Injustice

by Lee Goodman

  “Yeah, well,” Isler says.

  I tip back in my chair and stare up through the skylight. Nice day. Puffy clouds, blue sky.

  “. . . Jimmy Mailing,” Chip says, “and if he—”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “What about Mailing?”

  “I think it’s a no-brainer,” Chip says. “Mailing was Subsurface’s fixer. Mailing knew where the bodies were buried. He probably buried a lot of them himself. Then Mailing gets killed. Now we discover Subsurface and/or Billman diverted five million to who knows where. So do we think maybe Mailing knew a little too much?”

  “Yes,” Isler says. “Either he knew too much, or maybe there was an ownership dispute over the five mil.”

  “Have we looked through Mailing’s finances?” I ask.

  Again, this brings things to a momentary halt. Maybe they talked about this while I was admiring the sky.

  Upton to the rescue again: “Isler and his guys did a quick look after he was murdered, but they’re planning another look with combs of a finer tooth.”

  “Superb idea,” I say, trying to use energy and enthusiasm to give the impression I’m engaged and up to speed. I feel ridiculous, and I resolve to go back to my office, read all the messages and reports piled up there, and try to reenter the loop with more momentum.

  We adjourn. I walk back to my office alone. Finally, when I’m out in the open air with my legs moving, the idea of Subsurface catches wind in my mind again. I remember Voss, the Subsurface VP for governmental relations, telling the grand jury that the proposed tax legislation would cost the industry hundreds of millions. I know that Subsurface, Inc., lives or dies on the financial well-being of the whole industry, and while the piddly bribes paid to Calvin Dunbar and his ilk were easily folded into the accounting of a business the size of Subsurface, five point two mil kind of sticks out.

  Obviously, somebody over at Subsurface was paying somebody to do something. And the two guys most likely to have been involved, Billman and Mailing, are dead.

  My Volvo wagon is in the shop. It keeps overheating, and the mechanic I spoke with on the phone made the armchair diagnosis of a blown head gasket. So I’m sans Volvo for the next week or two. Kenny had a Toyota pickup that rides high off the ground and has shiny chrome bumpers and knobby tires. Flora and I offered to sell it for him when he went to prison, but he declined. I think it represents something to him: the promise of getting out and picking up his life where he left it. So I parked it out behind Flora’s garage, and we keep it under a tarp. Flora, Lizzy, and I use it anytime we need a truck, and we deposit a few bucks into an account for Kenny each time we take it out.

  Chip picks me up at my office after work. “How was Frisco?” he asks as we weave through town toward the highway.

  “I think it was great,” I say. “But I’ve been back three days, and with this trial and the Subsurface thing, who can remember that long ago?”

  “That’s like me,” he says. “I’ve got a good memory, it just doesn’t last very long.”

  I laugh.

  Traffic is jammed up. Daylight saving time ended a month ago. It has been dark out for an hour, and we’re getting a heavy, wet snow that clings under the wipers. “You should come over and spend Christmas with us,” Chip says. I don’t say anything, so he adds, “If you’re not . . . you know.”

  Five years ago Chip leaned on me during his marital upheaval. He’s aching to repay me now that my own domestic harmony has gone flat. His eagerness is disconcerting (and Christmas is several weeks away). “Thanks, Chip,” I say. “Very kind of you. But I expect I’ll be home with Tina and Barn.”

  “Oh, how wonderful,” he says, irking me even more.

  When we get to their house, Chip announces to Flora in a booming voice, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Flora comes over and hugs me. “You’ll stay for dinner,” she says.

  I protest feebly. She insists. I agree.

  Chip goes upstairs to change clothes, and I go back outside to pull the tarp off Kenny’s truck. I drive it around into the driveway.

  Poor Kenny. The truck was two years old when he went to prison. So even if he gets out at the first possible moment, it’ll be fourteen years old by then. He should have let us sell it.

  I go back inside. Chip comes downstairs and opens a beer for me and one for himself. “So who killed Jimmy Mailing?” he says.

  I say, “Until today, I didn’t really care who killed him. I figured it was the price he paid for living on the wrong side of the law. But now, considering the five million, I kind of like Voss for the perp.”

  “Voss? Which one is Voss?”

  “Bud Billman’s protégé. Vice president for governmental affairs. He’s an angry, entitled prick. I think he saw the corruption probe coming and figured the company would break apart when everything came out into the open. He’d lose millions when the company either got sold or filed Chapter Eleven, so he decided to take his share out now.”

  “But why—”

  “And since Mailing seemed to know everything that went on, Voss needed to keep him quiet.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “I don’t know. That’s more Isler’s area than mine. But if I had to guess . . .”

  The front door opens. Lizzy and Ethan come in, and my conversation with Chip gets derailed. After initial greetings and a big hug from Lizzy, she pulls me upstairs to her room, pushes me into her desk chair, and sits cross-legged on her bed flipping through some notes. On the desk beside me is a travel guide to Southeast Asia, another for Africa, a bunch of paperwork from the state legislative information office, and two books, one entitled Private Investigator’s Handbook, and the other Great Wreck Diving Around the Globe. (Lizzy has been talking about taking scuba lessons for years.)

  “I haven’t written a supplemental for my report,” Lizzy says, “but I thought I’d update you. Okay?”

  “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  “Remember I said how that tax law got delayed two years because someone kept hanging an amendment on it? It’s really weird. The amendments were about environmental stuff. They were antifracking regulations. And the legislator who proposed them, Porter, he’s a big environmentalist and way in favor of this tax increase.”

  “So the amendments make sense, don’t they?”

  “It only looks that way at first. They were too last-minute. There wasn’t enough time left before the recess to decide anything, so all they did was kill the bill for that year. Twice. So why would this anti-fracking, pro-tax, pro-environment representative do that? Why kill a bill you want, disguising it as environmental policy?”

  “Are you thinking he was in on something? Maybe getting a payoff?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but I thought we could think out loud . . .”

  Lizzy goes on chattering confidently, but I’m not very interested. I don’t want background, I just want conclusions. I nod pensively while she talks, trying to keep an ear open for anything significant, but what I’m really doing is conducting an archaeological survey of her room, visually uncovering the strata of her journey from little girl into this young woman who has the combined sensibilities of an academic, a sophisticate, a hippie, and a child. Among the books on her bookshelf, I spot a couple of old Nancy Drew books I bought for her at a yard sale long ago; a Bradford Angier book on wilderness skills that was mine as a kid; numerous books by her favorite authors like Jane Austen and the Brontës, and a well-read copy of Naomi Klein’s The Shock Doctrine. On the wall is a framed photo of the cabin up at the lake, taken from a boat offshore. There are posters tacked up on the walls publicizing some of the Occupy events, and a poster of the Dixie Chicks, and an artistic poster of a ballet dancer working at the practice barre. On the desk is a photo of Flora and me and baby Toby, taken about eleven years before Liz was born. An old trophy from some equestrian event is on the windowsill, dirty clothes are piled in the corner, a painting she did of Bill-the-D
og sits on the dresser with a papier-mâché volcano, a book on the Analects of Confucius, and a copy of West with the Night, by Beryl Markham. In the open closet are her Dr. Martens and a pair of high heels with open toes. Sticking out from under the bed, I see a pair of Ethan’s Jockeys. I don’t want to see Ethan’s Jockeys, so I slide my chair over to where they’re blocked by the corner of the bed.

  “Anyhow,” she says, “are you passing my reports along to Chip?”

  “No, honey, they’re just for me, so I can keep up with the Bureau.”

  “I thought I’d talk to CD again. See if he has ideas about Representative Porter: why Porter added that rider two years in a row.”

  “CD?”

  “Calvin Dunbar. That was his nickname when he was younger. It’s what his wife calls him. And I guess his close friends.”

  “Okay, fine, babe. Talk to CD. See what he says. But I only want you researching the legislation and only public information. Nothing about Subsurface and nothing behind the scenes. Okay?”

  “Why not? I’m having fun. I want to pry it wide open.”

  “Well, honey, to use the vernacular, new shit has come to light. So I’m stressing the fact that you’re just briefing me on some already public information. I’m impressed with your enthusiasm”—I pick up the Private Investigator’s Handbook from the desk—“but I don’t want you prying anything open. You’re just educating yourself and then me. You’re not uncovering anybody’s secrets. Agreed?”

  “But I think I could—”

  “Lizzy. Promise me: just research, no sleuthing?”

  I get her to agree, but she doesn’t like it.

  CHAPTER 44

  Morning. Barn was with Tina last night, and I spent part of the night parked in front of the house, sleeping in Kenny’s truck. Now I drive back over there to pick Barn up for preschool.

  “Coffee?” Tina says.

  I sit in the kitchen. She pours coffee for us and sits down.

  “How was the first day of trial?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. No surprises. You should come today.”

  Tina stares at me over her coffee cup. She is thinking it through. Her face is a map of unreadable emotions.

  “Are you okay, babe?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Okay, I guess,” she says. Her face gets stony, and for a second nothing changes. Then it gives way. She is sobbing.

  Tina lets me hold her, but we’re standing in the kitchen, and when, after a few moments, I try to tug her toward the other room where I can snuggle her properly on the couch, she finds her composure and disentangles herself from me. “You go. I’ll be fine.”

  I know that she won’t come to the trial. It’s too fraught. Besides the way it intersects with Lydia’s murder, besides her having gotten so close to Henry when they were in hiding, there is the seesaw dynamic between Henry and Daryl Devaney. Tina’s petition for a trial in the Devaney case is in the state supreme court. If Henry is convicted (as he certainly will be), that court will issue a quick one-page decision granting Daryl a trial; the case will get kicked back down to Matsuko’s court; Gregory Nations will dismiss the charges; and Daryl Devaney will get to go home. But if Henry is somehow acquitted, anything can happen, because now even more than before, with Kyle Runion’s murder of eight years ago becoming the biggest news in the state, nobody wants to get blamed for leaving empty the cell that should house his murderer. Gregory, Matsuko, the supreme court judges, and the cops will do nearly anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  News vans are at the courthouse again. Photographers snap, videographers film, reporters scribble. Most of them have no idea who I am, so I get into the courtroom without much interference.

  Gregory didn’t finish with his chain-of-custody witnesses yesterday. It turns out Detective Philbin had been the one to transport the box of evidence from the FBI back to trooper headquarters to be evaluated in the state crime lab. These facts create the opportunity Gregory needs to let the jury know all about Lydia’s murder. We expect Monica to object at any mention of Lydia’s murder, on the grounds that it is overly prejudicial. But if Gregory can get any mention of it before the jury, it will have the effect we want: Henry had a fiancée, she was murdered, the murder remains unsolved, and Henry stands accused of other heinous crimes.

  The jury will put it together.

  Philbin takes the stand. He is sworn. Gregory leads him through a terse summary of his involvement with the Kyle Runion case. Philbin tells us his only involvement was a couple months ago, when he was at the FBI for a meeting and was asked to transport a box of evidence back to trooper headquarters for testing in the state crime lab. Gregory asks whether, according to protocol, Philbin signed for the box when he picked it up at the FBI and again when it was left with the evidence clerk at the troopers. Philbin confirms that he did. Gregory shows Philbin the two ledgers documenting these exchanges. Philbin confirms his signature.

  With the chain of custody established, Gregory could dismiss the witness. But he doesn’t.

  MR. NATIONS: And what was your reason for being at the FBI to begin with?

  DETECTIVE PHILBIN: Like I said. A meeting.

  MR. NATIONS: A meeting about what?

  Philbin and Gregory and I all know that Philbin’s meeting was when we theorized that Tony Smeltzer had killed Lydia by mistake, intending to kill Tina. I assume the judge and Monica know this, too. But either I’m wrong about Monica, or again, she’s up to something. In any case, when she doesn’t object to the testimony, Philbin sees his chance:

  DETECTIVE PHILBIN: We were discussing the murder of Henry Tatlock’s fiancée.

  The effect in the courtroom is electric. The jury is riveted. All eyes shift to Henry. Reporters scribble.

  MR. NATIONS: The murder of his fiancée? What about it?

  Monica finally gets to her feet and objects. She seems tired and disinterested. In fact, she seems inept, and I suddenly know what the matter is with her. She, too, is repulsed. Monica knows Henry killed Lydia and that he committed unspeakable crimes against Kyle. She took this case intending to be Henry’s zealous advocate, but the facts have overwhelmed her. Lawyers run this risk—that they’ll be so disgusted by a client that they can’t go on. It happened to Kendall Vance once, but he dealt with it more creatively. Monica, it appears, has simply thrown in the towel.

  I’m bothered by her behavior, though not because I give a damn about Henry. Rather, I worry that Monica’s lackluster defense will leave Henry’s inevitable conviction vulnerable to an appeal based on ineffective assistance of counsel.

  Monica’s halfhearted objection is sustained. Gregory asks Philbin a few more innocuous questions, then he says, “Nothing further,” and sits down.

  Judge Ballard says, “Ms. Brill, do you wish to cross-examine?”

  “Not at this time, Your Honor, but I would like the opportunity to recall the witness later on.”

  Gregory opposes Monica’s request, but the judge says he’ll allow it. Philbin is allowed to step down. As he exits the witness box, I see a twinge of satisfaction in his jowly and generally unsmiling visage. He knows he got in a few good body blows against Henry, whom he seems to loathe so intensely.

  Gregory is finished with the chain of custody. He calls Paula Myrtle, director of the Orchard City branch of the state legal assistance corporation. She is a Birkenstock kind of woman, with salt-and-pepper hair hanging to her shoulders in untamed waves. Gregory asks about her organization, and she tells us they provide free legal assistance to low-income clients, particularly in child and family matters. Gregory questions her:

  MR. NATIONS: In your position at the legal assistance corporation, did you ever come in contact with the defendant, Henry Tatlock?

  MS. MYRTLE: Yes.

  MR. NATIONS: And can you tell us about that?

  MS. MYRTLE: Well, yes, Henry was in law school. He interned with us the summer after his first year.

  MR. NATIONS: What year was that?

  MS. MYRTLE: I checke
d my records before driving here today because, you know, we get scads of interns. And it’s hard to keep them all straight, but it’s a little easier with Henry because of, well, you know.

  MR. NATIONS: No. Tell us.

  MS. MYRTLE: The way he, um, looks. Memorable. So I remember him really well. Really, really well. But I had to check on the year, because, well, like I said. And it was 2006. Summer 2006.

  MR. NATIONS: And what were the dates he worked there?

  MS. MYRTLE: Right. Yes. I looked that up, too. He joined us on June fifth, then he left again on August twenty-fifth.

  MR. NATIONS: And when you say he left, you mean he left your employ on that date?

  MS. MYRTLE: Yes.

  MR. NATIONS: But do you know the date he actually left Orchard City to return to school?

  MS. MYRTLE: I guess I don’t.

  MR. NATIONS: And do you happen to know the date Kyle Runion disappeared?

  MS. BRILL: Objection.

  JUDGE: Sustained.

  MR. NATIONS: Or the date classes resumed at the law school here in town?

  MS. BRILL: Objection. Your Honor, how is this—

  JUDGE: Sustained. Mr. Nations, behave.

  Everyone knows Kyle Runion disappeared on September 4, and I’m sure we’ll learn that school started for Henry sometime after that. The time line is perfect. Henry had all summer to find a victim, learn his schedule, and then nab Kyle and be two hundred miles away within a few hours, never to return.

  CHAPTER 45

  It’s Friday afternoon. Barnaby, ZZ, and I drive up to the lake in Kenny’s truck. He’s four and a half, talking in complete sentences. Toddlerhood is behind him. He’s a little boy now.

  “Are you going to live in my house again, Daddy?”

  “Don’t you like Friendly City?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like the pool, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the big TV?”

  “Yeah.”