Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  “It was eerie seeing it there in John Milton’s firm’s file. It was almost as if he thought I was working for him when I was defending Lois Wilson. Then I thought to myself, maybe I was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think in my heart I knew she was guilty of fondling one girl, but I deliberately ignored my instincts to attack the prosecution’s case where I knew it was weak.”

  “That’s what you were paid to do,” McKensie said dryly.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t realize at the time that I was auditioning for a position at John Milton and Associates, a firm that seeks attorneys who will go that extra mile to get a defendant exonerated, even a guilty one. Anyway, what shocked and frightened me the most in the computer was a file entitled ‘Futures.’ It listed crimes that would be committed over the next two years and clients we would have.”

  “Predictions?”

  “Not just predictions, positive predictions—robberies, rapes, murders, extortions, embezzlement—I saw the whole gambit. It read like a description of the graduating class of Hell University.”

  “Actual names of people and what they would be charged with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you run off a copy of this?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t get the computer to do it, and then I lost the file and was unable to bring it up on the screen again, but if you go over there . . .”

  “Easy, Kevin. I can’t see myself marching into John Milton’s office with a subpoena to look at a computer file listing crimes yet to be committed. Anyway, if he’s got the power you think he does, he would have it deleted before I arrived anyway, wouldn’t he?”

  Kevin nodded, his frustration building. “Paul Scholefield’s wife’s in Bellevue,” he said quickly. “She told me things last night, told me that John Milton was evil and had a spell over everyone, even our wives. She said he was responsible for Richard Jaffee’s death.”

  “She said he pushed Richard Jaffee off his patio?”

  “Not literally, but Jaffee felt responsible for what had happened to his wife and felt guilty about the things he had been doing as a John Milton attorney. The way Helen put it, Richard was the only one with a conscience.”

  “Helen Scholefield told you these things?”

  “Yes.”

  McKensie nodded and sat forward again, resting his long right hand over his left. “Milt Krammer told me about her today. News travels quickly in the legal community. Nervous breakdown, right?”

  “It’s just a cover-up.”

  “So you’re saying they’re all in on it—Dave Kotein, Ted McCarthy, and Paul Scholefield?”

  Kevin nodded. “I really think so now.”

  “And their wives?”

  “I’m not sure about the wives.”

  “But definitely not Paul’s?”

  “You see, she had done this painting, an abstract work, but terrifying . . .”

  He stopped. McKensie was shaking his head slightly, and Kevin realized he was losing it.

  “Let’s be calm for a moment, Kevin, and review what you’ve been telling me so far. Okay?”

  “Bob, you have to listen to me.”

  “I’m listening, and I haven’t laughed at you or called for the men in white coats, have I?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. You’re worked up. Beverly Morgan apparently lied to cover her own ass. John Milton knew about her crimes. Whether or not he knew through supernatural powers remains to be seen. He might have done some investigating himself. He has good private dicks out there. I should know.

  “You’ve looked at his firm’s history, and you’ve discovered it’s a very successful firm. But none of the cases they won were won using any supernatural power. They took advantage of police procedural errors whenever they could, negotiated settlements whenever they could, and won cases outright when circumstantial evidence came under question.

  “Stop me when you think I’ve said something wrong.”

  “No, I know how that all looks, but . . .”

  “But you saw this other computer file that you can’t reproduce or call up again. It lists possible crimes.”

  “Not possible, definite.”

  “You say they’re definite because you believe John Milton started to research the Rothberg case before Maxine Rothberg was murdered, but you also admit you first thought it was a clerical error. You want to refer to the testimony of a woman who is now in Bellevue and diagnosed with a nervous breakdown or the testimony of a known alcoholic who may or may not be a murderer and a thief herself.

  “Kevin,” McKensie said, leaning forward. “Why don’t you just quit the firm? Go back to practicing on the Island?”

  “How many cases have you tried against clients represented by John Milton?” Kevin asked as calmly as he could.

  “Personally? Five, including yours.”

  “And you lost every one of them, right?”

  “I can’t question why I lost them. The reasons were all logical. Nothing supernatural at work. Look, I’ve known John Milton for a while. You saw me at one of his parties. Other AD’s have been to his parties, too. The boss has been there. No one’s ever felt he was in the presence of the devil or the devil’s advocate, believe me, although some of those parties were a bit risqué.”

  Kevin nodded, a terrific sense of defeat coming over him. Suddenly he felt very tired, very old. “I’m sorry, Bob. I wish there was some way I could make you understand.”

  “If you really believe you and your wife are in the presence of some evil, Kevin, you should get out.”

  “I intend to, but I wanted to do more. I wanted to stop it because I had contributed to it.”

  McKensie smiled for the first time. “I wish all defense lawyers would have pangs of conscience like that. It would make our job a little easier.” They stared at each other for a moment. “I shouldn’t do this,” McKensie added. “But I can see you’re serious about everything you’ve told me. I know someone who might be able to help you, clear things up for you, explain some of what you think you’ve seen or experienced.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A friend of mine, more of a friend of my father’s, I should say. He’s a retired priest, Father Vincent, who in his retirement has been researching and writing about the occult, the devil in particular, I believe. He’s not one of these kooks, either. He does what most authorities recognize as scholarly work because he was a psychiatrist, too. He still takes on a patient here and there, even though he’s nearly eighty.”

  “You think I need a psychiatrist, is that it?” Kevin asked. He nodded. “I suppose I can’t blame you.”

  “I’m not saying you’re crazy, Kevin. But Father Vincent could very well be of some help to you. Maybe he’ll tell you how to go about confirming or disproving your theories and thereby settle your own mind,” McKensie said. “Is that so bad?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Now you’re being sensible,” McKensie said and looked down at his watch again. “I really better get my ass in gear.”

  “Right. Thanks for listening.” Kevin extended his hand.

  McKensie stood up, and they shook. “Kevin, don’t misunderstand me. I’d love to knock off John Milton and Associates. They’re too good at what they do, and, I agree, a number of their clients have gotten away with criminal activities, but that’s the system, and right now it’s the best system in town. You probably discovered you don’t have the stomach for this sort of thing. It happens,” McKensie said, shrugging. “Maybe you ought to think about coming over to our side. Pay’s not as good, but you can sleep better at night.”

  “Maybe,” Kevin said. He started to leave McKensie’s office.

  “Wait. I’ll walk out with you.”

  McKensie put on his overcoat and grabbed his briefcase. He flicked off his office lights, and once again, Kevin was the last to leave an office, lights turned off behind him, doors locked.

  “Where is this Father Vincent?” Kevin asked wh
en they got into the elevator.

  “He lives in the Village,” McKensie said, smiling. “Apartment 5, One Christopher Street. His first name’s Reuben. Mention my name if you call him.”

  “I might just do that,” Kevin said, even though his enthusiasm for doing anything was low.

  But the moment he returned to his apartment and opened the front door, that all changed.

  Miriam was there in the entryway waiting for him.

  “I heard you put the key in the door lock,” she explained, “and came running.”

  She was beaming, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want you to know until I was sure, but I confirmed it today. I’m pregnant,” she said, and threw her arms around him before he had a chance to respond.

  “What are you saying?” Miriam got up before he could continue. After getting hold of himself, Kevin had taken her into the living room to talk, but he had barely begun before she clenched her hands into fists and pressed her knuckles against her temples. “An abortion!”

  “I don’t think the baby’s mine,” Kevin said as calmly as he could. “And if Helen’s right, which I think she is, it will kill you.”

  “Helen? Helen Scholefield? My God, you’re mad. You’ve gone mad. You’ve let Helen Scholefield drive you crazy, haven’t you?” she said. “What did she tell you last night? How can the baby not be yours? Who do you think I’ve been sleeping with? Did Helen tell you I was with another man? And you believed her, a crazy woman? Someone who’s now in a straitjacket babbling in Bellevue!” Her face turned blue with anger.

  “Just sit down again and listen to what I have to say. Will you do that?”

  “No, not if it has anything to do with getting an abortion. We wanted this baby; we wanted to start our family. I have the nursery all planned out.” She shook her head vehemently. “I won’t listen. No. I won’t,” she repeated and suddenly bolted from the living room. He sat there a moment and then got up and followed her to the bedroom. She was sprawled across the bed, facedown, sobbing.

  “Miriam.” He sat down beside her and stroked her hair softly. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean you deliberately slept with someone else. You weren’t really unfaithful. That’s not what this is about. He had you under a spell and made love to you as me. I saw it . . . twice, but I was unable to do anything about it each time.”

  She turned around slowly and studied his face. “Who had me under a spell and made love to me while you watched?”

  “Mr. Milton.”

  “Mr. Milton?” He nodded. “Mr. Milton?” Her smile of disbelief expanded into a laugh. “Mr. Milton?” she said again as she sat up. “Do you know how old Mr. Milton is? I found out his true age today. He’s seventy-four. That’s right, seventy-four. I know he looks great for his age, but if you want to imagine me being unfaithful with someone, why not pick one of the associates?”

  “Who told you his true age?”

  “Dr. Stern.”

  “Who’s Dr. Stern?”

  “The doctor the firm uses,” she said, wiping tears of both laughter and sorrow from her cheeks. “Norma and Jean took me to see him, first because I wanted to check out those black and blue marks that worry you so, and second to take a pregnancy test. You’ll be happy to know that he agreed with your diagnosis and put me on some vitamin therapy. Why I should be so deficient in vitamins might be related to my pregnancy. I have to eat for two people now,” she added, smiling.

  “Oh, Miriam . . .”

  “He was a very nice man, and we talked about the firm and you and Mr. Milton. That’s when I found out his true age.”

  “Is he the same doctor Gloria Jaffee used?” Kevin nodded as if she had already replied in the positive.

  “Of course. And I know what you’re going to say next,” she added quickly. “But her death wasn’t his fault. The girls and I talked about it, and he even brought it up. It still bothers him. It was her heart. Just a freak thing, quite unexpected.”

  “It was a freak thing all right, but not unexpected. I’m not sure exactly why it happened yet, but the baby killed her, and her husband knew it and knew why.”

  “How come nobody else thinks such terrible things, not Norma or Jean or their husbands? They work with John Milton and have worked with him much longer than you have. How come they don’t come home and tell their wives how evil he is? Or is it that they just don’t know as much as you do, Kevin?” she asked disdainfully.

  “They know,” he said, nodding. A thought came to him. “Do Norma and Jean ever talk about their husbands?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean, their pasts, their family life?”

  “Some. So?”

  “Anything unusual about either Ted or Dave that I don’t know?”

  She shrugged. “You knew Ted was adopted, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. He never said anything to me to suggest it. The way he talked about his father’s firm, I just assumed he was his natural father and his mother was his natural mother.” He looked at her. “Dave doesn’t talk much about his parents, now that I think of it. If he does, it’s always about his father.” He nodded. “Dave’s mother died when he was born, didn’t she?”

  “So you knew.”

  “And I’d bet Paul’s . . .” He widened his eyes with the realization. “Don’t you see?” He stood up. The impact of the realization was shooting through him with electric speed.

  “See what, Kevin? You’ve really got me frightened.”

  “They mean it when they say this firm’s a family. It is. He’s their father, really their father!”

  “What?” She grimaced.

  “I should have known . . . the way they talk about him. ‘He’s like a father to me,’ Paul once said. I think they’ve all said it one time or another.”

  “Really, Kevin. They were just speaking figuratively.”

  “No, no, it’s all making sense now. Someday Gloria Jaffee’s son will be in this firm, too. And so . . .” He looked down at her. “So would your child, if you had it.”

  “The Jaffee child . . . twenty-five or twenty-six years from now? Will join Mr. Milton’s firm? Why, let me see,” she said, closing her eyes and calculating. “Mr. Milton will be a ripe old one hundred and nine or ten by then.”

  “He’ll be a lot older than that, Miriam. He’s at least as old as creation.”

  “Oh, Kevin, really,” she said, shaking her head. “Where are you getting these wild ideas? Helen Scholefield?”

  “No.”

  “Then where?”

  “First, from my own good instincts, whatever’s left of them.” He paused for a moment and then, after a deep breath, said, “Miriam, you were right about Lois Wilson.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In my heart I knew she was guilty of fondling Barbara Stanley. Barbara Stanley was embarrassed and frightened because initially she permitted Lois to do it, so she got the other girls involved, got them to agree to lie so she could go forward with allies. I saw the lie and used it against the prosecution. It was a despicable thing to do, but I wanted to win. That’s all I cared about, winning.”

  “You did only what you were trained and paid to do,” Miriam recited.

  “What? Since when do you believe that? What happened to your revulsion at the idea of my defending her in the first place?”

  “Norma, Jean, and I discussed that. It was good for me to have other lawyers’ wives with whom to share my feelings and thoughts. They helped me a lot, Kevin. I’m glad we’ve come here and been around more intelligent and sophisticated people.”

  “No! They’re not more intelligent and sophisticated; they’re more evil, that’s all.”

  “Really, Kevin, I don’t understand why you’re saying these things and why you suggested such a terrible thing—aborting our first child.”

  “I’m going to tell you everything, and after I do, you’ll agree with me about the abortion. First, though, I want to see so
meone, learn some more, learn what to do, learn how to confirm all this so other people, you especially, will believe me.”

  He got up and went to the phone and tapped out the numbers for information. When the operator came on, he asked for Reuben Vincent’s number. Miriam watched him with interest as he wrote it down quickly and then tapped it out.

  “Who’s that?” she asked. He indicated she should wait.

  “Father Vincent? Good evening. My name’s Taylor, Kevin Taylor. Bob McKensie gave me your name. Is this a good time to talk? Fine. I’m very interested in the work you’re doing, and I think I need your help. Would it be possible for me to see you now? Yes, tonight. I could be there in a half-hour or so. Yes. Thank you very much. See you soon.” He cradled the phone and turned to Miriam.

  “Who was that?”

  “A man who might be able to help.”

  “Help do what?”

  “Beat the devil,” he said and left her sitting on the bed, a look of amazement on her face.

  14

  There were times before in his life when Kevin felt as if he were moving in a dream. Caught up in an intense moment or doing something he had dreamed about doing so often, he saw himself as outside the actual events, an observer of himself, almost the way he had been an observer of what he thought was himself in those erotic scenes played out with Miriam. He felt the same way now.

  Stopping at a traffic light on Seventh Avenue, he saw someone standing on the corner, looking his way. The man, his overcoat collar up, his hands in his pockets, his face partly in shadows, partly in dim light, reminded him of himself, and for a moment he saw himself as that man might be seeing him—crunched up intently over the steering wheel, his hair disheveled, a wild-eyed, frantic look on his face.

  The light changed, and the driver in the car behind him hit his horn angrily. Kevin pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, but as his car tore on through the night, he gazed up once in his rearview mirror to see the shadowy figure crossing the street quickly, looking like someone in flight. He drove on with that image of himself lingering on the surface of his eyes just the way light lingers for a split second after it has been turned off.