by Larry Crane
Smith said: “Spring came and it rained. It rained on weekends a lot which was the time she would have been coming. And soon it was a year and a half gone by. And when the next winter came, I got divorce papers in the mail. I don’t blame her. Her faith in me was weak. She couldn’t hold on to the vision that we had once in our dreams. Couldn’t see me ever getting out of here.
“So, she folded. But not me. It’s me in this place. I’m confined. It’s my life that dribbles onto the floor day-by-day and disappears into the cracks. I’m alone with it. And this body of mine—the husk I live in—demands that I do everything possible to keep it alive no matter how shriveled the inside gets. Do you know anything about this, Marcella Armand?”
Do I know anything about this? Do I know anything about being alone with the worst thing that could ever happen to me, and dying to do something about it even if there’s nothing I can do? Well, there is something I can do, and I’m doing it, aren’t I? Never sure if anything is ever going to come of it. Keep the faith and keep going.
“Who visits you now?” she said.
“So, no answer to my question. Who visits me? You,” he said.
“And Bill Buckley?”
“We exchange tapes. He doesn’t come here.”
“I thought we were going to be straight with each other.”
“All right! He has visited me a couple of times. What’s the matter with you? You got a cob up your ass.”
“Look, I’m a writer. I’m not your…”
“What? What Marcella? What? All right. You’re not my friend. But Bill Buckley is, and he has visited me. He’s not afraid to come close to me. You’re afraid I’m going to put my greasy mitts on you.”
“Let’s stick with the original deal.”
“The original deal was that you never bargained for real flesh and blood. You physically shrink if I try to say anything personal. You keep a ten-yard buffer zone between us.”
“Professional distance,” she said.
“I promise I won’t throttle you, okay?” he said.
“I never said…”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Apparently I do.”
“Well, you don’t, Miss How-Do-You-Fucking-Do. You don’t. Okay? We’re from a different class of people. Aren’t we? That’s how you look at it.”
“Stop it.”
“A different fucking class of—”
He spun, arms flailing. The back of his hand found her left cheek. An accident. She reeled and staggered to the bench and sat. She breathed deep trying to stay calm. He blocked the guard’s line of sight.
“Marcella, I’m sorry. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. Here, come here. Let me see it. Come on. Let me see it. It’s just—just a little red, that’s all. Marcella, the guard is going to come in. You don’t want the guard to come in, do you?”
“No. I don’t want the guard to come in,” she said.
I do want the guard to come in and clap you in shackles, you son of a bitch, and drag you off to your eight-by-eight cell on death row. But that would be the easy way out for me. The hard way and the right way is to reveal the truth of how you took Vickie’s life, so that you’ll have to live with the staring and the shunning that will go along with that. I still don’t know how that could ever come about. It’s come to the point that people, lots of them out in the world, believe everything you’ve said and want the courts to do what they consider right by you. Let him go, they say.
“I knew you didn't want him in here,” Smith said.
Marcella stood, turned, and made a move for the door.
“Don’t go,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to me. I’ve been bottled up in here for so long.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“All right. I’m terribly sorry. Please believe me.”
“Stay away. Just stay away,” she said.
“All right,” he said.
“You hit me. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s over.”
“It’s not over. Come here. Listen. I apologize. I didn’t mean to hit you. It was an accident. I lost my head. Swinging around like that. Did you think I meant to hit you? Marcella, you can’t quit now. We’re appealing an old ruling in federal court. It’s the first time. They’ll look at everything with a whole new eye. Who knows, I could be on my way out of here in a couple of weeks.”
“What did you say?”
“I was going to tell you when you first came in. I wanted it to be a surprise. We’ve appealed to the US Circuit Judge. I think the man’s name is Gibbons. Aren’t you happy?”
“We’ve? Who’s we?”
“It’s the new lawyers, the big boys from Washington, Edward Bennett Williams.”
“Buckley’s fingerprints are all over this, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I guess. Anyway, we, my lawyers and I, filed a motion, a Writ of Certiorari. Do you know what that means?” Smith asked.
“Shut up. I crack the dictionary, same as you do.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s all about the voluntariness of the statement they introduced in court. If this guy Gibbons rules that the statement was coerced out of me, I’m as good as out. Unless something happens—like if you leave now with some crazy story about me getting violent—they’re liable to trash the whole thing.”
“Oh sure, if I leave. Put it on me.”
“It’s not actually for certain. Judge Gibbons’ll give his opinion. It’ll have to be reviewed by another judge. It could involve a whole new trial. More months or years in jail as they go through all the rigmarole of gathering witnesses and this and that. Anyway, all of this came about because of you, your digging and writing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing I did. It’s nothing I’m going to do,” she said.
“How are you going to handle the rumors? It’s never going to be the same again after the story breaks that I’m out of here. Do you think you’re going to be able to just slide back into obscurity? We’re an item out there now, you and I. Every time my name has been in the paper, yours has been right there too. The innuendos. ‘Mrs. Armand and her protégé are going to celebrate Thanksgiving in the visiting room of Trenton State Prison in a couple of weeks, alone, for three hours—during which time they presumably will discuss more publicity strategy.’ You were right. You know your stuff. You succeeded beyond anything I could even think of. Publicity, it’s dynamite. It created discussion. It gave the courts just the shove I needed. And Marcella, you know you’re, you’re too good, too competent to let this little fucking thing destroy the truth about the work you’ve accomplished so far.”
“You slugged me.”
“Who’s going to understand why you left? What was it? A lover’s quarrel? Is that why the guard didn’t come running in here just now? Once impressions are formed, they just take over. We both know that. Besides, who knows where the reporters pick up these crazy speculations. You’re the writer. You tell me.”
“You bastard,” she said.
He relaxed. He’s found whatever he needed to get me to resort to name-calling and with that, all the kowtowing could end. He hates obsequiousness. He much prefers being on the attack.
“Now I would think—what? That you should just keep working, normal. Okay? You should just keep writing and I should just keep being the good boy that I am, and soon it’ll be all over for both of us.”
“All right. You’re right, Edgar. I’ve worked too long and too hard on this to just cash it in. So, you think about that, while I’m out there on the loose with your story.”
“Hey! Wait a minute. I didn’t say that. That I did not say. I never said ‘go wherever.’”
“Well, as you did say, I didn’t have to come here to write a book. And as you did say, how do we know how these crazy speculations get started?”
“Let’s talk truth. That’s what you want to talk about, right? A person like me is not a con forever.
A prisoner, I mean. I mean inside. A prisoner of rage. All those things of the past. A person can get free of that.”
“How poetic.”
“God, you’re cold. You know, I’ve paid enough for my past. I’m the one who got involved with the wrong people and lost half my life as a result. I’m not the man they locked away. That’s all anyone needs to know about me.
“I’m going to see your first lawyer, Gaudielle.”
“Why? He probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
“That’s the whole point. Things were messed up right in the beginning. That will come across in the interview.”
“There are a hundred people more important—the drugstore guy. The guy who gave Don Hommell his alibi. Discredit him and you—I don’t want you anywhere near Gaudielle. The man’s an idiot. He couldn’t do us any good. Here. Come here and let me look at that cheek.”
“The priest, then.”
“What priest? Oh. Uh-uh. No way.”
“You sent for him.”
“I didn’t send for no priest. What are you doing? Replaying one of those old James Cagney movies?”
“Stupid as it sounds, it happened,” she said.
“It didn’t happen.”
“We’ll clear up that question.”
“There is no question,” he said.
“There is a question.”
“The priest is no good.”
“The priest is perfect.”
“What can he say? Sokol? I only vaguely remember him. He doesn’t know who sent for him. He probably thinks I did.”
“He knows what you said to him, Edgar.”
“He can’t say anything about that.”
“The man has left the church. He’s married. Has two kids.”
“I knew that. I knew that.”
“Of course, you know everything. The priest is perfect. Everyone wants to know what you two talked about,” she said.
“No. I said no. Now, we’ll talk about something else.”
“We’ll talk about this.”
“They’re—neither one of them—a good witness for me. I can’t give Gibbons any reason to deny me.”
“The truth is all you need to give,” she said.
“The truth. I’ve tried everything I know to make you see it. Marcella, listen to me. Listen good. No priest. No Gaudielle. Understand?”
“What’s the last step here? What do you have to do?”
“Nothing. The work is already done. We’re appealing the trial judge’s decision to allow the statement in as evidence—the statement they coerced out of me. I told you that. Do you realize that he could rule for me—mandate a new trial? We’re talking a week or two.”
She spun and marched for the door.
“Marcella!” he yelled. “Hey!”
Dear Hannah, October 18, 1971
Hello, darling. When words get written down, a world of truth comes out that’s a lot different from the world we live in every day. I’ve read about Edgar. I studied the statement he made that was meticulously recorded, and I get angry at his lies. The written-down him becomes the real him. But then you meet him, and he gets to feeling sad and pours things out, and because after all, he’s sitting right there in front of you flesh and blood, you have to believe what he is saying. Either that or call him a liar to his face, and that is hard to do. On paper, he’s transparent and devious and loathsome. And in flesh and blood the same person is full of self-doubt and human weakness. The trick is not to succumb to the blood. It isn’t the truth. He can bend that world with sob stories and crocodile tears. Believe the words on paper and stick with that. It’s the truth.
Pinky has written that she may have seen you. I believe she has. Where is she? Where are you? Don’t believe what people may be saying. Believe that I know you’re out there, alive. Believe. Believe that I love you more than my own life.”
I Love you, Mom
* * *
1 Calissi, Counterpoint, 892-893
Chapter 34
Dozens of people scurried past as she found a seat on a bench just to the right of the stairs leading to the second floor lobby of the county courthouse. She saw Gaudielle, Edgar’s first lawyer, approaching from far off. He knew his way around the building. He searched the faces of those around him expecting to see old colleagues—like an old soldier coming back to his regiment for a visit. He stood before her at exactly the time they agreed to meet. He shook her hand and settled onto the bench beside her, and crossed his legs a la Robert E. Lee at Appomattox.
“Why did I expect a much older person?” he asked.
I suppose that’s the old gent’s way of flattering me. Why does he need to? Anyway, it’s not as dorky as kissing the back of my hand or something.
“I won’t be able to reveal much of anything about my interaction with Smith, Mrs. Armand,” he said. “Legal ethics intrude.”
No way am I going to venture onto this man’s turf—scholarly legal discussions. Plain talk from an inquisitive but ignorant reporter fits me just fine.
She asked: “Was Edgar Smith as much a wiseass with you as he was with almost everyone else I’ve talked to about him?”
“No ethical issues there,” he said. “He wasn’t pleasant, but most people indicted for murder aren’t. He was immediately looking for some way to put himself on an equal footing with me. In short, he was a punk kid, scared and trying his best to be cool.”
“Smith gave his version of your interaction with him in his book. He said you essentially gave him short shrift and resigned from the case.”
“I did resign from the case, he’s right.”
“Did you give him short shrift?”
“Client confidentiality. I can’t talk about what we discussed,” he said.
“Sir, could I read a paragraph to you from Edgar Smith’s novel as an approximation from the man himself as to why you resigned? Just for the hell of it?”
“It’s meaningless, but go ahead anyway,” he said.
Marcella read from the book:
(His) greatest asset was his experience—there was little he had not seen or heard in thirty years in court—and that experience told him early that (Ron Kramer) had very little chance of escaping conviction—barring an immense error by the prosecution, which is not something a defense attorney wants to hold his breath waiting for. Too much seemed stacked against his client—witnesses, physical evidence, public opinion inflamed by sordid revelations to come out during the trial, a prosecutor whose desire and need for a conviction would be difficult to resist, and above all (Kramer’s) own abrasive personality. The young man seemed oblivious to the precariousness of his position, and with his slouching, sneering attitude would make a horrendous impression on the jury.1
“Does that not nail your thinking on this issue?” she said.
“No comment,” Gaudielle said. He was smiling.
“Smith says in his book that seven or eight years after he was convicted you told him that if he had done as you suggested at the time, agreed to a plea of guilty of second-degree murder in advance of any trial—he’d have been a free man already. Is that correct?”
“No, but since he said it, I won’t be violating professional ethics by agreeing.”
“You must have been convinced that he would be found guilty in a trial, guilty of at least second-degree murder and possibly first degree,” she said.
Gaudielle puffed himself up and apparently decided she could use some instruction on the art of the plea bargain.
“Here’s what’s factual,” Gaudielle said. “It’s customary for defense attorneys to approach the prosecutor in these cases to determine if there is any consideration of a plea bargain. It doesn’t imply an admission of guilt.”
He sat down beside her on the bench again and plucked at the creases in his trousers. “It’s also customary to dig around to get some preliminary feel for the circumstances of the case before you begin to talk to a potential client about it.”
“I guess you were aware of
the physical evidence the police had gathered? His bloody trousers, socks, and shoes?”
“Yes,” he said.
“His transcribed statement admitting that he had taken the victim to the scene of the crime?”
“I didn’t see the statement.”
“But, you talked to the prosecutor, Calissi. And on the basis of that talk, you made your recommendation to Smith.”
“Correct.”
“Would your defense strategy have been a lot different from Selser’s, the man who finally agreed to act as his defense counsel?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gaudielle said.
“Oh, come on. You know very well. My guess is that you were close with almost all the attorneys who were working the court system at the time. You guys went to lunch together regularly. You had to be following the case just to see how it came out if for no other reason. Selser seems to have bought Smith’s story completely, all the stuff about Donald Hommell appearing out of thin air at the sandpit. He had to know it was total baloney.”
“You know the details of the trial much better than I do. I don’t know any of this,” Gaudielle said.
“I don’t believe that. He had to know there was zero chance of Hommell happening by the exact spot where Smith had taken Vickie that night. Selser freely participated in what he knew to be perjury.”
Gaudielle replied: “A defense attorney may believe everyone deserves a vigorous defense in a court of law, everyone, no matter how sleazy, not to say Smith was sleazy. He may say: I don’t judge my clients, I defend them.”
“What does that mean? That you participate in what you know to be perjury? You purposely misinform the jury?”
“Let’s just leave it at this: John Selser either believed that what Smith said was factually true, or he believed that his job was to arrive at justice through adversarial combat and due process in the courtroom in which legal truth is achieved.”
“Whoa. Talk about mumbo jumbo,” she said.
“Give Selser some credit. He let Smith do what he wanted to do, get on the stand and tell his story. It didn’t mean that he believed the story.”
A benevolent smile crept into the corners of his mouth. He'd genuinely enjoy sitting around like this, gabbing about a subject that had dominated his life for decades before he retired. He wants to help me understand the baffling world of courts and lawyers and judges—an older man helping a student.