“I’m Patrolman Jenkins. I saw you in court. How did you find out we were here?”
“Friends,” I said, echoing Conroy’s explanation.
“Pretty sharp friends. Do you have a court order, or something from the prosecutor?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t see him. Orders,” he added, smiling.
“You can check with the prosecutor,” I said.
He paused. “Well, even if I got his okay, maybe the Mouse might have some objections.”
“Check with him, too.”
He thought that over. “Okay, I’ll do both. Have a seat over there. I’ll be back.”
I sat in a high-backed chair, the kind all hotels used to have in their lobbies.
An old man, wearing two sweaters, limped up. He had an aluminum cane.
He must have been close to ninety.
“This is a nice place,” he said.
“Looks that way.”
“Food’s not bad. Most of these places load you up with cheese and potatoes, but this place is pretty liberal with meat and chicken. It makes a difference.”
“I suppose it does.”
“The women, too.” He cackled. “Lots of ’em, mostly widows and lonely, if you get my drift.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“It’s a little chilly, that’s my only complaint.”
“I take it you’d recommend it?” I presumed he thought I was looking the place over for a parent or some other relative.
“Sure would.” He winked at me and leered. “You’ll love it here.”
Jenkins returned before I got into any other conversations.
He was smiling. He seemed to be smiling all the time.
“The prosecutor says you can have five minutes, but one of us has to be present.”
“Fine by me.”
“The Mouse didn’t want to talk with you, but finally he said he would. I don’t think he likes you much.”
“I run into that a lot.”
Jenkins laughed. “I bet you do.”
They had the mouse in a suite. I was surprised that the Whitehall still provided such elegant residences.
He was sitting at a table playing solitaire.
Jenkins stayed, although two other young policemen left.
“You got five minutes,” Jenkins said. “Not a second more.”
“What do you want, Sloan?” the Mouse growled.
“I want to know why you’re testifying against Conroy. You’ve been lifelong friends.”
“Because he’s a prick,” he said, placing a card down on one of the stacks. “A crooked prick. He was setting me up. He’s a user, that one. Be careful, Sloan. He’ll use you, too.”
“Maybe. But why the sudden change after all these years? If he’s a prick and a thief, it sure took you a long time to find that out.”
“He’s clever,” he said.
“Do you think he was making you the fall guy for the W-91 Fund?”
“Sure. If anything went wrong, he’d point at me and say I was the only one handling the money.”
“When did you realize all this?”
“Not long ago. I’m a cop, too, and a good one. One morning I woke up and realized what was happening. I was probably the closest friend he ever had, yet here he was putting a noose around my neck if he ever needed it to save his own. He uses people, then throws them away.”
He laid down another card. “But not this time.”
“You realize that without you there’s no case.”
He nodded.
“Did you go to the prosecutor, or did they come to you?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. But I went to the prosecutor. Actually, I went to the Mayor’s Squad.”
“Why the Mayor’s Squad?”
“The mayor’s the source of all power in this city. I figured I’d be safer if he was on my side.”
“I take it I can’t change your mind about testifying?”
“Not unless you want to take a fall for obstruction of justice.” He laid down another card.
Jenkins coughed. “Your five minutes are about up.” He smiled again. “Orders, you know.”
“Do you have any message for Conroy?” I asked.
“Sure,” the Mouse said. “Tell him this is one time he won’t get away with it. Tell him he’s abused one too many people. Tell him … oh, fuck it, what’s the use?”
“That’s it, Mr. Sloan. Time’s up,” Jenkins said.
“Okay. Thanks for seeing me.”
The Mouse merely nodded and went back to his cards.
Jenkins walked me out of the room and into the hall.
“Not much of a conversationalist, is he?” I said.
Jenkins shrugged. “This is the most he’s said since I’ve been around him.”
“Why is that? Why the heavy guard? Nobody wants to hurt the Mouse, at least not that I know of.”
“That’s just it. Nobody knows. We’re playing it safe.”
“Are you a member of the Mayor’s Squad?”
He nodded.
“Like it?”
He laughed. “Like I said, your time is up, Mr. Sloan.”
In the old days I knew how to kill time. It was simple then, just park on a bar stool and put the mind on autopilot.
But I couldn’t do that anymore.
I had a couple of hours to kill. I hung around the shops in the Ren Cen, shopping, or at least giving that appearance. I visited a bookstore and browsed until they began getting suspicious.
Finally, and gratefully, it was time to go. I retrieved my car and drove to the Rattlesnake Club, one of Detroit’s finest restaurants. It wasn’t a club and was open to the public. And there hadn’t been a rattlesnake in downtown Detroit since 1692—if there were any then. The owner just liked the name.
I liked the Rattlesnake, all brass and cherrywôod and shiny with good food and good service.
I handed over my coat and saw Jack Rivers seated at the table in the far corner of the room, next to a brace of large windows. The Rattlesnake’s view of Detroit’s river was nice, but it wasn’t better than mine.
Jack Rivers had lost most of his hair since I’d last seen him. And he was stockier. But his expensive clothes and assured manner proclaimed a man who had arrived.
He gripped my hand. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Charley.”
“You, too.”
I took a seat and ordered a Diet Coke.
Jack had a martini before him and he sipped at it from time to time. He ordered another with his lunch. They seemed to serve as ammunition for the heavy barrage he laid upon me across the table.
Jack wanted to talk about the cases we had had together—at length. I wasn’t particularly interested. I had won both of them, but that didn’t seem to bother him; he sang my praises in the key of C. I wondered what this was all about.
It wasn’t until late in the meal that he got down to business.
“Charley, as you probably know, our firm represents the mayor.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, we do, at least in major matters. The mayor is upset that the city’s law department seems to be losing so many cases. Millions are literally walking out the door. They can’t seem to win over there.”
“I’ve read something about that.”
“It could be a scandal unless something is done. The mayor proposes farming out the larger cases to experienced lawyers who know how to win.”
“So?”
He sipped his drink. “We, that is, the mayor, would like you to represent some of those cases. He’s willing to pay top dollar to get good people.”
“I’ve never done much negligence defense work. As you know, I take plaintiffs’ cases but my main practice is criminal law.”
“You’re a trial man, Charley, and a good one. That’s what we need. The mayor is willing to go as high as three hundred dollars per hour, with an annual guarantee that you’d earn at least two hundr
ed thousand.”
“There is an army of defense men out there. How come you’re bringing this to me?”
“Because you’re good, and that’s what we need. How about it?”
“It’s tempting, Jack, but it might interfere with my regular practice.”
“Take it, Charley. It’s like money in the street. Just pick it up.”
“Any restrictions?”
“One or two. You couldn’t handle anything that might appear to be a conflict of interest.” He paused, drained the martini, then signaled for another. Then he made his message plain. “For instance, you’d have to back off of Mark Conroy’s case.”
“Why?”
“He’s a crooked policeman. We couldn’t have you representing the city in civil matters, but defending someone who’s been caught with his hand in the city’s cookie jar. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“So all I have to do is walk on Conroy and the money’s mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
“More or less.”
I had almost finished my lunch, and I was glad I had.
“Jack, what are you? The mayor’s dog robber, or what?”
He tried to smile. “Just a messenger boy.”
“Go back and tell His Honor that it’s no deal.”
“Think about it, Charley. Give it a day or two. You’re kicking away a great deal of money. The mayor is powerful. You’d have a powerful friend. You might be surprised how much good he can do you.”
“Why does he want Conroy so bad?”
“The man’s a thief. He had a public trust and he violated it. The mayor is outraged.”
“Half of the mayor’s appointees have gone to jail at one time or another. He holds welcome-back parties for them. What makes Conroy so different?”
“Charley, I hate to even say this, but while the mayor can be a powerful friend, he can be a more powerful enemy. Take the money, Charley. What do you care?”
“Maybe I care a lot.” I stood up. “I’m sorry to see you’ve come to this, Jack. I’ll pray for you.”
I’m not a praying man, so I’m not really sure why I told him I’d pray for him. Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction because I’d grown up hearing that phrase bandied about almost every day of my life. Maybe it was because I’d been bribed before in a major case I was involved in. I didn’t like it then any more than I liked it now. I felt sullied, dirty. I felt, oddly enough, like I should go to confession for just being in the presence of this sleazebag. And, yes, maybe I even felt that I could say a prayer against this kind of lousy corruption.
Jack Rivers’s mask of friendliness immediately dropped away, revealing him to be the mean, hard-eyed man he was.
“If you go against His Honor,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’re the one who’s going to be needing the prayers.”
The drive back to Pickeraí Point seemed longer somehow. Of course, maybe it was the two hundred thousand. I don’t ordinarily walk away from fees like that, no matter what the source. But they weren’t buying legal services. I tried to keep that foremost in my thoughts.
Conroy must have come very close to making a case on the mayor. The mayor didn’t fork over two hundred thousand for nothing, either. Even if it wasn’t his money. Also, the blatant attempt to bribe me gave some credibility to Conroy. Maybe he didn’t steal the money after all.
When I got back, I worked on some files and returned some phone calls. Attorneys were forever being suspended or disbarred for not returning calls from clients. Usually, it was more of a symptom than the main disease. But I had come close to losing my law license once and I was determined that it would never happen again. So I cheerfully made the calls.
It was my night to provide dinner, which meant we either went out or I tried to master, frozen dinners once again. I didn’t feel like accepting the challenge. I called Sue and she seemed relieved that I had chosen the restaurant route. As before, I arranged to pick her up at her apartment at six.
The skies had become more ominous and the clouds seemed to skim the top of the water. There was very little river traffic now, just an occasional ice-covered ocean boat or little fishing craft piloted by fanatics getting the last of the season in. As I watched the water, snow began to fall. I switched on my radio and picked up the weathercast. The forecast hedged, a smart thing to do in Michigan, but heavy snow of four or more inches was predicted. The weatherman made some weak joke about a white Thanksgiving. I sat back and soon the lights of Canada on the other side of the river vanished. It was a peaceful scene, the kind you see on greeting cards.
I almost fell asleep but recovered myself in time to pick up Sue.
Driving was a mess. The snow was approaching blizzard conditions and the windshield wipers were almost useless. Everyone moved along at a crawl.
Sue was dressed to the nines when I arrived. She usually dressed up like that when she had something important to discuss. Eventually, she would bring it up, so I didn’t inquire. But I raised my defensive shields just a bit. She took off her high heels and slipped on snow boots, more or less ruining the effect she wanted. We settled on a restaurant in town, a burger and fries place, rather than risk the drive to Port Huron or St. Clair. Sue seemed a trifle nervous and rattled on about police gossip and other inconsequential things. I merely nodded. It was a one-way conversation.
Finally, sha got down to business. “I would really like it if you came with me to my folks’ for Thanksgiving. I think they’ll be offended if you don’t show up.”
“I’d rather not,” I said. “You know the reason.”
“Charley, they’re my parents. They care about me. It’s only natural they would want to see me happily married. They mean no harm. They just try too hard.”
“True. But they make me feel as if I was actively despoiling their little girl. Your father, I think, would like to punch me in the eye.”
She giggled. “They’re from a different generation, that’s all.”
“Or horsewhip me, maybe. Perhaps that would satisfy him. Just take me out back and give me the beating I so justly deserve.”
“I can tell them to knock off the marriage business. They like you, no matter what you may think. That’s just a guilty conscience talking.”
“About sex. It takes two, dear. I don’t recall having to beg.”
“Maybe that would help things along.”
“Begging?”
“Maybe. Although in all the handbooks it says to save that up until after the knot is tied.” Her little joke. She smiled and reached across the table, taking my hand. “I’m not rushing you, Charley, really I’m not.”
“I know that, and I appreciate it.”
“Would you reconsider Thanksgiving?”
I sighed.
“For me?”
“Okay, I’ll think it over.”
“Thanks, Charley,” she said. She toyed with her food. “Do you ever think about it much?”
“What?”
“Marriage.”
“Sue!”
She laughed. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone, but I might reconsider the begging question.”
“Who knows? You might like it.”
Sue called from the restaurant to check the messages on her machine. That was a big mistake.
“Charley, drive me to my place. I have to get my car. There’s been another one.”
“Another what?”
“A child, just like the Higgins boy. There was a body left on Clarion Road not far from where the Higgins boy was left.”
Outside, the snow had just about stopped, although the roads were still covered and slippery. “I’ll drive you out there,” I told her.
She hesitated. “Okay, just don’t mix in. Working cops get nervous when a lawyer is hanging around a murder scene.”
I drove slowly. Clarion Road was a two-lane highway that passed through farm country.
“Another boy?” I asked.
“No. A little girl this time. Just like before, all neatly wrapped in plastic and
left at the side of the road.”
It took a while, but we could see all the lights as we approached on Clarion. A uniformed officer approached us. Sue rolled down her window.
“The road is closed, Miss.”
“I’m a policeman,” Sue said, flashing her badge.
“Oh, hello, Sue. I didn’t recognize you.” He flashed the light on me. “Hey, Charley,” he said. His face was familiar.
“Go on up. Park in back of the police cars. We’re trying to keep the scene clean.”
As we drew near to the gathering of vehicles, I saw a truck with overhead lights. It lit up the area like a night baseball game. Yellow tape had been raised to protect what lay at the side of the road. We got out and walked up. She nodded to several officers. Some knew me and looked puzzled that I was there.
One of the pathologists from Port Huron stood on a cardboard walkway, looking down, past the tape.
We followed his gaze.
She looked more like a doll than a human being. There was a little snow on the plastic. Her small hands had been crossed at her chest and she wore a school uniform, the kind worn by Catholic girls, a kind of muted plaid skirt and a white blouse. Beautiful was the only way to describe her. One tiny hand clutched a little purse.
Suddenly my stomach churned and I bolted back the way we had come, finding a space behind a scout car before I threw up. I breathed deeply and waited until I was sure the spasm had passed. I sensed someone was looking at me.
I straightened up and wiped my lips.
“Hello, Charley.” I recognized the voice before I made out the face in the twirling lights. “Got to you a bit, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He was Stash Olesky, the assistant prosecutor who handled all the county’s homicides. As the prosecutor’s best trial man, he was paid accordingly, which is to say Stash was doing okay but he wasn’t raking it in and leading a life of luxury. He could leave the prosecutor’s office anytime he felt like it and triple his income, but Stash loved what he was doing. Years ago when I was defending Becky Harris on a murder charge, Olesky had taken a good run at me. He was smart and fair. Not a lot of that going around these days. I liked him enormously, and now, under these circumstances, I felt we were kindred spirits, thrown together in what anyone would call a tragic situation.
The Judgment Page 7