by Clark Howard
“Sure, how about it, boys?” said Cloud, putting his arms out to corral the group as Whitman walked away down his side of the partitioned table, and Genevieve followed down the visitors’ side. A few more flashes went off as they moved far enough to be out of hearing range. They sat down, pulling their chairs as close to the table as possible.
“This is about the best we’ll be able to do in the way of privacy, I guess,” Whitman said. “It’ll be better next time.”
“Next time?”
“Yeah. You are coming to see me again, aren’t you?”
“If you want me to, of course—”
“Listen,” he said urgently, “the only thing I want more than you visiting me, is for me to get out of this joint and be able to visit you.”
Genevieve blushed again. Whitman leaned as close to the partition as the tabletop would allow.
“I’ve got to know something,” he said tensely. “I’ve got to know if there’s—I. mean, if you’ve got—you know, a man—”
“No,” she replied quickly, swallowing dryly. “No, there’s no one.”
His face seemed to relax. “It was important to me to know. If there was anybody, if you had somebody, then I was going to force myself to stop thinking the things I’ve been thinking about you.”
Genevieve felt an odd sensation as he spoke, as if someone were touching the insides of her thighs with something feathery. Perspiration rose on her upper lip again and she dabbed at it with a handkerchief. “What—what things?” She had to ask.
Whitman stared frankly at her. “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Things like me putting my mouth down between your legs and kissing you there—”
Genevieve’s breath caught in her breast for a second. She glanced furtively at the men standing at the other end of the room. They were talking to Cloud and the deputy warden now, paying little attention to her and Whitman.
“Things like taking off your blouse and your bra and pushing your breasts together and sucking both your nipples at the same time—”
Genevieve’s lips parted and her nostrils flared one quick time. She suddenly felt moist in the thick hair of her womanhood. She pressed her thighs together harder.
“Things like pushing it up into you and pumping and pumping and pumping, and finally firing it into you like white-hot lava—”
“Oh—” The soft, ecstatic moan burst quietly from her mouth like the sigh of relief it was, as she achieved an orgasm through the sheer force and will of his words. She lowered her head while it passed.
They talked until the visiting period was over, and then Whitman was taken back to the prisoner elevator. Genevieve remained where she was until he was gone. Then she patted the moisture from her upper lip and went back to where Cloud and the newsmen stood.
“Are you still unequivocally committed to him, Miss Neller?” one of the reporters asked.
Genevieve smiled slightly.
“Yes,” she said. “Unequivocally.”
Chapter Eleven
Four months after her first meeting with Weldon Whitman, Genevieve Neller was sitting in a small storefront office talking long-distance to Robert Cloud, who was in New York.
“How does it look for Weldon’s book?” she asked.
“Very good,” Cloud replied, overlooking Genevieve’s persistent reference to Weldon’s book. “Grayson Hamilton, the head of Hamilton House, has promised me a decision in the morning. I’m almost certain he’ll make an offer to publish it. I just wonder how much of an advance he’ll offer.”
“However much it is, don’t quibble,” Genevieve said. “We’ve got nearly five thousand dollars in the bank, and I booked three more speaking engagements yesterday at two-fifty each. The important thing is to get the book published as soon as possible.”
“Did you see Whit today?” Cloud asked.
“Yes. I spent an hour with him early this afternoon.”
“Has he come up with another appeal idea in case he gets turned down on the one the Supreme Court has now?”
“Not yet. He’s still poring over the law books. I told him we had enough money to retain a legal-research firm to help us, but he wants to see if he can do it himself first. He gave me a long list of cases he wants looked up. I’ll probably be in the law library all day tomorrow, in case you try to call. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get ready for tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“I’m speaking at a dinner meeting of the Sertoca Clubs of Northern California.”
“Who are they?”
“Sertoca,” Genevieve said. “It’s a contraction of Service to California. They’re a statewide service club that’s been showing some interest lately in the abolition of capital punishment.”
“Sounds promising,” Cloud said.
“It’s worth the effort,” Genevieve said clinically. “They’re bound to take up a collection if nothing else. I thought I’d be able to distribute our new pamphlet, Is This Justice?, but the damn printer didn’t deliver them like he promised to.”
“Did I hear you say damn?” Cloud asked in mock shock.
“Oh shut up! I’ll be saying a lot more than that if those pamphlets aren’t here in the morning. I’m addressing the League of Women Voters at lunch tomorrow and I definitely want those gals to have them.”
After they hung up, Genevieve kept her hand on the receiver for a moment and sighed quietly. She hoped Cloud would hurry and come back. She did not like working alone. Besides, she missed him.
She straightened a few things on her desk and got up to leave. The Save Whitman Movement had its office in a vacant shop in a small corner shopping center. They had bought two second-hand desks and one three-drawer file cabinet; Genevieve had made inexpensive drapes for the storefront windows; Cloud had registered them as a fundraising, nonprofit organization; and they had opened for business.
Genevieve turned off the lights in the little office and, at the door, paused for a moment and thought of Whitman, of earlier that afternoon when she had sat across from him in the visiting room. For the first few minutes they had talked business: she had told him of the various speaking engagements; he had suggested points she might emphasize with this group or that. Then, as always, their talk had become personal. Genevieve had sat watching his sensuously mismatched lips form words that she never thought she would have sat and listened to, much less desired and enjoyed. Their vulgar obscenity assaulted her hearing without resistance, and became crass caresses to her whole being. Once more the wetness came and gave her tightly pressed thighs a slick warmth. Once more her nipples swelled and her ample breasts tightened with yearning, and she could feel the bra straps cutting into her shoulders. Next time, she had thought, I won’t even wear a bra. Or panties either …
Thinking about it now, Genevieve felt the longing re turn, the desire begin. She wet her lips, let herself out and locked the door behind her, and hurried home to get in the shower.
Genevieve’s address that night received a standing ovation from the predominantly WASP, anti-capital-punishment audience. Afterward, the chairman closed the meeting with a resolution to propose at their next convention that the Save Whitman Movement be adopted as one of Sertoca’s officially supported organizations. In addition, he hinted that contributions from the floor would certainly be in order. When it was all over, Genevieve had nearly three hundred dollars stuffed in her purse.
After the business meeting, refreshments were served in an adjoining social hall. Genevieve, who hardly drank at all, nursed a rum-and-Coke until it became warm in her hand. She held it through conversations with Sertoca’s Northern California chairman, his wife, and other Northern California chapter officers, their wives, the group’s state delegates and their wives, the chaplain, and numerous other members and more wives who came and went as the evening progressed.
It was nearly ten when she finally managed to extricate herself for a moment of privacy. She quickly d
isposed of the now sad-looking drink, and visited the ladies’ room, where she adjusted a girdle that she wished by then she had not even worn, and never mind how she looked from the rear. Unobtrusively returning to the gathering, she ordered a plain ginger ale at the bar and had just taken a long, cold sip of it when a strikingly handsome man came up and spoke to her.
“Miss Neller,” he said easily, “my name is Borden White. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your talk tonight.”
Genevieve gave him one of her stock answers. “Thank you so much. It was really my pleasure. I think your organization does such marvelous work—”
“That isn’t necessary, Miss Neller,” Borden White interrupted, smiling. “I’m not a Sertoca member, nor am I particularly interested in their good deeds. I came here tonight for the sole purpose of hearing you speak, and to meet you. Can you spare me a few minutes? In the interest of the Save Whitman Movement?”
“Of course,” Genevieve said, looking at him curiously. “That’s my purpose in being here.”
“And mine,” White said. “Suppose we go back into the dining room where we can talk in private.”
The dining room was deserted now except for two bus-boys mechanically cleaning off tables. White led Genevieve to a table that had already been stripped. As he held a chair for her, she detected a hint of what was probably some very good after-shave lotion. He sat opposite her and she had a moment to look at him more closely. He was perhaps forty, graying slightly at the temples, with a long face, eyes a little too close together, but a ready, charming smile.
“Miss Neller,” White said without further preliminary, “I am an attorney with the firm of Niebold and White. Mr. Morris Niebold, the senior partner in the firm, and I have been following with great interest the progress of Mr. Whitman’s difficulties with the state. Our firm’s specialty is constitutional law, and frankly we feel that there might be strong grounds for constitutional appeals in his case. We would like to offer him the legal assistance of our firm. Without fee, of course.”
Two months earlier, Genevieve Neller would have fallen all over herself accepting Borden White’s offer. But the State of California and Weldon Whitman had worked subtle changes in her personality, and now she was more cautious. “How very generous of you, Mr. White. Constitutional appeals, you say. What are those, exactly?”
“Come now, Miss Neller,” White said tolerantly, “I’m sure you couldn’t have been head librarian at the state law library for eleven years without becoming familiar with constitutional appeals. They’re appeals based on the premise that a given verdict may not stand if it violated a defendant’s state or U.S. constitutional rights.” His smile was now gone. “I hope you’re not going to be coy about this, Miss Neller. It is a serious offer.”
“All right,” Genevieve said, discarding the pretense. “Let’s be candid then. Exactly why are you offering us your services?”
“As I said, our field is constitutional law. We think Whitman’s case might provide some very interesting areas of constitutional appeal.”
“What you’re saying is that you want to use Weldon as a legal guinea pig,” Genevieve commented.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” White admitted. “With one notable exception, of course: most guinea pigs have to take their chances with fate; but in this case, our legal experiments can only further the cause of Mr. Whitman. Our appeals in Whitman’s behalf will serve as delaying tactics which could keep him alive indefinitely.”
Genevieve silently studied Borden White. His charming first impression had not lasted long. She decided quickly that this Borden White was a little too smooth. If it were up to her, she thought, she would send him packing. But he might be helpful to Weldon, so it wouldn’t be smart to alienate him. Weldon was the important one.
“Would you like me to arrange for you to see Mr. Whitman?” she said. “So that you can make the offer directly to him?”
“If you think he might be receptive to it, please do. Let me give you my card,” he said, taking a thin leather case from his inside coat pocket. “I’ll make myself available to visit Mr. Whitman whenever it can be arranged. Just give me a call.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “May I take you back to your host?”
Genevieve walked back into the social hall with him, feeling oddly cold and ill at ease with his hand lightly on her elbow. Why, she wondered, was he having such a peculiar affect on her? Several months ago she would have been flattered, even charmed by the company of someone so urbane. But now, after knowing Weldon—
It crossed her mind that perhaps it was not Borden White per se, or even his type, that she had reservations about; rather it might be the fact that he was entering, or at least attempting to enter, what she and Cloud referred to as the most exclusive club in the world: the Weldon Whitman Fan Club; membership, two. Could that possibly be it? she asked herself. Did she feel threatened? She smiled inwardly. Not really. How could she, after the things Weldon had said to her today, things that by his own admission he had never been able to say to another woman?
No, she concluded, it was not that. It was not her. It had to be Borden White; something about him. Maybe it was the fact that she was uncertain whether to trust him. If it was that, she reassured herself, then there was nothing to worry about. Weldon would decide whether to let him join them or not.
Weldon always knew whom to trust.
Borden White met Weldon Whitman two-days later. They faced each other across the partitioned visitors’ table: the hooked-nosed, denim-clad condemned man, and the clean-featured, Italian-suited attorney. Before they even sat down, Whitman put his hands on his hips and challenged the very purpose of the meeting.
“My reason for meeting you is that the state is trying to kill me and I want to stay alive, Mr. White. What’s your reason for meeting me?”
“My reason for meeting you,” Borden White said without hesitation, “is that I want to become governor of the state that’s trying to kill you.”
Whitman nodded a slow, understanding nod. “Have a seat, Mr. White.”
Borden White unbuttoned his precisely tailored gray coat and sat down, carefully crossing his legs. “I would like to make it clear, Mr. Whitman, that if you and I reach some kind of agreement, it will have to preclude the use of Miss Neller as an intermediary. A lawyer and his client cannot subject their relationship to the interpretation of a third party. Particularly if the lawyer and the client are going to use each other, as we both intend doing.”
“You sure don’t bullshit around, do you?” said Whitman. Borden White shrugged.
“Why should I? Why should either of us? It’s much easier to be realistic. You want to live. I want to become governor. To accomplish our goals, we both need as much help as we can get.”
Whitman fingered a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lighted it. “How do you know that supporting me won’t hurt you instead of helping you?”
“I don’t,” White said. “You’d be a political risk, just like any other cause is a political risk. But I’m counting on your eventually having more supporters throughout the state than you have opponents. Those supporters will help elect me after I help you beat the gas chamber.”
“Assuming that I’m innocent,” Weldon Whitman said, testing his visitor. Again Borden White shrugged.
“Guilt or innocence makes no difference to me,” he said candidly. “Our approach will be that even if guilty, you were not properly convicted; and even if properly convicted, you are not being properly punished. Constitutional deficiencies in a case are often much easier to find than evidence of innocence.” White removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to his nose. “I wonder if you’d mind holding your cigarette back a little? I have a dreadful sinus condition.”
What a fucking pity, Whitman thought. I do hope it isn’t terminal. “What kind of deal do you want to make, Mr. White?” he asked, putting the cigarette out.
“I want two things, basically,” the attorney said. “One, the fi
rm of Niebold and White is to be given the exclusive right to file all appeals in your case, beginning when your next execution date is set; and two, we shall be allowed to publicize what we are doing for you in any way we see fit: writing legal articles, giving interviews, whatever.”
“How would that agreement affect the publicity already being handled by the Save Whitman Movement?”
“I shouldn’t think it would affect it at all. We’ll be happy to coordinate our publicity with Miss Neller if she wishes, so long as it is made clear to her that she has no approval authority.”
“She’s picking up a lot of newspaper space—and money—with this speaking bit she’s been doing,” Whitman said. “And there’s a guy named Cloud—used to be a reporter on the Ledger down in L.A.—who’s been helping me a little on a book I just finished writing. Both of them may be useful to me in the future. I don’t want to alienate either one of them if I can help it.”
“I’m sure we can work something out without bruising anyone’s feelings,” White said.
Whitman pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, we’ve got a deal then.”
“Good.” The attorney put the tips of his fingers together. “Incidentally, I’m going to want a formal agreement between us, just in case some hick with a correspondence-school law degree comes along and claims to represent you. It’s happened before. I want to make sure we’re the attorneys of record.”
“Whatever’s fair,” Weldon Whitman said.
“Suppose I come back tomorrow with the papers. I’ll bring my legal assistant along to witness my signature for the firm, and you can have Miss Neller come up to witness yours. That way we can make her feel a part of things, and at the same time make it clear that the legal end of it will remain separate from the Save Whitman Movement. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Whitman said. “Would you mind calling Genevieve? Tell her I said to be here tomorrow at one.”
“Tell her?” Borden White said, his eyebrows raising.
“That’s right,” Weldon Whitman replied with assurance. “Tell her.”
