What had happened so far only confirmed what I already knew: lies beget more lies; slowly and inexorably one becomes trapped in a spreading web of deceit. In my experience, if deception was necessary, the best thing was to say as little as possible; the next best thing was the creative use of the truth, something that lawyers excel at.
The last day in court was taken up by my closing speech and that of defending counsel. Despite the distractions and pressures of external events, I thought I managed to sum up our case with admirable cogency but the bench, in its wisdom, decided to withhold judgement until after the weekend because of the complex technical nature of much of the evidence. We were directed to re-assemble at ten o’clock on the following Tuesday. I had a strong suspicion that the judge, who kept a forty-foot yacht up at Cape Cod, wanted to get away early to beat the traffic.
As the proceedings came to an end, the judge’s clerk passed me a message to ring the office. I took leave of my clients, accepted their optimistic assessment of the eventual judgement with a modest shrug and left them to argue over whether they should go home for the weekend, invite their wives into town, or stick with the phone numbers their bell captain had come up with.
I rang Linda from a payphone in the corridor. She told me that a Ms Gale McDonald from Channel Eight was awaiting my return.
‘What does she want?’ I asked, as if I didn’t know.
‘She didn’t say,’ replied Linda. ‘Maybe you’re about to become a celebrity.’
‘That’s all I need,’ I said sourly. In my present paranoid state, remarks like that were too close for comfort. ‘Tell her I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. Meanwhile send her out for a cup of coffee. I don’t want her getting under people’s feet. Especially Joe’s.’
On the way back to the office, I stopped off at a bookstore specialising in voluminous works on esoteric religions, arcane wisdom, and illustrated manuals on how to screw your way to instant enlightenment. It was one of those places which stocked something for all tastes. Everything in fact from the Bhagavad-gita to The Bermuda Triangle. I bought a paperback reprint of Moses de Leon’s Zohar, another on Gnosticism, and a second-hand volume on Jewish mystics.
The cab dropped me off level with the coffee shop which is adjacent to the entrance to our building. As I stepped out of the swing doors into the hallway, a voice behind me said, ‘Leo Resnick?’
I turned to find a girl in her mid-twenties standing behind me. The penny dropped. ‘Gale McDonald, Channel Eight …’
‘Right.’ She gave me a brief, firm handshake.
I led the way to the elevators. ‘Did the police give you my picture?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Jeff Fowler told me roughly what you looked like. I was in the coffee shop when your cab pulled up. Something told me it was you.’ She shrugged.
We stepped into the elevator. ‘Do you always follow up your hunches?’ I asked.
She smiled. ‘That’s what makes a good reporter.’
Terrific. Not only was I saddled with a young kid looking for the big break, I’d drawn one that was psychic.
I gave her the once-over as we lapsed into silence for the climb to the twenty-second floor. McD was a compact five and a half foot package with a Liza Minelli crop of auburn hair and blue bug-eye shades. She wore a Highland-tweedy three-piece trouser-suit with a matching Professor Higgins hat, a white silk shirt and square-toed boots with sensible heels. The only things missing were the pipe and a tie.
‘Ahh, you’ve met,’ said Linda, as we walked into her office.
I nodded. ‘Were there any calls for me?’
Linda ran quickly through the telephone log. There had been eight calls from clients, only two of which she hadn’t been able to deal with. ‘Oh,’ she added. ‘Jim Leander can’t make that squash date tonight. He has to spend the weekend on the Coast with one of his authors. But Monday or Tuesday at six will be fine.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Cancel the court.’
‘Shall I make a new reservation?’ she asked.
‘No, leave it,’ I said. ‘I may be tied up.’
Like to a stake, for instance.
Linda nodded. ‘Incidentally, did Yale have any trouble at the airport?’
I frowned. ‘Yale?’
‘Mr Sheppard. I mean with everything being stolen,’ she explained. ‘His passport, and papers and stuff.’
I could have strangled her. ‘Oh, yeah … he, uh, got back everything on Tuesday afternoon. The airport police found them when they were carrying out a random check on some baggage handler’s lockers. Apart from the cash that is. And TWA found his baggage. He got it back just in time to catch his flight. Sorry, I forgot to mention it.’
I ushered McDonald into my office, waved her over to the Chesterfield and dealt with the two outstanding calls. As I watched her out of the corner of my eye, McDonald produced a note-book and a portable tape-recorder from her leather shoulder bag, took off her hat, opened a pack of those long thin cigarettes wrapped in dark brown paper and lit one using a butane lighter with a dramatically long flame. I decided that she would not present any real problem. Her studied appearance gave me the impression that she was more concerned with style than content.
I joined her on the Chesterfield and declined the offer of a brown paper cigarette. ‘What exactly is it you want to see me about?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about a client of yours. Mr Sheppard.’ She kept her eyes on me.
I gave nothing away. ‘Oh, yeah – is this anything to do with Jeff Fowler’s story about a statue and the lady from the dry cleaning store?’
McD nodded. ‘That’s right. Mrs Perez. I’m trying to establish what part Mr Sheppard played in what is, on the face of it, an extraordinary series of events.’
I grimaced. ‘I supposed it makes a change from commuter groups complaining about delays on the subway system and the foul-ups down at City Hall. Always assuming that this lady is telling the truth.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said McD. ‘I’ve thought of that too.’
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Before we go any further I want to make three things quite clear. First, my client’s involvement with Mrs Perez is peripheral and quite coincidental. Second, I am not at liberty to make any statement which would breach client-confidentiality, and third – ’ I pointed to the tape-recorder, ‘ – I’m not prepared to make an on-the-record statement in reply to off-the-cuff questions. If you want to tape an interview, I require advance notice of the questions. In writing.’
‘I see …’ She smiled. ‘I guess I should have thought of that. I’ve never interviewed a lawyer before.’
I turned on the Resnick charm. ‘Jeff mentioned you’re an out-of-town girl. Whereabouts are you from, Miss McDonald?’
‘Miles City, Montana,’ she said.
I smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. Should I have heard of that?’
‘It’s in Eastern Montana. North of the Yellowstone River and the Little Big Horn. Have you heard of that?’
‘Ah,’ I smiled. ‘A high-plains drifter. Did you make it here in one jump?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I put in some time on the Reporter in Billings, and with the Herald in Chicago.’
‘Ah, that’s interesting,’ I said. Even though it wasn’t. ‘The only thing I know about Montana is that the girls have straight backs and strong thighs.’
‘That’s right.’ She flashed a line of firm white teeth. ‘They also have a good nose for bullshit.’
It turned out that in between learning shorthand and running copy for the Miles City Star, she had also been a Junior Rodeo Champion. The nearest I’d been to a horse at the same age had been a wooden mount on a merry-go-round at Coney Island.
I looked at my watch while she was talking just to let her know that the session wasn’t open-ended. ‘So tell me, how far have you got with this story? Have you seen the statue?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I’ve also talked with Mrs Perez, her husband, and the priest – F
ather Rosado.’
‘And – ?’
‘I tracked down the doctor who had been treating her arthritis.’
I nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve been busy. What do you plan to call your story – “The Miracle of Central Park”?’
McDonald carefully tapped the ash off her long brown cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got one yet. But there is no doubt that Mrs Perez is totally convinced that she met, and was cured by Jesus Christ.’
‘Yes, well, she wouldn’t be the first,’ I observed.
‘No,’ said McD. ‘But she’s the first I’ve talked to.’
Montana was not, traditionally, considered to be part of the Bible Belt but I decided that until McDonald declared her faith, or the lack of it, it would be better to display a sincere spirit of enquiry. ‘Tell me honestly, do you think this Mrs Perez is crazy – or do you believe these things can happen?’
McD took a long drag and thought it over. ‘Let me put it this way. I don’t think it would do the world any harm if it happened more often.’
‘You may have a point there,’ I said. ‘So – bearing in mind my opening remarks – how can I help?’
McDonald pursed her lips. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Resnick, I’m not sure whether you can now. In fact, I wish Jeff hadn’t put me on to the story. Like I said, I talked to the Perez family but now they won’t let me bring a camera crew to film the statue. Father Rosado has backed out of a studio interview, and the family doctor has also reneged on his promise to testify publicly about the apparently miraculous cure of her arthritic hands.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘The establishment is closing ranks.’
I shrugged. ‘Come on McD, you know the score. It happens all the time. They feel threatened by this kind of thing. They like pat answers. Everything in neat little boxes.’ My plan, as you can see, was to show sympathy and understanding.
‘Yeah…’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Tell me, have you seen the famous robe which is supposed to have triggered this whole thing off?’
‘Yes. But it didn’t.’ I dipped deep into my Third Year Psych seminar. ‘Don’t let yourself get sucked in by Jung’s theory of Synchronicity.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is …?’
‘The attempt to explain the apparently significant relationship between certain events which have no “causal link”.’
McD nodded, but I could see I had her temporarily baffled.
‘Let me explain,’ I began. ‘Mrs Perez was pressing the robe when she had the vision of Christ on the cross. So there was a correspondence between the physical act and her mental process. But that’s all. There was no – what the scientists call “causality”. The robe was just a robe. Something that my client picked up in an Arab bazaar while he was in the Middle East. It probably cost him less than twenty dollars.’ I smiled and let go the big one. ‘If it really belonged to Jesus Christ, I imagine it would be worth a lot more than that.’
She nodded. ‘Ye-ess. Tell me – I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation with your secretary. You mentioned TWA had lost his baggage. Had he just arrived from abroad?’
‘No, California,’ I replied. Covering my tracks in case Linda had been shooting her mouth off. ‘He had his passport with him because he was going on to Israel.’
‘So he must have been wearing the robe when he arrived,’ she concluded.
I looked at her blankly. ‘So?’
‘Well, don’t you think that’s rather strange?’
I smiled. ‘Come on, McD. I’m sure the news that there are a lot of strange people in California must have reached Montana by now. When he walked into my office, I didn’t give it a second thought. A lot of people dress like that where he comes from.’
She eyed me sceptically. ‘Okay. Let’s take another point. I checked with the bell captain at the Mayflower. He says he remembers seeing an Arab in a white head-dress and brown robe crossing the foyer at about the same time that Mrs Perez claims she saw the man who healed her hands exit from the hotel and cross over into the Park.’
‘Okay, where does that get us?’ I asked, determined to make her do all the hard work.
‘I checked with the desk,’ she said. ‘There were no Arabs staying at the hotel. The only person it could have been is your Mr Sheppard.’
The sly implication of complicity did not escape me. ‘It probably was,’ I admitted. ‘But I can’t see what you’re getting at. Mrs Perez has a vision of the Crucifixion and a statue in her house starts to bleed. I believe it’s happened before but I’d say that is news. Sheppard isn’t. All that happened was that my secretary took his robe to the cleaners. That is the extent of his involvement. I can’t really comment on Mrs Perez but, from what Jeff told me, she seems to be a very devout Catholic and – dare I add – somewhat simple-minded? In my experience, the two things usually go together.’
McD nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll go along with that. But let’s follow this through. Sheppard exits from the hotel. Mrs Perez follows him into the park. He sits down and eventually, she joins him. He speaks to her, cures her hands – and disappears.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘That’s what she thinks happened. You and I know that human beings do not just vanish into thin air.’
‘Not ordinarily, no,’ agreed McDonald. ‘But here’s another curious coincidence. Although his bill was made out on the Wednesday morning – and billed to you by the way – none of the staff on duty in the foyer remember seeing him return to the hotel and his bed wasn’t slept in on the Tuesday night.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘He took a cab out to the airport to pick up his wallet and passport that the police had found then flew out to Israel.’
McD took off her blue shades and sucked one of the side bars reflectively. ‘I see …’
‘He called me from the airport,’ I said, slipping easily into the lie. ‘But that doesn’t invalidate Mrs Perez’s encounter with Christ. Most people borrow physical prototypes for their fantasies. Take me, for instance. I’ve always imagined the Virgin Mary as looking like Deborah Kerr. When young, of course.’
McD gazed at me with her deep-set eyes. ‘What kind of fantasy would someone like you have about the Virgin Mary?’
‘I’d have to know you a lot better before I could answer that,’ I replied. ‘Next question.’
McD lit another of her fashionable cigarettes and blew the smoke over her shoulder. ‘When Mr Sheppard left for Israel on Tuesday afternoon, why did he leave some of his clothing in his room?’
‘You’ve really been nosing around,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘What are you – gunning for the lead in a new series of Policewoman?’
She shrugged. ‘I like to cover all the angles.’
I swallowed a smile as it came to me. ‘The answer’s very simple. The airline had found his baggage. He didn’t need the extra clothes I’d paid for. I had someone collect them and take them over to my place.’
She accepted my reply with a nod. I’m wasted, I thought. With this kind of talent, I should be working for the White House.
‘One last question.’
‘I hope it is the last,’ I said, looking at my watch.
‘What? Oh, yeah…’ She recovered swiftly. ‘When Jeff Fowler told you about all this, why did you delay telling him that you already knew Mr Sheppard and that it was your – ’
I cut in again before it got too sticky. In the art of interrogation, the trick is to keep your opponent off-balance. ‘I said nothing to Jeff because my professional relationship with Mr Sheppard is none of his business. I’m involved in some very delicate negotiations on his behalf and I did not want to prejudice our position because of some uncontrolled media exposure. Mr Sheppard is a very important property and the last thing we want is for him to wind up with a walk-on part in a Six o’Clock News story.’
I picked up her tape-recorder and checked that it was off. ‘Here… put this away.’ McD stowed it away in her bag along with her unopened note-book. I lit another cigarette, eyed her throug
h the smoke and decided to play my ace in the hole. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
She shrugged. ‘It depends what kind …’
‘Don’t fool around, McD,’ I said. ‘What I have to say is strictly entre nous.’
‘Okay, shoot.’
I gnawed my lip to underline the gravity of the decision I was about to take. ‘You’ve heard of Uri Geller?’
‘Not recently,’ she said. ‘But I know who you mean. Are you going to tell me that Sheppard is another spoon-bender?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘In any case, that was only one aspect of Geller’s paranormal powers. Let me give you another name – Arrigo, the Brazilian psychic surgeon …?’
McD shook her head. ‘I’m not really into all that stuff.’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Arrigo cures people. So does Sheppard. But unlike Arrigo, he doesn’t use a knife. Now for the moment, this is all under wraps. I am acting as Mr Sheppard’s legal advisor.’
‘Who is he? Where does he come from?’ asked McD.
‘He’s not an American citizen, and Sheppard is not his real name. I’m not at liberty to tell you any more than that. We’re just putting the final touches to a million-dollar TV, publishing and lecture tour deal with some very big people out on the Coast. And one of the key clauses is no pre-publicity.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘You see, McD, the fact is my client did cure Mrs Perez. He was crazy to do it, but there it is. Arthritis, rheumatism, slipped discs … anything to do with bones, joints, bad circulation – ’ I snapped my fingers. ‘He’s an absolute wizz. Now perhaps you can understand why I didn’t want to tell Jeff. I didn’t want this thing to go off at half-cock. But when he told me he’d put you on the case …’ I spread my palms.
McD gave me an understanding nod. ‘Yeah, got it.’
I had the feeling she was on the hook. ‘I’d like to make you a deal, McD. If you give me your assurance that you will forget this conversation, and drop my client right out of whatever you want to make out of the Perez story, I will guarantee you a first crack at the big one when it breaks, plus an exclusive interview. What do you say?’
Mission Page 22
