The Judgment

by William J. Coughlin

  Conroy, again pursuant to my instructions, was decked out in his dress uniform. He looked calm but grim. His wife was with him, a nice woman, a bit stout, but attractive. She was very quiet.

  “Does she know about Mary Margaret Tucker?” I whispered to Conroy.

  “I told her,” he said. “She said she’d stick with me through the trial, but then she’s going to get a divorce.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  “No. I guess I can’t.”

  I didn’t know the judge, James Horner, a young black man who had just been appointed to the 36th District Court, the one that had jurisdiction over examination in Detroit felonies. He seemed to know what he was doing, although his manner was just a bit too crisp and a bit too authoritative. He would have to run for election, and the publicity resulting from the case was like a political donation, a big one. He wasn’t about to risk such advantage. This would be all business.

  We started on time. The courtroom was jammed.

  It was a big case, too, for the assistant prosecutor assigned. He had been picked to try the case on the recommendation of the mayor. Benjamin Timothy, the assistant prosecutor, was just thirty and a graduate of Yale. Despite his Ivy League background, he apparently enjoyed rolling around the dirty floors of criminal courts and had earned a fierce reputation. He had his eye on high office, and the Conroy case was going to be his ladder up.

  Timothy was rail thin and wore his hair close clipped. He had a quick smile, but it seemed more mechanical than genuine. He was all business, too, as he led a procession of city officials to the stand, one after another, all testifying to the regulations regarding city funds, audits, and procedure.

  It was all as dull as toenail clippings, but the kid prosecutor was doing a good job building the technical side of his case. I looked around for Conroy’s erstwhile pal, Ralph “the Mouse” Smerka.

  “He’s not in the courtroom,” Conroy whispered, as if reading my mind. “They have him parked in an office upstairs.”

  The officials finally completed the testimony. I had asked few questions. I didn’t want to swim in the murky accountant-filled waters, at least not yet.

  It was time for the main witness.

  Conroy remained at the counsel table, but I gave a brief interview to the man from The New York Times. He was looking for color. I gave him as much as I could, at least some color that would help our side of the case.

  The judge rapped for order, and we all resumed our places.

  The Mouse came in through a side door. It was like the entry of a human mountain. He was a courtroom veteran and he looked out with complete self-assurance at the assembled people; it was as if he had called them there himself.

  Like Conroy, his face was calm and stern. Veteran cops had veteran faces.

  He took the oath, then squeezed himself into the witness chair. It creaked in protest.

  “What is your name, please?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Ralph Smerka.”

  “Are you employed?”

  “Yes. I’m a Detroit police officer.”

  “And your rank?”

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Smerka, what was your last assignment?”

  The Mouse sat quietly. His face was the kind that gives small children nightmares. Whether acquired on the football field or by genetics, his features looked as if each had been broken several times. Hollywood would have cast him as a gangster, a very mean, very tough gangster.

  He paused, then spoke. “I was a member of the chiefs’ squad, assigned to Deputy Chief Mark Conroy.”

  “How long were you assigned?”

  “Three years. I came to the squad when Conroy was made deputy chief.”

  “You served as his assistant before that, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a member of the chiefs’ squad, were you assigned to handle a special fund?”

  I stood up. “Objection,” I said. “The question is leading.”

  “Sustained,” the judge snapped.

  The prosecutor looked unruffled. “What duties were you assigned as a member of the chiefs’ squad?”

  “A number of duties, whatever Chief Conroy wanted me to do. I handled the W-91 Fund.”

  “Please tell the court what that fund was for.”

  The Mouse looked relaxed, as if this was just another day in a routine job. “When narcotics or a precinct confiscated cash money as part of a raid, we took that cash and applied it to the W-91 Fund.”

  “What does that mean, W-91?”

  “The W stands for witness. 91 was the year we started. It sounds mysterious, but it isn’t.”

  “The cash was brought into you by the arresting officers?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “Did they get a receipt?”

  “Always.”

  “What was the purpose of the fund?”

  “We bought information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “The names of drug dealers, how drug networks worked, that sort of thing.”

  “How much money was collected, if you know?”

  “Total?”

  “Yes.”

  “A million and a half, roughly.”

  “All cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much is left?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you keep the money in a bank?”

  “No. In a safe in Chief Conroy’s office.”

  “Who had access to that safe?”

  “The combination was known to the chief and myself, no one else.”

  “Did you make any payouts yourself?”

  “Under the direction of the chief.”

  “Did you keep books?”

  “No. It was a secret fund. Books would have showed who got the money. We wanted to protect our informers. No books were kept.”

  “Did you take any of the money for yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Did the chief?”

  There was a pause. The courtroom was absolutely quiet.

  “The chief took money, yes.”

  “In cash?”

  “Always.”

  “What happened to the money that the chief took?”

  “Objection,” I said, setting up. “He’s calling for conjecture at best. He’s laid no foundation for the question.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  I sat down. “Tennis rules,” Conroy whispered in my ear.

  “Did the chief, Conroy, ever tell you what he took the money for?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And what did he say, if anything?”

  The Mouse was expressionless. “He said sometimes the money was going to informants he was running himself.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Objection,” I snapped.

  “Sustained. Stick to facts, not belief,” the judge said. “Continue.”

  “What were some of the other uses he said he found for the money?”

  “He gave money to Mary Margaret Tucker.” For just a moment, the Mouse seemed uncomfortable, but then the mask slid back in place.

  “Who is Mary Margaret Tucker?”

  “His girlfriend, or she was.”

  “Objection,” I said. “I see no foundation laid for this testimony. It’s not relevant.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said. “I presume you’re going to tie this all up, Mr. Timothy?”

  “I will, Your Honor.”

  “Go on, then.”

  Timothy did a good job, extracting from Smerka the beginning details of the romance, and detailing the financial arrangement between Conroy and the girl.

  I glanced back at Mrs. Conroy. Her face was just as calm and grim as her husband’s.

  Finally, Timothy quit the Tucker girl and had Mouse testify to other payments—cars, vacations, and other luxury items—all paid for by Conroy, according to the Mouse, wi
th the confiscated public money.

  On cross-examination I tried to dent the Mouse a little, but he didn’t budge. I tried to get him to admit that he, too, had tapped the special fund, but he denied it. There was no jury, so there was no need for a show. It went quickly, too quickly.

  We didn’t waste much time arguing. There was no need to. The judge bound Conroy over on the main charges, and continued his personal bond.

  I made certain that Conroy was escorted away so that he wouldn’t have to face the press.

  But I didn’t have that luxury.

  I was the point man. It was my duty to try to spin-control what had come from the stand. I did my best, talking into a battery of microphones, and later to individuals:

  I pointed out that the only case the prosecutor had came from the lips of Det. Sgt. Ralph Smerka.

  I said we would show Smerka was lying.

  They didn’t believe it.

  Nor did I, but it was at least something to say.

  4

  When I got back to the office, I had a message from Sue. I reached her at her office.

  “Dinner tonight?” she asked.

  “No more late-nighters?”

  “Not tonight, although I’ve been paying for it all day. I feel exhausted.”

  “Nerves can do that to you. You lost that professional detachment for a minute; that’s all. A nice meal, a good sleep, and you’ll be the same tough, noncaring cop you’ve always been.”

  “You certainly know how to cheer a girl up. Would you mind if we went out? I’m not up to cooking tonight.”

  “I’ll pick you up at your place. Six okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Anything more on that kid? I’m not prying, just curious.”

  “The blood work shows the Higgins boy had been given a large dose of Valium, just as the medical examiner thought. He thinks it was stuck into ice cream, judging from the stomach contents. The boy will be buried next Friday.”

  “That’ll be a sad day.”

  “Tell me about it. As a matter of fact, Father Chuck is going to say the funeral Mass. The boy and his family are members of Father Chuck’s congregation. I plan on going,” she said.

  “Why? I should think you’d want to distance yourself from anything personal.”

  “This is work. I’m checking on all sexual deviates in Kerry County. I just might see someone I recognize at the Mass. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

  “This business is weird enough. You don’t mean you think the killer would have the balls to show up at the funeral?”

  “We’re dealing with someone strange, very strange. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  “Or she.”

  “Yes, that’s always a possibility. Men don’t have a lock on psychosis. There are plenty of sick women out there.”

  “Maybe I can get away and go with you.”

  “You don’t have to, Charley.”

  “It would make me feel better. I handled something routine for the family some while ago. Father’s name Frank?”

  “That’s right, Francis. He took it pretty hard; so did the mother, of course.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six tonight,” I said, cutting it short, hanging up.

  I was just about to pack it in for the evening at the office, leaving me with enough time to grab a shower before picking up Sue. Then the phone rang.

  Mrs. Fenton had gone for the day, so I picked it up on the second ring.

  “Sloan,” I said.

  “Sloan, this is Mark Conroy.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. I just received some information I thought you might like to have.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where they’re keeping the Mouse.”

  “No kidding.”

  “They have him stashed at the Whitehall.”

  “That’s a retirement place.”

  He laughed. “Good selection, when you think about it. All you have to watch out for are young people. Everybody else has white hair and walks with a cane. A gunman would stick out, unless they come up with a very old one. They have an apartment there for him, but they have enough guards to hold off an army.”

  “Is he registered?”

  “Not under his own name. He’s listed as Philip Marlowe. I suppose that was some cop’s idea of humor. Anyway, I thought you might want to drop by and pay him a social visit.”

  “Why do I get the idea that he doesn’t want to talk to me? Maybe the guards, eh? How did you come by this little piece of information?”

  “Friends,” he said, his tone indicating that was as much as he wanted me to know.

  “Why do they have him covered like they do?”

  There was a pause. “I suppose they’re worried that someone might just drop by and knock him off.”

  “Someone like you.”

  “Yeah. No Mouse, no case. But remember, the Mouse knows a great deal about who does what kind of drug business in this city. The dealers might be getting a little antsy on how much he is spilling in that retirement home.”

  “They won’t let me see him.”

  “Probably not, but it’s bound to have a profound effect.”

  “Why?”

  “The Mouse will see that you know where he is. Other people, too, maybe? That might just stop his mouth.”

  “I’ll drop by, but I don’t deal in terror.”

  “Look, Sloan, I know you don’t believe me, but I am telling the truth. If that money’s gone, the one who would have stolen it is the Mouse. He’s got to be getting nervous, no matter what. He’s got a million parked away somewhere and someone might just stumble on it.”

  “I’ll try to see him, maybe put it to him just like that.”

  “Let me know, one way or the other.”

  As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.

  “Mr. Charles Sloan,” a brisk young woman asked, her tone pleasant but not familiar.

  “This is Charley Sloan,” I said.

  “Just a moment for John Rivers.”

  I waited. Rivers was about my age and a senior partner in one of the big Detroit firms. We had tried some cases against each other when we were younger. I hadn’t seen him for years.

  “Charley, how are you?” he said, his voice as oily as a snake.

  “I’m fine, Jack. And yourself?”

  “Just fine, Charley. Couldn’t be better if I tried. I’ve been reading about you. You’ve become famous.”

  “Working at it. What can I do for you, Jack?”

  “How about lunch tomorrow, Charley? I think I have a proposition that might interest you. I can drive out there, if you like.”

  “I plan to be in the city tomorrow anyway,” I said, and I did. I planned on dropping in on the Mouse. “Name the time and the place.”

  “How about the Rattlesnake Club. One o’clock?”

  “Suits me.”

  “Good. I really look forward to seeing you.”

  I hung up. I wondered what he wanted. His firm was a law factory and highly political. Maybe he was going to offer me a job, or was looking for one. Whatever it was would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Sue spent the night at my place. Our lovemaking had become less frantic, more comfortable, like an old married couple who understood the needs and desires of the other.

  In the morning, she went home to change, and I fixed myself some toast and coffee.

  I read the newspaper and took my time. I wasn’t enthusiastic about seeing the Mouse, and doubted if I could get to him. Still, he was the key witness in the Conroy case and I had to make the attempt at least.

  The morning was cold and brisk, with clouds driven by a fresh wind scudding across the sky. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Sue wanted me to go with her to her parents’ for dinner that day. I had gone along last year. They were nice enough, but they made a point of bringing up marriage with every other sentence. I remember being uneasy, so this time I begged off.

  I drove into Detroit
just after the rush hour, so the traffic was no problem.

  The Whitehall had been a posh residential apartment house, then a hotel, and had flourished during the Twenties and Thirties in Detroit. Built on the Detroit River, just across from Belle Isle, the city’s island park, it had been a fashionable place, with a huge, tiled indoor pool.

  Like the rest of the city, the Whitehall had slipped slowly economically and would have closed, if it hadn’t been rescued by thé religious group that established it as their retirement facility. It offered private apartments where meals would be provided if needed, and other levels of care right down to a skilled nursing staff.

  When you checked into the Whitehall, you knew it was for the last time.

  Except if you were Det. Sgt. Ralph Smerka, alias the Mouse. And, given the circumstances, that thought might have crossed the Mouse’s mind as he entered the Whitehall for the first time.

  I found a parking space near the entrance and walked through the doors into the lobby. The lobby had been maintained with much of the splendor as when the place had enjoyed better days. The furniture looked a bit worn and old people, very old people, were sprinkled around the place. Some reading, some playing cards, and some just wandering about, pushing their walkers before them.

  I half hoped the Mouse wouldn’t agree to see me. The place made me feel uncomfortable.

  The Whitehall still had a hotel-style desk, but no one was there. I rang a bell and waited.

  “Don’t move.” The voice came from behind me. Expert hands ran up and down my body, searching for a weapon.

  “Okay,” the voice said, “you can move now.”

  I turned and faced a young man dressed in running togs. He looked as out of place among the white-headed residents as a preacher in a house of ill fame. But that didn’t seem to bother him.

  “Charles Sloan,” I said. “I’ve come to talk to Smerka.”