Friend of the Departed

by Frank Zafiro

  Sean returned a few minutes later with some sample packages. “It’s just ibuprofen,” he said, “but it’s a stronger dose than over-the-counter brands. Just take one.”

  I thanked him, and Clell escorted me out of the hospital.

  Outside, we got into my Toyota. I handed Clell my keys, forgetting that he had used his spare set to get up to the hospital in the first place. But he took them without missing a beat, fired up the engine, and pulled away.

  It felt strange to be in the passenger seat of my own car. I rode in an uncomfortable silence for a few blocks. At every stoplight and stop sign, the brakes let out a quiet, but menacing squeal.

  Finally, I said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem,” he croaked tiredly.

  “I know it’s late. And your day off.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “I just…I don’t know what happened.” I shook my head, hating myself for the lie. I did know what happened. I knew exactly what happened.

  So did Clell. But he drove in silence, not saying a word.

  When he parked in front of my apartment house, he set the brake. We got out wordlessly. Clell didn’t have a car, and his house was about a mile away. I almost offered to drive him home before I realized how insane that was. Instead, I held out the keys. “Take my car. You can bring it back in the morning and I’ll take you to breakfast.”

  He hesitated, then shrugged and held up his own keys. “You’ll need your house key.” He pointed at my proffered key ring. “But that breakfast sounds good.”

  “A late breakfast,” I amended. We both smiled, though I don’t think either of us was feeling it.

  “I’ll call you before I leave home,” Clell said.

  “Sure.”

  He got into my car, started it, and pulled away.

  My apartment building was a converted house, originally built for the well-to-do of River City, circa 1930. Back then, Browne’s Addition was a ritzy neighborhood, just minutes away from the Looking Glass River or downtown. By the 1980s, and certainly when I came on the job in the 90s, most of the beautiful homes had been turned into apartments. For a while, the whole area was a haven for drugs and prostitutes, but community activism and gentrification was slowly reclaiming the neighborhood. Which meant I’d probably have to move soon.

  Once inside, I dropped my keys on the small kitchen counter and stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothing as I went. I’m pretty sure I was out by the time my head hit the pillow, but it may have been sooner.

  8

  In my dream, I am no longer a cop. All of the cops have shadows for faces and they turn their backs on me, and I don’t mind. I deserve it.

  I am running. Great, leaping bounds, as if gravity were only able to get a tentative grasp on my body. My stomach flutters with each leap, and I expect to crash to the ground in a heap of splattered flesh. I’ve only seen a couple of jumpers in my life, not counting people that went off of bridges, and I know what happens when a body hits the ground. But that doesn’t happen to me. I merely spring forward again, and feel that sickening flutter, and worry again about crashing into the ground.

  With each leap, gravity slowly takes hold, and soon, instead of leaps, I can only run. A fierce headwind pushes against me, slowing my progress. Even so, I can tell where I’m headed.

  To that house.

  In the real world, I’d never been back since that day. In my dreams, I go there all the time.

  When I turn the corner, and run up to the gate of the chain link fence, I am suddenly exhausted. All of the effortless jumping and running to get me there crashes in on me. Sweat pours off my body, dripping to the dirty, cracked pavement below.

  I reach for the metal gate, my hand wavering.

  She’s upstairs! I shout to myself from somewhere outside the dream. Save her!

  That makes me look up to the small, single pane window of the attic. It is blacked out, but is there a dim, shadowy outline behind it?

  Of course there is.

  I push open the gate and walk up the paved walkway. Weeds spring from the cracks, and as I approach, they grow. The movements are jerky, like time-lapse photography. At the same time the walkway extends before me, becoming ten yards longer.

  I take two heavy steps forward, and the walkway moves ten more yards.

  The weeds coil around my ankles.

  I break free and take another step.

  The walkway lengthens. The house is forty yards away now.

  I pull another foot free, but the weeds immediately lash themselves around it again. I am stuck in place.

  The world begins to melt.

  A young girl screams.

  And screams.

  Her voice is like a bell, pealing and crying out. Not just in pain, but a pronouncement to the world.

  Another scream, ringing out.

  Another.

  9

  I woke up, and my cell phone was ringing. I realized I’d incorporated the sound into my dream, but somehow that didn’t make me feel any better.

  The sheets were wrapped around my legs, but I kicked free and reached for the phone. I expected it to be Clell, so I was surprised when I saw the small screen.

  Joel Harrity, it read.

  I hesitated. Harrity was one of River City’s premier defense attorneys, and he’d helped me out on more than one occasion. I don’t know if I liked the guy, but I respected him. Had he already heard about my run in at the bar last night?

  It was possible. He had his ear to the ground, at least in some circles. But I hadn’t been arrested, so he wouldn’t have seen it on any first appearance sheets that are public record. And besides that, it was Saturday.

  I answered the phone. “Hello?”

  Just speaking made my mouth and jaw hurt, and I winced.

  “It’s Joel Harrity calling,” the voice on the phone said. Only it didn’t sound like Harrity. It sounded like someone doing a decent but not entirely passable imitation of him.

  I cleared my throat. That made my head hurt as bad as talking. “What’s up?” I managed.

  “Can you come to my office? I have something I need to discuss with you.”

  I hesitated. My head was pounding, my body was stiff, and I was still sweat-soaked from another Amy Dugger dream. So the last thing I wanted to do was get dressed and go visit a lawyer.

  I didn’t know why he called me, but I knew I’d go without questioning him further. Like I said, the man had helped me on more than one occasion, and in a world with few true friends, sometimes you just do what you’re asked. That applies even if you’re not sure someone is technically a friend or not.

  Maybe more so.

  “I’ll be right there,” I croaked.

  I got out of bed and stumbled around my small apartment, looking for something to wear. My jeans from last night were in a crumpled pile next to the bed, but I found some fresh ones on top of the dresser. When I looked in the mirror, my own dark eye sockets stared back at me. The two days’ worth of stubble might be okay in this day and age, but the bruising on my face and still swollen lip told a story I didn’t really want to share.

  The pile of clothes by the closet rendered a reasonably clean shirt. I slipped it on and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on my boots. Crusty puke from last night coated the edge of one of them. I used a damp towel to clean it off.

  Before I left, I called Clell to push back our breakfast. I washed down one of the ibuprofen that Sean gave me with some cold coffee still in yesterday’s pot. Since Clell still had my car, I headed to the bus stop.

  I’d go see what Harrity wanted. I doubted I was in any kind of shape to help anyone at all, but that didn’t stop me.

  10

  “Thanks for coming,” Harrity said. If he noticed my hung over appearance or bruised face, he didn’t show it.

  “No problem,” I told him.

  Harrity’s normally smooth voice had an edge to it, like there was a phantom of worry behind the words. He motioned for me t
o sit in the chair across from his desk. I settled into the comfortable seat slowly, nursing my bruises and watching him. He wore a long-sleeved collared shirt, but no tie. Even more surprising, he wore a pair of casual slacks. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him not dressed in a suit, and usually with the jacket on.

  Harrity sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. “I’ll get right to the point. I…need your help.” He took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “I have a case. Or rather, I’ve been requested on a case.” He paused, then added, “I haven’t taken it yet.”

  I didn’t reply. Harrity was one of most confident men I’d ever met. Smooth, eloquent, smart. I’d never seen him even slightly rattled before. So this was strange. It gave me an unsettled feeling, but at the same time, my curiosity was piqued.

  He leaned back and brought his hands up, steepling them at his chin. His eyes were slightly unfocused. “I’m just not sure what to do,” he said softly, more to himself than to me.

  “Criminal case?” I asked.

  He glanced up at me and nodded. “Yes. Murder, actually.”

  “And your client—”

  “Prospective client,” he corrected.

  I shrugged. “Okay, then. Your prospective client is the suspect?”

  “Correct. I was contacted by the defendant’s attorney yesterday evening, right before I left the office.”

  “Wait. He already has a lawyer?”

  “A public defender. His client is releasing him and she wants to hire me to defend her.”

  “She?”

  “Yes. Marie Brassart. Are you familiar with the case?”

  I shook my head. I sometimes read the River City Herald over coffee at the Rocket Bakery but I wasn’t much of a news junkie. And unfortunately, there were enough murders in this city that any one in particular didn’t cause much of a ripple.

  Harrity continued. “She was arrested about four months ago, and charged with the murder of her husband.”

  “Did she do it?” I asked.

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

  My question was intended more as a joke than a serious question. I’d never completely lost all of the cop’s contempt I had for the through-the-looking-glass style of ethics that defense attorneys maintained. I half expected Harrity to come back with something about guilt or innocence being irrelevant, and how his duty was to mount a vigorous defense, to ensure due process, a fair trial, yada yada, yada. His actual response surprised me a little.

  “Since when is that a problem? Not knowing, I mean.”

  Harrity tapped the tips of his fingers together, watching me. “I knew the victim. Her husband.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “How?”

  “The River City Riverfront Club. We were both members.”

  It figured. The downtown establishment catered to the wealthy of River City. Part gym, part hotel, part country club. I’d only been inside twice, both times to take crime reports when I’d been a cop, a lifetime ago.

  “Henry and I seemed to share a similar schedule,” Harrity went on. “Working out, dinner, that sort of thing. We struck up a few conversations, got to know each other.”

  “When was that?”

  “Years ago.” He hesitated, then shook his head sadly. His eyes misted. “More than a decade, actually.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said reflexively.

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “It’s surprising,” he whispered, “how close we became. We rarely saw each other outside of that setting. Even when we planned to meet for dinner or drinks, it was always there at the club. And yet, over time he became one of my best friends.”

  I didn’t answer. A defense attorney, especially a top-flight attorney like Harrity, probably didn’t have many friends. Especially in a conservative city like this one. Being seen as a defender of vile criminals doesn’t exactly attract the so-called good element in a social sense. The cops despised him, partially because of what he did and partially because his name was the one every scumbag they arrested threw in their faces. The other reason was that he sometimes took on those scumbags as clients when the cops screwed up, and he usually won those cases, making the cops look bad in the process.

  But I knew something else most people didn’t. Harrity had a clear concept of honor in all of his dealings, whether with the police or his clients. I’d seen both first hand, and those experiences made me understand why the guy wouldn’t have any friends on the other side of the fence, either. I was certain that no crime lords or dodgy businessmen counted themselves as his friend, even if he had occasion to represent them.

  That must have left a very small pool of potential friends for him. I hadn’t ever considered this fact until now. I felt bad for the guy.

  Harrity cleared his throat. “Anyway, his death came as a shock. So did his wife’s arrest. But the bigger shock was when she asked me to represent her.”

  “Can you refuse?”

  “Of course. No judge would force the issue. I can claim personal bias, or conflict of interest. But that’s not my problem. My problem is that I don’t know if I want to refuse.”

  “I’m confused. She killed your best friend and you might represent her?”

  He shook his head. “She’s accused of murder. Not convicted.”

  I frowned. “Come on. You know the prosecutor isn’t going to charge her if she didn’t do it.”

  “That’s the cop in you speaking.”

  “I haven’t been a cop in a long time. This is the realist in me speaking. They’ve got more cases coming through that office than they can ever hope to charge. They cherry pick the best ones, the slam dunks, and run with those. The rest get dealt, either by plea bargain or dismissal.”

  “For most charges, you’re correct. Murder is another beast entirely.”

  “They wouldn’t charge her without strong evidence.”

  “I would hope not. But evidence does not necessarily equate to guilt.”

  I smiled slightly. “Yeah, counselor, usually it does.”

  He fixed me with a stare. “You were charged. Were you guilty?”

  That stopped me cold. I leaned back. “My situation was complicated.”

  “Most are. And it was more than one situation in your case, as I recall. All of them were, as you point out, complicated.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, I nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t rush to judgment.”

  “No one should. But it is precisely your judgment, Stef, that I need.”

  I tried to remember if Harrity had ever called me by my first name before. I couldn’t think of a time. “What can I do?”

  “Find out if she’s guilty or not.”

  I stared at him for a long while. He stared back, his expression implacable. Finally, I asked, “Isn’t that what the police are for?”

  “They’ve completed their investigation. They sent a recommendation to the prosecutor. The prosecutor charged her. Aside from the trial itself, the police are finished with this case.”

  “And they thought she was guilty.”

  “My experience is that the police think everyone is guilty.”

  “That’s because most people are.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. Guilty of something. What I need to know is more specific. Is Marie Brassart guilty of murdering her husband?”

  “Why does it matter? I’ve always heard from defense attorneys that the only thing that matters is a fair process and a vigorous defense.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then why—”

  “It matters to me,” he said. His voice became low and intense. “I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  Harrity’s expression was pained and honest. “It is simple. Henry was my friend. If she is innocent, I have to defend her. He would want that, I believe. And as a friend, and an attorney, it would be my duty.”

  “I get that. But if she did it…”

  “If she murdered him, I can’t defend her. For th
e very same reasons.”

  “What about the whole ‘everyone deserves a defense’ business you guys are always talking about?”

  “She does deserve a defense. Just not one orchestrated by me. Not if she killed him.”

  “But you’re the best.” I wasn’t trying to stroke his ego. It was the truth, and he knew it. He was like a nuclear weapon. Whether or when he got involved in a case usually had seismic results.

  He gave me a look I couldn’t entirely decipher. Then he said, “That’s exactly why I need to know.”

  And I knew I couldn’t refuse.

  11

  “When will you get a copy of the homicide investigator’s case file?” I asked. He’d already offered me a stipend to work the case that was twice what I would have asked.

  “If I agree to represent her, I will get all of the discovery material, including the police reports.”

  “But not before?”

  “Typically, no. But if she consents and her current attorney doesn’t object—”

  “Wait. I thought she fired him.”

  “Is firing him. He was appointed by the court. It’s a process.”

  “Not in my experience. Getting fired is a pretty definitive act. As in ‘You’re fired,’ and that’s it.”

  “Look at it this way,” Harrity said. “She has indicated her intent to relieve him of his duties, but hasn’t done so yet. He will remain her attorney of record until another representative accepts the role, or is assigned by the court.”

  “So this lame duck lawyer…”

  “Is still her lawyer. He must continue to represent her best interests.”

  “Why would sharing the case file be against those interests?”

  He looked at me for a moment, saying nothing.

  Then I understood. “Well, there’s your answer. If she didn’t do it, why would she object to sharing the case file with the guy she wants to defend her?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is. Lawyers just make it more complicated.”

  Harrity didn’t react to the jab. Instead, he said, “Think back to when you were a police officer. Were there things about that job that the general public didn’t understand? Things such as many of your safety precautions, even with people that didn’t seem to be a threat?”