by David Ellis
“Blackmailing the blackmailers?” I laugh. “Nah. Not Dale. He was a team player.”
“I guess so.” Grant chews on that a moment. “Anyway, forget about the Ace. Forget it. We’re not touching that thing now.”
I’m happy with the conclusion, sorry for the reason. Grant’s better off not using the Ace, privately or publicly.
“Okay.” Grant pops up. “You’ll tell me if you need something.”
“I’ll tell you. Thanks, pal. Really.”
Grant reaches with his left hand and clutches my right, shakes it briefly. I follow him through my front window as he reaches his car, looks up at an increasingly hostile sky, and braces for a storm.
23
“JON?”
I close my eyes and grip the receiver. It’s midafternoon and I’ve been working on my bed, going through the myriad pieces of campaign literature Grant will be sending out for compliance with state and federal law. The first response is dread, a regurgitation of guilt and utter sorrow.
“Is it true? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Trace.”
My ex-wife sputters a series of questions in succession, her panic rising as she continues. The lack of an immediate response from me tells her all she needs to know.
Yes, I was charged with murder.
“Talk to me, Jon. Tell me what’s happened.” Most notable is her tone. She is upset but keeping some semblance of a distance. Time, experience gave her that. She can’t unwind the last two, three years that easily.
“I’m innocent,” I tell her, with a lame laugh at the end. It sounds so trite even to have to say it. I’m doing the same thing she is, putting up a shield.
“You’ve been arrested? Charged?”
“All of the above. I’m okay, Trace.”
“How could this have happened? How could anyone think you’re capable of something like this?”
“It looks political.” I keep my calm as the emotions flail about within me. “The prosecutor’s a Republican. It’s an election year.”
“But this? Does it sink this low?”
Tracy’s not just talking about the politics of the county attorney. She’s talking about politics, period. My life. The career I chose.
She senses the unintended rebuke. “Jonny, what are you going to do?”
“Defend myself,” I answer. “And win.”
“Do you have a lawyer? Do you need money?”
“I’m covered. Really, I’m okay.”
“I can’t believe this. I…can’t believe this.”
A lapse in the conversation. A struggle, unspoken. The Tracy Stearns I fell in love with was sweet and giving, quick to laughter and respectful of my moods. She changed as we changed. She hardened. She changed her priorities. She even cut her hair, innocuous enough but symbolic to me, because I used to play with her long curls endlessly. I came home from session two years ago and found her with shorter hair than mine. She hadn’t even told me. She just gave a steely smile and said, “Sur-prise.”
“You didn’t call,” she says.
I wanted to, Trace. More than I’ll ever let on. I didn’t trust myself, afraid of what I might unleash with the revelations. When a relationship crumbles, you make your heart turn to stone.
“A hard call to make,” I say.
“I know, I know. But Jon—” An audible sigh from her end. “Tell me—tell me what I can do. Do you want me—I don’t know.”
Do I want you to come back home? That’s what she was going to ask. The question itself brings a spasm of hope, unreal, cruel hope, that has lain dormant in me these last months. But the fact that she didn’t finish the question is itself the answer.
“Just keep in touch with me. Okay, Trace?”
This brings an unintended result. Sniffing, tears from the other end. My dog, the older one, seems to sense some heightened emotion in me and brings his cold nose up to mine.
“Is that Jake?” Through her sobbing, Tracy has a burst of laughter. “That Jakie?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He misses you, too.”
My former bride, Tracy Stearns Soliday, makes me promise to call her every day or whenever I want, any time, any reason. I keep up my brave front, before realizing that, in that last comment, I added the word “too.”
24
THE OFFICE BENNETT Carey and I enter is small by any lawyer’s standards. A single walnut bookcase seems to wilt under the strain of countless files and bound notebooks. The desk overflows with more files filled with papers jutting out from all angles. There is an open drawer sitting on top of the desk, a makeshift In box that seems to hold anything that couldn’t find a spot elsewhere. The only sign of order is a small space directly in the center which has been carved out for work requiring immediate attention.
“Bring back memories?” I ask Bennett. We are in the offices of the county attorney—specifically, Daniel Morphew’s office. The guy who interrogated me at the police station will also serve as lead counsel in my prosecution.
“This floor is for the top brass,” Bennett says. “I never made it past first chair in a felony courtroom up on fifteen.”
“You probably never wanted to make it past courtroom duty.”
Bennett considers that, then smiles. “No, I probably didn’t.” “Isn’t Morphew a trial lawyer?”
Ben makes a face. “Used to be. He’s a supervisor now, third in command, I think. But he’ll handle the occasional case.”
“The big ones,” I say sourly.
Bennett speaks from the side of his mouth. “It won’t surprise you to learn that this case holds some public interest.”
“Sorry for the wait.” Assistant County Attorney Daniel Morphew rushes into the room. This is a real figure, I reluctantly note, a sizeable man brimming with confidence, comfortable with his authority. He skips a beat when he sees me, then offers Bennett his hand. “Nice to see you again, Ben. Mr. Soliday.” I shake his hand.
“Jon comes to everything,” Ben says, sensing Morphew’s surprise. It’s not typical for the client to attend every little meeting with prosecutors, particularly one as preliminary as this.
“Your call.” Morphew takes the seat behind his desk. “Okay.” He looks despairingly over his desk, then reaches into a drawer and removes a notepad. “So—Bridges, huh?” he says to Bennett.
Our judge will be the Honorable Nicole Bridges. She is a former prosecutor herself, an African-American woman on the bench for the past five years. A Democrat. Ben considers her a good draw. He says she’s fair-minded, an astute observer, someone unlikely to exalt her own agenda over the proceedings. There were a few judges I had hoped for, guys with ties to the senator. We wondered whether these judges, if selected, would recuse themselves because of their link with Grant Tully. Bennett’s best judgment was no. All judges in state court are elected, and if every judge withdrew from every case with some connection to an elected official, there would be no one left. At any rate, this dilemma did not confront us. Judge Bridges was elected from a circuit on the west side, backed by an African-American alderman, Danny Rose—in other words, not with the senator’s assistance. I’ve met Alderman Rose but hardly know him.
“Nicki’s a good pick for you,” says Morphew. Even from across the desk I smell the coffee on his breath.
“She’s good all the way around,” says Ben.
“Did you two practice together?”
Ben shakes his head. “She was a supervisor by the time I was at felony. You know her, though.”
“I know her, sure.” Morphew searches for something on his desk, I’m guessing a pen. “Sometimes down here on five, we wonder if she isn’t trying to prove her independence too hard.”
“She won’t stand for a shoddy case, if that’s what you mean.” Bennett allows a brief smile with the jab.
“Yeah, okay.” Morphew smirks. He finds a pen and begins scribbling. “Okay. First off, we’re not seeking a three-eleven.”
Under Supreme Court Rule 311, the prosecution has to give notice to
the defense if it is seeking the death penalty. As a conversation starter Daniel Morphew is casually informing us that he will not ask the jury to put me to death.
“I don’t blame you,” says Bennett. “With these facts.”
Head still down, Morphew’s eyes creep up to meet Bennett’s. “Down, boy.” He finishes his writing and looks up at Ben. “I’ve got your guy at the scene of the crime, the only one with opportunity, making up a story to a security guard. And I’ve got some kind of a blackmail thing going on.”
Bennett thinks better of a direct response. He rests his hands in his lap. “Was there anything else?”
Morphew sighs. “I know how you guys are playing this,” he says. “I can read the papers. A political persecution, lah-de-dah. But for the record—scratch that—off the record, I wanted you to know that if it were up to me, I wouldn’t pick Mr. Soliday here for a defendant if he were the last guy on earth.”
“If I were you,” says Bennett, “I wouldn’t, either.”
“Not on the merits of the case,” he says. “I think we’ve got you. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m just saying, look, this guy’s tied to Senator Tully, my boss is tied to his opponent. It gives you room to beat up Raycroft over this. So if you’re thinking that we’re chomping at the bit here, think again.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
Ben reaches for me. “Okay,” he says to Morphew. “You’ve said your piece.”
“Well—I want you to know, this wasn’t my idea.” Morphew laces his hands together. His next words are delivered like he’s expelling his lunch. “We’re willing to deal.”
“You expect us to plea out?”
“Murder two, five to eight. A recommendation for minimum security, Kensington.”
The offer disarms me. I thought we were coming here to discuss stipulations on evidence, or a joint recommendation for a trial date. I look at Bennett.
“With any luck,” says Morphew, “your client serves three years sweeping floors and he’s out.”
“Well.” Bennett bows his head slightly, runs his tongue over his lips. “Of course, I’ll discuss it with my client. But I’m confident—”
“No deal,” I say.
Morphew considers me a moment before turning to Bennett. “This offer lasts exactly twenty-four hours, then we go forward. The pigeon’s out of the cage at that point.”
“No deal,” I repeat.
“Mr. Soliday, your lawyer will tell you that this is the sweetheart of all deals. With good behavior, no more than three years in a dormitory for a calculated murder.”
I look at my lawyer, sure of the coloring of my face and the pounding of my heart. I shake my head slowly.
“No deal,” Bennett says.
“Once we figure out how he was blackmailing your client, it’s over. And we will figure it out.” He waits out Bennett a moment. A game of poker, I’d say in other circumstances, but we have completely shown our hand. Finally, the prosecutor nods. “I was hoping you’d say no. Because personally, the political side of this doesn’t mean shit to me. All I have to say is I made you the offer.”
“And we’ve turned it down.”
“And just so we’re clear—the offer’s not coming back.”
“The pigeon left the cage,” says Ben.
Daniel Morphew’s considerable frame rises from behind the desk. He places his hands flat. Even in a leaning position, his size is menacing. “We’re going to solve the riddle,” he says to Ben. “This little secret he and Garrison had. And when we do, you’re gonna be begging for this deal.”
25
WHEN I RETURN from a half-hour morning jog, the pugs greet me like they haven’t seen me in a month. They’ve become spoiled. To call a pug spoiled is redundant, a statement of the obvious. There is no living, breathing mammal on this planet that will take advantage of love and affection and kindness more than a pug. I’m told they are dogs, but most dogs show remorse when you scold them. Pugs stare at you defiantly, sometimes even bark right back at you. They are completely demanding of your time, completely oblivious to any other concerns you might have. They have flat faces, almost no visible nose, which means their grunts and snorts resemble a nonstarting engine. They make more noise standing still than the ruckus I used to hear when I lived by the elevated trains. My pugs, Jake and Maggie, don’t just sleep on the bed; they have taken over the pillows. I push them off but then they lie on my chest or head, which is worse, so I’ve taken to adding a third pillow and hoping I can have that much. It gets worse. Maggie, the pup, has not yet accustomed herself to waiting until she’s outside to take care of her “business.” Some veterinarian who I swear I’ll pay back some day, some way, assured me that the second pug would be easier to house-train because she’d take a lesson from the other one. Well, Jake’s fully house-trained, and for that matter I am pretty well, myself, but Maggie is still having what is politely termed “accidents.” I prefer to see it as a deliberate, stubborn, even calculated move by Maggie to show me who is boss. I think Jake pulled Maggie aside the first day and told her what a pushover I was, and how I could yell all I wanted but in the end it wouldn’t matter, I’d still feed them and walk them and love them.
But the worst part is they bring you in somehow. I love these damn dogs like nobody else on the planet. Their sad, clownish faces, their cocky swagger, their uncompromising demands somehow coalesce into a twisted charm. So I’m stuck. I’m their slave forever. I don’t own pugs. They own me.
I’m spending the day reviewing ads, both print and television, both for Senator Tully and his opponent, Langdon Trotter, for compliance with the state and federal election laws. If Grant’s stuff has a problem, we fix it before we send it out. If Trotter’s stuff is wrong, we file a complaint with the state board of elections or the FEC—the Federal Elections Commission—and get a news article out of it and make them spend more money fixing it.
I have copies of all the literature and a videotape of all the TV spots. One of Trotter’s ads doesn’t have the attribution—“Paid for by Friends of Langdon Trotter”—in large enough print on the screen. So I’m drafting letters to all the television stations running the ad, demanding that they cease and desist from running this spot in violation of federal law. By week’s end, we’ll have a complaint on file with the FEC.
Another is a standard leaflet containing the biography of Langdon Trotter. The literature is green with black print, contains color photos of Trotter with his wife and three kids in a yard, Trotter speaking at a podium, Trotter meeting with constituents. It tells the essential story of Lang Trotter, who grew up the son of a judge in Rankin County. Rankin is on the east side of the state about eighty miles south of the city. The county is just south of Interstate 40, which those of us in the city use as the marker between the city and its suburbs on the one hand, and the rest of the state—the boonies—on the other. Trotter was the county attorney in Rankin County for four terms, and in 1992 was elected the state’s attorney general. There’s nothing in this literature that violates any campaign laws that I can see.
The pugs, Jake and Maggie, are enjoying my constant presence at home more than I am. Maggie, the baby, is snoring on my lap. It’s midmorning, they’ve been up with me since eight, so excuse her if she’s a little drowsy. Jake is on the couch as well, his eyes precariously close to shutting completely. He’s already grunting and wheezing more than most humans do in full slumber.
Jake’s head pops up as the phone rings. He turns to me, wondering if I’m going to get off the couch. If I did, no doubt he’d be right behind me. But I have the portable sitting next to me.
“Jon, it’s Ben.”
“How’s things?”
“Fine. Listen, we got a list of those ex-cons who’ve been released recently. Guys whom Garrison defended.”
“Anything good?”
“Not really. One guy got out two months ago from a federal pen. A white-collar thing, insider trading. He served eleven months. Nonviolent. Copped a plea.”
“Not our guy,” I say.
“Nope. Another guy was released four months ago for mail fraud. Also a federal pinch. And he moved out of state.”
“Not our guy.”
“No. This next one, maybe,” says Ben. “Served twelve years for armed robbery, just got paroled about a month ago.”
“That’s violent,” I say. “And recent.”
“Yeah, we haven’t found him yet. But I looked up his appeal—one of his claims was ineffective assistance of counsel.”
“Meaning Garrison messed up his trial.” A surge of adrenaline. “So he gets out, he’s pissed off at his lawyer, he kills him.”
“That’s the idea. Jon, don’t get your hopes up here. It’s a long shot at best. You understand that, right?”
“Right. But it might be good for one of your inflammatory accusations.”
He laughs. “Like I say, Cal’s looking into this guy. We’ll check for alibi, look for anything weird. If we find one hint of trouble with Mr. Cosgrove, we’ll pounce.”
“Cosgrove,” I say. “That’s his name.”
“Yeah. Cosgrove,” Ben replies. “Lyle Cosgrove.”
I cover the phone a moment and catch my breath, temporarily whisked from my lungs. It only takes me a moment before the name registers.
“Hello?”
What does Lyle Cosgrove have to do with Dale Garrison?
“Jon.”
I guess I’m the only one left who knows the secret that nobody knows.
“Do you know Lyle Cosgrove?” Ben asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “No. No, of course not.”
“You had me worried there a sec. Thought maybe you were old friends.”
I laugh a little too receptively.
“The next one,” says Ben. “Not so promising. Released almost a year ago….”
An old friend? Certainly not. I calculate the odds that there are two people with that same name. Quickly dismissing that notion, I do the odds on whether this “secret that nobody knows” in the blackmail letter is not related to politics but to a time long ago, to an event I’ve tried to bury in my mind. And as Bennett continues, describing the fourth and fifth ex-cons who might have a grudge against Dale Garrison, the words echo in my head like a haunted limerick: