Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Ah, now he got it. This had to be the lawyer Murray arranged for him. He remembered Murray saying something about needing a different attorney than himself, one who did criminal defense work, and would track one down, send him over to help out. This had to be him.

  “Yeah, okay.” Arnold nodded, distracted by another wave of guilt. He paused, glanced around the room again at the walls, ceiling and floor. Even the stains in the acoustical tiles seemed way too familiar, as if this interrogation room had been an integral part of his life for years now. “What do we do now?”

  Davidson turned to Elliott. “Excuse me, Detective, but I haven’t been informed of any particulars. Perhaps you might help me by explaining exactly why my client is being held for questioning?”

  Elliott squeezed against the small table in order to make room to close the door, trapping the three of them in warm sour air, making the room feel even smaller and more cramped, as impossible as that seemed. She motioned Davidson to the one remaining chair. “Please,” and dropped into the chair Arnold just vacated—leaving Arnold standing awkwardly in the center of the floor.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Since Mr. Gold seems unable to give me any details of tonight’s events, here’s the story I got from the initial patrol report. He and his friend, Howard Weinstein, were at Gold’s residence earlier this evening. Apparently he exited the residence through the back to go to a neighborhood pizzeria where he subsequently purchased a pizza before returning home. There he reentered the premises through the back door. Once inside the kitchen, he called out to Mr. Weinstein who, in return, shouted for him to run. Mr. Gold heard what sounded like a gunshot and immediately fled from the rear of his residence back to the pizza shop where the owner placed a 911 call. He remained in that shop until a squad car picked him up.” She gave Arnold an expectant look, giving him a perfect opportunity to flesh out more detail.

  When Arnold said nothing, Elliott shook her head disgustedly and glanced at Davidson as if to say, “see?”

  “He claims two people—whoever they are—entered his home to steal a laptop computer. From his earlier statement it’s clear he believes these two people are the assailants but he’ll neither confirm nor deny that assumption. In addition, his statement leads us to believe he saw,” miming quotation marks, “them. But he refuses to cooperate further with the investigation by providing any sort of description of Mr. Weinstein’s alleged assailants. And before you ask, a GSR administered to Mr. Gold was negative.”

  Davidson adjusted himself on the metal chair and crossed his legs, ankle on knee, and smoothed his pants. “Am I correct in assuming Mr. Weinstein is now deceased?”

  She nodded.

  “Mind filling me in with more details what was found at the scene?”

  Arnold thought he caught a glimpse of blush flash across Elliott’s cheeks. “Sorry. Assumed you’d been briefed more than this. Howard Weinstein was found dead of a single through and through GSW to the head. He was on the living room floor. Nothing else in the house seems disturbed. There were no signs of a struggle and no signs of forced entry, suggesting Mr. Weinstein allowed them access to the house.”

  Arnold realized his assumption they stole his computer hadn’t been confirmed. “What about my laptop?”

  They both turned to him, Elliott saying, “What about it?”

  “My laptop is always on the kitchen table. It wasn’t there when I came through the back door.” For the first time this memory actually surfaced into consciousness. His earlier claim that it was stolen had been based solely on assumption, now it seemed to be fact.

  They both waited for him to add more, but when he didn’t, Elliott told Davidson, “Now you can see how it’s been all evening. Nothing. You might want to explain to your client that he’s not doing himself or us any favors by withholding information.”

  Davidson nodded vague agreement, perhaps processing the information. After a moment, “Mind if I speak with my client alone?”

  Elliott was already pushing up off the chair, probably in anticipation of this request. She gave the vaguest hint of relief, perhaps assuming Davidson would be able to convince Arnold to provide needed information. “Knock yourself out. I have paperwork to complete before I finish my shift.”

  Davidson bowed slightly. “Thanks,” and waited until she was out of the room and the door securely shut before removing his suit coat, folding it lengthwise, then draping it over his thighs once he was sitting again. He motioned for Arnold to take the chair across the narrow desk from him. Davidson leaned forward, hands clasped, forearms on the desk, a gentle disarming expression on his face. “Will you talk to me?” the words sounding more inquisitive than judgmental.

  Slowly, for the first time since being brought here, as if surfacing from anesthesia, Arnold scanned the four bare walls of floor to ceiling acoustical tiles searching for any evidence of hidden cameras or microphones. Surely, this room was monitored. He’d watched too many episodes of The First 48 to believe differently. But he saw nothing to confirm this suspicion. Didn’t mean anything, though, because wide-angle camera lenses could be tiny enough to easily embed in a hole of an acoustical tile, making it impossible to spot during cursory inspection. Every zit on his cheeks was probably being recorded in stunning high-definition.

  “No problem. Just not in here.”

  Davidson seemed surprised at this. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Arnold swept a palm around the room. “Really?” And shook his head, “You’re kidding.” Pause. “Aren’t you? Think they’re going to let us to talk in private?” He let out a sarcastic grunt.

  Davidson slowly nodded. “Tell you what. I’ll see what I can do, but you know, don’t you, with this being a homicide investigation they have every right to hold you for several more hours if they so choose, especially if they believe you’re willfully withholding critical information.”

  News to him. “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  The hell you didn’t. Howard’s dead because of you.

  “That may be, but here’s the thing: at the very least you’re a material witness. Meaning they have legal right hold you for questioning.” Davidson dropped his voice a notch. “But, realistically, face it: they’re human. Refusal to cooperate accomplishes nothing but piss them off. Not only that, it makes you look guilty of something. Especially if they have no idea of the degree of your involvement in your friend’s death. Following me?”

  Made sense. He liked the way Davidson said it; open minded, non-judgmental, as if they were in this mess together.

  “Yeah, I get it. It’s just… I don’t, I can’t, talk about it here.” And circled a finger around the room to indicate this entire conversation was probably being recorded.

  Davidson stood, “Let me see what I can do,” and opened the door.

  4.

  “Give me one good reason to cut him loose?” Elliott asked. She was leaning against the cinderblock wall outside the interrogation room in the West Precinct, her intense green eyes boring deep, straight through Davidson’s retinas, arms crossed in a challenging posture. “Your client has refused to cooperate. Which, I gotta tell you, does nothing but convince me he’s withholding information vital to an active investigation. I mean, let’s get real here; this is a cold-blooded homicide we’re talking about, not some petty-ass auto theft or DUI. There’s obviously something going on that I fully intend to get to the bottom of.”

  Davidson stood next to the open door to the interrogation room, wanting to keep the conversation out in the hall rather than in the room with its thick stale air and body odor so strong you could probably peel it off the wall with a spackle knife. His suit coat remained draped over the back of the metal chair he’d vacated minutes earlier. Damn room was hot, too, as evidenced by little crescents of moisture darkening the armpits of his crisp white shirt. Most of all, he wanted his client to hear this conversation so the gravity of his predicament just might sink in.

  Davidson scratched the angle of his jaw. “Look a
t it this way: hold him for several more hours and I can pretty much guarantee he’s not going say another word. You want that? What good’s that going to do anyone? Why not let me have a chance to talk with him, find out what’s going on? Improves the odds of you getting what you want.”

  Elliott shifted weight, pushing off the wall, dropping both arms and straightening her broad shoulders. “Let me tell you something, counselor, that attitude of his is, at best, not helping him or his cause. What’s to guarantee he won’t disappear if I cut him loose?”

  “Come on, Detective, kid’s scared to death.” Davidson inhaled audibly, maybe a bit too dramatically, but drama had always served him well when working the legal system. Sometimes it generated quicker and better responses than cold logic. “Let’s be realistic. Look at him,” jerking a thumb in Arnold’s direction, this being the first time during the entire negotiation they had acknowledged his obvious presence. “We’re not talking professional criminal in there. He look like the kind of seasoned slimeball who’s likely to flee?” The incredulous emphasis in each word drove home his point.

  Elliott gave her signature sarcastic laugh. “Didn’t realize they had tattoos on their forehead spelling out ‘Flight Risk.’”

  Davidson sucked a tooth and considered how to better plead his case. Was Elliott serious or was she simply play-acting to increase her odds of prying loose Arnold’s cooperation? Whatever the motive, he didn’t believe it was going to make Gold cough up the information she wanted any faster than her present tactic. Not yet at least. She’d have a much better shot at obtaining it if he were permitted to talk with Gold someplace away from this intimidating environment. How to convince her of that?

  “What I mean is this; you have a, what, a twenty-three year old kid with no priors whose best friend was allegedly murdered in cold blood during what is presumed to be a home invasion. A robbery, maybe. Maybe not. But a robbery of what? A laptop? Get real!” Davidson gave a dismissive grunt. “What’s the big collusion here? Explain that to me, because I just don’t see it. And, by the way, the reason he doesn’t want to tell me his story in there is because it looks like it’s right out of Guantanamo. To be absolutely blunt about it, he doesn’t trust you guys. What’s to keep you from recording every word we say?” He quickly raised both hands in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger surrender. “Not that I’m suggesting you would actually stoop to such low tactics, but put yourself in his shoes. Think about it a moment. What would you do if you were him?”

  Without even blinking, she countered with, “First of all, I’m not him. And I damn well guarantee you he knows whose finger pulled that trigger. So, if you want to play what-if games, put yourself in my shoes. I got a witness who can identify the shooter and he’s not saying word one.”

  Touché. Tough negotiator.

  Wish I knew more about the kid.

  Davidson scrambled for more ammunition to buttress his logic but came up blank, so he reverted to the time-honored tactic of simply rewording his previous argument. “Hey, look, the kid doesn’t even have one outstanding parking ticket.” Now that was a stretch, a total shot in the dark, having never laid eyes on the kid before. For all he knew, Arnold Gold might owe a small fortune in delinquent fines or speeding tickets or have a felony warrant pending in Duluth. But that didn’t fit the picture he was seeing of the emotionally demoralized innocent wringing his hands inside the room.

  Elliott sighed and shot Arnold another look, seemingly weighing Davidson’s argument. She glanced at the lawyer, then back to Arnold once more. “You’ll take full responsibility for him until we get this sorted out?”

  He thought about that a moment before answering. All he knew about this young man was the first impression that had formed after a few minutes of discussion under stressful circumstances. He decided to carve out some wiggle room for himself. “That all depends on what you mean by full responsibility. Define that.” He didn’t want her coming down on him some time in the future with a ginned-up infraction of their understanding.

  She finger-combed her short blond hair. “Most importantly, I expect you to know his whereabouts when we need to interview him again, which I guarantee you will be within the next twenty-four hours. In other words, I call, you have him on such a short leash you can have him here,” pointing at the floor for emphasis, “in fifteen minutes. You clear on this?”

  Davidson struggled keep the corners of his mouth from curling up. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  Elliott flashed a double take. “How’d you know about that?” referring to her recent promotion.

  Davidson just smiled and turned toward the vulnerable young man slumped in the metal chair, a thousand-yard stare glazing his eyes. “Got everything? If so, let’s get out of here.”

  Arnold trailed Davidson past the heavy aluminum-framed glass door, into the early morning chill, out over the small patterned-concrete plaza with Virginia Street straight ahead. Even though it was now early morning, he registered traces of car exhaust from yesterday’s rush hour, a lingering urban smell that never fully dissipated once a temperature inversion trapped air pockets between the Olympic and Cascades mountain ranges.

  Davidson said, “I’m parked up a block. Where would you prefer to talk?”

  Not usually out and about in the city at this time of morning, he had no idea what might be open. Regardless, he doubted there was any public spot in which he could feel totally at ease discussing the story. Certainly not back at his house. Besides, that was probably still an active crime scene, and now, thinking about it, he had no idea when he’d be allowed to return. Assuming he would even want to go there again.

  “How about your office?” Before Davidson had a chance to answer, he added, “Where is it?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work.” Davidson pushed up his coat sleeve to check his watch. “Tell you what. Let’s pick up a couple cups of coffee. Looks more and more like this is going to take a while. But, in answer to your question, the Smith Tower.”

  Davidson turned right off of James Street into an almost empty multistory parking garage in the heart of Seattle’s historic Pioneer Square district. The building façade—stone with arched windows, brick, and concrete—seemed a mosaic of additions and renovations spanning more than a century of service. Davidson nosed his car into a space with the word ‘reserved’ stenciled in black military-style letters on the bare concrete wall at the back of the narrow stall. Arnold opened his door carefully to keep from banging its edge on a thick concrete pillar of flaking pale yellow paint. He squeezed out and stepped onto well-seasoned concrete. From the ease with which Davidson navigated the tight garage, he assumed he’d been renting this parking spot for some years. He stepped away to admire the car: a metallic gray Mercedes e350 Coupe. Beautiful. Definitely a car Arnold could easily get used to.

  Without a word, Davidson headed toward a glowing green exit sign, Arnold hurrying to keep up. He followed Davidson down an open flight of concrete steps—the slap of the lawyer’s leather soles echoing against the sharp angles and hard surfaces—out of the garage, on up James toward First Avenue, Arnold’s Nikes making no sound.

  “Over there,” Davidson said, with a nod toward the Smith Tower, a venerable Seattle landmark, one of the nation’s first skyscrapers to very briefly hold the distinction of the country’s tallest building outside of Manhattan.

  Arnold trotted along, trying to match Davidson’s long stride without having to actually run, thinking he probably thought everyone walked this fast. He estimated him at 6’1” and in pretty good shape for a guy in his early to mid fifties. Husky but not overweight. Did he work out regularly?

  Davidson’s office seemed to Arnold something straight out of a 1940s movie set—heavy, darkly stained mahogany furniture—and now that he thought about it, seemed to fit perfectly with the building’s time-warp interior. Davidson had carried the theme even further, decorating the walls with Seattle photographic reprints from the early 1900s. There was even a brass banker’s lamp on the desk and a Persian carp
et heavy in maroons and blues on the polished hardwood. Yep, right out of central casting. Took a lot of thought, but Arnold wasn’t sure it was his taste. They continued through the small reception area into Davidson’s office.

  Davidson slipped off his suit coat and carefully hung it from a hook on the back of the office door before settling into a classic wood desk chair, its spring emitting a protesting creak. Arnold had several seating options to choose from: two chairs and a small couch in brown leather, all very masculine and cozy. But his antsy, nerve-jangling anticipation of finally having to explain his story made it impossible to sit or remain still and not fidget, leaving him to pace, his mind unable rid itself of the awful sound of that gun in Karim’s meaty grip, the gun that murdered his best friend.

  Hands clasped behind his head, Davidson pushed back in the chair, propped one foot on a half-open lower drawer, waited for Arnold to start. When Arnold ignored him he said, “Okay, out with it.”

  Arnold opened his mouth to ask, “Out with what?” but realized what a cheesy way that would be to delay the inevitable, that he risked Davidson losing patience with him and dumping him as a client. Sooner or later he would have to tell his entire story, difficult as that might be. Where to begin? “How much detail you looking for? I mean, where do you want me to start?”

  “How about at the beginning?”

  The beginning.

  A flush of embarrassment rippled through him. He paced a tight circle, searching for the words, and cleared his throat, knowing he was simply stalling. The beginning…

  “Come on, son, we don’t have all night.”

  Son. One word. Enough to weld a link between lawyer and client. Felt good, that word. It suddenly connected him to another person, one he believed to be sympathetic. Arnold nodded and stopped, eyes closed, reliving the events.

  “Just wanted to get laid, was all….”