by David Ellis
“Look,” I said. “This isn’t the original ink on the statement. This is a photocopy.”
“Yes,” said the staffer, breaking into a full smile. “It sure is.”
I flipped past that page to the petitions, the people who signed to put Lang Trotter on the ballot. They contained the original ink. They were the original petitions. I returned to the first page, ran my hand over it.
I put two and two together and jumped from my chair.
Lang Trotter did not file the original of his statement of candidacy. He filed a photocopy. The filing of the statement of candidacy is a requirement, an absolute prerequisite to running for governor or any other office. And though there is no reported court decision on the issue—and I would know better than anyone—there is no doubt in my mind that a copy of the statement of candidacy is insufficient. I know it and the memorandum on my lap confirms it.
Attorney General Langdon Trotter’s nominating papers are invalid. He is therefore disqualified from running for the office of Governor.
The way I’m holding this memo, you’d think it was the original of the Declaration of Independence. I’ve even kept it in the thick manila envelope in which it was sent, by messenger, to my office a couple weeks ago. The package rests at my feet, the side torn open, the mailing sticker “Dale Garrison & Associates” in the corner. Dale Garrison is the lawyer in town to whom we turned to confirm my original conclusion—that with this mistake in his nominating papers, the prohibitive favorite for governor, Langdon Henry Trotter, is history.
Jake, on the verge of resuming sleep, casts hooded eyes in my direction. I reach for him to pat his mashed-up face, but he leaps to his feet as the phone rings. I jump myself. We stare at each other a moment, the three of us wondering who in the hell is calling at four in the morning.
My voice isn’t ready for human conversation. I manage a “hello” in a gravelly voice.
Bennett Carey speaks deliberately, starting with an apology for the call. I almost cut him off with a sarcastic comment, but then his words register. I make him repeat them, in his even style. Then I hang up and head for the closet.
I dress for the occasion, which is to say I take a stab at formality for the middle of the night. A dress shirt with the collar open, suit trousers. I run some water over my hair, then head for the door.
The wet city wind slaps me when I leave the house. I feel like someone has pushed me into a warm shower against my will. I find a cab quickly enough and direct the driver to head across town. Like me, the cabbie doesn’t know exactly where Vine Street is. I tell him to head east on Allegheny and look for red flashing sirens.
We find it. The police squad cars have pulled up in stereotypical form, parked haphazardly in diagonals along the street, their red and blue lights flashing long after the emergency has subsided.
I recognize Bennett’s place. A brick townhouse built in the ’80s, a good 1800 square feet stacked three floors high to maximize lateral real estate space during the yuppie invasion.
An officer stops me at the door. I show him what credentials I possess, a business card from my law firm and the wallet-sized certification the state supreme court gives to every lawyer who passes the bar. The officer accepts my presentation but steers me away from the threshold of the front door. We have to take the other route in, he says, through the sliding glass door. As he moves me back onto the patio, I look over his shoulder at the corpse on the black-and-white tile floor.
I get a better look once we come in the other door. The bottom floor of Bennett’s apartment has a large room that some would call a den, but which Bennett apparently considers a workout room. With a thin cream carpet and plain white walls, the room is filled with iron dumbbells, a weight bench holding an imposing stack of plates on each side of a metal bar, and some contraption that seems to allow for pull-ups and other feats of gymnastic agility. Across the tiled hallway is a door to the garage and a door to a laundry room. Otherwise, the only thing to do is take the stairs up to the second floor.
But first, I want another look at the body. I tiptoe with authority, a lawyer officially checking the crime scene. The officer grabs at me; someone taking photos of the corpse glares at me. I move no further but insist that I need to take a look. I tell them I am entitled to see the body in its original pose. That could be true, that could not be true. I don’t have any experience in this arena. The plain fact is, more than anything, I simply have never seen a dead body at a crime scene before.
The body is stomach-down, face turned to one side. He is a white guy. Late thirties to an untrained eye. His beard has a day’s worth of growth. His face is bent in contortion, something between a grimace and a cry. His arms are away from his body and bent up at ninety-degree angles like goalposts in a football stadium, palms down. His right leg is drawn up, bent slightly. Again, to the untrained eye, giving the impression he was in the midst of flight—an impression I stifle. He is wearing a wool cap and a black leather jacket with three sizable holes in the back, bordered by dried blood. Blood is everywhere, in fact, as look I around. Splatters on the walls and a healthy pool beneath the body.
A middle-aged man comes bouncing down the stairs in a stained overcoat and a shield clipped to the collar. He looks at me and then at the officer behind me. “Who the hell is this?” he asks, nodding at me.
I flash the credentials again.
“No, huh-uh. Outside.” He waves at me with his index finger. I catch a whiff of his aftershave.
“It’s his house,” I say.
“It’s our house,” says the man. “Crime scene.”
Scary thought, but he has a point. We settle on the garage, given the intermittent rain outside. The officer opens the door and I step in. No car in sight, though I recall Bennett drives something silver and foreign. The only sign of it is an oil stain on the concrete floor. The orange pull, used to disconnect the overhead garage remote, dangles lifelessly in the center of the ceiling, next to a single lightbulb. A thick strip of pinewood has been nailed horizontally along the two side walls and contains hooks to hold various tools for yardwork and snow shoveling. Even with all the tools and the old window screens propped up against the wall along with the paint cans, the garage seems utterly vacant without an automobile.
There is a small square window on the garage door. Through it I see a small gathering of neighbors huddled outside. I feel a pang of remorse for Bennett.
The door opens. A man comes through wearing shirtsleeves, no tie. “Detective Eric Paley,” he says.
I shake his hand. “Jon Soliday,” I say.
Detective Paley has a long, comforting face, well-lined, with expressive eyes. He looks like somebody’s father. “I’m a little curious why Mr. Carey called a lawyer.”
“He called a friend,” I say. “We work together.”
Paley raises a hand, allows a smirk. “Okay, a friend. But a friend doesn’t have the right to talk to him just at this second.”
“Then I’m his attorney. And I’d like to see him right away.”
The detective purses his lips and nods absently at the ceiling. “You can talk to him,” he says, as if he’s being generous. He leaves the garage with no outpouring of gratitude from me.
Bennett walks into the garage a moment later. He is naked save for his boxers and a blanket thrown over his shoulders. Bennett is a sizeable man, well over six feet with a thick neck, broad shoulders and an athletic presence. First time I’ve seen him with no shirt. He has a physique any middle-aged man would envy, a rippled stomach, hard and well-toned muscles that look like they’re going to pop out of his skin, the only blemish a two-inch jagged scar on his upper chest, just below his shoulder, that peeps out of the blanket draped over him.
His eyes are understandably dark, his posture slightly altered. His jet-black hair has fallen into his face, veering off from the stark middle part down below his eyes in the shape of a ram’s horns, falling to his cheeks. I guess I never noticed how long his hair is because he combs it back at w
ork. In its current state, Ben could pass for a grunge-rocker, though at twenty-nine years of age he might be pushing the limit. Bennett doesn’t seem to socialize much, but he certainly has the looks for quite an active extracurricular life. Regardless, his size and physique seem incompatible with the wounded-victim profile.
Someone is standing behind him. I nod to the man, presumably another detective. With no other response, the man closes the door behind himself.
Bennett looks at me sheepishly, almost with embarrassment. “Hey, Jon,” he says. His voice lacks the normal deep resonance; it is soft and trembling.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, Ben? Jesus Christ.”
“I guess so,” he says. His Adam’s apple bobs violently. “I killed somebody.”
“You defended yourself.” I search his eyes until they make contact with mine. “Big difference there. He broke into your house, and you defended yourself.”
Bennett considers the comment, or maybe he is lost in his own thoughts. He wipes a hand over his mouth, blows out a sigh.
My eyes return to the scar below his shoulder. I nod at it. “That happen tonight? This guy do that to you?”
Bennett looks down, then draws the blanket tighter. “God,” he says, “I’m practically naked here.” He shivers. “No, that scar’s twenty years old. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Already planning my defense?” says Ben. “Self-defense works better if he cut me first, right?”
My face colors. “Don’t start talking crazy.”
“I killed a guy, Jon.”
“Hey, Ben—what are you supposed to do? He broke into your house.”
“Yeah.” Bennett’s eyes wander to the ceiling and hold there. He is thinking of something else at that moment. “What do you think our boss will say?”
“Don’t worry about our boss.”
“Not the best timing, huh?”
“You had nothing to do with the timing.”
“Yeah, but still. Three months from the election?”
“Bennett, listen to me. Don’t worry about Tully. You think he’d rather this asshole killed you?”
Bennett’s mouth parts. His tongue rolls against his cheek. He allows the slightest chuckle, a nervous laugh. “On that, I’ll take the Fifth,” he says.
2
THE POLICE SETTLE on Bennett’s kitchen, on the second floor, as a spot where he can sit and wait while the cops do their job and await the chance to speak to him. I leave Bennett with a warning that he himself has probably given to some of his own clients—don’t say a word to anyone, not even a hello—and wander back downstairs. The cops should probably be doing a better job of keeping an eye on me, but it’s all they can do not to mess up the crime scene on their own. At best, the myriad of uniformed and plainclothes cops and technicians is organized chaos.
I step out onto the sidewalk and punch my cell phone. Middle of the night, Don Grier is not expecting a call from me, and he’s certainly not expecting good news when he hears my voice. Don Grier is the press secretary to State Senator Grant Tully, my boss. The senator is the Democratic nominee for governor and uses Don for his political work. But Grant Tully is also the Senate Majority Leader, so Don is a state employee as well. It’s hard to divorce the two, because everything the senator does is political, when you cut to it.
“You need to hear this right now,” I tell him. The story seems to lay out like this. Bennett was aroused from sleep by the noise of an intruder breaking into his home. He reached for his gun as he heard the intruder come up the stairs. The intruder came into his bedroom and Bennett fired twice, hitting the intruder once, apparently in the shoulder. Then Bennett followed as the intruder headed back down the stairs. He kept his distance and just listened, and ultimately he followed the intruder down the final staircase to the bottom floor. There, he saw the shape of the intruder in the darkness, and he fired off three more rounds and killed him.
It turns out he shot the intruder in the back. That is the obvious problem, if there is a problem. It rings of a vengeance killing, shooting the unsuccessful burglar while he fled the scene. The other catch is that the intruder didn’t have a gun. He had a crowbar, which he used to break the door window to get in. A gun versus a piece of iron.
“Christ almighty,” Don murmurs. “Is he okay?”
“Seems okay. Feels bad about it.”
“He shot him in the back?”
“He didn’t know the guy was turned away from him,” I say. “It was dark.”
“Right, you said that.” I hear a voice—more of a groan—from his end.
“Got some company there, Don?” I ask. He’s single, like I am, now. “Male or female?”
Don manages a chuckle.
“So listen,” I say. “Who do we know in the department?”
“The police? I don’t know. Top brass?”
“Fuck, I don’t know.” I make a noise. I’m not accustomed to being without answers. As the chief counsel to Senator Tully, I’ve managed to meet almost everyone with some oomph in the city. But cops? Can’t place the name of the top guy, the police superintendent, and don’t know him, anyway.
“We’d have to be careful,” says Don. “That’s a phone call that could come back to bite us.”
The rain is starting up again. I shift my feet. “I suppose. I just want to know that he’s treated right. That’s all.”
“Probably better that it’s not you making that call,” says Don. “I’ll talk to the senator, we’ll figure something out. Just go take care of your boy.”
I click off the cell phone and head back upstairs. A cop hassles me as I re-enter, but I’m too agitated to even acknowledge him, so he follows me up the stairs, hollering after me, until that detective, Paley, waves him off. The whole time, I don’t even look at the annoying cop, which gets a rise out of him. Small pleasures.
Bennett is still in his boxers with the blanket over his shoulders. I take the other chair at the tiny kitchen table. “Let’s not talk to them tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow, we’ll put you together with the right lawyer. Paul Riley. Maybe Dale Garrison. Sit tight until then.”
Detective Paley approaches us again. He has brought a chair from the dining room in with him. My second good look at the detective leaves me with the same conclusion. He looks paternal, concerned, patient. His shirtsleeves are rolled up now. His eyes are heavy and bloodshot. He was probably a couple of hours from a shift change when he caught this. Now he won’t sleep until this afternoon.
“Rough night,” he says to both of us. Bennett is still unresponsive.
I start to give my speech to the detective—no interview tonight, we’ll be in touch—but I opt to wait it out, see what comes. If the detective isn’t looking to hurt Ben, I could just make it worse by ordering him to clam up.
“I think my client’s in shock,” I say.
“Sure.” His voice is surprisingly soft, a higher pitch. Probably works well for the job—not the rough stuff but the interviews. He’s the good cop in the routine.
“What do you figure here, Detective?” I ask. “What was this guy doing in here?”
Paley frowns. His forehead is thick and well lined. “Common burglar, my guess.”
“A burglar takes things,” I offer. “This guy had plenty of stuff to steal but he went all the way to Ben’s bedroom.”
“That’s where the good stuff is, Counsel. Valuables.” The detective has a strong city accent, pronouncing counsel as if there’s no “u.” “If he was looking to kill your client, he’d probably bring more than a crowbar.”
“You can kill with a crowbar.”
“I want my gun back.” Bennett has spoken for the first time. This grabs the attention of both the detective and me. I reach out a hand and grab his forearm on the table. He pulls it away.
Paley shrugs. “We’ll see about that.”
Bennett’s eyes narrow. He has returned to present time. “You’ll see about what?”
“We might ne
ed to hang on to it awhile,” Paley says.
“Why?”
Paley opens his hands. “C’mon, Mr. Carey. You’re a lawyer.”
Neither of us responds. It is evidence, he’s saying.
“Do you fear for your life, Mr. Carey?”
Bennett considers the question, blinking slowly. Most of his movements have slowed, in fact. His eyes are deeply set from stress and sleep deprivation. His face is pale save for the brush of redness on his cheeks. “I don’t know what I fear,” he says.
“I think we’re going to stop there,” I say. “Detective, we’ll be happy to give you a statement, but I think my client needs a few hours of sleep first.”
“Now’s fine,” says Ben, staring into the kitchen table.
“No,” I say to the detective. “We’ll give you a call, say about noon—”
“No.” Bennett exhales, draws himself up. “Whatever else you want to know is fine.”
“No,” I insist. “We’ll talk later to—”
“I just want to go back over a couple points.”
I look at my client, then at Paley. “Have you already talked?”
Paley seems to enjoy breaking the news to me. “We went over the whole thing an hour ago.”
I stare at Bennett, waiting for him to look at me so I can give him a scolding glare. He just blinks and resumes his foggy stare. “If he asked for a lawyer,” I begin, “you can’t—”
“He hadn’t requested counsel, Mr. Soliday.” The detective seems to enjoy the fact that the lawyer didn’t get a chance to silence his client.
“He’s right, Jon,” says Ben. He waves a hand. “I volunteered. I told him the same thing I told you.”
I fall back in my chair. “I’d like to see any notes you made,” I tell Paley.
“I’m sure you would, Counsel. Only you don’t get to.” He nods at Ben. “Really, just a couple follow-ups.”
“No,” I say.
“Jon, it’s okay,” says Ben. He gathers the blanket over him.
“About the shouting,” says Paley. “You don’t remember saying anything to this guy?”