Canfield set his jaw. He reflected, then shook his head. “This business about the druggist’s report, it means nothing. He could be mistaken. He was mistaken once. He could be mistaken again.”
David conceded the point, not because he thought it was valid, but because he felt that an important part of getting someone to yes entailed allowing them a limited no.
“There is more,” David said.
“There can’t be. There’s no such thing as evidence of something that didn’t happen.”
Under normal circumstances, Canfield had a brilliant legal and logical mind, but those circumstances weren’t normal. David knew he was listening to the stubborn denials of a man in paternal grief. So he ignored them. He had to. He had one chance and this was it.
So he waited for Canfield to quiet down, then he told him what to look for and where to find it.
Canfield flatly refused. He dismissed David’s words as those of a desperate liar. “You would do anything––anything––to smear Sweet’s memory! Have you no shame? None at all?”
“And have you no curiosity, no sense of justice?” David spoke with intensity. “Look, for me, Sweet was a monster, a man who viciously destroyed my sisters. To you, he was someone else entirely. Don’t you want to know the truth, the whole truth, no matter what it might be? Or deep down, are you so afraid that you’d rather not know it at all?”
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer.” Canfield got to his feet and drew himself up. He stalked out, cloaked in self-righteousness.
The rest of that afternoon went by, with no further word from Canfield . While David had anticipated Canfield’s proud knee-jerk response, he’d also hoped desperately that the elder attorney would reconsider when alone. But as the hours ticked by, David wondered if he’d played his last card and lost.
He knew that upon sentencing he would be transferred immediately to Sing Sing. and put on death row. He would be placed in the death house. A prison within the prison, the death house not only housed the electric chair, but its own kitchen, hospital, visiting room, and exercise yard as well. Like all death row inmates, he would be kept in isolation and under constant suicide watch. His physical existence would be reduced to the confines of a cell seven feet high, six and a half feet long and three feet wide. There, he would wait and hope, hope and pray, while Nevin launched a wearying court battle, one that could last months. If he lost, then Rachel would go free and the long days would begin to race by with accelerating speed, until one day the guards came for him and strapped him in and the executioner threw the switch.
He thought of Rachel and grew angry, then of Toby’s mother and felt himself grow calm. He’d never learned her name, he realized, and felt another tinge of regret. Then he closed his eyes. He could see her face, hear her voice. She cheered him.
So, what you gonna do? She’d asked. Men like you, they always got a plan.
Yes, he had. But was it working?
He counted the hours, the minutes, watched the sun go down and the sun go up and passed a sleepless night. Then, at twelve noon, on the second day, he heard the sounds of men approaching. Seconds later, two guards appeared.
They had come for him.
41. A Man of the Superior Sort
On the morning her husband was to be sentenced to die for a crime that she had committed, Rachel McKay quit her job at Harlem Hospital and went on a Fifth Avenue shopping spree. She spent more money in those three hours than she normally earned in a year. Later, that afternoon, as she stood before Lilian’s mirror, she congratulated herself on a plan well done. Now, she could enjoy the rewards of victory, a victory she felt she fully deserved.
At the moment, that reward included a new mink coat. As soon as she’d gotten home, she’d stripped herself down and slipped it on. Now, except for her jewelry, she was naked beneath it. She hugged the coat to her, loving how the smooth satin lining caressed her breasts, her belly, her hips, her thighs. She rolled up the coat’s collar and buried her nose in its rich brown fur. Ah, this was good, so very, very good. Better than sex even!
She looked into the mirror and fingered the pearls David had given her. She held up her right hand to marvel at the sight of it, bedecked with a new diamond ring. How the thick dark fur caused the pearls to glow and the diamonds to twinkle! She looked rich, now––really, really rich. She had finally stopped being a victim. She had finally taken the bull by the horns and set matters right.
And this was the payoff. It was better than she’d dreamed, better than she’d ever imagined.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Surprised, she wondered who it could be. Probably another one of those damn reporters. They had constantly pestered her since David’s conviction. Will there be an appeal, Mrs. McKay? Do you still believe in your husband? Hell, no, she wanted to say. It had taken all of her self-control to bite her lip modestly, to do her best to look shy and smile sadly.
“Miss Rachel?”
She swung around. Annie stood in the doorway. Rachel decided that she hated her. She would replace her as soon as possible. “What is it?” she snapped. “I told you I don’t want to be disturbed. If it’s one of those newspaper people—”
“It’s Mr. Canfield. Mr. Byron Canfield.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. Now this was a surprise. What could he want? Should she refuse to see him? Yes, that would be best. After all, it was his fault that David was behind bars. “Tell him to go away.”
Rachel turned her back on Annie and returned to admiring her reflection. Perhaps, I should go back and get that black sable I liked, too.
“Miss Rachel,” Annie said, still there. “I knows you don’t wanna hear no advice from me, but when a powerful man like Byron Canfield says he wants to talk to you, it’s best you do just that, let him talk to you.”
Rachel swung back, a sharp rebuke on the tip of her tongue. But a thought stopped her. Maybe Canfield’s visit didn’t have nothing to do with David at all. Maybe the old geezer had an eye for the ladies. Maybe, with David gone, he was looking to give her a little company. A nasty little smile played about her lips. She almost giggled. Everybody knew he was one of the most important Negro men in all America, a real big shot with the Movement. He knew just about everybody. If she got in good with him, her life was made. But better not be too nice to him at first. Got to play the hurt wife, mourning for her wronged man. Oh, yes, she could do that well.
“All right. Show him into the parlor. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Byron Canfield prided himself on being a realist. He knew that no one was perfect, himself included. But he preferred to believe that he was of the superior sort—the kind of man who rarely made mistakes and when he did, moved quickly to correct them. That afternoon, he found himself at the McKay house on a mission he would’ve never foreseen. Nonetheless, he was looking forward to it with relish.
Rachel entered the room. She was exactly as he remembered her: lovely to the eye, with an air of fragile delicacy that would evoke the protective instincts of any warm-blooded man. Coming forward, she shook his hand. “You’re an unexpected guest.” Her smile was charming but restrained.
“Lovely home you have here. Exquisitely done.”
Rachel’s smile warmed. “Thank you,” she said. “I enjoy decorating.”
He was quite aware that it was Lila McKay, not Rachel, who had decorated the house, but he was of the opinion that most people gladly accept even the most blatantly undeserved compliments.
“May I offer you something to drink, Mr. Canfield? Tea or coffee, perhaps?”
He demurred. “Thank you, but I won’t be staying that long. It’s bad enough I drop in without an invitation––”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. You’re welcome … anytime.”
Had he heard her correctly? The slight breathiness, the sudden softness in her voice when she spoke that last word: had it really contained an invitation or had he imagined it? He gave a sharp glance that found her eye and there he saw his answer. She didn’t e
ven try to hide it.
For a moment, the thought crossed his mind to take her up on it. Oh, it was there for less than a tenth of a second, but it was there. Then he caught himself. He realized what he was thinking and that realization appalled him. Moreover, it gave him a deeper understanding of just what he was dealing with.
He smiled at her and said, “How kind of you.”
They took seats and for ten minutes chatted amiably over this and that. Then he came to the apparent point of his visit.
“I hope there are no hard feelings, Mrs. McKay. Of course, I was very upset at the death of Jameson Sweet and I only thought it right to inform the police of what he had told me. But you must believe that it was done without any personal animosity.”
Rachel accepted this polite little speech with an equally polite and forgiving murmur. “You needn’t worry yourself over it. I understand.”
“Thank you.” He paused, then drew a deep breath. “Yes, well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He got to his feet.
She stood and pouted prettily. “Oh, so short a visit?”
“I’m afraid so. But …” He paused.
“Yes?”
“Before I go, there is one small matter I’d like to mention.”
“And that would be?”
Rachel regarded him steadily, expectantly. He had to admire her poise, her self-possession, and the hypnotic effect of those emerald eyes.
“Simply this,” he said and went into his jacket pocket. He withdrew a thin envelope and handed it to her.
She took it, but hesitated.
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
The envelope was unsealed. Upon opening it, she found a ticket bearing her name for an ocean liner to Italy. Her brow furrowed with momentary puzzlement, then darkened with sudden suspicion. She looked up at him sharply. “What’s this?”
“The other ticket, by the way, the one in Jameson’s name, it’s in my office safe.”
She said nothing, but her face paled, just the slightest bit, and the hand holding the ticket tightened.
He continued. “I didn’t learn of the tickets until yesterday. They were forgotten in the confusion over his death. Apparently, he intended to go away.” Canfield eyed her. “And he expected you to go with him.”
“That can’t be. You’re mistaken.” She said it mildly enough, but something definitely unpleasant slithered in the depths of her eyes.
“My dear, you needn’t deny it. The evening he died, he messaged his secretary and asked her to make travel arrangements—for two. He gave her your name.”
“Really, Mr. Canfield, I—”
“Jameson was like a son to me. And like a father, I suspected certain things but lacked the courage to confront him. There were opportunities, but I missed them and I’ll always regret it. He was distracted. His work had begun to suffer. I thought it was his wife’s illness. Now I know there was another reason.”
“You’ve overstayed your welcome. Please leave.” She drew herself up, looking every bit the indignant mistress of the house.
He was unimpressed. “David McKay’s statement that he accused Jameson of killing Gem is part of the public record. It’s a fairly complicated story and the newspapers botched most of the details. I didn’t see any point in learning them myself—not until I heard of Jameson’s travel plans. Then I sat down with Nevin Caruthers. He related every detail of the whole indelicate tale. He also showed me an analysis of the so-called medicine Jameson was giving Lilian. I made a call to Harlem Hospital and had a very interesting conversation with your former superior. It seems there’s been an unexplained shortage of the very same drugs—”
“You can’t believe—”
“I’m afraid I do.” He was assured, intent, and very determined. “Jameson was a tough attorney, but a weak man. I can’t blame him. Seeing you, my dear, I can well understand how you got him to do your bidding.”
“Leave!”
“The ticket is still valid. If I were you, I would use it. At least, I’d try.”
“I am staying here.” She arched her small head regally. “You have nothing against me. Nothing! You’re just trying to intimidate me.”
“Of course, I am.” He said it almost kindly. “My dear, have you any idea what will happen to you if you do stay? You will be arrested. Nevin Caruthers and I will work to the bitter end to see you convicted. Should we fail and you retain your freedom, then you may of course spend your life in this house. But no one will visit you. No one will open his door to you. I will see to it that you are socially dead to everyone who matters. When I’m done, you’ll be buried alive, grateful for the company of jail-house prisoners.”
She sank back down in her chair, stunned. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she looked up at him, her expression showing not only frustrated anger, but genuine puzzlement.
“Why,” she whispered. “Why would you do this?”
How could she even dare to ask? But this was her particular brand of sickness, wasn’t it? She was incapable of comprehending such matters. If she had been, then she never would have done what she did.
He nearly didn’t answer, but then decided he would. Whether she understood or not, he had to speak. He had to release some of the pain that was clenching his chest, the rage that was nearly suffocating him. But his voice betrayed none of this, none of the fury that was directed at himself as well as at her.
“Why? Because you destroyed a wonderful young man. Jameson had his failings. He was perhaps too ambitious. Too bitter. But he had pride—in himself and in his people. He had vision. You betrayed him. Worse, you made him betray himself. And for that, I will never forgive you.”
“But—”
“I was too late to save Jameson, but I owe it to myself—and to the Movement—to save McKay. He’s a good man. I underestimated him. Now he’s behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit, and you and I are to blame. I intend to make amends. And I will make sure that you do, too.”
He could see her thinking it over. He could sense the fear and uncertainty beneath the outer bravura.
For a moment, she looked as though she might just give in.
But then, she rallied. Her fine eyes narrowed. Her lips tightened and she drew herself up straight. She got to her feet and with slow, deliberate movements, held up the ticket for him to see. Then she tore it in half and tore it again. She kept on tearing until she’d reduced it to bits of chaff. Then she threw the mess in his face.
“There!” she said. “You’ve got no proof against me. You’ve got nothing, nothing at all.”
He brushed himself off with languid strokes. “Your little fit of pique, though certainly amusing, was useless.” He smiled with grim graciousness. “Do you actually think I’d give you the only proof of your ticket? I have the receipt in my office. It not only lists the tickets and who they were made out to, but shows who bought them and when.”
Realizing the implications, she took a new tact.
“So what?” she cried. “So what if he did buy me a ticket? What does that mean? Nothing! Who’s to say I told him to buy it? Who’s to say I even knew about it? No one! That’s who! No one!”
He didn’t answer, just looked down on her with contempt.
“You don’t know me,” she said, “but I am a survivor. And I’m telling you right here, right now, that you can take your threats and stick them where the sun don’t shine. Because I will make friends, Mr. Canfield—and very grand friends, too. I’ll buy them if I have to. I can do that, you see, now that I have the McKay name and the McKay money to back me!”
As much as he disliked her, he had to admire her spirit. She was a little spitfire.
“As for you, Mr. Canfield,” she jabbed in the chest with a strong index finger, “you can go to hell, for all I care — you and all your dicty friends. Y’all can take the first train to damnation.” And she stared at him with blistering anger, her hands balled into tight little fists.
He regarded her with evident distaste, but
for a long moment kept a cold silence. It was a mien that always worked with hostile advocates in court and it worked with Rachel now. The heat of her anger cooled, and with it her bluster faded, leaving her with the chill of uncertainty.
“Well,” she said uneasily, folding her arms across her chest. “Are you going to leave or what?”
He said nothing.
“You come here, all big and mighty, trying to throw your weight around, threatening to call the cops—”
“I never threatened—”
“You were about to, but I’m warning you. If you don’t go right now, then it’ll be me calling the cops, and you they’ll be taking away.”
It was a weak threat, predictable. He batted it away with less effort than he’d use against a fly. “You wouldn’t,” he arched an eyebrow, “really do anything that stupid, would you?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.
“Actually, as much as it pains me to admit it, you’re right. The evidence is circumstantial and is unlikely to carry enough weight to save him or …” He let his voice trail away, the rest of his sentence evident.
He appreciated the surprise on her face. She hadn’t expected him to capitulate. Not so quickly.
“So,” she said.
“So,” he continued. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”
Surprise deepened to shock. The look on her face provided bitter amusement. She was so easy to read. If you knew what to look for, if you hadn’t yet fallen under her spell, then her face was an open book. He could see that she was suspicious but worried. And curious despite herself. She didn’t want to show interest, but she couldn’t help herself. Because, deep down, she knew she was in trouble. If he was offering her a way out, a real way out, then she had to hear it.
“What kind of an offer?”
He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“Tell me why you did it, and how. Tell me that and I’ll …” He paused, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words.
“Yes?” she prompted.
Harlem Redux Page 39
