by Clark Howard
“Sort of like an animal act in a circus,” Robert Cloud commented.
“That’s very good, Robert,” the older man said, without a trace of a smile. “Incidentally, I’m going to turn over the Judgment in Anguish manuscript to someone else to re-edit for us, but I have another assignment for you which I’ll get to in a moment.” He turned away from Cloud and resumed talking to Genevieve. “What we had in mind for you, my dear, was the full-time supervision of the foundation’s printshop. We’re going to begin regularly sheduled mailings all over the state: pamphlets, brochures, questionnaires, possibly even a monthly foundation newsletter. The material will deal specifically with the courts, certain judges and district attorneys, the state’s prosecution system—”
“That kind of material will only hurt Weldon, not help him,” Genevieve stated in a controlled voice.
“Well, of course, I’m only speaking in generalities,” Niebold said. “The board of directors will have the final approval of specific material. The point I’m making right now is that with an increased production schedule, we will need someone reliable to keep our printshop at its most efficient level. We’d like to be able to depend on you for that.”
“Naturally, I’ll do whatever I can to help, but—”
“I knew you wouldn’t let us down, my dear,” Niebold fairly gushed. “You’ll be your own supervisor, of course. And I insist that you take whatever time you need to visit your Mr. Whitman as often as you like. Now then, Robert,” he said, turning back to Cloud.
“Are you going to tell me I’ve been working too hard also?” Cloud challenged at once.
“Not at all,” the lawyer said in a slightly cooling voice. “As a matter of fact, perhaps you haven’t been working hard enough. Borden, Carla, and I have gone over the final draft of Judgment in Anguish, and frankly none of us were overly impressed by it.”
“That’s just too goddamned bad,” Cloud said evenly. “When did you three become literary critics?”
“We don’t profess to be literary critics,” Niebold said. His tone hardened ever so slightly more. “Nor are we being critical of your writing per se. However, we do know exactly what tone we want the book to take—and unfortunately you have not generated that tone.”
“Which is?”
“Aggressiveness. We think that it was all for Room 22, Hotel Death to project a soft image of Whitman as a victim—of circumstance, of law-enforcement overzealousness, of illogical California justice, whatever. But for this second book we feel that a sharper focus is needed. We want the victim to begin struggling. Where he once inspired pity, we now want him to command admiration. To accomplish this we have employed another writer to re-edit the book for us. A young man named Eugene Terrier. Ever heard of him?”
“Who hasn’t?” Cloud said with a grunt. “Former Black Panther, former just about anything radical that you can name.”
“You left out that he’s also a very capable writer,” Niebold said pointedly.
“So am I,” Cloud, reminded him. “How do you intend to use me?”
“Doing news releases,” said Niebold. “Writing newspaper stories that the press wouldn’t have its own reporters cover. As a matter of fact, we already have your first assignment ready for you: a story on a special fund-raising dinner being given by a wealthy Los Angeles accountant who is taking a very active interest in us. We would hope, by doing such a story, to stimulate more activity of this nature, both for the money and the favorable publicity it can bring us.”
Niebold turned his wheelchair slightly so that he could rest one arm on his desk. He drummed his plump fingertips on the shiny, smooth surface for a moment. Then he spoke again, slowly and deliberately.
“I think I might mention at this point that it has already been decided by a majority of the board that we will accept the resignation of anyone who does not feel that he or she wishes to comply with the decisions of the board.”
“You mean comply with your decisions, don’t you, Morris?” said Cloud.
Niebold shrugged. “The point is, Robert, that if you don’t care for the new posture which the foundation is going to assume, you needn’t force yourself to remain in the group.”
“Let me tell you something, Morris,” Cloud said with unconcealed hostility. “I got on this bandwagon at the very first stop—back in L.A. on the day the jury brought in those two death sentences. I was with Weldon Whitman the day Judge Lukey sentenced him to die. I declared a personal war against G. Foster Klein and the L.A. County district attorney’s office over Whitman. I alienated myself from the newspaper that employed me because I believed that Whitman had been shafted. In other words, Morris, I am a charter member of the effort to keep Weldon Whitman out of the goddamned gas chamber. And being that, I am not about to resign what little authority I have left in this organization and give you a completely free hand. I’d much rather stick around and see that you get an argument once in a while.”
“I presume by that little speech that you are agreeable to covering the fund-raising dinner I mentioned a moment ago.”
“That and anything else you give me to do, Mr. Foundation President. I’m on for the whole ride.”
“Good for you, Rob,” Genevieve said with an enthusiasm long absent from her voice.
“Yes, good for you, I’m sure,” Niebold said. He took a folder from Ms desk and passed it over to Cloud. “Here is all the correspondence on the dinner. It’s being held Saturday night. The address is on the letterhead.”
When they left Niebold’s office, Cloud let Genevieve go ahead without him while he went in to see Carla. He found her in her office with a tall, handsome young mulatto wearing a turtleneck sweater and white leather jacket. They were talking initimately when Cloud entered.
“Excuse me. Carla, may I see you privately for a moment?”
“I’m sorry,” she said coolly, “I’m busy at the moment. Incidentally, I don’t believe you’ve met our newest member. This is Eugene Terrier. Gene, this is Robert Cloud, the gentleman Borden was telling you about.”
“Oh yes,” Terrier said, nodding. “How are you, Cloud? I’ve read some of your stuff. It’s not bad.”
“Thanks. I’ve read some of yours too.” Cloud turned back to Carla. “I really would like to speak with you for a moment.”
“I’m really very busy right now,” Carla said. She rose from her desk and took Eugene Terrier’s arm. “Let me show you the rest of our offices, Gene. Excuse us, won’t you?” she said to Cloud.
* * *
The following Saturday night, Cloud was in a taxi wending its way along Sunset Boulevard. On the plane to Los Angeles he had studied the correspondence file Niebold had given him. The fund-raising affair was being held at the Jerome Traynor residence in Bentwood. Traynor had been reached by an early Whitman Foundation pamphlet and had sent a check for twenty-five dollars, so his name went onto a contributors list. He had been sent two more mailings not asking for a donation, then was asked in a fourth letter again to help the foundation financially. He responded with another check. After that he received periodic letters asking him to refer to the foundation others who might be interested in joining the Weldon Whitman Movement. He referred several names. Subsequently, he participated in a capital-punishment survey the foundation conducted, and twice more sent personal donations. Recently he had written to the foundation proposing that he and his wife host a dinner party for some two dozen or so of their friends. At the affair they would distribute foundation literature about Whitman, and both during and after dinner they would keep a discussion going about the Whitman case in particular and capital punishment in general. They were certain they could convince most of their friends to contribute. Jerome Traynor, in his letter, estimated that they expected to collect in excess of two thousand dollars for the foundation.
The Traynor home was a two-story Moorish structure on a rounded corner lot with a circular drive. There were several Cadillacs and Continentals parked in the drive. When Cloud rang the bell, he heard c
himes inside play several notes of a Spanish tune.
In a moment the door was opened by a tall, very thin man. Cloud said good evening and introduced himself.
“Yes, of course,” the thin man said, “we’ve been expecting you. Come in. I’m Jerry Traynor.” They shook hands and Traynor led him at once away from the entry foyer to a small study nearby. “I wanted to have a word with you in private before I introduce you around, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” said Cloud. “It’s your party.”
Traynor mixed them each a drink and brought the glasses to a pair of matched leather couches, where the two men sat down facing each other.
“There’s something I wanted to clarify with you before the evening gets too far underway.” Traynor said, taking a quick sip of his drink. “You see, this whole thing—the dinner, the contributions, the referrals, everything—is really my wife’s idea. I suppose you could call it her crusade or something.”
“I thought the correspondence came from you,” Cloud said.
“It did. You see, my wife insists that we share our roles in life. The point is, I’m in this thing more or less to support my wife’s interest. I don’t mean that without her I’d be against your cause, you understand; it’s just that I probably wouldn’t be actively for it.”
“I see,” Cloud said, nodding.
Traynor shifted his thin body on the couch. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want to cause any embarrassment to my wife or myself this evening. I don’t really know that much about the pros or cons of this capital-punishment issue, and I’ll have to admit that I’m not that familiar with the background of the Whitman case. I’m afraid I just haven’t kept up with my homework.” He wet his lips and took another sip of his drink.
Cloud suspected that Traynor’s conscience might be bothering him because he had treated his wife’s chosen cause so lightly. “How can I help you?” Cloud asked.
“I wonder if you could keep me out of the discussions as much as possible tonight. I don’t want to be put on the spot.”
“I think I can manage that all right,” Cloud said. “I presume Mrs. Traynor can discuss the case knowledgeably?”
“Can she! She goes on about it through a whole meal, at times.”
“Well, why don’t we just agree that her viewpoint is in all respects shared by you,” Cloud said. “And you take the position that because the dinner party was her idea, you’re letting her do the talking for both of you tonight. How does that sound to you?”
“Like music,” Traynor said with a smile of relief. “I really do appreciate it.”
Cloud shrugged off his thanks. “We appreciate the effort you and Mrs. Traynor are making.”
“What do you think Whitman’s chances are of beating the gas chamber?” Traynor asked. “That last one was a pretty close call, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty close,” Cloud agreed. He decided not to go into detail about it. “Naturally, we think Weldon will eventually be pardoned. We’re all convinced that he’s innocent.”
“Well, you’re certainly going to have the support of my wife and me,” Traynor said with sudden overtones of loyalty. “I may never know enough about the cause to argue for it but I do know how to sign a check. Come on, let me introduce you around.”
They left the small study. Traynor led him through a door and down two steps into a large, elegantly appointed living room. A dozen or so people were spread throughout the room, and a woman with richly red, deeply dark, upswept hair was just turning around in time to meet them as they entered.
“Mr. Cloud, I’d like you to meet my wife, Laurel,” Traynor said. “Dear, this is Robert Cloud from the Whitman Foundation—”
“So nice of you to come, Mr. Cloud,” she said, holding her hand out to him and looking straight into his eyes without the barest hint that she had ever seen him before, or masturbated him or fellated him or had been caught by him coming out of a motel room with another man when she was supposed to have been his virgin girlfriend. Not the barest hint.
Cloud managed to check the surprise that laced his body. “My pleasure, Mrs. Traynor,” he said. His palm was moist when he took her hand. But so was hers. “The foundation appreciates your interest.”
“Thank you.” She turned to her husband. “Jerry, dear, will you see to the guests for five minutes? I have simply got to get Mr. Cloud to tell me some things about Weldon Whitman before we turn him loose. I’ll just take him into the playroom for a bit.” She took Cloud’s arm. “Right around this way, Mr. Cloud.”
Laurel led him into a nicely designed recreation room complete with a bar, pool table, movie projector and screen, pinball machine, dartboard, and other accouterments of indoor play. She closed the door behind them and leaned back against it.
“You look well, Rob,” she said.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes. But I’d never know it to look at you.” She still looked the twenty-three or twenty-four that she had always looked. Her face was still girlish; her attractiveness still derived from her velvety red hair above it, and the superbly sculptured breasts below it.
Cloud walked around the pool table, dragging his fingertips over the brushed green felt. He looked admiringly around the room—he thought that was probably what she wanted him to do. “This is very nice, Laurel. You’ve done very well for yourself.”
“I’ve married well, you mean. Yes, I have.”
“Obviously a very successful man. How did you meet him?”
“By accident more than anything else. I broke up with Ralph after that night you saw us together. The night I came to your place and you fucked me and then walked out on me. You remember that, I’m sure.”
Cloud folded his arms and leaned back against the pool table. He did not reply.
“I was in a pretty bad way after that,” she continued. “Mentally, physically, psychologically, every which way. Ralph kept calling, of course, but I wouldn’t see him. Wouldn’t even talk to him. All the telephone-answering for a long time was done by Nancy. You remember Nancy, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember her.”
“She’ll be here tonight. With her new husband, who is even skinnier than mine. Anyway, as I was saying, she helped me to keep Ralph at bay long enough for me to get him out of my system. I never went out with him again. I’ve got you to thank for that. Your walking out on me was what did it.”
Cloud nodded, but said nothing.
“Nancy and I started going back to the tennis club in Beverly Hills where I had first met Ralph. I ran into him one weekend; he asked if I’d start seeing him again and I said no. I kept saying no. I enjoyed saying no.” She walked away from the door she had been leaning against and sat on one of the barstools. “About two months went by, then one afternoon at the club I met Jerry Traynor. Jerry was quite taken with me right from the start. He asked if I had a tennis date for the following Saturday, I told him I didn’t, and we made a date right then and there.”
“How long was it before you and Traynor were married?” Cloud asked.
“Less than three months. We started going out on a regular basis and one night he asked me to marry him and I just accepted. I don’t think I did it to spite Ralph or to forget you—but I don’t know. People do peculiar things sometimes.”
“Well, everything seems to have turned out for the best, as they say,” Cloud commented. “This is the kind of life you seem to have wanted—security, nice things, not having to count every dollar. You should be very happy.”
“I am,” she said, raising her chin with just a trace of defiance. “I am very happy.”
At that moment, Jerome Traynor stuck his head in the room. “Everyone is here now, honey. Are you about ready to bring Mr. Cloud in for a cocktail?”
“Be right there,” Laurel called cheerily. Her husband pulled his head back and closed the door. “I guess we’d better get out there,” she said. “Incidentally, Jerry doesn’t know about Ralph a
nd me, so naturally I don’t care to have him know about you and me.”
“Naturally,” Cloud said.
They joined the others in the living room. There were about thirty guests, most of them congregating in small groups in the room and outside in a patio-and-pool area. Japanese lanterns lighted the outside; two waiters in white jackets served drinks from a temporary bar just inside a pair of open glass doors.
Laurel introduced Cloud to half a dozen people at one end of the room as they entered. The guests immediately began asking Cloud questions about Weldon Whitman. For the most part the queries were very trite, and his answers were standard. But Cloud found he could lie quite glibly: Yes, Weldon Whitman played a significant role in the conduct of the foundation’s campaign against capital punishment; yes, he really wrote Room 22, Hotel Death all by himself. Of course, there had been the usual editorial polishing done by the publisher, but for the most part it was Weldon’s book all the way.
Occasionally, as the evening progressed, someone in a group would ask a question that bespoke genuine interest: How many hours per day were the condemned men let out of their cells? What kind of sanitation facilities did Death Row provide? Was there any kind of accurate figure as to how many Californians supported abolition of the death penalty? Had any of the state Supreme Court justices, who were to rule on the issue, ever attended an actual execution? These questions were to Robert Cloud refreshing oases in a desert of clichés.
At one point during the evening, a pert, bouncy young woman with a familiar freckled face and a Texas accent came up and slipped her arm through Cloud’s saying, “Hello there, stranger. Where you been keeping yourself?”
