by Martin Clark
“Voice, please.”
“Yeah,” she said, so softly the word evaporated the moment it hit air.
“Okay.” He glanced across the seat at her, but she ignored him. “I’m not trying to be an ogre. I realize it’s tough for you right now because of bad breaks you can’t control. It’s wrong you lost your mom, it’s wrong you have to fret about me, it’s wrong you’ve been embarrassed by seeing your father falsely accused of murder in the newspaper and it’s wrong you have to worry about things most people your age take for granted. You’ve been a champ so far, and I’m proud of you. Not many fifteen-year-olds could’ve done as well as you have. You’re exceptional, and I love you. But I will not let you use this trumped-up, ridiculous murder charge as a crutch or an excuse or a reason to do as you choose.” He relocated his hands on the wheel, brought them both closer to the top of its arc. “I’ll admit ninety-nine percent of this is not your fault, but if you quit on yourself, if you think nothing counts anymore, if you fail classes and dress like Morticia Addams and hide in a shell, you’re hurting me, too, and hurting people who love you is also wrong. I need you to hold on to yourself. I promise we will lick Leonard Stallings, and nothing will change.”
She unspooled a finger full of hair. She slumped against the door, didn’t answer, and Mason was scared, stuck, afraid he wouldn’t be able to retrieve her. He was distressed, pondering what he could do, and he allowed a tire to drop from the pavement onto the loose gravel shoulder, and the car fishtailed and nearly swapped ends and when he finally steered them back straight on the road, Grace might as well have been asleep, didn’t appear alarmed or bothered. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
Chapter Twenty-two
Three days into Grace’s Marlboro Light punishment, Jim Haskins was on the phone, inflamed, Gatling-gunning his sentences, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. “The sonofabitch has the polygraph,” he announced to Mason. “I don’t know how, but Stallings got hold of the test, and the despicable troll has sent chapter and verse to Judge Melesco. He wants to schedule a damn hearing, so, just as I feared, our well’s gonna be poisoned when it comes to the judge. Not to mention the press. It’ll be splashed all over the news.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mason stammered. “Say what?” He was leaning on the corner of Custis’s desk, Custis standing next to him. They’d been almost to lunch at the Coffee Break, crossing Main Street, and Sheila had come tearing after them, told them it was urgent. “Custis is with me; I’m putting you on speaker so he can hear, too.”
“Stallings has the lie-detector results, and he’s filed them with the court,” Haskins repeated, his voice staccato, crackling from the phone.
“How did he find out?” Custis asked.
“No idea. But it’s not too difficult to narrow it down—take you guys, Pat and me from the equation, and it’s an extremely limited field.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mason said. “You think Ed Hoffman shanghaied us?”
Custis shook his head. “It’d be off the chart for him. New territory.”
Mason sank deeper onto the desk. “Why in the world is Stallings filing the polygraph with the court, Jim? How can he do that? He knows it’s absolutely not admissible at trial, completely barred. He’s obviously trying to gain a tactical advantage and influence potential jurors. It’s blatantly unethical. Clearly misconduct. We need to bust his chops and ask for sanctions or even a dismissal.”
“He’s clever, Mason, clever. See, he took all the letters we’ve been whipsawing him with, our inquiries about discovery, and included them with his motion to the court. He’s asking the judge to decide whether or not he has to hand over the lie-detector documents.” Haskins finally began to brake his speech. “It’s angels on pinheads, a ruse, but it gives him perfect cover. He claims he doesn’t want his case hamstrung by a technicality, says he’s afraid we’re setting him up, that we’ll appear at trial and complain he didn’t release information we were entitled to. In a nutshell, he’s asking Judge Melesco for guidance: ‘Do I have to give Mr. Hunt the results even though there’s an agreement this thing would be buried and can’t be used at trial? Does the parties’ deal trump the law? Or, if I release the test am I violating the commonwealth’s commitment to confidentiality?’ Of course, it goes without saying he’s manufactured the whole brouhaha and doesn’t give a tinker’s damn how the judge rules—he simply wants to score points by alerting everyone to the unfavorable results. Melesco will see through the smoke and mirrors and realize the motion’s a sham, but now he knows more than we’d like for him to. So will your jurors who watch TV and read the paper.”
“Wicked,” Custis said. “Gotta admit the midget’s on his game.”
“So who the fuck leaked it?” Mason asked angrily. “It has to be Ed, the AG’s office or the examiner. Damn.”
“Don’t know,” Haskins replied.
“Well, I owe you an apology,” Mason said. “You were right: I should’ve avoided the frigging test. I wish I’d taken your advice.”
“Could’ve gone either way,” Haskins said graciously. “Let’s not dwell on the past. You don’t owe me anything. We’ll file and ask for sanctions and a dismissal, and Pat and I’ll prepare a response for the media. Hell, the polygraph proves you didn’t commit the crime you’re charged with. Keep your spirits up, Mason. We’re still in fine shape. I’ll see to it Mr. Stallings has plenty to occupy him for the next few weeks.”
After finishing the call, Mason opened the door and flashed his head from Custis’s office. “Get Ed Hoffman on the phone,” he yelled at Sheila.
The following morning, Mason and Hoffman met at a Hardee’s in Bassett Forks, roughly halfway for them both. Hoffman arrived first and was drinking coffee and eating a breakfast biscuit, egg and cheese, its wrapper tucked underneath as a makeshift plate. Mason stalked across the restaurant and stormed into the booth with him. As he hurtled in, Mason bumped his kneecap against a metal support, and a hot tingle rode a nerve up and down his leg. “Hi, Ed,” he said sarcastically. “So why the hell does Leonard Stallings have my polygraph test? The test you vowed to take to your grave?” Mason was loud. His neck and cheeks thumped red. His hands were twitchy. He flexed and bounced his leg, trying to jigger away the pain.
“Hello to you, too. I gave it to him. Three days ago.” Hoffman gingerly raised the wrapper and its biscuit and moved them to the side, closer to the window. He set his coffee near the food so there was nothing between him and Mason, only empty table. “Sorry. No choice. I was meanin’ to call. Soon. I regret you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Why would you sell me out, Ed? Because you think I failed the test? Is that it? Or did you just mislead me from day one and plan to backstab me regardless?”
“Stallings put the screws to me, Mason. I held with you like I promised until I couldn’t hold with you any further. I submitted my written report to Stallings—your test wasn’t mentioned. He’s interviewed me several times—kept my mouth shut. So did everyone else. The polygraph had vanished. Here’s how he works, though. He has a checklist. Thorough as can be. Gives it to me to complete. I’ve learned he does it with every officer. Very effective device. Catches info and evidence you might’ve forgotten, and if the case tanks ’cause a cop neglects or forgets and it ain’t on the sheet, Stallings can wash his hands. This sheet he gave me specifically asked if there’d been a polygraph. So I don’t turn it in. Delayed. Tell him I’ve given him the whole schmear, maybe he needs to talk to Bass and Minter. Nope, he says. Do the form. So, Mason, I’m not gonna lie, not me, especially to the players on my own team. I leave several boxes empty or put a question mark. He drags me in and drills me on every single blank. I advise him to call the attorney general’s office, say this is too complicated for me. I’m a grunt, this needs chain-of-command input. Didn’t take him long then. He’s filed a complaint against me with the state police. I’ll be okay, but he’s not happy, no he’s not.”
Mason didn’t respond. Cashiers were shouting orders to
the cooks, an older man and woman behind Mason were discussing a recent trip to Niagara Falls and a lanky black kid with flour smudges on his brown company shirt was sweeping the floor, banging and scraping his wooden broom handle whenever he reached beneath a table or booth bench.
“I’m sorry,” Hoffman continued. “Unintended consequences. I wish I hadn’t offered the deal. I knew the truth before you were hooked up. Hoped I was wrong or you could end-run the exam. Hate it for you. Don’t blame you for bein’ pissed.”
“Not much I can do about it now, huh, Ed? My stock took quite a hit thanks to your not keeping your bargain.”
“Didn’t see it comin’. Didn’t plan to make your situation worse.” He reached for his coffee, took several sips and placed it on the table in front of him, keeping both hands around the cup.
“You’re not bullshitting me, Ed? You truly concealed this as long as you could? Really?”
“Absolutely. But I can’t totally lie for you or anyone else. Not my style. And if you want to be a stickler, I didn’t actually tell him. He found out from the higher-ups in Richmond. But I’m acceptin’ responsibility.”
“Lot of good it does me,” Mason complained. “Thanks so much for the late, worthless, facile lip service. I’ll recommend you for an ambassador’s post at the UN—you’d excel there.”
“Appreciate it. Maybe I could do it part-time when I retire from this racket. Get paid to wear those earphones and carry on ’bout embargoes and such.” Hoffman gazed at the coffee cup and rotated it a full turn but didn’t lift it from the tabletop. “So I’m thinkin’ last night, been thinkin’ ever since Stallings put the squeeze on me—and, hey, he’s a man doing his job, I don’t have any gripe with him—been thinkin’ how to repair this with you. It’s nowise simple. Me, I’m in a bind. Too many masters.”
“I’m in a bit of a bind myself, Ed, partially because you promised me something you didn’t—or couldn’t—deliver.” Mason jutted forward and rested both forearms on the table, his stomach flush against its rounded orange edge.
“I’m gonna return what I took as best I can. Put us level.”
“How?” Mason asked skeptically. “The damage is done. In spades.”
“You pay attention to the magazine I left in Stuart?” Hoffman asked.
“Yeah. I gathered I was under surveillance. Or had been. We’ve been careful. Thanks.” Mason cocked his head. “I hope you’re not taping me now, Ed.”
Hoffman didn’t change his expression. He plowed ahead. “Remember you asked me ’bout people close to you? Remember?”
“Sure.”
“You solved it yet? Seemed you was on target.”
Mason relaxed, settling into the slope of the bench. “I thought I did, but…well, no, I’m not positive. I had some suspicions…Nothing’s turned up in discovery, so to be honest, we’re still confounded.”
“Huh.”
“In fact, I was probably chasing shadows and too suspicious and obsessing about it—this shit has a way of disorienting you. And this peekaboo show you’re doing now isn’t helping much. How about you just jump to the nitty-gritty?”
“You spent seven minutes and eleven seconds interviewing a man who’d admitted to a murder. Including the time you spent with your sheriff and Roger Wilson.” Hoffman sipped his coffee, peering at Mason over the rim.
“Huh? You mean Allen Roberts? The sting you guys engineered?”
“Yep. I had a watch on it.”
“So? Who cares? An experienced detective had spent hours with him and gotten zilch. I’m not a cop, and it’s not my job to interrogate people. The fact I went at all speaks volumes. I took the case seriously and had him questioned and did everything I could.”
“How many other suspects you, yourself, actually interviewed?”
“I’ve never given it any thought,” Mason dodged.
“I’d bet the ranch the answer is none.” Hoffman wasn’t cocky, wasn’t combative.
“This is meaningless, Ed. Hot air and gibberish. I told Bass and Minter I knew the guy’s reputation and had my doubts, serious doubts, but nevertheless I instructed the sheriff to bring him in immediately, and I personally followed through to make certain the case was properly investigated. I’ve gone over this in my mind and with my lawyers and it merely demonstrates I was doing everything humanly possible to prepare for trial.”
“I knew when you wanted to speak to him you was involved,” Hoffman said. He sounded almost apologetic.
“Then you need to buy a turban and crystals and mystical bones and set up shop in Atlantic City, because you must have supernatural powers.”
Hoffman smiled. He took a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, spread it open on the table and pressed the creases flat with both palms. “Maybe the magazine was too confusing. Instead of hintin’, I probably should’ve had the balls to go full-scale and spell it out clear. Didn’t figure I was at liberty to just spill it, but I hated for you to be bushwhacked. Torn between a man I respect and my job and how I felt the case should wind up.” Hoffman patted and smoothed out the paper. “Room was wired, Mason. Your sheriff didn’t know. We sent an agent with the state computer tech and bugged the place. Days before. Assumed you’d probably interview the suspect. Two reasons: you had to make it look good, plus you could have a gander at what was transpirin’. Try to see where the strings were. You made sure you didn’t tape it, too. Left the recorder off.”
Mason didn’t respond.
“Then you instruct this Roberts boy to dummy up. Tell him not to speak to the police. He’s done it, too. Has he ever. Odd you’d give a suspect advice that hinders the investigation.”
“I don’t remember what I said or didn’t say, but knowing Allen like I do, I wasn’t convinced. My believing in his integrity and innocence hardly suggests my criminal brother is telling the truth. And if I made him aware he didn’t have to incriminate himself, so what? I’ve been a friend of the guy all my life and had some sympathy for him.”
Hoffman put on glasses and bent down over the paper. “Here’s what you said. I was listenin’. Wrote it down word for word: ‘I know you didn’t do this, okay? Don’t worry.’” Hoffman stopped and briefly studied Mason. “I’m skippin’ a few parts that don’t matter.” He resumed his reading: “‘As long as I’m the commonwealth’s attorney, you will never be charged. You’re innocent. You have my word nothin’ will happen to you.’” He paused again and fixed Mason with a cop’s deadeye, hammerlock stare. “You didn’t ask the boy a single question. You’re too decent for your own good, Mason. Got busted by your own conscience. Couldn’t let Roberts suffer and worry. Sent him home to kiss his wife despite the murder weapon we’d found at his house and his confession. Then informed Agent Bass you were prepared to indict—a deceit.”
“Roberts didn’t confess, and there was never a murder weapon.”
“’Course you was unaware of those niceties when you cut him free.” Hoffman refolded his notes and returned them to his pocket.
“I’ve been doing this for years, Ed, and sometimes you rely on your gut,” Mason protested. “We all do. So I sensed the case wasn’t up to snuff, and hey, guess what? I was right.”
“Ain’t here to debate with you, Mason.”
“Wait a minute.” Mason slapped the table with an open hand, suddenly incensed. “Hang on. Wait. How come Stallings hasn’t given us this? He’s under an obligation to produce it. It’s discoverable as can be.”
“Accordin’ to Rule 3A:11, it isn’t,” Hoffman said, his tone self-satisfied for the first time. “Figured this out for myself. Took me twenty-three years. It’s held up for me, too, least in other courts, Judge Weckstein’s included. Everybody knows how smart he is. Commonwealth has to give you any statement you wrote or we recorded. We didn’t record you and Allen Roberts, just listened and took notes. Me, Bass and Minter. Three cops heard you. We have to produce any statement or confession you made to the police. Not the situation here. You didn’t make the statement to us. Little glit
ch in the rule. A loophole for the good guys. If we’re careful, the Hoffman method allows us to keep a surprise sometimes. A derringer in our socks. Ran it by Stallings, he agreed. He was delighted.”
“I’ve never read the law to say that. You can’t be right.”
“Go study it for yourself.”
“What nonsense, Ed. The discovery rules are designed to ensure no one is surprised. They’re about disclosure and—”
“Listen,” Hoffman interrupted. “You guys with the law degrees and English majors truck in this shit, not me. I did two years of night school at Roanoke College. Barely made it through. But as for this one itty-bitty speck of the system which affects me and my job, I’ll match my understandin’ up against yours or anybody else’s.”
“I’ve seen the language a million times,” Mason said. “Maybe after so long you start assuming too much or glossing over it, but I’m still convinced you’re wrong.”
“Don’t matter, not really. We have the statements. You’re aware now. If your lawyers raise a stink and I’m mistaken, the judge orders us to tell you what you already know. No help to your case in the long term. The evidence is the evidence. I’m gonna let Stallings know, too. Inform him I’ve spoiled our big finale. Receive my tongue-lashing from him and have another complaint filed with my lieutenant.”
“Pretty sinister shit, Ed. You went all out on this, didn’t you? The elaborate sting, the rule bending.”
“My responsibility to do the best I can toward findin’ the truth. Didn’t figure you’d just confess to Bass and Minter if they showed their badges and asked politely. Or threatened to haul you into the station for questioning like they do on TV. It’d be wrong if I’d gone half-ass. I’ve been fair to you, too. Now I’ve made amends. Don’t want to hear no cryin’ the blues.”
“So Custis and I can remove the cone of silence and stop talking in code? We’re not being monitored or listened to? I misunderstood the magazine clue?”
“Our only bug was at the sheriff’s office. Nothing else. I thought you might add it up.”
