The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  A few minutes before eleven, they heard the phone ring at Sheila’s desk, and she quickly appeared to tell them Mr. Sharpe was on the line. All Pat said was “You need to come over here, Mason. Your brother wants to see you.” Forgetting his coat, Mason asked Custis to please stay put and watch for the cops and then bolted out of the office, jogging through the raw morning, pelted by rain and sloppy, incomplete snowflakes. He climbed the narrow stairs beside the florist’s two at a time and banged on the door, and Sharpe and Gates both shouted for him to come in. Gates was sitting on a sofa, Sharpe standing near a window, the view of an alley and the high brick side of another building. There was a grocery-store fruit basket on a table, a gift from the landlord. The apartment was murky, corners and seams obscure.

  “We have some unfinished business, Mason,” his brother declared. “You were about to admit how you were sorry for repeatedly fuckin’ me over when the deputy interrupted us. We need to tend to that before I go Hollywood with your lawyer.” He feigned confusion. “You seem wet. Didn’t wear your jacket? Leave suddenly from the office?”

  The door wasn’t completely closed. A draft pushed in from the stairwell, and Mason heard a tractor-trailer change gears on the steep Main Street grade, the sound of snow chains beating the pavement. He didn’t respond.

  “Two magic little words: I’m sorry.” Gates had his arms spread across the ridge of the sofa. He’d changed into clothes his mother had left at the jail, the pants too small in the waist.

  Mason focused on him. “Do you really think I’ve caused you harm? Wronged you? Seriously?”

  “Hell fuckin’ yeah,” Gates spat. He glanced at Sharpe. “Can you believe this clown?” he asked the lawyer.

  Mason went through the same calculus he’d done before, considered his mother and his daughter and how unconditionally he loved them both, but it infuriated him that he’d just been stripped and humiliated and taunted at the restroom. He looked toward Sharpe, who dipped his eyes, wanting no part of this. Gates scooted farther forward, taking down his arms as he moved to the last of the cushion, and the table lamp’s sixty watts now illustrated much of his face, white on white, a clear bulb joining mushroom skin. The new light pried him from the dim winter room and sloughed off a warped, elongated shadow onto the wall, and he was suddenly and ferociously every inch his father’s sullen son, Curt Hunt writ large in his flesh, reclaimed.

  “They say always give the bandit your wallet,” Mason sighed. “Don’t put up a fight. Not worth your life.” He checked on Sharpe again. Felt another chilly draft from behind him. Built the apology in his mind and got ready to pull the lever, let it go. He thought of his father, the rough mechanic’s hands, the missing finger joint, the lube and grime in the creases of his palms. He recalled Curt mashing his face into the grass and soil, a grown man’s knee set against his nine-year-old spine, and he remembered deciding it didn’t matter what he said or how much he begged, because his father would never be satisfied, never relent. “You know what, Gates?” Mason paused, noticing the wet floor around his shoes. “You won’t receive another lie from me. I’ll leave with my pride and my decency, thank you, two items that must be very foreign to you. You can tell Mr. Sharpe the truth, or you can continue as you are, a cipher and an ingrate, Curt Hunt’s only child. His heir. Your account with me is empty.”

  Mason broke off the words forcefully, briskly, like kindling sticks snapped over a knee, momentarily lingering on his brother when he’d finished. He acknowledged Sharpe with a nod and turned and went into the hall, but he didn’t rush or hurry, faced his brother and the room’s interior as he was shutting the door, Gates and Sharpe vanishing bit by bit as he pulled the knob, neither of them speaking, a shiny metal 2 swinging into sight, the number glued to the wood. He took the handrail and headed down the steps to his office, never once considered changing direction.

  “More of the same,” he reported to an anxious Custis when he returned to their building. “It’s a hard balance to strike. I’d die for Grace, wouldn’t matter how much it hurt or how long it lasted, but I can’t—won’t—let him shit on me like our daddy did. I’ll go to trial and take my chances if it comes to that. We’ll just have to wait and see if Pat can persuade him.”

  “Mmmm, damn. I had hopes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” Custis said, “a man can’t stay down on his knees but for so long.”

  Thirty minutes later, they heard whooping and hollering in the reception area and jumped to their feet and Pat Sharpe didn’t slow up at Sheila’s desk or hesitate at Mason’s door, entered the room with a resounding “Yes!” his arms raised, a signed statement in one hand, a video in the other. Custis hugged him and hoisted him off the ground, knocking Sharpe’s glasses sideways, and they all slapped high fives and yelled and cheered. “Thank you so much,” Mason said. “I can have a life again.” Sheila came to see what the hubbub was about, and Mason grabbed her by the wrists and flew into a silly jig all around the office, and while they were dancing daft as Dorothy and the Scarecrow, for the first time he could ever recall, Mason felt delivered and altogether loose, finally shed of his loads, no claims against him, no drag, his daddy buried, his brother gelded and behind him, his daughter rescued. He leapt onto the damn desk, yanking Sheila with him, and they bopped, shimmied, reeled and funky-chickened until papers and files covered the floor. There was never a single musical note, only Custis and Sharpe egging them on, but even the expensive pen set engraved with Mason’s name was kicked off. “Coming home!” Mason screamed, his arms and legs in a whirlwind. “At last.”

  “How’d you sell him?” Custis asked Sharpe after Mason and Sheila had finished their gyrations and stepped down, Custis and Sharpe each taking one of Sheila’s arms to brace her as she left the desk, her shoes lost from each other on the floor. “Give us the report.”

  “Oh, man,” he said. “I thought we were shit outta luck. Mason comes in and they have a bit of a standoff, and after he leaves, I put on my panhandling rags, and Gates is sittin’ there zoning, a million miles away, blowing me off. He keeps checking the freezer and then without any warning he becomes all pleasant and compliant, tells me he’s ready to tape. Like someone threw a switch. He skims the statement, signs it, reads it for the camera. I had my secretary waiting in the car, and she notarized it. He admits he made up the murder story, states Mason is innocent, concedes he did it to try and buy himself an early release. Complete exoneration for us.”

  “The truth, finally,” Mason said, his breath quick from the dancing and excitement.

  “He made me promise to tell Mason he forgave him. Kept reiterating it. ‘You see who the better brother is,’ is how he phrased it. ‘Who can forgive who. Who’s a child and who’s a real man.’”

  “A real man in the tradition of Ike Turner and Bobby Brown, maybe,” Custis muttered. “Or the Boston Strangler.”

  “As I’m leaving,” Sharpe continued, “after I’ve recorded him and we’re through, he pipes up and says, very cryptically, ‘Yeah, so Mason didn’t kill anyone, but he’s still no Boy Scout, not the man you fools think he is. Mason and me will always know.’ He let on like he was doing you a big favor. He’s lied and brought you an indictment, and he’s acting like he’s drinking the hemlock for you. It was bizarre.”

  “Had to be,” Mason remarked, standing on a file folder, its contents scattered. “But you can rest assured Gates Hunt never helps anyone except Gates Hunt. Period.”

  “You guys figure he’s really got a chance at a new trial?” Sharpe asked. “I couldn’t believe he was free on bond.”

  “Not our concern,” Custis said emphatically.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Sharpe replied. “I’ve never been a guy to analyze good fortune too scrupulously.”

  “Before I forget—thanks again, Pat,” Mason told his lawyer. “I’m so grateful for everything.” The tone of his voice, the sincerity, changed the atmosphere, and the party receded. Sheila stopped in the middle of a shoe strap and peered a
t the men.

  “My pleasure,” Sharpe replied.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “No problem,” Sharpe said. “I’m relieved, glad it’s over. Whew.”

  Mason pivoted toward Custis, wanting to confess how appreciative he was, how he valued their ties and connections and years together, how they were brothers, how he regretted doubting his partner’s allegiance, but he became emotional and got nowhere, his chin and lips in a tremulous kink, his voice tamped down into his throat.

  Custis helped him through it, waving him off with a huge brown hand. “No need for all that, Mr. Bojangles.”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you…” was all Mason was able to utter.

  “You ain’t seen my bill yet,” Custis kidded him, and the tired old lawyer crack gave everyone an excuse to laugh and be done with the awkwardness, Mason especially.

  Custis phoned Jim Haskins. Sharpe hustled to the Enterprise office with a press release he’d prepared in advance. Sheila zipped to the courthouse to spread the news. Mason called his mom, who shrieked, “Praise you, Lord!” and drove to inform her minister in person. The instant Grace arrived home from school, Mason explained the video and announced they were redeemed. He was safe.

  From the rickety sofa, she watched the tape with her head canted, her neck slightly extended and her lips parted in guileless teenage wonderment, soaking in this man she shared blood with but couldn’t recollect meeting, a pale dude with a skuzzy goatee wearing a plain gray sweatshirt, echoes and dribs and drabs of her father in his appearance and mannerisms, the camera jittery in a couple of spots. When Gates admitted lying, she squeaked a soft, satisfied sound and clapped her hands together and left them clenched, then beat the floor with exuberant, girlish feet, running in place, her reaction not so different from her father’s. “I love you, baby,” Mason exclaimed, and he hooked an arm around her and yanked her closer, her feet still in high gear.

  True to form, Gates pointlessly lied to Bass and Minter, promising them nothing had changed. He advised them he’d filed a motion and the judge had released him on bond and scheduled a hearing, but so what, there was no need for them to panic and show up with their panties in a wad. The cops went to the clerk’s office and read the coram vobis file, called Stallings and warned him there could be a complication. “Awfully suspicious,” Minter grumbled to the special prosecutor. “I smell a rat.”

  Stallings didn’t reach Stuart until midafternoon, and he also visited the courthouse to review the coram vobis pleading. “This is a farce,” he complained to the clerk, who could only shrug and state the obvious, that she wasn’t a lawyer. “It’s procedurally barred,” he fumed. “And nonsense to boot.” He called the judge’s administrative assistant to request an explanation or a meeting, and was primly rebuked.

  “The judge says it’s not your case,” she drawled, “and even if it was, he can’t talk to you about it ex parte. Meanin’ only one side bein’ heard.”

  “I know what it means,” he barked.

  Custis had convinced Pat Sharpe to let him personally deliver the news of Gates’s defection to the special prosecutor, and tipped off by an assistant clerk, he was waiting at the bottom of the courthouse steps when Stallings stalked out of the building, a cell phone jammed against his ear. “Yo, Stallings,” he yelled. “Over here, my man.” Custis was underneath an umbrella, wearing an elegant black wool overcoat. The weather continued to be fussy, with sprinkles of rain and snow. “Got a treat for you.”

  Stallings folded his cell phone shut and walked to where he was, stood beside Custis instead of in front of him, both of them facing Main Street. Stallings was wet, didn’t have a hat or umbrella, and Custis didn’t offer him any relief. Stallings put his hands in his pants pockets, hunched forward. “I’ve been home-cooked, haven’t I?”

  “Your canary just lost his chirp. Here’s his statement.” Custis handed him a sheet of paper. “We also videoed him for your viewing pleasure. I’d estimate you now have what we in the trade call a credibility problem.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, it’s a cruel blow, Leonard.”

  “He could always change again.” Still sideways to Custis, Stallings was watching a pickup loaded with firewood crawl down the street, a layer of slush on its hood and roof.

  “I doubt he will, but supposin’ he does, he’s damaged goods for you. The case is junk.”

  “Your boss was involved in a murder, Mr. Norman. A criminal sitting in judgment of other criminals. You proud to be a part of such?” The smaller man’s clothes were wet, his orange hair damp, limp. A snowflake hit his cheek, melted.

  “I’m proud of Mason Hunt, yeah.” Custis turned and looked down on Stallings. “I’m guessing some turd granted Gates immunity—he’s gonna skate, isn’t he?”

  “Yep,” Stallings said tersely. “A man gets shot, we know who was involved, and the guilty go free, unscathed. We didn’t lose anything by giving Gates a pass for his cooperation—it’s not like he’d ever implicate himself, and there was never a realistic possibility of Mason coming clean and confessing his role, whatever it might’ve been. I did the best I could with the case I had.”

  “No,” Custis replied, “you didn’t. You were too busy puttin’ on your pith helmet and scramblin’ to bag your trophy to consider anything else. Mason Hunt’s no murderer, and you knew that, but you still wanted to bust his ass and hang the trophy on your wall.”

  “I truly can’t believe you guys talked your judge into springing him. The coram vobis is total bullshit. Pretty easy to win if the field’s tilted and the ref’s on your payroll.”

  “Maybe folks in Patrick tend to look after their own. And maybe around here we’re actually willing to make adjustments if need be. Any stupid motherfucker can paint by numbers; it’s your freehand work that counts.” Custis shifted his weight. “’Course, as I understand it, this is all righteous. No favors, no skulduggery, no nothing. Just a con finally confessin’ his scam.”

  “Tell that to the Thompson family—they’re certainly being well served.”

  “No need to be a sore loser, Leonard. No need to blame the judge and Mason and me because you coupled your wagon to the word of a rogue and a liar and—big surprise—you wound up in a ditch.”

  “Every dog has his day, Mr. Norman. You’ve had yours. Believe you me, I’ll be waiting for mine where you and Mason Hunt are concerned.”

  “Some mighty powerful wisdom, there. I’ll write it down so I don’t forget: ‘Every dog has his day.’ Man, that’s Oprah-caliber wise. You invent it yourself?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Saturday following Gates’s payoff, there was a party in the rhino room at Mason’s farm, a celebration attended by friends and family and Shoni McClean, who kept her distance and left early so as not to seem forward or tacky. Afterward, Mason sat down next to Grace in front of the big-screen TV, and they gabbed and rambled until the wee hours, and she said, yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah, it was a humongous relief to be done with the murder trial. As she flitted from topic to topic—boys and school and clothes and people at the party—he noticed her makeup looked less morbidly dark, and in a somber moment, she conceded she actually enjoyed her sessions with the school counselor, Miss Liesfeld, because, no offense, it was nice to have somebody to talk to other than him and Grandma.

  Over the next month, she was allowed to rewrite a term paper and do an extra-credit project in world history, rehabilitating her grades so successfully that her report card revealed nothing worse than a solitary B. There was no sign of smoking, no evidence of drinking and far fewer fights, blowups and pouting spells. She and her friend Mary Anne went with Mason and Shoni to the movies, and although it was tense for the four of them during the drive to Mount Airy, at the start of the feature Shoni offered a tub of popcorn in Grace’s direction, and she reached in and took some, volunteering a polite thank-you. Standing around the lobby after the picture was finished, waiting for Mary Anne to return from the restroom,
Grace inquired about Shoni’s bracelet, told the older woman she thought it was cool, and on the way home they all agreed the movie had been entertaining, prompting the teenagers to enthusiastically recount their favorite scenes.

  Naturally, Gates held fast to his nature, remained a loafer and a hoodlum, and within a week of his release he’d moved a druggie welfare mom and her twelve-year-old son into his one-bedroom apartment, where the kid slept on the sofa and lived off candy and cheese sandwiches. Gates clocked just enough temp-agency hours to keep his day-reporting supervisor satisfied, guzzled beer and boasted about prison at the Old Dominion and blew through his twenty grand in less than a month, a used Chrysler ragtop, a state-of-the-art stereo and a trip to Daytona Beach his main investments. Drunk and stoned one frigid night in December, he called his mother and woke her up, pleading to be allowed back into her good graces. Quickly alert, she told him he was a corpse as far as she was concerned, gone. “Quit your whimpering,” she rebuked him. Days later, the three hundred dollars in tens and twenties she kept hidden in her bedroom—stashed in the same place since Gates and Mason were boys—disappeared, and although she and Mason and the police all damn well knew Gates had stolen it, there was no proof, nothing they could do.

  The year before, a Christmas tree had seemed like too much trouble for Sadie Grace, but this season—in much better cheer despite Gates’s intrusion—she found herself a hacksaw in the basement and trekked to the field below her house and cut down a handsome white pine and dragged it trunk-first back to her house, smoking a cig as she went. She baked a ham and cooked sweet-potato casserole and even traveled out of town to buy presents: a pocketknife key chain for Mason, an Abercrombie gift certificate for her granddaughter. Christmas morning, as Mason and Grace were stuffing ribbons and wrapping paper into a trash bag and tidying the den, they heard a blunt thump against the window and they turned in unison and a robin—in December, a robin—had flown into the glass, splat. The bird had bounced into the holly bush and lay spread there, addled and scared. Grace hurried outside and scooped it up, placed it in a cardboard box with an old pillowcase for a nest and nursed it with bread crumbs and a medicine dropper, but it never recovered, dying two days later, stiff and dry and its eyes filmy, the full-throttle collision simply too much to overcome.