by A. W. Gray
While Tommy and Molly Clinger were putting themselves in a serious bind in trying to pay Bino’s fee, Nolby’s legal expense was next to nothing. Rusty Benson made it a practice to handle any policeman’s divorce for free, and any other legal matter for a cop at a reduced rate. The deal was tit for tat. The divorce rate among Dallas’s Finest was astronomical, and if Rusty helped out in marital problems the odds were good that the cops would go easier on Rusty’s criminal clients. Rusty had been handling a divorce, Nolby’s fourth or fifth, when the indictments had come down. It was possible that Nolby’s having a free lawyer could work to Tommy Clinger’s advantage. Nobody, but nobody, Bino thought, worshipped the almighty dollar as did Rusty Benson. With paying clients waiting in the wings, Rusty was likely to be less than enthused over Nolby’s case, and somewhere down the line could miss a detail or two that could help Tommy Clinger. At least, that’s what Bino hoped. It wasn’t much, but any port in a storm.
And something else Tommy had said about Nolby was beginning to fit. Sure, Bino thought, Nolby was one of the cops who’d been through the FBI’s training school in Quantico, Virginia, and his nifty FBI certificate was something for Nolby to point at when promotion time came around. Being a Quantico grad gave a policeman some status, okay, but those in the know suspected that the main reason the FBI invited so many local cops to their school was to give the feds stool pigeons in every major department in the country. Just an occasional phone call was all it would take: Say, old school chum, what’s your little police force been up to lately? Hell, Bino thought, Nolby and Rusty might have been working with Goldman all along. Tommy Clinger had been the feds’ main target ever since the Darius Fontaine incident, and bringing a phony indictment against Nolby to put Tommy’s defense off guard would be right in line with Goldman’s way of doing things.
Hazel Sanderson said loudly, “Is there something wrong with your hearing, Mr. Phillips?”
Bino jolted back from dreamworld. “I beg your pardon?”
Old Hazel laid down her pencil, leaned back and regarded Bino with her eyelids at half-mast. “Mr. Phillips and his client have something in common,” she said. “Neither one of them is with us. Please repeat yourself, Mr. Goldman.”
Goldman was on his feet at the defense table, strutting in place. “I merely remarked, Your Honor, that the co-defendant in this case isn’t anywhere in sight. The government has gone along with two delays, but we’re now primed and ready. And would point out that his absence is a violation of the conditions of his release on bond.”
“Thank you,” the judge said. She arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Phillips?”
Bino very nearly bit his tongue to keep from popping off. Yeah, there’d been two delays in the case. Both requested by Goldman. Bino turned and searched the gallery. No sign of
Tommy. Bino faced the judge. “My client’s been notified, Your Honor. I’m sure he’s on his way.” He looked pointedly at Goldman, then said, “We didn’t think we were having this proceeding this morning.”
“Now, that’s strange,” Hazel the Horrible said. “It’s right here on my calendar. The other defendants had their pretrial motions heard last week, and they were all here. Yours was set separately because of your own motion, Mr. Phillips, to sever Lieutenant Clinger’s case from the others. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s what my calendar says,” Goldman said. Bino didn’t like Marvin Goldman much to begin with. Right now he hated the guy.
The judge’s glasses slid a hair closer to the end of her nose. “Mr. Phillips, this matter has been docketed for sixty days, and I see no reason for your client not to be here. Bailiff.” The bailiff had been lounging in the jury box. He rose. “Bailiff,” the judge repeated, “go to the courtroom entrance and call for Mr. Thomas Allen Clinger three times. If he doesn’t answer I’ll issue a warrant for him.” Bino studied his shoes. They needed polishing.
The bailiff showed an apologetic smile as he stumped through the gate and made his painful way up the aisle. He’d gotten halfway to the courtroom exit when Tommy Clinger came in, huffing and puffing.
Tommy’s round face was slightly redder than normal, as if he’d been coming at a dead run. His hair was in wind-whipped disarray. As he paused and looked around, Goldman’s shoulders slumped.
Bino waved like a third base coach. Tommy hustled down the aisle to take his seat at the defense table. As Clinger sat down, Bino whispered, “Perfect timing. We got trouble.” He jerked his head and eyes toward Terry Nolby. Clinger’s features sagged.
Hazel the Horrible’s tone showed her disappointment. “Court convenes at nine sharp, Mr. Clinger.” Bino made a show of checking his watch. It had been nine-thirty before the old heifer had made her own appearance, and she damn well knew it. “For the balance of these proceedings,” she said, “you are to be on time. If you aren’t you’ll be in trouble.” She cleared her throat. “Now, gentlemen, we can proceed with the motion hearing. I’m going to ... yes, Mr. Goldman?”
Goldman was standing. He scratched his goatee. “I’m afraid the government is going to have to request a delay, Your Honor. Something’s come up. One of the defendants has come to us with a plea bargain offer that we’re going to accept. We need time to structure the plea.” Tommy Clinger gasped out loud.
The judge beamed. “Oh?” old Hazel said. “How long of a delay, Mr. Goldman?”
“Sixty days,” Goldman said.
She lifted her gavel and brought it down with a bang. “Granted. Draft the order, Mr. Goldman. I’ll sign it.” Just like that.
Bino was livid. Hell, they’d never intended to have the hearing to begin with. The whole performance this morning was in hopes that Bino, Tommy Glinger, or both, wouldn’t show up. Then they could have revoked Tommy’s bond and held him in jail until the trial was over. Jesus Christ, Bino thought, the judge would have to ... He looked at Hazel Sanderson with his jaw slack in astonishment. She dropped her gaze. Yep, the old heifer had been in on it.
“I’m afraid it’s our night in the barrel, Tommy,” Bino said softly.
At the prosecution table Nolby said something to Rusty Benson. Then he listened to Rusty’s reply, nodded, then went past the defense table on his way out. He left with both Clinger and Bino staring holes in his backside.
“Tell me this isn’t happening,” Clinger said. “Hell, he’s the one that’s been fattening his wallet, not me. Now he’s going to be their witness?Jesus Christ. Up to now I’d halfway thought this was all a joke.”
“Nothing funny about it,” Bino said. “Anybody with a federal beef has their tit in a big wringer.”
He led his client out in the hall for a quick goodbye. “We’ve got sixty days, Tommy,” Bino said. “I’m going to come up with something. For what it’s worth, I’m about to go in
there and give Mr. Nolby’s lawyer a piece of my mind.” Clinger hung his head. As Bino turned to reenter the courtroom, he gave Tommy’s arm a parting affectionate squeeze.
Goldman and Rusty stood down front near the jury box, along with a third man whom Bino had never seen before. Bino stopped in his hell-bent-for-leather trip down the aisle. Who the hell was this guy?
The newcomer talked a mile a minute while Goldman stood with his arms folded in an attentive attitude, and Rusty tugged nervously at his own lapel. The stranger was a stocky, square-headed guy with shaggy, untrimmed eyebrows which joined above his nose. He wore a checkered sport coat and accompanied his dialogue with hand signals. Cop, Bino thought. Be they tall or short, fat or skinny, policemen stood a certain way and viewed the world with a certain cant to their mouths, and this new guy had John Q. Law written all over him. He’s either a city or county cop, Bino thought, no way would an FBI or DEA agent come to court dressed in that getup. He went quietly through the rail, approached the trio, and stood off to one side.
The newcomer was saying, “There’s a Southwest Airlines flight every half hour, all day. We should be
able to catch the one, say, one-thirty or two.” He looked at his cheap fabric-banded watch.
Rusty nodded morosely, then glanced at Bino and did a double take. “Bino. I’m glad you’re here. I may need a friend.”
Bino thought, Friend? Why, you double-crossing son of a bitch. He almost said as much, but Rusty went on. “This is Detective Fuller,” Rusty said, “from Harris County. Houston. He wants me to fly down there with him to identify … It’s Rhonda. I think she’s dead.”
7
THE HARRIS COUNTY COP TOLD RUSTY TO MEET HIM AT LOVE Field airport in three hours, then left the courtroom with Marvin Goldman. The detective and the prosecutor went up the aisle talking in normal tones, Goldman laughing at something the detective said, the cop holding the door and ushering Goldman into the hallway like the pair were old buddies. What the hell is going on? Bino thought. Goldman, an Assistant U.S. Attorney, shouldn’t have anything to do with a state case in Harris County, but it was as if Goldman and the cop had a prearranged appointment. Maybe they liked the same restaurant and just were going to lunch together, but Bino doubted it.
Bino followed Rusty out in the hall, where they sat on a bench across the corridor from a gang of wild-eyed Moun-tainites. Rusty bent forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and touched his fingertips together. “About last night,” Rusty said. “Look, I owe you one. Pete Kinder kind of flew off the handle, and to tell you the truth, by the time I got him calmed down I completely forgot about you. I didn’t leave you in a bind, did I?”
Bino thought, The guy just found out his wife is dead, and all he wants to talk about is ... He said merely, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Well, what I need,” Rusty said, “is for you to stand by. The way they found Rhonda, her death wasn’t any accident. And that detective’s not just here to play games. I don’t have to tell you the husband, especially the estranged husband, is the first suspect in something like this. I’ve got most of the past few days accounted for. I spent most of the time with Pete Kinder, and yesterday and last night you know where I was.”
Only part of last night, Bino thought. Still no sign of grief from Rusty, only a concerned look as he carefully considered his alibi. Bino hooked an arm over the back of the bench. “Are you talking about me representing you or something?”
“It’s a thought,” Rusty said.
Bino chewed his lower lip. “I don’t think I’m the right lawyer, Rusty. We’re on opposite sides of the fence in the cop case now, and I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I don’t like that worth a damn. There’s no connection between that case and whatever happened to Rhonda, but I might not be able to work up a gung-ho attitude in trying to defend you, if it came down to that.”
Rusty spread his hands, palms facing. “Hey, you’re pissed, and I don’t blame you. When Terry Nolby came to me with the deal this morning—”
“Look.” Bino pointed a finger. “Just don’t bullshit me, okay? Snitch deals aren’t worked out overnight, and you already knew your client was rolling over yesterday while you were grinning at me on the golf course. That’s all I got to say about the Clinger case, because from now on I’m treating you just like you were one of Goldman’s prosecution team. See you in court, and all that shit.”
Rusty’s features tensed in a measuring look. “Okay. All that aside, you do practice law for a living, don’t you?”
“Last time I checked,” Bino said.
“Right. What I’m offering you is strictly a business proposition, fee paid. Hey, I couldn’t ask you to represent me in any murder trial. If it came to that I’d need you to testify where I was yesterday and last night. I’ve only got three hours until I’m supposed to meet that cop at the airport, and sorry, but that doesn’t give me time to conduct a lot of interviews with prospective defense attorneys. All I want, in case I get arrested, is for you to jump in at the start until I can get a full-time guy to defend me. Getting somebody like that, that would take some thinking.”
“Jesus Christ, Rusty, nobody’s even charged you with anything. What makes you think they’re going to?”
Rusty studied the floor between his feet. “The way that detective talked is the main thing. The way he said, T’d like for you to fly down with me to identify the body,’ but meaning if I didn’t, he’d bust my ass right then and there. I think he’d love for me not to show up at the airport, so he could proceed with the manhunt.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Bino said. “If you’re a suspect, I’ll lay odds they’ve got somebody following you until you meet that plane. If you take off for Mexico, I doubt you’ll get very far.”
“My thinking exactly,” Rusty said. “If they just wanted me for ID purposes they’d have called me on the phone. No, that guy was wanting a nose-to-nose look at me, to check out my reactions.”
“Well, I hope you did a better job with him than you’re doing with me,” Bino said. “I got to tell you you don’t look really overcome with grief.”
“Well, let’s just say,” Rusty said, straightening, “that it hurts a lot more than I’m letting on. Hey, it’s no big secret that Rhonda and I were splitting the blankets. Nobody’s talked to her since Saturday, and I thought she’d gone to stay with her sister in Austin. Pam, that’s her sister, Pam called my office yesterday to ask if I’d heard from her. I say, ‘Heard from who? Rhonda? I thought she was at your place.’ Hell, Pam hadn’t even been expecting her. Tell you the truth, I thought Rhonda was off on a toot or shacked up someplace. I sure didn’t expect anything like this.”
Across the hall a third Mountainite came out of the courtroom and talked excitedly to the other two. The newcomer was the same man who’d earlier led the group in the Twenty-third Psalm. The three cultists stalked away toward the elevators like holy gunslingers.
Bino watched the Mountainites go, then said to Rusty, “Like you said, I got a living to make. I’ll agree to represent you if you get indicted, for a fee. Two grand will do as a retainer, and then we’ll take it from there. I’m in for the ride only on preliminary matters, arranging for bond and whatnot.”
Rusty looked relieved. He reached in his breast pocket and produced a checkbook. “Hey, great,” he said.
“I don’t know if it’s so fucking great or not, Rusty,” Bino said. “I’m not going to ask you if you know what happened to Rhonda, ’cause if I turn out being a witness in some kind of murder trial, the less I know the better.”
Rusty showed a pleading look. “As God is my witness, I didn’t—”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Bino said. “And no matter what you told me, I wouldn’t know whether to believe it or not. From now on until I finish whatever I do for you, you’re just like any other client, buster. If it turns out you’re just overreacting, and that nobody’s going to charge you with anything, then your retainer’s refundable. Something else. Tommy Clinger’s still my main client. If I find out something while I’m representing you that’ll help Tommy’s case, I’ll resign as your lawyer and use it. Cash talks and bullshit walks, baby, when I’m dealing with you.”
Wick, Hamill & Co., with a seat on the New York Stock Exchange and hotlines to London brokers, had swanky picture-book offices. The reception area contained four plush sofas, visitor’s phones on two low mahogany tables, and an eight-foot-high transparent world atlas as its centerpiece. A pleasantly round young woman with smooth cheeks and gazooms that wouldn’t quit sat behind a half-moon counter, pressing flashing buttons and routing calls. She had a tiny receiver plugged into one ear, and a silver rod curved from her ear around in front of her full lush mouth. She glanced up as Pete Kinder entered, then sat stiffly erect. “Hello, Pete,” she said.
Kinder grinned. He considered some good-natured banter to thaw her out, but her look said she wasn’t having any. His smile faded quickly. “What about Larry? He in?” Kinder said.
Her tone was impersonal and just a bit on the haughty side. “Mr.
Murphy is tied up. You can wait if you like.”
“Okay, Bobbi. I think I will.” He sat on one of the sofas; air whooshed out of the cushion as his fanny sank down. He rested his elbow on the armrest and crossed his legs. He’s tied up, Kinder thought. You can wait if you like. Things change. Do they ever.
He tried not to look at Bobbi but couldn’t help watching her. He pictured her a few weeks earlier in his own office (Christ, was it only weeks?), squealing in delight as she rubbed those super-big, super-soft bosoms all over him while they watched the video.
Larry Murphy had brought her by and had been watching the tape as well, taking pulls from a tall bourbon and water as he’d said, “I toleya, Pete. Look at that dong, man. It’s got to be a fake. Shove it to her, Johnny Wadd. Goddam, Pete, he gets it up higher’n them Avco options are gonna go, don’t he? How ’bout that, Bobbi girl? That’s some pork, ain’t it?”
Later, with Bobbi’s panty-covered bottom resting on his desk while she swung a plump bare leg, Kinder had written a check. Murphy had sat beside him on a cushioned footrest, puffing on a cigar as he’d said, “Helluva buy, Pete-boy. Them Avco’s goin’ right through the fuckin’ roof.”
That had been three days before the 20/20 show featuring Pete Kinder and his company, Pleasures of Vegas, and four days before Kinder’s banks had frozen his accounts. The following week Kinder’s wife had had the divorce papers served. And one month to the day after he’d watched the video, the indictment had come down.
Kinder closed his eyes and rubbed his lids. The past month was like a whirlwind. Divorce court. Lawsuits. Finally his arraignment on criminal charges, lawyer after lawyer draining what reserve he had left. And now last night the tall white-haired attorney in Arthur’s telling him he ought to plead guilty. Too much. Too, too much. Right now Pete Kinder was running on bourbon, speed, and desperation, and the thought that he might actually go to prison made his stomach do flip-flops.
