by David Ellis
Sometimes you have to try more than once with Dale. “Do you think it’s smart to show Trotter what we have? Talk to him about his options?”
A smile creeps onto Dale’s face. “Lang Trotter’d cut his dick off…before he’d lose on a technicality.” Dale brings a fist to his mouth and lets out a hideous cough.
“But he’d never throw an election,” I counter.
Dale, still recovering from the coughing attack, waves me off.
“He’d never go for it,” I say. “Trotter would never agree to lie down.”
Dale frames his hands. He has the floor, and he takes his time. “A man without options,” he says.
“He has the option of telling us to stick it up our asses,” I say. “He could report us.”
This brings a chuckle from Dale, a bobbing of his bony shoulders, before he begins to cough again. I thought he’d be on my side here. He’s saying he likes Grant’s idea. We should blackmail Trotter.
“Jon, Jon,” he says. His smile is humorless. His hands slowly rise. “What does he…report? That his papers are bad?”
“He reports that—”
“Then any nut…can file a challenge. Someone would. He gains nothing.”
“Just because it might work doesn’t mean we should do it, Dale.”
Now he’s showing me his palms. “A political question. For Grant to decide.” He drops his hands flat on the table. “You ask me, will it work? I say it will.”
“I say it won’t.”
“You say it won’t.” The first sign of any agitation from Dale. “You’re a very smart lawyer. So tell Grant.”
“I’ll do that.” I rise from my chair and thank him for his time. He nods slowly and solemnly. “I’ll see my way out.”
I do just that, moving through his hallway quickly, slamming through his front door and smashing my hand against the elevator button.
“Goddammit,” I say to no one. I do a slow decompression in the elevator. Dale is copping out. He’s saying Trotter would never call Grant’s bluff, and he might be right about that. But he’s not taking a position on what’s right and wrong. He should be telling Grant that blackmailing his opponent is unethical. And more importantly, stupid. Maybe disastrous.
I make it into the lobby, such as it is, of Dale’s building and nod to security. I step into the mild air outside and say a silent prayer that I can convince my friend not to do this. I make it to the corner when my cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I reach in, almost drop the phone, and punch it on. As I do so, a car honks and narrowly misses me at the curbside.
“Hello?”
“Dale Garrison.” That’s how Garrison always introduces himself on the phone, never mind that we just parted ways less than five minutes ago.
The connection is bad, so I keep my voice up. “Dale?”
A pause. “Run up for a minute?”
“You want me to stop back—”
“Let’s talk about it.”
Okay. A second chance. He’s reconsidering. I start to answer but the phone goes dead. Sounds like Dale. He hangs up the phone when he’s done saying what he has to say.
I stop back into the building and wave at the security guy. Maybe I was a bit too bullheaded in there. I need to work him, gently push him to my position. I’ll let him do what someone his age probably is entitled to do—condescend, laugh in my face. But I’ll work him.
I silently work over my plan as I leave the elevator and open the frosted-glass door into his suite of offices. Start with an apology. Then an appeal: Grant’s my best friend, as a friend I don’t want him going down this road. Grant respects you, he listens to you.
I walk into Dale’s office, ready to backpedal. But Dale is not ready for an apology. He is lying on his desk, his head resting on his folded arms.
The guy’s asleep. What the hell.
I step back out and pretend to be speaking on the cell phone, talking very loudly, so he’ll hear and wake up. But when I walk back in, he’s still prone. The top of his head is spotted, with wisps of wiry hair. I stand there in the middle of the room, hands on my hips, not sure how to handle it.
“Dale.”
Noise from outside. “Hello!”
Don’t know if I should reply to that or not. I turn and look into the hallway. A guy steps through reception and looks at me. He’s wearing a lime-green top with black pants.
“Dale,” I repeat. This could be embarrassing for him.
“Security,” says the man. He’s a weightlifter, a thick neck, broad chest, the swagger. He walks into the office.
I jab a finger at Dale and speak softly. “He’s an older guy,” I apologize. “Must have been a long week.”
The guard peers at Dale, takes a step closer. “Sir,” he says in an authoritative voice.
“Dale!” I call out.
“Holy shit.” The man approaches Dale and stops a moment, thinks it over, and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, fuck.” I rush to Dale, the other side of the desk from the guard, and grab hold of Dale by the other shoulder. “Dale? Dale!” I place a finger at his neck for a pulse, but I’m not sure I’d know where to check so I lift him off the desk, place him against the back of the leather chair. Dale’s eyes are vacant, his mouth turned downward in an ugly frown. His glasses fall from his face.
“Holy shit, he’s dead!” the guard says. He looks at me a moment, like I’m to blame.
I lift Dale from his chair and place him on the floor. “Do you know CPR?” I shout to the guy, but I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t know what I’m doing but I have to try. I prop up Dale’s neck with one hand, squeeze his nose closed with the other, and breathe into his mouth, three short but violent breaths. Then I place my palm over his heart and push down with my other hand three times in succession.
“Zeke!” the guard shouts, presumably into his radio. “We need an ambulance and police up on eight. Suite Eight-twenty. And send everyone up here!”
I lower my ear to Dale’s mouth and nose. Nothing.
Static from the radio. “You want police?”
“Yeah, police and an ambulance. And get your ass up here. Suite Eight-twenty. Garrison’s place!”
“Come on, Dale.” I blow air into Dale’s mouth again. I stare into his blank eyes a moment before returning to his heart. I repeat the cycle a third time, ending with me once again listening for any breath from his nose or mouth. Nothing. I keep working in vain, my compressions becoming more urgent, blowing violently into his mouth. Sweat falls from my forehead onto Dale’s lifeless face. I fight through the soreness in my forearms, the dizzy ringing in my head, the rising panic within me. Finally, I’m breathless myself, after what must be five minutes of working on Dale. Nothing.
Dale Garrison is dead.
I rock back into a sitting position on the floor. “Goddammit,” I mumble. I look over at the guard, who seems threatened by my stare.
“You’re gonna have to stay right there.” His hands move away from his sides, his weight shifts from one side to the other, like he’s defending me in a game of one-on-one. “Don’t touch a thing. Don’t move.”
“Take it easy,” I say. “And you were a lot of help, by the way.”
Noise out in reception, then two guys running down the hallway in matching fluorescent green shirts. Suddenly three guys surround me, all dressed like popsicles.
“Stay right there,” the original guard says again. He turns to the other guys, who seem uncertain as to their role and mine. “This guy watched him die, then told me he was just sleeping.”
“Relax,” I say. I reach for Dale, unsure of the etiquette, and place a hand on his arm. “Jesus Christ, Dale,” I say to him.
9
“HE LIED TO me. He said the guy was asleep. He lied—”
“Okay now, hold on a minute.” The detective, still in his trenchcoat, raises his hands to calm the security guard, who is anxiously bobbing on his toes.
Dale Garrison has been dead thirty minutes. By the tim
e the paramedics and cops arrived, five members of building security, all decked out in their lime-colored tops, descended on Suite 820. They all stood awkwardly, each with one hand on their weapon, eyeballing me, the guy sitting in a chair.
Paramedics arrived about fifteen minutes later. They handled the affair without comment, examining Dale’s body on the carpet and then soberly placing him on a gurney and removing him from the scene. The cops arrived about a minute ago and conferred with the paramedics. The cop in charge seemed irked that the paramedics had removed the body from its “death position.” Once he got a preliminary look at the body, he spent the next several minutes trying to shut up this security guard.
“I didn’t lie,” I say from my spot on the chair.
“One at a time,” says the detective. He decides to start with me and, with a firm handshake, introduces himself as Brad Gillis. Gillis looks like a city cop, I guess. His face is heavily lined, pale, rough-complected. His hair is dishwater, thick and straight, cut in a choppy way that makes him look like a scarecrow. His eyes are clear and intense. His mannerisms and posture give the impression of education. His voice does, too—strong but contained, careful enunciation.
I have settled down from the initial shock of seeing a dead person—second one in a week, now that I think about it—and now I’m becoming annoyed. I’m standing now, and I begin to pace. Gillis places a hand on me to stop me. “Let’s step out here,” he says. He leads me into the hallway. So far he has not brought out a notepad or anything else. He waves at the guards to keep a further distance, to the point that these guys decide just to head into the reception area.
“So tell me what happened,” says Gillis.
“I was here to meet with Dale,” I say. “Dale Garrison. The—deceased. We talked awhile, then I left. I wasn’t two blocks away, and he called me on my cell phone to come back up. So I did. When I came back in, Dale was lying facedown on the desk.” I throw up my hands. “Then this guy with the security uniform comes in and after a moment we figure out Dale’s not asleep, he’s dead.”
Gillis is following me with his eyes, nothing in writing at this point. His hands are clasped behind his back. “This security guy says you were lying?”
I shake my head and grimace. “Dale’s almost seventy years old,” I say. “I figured he’d fallen asleep in his chair. That’s what I told the guy. Turns out, I was wrong.”
“Okay.” Gillis looks back down the hallway, where the guards were before heading into reception. Then back at me: “Why were you meeting with this guy?”
“We’re lawyers,” I say. “Discussing a client situation.”
He looks at me a moment like he doesn’t understand. Maybe he figures if he stares at me, I’ll keep talking, elaborate. He’s wrong. Finally, he raises his eyebrows. “Who’s the client?”
“I’m afraid that’s privileged,” I answer.
“The name of the client is privileged.” His mouth works into a smirk. “Can’t even tell me the name.”
“Sorry. It’s the rules.” I don’t think that’s the case, but why advertise Senator Tully’s name if I don’t have to?
Now Gillis chews on his lips, his face still expressionless. “He called you on your cell?”
“Right.”
Gillis does a half-nod. “Gimme that number?”
“Sure.” I hand him my phone, with the number written on the back. He removes a pad of paper from his jacket pocket, grabs a pen from his pants pocket, and jots it down.
“You left, walked down the street, got the call, and came back.”
“Yeah.”
“So you couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes,” says Gillis.
“That’s about right. Probably a little more than that.”
“Okay.” The detective works his jaw, ruminating.
“I walked back into the office and saw Dale lying there. I called to him a couple of times to wake him. Then that joker comes prancing down the hall.”
Gillis smiles and nods absently, looking around, and hands my phone to me. He pokes his head back into the office for a moment. “Okay,” he says, his back to me. He turns back around, his hand wiping at his mouth.
“Can I go?”
“You gave your information to the officer?”
“Yeah.” For good measure, I hand him one of my business cards.
The detective stands motionless a moment, his hands on his hips. Finally, he blows out a sigh. “Yeah, take off,” he says.
10
I LEAVE THE building and wander up to River Street. I go to the corner of Fourth and River and stand by a fire hydrant. For the moment the intersection is empty of people, just a handful of cabs passing by. I let five minutes pass, trying to come down from the creepy feeling of what I’ve just witnessed, before I walk back toward my office.
I punch my cell phone and dial the senator’s number at the office. He isn’t there so I leave a message. Then I try him on the car phone.
“Grant Tully.”
“I’m glad you’re sitting down,” I say. I give him the two-minute capsule. The senator doesn’t comment during my summary, nor does he immediately respond.
“Dale’s dead?”
“Just dropped right at his desk. Creepiest thing I ever saw.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I hear a horn honking in the background. “They said he was pretty sick.”
“I guess so.”
Silence. Faint sounds of driving in the street in the background, some soft music on the senator’s car stereo.
I imagine Grant wants to ask me what Dale thought about using the Ace. Decorum prevents it, to say nothing of the fact that the “elevator rule”—never talk in a crowded elevator—applies these days to cell phones as well. Never know who might be listening.
“Yeah, well, Christ,” says Grant. “Dale’s dead.”
This will be a big deal. Dale Garrison’s death will be seen as more than the passing of a man. He’s the old school of trial lawyers in the city, the guys who spent their early years prosecuting, trying cases to juries, instead of joining up with silk-stocking firms and pushing paper. If I could have a dime for every old war story that will come to the lips of attorneys in this city over the next week or so, I could retire to Bermuda.
“You have a history with him,” I say.
“Well—of course.” A pause. “Damn.”
“Okay, I’m heading out.”
“All right. Say, Jon?”
“Yep.”
“What’s with you and dead people all of a sudden?”
I punch out the phone and place it in my pocket. I decide against returning to the office. I hail a cab and make it to my place just after nine in the evening. My pugs, Jake and Maggie, literally mug me when I walk in the door. They want to be fed and let out in the backyard. I take care of their needs, in that order, and open my briefcase. Plenty of work for me this weekend—checking out campaign finance disclosure statements, reviewing campaign ads circulated by Lang Trotter, meeting tomorrow morning with lower members of the senator’s campaign staff. Should fill the entire Saturday and Sunday, and I should get started tonight. But instead I let out a shudder and drop my head on the couch cushion, closing my eyes to keep out the image of a dead lawyer staring me in the face.
11
DALE GARRISON’S PASSING received better treatment from the Daily Watch than the death of that guy who broke into Bennett Carey’s home. Still, it wasn’t headline news, because Dale Garrison was not a recognizable name to those outside the circle of lawyers in this city and state. He was part of a select group of behind-the-scenes shot-callers, often more powerful than the politicians themselves. The tail wags the dog more often than people think. And that’s a good gig. Plenty of prestige within their circle, much more money than the elected officials, and virtual anonymity in the public eye.
Within the legal community, where Dale loomed large, his passing was akin to the death of the mayor twelve years ago. The daily legal periodical that circulates in the city
ran a special edition devoted to Dale today, Tuesday. A picture of Dale from about, I’d guess, fifteen years ago graced the entire front page. Inside were articles from a state supreme court justice, Grant Tully, Langdon Trotter (who never resided for one day in the city), and the mayor. The edition highlighted Dale’s considerable achievements. He filed class actions against asbestos manufacturers, against the grocery store chain that sold milk with traces of salmonella. He successfully defended businessmen in insider-trading prosecutions, that alderman in the government corruption sting, a former congressman in a sex scandal (that one not so successfully).
Dale Garrison’s memorial service is today. There’s a private ceremony for the family but this is for everyone else—and I mean everyone else. They’re using the spacious downtown cathedral for it. The police are managing traffic and the press is covering it. It’s the same thing every time a politician or someone with money dies. The proceedings themselves, the funeral and visitation, take on an unintended life of their own. People come to pay their respects for someone recently departed, but their concerns quickly turn to the living. They spend far less time mourning the deceased than they do peering around at the other people in the room.
I sit next to Grant Tully and his wife, Audrey, in the second row, behind the family. Audrey takes my hand in hers and dotes on me before the proceedings begin—have I lost weight, how are the dogs, so sorry I had to be there when Dale died. About the only topic she does not raise is the source of her attentiveness—my divorce. Everyone feels sorry for you when your marriage ends.
In the second row on the opposite side of the aisle from us sits the county attorney, Elliot Raycroft, a serious man with coarse salt-and-pepper hair and steel-rimmed glasses. He was acquainted with Dale, of course, but anything but a close friend. Next to him is Lang Trotter—appropriately subdued but ready with a wink to those who catch his eye—who falls in the same category. A good lobbyist like Dale can reach both sides of the aisle when he needs to, but no one mistook Dale Garrison for a friend of the Republicans. Why these guys are sitting up front is beyond me. There shouldn’t be a hierarchy for these things. I suppose I don’t belong up front, either, but the Tullys do, and I’m with them.