Sledgehammer

by Walter Wager

  “But he confessed?”

  The minister shrugged impatiently.

  “He was beaten into confessing. That is quite common here, and everyone knows it.”

  “The witnesses? The people who saw him at the dance—they can testify,” Williston reasoned.

  “I doubt that anyone would have the courage to do so. It would mean ‘making trouble’ so far as Captain Marton is concerned, and black people who ‘make trouble’ in this city run the risk of being arrested, beaten, crippled or disappearing. I might be considered as ‘making trouble’ myself for even discussing this with you—an outsider. Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

  “I won’t. Is there anything I might do to help, Reverend?”

  “If you happen to be the best criminal lawyer in America you could, but you’re not and I’m not either. They’re going to convict Sam Clayton,” the troubled older man predicted, “and that’s when the big trouble will come. There are men—young black men—who won’t let them carry out this legal lynching. They’ll get guns and they’ll try to break him out, and they’ll be slaughtered. That’s my public-opinion problem, Mr. Warren.”

  The idea that had been forming in Williston’s mind abruptly took shape, and he recognized the potential instantly.

  This could be the issue.

  This could be the rallying point for an Underground, a black Resistance that would take the risks and the casualties that the other citizens of Paradise City wouldn’t.

  “I may be able to get Sam Clayton the best criminal lawyer in America, an Edward Bennett Williams or a Joshua David Davidson,” Williston said slowly.

  “That’s fifty or a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of legal talent, Mr. Warren.”

  “I know that. I may be able to help you, if you can help me. I have to talk to somebody about this, and, in the meantime, I’ll make the same appeal for discretion and silence that you made. No one—not a single person—must know about my interest, or it could cost my life as easily as it might yours.”

  The gray-thatched minister thought, agreed.

  “I don’t have any idea of what you want, Mr. Warren, but if it isn’t immoral or criminal—”

  “Let’s just say that it’s unorthodox but worthy.”

  “You’re being evasive, Mr. Warren,” Snell noted.

  “Deliberately, but only for the moment. You will have all the facts before you make up your mind,” pledged the lean spy, “and I think that’s a fair offer.”

  “Fair enough,” the clergyman judged.

  They didn’t shake hands, for they hadn’t anything worth shaking hands on yet. Williston was at the door when Snell stopped him with a final question.

  “You’re not Communists or anything like that? Communists have used black people before, and I wouldn’t have anything to do with that—we’ve been used for too long, Mr. Warren.”

  The former OSS agent shook his head.

  “No, we’re not Communists or Nazis or anything evil like that, sir. We’re the good guys. I think you’ll agree that we’re the good guys when we speak again. Until then, it would be best if no one even knew that we’re in town.”

  Shortly before 7 P.M. that night, however, one more person knew. The evening paper carried a photo of Williston and the mayor on page two, and one reader who had seen other pictures of Andrew Williston recognized the man who was identified as Arthur Warren. Good.

  Gilman was here.

  Carstairs had come.

  Now Williston, the one who’d been so bold and fierce and ruthless, had joined them.

  The fourth—Arbolino—was probably in town too.

  They had answered the appeal in the envelope full of clippings, and they had already struck once. The public humiliation of Luther Hyatt—that had to be their work.

  And that was only the beginning, if Barringer had described them correctly.

  For several minutes the person who had mailed those clippings considered whether it was time to make contact—to let them know. It was a complex decision filled with intangibles and dangers, certainly not one to be hurried. It would be easy if the invaders needed help, if the Pikelis group knew that they were there or had identified even one of them. The newspaper reader stared at the photograph again, impressed by the teacher’s face. He looked so much younger than his years, so much more innocent than his past. It was odd how little you could tell about men by their faces.

  After a few more seconds the newspaper reader reached a decision.

  No.

  Not yet.

  20

  The promised letter reached Atlanta on Tuesday morning, approximately an hour and a half before Mr. Milburn Pembroke of the prestigious New York-Washington-Paris law firm of Ackley, Pembroke, Travis, Cabot and Hoover telephoned Joshua David Davidson. Mr. Pembroke, Harvard Club and Lotos Club and so Ivy League that it was almost necessary for him to be trimmed twice a year, was the senior partner in a very respected and large aggregation of legal talent that served many of America’s richest corporations and individuals. He was a former president of the New York Bar Association and played a tigerish game of croquet. Bank presidents and corporate board chairmen practically freaked out when they spoke with Milburn Pembroke; he was that sound and that respectable and that dignified. He had never handled a criminal case in his life, nor had his firm (thirty-two partners and ninety-nine associates). He viewed such work as vaguely bizarre, but he knew that Joshua David Davidson—melodramatic and colorful in speech and raiment—was an attorney to be respected. The Wall Street partner realized that Davidson was a very able lawyer, a brilliant trial man and a genius at murder cases.

  Milburn Pembroke, a person of immense discretion if not reserve, said none of these things to Davidson over the telephone. He simply explained that an African American ice-truck driver named Samuel R. Clayton—R. for Roosevelt—was about to go on trial in Paradise City for rape and murder and that Clayton would be convicted for this crime he hadn’t committed because defense witnesses were afraid to testify.

  “How do you know he didn’t commit this crime?” the longhaired Davidson demanded.

  “I can’t say that I personally know,” Pembroke replied carefully, but I have been so informed—no, assured—by my client.”

  “Samuel Roosevelt Clayton, a colored truck driver, is a client of Ackley, Pembroke, Travis, Cabot and Hoover?” Davidson asked in a tone that reflected both amusement and incredulity.

  “No,” the corporation counsel snapped. “He isn’t an employee of any of our clients either.”

  “Well?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Pembroke, it’s nice to talk to you but what do you want?”

  “One of our clients has instructed me to secure outstanding and specialized legal representation for Mr. Clayton, and since our firm has no experience in criminal matters I’d like to retain you.”

  “I suppose Ed Williams is busy and I’m your second choice?” Davidson chuckled.

  “That’s right.”

  So Pembroke did have a temper buried somewhere down beneath all that encrusted cool.

  Davidson laughed at the corporation lawyer’s bluntness.

  “I didn’t intend to minimize your ability and reputation, Mr. Davidson.”

  Davidson laughed again.

  “You didn’t. I’ve got an ego like Mount Rushmore, very large and very sturdy. I’m good and I’m expensive.”

  “My client will pay your normal fees—or more. Do you have the time?”

  “Who’s your client and why the hell does he care about Samuel Roosevelt Clayton?” the murder expert parried.

  “I am not at liberty to say, but he does care—fifty thousand dollars’ worth. Do you have the time—now?”

  You couldn’t rattle or divert Pembroke, Davidson noted. He had a rather appealing toughness of his own.

  “Now? You mean immediately, Mr. Pembroke?”

  “I’m informed that they plan to start selecting a jury within three days and to begin
the trial by the end of the week if possible.”

  “When was he indicted?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “That’s goddam fast justice,” Davidson exploded. “It’s ridiculous!”

  “It isn’t meant to be justice at all, Mr. Davidson. I thought that I made that clear at the outset.”

  There were several moments of silence.

  “Will you take the case?” Pembroke pressed.

  “I’m supposed to leave on vacation—tomorrow. My first vacation in thirty-seven months.”

  “Then you can’t defend Clayton?”

  More silence.

  “An ice-truck driver, you say?” Davidson asked in a voice that was suddenly grim.

  “Yes, although I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “And he’s being hustled right to the gallows?”

  “I believe that is the plan, Mr. Davidson.”

  “It isn’t my plan, Mr. Pembroke. No, it isn’t my plan at all. This poor bastard is going to get a very complete and careful and absolutely ferocious defense, Mr. Pembroke, and the trial may take months. Nobody is going to railroad Samuel Roosevelt Clayton,” the criminal lawyer announced in tones that were edged in raw anger, “and you may take the word of Joshua David Davidson on that. I also give you the word of Nathan Louis Davidson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “My father, a very great man—a man of high principle.”

  Pembroke didn’t fathom what the criminal lawyer’s father had to do with this, but he didn’t care. He had only one concern.

  “Then you’ll take the case?”

  “I’ll be in Paradise City tomorrow. Yes, I’m going to cancel the vacation—my wife will be hysterical, which she does very well—to do righteous battle for Sam Clayton. I feel less tired already, exhilarated by the prospect. I don’t need any vacation…But I’ll need five rooms—a suite in the best hotel—for myself and my staff.”

  “I’m told that’s the Paradise House…My client has authorized me to advance fifteen thousand dollars in expense money immediately. Shall I have my secretary transfer the money? And what about the fee? Will fifty thousand dollars—that’s aside from the expenses—be all right?”

  “Fine. I leave all that to you.”

  It was hardly what Pembroke had expected. Davidson often received sixty thousand or even eighty thousand for a case, and he wasn’t known for his indifference to money. What was so special about this case? Why was he accepting it?

  “Mr. Davidson, I’m delighted that you’ll defend Mr. Clayton and I’ll so inform my client. He, in turn, will inform Reverend Ezra Snell of the First Baptist Church in Paradise City. Reverend Snell may be able to help you, I’m told…Mr. Davidson, may I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What made you decide to take this case?”

  The criminal lawyer laughed. “I’ll answer that if you’ll tell me who your client is,” he bargained. “No? All right, I’ll find him or her myself. Mysteries! I love mysteries almost as much as I love the combat of a trial. I’m a warrior, Mr. Pembroke, like King David in the Old Testament. I was raised on the Old Testament. The path of the just is as the shining light—that’s Proverbs Four. Woe unto them that call evil good and good evil—that’s Isaiah.”

  The man was a spellbinder, evangelist, pitchman and advocate all rolled up into one. With some slight awe and difficulty, Milburn Pembroke of Ackley, Pembroke, Travis, Cabot and Hoover managed to terminate the conversation and sat back to catch his breath. Several miles north in his office on 57th Street overlooking Park Avenue, the criminal lawyer who’d been named after two great Biblical warriors—Joshua and David—was busy barking orders as he prepared to do battle against the Philistines. As expected, his wife was effectively hysterical that evening when he told her that the vacation was being canceled. As expected, she abruptly terminated her noisy reproaches when he explained why he was going to Paradise City to defend Sam Clayton.

  “You’re a crazy man, Joshua,” she announced with tender approval.

  “I don’t see any choice, do you?” he answered.

  “Not for you, Joshua. Not for you…You know, if I told anybody this they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “So don’t tell anybody—not till it’s finished, anyway. And when it’s over,” he promised, “then we’ll take the vacation.”

  It was at that point that Mrs. Joshua David Davidson began to shout again.

  In Paradise City, Andrew Williston and Tony Arbolino were listening to another woman’s voice—a much more attractive one. They had come—separately—to the Fun Parlor for a final reconnaissance. They sat at the bar—four stools apart—enjoying the look and the sound of the pretty blond singer, and then they wandered—separately—into the gambling room. The layout and the security arrangements were precisely those that Gilman had sketched and described. They each gambled and lost small sums before they left—twenty minutes apart. Williston returned to his room in the Jefferson at half past twelve, rechecked the drawing once again.

  Yes, the briefing had been accurate and the operation was feasible.

  It should work, barring unforeseen developments.

  And if the man who was always right was right this time, they could pull it off without killing anyone—despite the armed guards.

  Williston yawned, looked at his wrist watch.

  In twenty-three hours and eleven minutes, they would attack again. After that, Pikelis would have no doubts about the presence of hostile forces in his domain and—as the late Obersturmbannfuehrer Egon Gindler had done—he would mobilize every man and gun he had to hunt them down.

  It would be open war, just like the Old Days.

  No quarter.

  21

  By any form of reckoning—Marxist, new math, existential or folk rock—the next day, Wednesday the twenty-third of July, was a large and lively one in the small and grubby history of Paradise City, USA. It actually had the same number of hours, traffic violations, migraine headaches and air-conditioner breakdowns as July 22, and neither day featured any nuclear tests, announcements of tax reductions or reports of high-school girls seeing visions of the Virgin Mary. On the afternoon of the twenty-third, however, a man named J. D. Davidson—accompanied by two younger men and a rather splendidly contoured brunette whom they all addressed as “Doll”—checked into five connecting rooms at Paradise House. The desk clerk noted that the woman’s legal name was Shirley Dollberg, and the entire Davidson party gave New York City home addresses. It was very obviously the Davidson party; the older man with the long graying locks radiated command and authority.

  Half an hour after they checked in, Davidson and one of the younger men—a sandy-haired type who looked as if he’d once played strong side tackle for Notre Dame and had—descended and entered a taxi. To the driver’s surprise they asked to be taken directly to the First Baptist Church off Lowell Square.

  “That’s a Nigra church,” the driver pointed out as he started the Dodge.

  “That’s all right,” Davidson replied with amiable irrelevance. “Neither of us are Baptists anyway.”

  “You fellers government agents?” wondered the man behind the wheel who thought they might be Federal civil-rights investigators or poverty specialists.

  “Mr. Kelleher, would you please tell our driver,” the criminal lawyer requested, “whether we work for—or against—the government?”

  “Mr. Davidson,” the burly investigator-bodyguard replied truthfully, “during the nine grand years that I’ve been privileged—and pleased—to work with you, I have never once seen you do anything but fight the government. You have opposed the Federal state and municipal authorities with a uniform dedication and ingenuity, with an honorable passion that has always warmed my Gaelic heart. Up the rebels!”

  “Easy on that corny music-hall act, Jack,” Davidson advised wryly. “In another minute you’ll be singing those terrible IRA songs, and I’ll get all choked up…What my associate says is true,
” the lawyer explained to the chauffeur. “We are not government employees, or even sympathizers.”

  “What did he mean—up the rebels?” the driver queried uneasily.

  “It was the statue of Robert E. Lee we just passed,” Davidson lied with nonchalant grace. “He’s a great fan of General Lee and the entire Confederate army. He’s a dedicated admirer of the South, you see.”

  Reassured, the taxi operator smiled.

  “Glad to hear that. One thing I ought to tell you though,” he confided as he turned west toward Lowell Square. “We don’t consider the Confederates were rebels, not down here. So far as folks down here see it, it wasn’t any rebellion but a War Between the States.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Kelleher promised. “It was awfully nice of you to mention it, real friendly.”

  Either Randolph Scott or Joel McCrea would have loved the bit, but it didn’t overwhelm Joshua David Davidson, who tolerated the routine solely because it diverted the nosey driver from asking potentially dangerous questions about why they’d come to Paradise City. Aware that Kelleher was doing this deliberately, the older man stared out the window at the pleasant tree-lined streets of this notorious community. They reached the church, paid off the driver.

  “You look tense, J.D.,” observed Kelleher as they started up the walk.

  “I was getting worried whether you’d run out of material.”

  “Hell, no. I still had my bird calls and all my Polish jokes—not to mention my terrific Pat O’Brien imitation.”

  “Please don’t mention it…Well, here we go. Now you can catch my act, Sonny.”

  “You’ll be great, J.D., just great.”

  He was, and graceful and courteous and impressive too. The black minister knew who he was and was pleased that a famous lawyer would come to help, and Reverend Snell was also delighted that Davidson knew the Old Testament so well. They quoted back and forth at each other as Davidson questioned him about the case and the situation, understanding and appreciating each other perfectly.