by David Ellis
“Pussyfooting my way to get there?”
I shake my head with exaggeration. “Am I talking to the guy who ran the senate the last ten years? Is this your first day in politics?”
“Same person,” he says. “But now I’m not running for the senate. I’m not trying to keep a majority. I’m running for the chief executive office. I’m supposed to lead, not follow. I’m just—” The senator pauses, considers his words.
“Tell me,” I say.
The senator’s hands freeze in midair, forming a frame. “This is mine. This is something that nobody else can tell me how to do.”
I nod along with Grant Tully. I get it. He’s talking about his father. His father the former senate majority leader, who handed his son Grant a senate seat with a bow wrapped around it, who cleared the path so that Grant could be the majority leader without ever really earning it, who has leaned over Grant’s shoulder more times than Grant would care to remember, telling him to work with this guy and stand up to that guy and bury this legislation and send money to this campaign but not that one, not until their numbers come up.
But Simon Tully never ran for governor. Never had the balls, was how one politico once said in my company, not realizing for whom I worked at the time. Grant is reaching beyond what his father did, and he’s saying he wants to do it on his terms. It’s not how I would have expected Grant to rebel against his father. I always figured Grant would just say no to politics, or maybe perform some act of self-destruction to ruin his career. But he took a different approach. He’s taking the path cleared for him by his father but one-upping Simon, accomplishing something his father never did. This is how politicians think, measuring their success by elections, by steps taken, by offices held. This is how a politician shows his politician father that he’s better.
“It’s the right plan,” Grant says. “I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.”
“I know that.”
“Poor kids get better schools. Most people hardly feel a tax raise.”
“Then that’s what we do,” I say. “We spin the hell out of it, but that’s what we do.”
Senator Grant Tully returns to the table, takes his seat, and pats my leg. “That’s what we do,” he says.
29
“HELLO, CAL.” I open my door to my private investigator. He steps in and does a once-over of my house. Cal is a heavy-set guy, fleshy in the chin, vague scars on his cheeks from a childhood of acne. His nose is thick and reddish. A good Irish drinker, I know that firsthand. Kind of guy who sweats in the winter. He’s wearing a short-sleeve golf shirt in this air-conditioning and there’s a sheen on his forehead.
We sit for a minute. Cal drops his briefcase and declines my offer of a beverage, including one of the alcoholic variety, which tells me he’s not looking to stay long.
“Sorry to make you come here,” I say. “The phones—I don’t like them.”
“Understood.” Cal wipes at his mouth. “I don’t know who you guys know out there, but those boys in Summit County sure were cooperative. Turned the warehouse upside down. There aren’t a lot of cases that old lying around.”
“I was afraid that might be the case.”
“This one was kept around,” says Cal. “On orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Don’t know. Some prosecutor. Scribbled a ‘hold’ order on the top of the box.”
“Not just recently,” I say, drawing up. God help me if Daniel Morphew and his cronies at the county attorney already know about this.
“Relax,” says Cal. “It was a while ago, I think—they told me they hold cases for fifteen years. So before they tossed it, someone decided to hang on to it. It doesn’t always happen, but it’s not that unusual, either. I saw a couple boxes from the sixties.”
“I guess I’m a little paranoid.”
“Under the circumstances.” Cal nods grimly. “By the way,” he says. “This is just you and me, right?”
“Right. This doesn’t go through the firm or Bennett. I’ll pay you myself.”
“Not necessary.” Cal waves a hand. “I’m happy to help a friend.”
I seem to be getting by with a lot of help from my friends. “I appreciate that.” I drum my fingers on my knees. “So—what did you see?”
“The box was pretty empty,” he says. “There was part of a transcript inside. Looked like it had fallen out of the binding.” Cal removes a letter-sized envelope from his briefcase. “Just a handful of papers, was all.”
I stare at the envelope. What little remains of 1979. I manage a smile for my investigator. “Didn’t even peek, huh?”
“Officially? No.” He leans forward. “Off the record, y’know, while I’m throwing pages on a Xerox, a few words catch my eye. A name or two I recognized.” He fixes on me, eyes enlarged. “But Jonathan, my friend, hear me when I say this.” His look is as intense as they come. “I’ll deny I ever saw a thing.”
I thank Cal again as he shows himself out. I’m left with the transcript staring at me. I let the pugs out the back door and return to the couch and battle the nerves a moment. I open the envelope and pull out the paper, three sheets in total from the transcript. These are Xerox copies, the originals presumably placed back in their box. A part of Cal’s finger is copied onto one of the pages. The font is an old-fashioned Courier, the spacing and indentations awkward in a word-processing age.
I recognize the first two pages immediately. The words, even without context, pop into my memory.
entered the room?
A: She, um, she touched me.
Q: She touched you where, Jon?
A: My, uh, private parts.
Q: Your penis?
A: Yeah.
Q: What else, Jon? Anything else happen?
A: She did the same thing with, with her, uh, mouth.
Q: Jon, are you telling us she performed oral sex?
A: Yeah.
Q: Did she disrobe you?
[Witness nods.]
Q: Please give a verbal answer, Jon. You have to answer out loud.
A: She kind of, yeah, I guess. She pulled down my pants.
Q: Did you ejaculate, Jon? At that time?
A: No.
Q: Then what?
A: Then we had sex, you know.
Q: Can you tell us the position, Jon? I mean, who was on top?
A: She was.
Q: She was on top. Was that the case the whole time?
A: Um. No. We turned over.
Q: And what happened when you turned over?
A: We fell off the bed. She hit her head.
Q: Okay. Was she okay?
A: Yeah. She said it hurt.
Q: Her head hurt.
A: Yeah.
Q: Did she ask to stop?
A: No.
Q: What did she say?
A: She said, you know, don’t stop.
Q: Were those the words, Jon? Her exact words?
A: Um. No.
Q: Jon? What were her exact words?
[Witness answer inaudible.]
Q: Jon, I realize this is difficult. But please speak up. What were Gina’s exact words to you, after you fell to the floor together?
A: Fuck me harder.
I close my eyes, swallow hard. I remember the coaching from my lawyer as well as—better than—my words at the hearing. Gina pulled down my shorts and dropped to her knees. She was on top. All of that makes it seem more consensual, not rape.
I fling the papers into the air without purpose. I didn’t remember a goddamn thing that I said under oath. I just danced to the song written by my lawyer. Willingly.
The next paper catches my eye. It doesn’t register on the first look. Not a document I recognize. But it’s been a while—
No. Never seen this thing before. It’s handwritten.
I have grave reservations about the conclusions being reached in this investigation. I believe that the autopsy results have been interpreted in an overly generous fashion. I further believe that the deceas
ed could not have consented to sex under any circumstances given her intoxication, even if I were to accept the version of events advanced by Mr. Soliday, which I do not. I believe that Mr. Soliday and Mr. Cosgrove have rehearsed their stories and relied on the absence of any further witnesses to escape a criminal charge. I believe that Jon Soliday should be arrested and charged with criminal sexual assault, at a minimum.
This statement should have been made part of the record. I am inserting this into the file, despite the prosecutor’s refusal to include it.
The note is signed in a scrawl, but I can make out the name. Gary Degnan. I remember him well. The guy saw through the whole thing.
And he put it in writing.
I get up from the couch, my legs shaky. I pace the room before returning to the couch and grabbing the portable phone. I punch Cal Reedy’s cell phone number.
“Half hour, you already miss me,” he says.
“I need something else,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I await a reaction from him. As much as Cal Reedy doesn’t want to know what he doesn’t want to know, he’s crystal clear on the fact that what he just did in Summit County was against the rules. He was trying to retrieve a sealed juvenile case. So I’d excuse him if he were reluctant to hear my request. But he just waits me out.
“I need to find someone. Two people.”
A pause. “Okay?”
“Just find them. That’s all.”
“Give me the names. I’ll find them.”
“First one is Gary Degnan,” I answer. “D-E-G—”
“That guy’s dead,” says Cal.
“Dead?”
“Yeah. I saw his name on one of the papers, and the guy helping out down there knew him. He was some kind of investigator, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, he retired about five years ago and died of cancer, the guy told me. He said about two years ago.”
“Okay.” I exhale. Never good news to hear someone has passed. And I would have liked to have had a good heart-to-heart with this guy. But I’m not unaware of the trouble this investigator could have brought me.
“The other one?” Cal asks.
“Lyle Cosgrove,” I say. I spell the last name.
“Yeah, saw that name, too. Tell me what you can.”
I give him what I know. Grew up in Summit County. Ex-con. Recently released.
“Bennett can’t know I’m asking,” I say. “He knows about this guy. He may have you looking for him right now.”
“Nope.”
I open the back door and allow the dogs back into the house. “Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger, Cal. The time may come I tell Bennett about this.”
“Hey.” Cal lives in a very black-and-white world of morality. There is an invisible line between us, on one side my business, on the other side his.
“I know, I know. I appreciate it,” I say. He shrugs off the thanks and hangs up.
It seems so obvious now, this need I have. The need to know the truth. I turned my head in 1979, willing to let Grant Tully and his father pave a trail to my exoneration. It didn’t feel right and never has. I hope that truth prevailed, that Lyle Cosgrove told the truth about me. But I never tried to reach Cosgrove for confirmation. I kept my head in the sand. It’s time to pull it out. And once I discover the truth, I’ll be left with only one question.
What then?
30
“WELCOME TO ANOTHER edition of City Watch. I’m Jackie Norris.”
City Watch is a local show, one of the few shows on public television that competes with the mainstream offerings.
“Tonight, the race for governor.” A graphic emerges on the screen, poll numbers. “Attorney General Langdon Trotter continues to hold a commanding, fourteen-point edge on his Democratic challenger, State Senator Grant Tully.” The poll shows Trotter with forty-nine percent, Grant with thirty-five, the third-party candidate, Oliver Jenson, with three percent. “The numbers show literally no movement for Senator Tully since the March fifteenth primaries.” The screen now compares the two polls, taken then and now. Grant was down sixteen back then.
“I’m joined tonight by the Democratic nominee for governor, State Senator Grant Tully. Senator, thanks for joining us.”
The senator is seated on the opposite curve of the semicircular table, a faux landscape of the city behind him. He’s dressed conservatively as always, a blue suit, blue shirt, red tie. He is smiling broadly. “Thank you for that warm introduction,” he says with sarcasm.
Jackie Norris allows for a soft laugh before turning serious. “Senator, why no movement in these polls?”
Senator Tully nods, as if understanding her confusion. “The election is still two months away, Jackie. The numbers are soft, not to mention a significant margin of undecided voters. The voters of this state are saying, We don’t know Grant Tully well enough yet. This campaign gives me the chance to introduce myself and let them know what I’ve accomplished.”
Jackie Norris takes little time going to the tough issues. The worst is abortion, which is supposed to be the best for a Democrat. Grant opposes abortion, like several Democrats in the state, except that he will say this in the open while others will not. A pro-life Democrat, Senator Tully is, which is a little like being a pro-Jew Nazi. This is one of the key issues that Dems typically use in general elections to beat Republicans over the head in the fight for swing voters, but Grant has refused to back off his personal convictions. He reminds the television host that the U.S. Supreme Court has validated abortion and he would, of course, govern under that ruling, but when pressed he concedes his opposition to abortion.
It is not a good two or three minutes. Grant has the same position as Trotter, but many of the leading members of the GOP in this state are pro-life. Grant’s views have alienated many Democratic voters, who feel betrayed that one of their own is on the wrong side of this issue. So pro-choice women might actually vote for the “consistent” candidate—Trotter—over the turncoat.
My relief at the change of topics is short-lived. Jackie Norris wants to discuss capital punishment. Another loser for us.
“Senator, some would say your views are out of touch. Almost two thirds of this state favors the death penalty in some form.”
“Ask those people,” Grant says, “whether they favor putting to death someone whose guilt is not clear. We’ve seen too many examples over the last few years of innocent people coming dangerously close to execution. No system is perfect, Jackie. But we have to know we’re doing everything we can to convict only the guilty, before we impose the ultimate punishment. We also have to be sure that the penalty is not used disproportionately against minorities. Current studies show that African-Americans face a far greater chance of being executed for the same crimes committed by whites.”
Not bad. A quick nod to the base. Move on, now. The less said, the better. I can picture Trotter’s Tully-is-soft-on-crime ads right now. A picture of a lovely child, next to it a menacing criminal who murdered her, then a voice-over telling us that Senator Tully would not favor the death penalty for this brutal murderer.
“Are you saying, Senator, that if the system were improved to your satisfaction, you would favor the death penalty?”
“What I’m saying is, it’s the law right now. So at the very least, we should do everything to make sure it is being used appropriately.”
“But Senator.” The anchor lightly pounds the table. “If the legislature sent you a bill to outlaw the death penalty completely, would you sign it? Would you abolish the death penalty if it were up to you?”
Shit. Here we go now, Grant. Tell them how the Republican-controlled house would never pass such a bill we have to respect the law as it is, you feel the most effective thing to do is to push these reforms you spoke of—
“I would abolish it,” he says, “because I don’t believe the taking of a life is proper. I don’t think a civilized society should sanction the official killing of people.”
Oh, Grant. I hurl a pillow at the
television. Maggie looks up from her perch on the couch and cocks her head.
The man is principled. It’s why I admire him. But he should be dancing around this stuff more. You can’t be a good governor until you’re governor.
“Let’s move on to another topic. Senator, your top aide, Jonathan Soliday, has been charged with murder.”
I close my eyes. From the television, I hear the senator answer simply, “Yes.” For the most part, he has deferred comment on the issue and nothing more. I hope he keeps to that plan.
“Is Mr. Soliday still on your campaign?”
“In some capacity, yes.” The senator nods, showing no outward signs of apology. “Jon’s first priority right now has to be to prepare to defend himself against these outrageous charges. To show everyone he is innocent. But he’s always been a valuable part of this campaign as our chief attorney, and to the extent that he is able to still contribute, he will.”
“You call the charges outrageous,” says Norris. “His attorney claims that the prosecution is the result of influence from Attorney General Trotter’s office, that the Attorney General has influenced our county attorney to press these charges to embarrass your campaign. What do you say to this?”
The senator’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, his way of showing sobriety. “I say that Jon is innocent of these charges. Regardless of why he is being prosecuted, he is innocent. I’m completely confident that the facts will bear that out. Whatever else they may bear out down the road, let’s leave for down the road.”
Jackie Norris nods. “Senator—”
“Jackie, if I could. I’d like to say something else.” The senator directs a finger onto the desk. “My friend is no different from any other citizen of this state—he is presumed innocent. If the people of this state are looking for someone who will turn his back on a friend the moment the going gets rough, they should vote for someone else. If the people of this state want someone who won’t stand up for what he believes in, who will govern simply by testing the wind and reading the polls, then they should vote for someone else. But I believe a governor should have principles, and should act in accordance with his beliefs. That is what I can promise as governor.”