Evola summed up, asking that she be bound over on a charge of first-degree murder.
I was given my turn. I did my best. Mulhern, for all his bluster, was an emotional man, and he held the police in no special esteem. That was the man I spoke to.
For me, it was like old times. I was doing what I had done so many times before. It felt comfortable, like taking a nap in an unmade bed. I attacked the confession again, along with every other aspect of Evola’s case.
Mulhern looked like a piece of sculpture, sitting motionless through both of our speeches.
When I had returned to my seat I reached back and took Angel’s hand. I was surprised at the strength of her grip. It was the desperate grip of someone slipping off a ledge. I tried not to think of how she might feel. To do a good job, a professional must remain objective. A lawyer tries to distance himself emotionally from his clients. Often, that is not an easy thing to do.
Thomas J. Mulhern, like the good showman he was, leaned back in his big leather chair and studied the ceiling for a moment, letting the suspense build. Solomon probably looked like that just before he proposed carving up the kid.
Cameras doth make Barrymores of us all.
Mulhern began with a long-winded explanation of the varying degrees of murder and the elements that must be shown. Without the camera and the attention, his decision would have been one or two sentences long. Now, it was beginning to sound like he Gettysburg Address, only longer.
Mulhern finally moved toward the meat of the matter. “I find that the crime of murder has been shown, and, although I have some questions about the alleged confession, there is sufficient evidence to establish probable cause that the defendant committed it.”
I thought Angel might crush my hand.
“However,” he continued, “the prosecution has failed to show he element of premeditation required by law. I therefore require the defendant, Angel Harwell, to answer to the lesser charge of second-degree murder.”
Evola was on his feet, charging toward the bench. “I must protest this decision.”
Mulhern raised an eyebrow. “Not to me you won’t. I’ve decided. You can protest to the court of appeals if you want, although I doubt you’d get anywhere with it.” He looked over at me. “Now, the question of bail.”
I pried my hand away from the trembling Angel and joined Evola before the bench.
“I would ask that my client be released on her personal recognizance, if the court please.”
“I object to bail of any kind,” Evola said.
Mulhern smiled icily. “I said this was going to be treated like any other case, and I meant it. Bond will be set at two hundred and fifty thousand.” He stood up. “Okay, that’s it.”
The clerk rapped the gavel and Mulhern left the bench as majestically as a cruise ship sailing toward port.
*
MY request that Angel not be returned to jail but be kept in the courtroom until bail was arranged was granted. Judge Mulhern permitted me to use his office and telephone. The judge was gone, seeking his usual lunch, one sandwich and enough whiskey to drown a small dog.
It had taken a number of phone calls and almost two hours before it was done. Arrangements were finally completed and the necessary papers signed. The media people had gone off like a cloud of locusts seeking new crops to devour.
Robin, Angel, Nate Golden, and I were alone, seated around the counsel table.
“Everything is all set,” I said. “You’re free to go, Angel.”
She nodded.
No one got up.
“We need to get this business about new counsel straightened out,” Golden said, his voice full of smiles and authority. “We’ve been talking about it.”
I didn’t say anything. I noticed Robin had looked away.
“I explained to Angel,” Golden continued, “that you had done an excellent job so far but that we would bring in a lawyer, more specialized, to try the actual case.”
“I want you,” Angel said quietly, looking up at me.
“I explained to Angel that it was your idea to bring someone else in,” Golden said. “Also, she understands you will be working right along with whomever we select, so it’s not as if you are abandoning her.” He spoke as if Angel were a young child being persuaded to go to school. Golden’s tone was mild, but parental nevertheless.
“I don’t want another lawyer,” Angel said.
I pulled over a chair so I could face her and sat down. “I appreciate your confidence, Angel,” I said, taking her hand. Again, she gripped like a five-fingered vise. “But I think you’d do better with someone else. You asked me once if I was any good. I am, I think, but I’ve been away from this kind of work for a long time. I’m rusty, and you need someone who isn’t. I’ll be part of the team, I can assure you of that. It’s just that we want you to have the very best.”
Her grip just grew tighter. Those hypnotic eyes were fixed on mine. I had let a number of people down in my lifetime. Now, it seemed in my imagination that they were all looking at me through those clear blue eyes.
“The judge reduced the charge,” I said, “but second-degree murder can carry a life sentence, Angel. The prosecutor is ambitious and he’s going to pull out all the stops to get a conviction. You saw all the press coverage — this is not a case where a reasonable settlement can be made. It is going to be all or nothing, for everybody. Most people can’t afford the very best, Angel. You can. It’s only smart that you take it.”
“It makes sense,” Robin said quietly.
Angel never looked away from me. “No,” she said, so softly I could barely hear. “I don’t want anyone else, I want you, Charley.”
I heard Nate Golden clear his throat, the way people do when they want attention and plan to say something unpleasant.
“Angel,” he said. His smooth tone had taken on a definite edge. “There is more to this than you know. Mr. Sloan has had some personal problems. I regret to have to bring this up, but Mr. Sloan has had a drinking problem, a problem that has adversely affected his professional life in the past. He hasn’t tried a major case in years. So you see, our concern isn’t exactly unfounded.”
She never changed, her face was as noncommittal as before, her eyes as intense, her grip as strong. It was as if she hadn’t heard what he said.
I tried to laugh, but it caMe out bitter. “Basically, what he said is true, Angel. I don’t drink anymore but I haven’t done any major trial work in a long time. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m up to something like this.”
“Is it a matter of money?” Angel asked. “If it is, I have money. I have a right to have the attorney I want. I can pay whatever it costs.”
“Mr. Sloan has been well paid,” Golden said. “Robin paid him, probably more than she should have, but money isn’t the core of this problem. We have to insure you have the best trial lawyer around. Unfortunately, this is not going to be an easy case.”
“I’ll plead guilty unless Charley defends me,” Angel said.
“Angel, don’t be ridiculous,” Robin said.
“I’m not being ridiculous. I will not be treated like some brain-damaged child. It’s my life that’s on the line here. I’ll make my own decisions.”
“It’s been a very difficult day,” Golden said, the old silky tone operative again. “Let’s drop this for now. We can all go back to the house, have something to eat and drink, relax a bit. Then we’ll be in a better frame of mind to discuss all of this.”
Robin stood up. “That sounds good to me.”
Angel shook her head slowly. “This is going to be settled here and now. Charley, I want you to be my lawyer, no one else.”
Her grip was strong but her hand was trembling.
“Angel, you heard what he said about me. Under those circumstances, can you give me one good reason why you’d want me?”
There was a pause, but then her answer came quietly, with the force of a blow.
“Because I trust you.”
*
<
br /> ANGEL drove off with Robin. Nate Golden followed me to my car. He glanced at it with open disdain.
“I realize you were in a bind back there, Sloan. Humor the girl for a day or two. Then well arrange for a substitution of trial counsel.”
“I’m not very big on lying to clients.”
He shrugged. “Look, this is a major case. You are a sole practitioner. Whoever tries this will need a team, legal support, investigators, the works. You don’t have any of that. She’s entitled by the Constitution to adequate counsel. I told both of them just that. Under these circumstances, your continuing in her defense just isn’t practical, I’m afraid.”
Golden sighed. “I represented her father for years. I know Angel’s problems, they’re of long standing, let me assure you. Today, you may be her knight in shining armor, but tomorrow she may consider you her enemy. She has mood swings, that girl, bad enough to have resulted in several hospitalizations. In other words, Sloan, she isn’t competent to make major decisions.”
“You’re handling the sale of the business for Robin and Angel, right?”
“Now, yes.”
“Are you going to have a guardian appointed for Angel?”
“What do you mean?”
“If she isn’t competent, then she should have a guardian to look after her interests in the sale.”
“She’s competent enough for that. And I’ll be looking after her interests.”
“If she’s competent enough for a multimillion-dollar deal she’s competent enough to protect herself in a criminal case.” It was his manner that infuriated me, not his logic.
“Sloan, let me make this crystal clear. If you should carry this through to trial I shall make it my personal business to see that you are disbarred. The bar is no place for fools.” He quickly added. “Or drunks.”
“If I’m that bad, shouldn’t I be disbarred now? I represent other people besides Angel Harwell. Or doesn’t competency count where only poor people are involved?”
The smile was frosty and superior. He spoke firmly. “Withdraw, Sloan, and you’ll be unharmed, perhaps even rewarded. We can always throw some work your way. If you don’t, the trouble you’ve seen in the past will be nothing compared to what will come.”
“I take it that’s a threat?”
“You’re goddamned right it is.”
8
MY CLIENT WAS ON THE STREET, NOT HOME FREE perhaps, but not looking at life in prison without parole, either. Angel Harwell, even if convicted, would realistically face no more than eight years behind bars because of the reduced charge.
If I didn’t do another thing for her, I had earned my money.
In the old days when I’d scored a pretty good courtroom win I’d celebrate, and the boozy celebration might have lasted several days, depending on my trial schedule. Of course, when I lost a big one I didn’t call it a celebration, but I did exactly the same thing. Alcoholics have a universal method for marking all occasions, good and bad.
This was a good occasion, although I didn’t really feel elated. For some people eight long years in prison could be worse punishment than death.
They expected me at the Harwell place, but that would expose me to more crocodile smiles and whispered harassment from Nate Golden. I needed time to think before facing that, so I drove out to my new office.
It was a pleasant day, the sunny afternoon perfect for sipping Scotch while watching the boats sail up and down the river. I decided I would do exactly that, only I would skip the Scotch.
I climbed the outside staircase and used my key to open the office. I found two cardboard boxes that hadn’t been there before. A letter from Mitch was attached. In it he explained that he had had his girls package up my few belongings. He hoped I didn’t mind. He hoped I would do well in court, and he asked that I mail back the key to his office. The letter was cordial, but his anxiety that I might somehow return to the firm’s quiet chambers wafted through the written words like urgent background music.
The drapes were already open. I sat in the slightly lopsided desk chair and swiveled around. The clouds over Canada had a wet, pregnant look. Our sunny weather was about to change.
A Japanese freighter glided by, presumably coming from Chicago on the way to Detroit and eventually the Atlantic. Its huge white superstructure looked like a moving skyscraper.
I wished I was on it.
The phone rang. I turned and stared at it as if observing a miracle. Then I realized Mitch had probably had my number transferred to completely sever any lingering connection between me and his dignified place of business.
“Sloan,” I said, noticing that the receiver mouthpiece was dusty.
“Where are you?”
“Who is this?”
“Angel. I’m home. You said you were coming here.”
“I am, Angel, eventually. I have a few things to do first.”
“Can I come there?”
“That’s not a good idea. I think you should plan on staying out of sight for a while. Besides, I just rented a new office and it’s a mess. This is my first day here.”
“Where’s here?” she asked.
I told her. She knew the place.
“I’ll be right over.” She hung up before I could protest.
I debated trying to clean the place up, but it was a job that would need more than a few minutes, probably more than a few days. I sighed aloud. Once Angel saw my decrepit surroundings, she wouldn’t need much persuasion to look for a new lawyer. For that reason her visit might be in her best interests.
I turned away from the river and cleaned off the desk, using some scrap paper to dust it off. I got up and cleared some old books off the office sofa. The leather was so old it was brittle.
It was a matter of minutes when down below, I heard a car door slam and quick steps coming up the stairway. She tapped on the door and entered before I could respond.
It was as if I were seeing her for the first time. She was just as beautiful, but this time she looked much more like a woman than a child. She had changed into tailored trousers and a soft silk top that was both demure and revealing. Around her throat, she had casually tied a fire-engine-red scarf.
Angel’s expensive perfume filled the old room, driving out the musty odor the way springtime drives out winter. She stood in the doorway for a moment, then walked quickly to me and kissed me softly on the lips.
“Thank you, Charley,” she said, still standing close. She said my name in an intimate, provocative way, but as before her perfect face was expressionless.
I stepped back. “You don’t need to thank me. It’s all part of the job,” I said. “Have a seat, Angel. I warned you, this place isn’t much to look at.” I returned to my lopsided chair.
She turned, surveyed the office, walked around it for a moment, and took a seat across the desk from me.
“Why did you move here?”
“The rent’s cheap and I like the view.”
“Are you going to stay? It’s so small.”
“I sort of like that.”
“Where’s your secretary?” she asked.
“I just left a law firm. I used their people. I haven’t hired a secretary for myself yet. I haven’t had time.”
“I’ll be your secretary.”
“I appreciate the offer, but that wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
“Why?”
She stared at me. I wondered if something might be wrong with her facial muscles. It was like talking to a mask.
“You’re my client, Angel, at least for the moment. It’s not a good idea to mix things in this business.” I didn’t want to tell her that there wasn’t anything for a secretary to do except answer a phone that seldom rang.
“I could fix this place up. I could be a real help to you.”
“I’m sure you could, but it’s out of the question.”
“Don’t you like me, Charley?”
“Sure I do. But that has nothing to do with it.”
“Are yo
u so sure?” She stood up, looked around, then seated herself again, this time on the old sofa. She crossed her long legs, which, like everything else about her, seemed so perfect they looked sculpted.
“We could have fun, you and I,” she said, her eyes as intense as twin laser beams. “Suppose I wasn’t your client? Would that change things?”
“We should talk about that, Angel.”
“They want me to dump you. That’s not news, obviously. But I’m not going to do that.” She looked around the office. “Do you have anything to drink here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. You don’t drink.”
“That’s right.”
“Nate Golden said you almost lost your license because of drunkenness. He said you got in a lot of trouble.”
I nodded. “He’s right about that. Wives, a kid, a fortune, and a reputation. I managed to drink all of that away.”
“He thinks you still drink.”
“Finally, the great man’s wrong about something. Anyway, that’s not the reason you should get someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
“Angel, this isn’t some little two-bit case where everybody shows up on trial day, tells the jury all about it, and waits for the verdict. A small army of investigators is working away, looking into every aspect of your life from the kind of diapers you used as a child to what type of cake you had for your twenty-first birthday, digging up every unkind word you ever said to your father and anything he might have said to you. The prosecutor will have a team of lawyers sorting out every scrap of information, planning every step of their case, looking up every legal decision that might help them to stick you in prison. Clerks, stenos, messengers, computers, whatever’s needed they have and will use. Sort of overwhelming, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “So?”
I gestured at my dusty office. “This is what you’ve got. A recovering alcoholic, who doesn’t even have a secretary, alone in an old office that hasn’t been used in years and looks it.”
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