by Kate Wilhelm
To regain credibility she had to be able to demonstrate that Spassero had betrayed the trust placed in him by his appointment as Paula Kennerman’s attorney. And to do that she had to find answers to the mystery of why Dodgson was involved, why his son was involved, why Gallead was involved.
She couldn’t do it alone, she knew. There was too much.
She needed Bailey Novell, who was the best private investigator on the coast and was not cheap. She needed a law clerk, and secretarial help, an office to operate from, to have people come to. She needed the backing of a rich law firm that could absorb the costs if it turned out there would be no compensation.
And if he said no and couldn’t be budged? She had no answer.
Friday. By eight-thirty Barbara was showered, breakfasted, and restless. She had not yet dressed, but was wearing a short duster and was barefoot, trying to decide. Skirt and blouse? Jeans? Shorts? To the coast, or the backyard and do some weeding? The courthouse? The library? Too soon, she knew. The questions that needed answers were not yet formed in her head. Visit Paula? Wash windows, clean the stove, wax the kitchen floor … ?
Bessie, she decided finally. He had told her he never got to the office before one or two in the afternoon; she could use his space, read his newspapers all she wanted before that. She dressed and went downtown. Before, she had concentrated on the Dodgson articles that followed the April murder of Lori Kennerman, and the destruction of the Canby Ranch dwelling. This time, when she arrived at Bessie’s office, she decided to read all the Dodgson papers he had, six months of newspapers.
January: a long hate piece about the paganization of Christmas, the most sacred day of the year. Paganization? Barbara mouthed the word and continued to read. A long piece about the Brady bill and who really was behind it—the satanic hordes who were desperate to disarm the country and seize control. Registration of guns was their first step, it claimed. There were letters to the editor: “Dear Rich, Right on! Thank God we have someone telling it like it is. Keep up the good work, Rich!” And on the back page there was a list of the abortion clinics to be targeted in the coming month, complete with dates and addresses.
The next week had a list of the new books to be included in an ongoing campaign to clean up the school libraries. The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss. All fairy tales. Anything to do with Dungeons and Dragons, anything to do with magic in any form… The headline of the article was in large black type: kids minds at risk! “Have you checked out your library? If you haven’t looked over the books your children are reading, it is your duty to do so immediately. Witchcraft, satanism, homosexuality, feminism, socialism and even communism are the messages the New York elite is feeding your child! Send a stamped self-addressed envelope for the complete list of banned books.”
Barbara frowned more intently at one of the articles on the hidden agenda of feminists: “How long since you heard anything about the ERA? Remember? Equal Rights Amendment. That’s all they talked about a few years back. Sounds okay, doesn’t it, but why have they dropped it? Recently discovered documents from the secret files of NOW lay it out there on the line. First, feminization of the male. Make him feel guilty about not doing a share of women’s work—housecleaning, baby-sitting, cooking. Then, take over his jobs. Women in the armed forces, in the police forces, doctors, lawyers, politicians, in construction. You name it, they’ve got quotas. And they’ve got the money to back up their demands, to buy a senator here, a representative there, ads, slanted news stories, television, books, magazines, they control them all, or are working at getting control. And the final goal they are pressing for? Complete emasculation of the American male. A revolution without guns. A takeover of the entire American economy and government. Equal rights? Forget it. Absolute power is the ultimate goal. The American male is in a war for his life, and the sap doesn’t even know war was declared.”
Barbara left the table and walked to the window. Was he insane? A paranoid psychotic? She shivered, more afraid of insanity than almost anything else she could think of. Reluctantly she returned to the same issue of the paper, which seemed to be entirely about women. The following article claimed that women who took the “so-called ‘morning-after pill'” were at grave risk. Sixty percent of them required medical treatment for six months or longer; thirty percent required hospitalization. Fifty percent required therapy that was without end. Fifteen percent attempted suicide. “God is speaking to those women who have murdered their babies. He is passing judgment on them, and they refuse to hear His words. What they are guilty of is murder. They pay a penalty under God’s judgment.”
Another article was about the French abortifacient, RU-486. Here the “statistics” bore on heart attacks, liver problems, kidney failure, death, and madness. “Feminists are clamoring for this deadly weapon of death. They must be stopped. Call your representative, your senator. Call today! Call the White House. Write to the drug manufacturers. You and only you can stop this newest threat to the human race. Don’t let them introduce yet another way to kill our children and destroy the health of our women!”
Barbara found herself wiping her hands on a tissue, and realized there was a pile of such tissues at her elbow. Not good enough, she thought then; what she needed was a thorough scrub-down after handling these newspapers.
She continued to read, and suddenly stopped in midsentence and went back to the beginning of this diatribe. “All over the country so-called ‘Safe Houses’ are springing up. Women are luring women away from their husbands, away from their responsibilities, away from their children in some cases. In other cases, women are stealing the children away from their fathers. Kidnapping children.” Then the tone changed, Barbara realized. The article continued: “A vast underground network has grown, maintained by ‘sisters’ for ‘sisters,’ funded by ‘sisters’ for ‘sisters,’ as secret as the vast underground railway system that operated during the Civil War, when otherwise law-abiding citizens became criminals and aided and abetted the escape of slaves from their legal owners. This is a nation of law, a nation that lives under the law of the land, and it is a criminal activity to kidnap a child, even if the perpetrator is the mother of that child. It is criminal activity to deny the visitation rights of the father. The child has no recourse under the law because that child is hidden away, is silenced, while the band of ‘sisters’ strives to indoctrinate a new member into their ranks.”
It changed again here, back to what Barbara thought of as Rich’s style: “What can you do? Be alert! Maybe there’s a so-called ‘Safe House’ on your street. Maybe there’s a little kid who wants his daddy, not a bunch of witches and pagans all around. Visit the house, demonstrate against this assault on every family value you hold dear. Write a letter to the editor, talk to your neighbors. Demonstrate. Don’t let them get away with it!”
She plugged on doggedly, ignoring the spasms in her stomach and the rigidity of her muscles, ignoring the mounting anger that took her away from the table again and again. Each time she returned until she felt she had seen enough to know they were all alike. And now that she was aware of that stylistic change, she found it easy to spot over and over. Dodgson and his wife taking turns? Dodgson being fed the lines from an outside source? Dodgson on drugs? Something else?
She restored the papers to the bins and left Bessie’s office before he turned up this time. In the wide corridor, heading toward the reception room, she was stopped by her father’s voice. She turned to see him at his open door.
“You have a minute?” he asked.
She knew his answer was no. It was in his posture, in the somber expression on his face, the way he regarded her too politely. She headed his way, and when she reached his door, he stepped aside and let her pass, then closed the door behind them. Bailey Novell was slouched in a deep chair holding a drink.
“Hi, Barbara. How’re things?” He hauled himself upright and shook her hand. “You’re looking good,” he said appraisingly.
“Thanks. And you?” He was a small man, hardly taller than
Barbara, wiry, thin-faced, with sparse gray hair. His clothes were always baggy, as if he had bought them when he was twenty pounds heavier. Barbara had never known him to be heavier than he was, and most of the times she had seen him, he had been drinking something. It never mattered much what it was.
“Nothing changes. Same old grind.” He seemed to melt back into the chair.
“Tell her,” Frank said in a peremptory tone. He went to the wide window and stood with his back to them.
“Yeah, tell me, Bailey.” She took a matching chair and slumped almost as much as he did. Reaction, she understood, and also understood that she had not really expected the firm to support her, but there had been that little bit of hope that now was extinguished.
“Okay. I know a few people, you know?”
She knew.
“So I asked a couple of questions and got the general picture of the case the D.A.’s making, not the details, but generally. It’s really tight, Barbara. They don’t need more than they already got. See, Dodgson was out on his tractor cutting that field all morning. Lots of folks will testify to that. And you couldn’t get up that road without him seeing you. If that wasn’t enough, his old lady was taking a walk on the private road. I mean that side’s sewed up. The women were out looking for mushrooms in the woods across the field. Couldn’t get in without someone in that bunch spotting you. And right up until Kennerman went back to the house, two little girls were playing around the apple trees, and they would have seen anyone coming down from the woods, and nobody did. It’s good and tight. And even if it wasn’t, who else would have killed that kid? The husband was out fishing with buddies. You know, start of trout season.”
“The Dodgsons are unreliable witnesses,” Barbara said.
Bailey spread his hands. Without turning around, Frank said in a dry voice, “You can’t impeach their testimony because you don’t like them.”
“I can try,” she snapped. “I told you Royce Gallead got onto that property without my seeing him. Someone else could have done it, too.”
“Gallead?” Bailey muttered. “He’s mixed up in this?”
“No,” Frank said.
“Yes, he is,” Barbara said coldly. “Up to his eyeballs. Do you know him?” she asked Bailey.
“Sure. A gun nut. Said to be a mean one. You don’t want to stir him up, so they say. Doubt that he’s ever been charged with anything, or they’d take away his business, but there have been rumors of trouble.”
She nodded and stood up. “Are you free? Have some time to do a few things?”
He glanced at Frank, who had not moved. “You or the company?”
“Me.”
“I’m free, Barbara,” he said earnestly. “But you know I got expenses, payroll to meet, stuff like that. Who’s paying? Kennerman’s got zilch, I understand.”
“I’m paying. But we’ll try to keep expenses down. Okay?”
“I always keep them down,” he protested.
“Can you come over to my house around four? First I have to talk to Paula.”
“And I’m going home,” Frank said sharply. He marched from the room without a glance at her.
“Wow!” Bailey said. “The old man’s really riled.”
Barbara shrugged. So was she.
“Look at it from his angle,” Bailey said. “This is a downer case if there ever was one. You’ll be smeared by that Dodgson rag from here till Christmas. If you tangle with Gallead, that’s real trouble. And for what? You know how many kids have been killed here in the county the last few years? Couple of dozen. People are pretty fed up; they’ll take it out on you. There’s no way you can get a jury that doesn’t already know in their hearts that Kennerman killed her kid. And there’s no way you can touch the likes of Dodgson. Go after him and he starts screaming freedom of the press, First Amendment, all that.”
“Am I paying for this time?” Barbara demanded.
Bailey grinned. It was a great big jack o’lantern grin that used every muscle in his face and made wrinkles, channels, and gullies where they had not been before. “Starting at four,” he said, saluting her with his glass.
* * *
Paula looked incredulous when Barbara asked if she wanted her to take the case. “Yes! Oh, my God, yes!” Then she said, “But I don’t have any money. Will the state pay you?"
“I’m afraid not,” Barbara said. “So it’s going to be a very tight budget, and you should know that up front.”
Paula nodded. “Mr. Fairchild is a nice man, but he can’t do much for me, not like you can. I’ll find a way to pay you someday.”
“Okay, that goes on the back burner. First, I have to instruct you about your options. I know the others did this, but I have to make certain you understand. What you have to do is listen carefully.” And she began.
When she was ready to leave, Barbara warned, “Don’t talk to anyone about our conferences—not Lucille, not anyone here, not anyone. Until we know where the leak is, we keep quiet. Agreed?” Paula nodded. “And I want a list of everyone you can think of who ever saw you with Lori—babysitters, day-care people, people in the apartment complex. Whoever you can think of. And people who knew the relationship you and Jack had, how he was with Lori. Take your time with it and make it as complete as possible.”
“They won’t let me have a pencil or pen. Nothing sharp,” Paula said. She ducked her head. The bandages were off her wrists; red scars stood out vividly. “Dr. Grayling said I’ll be scarred. He’s sorry about it,” she whispered.
“Tell Dr. Grayling that I offered to defend you,” Barbara said. “Tell him I need your help. I think he’ll see to it that you get a pen and paper.”
Paula nodded, rubbing her wrist lightly. She would be scarred, Barbara thought, more than she knew at the moment, and the worst scars would never be seen by anyone.
SEVEN
On her way home she stopped at a bookstore and bought a county road map and a U.S. Geological Survey map of the county. She was dismayed to see that it was dated 1983. The clerk said it was the latest one available.
When Barbara admitted Bailey at four, she had the map spread out on the kitchen table. Bailey glanced at the living room with a bland, neutral expression, but she knew he had taken an inventory.
“Coffee? Coke? That’s about all I have.”
He said Coke and followed her into the kitchen when she went to get it; they returned to the living room to sit down. There wasn’t enough room in her office for a guest and her.
“Here’s a list,” she said, handing it over. “You know the kind of stuff. General background and immediate details.” He looked at it and whistled. “I know,” she said. “I know. So don’t let them know you’re prying. Whatever you can find out about the Dodgsons—where they got the money for that house, a yacht, how they’re doing now. That little scandal sheet can’t pull in much. What does? And same for Gallead. And Jack Kennerman. About Mrs. Canby, forget the money angle. Her former husband inherited from his father, and made more. But is she involved in any way with Dodgson? Who worked at the ranch lor her, when, did anyone leave mad? Who was out there the day the house burned? Who was in charge and where is she now?” This was all elementary, routine stuff, she was aware, but she didn’t know enough yet to ask for anything more specific.
“Gotcha,” Bailey said, and then asked, “What about Spassero? He’s in the public defender’s office, isn’t he?”
She hesitated only a second. Her father had always confided in Bailey, she knew; he said no one could do a complete job without the necessary information, and she had always agreed. She told Bailey about Bill Spassero and concluded, “He’s the source of the leaks, but why? What’s he up to? Who is he working for?” She drew in a breath and went on to tell him about Royce Gallead, why he was on the list.
Bailey whistled. “Barbara, does the old man know he threatened you?”
“No. Dad’s all the way out of this one. Keep it that way.”
Bailey had set his Coke down to take a few notes.
Now he lifted it and drank it all. “Okay,” he said then. “Let’s talk about money.”
She handed him a check for five thousand dollars; she had called the bank to make the transfer first thing on arriving home. He stashed it away in his notebook and made out a receipt. They both knew five thousand would not last very long.
“One more thing,” she said. “The map. Let me show you what I want.” They went to the kitchen table, where she pointed to a dark line she had drawn with a marker. “This map is out of date, but it’s the most recent one there is. What I need is an aerial photograph of that portion in the outline. Can do?”
“Someone can do,” he said.
“See if he can do it without giving away what he’s up to, will you?”
“Barbara, how you suggest hiding an airplane flying overhead taking pictures?”
“I bet he can, though.”
“It might mean more flying time, more money,” Bailey warned.
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I know.”
After Bailey left, she opened the road map, which seemed pitifully inadequate after the many details of the survey map. She studied the route she would take the next day.
For a moment she was tempted by the idea of driving to the coast, having a nice dinner, getting a motel room… She shook her head.
When she drove past the firing range the next morning, there was the sound of gunfire as before, more of it this Saturday, and although she drove quite slowly, she could see little through the open gate: the low white concrete building, cars parked in front of it, and what seemed to be another fence. Customers had to go through the building to get to the range in back.
