingstock for the rest of his life, don’t you think? The story works without revealing his identity.”

  “Only in Stuart.” Mason smiled, a smile that expanded into a laugh. “Pulitzer-grade stuff on your end. Invite me to the ceremony.”

  “I will. Now, on to more important topics.” She opened her purse and deposited the office key, which was attached to a plastic Wonder Woman figure. “If this isn’t appropriate, you stop me, but, well, I have a friend who’s interested in meeting you, a lady. I don’t have any idea about your personal life, and she doesn’t want to seem brash or intrude or stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “So who is it?” Mason asked. “This friend?”

  Gail giggled, suddenly flighty and girlish. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  “Then how would I know if I’m interested?”

  “So you might be okay with it?”

  Mason shifted his weight. An elderly man in bib overalls walked between them, leaving the store with his pills. The old man said “hey” but didn’t linger, and
Mason waited for him to shuffle out of range before he continued. “Who knows? Maybe. I’d have to think about it. I’ve been pretty much a hermit since Allison’s accident.”

  “Yeah, jeez. And everybody’s different. We want to absolutely respect your situation.”

  “So who is it?”

  “Well, a teacher at the high school. A teacher you see at the gym.”

  “Huh. A teacher…I see at the gym. I’m thinking…I’m stumped, Gail. Sorry.”

  “Shoni. Shoni McClean.”

  Mason did a double take so pronounced it was almost slapstick. “She’s married, Gail. Damn fine-looking, but damn well married.”

  “She and her husband are separated. They have been for several months.”

  “Last time I checked, she was wearing a wedding ring.”

  “So you noticed,” Gail teased him. “Yeah, she still does occasionally, mainly to keep men from hounding her, but she and Mark are history. He moved to Detroit, and they’ve signed all the legal papers. You’d know more about those matters than I, what has to be done for it to be official. Their split is old hat. You haven’t heard?”

  “Nope.”

  “So?” Gail dragged out the o.

  “I’ll mull it over. She seems nice enough from our conversations in the gym. How old is she?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Yikes.” Mason widened his eyes, then shrank them back to normal. “Kinda young for me.”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’ll give it some thought.” He flicked a piece of lint off his lapel. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll probably run it by my daughter, too, if I get that far.”

  “She’s a sweetie,” Gail said warmly. “It’d be good for you.”

  “Since you’re not available, I’ll have to settle for second best, huh?”

  “Another little thing I need to check with you about, Mason.” Gail’s stance changed, and her voice became less vibrant, the upper register disappearing. “What’s this I hear about the old Wayne Thompson murder? I was going through the court orders last month, and there’s been a special prosecutor appointed, some guy I’ve never heard of. The sheriff’s no help, claims it’s being managed elsewhere and swears he’s as much in the dark as I am. I contacted this Stallings, the new prosecutor, and he’s like talking to a rock, but he did say you might be involved—that’s the word he used, ‘involved’—so you weren’t able to handle the case. He also sent me a photo of himself for the article, by the way. A lot of smoke, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She’d taken long enough building the question that Mason was able to keep his poise and answer her coherently. “Beats me. I’ve had a visit or two from the state police, but you’re as informed as I am. Years ago when it happened, they interviewed Gates, and I was part of his alibi for the night, so I obviously have to be careful if there’s a charge. Could be a conflict.”

  “They wouldn’t be gearing up like this unless there was something to it, would they?”

  Mason brushed his suit jacket again. “The cops who talked to me seemed kind of desperate and scattershot, if you want to know the truth. Left-field, snipe-hunt stuff.”

  “I heard a rumor Allen Roberts might have some worries.”

  “Allen’s a hundred percent safe. That much I can tell you.”

  “I’m getting the impression you’re not as uninformed as you let on,” Gail challenged him.

  “Let’s leave it like this: I’m giving you all I can, and if the case takes off, I’ll be more than happy to fill in whatever blanks need attention.”

  “They’re after Gates, aren’t they? Aren’t they? He’s tangled up in this, isn’t he?”

  “Come on,” Mason said jocularly. “Put away the bamboo shoots and I’ll walk you to your car—wouldn’t want you left alone with the rabid street animals.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The following Monday morning there was an onslaught of rain, the kind that came companioned by thunder and capricious gusts, the downpour so strong windshield wipers couldn’t clear a view, even on the highest setting, and umbrellas snapped inverted toward the sky, breaking their metal ribs. Arriving in Mason’s office, Custis was grumpy and incommunicative, and there was no coffee, nothing to eat.

  “I take it the diet’s kicking into a new gear,” Mason tweaked him. “Tap water and conversation the whole menu for us?”

  “If you’re hungry, I’d suggest you hoof it across the street and place an order,” Custis responded. “Or visit the vendin’ machine at the sheriff’s department.” He was humorless, the comments tart, defensive. “I’m not your toady.”

  “Ah, but today you are. I was your toady last Monday, and I went so far as to bow and scrape to your low-cal demands and had my mom fix that fruit concoction; plus I paid a pretty penny for the fat-free muffins at Food Lion. It’s your turn.”

  “It’s raining like hell, Mason, and I didn’t stop for anything. Sorry. We got any business to discuss?”

  “Not really,” Mason said cautiously. “No.” He began swiveling his desk chair from side to side, pointless motion. “The diet seems to be going great, huh? What is it now, fifteen pounds?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “You do anything entertaining over the weekend?” Mason inquired. “Travel anywhere?”

  “No. Why’re you askin’?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “I hung around here,” Custis said.

  “What’s up your ass?” Mason demanded. “You think you could possibly be any more surly?”

  “I’m not surly. Fact bein’, I’m the duke of good cheer. But we don’t have any cases to discuss, I didn’t bring breakfast and I’m not in the mood to rehash the details of our weekends like we’re a couple teenage girls at our lockers. That okay with you?”

  Mason dramatically raised his hands and wheeled away from the desk, as if he were at the point of a weapon. “Sorry I asked. Jeez.”

  “I’ve got a case in circuit court,” Custis declared. “I’ll see you later.” The wind shifted, and rain sheeted the office window. Thunder boomed and the lights dimmed, struggling and flickering before they healed. “Shit,” Custis groused. “Why is it I always catch court on the friggin’ nastiest days—I’ll be soaked and have to sit there dog-wet for three hours, listenin’ to losers and crackheads.”

  “Oh—you don’t know by now? I signed up for the weather hotline, this deal with Zeus and Willard Scott. I buy the forecast a year in advance and use it to make your life miserable.”

  “Hysterical,” Custis said.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Mason asked. “I mean, obviously something’s on your mind. Anything I can do or help you with? I’d be glad to.”

  “I’m fine. Besides, you have your own cross to bear.” He stood and turned to leave, his full back to Mason.

  “Hey,” Mason said awkwardly, Custis’s mood beyond his reach, “you want me to cover for you? It’s not a problem, not in the least. I’ll be happy to take your docket. Sheila can postpone my appointments, and I’ll fight the storm and crackheads for you. It’d be my pleasure.”

  “No, thanks.” He was walking as he said it.

  Mason didn’t see him for the remainder of the day, and he called in sick on Tuesday, instructing Sheila to continue his cases and reschedule a meeting. “He seem all right to you yesterday?” Mason asked her after she gave him the news of Custis’s illness. “Normal?”

  “Well, he was kinda quiet. I really didn’t have much to do with him. He went to court and went directly home. He wasn’t actin’ himself, though, now that I think about it.”

  “Yeah. Guess it was already bothering him. There’s a nasty bug making the rounds.”

  Mason was lonely; there was no avoiding it, no putting it aside. He was lonely partly because he lacked a marriage, the joy of his wife and the salts, spices and flavors of living with a woman, needs as fundamental as water or winter heat and as damnable and visceral in their absence as a punch to the stomach. He felt the empty b
reakfast table and solitary cup of coffee every single morning, felt the dead rocking chair beside his own on the porch, felt the hours that were simply stock replications, chapters and verses without promise or spontaneity: the clock radio, work, bench presses, a rental video, Grace’s school assignments, TV sports, the king bed suspending him in the dark, the twenty-watt hall night-light, the silhouettes of furniture as he dozed off. Still, the bigger portion of his loneliness was self-imposed, a barefoot pilgrimage to a shrine that wasn’t yet visible and likely never would be, the monotonous march the best he could do to honor Allison, his way of keeping her with him, a slog of his own creation. He chose to mourn, to assume the habits of a widower, to withdraw into sackcloth and the sanctuary of his forty acres.

  Complicating matters, he grew concerned he was doing wrong by his daughter, turning her into his sidekick and best friend by default, steadily dragging her into his own predilections, the two of them Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton, or Sinatra and Deano tearing up the Strip. “Pretty soon,” his mother had recently scolded him, “I’m goin’ to find you and Grace drinking beer on the sofa together and watchin’ the monster trucks. Peanut hulls on the ground. Or you’ll have her dealin’ cards at a poker game. She’s too pretty and too smart to waste. You have to be her daddy, not her barstool buddy. You need your life, she needs hers.”

  “I know” was all he could muster. “I’m trying. I enjoy spending time with her, though…in those rare moments when she’ll actually have something to do with me.”

  Tuesday night, after supper and an unanswered call to check on Custis, he tracked down Grace in her room where she was busy on the computer, sending e-mail. He knocked and entered and sat on the corner of her bed. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” She didn’t stop typing or look in his direction. Typical.

  “Question for you.” His hands were flat on her comforter, at right angles to his hips, pressing craters into the billowy fabric.

  She continued with the keyboard.

  “Are you listening?”