“You’re wrong, Harry. We’ve got the broken glass in the garbage, blood on the carpet-different type from the semen. We do have evidence of a struggle with a different person than her lover.” It was an accurate analysis and Harry mulled it over.
“I guess you’re right. We have evidence that she might have struggled with Rudy, which would make him the more likely suspect-assuming that a struggle occurred.”
“You know as well as I do that it was Rudy, Harry. As the evidence stands now, we both know I won’t even be able to get an indictment. This kid is going to walk unless you help me, Harry.” Harry hesitated for a minute before declining Clay’s invitation to become a co-conspirator for the second time.
“No. No. I can’t do it, Clay.”
“Wait a minute, Harry. You were thinking about something. You were thinking about a way to do it, weren’t you?” Harry didn’t answer right away. He was still thinking. Finally, he started thinking out loud.
“Are you certain Charley Peterson is going to handle this case?”
“Yes, I am,” Clay lied. It was a reasonable lie. He was pretty sure the mother couldn’t afford a private attorney, which only left Charley. He knew where Harry was going. If Charley Peterson was on the case maybe he could fudge things a little.
“The report isn’t complete yet. Toxicology tests are still being performed. We could issue a preliminary report. I could inadvertently not mention the presence of semen in the original preliminary report but include it in the supplemental report. There’s no problem in doing that. I could delay the supplemental report for a couple of months, but after that you’re on your own. Anyone who asks for the supplement gets it. And if Charley Peterson is not the lawyer on this case, all bets are off.”
Clay was ecstatic. Harry had given him more than he had asked for, a legitimate way to hide the evidence. Charley Peterson in his normal state of inebriation couldn’t even spell supplement. He’d never ask for it in a million years, especially since the toxicology tests had nothing to do with the cause of death.
Clay’s initial ecstasy at Harry Tuthill’s compromise was all in the past now. Everything had changed dramatically with the appearance of the famous-more like infamous as far as he was concerned-Tracey James. There was no way he could hide the supplement from her.
Thirteen
Harold Victor Fischer had purchased an old two-story Victorian house on the outskirts of Vero Beach to serve as his professional office. Vero was for the most part a typical example of modern urban sprawl, Florida style, littered with high-rises, mobile home parks, and characterless, vanilla homes, block after block, one after the other like a monopoly board gone haywire. U.S. 1, which ran through the middle of town, was bordered on both sides by every restaurant chain in existence, their multicolored signs poking up at different heights like wild, psychedelic weeds on an ill-kept lawn. H.V.’s place stood out like a cultured, well-heeled thumb, which is exactly the way he wanted it-to stick out, that is. Culture wasn’t really his game, although H.V. was a most pretentious son of a bitch.
He’d originally set up his practice in Miami but the competition had been fierce. All his money had gone into advertising. He wasn’t bilingual and besides, everything in Miami was turned upside down. The vast majority of the people were absolutely certifiable, so H.V. typically found himself helping the marginally sane cope with the wholesale insanity of the world around them. It was a unique perspective, one that he never forgot, but as a daily diet he found it terribly unsatisfying-and it was beginning to tear at the borders of his own psyche. So he moved up the road to Vero, which was like taking a trip from Mars back to Earth.
H.V.’s reasons for choosing Vero were similar to Tracey’s. He wouldn’t have the competition of Miami but he’d be in an area large enough to attract a lucrative clientele. With H.V., the emphasis was on lucrative. He was definitely in it for the money.
He became a forensic psychiatrist, which meant that he didn’t treat people or “cure” them anymore-he sold his services to the highest bidder as an expert witness on cause and effect and everything else in between. He found Tracey, or she found him, soon after his move to Vero. It was a marriage made in heaven. Tracey moved clients through her office like logs through a paper mill, and a good percentage of them saw H.V. during the trip. Tracey and H.V. shared the opinion that everyone who was injured through the negligence of another had a psychiatric problem as a result.
Because Tracey usually settled cases at an early stage, H.V. was rarely deposed, so the public record of his opinions on behalf of her clients was scant. If the entire record were available, it would have revealed hundreds of opinions suggesting Tracey’s clients had psychiatric conditions ranging from mere depression to the more exotic, like post traumatic stress disorder, all caused by whatever trauma had befallen them. Those opinions translated into hundreds of thousands of dollars in settlements for the James gang and some tidy fees for H.V. as well-not that he didn’t deserve them. On the rare occasions when he did have to testify, H.V. was always well prepared, well spoken, concise and impossible to cross-examine. His credentials were more than solid: He had received his undergraduate degree from Cornell and his medical degree from Penn. When asked about having worked with Ms. James in the past, the doctor’s pat answer was: “I seem to recall that I have but I’m not sure of the name of the client, or clients, or the date. I am called by a great number of attorneys.”
In the modern world of relativism it was known as selective recall.
Rudy was a little different from H.V.’s run-of-the-mill clients. H.V.’s testimony in criminal cases had usually related to insanity or competency to stand trial. But in Rudy’s case Tracey wanted to test a unique legal theory: that because of his limited intelligence Rudy was unable to comprehend and waive his Miranda rights. It was about more than competency, an argument Tracey knew she might lose. It was about competency combined with naivete. Tracey wanted to be able to argue to the judge that, because of his diminished mental capacity, Rudy simply could not refuse to talk to Wesley Brume when Wesley asked him a question, regardless of the fact that Wesley had advised him of his right to remain silent. Because it was a tricky point, H.V. had been given carte blanche in the spending department, an opportunity he did not fail to exploit. The first order of business was a trip to Bass Creek to visit his patient.
Rudy had been in the Cobb County jail for about three weeks when H.V. showed up. Like everyone, Rudy had heard horror stories about jail and was expecting the worst. But it was all quite calm-boring, actually. There were very few prisoners in the county jail and Rudy settled into a routine early on: breakfast in the morning at seven, karate exercises after that, then pushups and situps. The guard had told him he’d literally have to fight for his ass when he hit the state prison system and Rudy wanted to be ready. In the afternoon he did some cardiovascular work, playing basketball or running around the exercise area.
Elena came in the afternoon. She was allowed to come every day because it was county jail, but her visits were hard on Rudy. He was used to hugging and kissing his mother. Seeing her every day but not being able to touch her was like torture. It might have been better if her visits had been less frequent, but nobody could convince either of them of that fact. Elena had never been overprotective of Rudy. She knew it was going to take longer for her son than most young men, but she had always wanted him to stand on his own two feet. Now he was in prison and it was, at least in part, her fault. This was new territory. She didn’t know if Rudy was strong enough to handle such an ordeal. She just wanted him to know she was there for him-every day.
At night, he had books and magazines to read that Elena had brought. Sometimes, though, in the middle of the night he’d dream about state prison and being attacked by gangs of men. They’d call him “stupid” and “dummy” as they held him down for the final act of humiliation. Rudy always woke up before it happened. Shaking and sweaty, he’d lie there for hours, afraid to close his eyes.
I’ll neve
r let it happen, he told himself. They’ll have to kill me first. Then he’d think of the osprey. Flying above it all, swooping down at the perfect moment for the kill. Or the gator, biding his time, always staying cool. I’ll be like them. Fearless, ready to kill. Only then could he fall back to sleep.
His first visitor, besides his mother, was Tracey James herself. Tracey came the second week. She really didn’t need to see Rudy, didn’t need to hear his story at this point. She just wanted to eyeball him, get a feel for the extent of his intellectual deficit, so she could provide a firsthand observation to the judge when the time came. Unlike regular visitors who talked to the prisoners through a screen, Tracey actually met Rudy in a room where they could face each other and talk.
“I’m your lawyer,” she told him after she introduced herself. Rudy smiled.
“I know. My mother told me all about you. She said you’re the best.” It was Tracey’s turn to smile, even blush a little.
“I don’t know about that, but we are going to do our best to get you out of here.”
“I know.” Rudy repeated the words with such confidence that even Tracey was taken aback. Most of her clients were a little less confident and a little more demanding and colorful in their choice of words. Tracey felt the need to file a disclaimer.
“I can’t guarantee anything. There’s a possibility we’ll lose.”
“I know,” he repeated again, still smiling at her. “But you’ll do your best.”
Tracey didn’t know how to respond to such a pleasant, reasonable observation. “Yes, well, I have a few questions to ask you and I want you to respond to just those questions and nothing more. We’ll talk more after I get a copy of your statement to the police, but for now let’s stick to the questions I ask. Okay?”
“Sure,” Rudy replied, the same smile on his face. Doesn’t he know where he is? Tracey wondered.
Later that day, Tracey filed her motion to have bond set. Rudy was now being held without bond and she debated whether to file the motion at all. Elena could barely raise the reduced retainer and she had no property that could serve as collateral. Bond in a capital case was going to be over a hundred thousand dollars, at the very least. Elena could neither post bond nor convince a bondsman to post it on her behalf. As a practical matter, the motion was a waste of time. However, it was a billable waste of time and Tracey’s specialty was churning hours.
When they first met, H.V. had not been surprised by Rudy’s upbeat nature even though he was in jail. H.V. had worked with retarded children in Connecticut for a year during his residency and had noticed that they were consistently cheerful. He remembered one of his colleague’s remarks as they were observing a classroom of children laughing and having fun:
“And they’re the retarded ones. I don’t think so.”
H.V. recalled those words the moment Tracey told him about Rudy and his inability to say no to Detective Brume. None of those kids he remembered would have or could have refused. The hard part would be explaining this to a judge.
H.V. tried to be as upbeat as Rudy during that first meeting, pasting a smile on his face and extending his hand.
“Hi Rudy, I’m Harry Fischer.” He never, ever referred to himself as Harry. It had taken him years to cultivate the moniker H.V. among colleagues and patients and the few friends that he had. But this was a rare event-fieldwork-and a unique assignment that called for a different, more flexible approach. He needed Rudy to feel totally relaxed in his presence.
“Hi, Harry,” Rudy replied, shaking Harry’s hand. Harry seemed like a nice guy but he looked a little out of sorts dressed in blue jeans, tee shirt and running shoes. “Can I get you something, Harry? Coffee? Tea?”
H.V. looked around somewhat bewildered. They were in a small room with a table, the same room where Rudy met Tracey James the week before. H.V. wondered how the kid could order up drinks. Rudy watched him looking around but didn’t say anything.
“They let you do that?” H.V. finally asked. He saw the smile start to form on Rudy’s face and he knew he’d been had. Nothing left to do but laugh at himself.
They laughed a lot that day. Harry really enjoyed himself. It brought him back to a time in his career when he was working with kids and having fun, even making a difference. He came away from the meeting convinced that Rudy was a lot smarter than his IQ suggested, but he did have that simple, wonderful naivete of the retarded. He had convinced himself. Now he had to convince the court that Rudy could no more have refused to talk to Wesley Brume than a dog could refuse to chase a cat that ran across its path.
Before that day in court, however, H.V. had a lot of work to do: gathering school and medical records and poring over them for hours; a few more visits to Rudy; psychological tests; intelligence tests. Most of it was fluff, window dressing for his underlying opinion. But it would serve its purpose in one important regard-as justification for his exorbitant fee.
Fourteen
1966
It had been a sweltering summer in the city and this night in late August was no different. Johnny was in the back room of his parents’ four-room railroad flat, his room, lying in his bed by the open window trying to drift off to sleep.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” He recognized Mikey’s voice coming from the fire escape.
“No. But not tonight, Mikey. I can’t. I’m too tired.” All summer long the boys had been saying goodnight to their parents, going to bed, and then sneaking out the back window, down the fire escape, and up the alley to the street and freedom. They didn’t do it every night, usually just Friday and Saturday, but this week had been unusual and Johnny was exhausted.
“I don’t want to go out either. Just wanted you to know I lined up a job for us when school starts.” It was the “us” that caused Johnny to sit up and take notice. Mikey was always lining up jobs for “us”-like the job at Jimmy the Shoemaker’s. Johnny loved the job but Mikey made most of the money.
“I make thirty dollars a day, sometimes forty on a Saturday,” he had told Johnny when he was recruiting him to be his understudy. Johnny had forgotten to ask how much he was going to make. And that wasn’t Mikey’s only job. In the wintertime, he worked at Schuler’s cleaners on Lex, just a few stores up from Jimmy’s, delivering dry-cleaning.
Johnny started to protest but gave up. When Mikey had an idea, he was so positive and enthusiastic there was no talking him out of it, so why try?
“So what’s the new job?” Johnny asked, his eyes still half closed. Mikey leaned against the fire escape and folded his legs up so that his knees were at the same height as his shoulders. He was dressed in nothing but his Fruit of the Looms. He never wore an undershirt.
“We’re gonna be ushers at church.”
“What? Us? Ushers? That’s a job for rich old men. They’d never hire us. Besides, I’ve had enough of church to last me a lifetime.”
His response didn’t even cause Mikey to pause. “We’re all set. I’ve already talked to Tom. We’ve got the job.” That was Mikey. Tom Roney was a funeral director who had buried almost every prominent New Yorker who’d ever lived. He supervised the ushers as a public service. Somehow he was “Tom” to Mikey. “Pays eight bucks a Mass. Four Masses a week. And we don’t have to hang around for the whole show. We just have to seat people, take their money halfway through and usher ’em out at the end. You get it? That’s why they call us ushers.”
“How’d you line this up?”
“I ran into Tom last week after church. He told me he was looking for a couple of ushers. Asked me if I knew anybody. I scoped it out a little more as to time and money, then I told him you and I would take the job.
“Why’d ya do that without talkin’ to me?”
“Hey, it might not be there tomorrow. Ya gotta strike while the iron is hot. You can always back out.” He paused for a moment like Johnny knew he would. “But you won’t wanna. This is easy work. Easy money.” Johnny just nodded. Like it was going to be real easy staying out all Saturday night and
getting up at the crack of dawn on Sunday. He didn’t say anything, just smiled to himself. He knew it would be fun. Everything he did with Mikey was fun.
They started the next week, eight o’clock Mass, and they actually made it on time: black suits, black ties, black shoes, white shirts. Very white faces, at least for Johnny. He’d puked before leaving the house that morning. He was sixteen now, Mikey was seventeen, and they’d started drinking-courage for the Saturday night dance. Maybe they could meet a girl. Maybe they could “make out,” although Johnny would have been happy just to get to the meeting stage. You needed courage to do that. At least he did. Mikey just liked to drink. “Courage” was a couple of half quarts of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. Malt liquor got you buzzed quicker than the regular stuff but it also made you a whole lot sicker. Johnny spent his first day on the job seating people, puking; taking the collection, puking; ushering people out at the end of Mass, puking. So far this job was working out as expected.
Father Charles Burke was the pastor of St. Francis parish, a big Irishman with a warm heart and a predisposition for good scotch. He too was one of Mikey’s fans. In fact, he gave Mikey his nickname after nine o’clock Mass one Sunday. Johnny had just finished escorting Mikey’s mother down the church steps because Mikey was incapacitated at the time. It was his turn to “hug the bowl,” as they endearingly called it.
“Good morning, Mary,” Father Burke sang in his best Irish brogue. (He was born on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx.) “And where’s the Mayor of Lexington Avenue?” He looked at Johnny, who didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“Who?” Mary Kelly asked.
“Young Michael. The Mayor of Lexington Avenue.” He repeated the title as if they both should have recognized it as a matter of course.
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