He was right. The D.A.’s case would suggest that Burden had lured Laurel Rose to the park with the express purpose of killing her: premeditated murder. The logical counter-case—and, Langley thought, he’d better get cracking on it—would be to suggest that the meeting took place at Laurel’s request. Or, even better, that she had sprung the meeting on Burden. Only after they had met in the park did old memories and hurts start to eat at Burden, he loses control and… diminished responsibility: second degree murder, maybe even manslaughter. It should not have been up to Wickersham to suggest this.
Langley thanked Wickersham for his time and help. Graciously, Wickersham didn’t make a big deal of it.
***
After hanging up Langley didn’t go to bed. He knew he wouldn’t sleep. Mentally he replayed the events of the day, and they positively made him dizzy. He’d done not one, but two one-hundred-eighty degree turns in less than twenty-four hours. He had had so many things completely backwards.
Whereas just that morning he felt he was beginning to understand Burden just a little bit, he now felt more estranged from him than ever. DeBrough hadn’t wronged Burden; he had wronged DeBrough. Laurel Rose hadn’t used Burden; he had used her. Carrying that one step farther led to the obvious conclusion that Laurel had not summoned Burden to the park, but had been summoned by him. His purpose: to kill her. Not to discuss with her some “scheme” to get at DeBrough; to kill her. For months he had brooded over her betrayal (if that was the right word to describe her act: she was after all, from her point of view, in a phony marriage). He told her to meet him in the middle of the deserted park just before dark; hayseed that she was, she fell for whatever explanation he gave her. Knowing that Cooney and Luray leave early, he arranged to meet her at 4:45 when he is “known” to be still on the job. Maybe that was going to be his alibi. Kill Laurel, then return to the playground and—what?—set a fire or something, so that he can call the police (Langley remembered there was a police phone right outside the park house), establishing that he was in the playground when Laurel was attacked. Only, when he attacked her he lost control and went completely berserk. Worse luck, he did it in front of a witness.
Langley’s job now was to turn all this around to make it look as if Laurel had provoked him somehow. How? By confronting him unexpectedly? Perhaps she had taunted him (“I’m carrying your baby”). Langley stopped; he simply wasn’t up to it.
His other hundred-eighty degree turn had to do with DeBrough. Make it a ninety-degree turn, for DeBrough was far from an innocent. Still, he had been used, by both Burden and Laurel Rose. Notwithstanding that, he had offered to pay Burden’s legal fees. Certainly, there was considerable self-interest involved, but there was also more than a little generosity.
Langley felt a sudden urge to apologize to DeBrough for some of the things he had said earlier that evening. He started to reach for the phone, but then remembered the time. By now it was after two. He would do it first thing in the morning.
But the next morning when he opened the paper, he read that DeBrough’s mother had died.
CHAPTER 11
Somehow Burden looked different. His skin had begun to take on the prison pallor of those who never saw the sun. But it was more than that, Langley thought. Burden looked older. And smaller; shrunken, as if he had lost weight and muscle tone.
He sank slowly into the chair opposite Langley. Then, as usual, he just sat there waiting for Langley to speak first. In their several meetings he had not once started the conversation. Not so much as “What’s new?” It was as if he were waiting for Langley to act first so that he could decide how to react. Inevitably, it put him in the position of being on the defensive. Or maybe not, Langley thought. Maybe he was on the defensive, by virtue of his having to speak first. Certainly, it was always difficult for him to know how to begin. Today it was going to be worse than ever.
“It’s time we put our cards on the table, Mr. Burden,” he said.
Burden just looked at him. Great.
“When I go into court,” Langley said, “I have to have a plan of action. In your case certain options are closed to me. I can’t, for example, claim you were in Kansas City on the day Laurel was murdered, because you were caught at the scene. I can’t claim you didn’t know the victim, because you did. Nor can I argue that you had no reason to kill her. Add to that your knife with your fingerprints and Laurel’s blood on it. Finally, stir in an eyewitness who will finger you at the trial. And what have we got?”
Burden didn’t say anything and the last of Langley’s patience ran out.
“Are you with me so far, Burden?”
“So far you haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know.”
“All right, here’s something you may not have considered: A year from now there’s a good chance you will be moldering in your grave having been fried in the electric chair.”
“I know that,” Burden said.
The matter of fact way he said it briefly unsettled Langley.
“What we have to discuss,” he said then, “is how to prevent that. I can think of two ways, neither of which has any guarantee of success. One, we try to show that Laurel accosted you in the park, provoked you… and you lost control and without really meaning to you killed her.”
That got a reaction. “What the Christ are you talking about?” His voice rising, Burden said, “Are you defending me or prosecuting me?”
“The idea,” Langley said, “is to persuade the jury to find you guilty of second degree murder as opposed to first degree murder.”
“Well, fuck that. I’m not guilty of any degree murder.”
“Okay, option two.” Langley took a deep breath. “Option two, we try to prove you not guilty by reason of insanity.”
“Forget it,” Burden said.
“I’m not saying you are insane, Burden. I’m suggesting we try to persuade a jury that you are.”
“Forget it.”
Both “Forget its” had been delivered quietly. Burden speaking sotto voce was somehow more intimidating than Burden shouting. Langley wondered how far he should press his luck.
“We’re talking a very limited range of options here, Burden. Given an either-or choice, wouldn’t you rather live in an institution than die in the electric chair?”
“Would you?”
Langley wasn’t going to play that game with him. “Let’s get something straight here,” he said. “I’m the lawyer; you’re the client. I’m the expert; you’re the guy who hired me for my expertise. When you go to the doctor, you don’t tell the doctor what to do.”
“No doctor is going to cut off my leg without consulting me first and securing my go-ahead. Nor will you do anything I don’t agree to. There’s no way in hell I’m going to plead insanity, when a) I’m not insane and b) I’m not guilty.”
“One of the symptoms of mental illness,” Langley said, “is that the sick person sometimes doesn’t realize he’s sick.”
“Do you think you’re mentally ill?” Burden asked him.
Langley could see where that was going to lead.
“If you don’t trust my counsel,” he said, “maybe you’d be happier with another lawyer.”
“Happier than what?” Burden said. “I don’t want another lawyer. You’re my lawyer. I didn’t ask for you; you sold yourself to me. To quit on me now would be unethical.”
“Unethical? That’s an odd word, coming from you. What do you know about ethics?”
“I’m the most ethical person you’ll ever meet. All right, I may not do anything for you, but then I won’t do anything to you, either. I won’t lie to you or steal from you, or cheat you, or hurt you, except in retaliation.”
Langley said, “I’m only thinking of your own good, Burden.”
“No one has thought of my good in my life, except me. I think of my good; you think of your good. What is this really about? Are you afraid you won’t get paid? Have you been offered
a better case? What?”
“Nothing like that,” Langley said. Might as well go for the brass ring, he thought. “I don’t like you, Burden.”
“I don’t like you, either.”
“And I think your story is a crock of shit.”
“If I had a lawyer dumb enough to believe my story, I’d really be in trouble. The story is not meant to be believed.”
“Look,” Langley said, feeling his authority slipping away, “I can’t allow you to dictate how I should prepare my case.”
“I’m not going to argue with you,” Burden said. “If you’re quitting, get the fuck out of here right now. Don’t waste one more second of my time.”
Just get up and walk out, Langley told himself. At this stage of the proceedings, he would have no trouble getting himself removed from the case. Later, it might be a different story. So get up and walk out. Now. From his appearance, Burden couldn’t stop him if he wanted to. And if Burden should hold a grudge, by the time he got out of prison—if he got out of prison at all—he’d be too old to do much, if anything, about it.
“What in hell is it you want of me, Burden?” Langley asked. “I mean, you say you don’t care if I believe your story even. What do you want?”
“I want you, even if you think my story is the biggest cock-and-bull fairy tale you’ve ever heard, to act as though my story were true. And that means finding out why Luray killed Laurel Rose.”
“What about the trial?”
“Forget about the trial. If my case goes to trial, I lose.”
“If your case goes to trial? Is there an alternative? Can you think of a way to avoid a trial? If so, tell me.”
“I’m facing the facts. If the case goes to trial, you might as well plead me guilty. I’m not going to plead insanity. And the way things have been stacked against me, you could be a cross between Clarence Darrow and Jesus Christ and it wouldn’t matter.”
Langley reached under his chair and picked up his briefcase. Over the past couple of days, he had played this meeting, in countless variations, in his mind. Most of the scenarios he had conjured up ended with him walking out on Burden. But all along he had known in his heart that, when it came time to act, he wouldn’t be able to do it.
Setting the briefcase down on the table, he opened it and removed his notepad. He saw the book inside and remembered.
“Here,” he said, handing the book to Burden. “I brought you this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a book,” Langley said. “One of the three you asked me to bring last time, remember?”
“I thought you said my landlady had thrown it out.”
“She did. I bought this in a store.”
“I’ll pay you for it,” Burden said.
“It’s a present,” Langley said.
“I don’t accept presents.”
“It’s Christmas in four days.”
“I don’t care what it is,” Burden said. “I’ll pay you for the book or you can keep it.” He started to hand the book back.
“Fine,” Langley said. “I’ll add it to your bill. Plus the sales tax and the cost of the subway into Manhattan to get it.”
“Every penny of it. I want to owe you nothing.”
The interview had gotten off to the worst start possible. Langley sought for a way to get the proceedings back on track.
He said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
Burden looked confused. Was it possible he had not heard the news? Ardel DeBrough had been buried just this morning. Langley was telling himself he should have come here to break the news of her death to Burden in person, when the expression on Burden’s face cleared.
“His mother,” he said.
“Legally she was your mother, too.”
“Do you know the story of my adoption?” Burden asked.
“The Trash Can Kid,” Langley said.
“That’s right. Do you know when I was a small boy if I did something wrong, she would threaten to throw me back in the trash can?”
“Did you believe her?” Langley asked.
“Of course I believed her. A child will believe anything he’s told. Give him the bit about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or God, and he’ll swallow it all whole. So yes, I believed her—for a time. But eventually I wised up. Suddenly the idea that she would throw me in the trash can was absurd. I think that was the day—and it wasn’t a day; it happened over a period of weeks and months—but that was when I grew up. Somehow, she seemed to sense it. I never said anything to her and she never said anything to me. We never had a final shootout or anything like that, but from that time on she never again threatened to dump me.”
“I can understand why you’re bitter about her.”
“I don’t think I am. You see, ultimately I got the better of her. She didn’t dump me; in a sense, I dumped her. I left. As soon as I had my high school diploma, I took off. I left with the clothes on my back and nothing else, and I never looked back. I’d have cleared out sooner, but I didn’t think she would allow it—it wouldn’t look good, don’t you know, having a child, even an adopted child, run off like that. I went straight from high school into the army. I enlisted two days after my seventeenth birthday.”
“I expect you must have a lot of painful memories.”
“Looking back, I can get in a lather about a lot of things that went on during those years. But at the time I don’t honestly think I was unhappy. I don’t think any child, except the one who is being obviously mistreated, is unhappy—at the time. You don’t know any better. If you lack something, how do you know it? I was adequately clothed, fed and educated. On the other hand, I have no particular reason to be grateful to Mrs. DeBrough. What she did she did for herself, not for me.”
“Is that what you called her, ‘Mrs. DeBrough’?”
“That’s what I called her.”
“What did your brother call her?”
“He called her Mother, with a capital ‘m.’”
“Did she favor him over you?”
“What do you think?”
“Were you jealous?”
“No.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true. Even now I wouldn’t trade places with him. I mean, I would rather be out of jail than in. And I’d rather be rich than poor. But I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Not now. Not then.”
“Why not?”
“As you’ve no doubt noticed, I’m a pretty odd piece of work. Even so, compared to my brother I’m almost normal.”
“Really?”
“I have a conscience; for lack of a better name, call it that. If I do something wrong, I feel guilty. Now psychiatrists say that’s a terrible thing: feeling guilty. But imagine a world populated with people incapable of feeling guilt. As it is, conscience is a rare and delicate thing. It’s easily killed. It can be killed intentionally or inadvertently, selectively or wholesale. Each time you do something that makes you feel guilty, you kill a part of your conscience; and if you do a particular act often enough, a time will come when you no longer feel guilty about doing it. That’s DeSade.”
“What is?”
“That bit of philosophy.”
Wonderful, Langley thought. Maybe we can have you quote DeSade from the stand.
“Of course DeSade advocated such acts: if something troubles you, well hell, keep doing it until it doesn’t bother you anymore. An unnecessary call, I think; our consciences fade anyway, the way a sea wall is eroded over the years by the surf.”
“Is that what happened to your brother?”
“I’m not sure he ever had a conscience. Like little Rhoda, he might have been born without one. If he had one, it was snuffed by his mother while he was still in the cradle. From the day he was old enough to grasp the idea, it was drummed into his head that he was a DeBrough and that, as a DeBrough, the world was his oyster; and if the oyster didn’t pop
open for him, the pearl rolling forth into his hand, then he should break the oyster open by any means necessary and seize the pearl for himself. He was not so much raised by Mrs. DeBrough as trained. The way an animal is. He learned well. I can almost feel sorry for him.”
“Why?”
“He’s a pathetic specimen. He has no sense of right or wrong, which puts him morally on the level of a cockroach. Worse, there’s no possibility of redemption for someone like him, a man for whom nothing is wrong. How can you repent doing something you don’t think is wrong? That’s one of the flaws of Christianity. How can God hold morally responsible a man who has no moral sense? Call Adolph Hitler before the Celestial Court on Judgment Day and he’ll stand proud; in his own eyes, he did nothing wrong.”
“How do you know what was in Hitler’s mind?”
“Well, I don’t. But it’s been my observation that most evil acts are not done by people who set out to do something evil but by people who morally don’t know any better. I doubt even God could make these people see differently. To send such a person to Hell— Well, I suppose that would be the ultimate Hell: to be punished and never to understand why.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t.”
“So you don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, either.”
“I don’t. The idea of Hell is scary. The idea of Heaven is almost as bad. Can you imagine being blissfully happy forever? I think ten minutes of blissfulness would be about as much as I could stand.”
“What do you believe in?”
“As the philosopher said, Life is shit and then you die.”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing.”
“If that’s the way you feel, why do you go on?”
Burden shrugged. Langley had learned not to take the gesture as a sign of indifference. Given Burden’s willingness to answer most of his questions, even the very personal ones, frankly, Langley had come to understand that those times when he refused to answer he had a reason. Perhaps he had in fact considered suicide.
“How did you and your brother get along?”
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