Dead Man's Thoughts

by Carolyn Wheat

  For a moment, I just sat there, digesting the implications. The watch was a killer. It could be used two different ways, either of them devastating. Say you accepted the obvious, that the kid stole it. It fitted his record of petty theft, for one thing. Then Nathan caught him at it, they argued, and the kid killed him. Or you bought the kid’s story that Nathan gave him the watch. That made them more than lawyer and client, and that was the linchpin of Button’s theory. Now you had your gay lover killing. And the way the kid felt about faggots. … Whoever represented him would have to keep him off the stand at all costs.

  “When did Nathan give you the watch?”

  “Last week.”

  “Did he say why he was giving it to you?”

  “Yeah. I was late for an appointment and I told him it was because I ain’t got a watch, so he give me his old one. He just got a new one. He showed me it.”

  That at least was true. Nathan had just bought himself a handsome pocket watch, a gold one with a little cover. He’d been looking for a nice chain. If Paco was going to steal a watch, why not go for the new one? Or even both? Though the D.A. would probably say he’d hoped Nathan wouldn’t miss the old one.

  “Was anybody else there when he gave you the watch?”

  “No. Just him and me.”

  “Did you show it to anybody? Your mother, your friends?”

  “No. I don’t like too many people to know my business, you know.”

  “Nobody saw it before Nathan was killed?”

  “I don’t know, man. Like I wasn’t hidin’ it, but I wasn’t flashin’ it neither. I didn’t want anybody rippin’ it off me.”

  “Okay. It doesn’t matter anyway.” It didn’t. If the cops went with the theft angle, they could always claim the actual stealing took place the week before, but that Nathan found out about it the night he was killed. The thing was, I didn’t see Nathan reporting this kid to the cops if he’d stolen everything he had, let alone an old watch he’d just replaced. Theft as a motive for Nathan’s death didn’t cut any ice with me. Particularly in view of the manner of the murder. Burglars don’t tie people to beds and strangle them; they hit and run. No, the sex-murder theory was the one to watch out for. It was the theory Button liked, and it was strengthened by the kid’s own story. Who would believe Nathan gave a watch, even an old one, to a kid who was nothing more to him than a client?

  “You know, Paco,” I began, “sometimes people who are up against it—like you are on this case—sometimes they get the wrong idea about what can help them and what can hurt them. Take this watch. I can see where you might be afraid to admit that you took it. You might feel that could get you in a lot of trouble. No,” I held up my hand, “let me finish. Don’t interrupt. When I’m done, you can say whatever you want to say. Now the thing about this watch is, if you stole it, it’s not a big deal. Not compared to murder. But your story that Nathan gave it to you, that’s just what the cops want you to say. You understand where I’m coming from?”

  He shook his head. “See,” I went on, “they think you and Nathan were lovers.” Paco said nothing, but he balled his fists. “And if they hear that story about the watch being a present from him to you, they’re going to think it was true. See what I mean?” His eyes grew even larger as he nodded, slowly. “Now if you admit the truth, that you stole the watch, the cops can’t say you were lovers, can they?”

  There were holes in my reasoning you could drive a Corrections bus through, but fortunately the kid didn’t notice them. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I took the watch when he wasn’t lookin’. I didn’t think he’d need it no more.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no doubt that it was the truth. It was the kid’s usual pattern of petty theft, this time from his lawyer instead of a trick. But it was a much less potent motive for murder than the other.

  I moved back to the murder night. “Let’s go back to the note,” I said. “Did it look like Nathan’s writing?”

  “I don’t know. It was printed like.” He ducked his head, and a flush of dark rose suffused his cheeks. He said, so low I could hardly hear him, “I don’t read too good. He made it simple like.”

  “But you thought Nathan wrote it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I seen a note with his name on it. I didn’t think about it. Not then. Now I done some thinkin’ and I see how somebody set me up good with that note. I mean they got me there and kept me there, right?”

  “Right. You catch on quick. What happened when you came back after waiting in the laundry room?”

  “There wasn’t no note. It was gone. I figured the dude inside with him was gone, so I ring the bell. No answer. I knock a few times. No answer. I waited around some more, knocked some more, no answer. Finally I split.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Coney Island. A bar I know.” I wondered what kind of bar, but I didn’t ask.

  “Did you try to call Nathan?”

  “No. I figure I’ll catch him later, you dig?”

  “While you were knocking at the door, either time, did anybody pass by?”

  “Yeah, maybe, I’m not too sure.”

  “Did you try the door?” It was almost an afterthought.

  To my surprise, he nodded. “It was lock,” he said.

  This time there was no careful consideration of tactics. I was so shocked I blurted out, “Paco, you’re lying.”

  “No, I ain’t,” he replied. For the first time, he looked really scared.

  “Paco,” I said softly, “I found Nathan’s body and that door was unlocked. If you’d tried it, you’d have gotten in.”

  “No, lady,” he shook his head. “That door was lock. I know. Maybe somebody come by and open it later, but it was lock when I was there. Cross my heart.”

  Maybe it was the childish phrase that did it. It’s hard to pin down exactly what lawyers mean when they use the hackneyed phrase “the ring of truth,” but Paco’s statement had it. Maybe it was because saying he hadn’t tried the door would have helped him. Saying it was locked hurt him. Therefore it was true.

  Meanwhile, there was one more thing that had to be said. “Paco, I can’t stay on this case. I can’t be your lawyer. The court will appoint someone else, but I’ll give them everything I’ve got and I’ll work with them if I can. I believe you. I don’t think you killed Nathan.”

  He was looking at me with a steady gaze, but there was no sign of emotion as I spoke. I wondered if he believed me. Or if he cared.

  “The cops will arrest you and charge you with murder after you’re arraigned on the warrant. They’ll take you to Central Booking and then bring you back here. Do not, repeat do not, make any statements to them. You can’t help yourself, no matter what they tell you. Understand?” He nodded.

  “Don’t let them put you in a lineup without a lawyer present—either me or your new lawyer. Okay?”

  This time he looked up. His eyes looked enormous. The pupils were dilated with fear.

  “Hey, Paco. Try to stay cool, man. I know it’s tough. But I really am trying to help you. Please, just hang in there. I’ll be doing the best I can.”

  “Lady, can I ax you something?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you get me separated in Riker’s? Away from the other guys? I don’t want to do no more of that faggot shit, you dig?”

  Coming into the courtroom was like walking into an icebox. I faced a roomful of hostile glares. I had the last case of the day and the court officers were pissed at being kept waiting.

  But if I thought I was unloved by the court personnel, all I had to do was look at Button to see what real hate was all about. He looked at me as though he’d like nothing better than to see me in one of the green body bags they’d carried Nathan out in.

  The only break in the general hostility came from the judge. The Hon. Helen Donohue was a former Legal Aid attorney and an old friend. She smiled at me as she dogeared her paperback copy of Princess Daisy. As long as the Hon. Helen had reading matter, she didn’t
care how long she had to wait for anything.

  The bridgeman called the case. Button brought Paco out. He was shaking, a fine shiver that seemed to emanate from a small knot of fear just below his diaphragm. I knew the feeling, but there was nothing I could do to help.

  After the long interview, the arraignment itself was an anticlimax. I got relieved, bail was set ($25,000), and sentence date was set on the warrant—the old case—for next Thursday. That was to give the cops time to get him arrested and arraigned on the murder. Then the court officers took Paco back inside. I gave him a smile, but it didn’t erase the look of terror on the small, pretty face.

  While I was gathering up my things, a harsh voice sounded in my ear. It was Button. “Well, Counselor, I guess Barnum was right. There is a sucker born every minute. And this time it was me. Tell me again how you wanted information for personal reasons, not as a lawyer.”

  “I got off the case, Button. Didn’t you hear what went on?”

  “Detective Button to you, Miss Jameson. Yeah, you got off the case. After you told that little bastard everything the cops had on him. Or did you spend two hours with him discussing the weather?” When I opened my mouth to answer, he waved me quiet and said, in a weary voice, “Don’t bother, Miss Jameson. I’m not likely to believe anything you tell me after this. It just may be that someday you’ll regret that, but that’s the way it is. I can be made a sucker of once just like everybody else. But not a second time. Not by you or any other stinking defense lawyer.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away. I could see his point. From his perspective I’d screwed him—gotten information under false pretenses. But I still felt justified. The information wouldn’t be the exclusive property of the prosecution for very long. Paco’s 18-b lawyer would have it soon enough. But I could only get it now.

  For all the good it would do me. Did I really believe someone had set Paco up, called him pretending to be from the program and then kept him at the scene with a phony note? I could at least find out whether there had been a legitimate call from the program. I could canvass Nathan’s building, find out whether anyone had seen Paco at Nathan’s door or in the laundry room.

  It was with a feeling of optimism, finally, that I left the courthouse. Button’s Midnight Cowboy was no longer a bogeyman but a real person. That meant there were facts to be checked, questions to be asked, evidence to be sifted. That meant I could do my job.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Rick’s was packed, especially for a Tuesday night. Wall-to-wall lawyers, court clerks, court reporters. A judge or two. No cops or court officers, though. They had their own bar near criminal court. Just as well. I didn’t much fancy drinking with armed people.

  Not that Rick’s wasn’t something of an armed camp in its own right. The D.A.’s had their table, and we had ours. In fact, there were distinctions within Legal Aid. The rank and file would be at a back table, cracking peanuts and listening to Flaherty. Milt, Deke, and a few other supervisors usually stood at the bar. So in order to get to where I was going, I would have to pass Milt. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I was right. Milt’s eyes narrowed as he saw me coming. “Been in court all this time?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Milt.” I stopped, resigned to the inevitable. “I got held up on an old warrant of Nathan’s.”

  “An old warrant.” He shook his head sadly. “An old warrant who just happened to be his killer.” He bit off the last word with a controlled menace that momentarily had me scared. Then I realized there was nothing he could do to me. I could hardly be fired for interviewing a client. I said something to that effect, that I’d just treated the kid like any other client.

  Wrong thing to say. “Damn it, Cass!” Milt hissed, between clenched teeth. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Since when do you do a two-hour interview on just another client? On a Legal Aid Relieved? Don’t give me that just another client garbage. You had no business talking to that kid—”

  “I got relieved, Milt,” I interrupted.

  He snorted. “You got relieved,” he repeated derisively, “after you got everything you could out of the kid.”

  “Milt, what’s the problem? What difference does it make?”

  If Milt had been Del Parma, he’d have started pacing. If he’d been Detective Button, he’d have given me his shark-tooth smile. Being Milt, he spoke very very softly. “You compromised the integrity of the Society, Cassandra. Representing that kid, even for a limited purpose, constituted a total conflict of interest. I can’t afford to have my attorneys doing things like that. It makes me look bad. And I don’t like looking bad.” He was almost whispering.

  “But worse than that, Cass. Worse than that. You’re opening a can of worms. You’re running the risk that the newspapers will get hold of this kid angle. And if there was one kid, maybe there was more than one. Is that all the respect you have for Nathan’s memory?”

  “Milt, you’ve got to hear me out.” I was talking softly now too, hoping to keep the conversation between Milt and me. “I think the kid may have been framed.”

  Milt gave me a long, incredulous stare. Then his lip curled in disgust. “Christ,” he said, still softly but with venom. “Nathan sure could pick ’em. One of his clients strangles him, and the woman he sleeps with defends his killer.” He shook his head and turned his face away.

  “Fuck you, Milt,” I said. It was a normal tone of voice, but after our intense whispering, it turned heads all along the bar. I didn’t care.

  “It’s all over as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it? The cops have their suspect. No bad publicity. Let’s hope the kid hangs himself in Riker’s, like poor old Charlie. That would make things simple for everybody, wouldn’t it?”

  No answer. Milt’s like that. He’d closed the iron door, and I didn’t exist anymore. I walked to the back of the bar, barely seeing where I was headed.

  “Over here, Cass.” The voice wasn’t Flaherty’s, nor was it coming from the Legal Aid side of the room. I turned to see Stan Willburton in a booth with Roger Morrison, an 18-b lawyer.

  “Grab a seat,” Roger invited. I put my coat on a hook and slid in next to Stan.

  “What was that all about?” Roger asked, signaling the waitress with his free hand. The other was full of peanuts.

  It was Stan who answered. “I know you’re on trial, Rog, but even you must have heard that the cops arrested a suspect for Nathan’s murder and that Cass arraigned him?”

  “What is this, Gossip Central?” I asked with a smile. I was trying to keep it light in front of Roger. Stan I could tell the whole story to, if I could get him alone.

  “You aren’t planning on keeping the case, are you?” Roger asked.

  “Of course not. It’ll be murder anyway, so one of you bright boys from Stan’s 18-b murder panel will get it. In fact,” I said, turning to Stan, “I was going to call you. Who can you assign? It’s got to be somebody good, somebody who’ll really do a job for the kid, not just cop him out.”

  “Are you suggesting that there are members of my panel who—”

  “Who would have copped out Jesus Christ if they could have gotten him two to four concurrent.”

  Roger laughed, choking on his beer and spraying Stan and me with a fine mist of imported brew. He apologized, mopping himself with a huge white handkerchief. For the first time I noticed how drunk he was. “Roger,” I said, “how the hell long have you been in here? You look like you’ve been putting it away since noon.”

  “Good old Cass.” He gave me a mock bow. “Miss Tact of The Year.”

  I started to apologize, but he cut me off. “No, Counselor. The witness will answer the question. Yes, I’m tight as a drum. If you were on trial before Hanging Harold Wormser, you’d be smashed too. That bastard is—”

  “The Antichrist, the scum of the earth, the worst judge ever to befoul even the corrupt bench of Brooklyn with his presence,” Stan interrupted. He went on plaintively, “I know, Roger. Believe me, I know. Cass, don’t get him
started again. I’ve had this for two hours already.”

  “What’s he doing to you?” I asked Roger. “In twenty-five words or less,” I added hastily, glancing at Stan.

  “That’s the trouble. It all sounds like such little piddling shit. But it adds up. It adds up and it’s burying me. He’s nickel-and-diming me to death, and all the time he gives the jury that Will Geer nice-old-codger routine. They love him, and they think I’m a young smartass when all I’m trying to do is get the semblance of a fair trial for my client.” Roger took a healthy swallow of beer. “Who just might be innocent,” he added morosely. “That’s the worst part. Wormser firmly believes that all defendants, without exception, are guilty. If somebody gets an acquittal, he tells the D.A., ‘We lost another case.’”

  “I hope Paco doesn’t get a judge like that,” I remarked.

  “Paco? That’s the kid who killed Nathan? Already you’re calling him Paco?” I didn’t like the edge of suspicion in Stan’s voice.

  “Look, Stan, I know this is hard to believe,” I said hastily, “but I don’t think he did it. I think he was set up.”

  “Set up?” Stan started shooting questions at me. The way I’d shot them at Paco—“Who by? How? Why?”

  Good questions. I took a breath.

  “I think somebody got him to the apartment and kept him there by a trick,” I began. “A phone call and a note on the door. That way his name would be in the book downstairs, and the desk guy would see him. That way he’d be in the building at the right time. But Nathan would already be dead.”

  “That’s pretty far out, isn’t it, Cass?” Stan’s tone was patient, but unbelieving. Roger just stared at me through his muzzy haze of beer. “Even supposing you’re right, that means somebody knew enough about this kid to set him up—him, this particular kid, who I’ve already heard is a fairy. That’s supposing a lot of inside information, isn’t it?” Stan sat back in the booth, waiting for my reply. Waiting for the opposition to sum up.