Missing Girls- In Truth Is Justice

by Larry Crane

  “He’s just showing the world how wrong they are about his grievously maligned friend Edgar. Everyone thinks Buckley is this hidebound asshole with salty opinions about everything. No one could predict he’d turn into such a bleeding-heart pussy. He’s spitting in their eye.”

  “Outdoing the liberals?” she said.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Buckley complimented Smith for his brilliant book Brief Against Death and for his award-winning novel.

  “You have to hand it to him. He can write. He’s smart,” she said.

  “You can write. It’s not the writing, it’s who you are that counts.”

  “Does that mean that my articles in The Record were only published because I’m famous?”

  “You aren’t famous yet. You’re this housewife who went to see a convicted killer in jail.”

  “Nobody knows my name?”

  “Never mind, you didn’t write them to get famous.”

  Buckley asked Smith why he didn’t go for a new trial instead of settling for a bargain that required him to essentially plead guilty to second-degree murder.

  Smith sat back with his fingers interlaced, eyes nearly closed, as he solemnly recounted how he couldn’t put his family through another trial—just didn’t want his daughter to find out what happened to him, the injustice of it all. Imagine, his conviction was reversed, but the newspapers still referred to him as a convicted killer.

  Buckley asked Smith if he felt he was letting down the legions of fans who believed in his innocence.

  Smith paused, then brought his hand to his forehead as if to pull an explanation out of his forehead that all his fans would just have to come to understand—that what he did today was something he had to do to gain his freedom. It was very difficult, but he just had to do it.

  “Oh, the tortured soul,” Marcella said. “Well, he’s right. Nobody with an opinion about the case is going to change their opinion. He had nothing to lose.”

  Buckley moved on to a new subject—the adversarial system in American courtrooms.

  Marcella fetched the bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and brought it back to the couch. She splashed her glass full and filled Gavin’s when he held it out to her.

  “So, here we are watching this guy that we both know is guilty as hell being turned into an expert on the American legal system,” she said.

  “It all ties into Buckley’s infatuation. He just keeps pulling him further and further from the sandpit,” Gavin replied.

  “On national television, he gets away with saying that this thing he called the truth was a lie he had to tell in order to get out of jail.”

  “There’s no accounting for the thinking of these guys—they’re smarter than everyone else. They’re dangerous. They’re deadly. You can’t play around with them. Anyway, never mind. It’s good. He’s getting out. It’s over. He’s out of your life.”

  “I’m not playing around,” Marcella said. “But, I did do something stupid. I as much as invited him to come here after he got out.”

  “What?”

  “I played to his fantasies. I painted a picture. He said he was getting out, and I told him about Weehawken.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I have to get something definitive on him. So far, I have nothing that’s tangible.”

  “Why? Why is that so important?”

  “Because it is!”

  “Marce, listen to me. Listen. You never have to eat your pride with me, and I never have to eat my pride with you. You’ve done enough. You have nothing to prove. Just say the word right now, and we’ll get out of here. We’ll grab a plane tonight and fly away from all of this. We’ll hit Marie-Galante or whatever it is and just keep on going. We’ll do it right this time. Say the word, Marce. Say it.”

  “I declared myself, Gavin. You understand what that means. It’s straight out of your manual. If you say you will do something, then you have to do it."

  “Wait Marce,” Gavin said. He produced a small silver revolver. “Here. Take it. You’ll need it. He’s going to wind up on your doorstep. See this? It’s the safety. Push it in. Point. Fire.”

  “I don’t want a gun, Gavin.”

  “Take it,” he said.

  Dear Hannah, December 7, 1971

  Well, he’s out. We knew it was inevitable. Didn’t we? It’s a fable for the disbelieving. Facts as stark and clear as anything in the world can be transformed into a murky blur of contradictions and denials. We saw it coming. We did our best to set the record straight no matter how muddled he tried to make it. I’m pretty calm, considering. He’s going to come looking for me.

  Love, Mom

  Chapter 47

  Gavin helped her rig the recording setup. He suspended the cassette voice recorder inside a vase that contained real long-stemmed flowers, but no water. Marcella would flick the recorder on when she knew for sure that it was Edgar Smith at the door. They had tried it out and knew it was virtually noiseless.

  Some catastrophe is going to happen. It’s going to come to the end of the tape and there’ll be this horrid flapping sound when the reel spins, or the stupid battery driven machine will screech, she thought.

  “You’ve got an hour and a half of tape. Fresh batteries. Nothing bad is going to happen. Try to relax,” Gavin said. “Where’s your gun?”

  “I put it in the drawer over there,” she said, indicating a side table across the room.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom the whole time,” he said.

  “You will not be in the bedroom or anywhere in the apartment. What if he hears you?”

  “You don’t need to worry about disrespecting him. I can think of worse things, much worse. You’re done with the guy. It’s over.”

  “He’s going to be coming any time now. He said he was going to look me up when he got out. It’s been a whole day. Go.”

  “I’m going to wait in my car. If I see anything strange, I’m coming up on the double. Is that what you’re going to wear?”

  “Go, Gavin,” she said.

  She literally pushed him out the door. She watched him shamble down the short hall, almost as if he were hoping he’d intercept Smith coming out of the elevator. What was this pinch in her throat—her breath caught half way down? She almost shouted out for him to come back. He punched the button at the elevator and the doors parted immediately. He turned to look back. She crossed her arms and brought her hand to the side of her face. He stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut.

  Almost as soon as he was out of sight, she felt panic rising. He could have hid out in the bedroom. It would be a hundred times safer. She locked the door. She went into the bedroom and checked herself in the big mirror.

  What should I wear? Certainly not something dressy. This can in no way be considered a date. She was in a pair of jeans and loafers. She had on a men’s white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This was too—too something—too practiced to look casual. She ran to the closet and yanked at a sweater, sending the hanger spinning to the floor. It was reddish. She pulled it over her head.

  He was at the door or somebody was. She fussed with her hair, then popped a Salem from the pack and lit it. She ran to the vase and pressed the recorder button. She picked up a heavy ceramic ashtray, crushed the cigarette in it and held it in the crook of her arm as she scuffed to the door—no hurry. She waited. Calmed herself and reached for the door handle.

  Smith didn’t know how to shed the stiff body language he’d worn for Buckley’s Firing Line TV show, so he’d grabbed the door jamb and leaned into it with feigned nonchalance. “Well, how do I look?” he asked. He opened his arms to hug her and bent to kiss her on the cheek. She backed away and jammed the ashtray into his hands.

  She managed to control the tremor in her voice. “Positively elegant. You’d pass for the president of a bank,” she said.

  “Everyone was staring at me, I’m sure, behind my back. After all, how many guys in three-piece suits walk the streets of Manhatt
an? Are you going to let me in?”

  “Of course,” she said, standing aside. “How many? Certainly no more than a million. Tell me what a man does on his first day of freedom.”

  “He attends to his basic needs,” he said, loosening his tie. He threw his overcoat onto a chair. He wore the same outfit he’d worn on Firing Line—a lot more rumpled.

  “After the show, Bill dropped me and Geoff Norman from Playboy at the Russian Tea Room. I stuffed myself. Something called golubtsi to start. I couldn’t resist a name like that. Orange duck. Champagne and crème brûlée.

  Geoff’s my pal, but he never stopped asking questions.”

  Smith made a complete tour all around the apartment like a buyer, fingering everything. He paused at the tray of liquor bottles on the kitchen counter.

  “I walked the whole length of Thirty-Fourth Street. Ogled every peep show in sight.”

  “Fix you a drink?” Marcella asked.

  “Just set the Jack Daniels down right here,” he said, indicating a side table in the living room.

  Marcella was in the kitchen. “Did you do any of the touristy things?”

  “Sure. Pinched some butts on the way up to Club 66 too.”

  Smith took to pulling drawers open, every drawer he could see. He found the silver revolver and slid it into the side pocket of his suit jacket without her seeing him do it.

  “Staten Island Ferry?”

  “Nah. Not enough time for that. There were some nice numbers swirling around the ice at Rockefeller Center.”

  “You skate?”

  “The view’s better leaning on the rail.”

  Smith slid his arms out of the suit jacket and draped it over the back of a dining room chair.

  Marcella approached him holding the drinks. “Well, here we are,” she said.

  “Beautiful,” he said. He stepped behind her, taking in the scent of his Jack Daniels. He sniffed her hair.

  “I watched you on the Buckley’s show. You looked very cool, I must say,” she said.

  “I couldn’t get busted for bombing on TV, so I winged it.”

  “Sitting back. Speaking out in strong, well-modulated tones. You were a picture of confidence and power. You should run for President.”

  Smith picked up a framed photograph of Hannah.

  “So this is my birthday girl.”

  Marcella winced. She hurried to his side and took the picture out of his hands. It was just the smutty way he was looking at her. He just had to smudge her cheek with mud for being so alive.

  “That’s from a hundred years ago.”

  “Rot your molars,” he said.

  She studied his face, and he looked back into her eyes without blinking. “If that’s a compliment, I thank you for her.”

  “Sweetness and light.”

  “How did you get over from the city?” she asked.

  “Bill’s limo, of course. I’m riding in style.”

  “You must have thought about your performance on TV. Did it go as you expected?”

  “There are only so many questions in this world. I’ve heard them all.”

  “You looked a little chubby on the tube—just saying. Television does that. It was a terrific performance. I can see Pashman now, as you deny on TV what you had just sworn to him.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to Edgar Smith, the man behind the image.”

  “To Marcella, my coach and manager. I can’t tell you how great it feels to be on this side of the law. When they slammed the door on me, there seemed to be nothing anyone could do to open it back up. It’s a true miracle that I’m free. Nothing less. And there’s nothing anyone can do now to shut me in that place again.”

  “What are you going to do to celebrate?” she asked.

  “I could think of a few things. Never been short on imagination. I’ve got this thing about making up for lost time.” He tipped his glass and drained it and set it down hard on the side table. He took her wrist, plunked himself down on the couch and pulled her down beside him. She managed to keep all of her wine from spilling into her lap.

  “Are you going to try to intimidate me like you did when we first met?”

  “No,” he said. He kicked off his shoes.

  “It seems like it.”

  “Do I need to intimidate you?”

  “You never needed to, but that didn’t keep you from trying.” She sipped on her wine. In a strange way, having it in her hand was comforting, as if it kept him off of her.

  “Intimidation was a part of my life in jail. It was a warning to the criminals in there to keep their distance,” he said.

  “I’m not a criminal,” she said.

  “No, you’re not, but I didn’t know what you were doing there when you first came to see me. I was suspicious. So, I wore my armor. You know, it’s amazing what you can get used to. I was in solitary confinement and even though it kept me safe in a dangerous place, I hated it. Now that I’m out, I actually look forward to solitude. What am I going to do with people all over the place?”

  “Fly.”

  “Fly? I am flying. To LA. Tonight is tonight. But tomorrow the plane leaves all this behind. All of the bad memories, the anger. After this, anything is possible. People will see me as a person, just like everyone else. What seems to be real will become real, out there.”

  “Just declare yourself and presto. I know all about that,” she said.

  “A new life.”

  “A fantasy."

  “A life, Marcella. Come with me.”

  She laughed and went back into the kitchen. “You should have gone to LA straight from the show.”

  “What? Go, and leave you behind? What about my celebration? Besides, I think we shared something that most people couldn’t even begin to understand. I intend to just keep on sharing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay, you’re pissed. You’re hacked off by the stupid plea bargaining maneuvers.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You didn’t like what I said on the show—that I only confessed all that stuff to the judge to get my freedom. You were after absolute vindication, absolute irrefutable proof that I’m innocent. But, that could never happen. It’s not realistic. The legal technicalities will fade into the ether. It all boils down to the fact that a court of law has set me free. That’s the final verdict.”

  “Is that what it all boils down to?”

  He patted the cushion beside him. “Come, Marcella.”

  “I’ll stand, Edgar,” she said.

  “Why can’t we be friends? We used to be friends.”

  “We started out with a deal.”

  “I want a new deal,” he said.

  “Let’s just stick to the first one—the one that’s just about done with now.”

  “Come.”

  “Is that some old technique of yours?”

  “Just plain talk, Marcella. I know how you like plain talk,” Edgar said.

  “Come. ‘Come, Vickie. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.’ Is that how it went?” she asked.

  “Play it out.” He patted the seat beside him again. “Come Vickie. Your mother doesn’t need to know.”

  The gall of him. She stood still. Her eyelids flickered. She never believed it would get this far—that he would go back fourteen years to that place—that he would play this game.

  “Myrna is meeting me,” she said, assuming Vickie’s words.

  “Well, you’ll be a little late. Won’t you?”

  “Yes, a little late.”

  “So, there we have it. The innocent lured into the web. Are you happy?” he asked.

  “She should never have waved.”

  “Did she wave?”

  “You said she did.”

  “Then, she did,” he said.

  “There it is again. ‘It all boils down to the fact that I’m free.’ There are no facts. We just make it up as we go along.” she said.

  “Come.”

  She sat down beside him on the couch again. “Okay then. The hous
e is just up here a ways,” she said, affecting the words Vickie used.

  “Of course, just a little ride. That’s all.”

  “Where’s Patricia and the baby?”

  “Patricia and the baby. Patricia and the baby are at home where they belong. Why are you worrying about Patricia and the baby?”

  “I thought you were Joe Gilroy. It’s his car,” Marcella said.

  “You didn’t think. You just waved. I just turned the car around. And here we are.”

  “I have a test tomorrow. I have to get home.”

  “No sweat. You’re a smart girl,” he said.

  “Mr. Beauchamp’s going to kill me if I can’t tell my debits from my credits.

  Smith abruptly stood and marched into the kitchen with his glass. “How about another one, Marcella? I’ll fix it.”

  Smith rustled for ice in the pullout drawer of the refrigerator, and Marcella reached for the gun in the drawer of the side table.

  “What more could a fella want?” he said, entering from the kitchen with his whiskey and her wine.

  “LA?” she replied.

  “We’ll have LA soon enough. You know, I suspect very few people know what an extraordinary lady you are.” He retrieved the pistol from his jacket pocket and placed it on the side table.

  “Not so extraordinary as to neglect my own safety. I don’t know if I could even shoot it, but it makes me feel better—about the neighborhood,” she said, regarding the pistol.

  “You’ve got me here to protect you.”

  “You know what? You’re getting much too comfortable. And you’re still holding in all the details. In all honesty, Edgar, what made you pull into the sandpit that night?” she asked.

  “In all honesty, do I need to explain to you of all people how this works?”

  “It wasn’t her idea.”

  “It wasn’t? I wouldn’t have gone there alone. The whole thing would never have started if I wasn’t being nice to her. Isn’t that what women want?”

  “Nice? Sure. I’m glad, Edgar. I’m glad you helped her out with her debits and her credits.”

  “And that’s about where it ended. About right there I saw Hommell’s headlights, and the rest, you know. Come here.”

  “Ah yes, Donald Hommell—the wizard who can appear out of thin air whenever he wants to. What crap! I want to know what happened. Exactly.”