Mortal Allies sd-2

by Brian Haig

  She stopped pacing and gave me a discerning look. “Have you said anything on the phone that could be a problem?”

  “I don’t think so, but you never know.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, resuming her walk as she tried to discern the full context of this new twist.

  “Katherine,” I said, interrupting her thinking, “if they’ve done up my room, maybe they’ve done yours and the others as well. They may even have wired the hair parlor.”

  This was the point when her composure took a radical turn for the worse, because if the prosecution had access to every conversation we’d ever had, well, then our client was screwed. Picture being in a poker game where you can see through every card on the table; then triple the implications.

  She cursed a few times in a real unladylike way and stomped her tiny feet like a pouting child. “Shit, I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it.”

  “This means a mistrial!” she finally declared.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a gross violation of legal ethics. You read about this kind of thing in novels, but I’ve never heard of it in real life.”

  To which I very intelligently said, “Yes, well…”

  “You can’t honestly think we can avoid a mistrial, can you?”

  “Well,” I said, in my most conciliatory tone, since it was actually a surprisingly dumb question from someone with her legal acumen.

  “Well what, Drummond?”

  “How do you get a mistrial for a trial that hasn’t even begun?”

  She began ticking off her angry little fingers. “Okay, you get the venue changed. You get the prosecutorial team disqualified. You get their bar licenses revoked. You lodge a motion to have the charges dismissed.”

  “And if it turns out it was only my hotel room?”

  “You’re a member of the defense team.”

  “And if I can’t testify I said anything that compromises our case?”

  “I don’t care. The fact they’ve been listening is all we need to file a motion.”

  “No, you need evidence that ties the listening devices straight to the prosecution. You got that evidence, Katherine? I didn’t think so. Besides, our odds of getting a change of venue in this case are about zero. So what would we accomplish?”

  Since everything I’d said was true, for once Katherine was out of arguments.

  I said, “Look, I’ll arrange to get our rooms swept every day. Imelda knows how to handle it.”

  “All right. But if she finds any more bugs – and I mean one single bug – I’m blowing the whistle. Have her report directly to me.”

  “Okay, fine. There’s one other thing you and I have to talk over.”

  “What’s that?”

  I put on my most afflicted, woe-is-me expression. “Aren’t I sharing things with you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Aren’t I being helpful and open? Like this little thing?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, completely unaware, of course, about the separate investigation I was so diligently conducting.

  “I interviewed Bales this morning. He said you interviewed him, too. A week ago. How come I didn’t know about it?”

  “Oh that,” she said, with an innocent pout. “I just never mentioned it. There’s just so damned much on my mind. I forgot. Sorry.”

  I wasn’t buying it. Carlson has a memory like a computer hard drive. It loses nothing. It overlooks nothing. And it’s immune to viruses, power failures, and assorted other natural and unnatural disasters. She didn’t get to be little Miss Always First in the Class on low brain juice.

  “So it was a simple oversight?” I suggested.

  “Yes, a simple oversight. That’s all it was.”

  “I mean, you’d already studied the autopsy results. You’d already interviewed Bales. Is there anything else you’ve already done I should know about?”

  “Like what?”

  If it was anybody but her I would’ve taken that question at face value. “Anything?” I said, with a menacing look.

  Her expression became suddenly thoughtful, as though she were rummaging through her memory banks for anything worth noting.

  “Katherine?” I said, going on a hunch.

  “What?”

  “Tell me about Keith.”

  “What do you want to know about Keith?”

  “I’m just wondering why he got picked. Was he a target of opportunity? Or was he doing something that caused him to be targeted?”

  Again she went into her contemplative mode. “Off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything.”

  “No?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Because if I were to find out you were holding out on me, I’d probably get real pissed off.”

  Those green eyes searched my face. “Do you have some reason to doubt me?”

  I had a thousand reasons to doubt her. A million reasons. Hell, I couldn’t think of a single reason to trust anything she said. But in the interest of our newfound partnership, I thought it best to confine this discussion to the subject at hand.

  “Only that in the embassy Keith claimed his specialty was suing the government. But he accompanied you in your interview with Bales, didn’t he?”

  “He was along, yes,” she conceded. “But don’t give it any significance. He has a good legal mind so I wanted him along.”

  “But you must admit it’s curious that an attorney whose specialty is civil suits is collecting evidence in a murder investigation.”

  She smiled. “My specialty is civil rights narrowed down to homosexual suits. Look what I’m doing.”

  And I had to admit she had a very good point. Anyway, I needed to go get some things done, like arrange for Imelda to have all our rooms and offices swept for bugs.

  CHAPTER 17

  I went through the same rigmarole to get in to see Whitehall, only I went alone. His obstinate silence had me stymied. It struck me that if we met alone, he might become more loquacious. His being gay, maybe women made him nervous or tight-lipped.

  At least that’s what I told myself. The truth was, I figured I could get an inside edge on Carlson by building a better relationship with her client. I can be very sly that way.

  I even snuck in some treats in my briefcase – three Big Macs and a six-pack of Molson.

  The big Korean with oxlike shoulders did the routine of leading me to the cell and getting the door open. I told him I expected to be with the prisoner about an hour and invited him to lock us in together and then go do whatever big thugs do when their services aren’t in any great demand. He smiled, but it wasn’t a real fraternal smile, and I wondered if he was going to reappear when my hour was over.

  Whitehall was giving me a curious once-over as the cell door banged shut and was locked behind me. “You’re alone?”

  “That’s right, Tommy. I think it’s time we get better acquainted.”

  He stood up and walked over, to shake my hand I thought at first, but he stood stiffly in front of me. “Welcome to my world” was all he said, and although my eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dimness, I thought I saw a slight smile. His world was claustrophobic, especially when you cram two full-grown men into such a tiny, coffinlike space. It was intimate, though, which met with my designs.

  “I brought gifts,” I informed him, setting down my briefcase, flipping the locks, and reaching in to pull out two of the Big Macs. The smell immediately permeated the cramped space. The burgers were cold, but they were still the most American of meals, and after a week of rice and water, I knew they would have the desired effect. I handed him the first two and he simply stood for a moment squeezing and sniffing them, like he just couldn’t believe they were the real article.

  Then the wrappers were ripped off and he began gobbling them like an angry gargoyle, with gnashing teeth and grunts for swallows.

  “Slow down,” I warned. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

&nb
sp; “Screw it,” he replied, not slowing down the least bit.

  “Hey, I’ve got another little surprise,” I proudly informed him, withdrawing two cans of beer and opening the tops.

  They made that lovely pshht, and “Jesus” was all he murmured before he grabbed one and slammed it up to his lips. Half the contents disappeared in a single gulp.

  I patiently watched him finish it, as well as the second Big Mac, before I fell into the corner. He licked his fingers for a few seconds to get that final bit of flavor, then collapsed onto his sleeping mat. I handed him another beer.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “It sucks,” he admitted, belching from the effect of drinking a full beer in only two sips.

  I couldn’t resist. “Worse than West Point even?”

  He gave me a self-conscious, embarrassed expression. “I guess that sounded pretty stupid?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  We quietly sipped from our beers and stared at the walls.

  I finally looked over at him. “You gettin’ any exercise?”

  “One hour a day I go out into the courtyard and jog in a circle. They take me out at ten o’clock at night when the other prisoners are asleep. It’s for my own safety, they say. Other than that, I spend most of my days doing push-ups and sit-ups in here. It kills the time.”

  I chuckled. “Christ, you’ll turn into a beast.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Watch this.”

  He stood up, kicked off his sandals, put his feet against one wall, fell forward and placed his hands against the other wall, then began scaling the cell, using his hands and feet. He moved quickly, gracefully, like a cat. He made it all the way to the ceiling, gave it a small bump with his ass, then came back down the same way. He wasn’t even winded when he was done, like he could’ve done it a hundred more times.

  “That’s very impressive, Tommy,” I said, shaking my head. “They teach you that at West Point, that climbing-the-walls thing?”

  I heard a sudden gurgling sound in the back of his throat, the sound of a convulsive vomit being swallowed, then, “Oh shit. I never tried that after burgers and beer.”

  I chuckled some more. “Hey, I talked to some old friends of yours.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “I had a great chat with Ernie Walters. He sends his best. He asked me to tell you he still loves you. But like a brother, he says. He made me promise to be real clear on that point.”

  I heard a small “hmmph” come from somewhere deep inside Whitehall’s chest. “I’ll bet Ernie’s catching hell, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied. “The day I talked with him his desk was painted pink, the cadets changed the nametag on his door to read ‘Mrs. Whitehall,’ and his wife made him demonstrate he could perform his heterosexual obligations.”

  Whitehall brought his right hand up and began rubbing it across his lips.

  I said, “Hey, he’s keeping his sense of humor. And he’s telling everybody who asks that he still considers you his best friend.”

  “Ernie’s always been a damned good guy,” he said, still rubbing his hand across his lips.

  “He had great things to say about you. He even offered to climb on a plane and come testify on your behalf. Of course-”

  But before I could finish he said, “No.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said no. Don’t even think about dragging Ernie into this. The Army would destroy him. He’s got a wife and kids to worry about.”

  “Hey, Tommy, I wouldn’t worry about other people’s problems. He’s a big boy. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Tommy very firmly said, “I told you no. And don’t go looking for any other character witnesses, either. This is my problem and I won’t drag my friends down with me.”

  While I was deeply impressed by his loyalty, he wasn’t in any kind of position to be so noble. But there was no use wasting arguments on this one, at least not yet, since I still hadn’t found any worthy character witnesses to wrangle over. Besides, I had other, more important issues to resolve.

  I said, “I wouldn’t bring him over anyway. He told me about your boxing career. Shit, you must’ve been a terror in the ring. Unfortunately, that’s not real helpful right at this moment, because four straight years of West Pointers watched you fight and they all generally agree you’re a homicidal maniac. Couldn’t you have played tennis or something?”

  Of course, I was using this opportunity to broadly hint that I knew about the bone-snapping power of his fists, not to mention his penchant for flailing opponents nearly to death, and I wanted to hear how he’d reply.

  But he made no reply, he just stared at the far wall. So I continued. “I also talked to Ed Gilderstone. Can’t say it was a real chummy conversation or anything, but he still holds you in high regard. Not that he’s willing to lift a finger. He seems to like it inside the closet.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s Gilderstone.”

  “You expected him to react that way?”

  “A lot of old gays are like that. He’s spent decades hiding. The longer you do it, the more obsessive you get. You hide it from your parents, your family, your closest friends, from everybody. You don’t come out unless somebody drags you out, kicking and screaming.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Remember that gay magazine that got its kicks outing famous gays?”

  “Yeah, I guess I remember something about that.”

  “They caused two or three suicides, and more lawsuits than you could count. If you’re straight you can’t begin to understand the terror it can cause a gay who’s been trying to preserve a normal life.”

  “Is that why you want us to withhold an admission?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with it. I mean, it’s a fairly hollow denial, right? That part of the damage is done.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I won’t give them the satisfaction. Besides, Katherine says I shouldn’t.”

  Well, this was news to me. I mean, among many other things Katherine never mentioned was that she’d already advised her client on this issue.

  “She say why?”

  “She just thinks it’s a good legal strategy. And I see her point. The more burden of proof we put on their shoulders, the better our chances, right?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I admitted, because technically that was true. Most smart defense attorneys never freely concede a single point. They force the prosecutor to painstakingly prove everything, because even if he can prove everything, it still increases the odds he’ll make a mistake in the process. Except when it’s completely hopeless, because then the jury is apt to see the stonewalling as an admission the defense team hasn’t got a leg to stand on. In those instances, you only end up losing the goodwill of the jury members. An admission of Whitehall’s homosexuality struck me as one of those instances.

  And Carlson should know that, too. What in the hell was she thinking?

  “So, Tommy,” I continued. “Does your family know you’re gay?”

  “They know. They’ve known since I was old enough to walk. Some gays don’t realize it till pretty late in life. I knew it from the day I could think rationally.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I guess because I had a great family. My parents are remarkable people. They weren’t into pretenses or shame. They always just figured you are what you are.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “I’ve been trying to track them down. Your personnel file says you were raised in Denver, Colorado, but there’s thirty-two Whitehalls in the Denver greater metropolitan area. Nowhere in your personnel file does it list your parents’ first names. Could you help me out here?”

  “Leave them out of this,” he said. He said it very firmly, too.

  I let out a deep sigh. “Tommy, they’re your family. I’m sure they want to help, and they could be damned helpful. The way things stand right now, good character witnesses are essential.”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “They stay out of t
his.”

  I wasn’t going to give up this easily. “Look, there’s an impression out there that you’re some kind of nutso homo freak who beat, murdered, then raped a guy. It wouldn’t hurt to have your mother on the stand telling the board how cute you were as a baby, and what it was like to see you learning to crawl. Or your father talking about how proud he was the day you got accepted to West Point.”

  “It isn’t going to happen.”

  “Are there strains between you? Gilderstone said he never saw them visit you at West Point.”

  “No, no strains. I love them and they love me. They’re doing everything they can, but I want them left out of it. And don’t cross me on this, Major.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, recognizing a lost battle.

  But what the hell did I know? Maybe he was worried his mother would get up on the stand and say, “Tommy? My little Tommy? Why of course he killed that boy. From the day he was born, he used to love to play with webbed belts, wrapping them around his brothers’ and sisters’ necks. Why, it was a terrible strain on all of us.”

  And his father would say, “Damn was that boy happy to get into West Point. He was always homicidal anyway, and they promised to turn him into a professional killer.”

  I said, “Want another burger?”

  “You got another one?”

  I reached into my case, pulled out the last one and another beer. “Here.” I handed them to him. “Go slow. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “That’s the least of my problems,” he replied, and I guessed he was right.

  I leaned against the wall. “So what was it like growing up and knowing you were gay?”

  He didn’t answer for a while, just sat and munched his burger and sipped his beer. Finally he said, “Look, Major, I appreciate the hamburgers and the beer and the company. I really do. But don’t push it. You’re not my friend. You’re the lawyer the Army assigned to my case. Now, why’d you really come out here?”

  So much for my guileful attempt to bypass his defenses.

  “You’re right about the burgers and beers. I thought it might soften you up a bit. Can I be candid?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Be as candid as you want.”