Rough Justice

by Andrew Klavan

  “So …” Morgenstern leaned forward. A lovable professor drilling his student. “You didn’t know him, and you didn’t let him in.”

  “We went over this with the cops … Oh hell, all right. I didn’t let him in.”

  “The door was locked.”

  “That’s nothing. Anyone could pop it.”

  “The detective said there was no sign …”

  “You could pop it with a bobby pin. I’m telling you. I’ve done it.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He held up his two hands in a gesture of peace. I sneered and looked away from him, looked at the filthy blinds over the window. Then I looked away from them, too: they made me feel shut in, trapped.

  “What time is it anyhow?”

  Morgenstern glanced at his Timex. “A little after four.”

  “Christ.”

  “We’ll be here awhile.”

  “Four in the morning.”

  “You want more coffee?”

  “Christ, are they gonna charge me or what?”

  Now he lifted his hands in a different gesture. “I don’t know. They’re talking with the ADA now. I pressed them to decide so you wouldn’t have to …”

  His voice trailed off. I glanced up into his gentle gaze and felt my stomach turn. So I wouldn’t have to spend the night in the cage—that’s what he was going to say.

  I swallowed again, hard this time. “How’s it look?”

  “Oh, fine. Very good.”

  “I mean really.”

  Morgenstern pursed his lips. He looked down at his knee, at the hand resting on the tweed. He drummed his long slender fingers. I gazed at the top of his silver hair.

  I gazed at him, but I didn’t really see him. I saw the kid lying dead on the floor of my apartment. I saw him flung back in the posture of his agony, his back arched slightly, one knee slightly raised. His face was that awful shade of blue, and he was staring up at my ceiling with bulging eyes.

  For a long time—it seemed like a long time—I’d sat with him. Sat against my table. Stared and stared at him. I was holding the phone in my lap, I remember. The operator’s voice was still going. On and on. I could not make out the words. Just the sound of her voice, crazy with panic, crazier than me. It was the loudest sound in the room for a while, her voice, her panic. Before the sirens started, anyway. The sirens, their high wails. They came to me only dimly at first. Then, slowly, they got louder and louder. Small points of noise spreading over the other noises of the city, over the operator’s voice. On the windowpane, the steady red stain of the movie marquee was washed away by the flashing red glare of the cruisers. I glanced up at it and realized that my mouth was hanging open. I closed my mouth. I wiped the drool off my chin with a sleeve. The operator was still talking. I hung up the phone.

  The uniforms had been the first to arrive. Two patrolmen, one big and husky and yellow-haired, one small, Hispanic, slim. The big one knelt by the boy on the floor. He felt for a pulse on the boy’s neck. The smaller one knelt down beside me, looked deep into my eyes. He said something. I don’t remember what.

  Soon, there were more patrolmen. And three men and a woman from EMS. One of the EMS guys also knelt by the boy and felt his pulse, just like the cop had. Then the EMS guy looked up at the woman with him and shook his head: No. I lowered my face when he did that. My lips were trembling.

  After a while, another man from EMS, a black guy with the shadow of a mustache, came over to me. He knelt in front of me, leaned his face into mine. His breath smelled of pepperoni. He put his hand on my forehead and tilted my head back. He examined my neck for a few moments. He spoke to me, too. I don’t remember what he said either.

  The Crime Scene Unit showed up, and the M.E. But I didn’t stay for that. Two of the uniforms took hold of my arms and helped me to my feet. Each one grasped me by an elbow. I stood between them and stared down at the dead boy.

  The patrolmen led me to the door. As I went out, I looked over my shoulder. The boy lay on the floor, his knee still raised, his back still arched, his eyes staring, bulging.

  They took me out.

  “John?”

  I blinked. I was gazing at Morgenstern’s face now. His lips were still pursed, his eyes still mild.

  “Shall we go on?” he said again, very softly.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the point anymore?”

  “I know you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset. Stop saying that.”

  “All right.”

  “He tried to kill me. I killed him first.”

  “Yes, I know. Of course.”

  “Why should I be upset?”

  He smiled. I guess it was supposed to be reassuring. “You shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be. You acted in self-defense. I’m sure the D.A.’s people will agree with that.”

  I sucked in another breath. “So what’s taking them so long?”

  Morgenstern wagged his silver head. “Well … that I.D., you know. That’s pesky. Once they get an I.D. Then they’ll know what’s what.” His voice just kept that tone. That soft, gentle, kind-to-the-condemned-man tone. Rhythmic like a lullaby, his silver eyebrows going up and down, keeping the slow time. “The important thing now is for you to try …”

  He stopped. The door to the dingy little room had opened. A man came it. He looked at me a long time, hard. Then he shut the door behind him.

  The man was in his forties, medium height, medium build. He was wearing a black suit with a thin, dark tie that may have once been in fashion. He had a trench coat draped over his arm.

  Gerald Morgenstern stood, but the man didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes trained on me, only on me. He looked at me as he stepped to the desk. He dumped his trench coat on top of the papers there. He stood with his hands in his pockets. He never took his eyes off me.

  “I’ve just been put in charge of your case,” he said.

  Then he smiled. His eyes were lifeless.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  It was Tom Watts.

  7

  Morgenstern came toward him, his hand outstretched.

  “Lieutenant Watts, I’m Gerald Morgenstern, Mr. Wells’s attorney in this case.”

  Watts turned to him. He turned slowly, tearing his stare from me. Dreamily, he gazed at the lawyer’s manicured hand. Then he turned and looked down at me again, smiling his dead smile.

  Morgenstern raised his hand to fiddle with his bow tie.

  I traded stares with Watts. He wasn’t an ugly man, the lieutenant. He had wavy auburn hair, round cheeks, a pug nose, a jutting, cleft chin. He was handsome, in fact. Except for his eyes. Those mean green eyes: the malice shot from them like beams of light. It wasn’t easy staring into them, into the heat of them. All the same, I managed for a while.

  Then I shook my head and laughed. I thought I was going to be sick.

  Watts spoke. He spoke very pleasantly. “It seems we have a bit of a problem,” he said.

  “Oh my.” Morgenstern knit his eyebrows, looked concerned. “What would that be?”

  “Well,” said Watts—ever so pleasantly. “The deceased in this case has now been identified.”

  “Ah. Good,” said Morgenstern.

  “Yes,” said Watts.

  “And might we know his name?” God, they were pleasant.

  “Yes,” said Watts. “Yes, you might. His name was Thaddeus Reich. He was a young man from Massachusetts. Twenty-five years old. A graduate of Yale and the assistant administrator of a private shelter for the homeless here in the city.”

  For the first time, Morgenstern faltered. His face went blank. “Yale? Yale University?”

  Watts kept those green rays aimed at me. He smiled. Pleasantly. “Yes. Yale. He graduated with honors.”

  “Hmph,” said Morgenstern. He glanced down at me as if for an explanation. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  Watts, his hands in his pants pockets, rocked back comfortably on his heels. “Mr. Reich had no criminal record of any ki
nd. He had no black mark of any kind against him. His wife, she was extremely upset when she heard. Not to mention his parents. Woof. They had to sedate his mom.” His smile broadened. I saw his teeth, gray in the dingy light. “And Celia Cooper, who runs the shelter where he works? ‘What a loss,’ is what she said. ‘What a loss—we all loved him so much.’ I think that’s a direct quote. Just like what they have in the newspapers.”

  Morgenstern—my lawyer—he chuckled at this remark. He shook his silver head, bemused. “Well, well, well,” he said softly. “This does make things a little more difficult, I can see.”

  Lieutenant Tom Watts chuckled right back at him. “Yes. Yes, it certainly does.”

  I joined them. I chuckled softly, too. “Get this piece of garbage out of the room before I rip his fucking heart out,” I said.

  The gentle smile on Morgenstern’s face stayed there, as if it had been painted on. His eyes went blank, though. “Uh …” he said after a second.

  Tom Watts parted his lips. “Why, Mr. Wells! Are you threatening an officer of the law?”

  I stood up. My chair tipped over. It fell to the green carpet with a muffled thud.

  “How did you bribe your way onto this case, you scumbag?”

  “John, John!” Morgenstern had recovered. He stepped to me quickly. He took hold of my arm. “Excuse us,” he said to Watts.

  I yanked free. I started forward, toward the lieutenant.

  “John. John. This is the police, John,” Morgenstern hissed.

  “This? This is garbage,” I said. “Get out of here, Watts. I want a real cop.”

  Watts shook his head sadly. “I’m very, very sorry you feel this way, Mr. Wells.”

  Morgenstern came after me again, his arm outstretched. “He’s had a terrible shock,” he said to the lieutenant. “He doesn’t know what he’s …”

  I stood directly in front of Watts. Close up. The lieutenant didn’t budge as I leaned in. There was my nose, an inch of open air, and then his nose—and our eyes staring across the distance.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, Tommy boy,” I said.

  He grinned. “Now you’ve found me.”

  “I wanted to ask you about E.J. McMahon.”

  “John,” whispered Morgenstern. “John.”

  “Oh yeah?” Watts kept grinning. “What a coincidence. I had some questions I wanted to ask you, too.”

  “What did he look like just before the gravel covered him, Tommy?”

  “John. John.”

  “How was it?” said Watts. “Watching Reich strangle on his own Adam’s apple?”

  “Did you laugh, Tom? Did you share a joke with the good-fellows?”

  “Why didn’t you help him?” said Watts. “Or were you having too much fun?”

  “I hear you laughed, Tommy boy. You and your mob friends. I hear you yukked it up.”

  “John!” Morgenstern had me by the shoulders. He was pulling me back. I stumbled a step away from the lieutenant. Morgenstern slipped between us.

  Watts said: “How’d you really get that mark on your neck, Wells?”

  “John. Let’s use our heads,” the lawyer whispered harshly. “What are you saying here? We’ve got to use our heads.”

  “This guy’s bad.” I looked past him at Watts. “This guy’s toxic. If he washed up on Coney Island, they’d close the beaches out to Oyster Bay.”

  Watts laughed. I strained against Morgenstern’s hands.

  “John, John, listen to me,” he said. His throat worked under his bow tie. His earnest eyes tried to pull my stare from Watts. “John, this case is already in the hands of the district attorney. We can’t afford to antagonize …”

  Suddenly, I heard myself screaming into the attorney’s priestly face. “I have him! Don’t you understand! I have that prick on murder, he shouldn’t be here. He knows that! He knows!”

  Morgenstern let go of me. His hands dropped to his sides. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. He was shocked, I think.

  Behind him, Tom Watts clucked. “Tsk tsk tsk.” His green eyes glittered.

  “I busted this gutterclot for drug dealing,” I said. I was out of breath, my voice gravelly. “I had him licensing drug sales over his whole precinct. He’s not getting away this time. I’ve got him, I’ve got him solid.”

  “Mr. Morgenstern,” Watts said. “Talk some sense into your client. Please.”

  Morgenstern just kept standing there. Watts clucked again, shook his head.

  Finally, my lawyer spoke to me—softly. “I don’t think you understand …”

  “I’m the reason he lost his captaincy, man.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” he said again. He tried to smile. “We can’t afford this now. At this point. We can’t afford to do this, John.”

  Gently, he came forward, moving me back, away from Watts. I backed up until the Venetian blinds folded with a crackle against my jacket. But I kept watching Watts. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, where Morgenstern had been. He lit a cigarette. He smiled over at me. He winked.

  Now, Morgenstern ran his hand up through his silver hair. He took a deep breath. “John,” he said. He let the breath out slowly. “John, John, John, John, John.”

  “You’re through, Watts,” I said over his shoulder at Watts. “Smile while you can, you asshole.”

  Watts waved, wiggling his fingers.

  “John,” said Morgenstern. His voice dropped to a mellifluous whisper. “John, don’t you see? We want to keep the damage here down to a minimum. The D.A. will be taking the recommendation of the officer in charge of the case. If we can avoid charges here, we want to do that.”

  “You shit,” I said to Watts.

  “Then, if charges do come,” said Morgenstern. “Well, then, it’s a good thing he’s here.”

  “You … What?” Breathing hard, I turned my attention to the man. Morgenstern smiled with kindly eyes. “A good thing,” I said.

  “It’s a good thing,” he repeated. “If it comes, if it should come to charges …”

  “Don’t you understand what he is, what he’s doing?”

  “No, no, listen to me, John.”

  “This prick is out to button me.”

  “Listen, listen, listen,” he went on, his voice low. “Don’t antagonize him.”

  “I’ll fucking do more than—”

  “Don’t antagonize him, and if it comes down to actual charges, well, we can claim the police were unfair. You see?”

  “What?”

  “We’ll get you an appeal on violated rights.”

  “An appeal?”

  “If it comes to that,” the angelic lawyer said. “If it comes down to that, I mean.”

  I stared at him. “This guy, this Reich, he tried to kill me. What appeal? What’re you talking …?”

  “John,” Morgenstern said quietly. He cocked his head. He smiled with dewy sympathy. “Yale, John. Yale University.”

  I felt my mouth go dry. Dry and hot, like that. Like someone lit a match in there and burned all the spit away. Morgenstern, his hands soothing on my shoulders, peered at me, smiling with his soft lips. Tom Watts, perched on the desktop, watched us and grinned.

  I ran my tongue across my lips. I felt my hands shaking. Fear made me hollow inside, weak.

  “Get out,” I croaked. “Get out of here.”

  “John.”

  “Get out of here,” I shouted. “I want a new lawyer.”

  Watts stood up slowly, slowly shaking his head. “A new lawyer, a new cop. I dunno. Where’s your sense of tradition, Wells? Old friends are golden.”

  “John,” added Morgenstern reproachfully. “John.”

  I shoved him aside.

  “John!”

  I stepped into the middle of the room, confronting Watts. I could feel the fear coursing through me, cold and hot at once.

  “Am I charged with anything? Are you charging me with anything or not, you bastard?”

  The lieutenant spread his arms, a gesture of in
nocence. “Me? Why, not a thing. Nary a blessed thing, at this point. The district attorney’s office feels the evidence points to self-defense.”

  I took a deep breath. “So I can go. I can go, then.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” said Watts. “We just respectfully ask that you remain available for questioning. Or, as they say in the movies: Don’t leave town.”

  I nodded once. I started walking toward the door. Watts’s hand shot out. Hit me, flat in the chest, holding me.

  “But Wells …” he said.

  “Get your fucking hand off me.”

  He smiled. He did not move his hand. “I just want you to know, Wells …”

  “Get your hand off, Watts.”

  “… that I’ll be working very closely with the district attorney’s office as we continue the investigation.”

  “Off, Watts. I won’t say it again.”

  “A man is dead, Wells. You killed him. Someone has to pay.”

  I brought my arm up, knocked his hand away. My whole body shivered like a plucked string.

  Watts stopped smiling. His green gaze burned. He spoke very quietly, not pleasantly at all. “The last time you did that, you wound up getting blood all over my floor.”

  “You want to see what happens this time?”

  He considered it. I could see it in his bright, narrowed eyes. I watched him, my throat tight, my hands clenched at my sides to stop their shaking.

  In another second, though, he relaxed again. He smiled again. “You know,” he said. “That’s just your trouble, Wells. It’s that temper of yours. You oughta watch that.”

  “Tell me something for the record, Tommy. What did happen to E.J. McMahon?”

  “Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “Nothing at all. Compared to what’s gonna happen to you.”

  8

  For a second, when I opened my eyes, it was all right. There was clean daylight coming in through the window. A cool breeze moving around the room. The distant sound of traffic and people. That sad smell spring has.

  Then I remembered. It sank down on top of me like a shroud.

  A man is dead. You killed him.

  I rolled over onto my back and groaned.