by David Ellis
“Well, Jon.” Simon shakes his glass of water as if it were a glass of fine wine. “I was very sorry to hear about this turn of events.”
“Thank you, Senator. I was, too.”
The senator’s steel eyes shine against his browned skin. Simon Tully has aged gracefully, but even he cannot avoid the extra folds of flesh near his mouth and under his chin. “We all know that you’re completely innocent, of course. No one has a doubt.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Now what can I do to help?”
I struggle for a moment, actually start and stop once, all to the senator’s interest. “I just wanted to ask you something,” I say. “Not related to my case. Another—another topic.”
“Okay.” Simon’s brow knits but he says nothing more.
“It’s something we’ve never really discussed. Not since it happened.”
Simon raises his chin, like he’s about to nod in realization, though I suspect he’s not sure.
“The summer before Grant and I went to college,” I say.
“Nineteen-seventy-nine.” The former senator raises a hand to the approaching waiter, asking for a moment of privacy. “What of it?”
“Obviously,” I say, “you and your son were very generous in the support you lent me during that ordeal. I hope I’ve made that clear to both you and Grant.”
“Grant helps his friends,” says Simon, leaving himself out of it.
“I guess there’s some information I’m looking for.”
“If I can answer, I will.”
“Okay.” I find myself surprisingly nervous. “I guess I was wondering what your and Grant’s point of view was on the whole thing.”
“I can’t speak for Grant,” he says.
“Sure, of course,” I say. “But anything he may have said to you.”
Simon Tully adjusts in his chair. “What exactly is the question you want answered, Jon?”
I pause a moment; I was hoping to ease into the conversation before cutting to the chase. “Okay. Here’s my question. Did you and Grant think—” My eyes dart around. I lower my voice. “Did you think I—that I was guilty?”
Simon draws up. For a moment, he appears on the verge of answering. Then he brings a finger to his mouth, which one might read as a signal for quiet but which, if memory serves, was a signature gesture of Simon Tully’s when he was Majority Leader. He looks to his side and nods; a waiter appears almost out of the blue, recalling an old Mafia movie. The analogy is more apt than anyone would care to admit. “Tim, club soda for me.” He turns to me.
“Water’s fine.”
“And we’ll have a couple shark sandwiches.”
The thought pops into my mind, I’ve never eaten a shark in my life, but it drifts in and out while Simon Tully avoids the question.
“Well, Jon.” Simon taps the table. “That’s a loaded question. And I’ll give you an answer. Do you mind me asking first why you’re interested?”
“Mistakes always come back to bite,” I say. “I’m trying to keep this from biting anyone.” I assume Simon reads me here, my reference to his son as well as me.
Whether he catches my meaning, he doesn’t let on, but that’s not unusual for a Tully. “To answer your question,” he says, “I was told you did not hurt that girl. Grant was absolutely convinced of it. So I accepted it as the truth. And we proceeded from there.”
“And you may have saved my life,” I say. “I owe both of you so much. But I wonder if I could pursue the point.”
Simon allows a faint smile as another waiter places his drink in front of him and addresses him by his former title. He looks at me, awaiting the question.
I ask, “Did we ever have any understanding of what the other boy’s version of the events was?”
He peers into my eyes, trying for a better look, it would seem. “Did he not provide his version of the events? At that hearing?”
“He did. He did.”
Simon nods knowingly. “You suspect it wasn’t the whole truth.”
“Something like that.”
“Ah.” The senator draws with his finger on the tablecloth. “And have you considered the notion that some questions are better left unanswered?”
“I’ve more than considered it,” I answer. “I’ve lived it. For twenty years.”
“These questions could haunt a fellow.” He raises a hand. “But why now?”
Simon Tully, like the rest of the public, is unaware of the theory that I was being blackmailed. The prosecution has not breathed a word of it.
“I’m wondering whom it may haunt.”
We are dancing around the fact that I have no memory of the events that night. Well, I’m dancing, anyway. It’s possible that Simon doesn’t even know—Grant may have buried my confession of a memory loss even from his father. I could see that. Grant would have a better chance of enlisting his father’s help if his father truly believed I was innocent.
“This holds some relevance, I take it, to the present proceedings.”
“To that, yes,” I say. “As well as to the governor’s race.” I shrug. “Guilt by association. ‘Grant Tully can’t even pick the right friends.’ Something like that.”
Simon grimaces. “Well, the answer is I don’t know. I never asked. Whatever may have transpired with this other boy, I have no idea. I suspect you’re giving me far too much credit.”
He’s telling me he had nothing to do with any coordination of my defense. He didn’t get to the other guy, Lyle. He didn’t talk to the coroner or the prosecutors.
I wish I could buy it. I don’t, not for a nanosecond. But there’s no point in pursuing the matter further.
“Look.” The former senator brings a hand to his face, scratching the corners of his mouth. He is weighing his words. “I’ve never judged you, Jon. I’d like to think the better of people, which means I’ve always been happy to accept Grant’s judgment that you did nothing to that girl—even though Grant couldn’t possibly know that for a fact. But whether you did or not is a separate matter, at least as far as I’m concerned. What is far more relevant to me is that regardless of the circumstances, my son was dragged into a rather sordid situation. He stepped up for you at considerable risk to himself. Then and now.”
“I understand that, Senator. I always have.”
Simon Tully scans the surroundings before fixing on me. “My son has a soft spot for you, Jonathan. Ever since he lost his brother, you’ve become his surrogate. Only instead of being his older sibling like Clay was, you became a little brother. That’s something I’ve never said to him or anyone else, for that matter. But it’s true. He looked out for you when you got in trouble that summer, and my guess is, he’s trying to look out for you now.”
“That’s true,” I concede.
“I don’t know if you happened to see him on Jackie Norris this week.” I nod, yes. “So you understand, Grant would sooner lose this race than see you smeared, much less convicted.”
“Yes, I do understand that.”
Simon Tully measures me a moment. “Listen, Jon,” he coninues. “Grant has never asked you for anything. He probably never will. For that matter, I never would, either. But you asked me to lunch and brought up the topic, so let me make this request of you.”
“Sure.”
He leans forward and speaks in a slow, deliberate manner. “Protect my son,” he says. He draws back and nods at our waiter, who delivers our sandwiches as if on cue.
33
ANOTHER WORLD, LESS than ten miles from where I live. On the south side of West Stanton Avenue is a brick wall, the boundary of a cemetery that runs the entire block, complete with barbed wire along the top of the masonry and tree branches overhanging. Leaves have fallen onto the sidewalk and street, but most have been blown against the curb due to the daily car traffic, or are stamped by the evening drizzle onto the broken pavement of the thoroughfare. To the north is a hulking pile of faded brick, an apartment complex in theory, more like a fortress after the bat
tle. The single working streetlight casts a reflection off the sheen on the wet road. There is a sickening decay about this forgotten neighborhood, a smell of garbage, an emptiness. An industrial block after the industry left.
I’ve parallel-parked between two cars that might have one undented door between them. I button my trench coat, grab my briefcase, and move with my head up—always with the head up in a neighborhood like this—but eyes straight forward. I pass a young man on a bench, asleep, sitting up, chin buried in his jacket, two days of growth on his face and matted hair that peeks from his ski cap. A couple of middle-age men are huddled outside the entryway of 4210 West Stanton Avenue. They disperse when they see me. No accident I’m wearing a trench coat. A long coat and a suit means government, either a cop or a welfare worker. I keep my hands in my pockets to maintain another false impression—that I have a weapon. I give the two men a hard look, nothing threatening but to show I’m in charge. No clue what these guys are up to, if anything, but doesn’t hurt to make an impression.
I pass through the doorway and find a guy at a small counter. He’s an old African-American man with glasses at the bridge of his nose, a button-down sweater vest over a rust long-sleeved shirt. He’s reading a paperback and takes his sweet time looking up at me.
“DOC,” I say. I open my wallet and let the badge, such as it is, dangle. Every year the Department of Corrections puts on a tour of a penitentiary for the people in the state capitol. I went about four years ago. They gave us temporary badges, which I managed to find in a stack of memorabilia I’ve accumulated for a scrapbook or something down the road. I whited out the VISITOR logo and taped on a photograph of me for this guy’s perusal. Upon close examination, the story won’t pass muster, and I’ll have to hustle my way out.
But he doesn’t even look at my display. “Name,” he says, setting down the book and turning back toward the board full of keys.
“Cosgrove,” I say. “Two-D.”
He hands me the key and I head to the second floor, heartbeat at full flutter. Lyle Cosgrove is at work tonight, at a pharmacy about two miles from here. I called the place earlier today and asked for him; they told me he’d be on at six tonight.
So I’m relatively confident no one’s in the place, but my nerves batter about anyway. I’ve never broken into someone’s place before. I’m probably not very good at it, either. At least I brought a pair of gloves to cover prints.
The place is a studio, no interior walls except for the bathroom. An unmade bed sits in one corner of the place, clothes on the floor nearby. A television set on the other side of the room rests on an overturned box, a cord winding its way across the dingy carpet to the outlet. A grand total of one chair—a love seat of black velvet. There’s a small kitchen with old, brown appliances and one very large stain on the beat-up tile. So Lyle Cosgrove is not exactly living the life of Riley here.
I do a quick once-over of the place, but I’m not surprised that I don’t see what I’m looking for. If it’s here—and that’s a big if—it wouldn’t be out in the open, I assume.
Next to the bed is a dresser, antique oak. I go through the drawers efficiently, putting my hands straight down and shuffling around. I’m looking for paper. Anything related to me, to Gina Mason. I make my way through the five drawers with no success, just a small assortment of clothes and underwear.
A gym bag rests in another corner of the room, near the bathroom. I see a folder with an official emblem on it. It’s from the Department of Corrections, entitled “Parolee Guide Book.” It has pockets on either side with documents stuffed in. I flip through them. One is the rules for parolees. Rule number one, in bold print, is NEVER MISS AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOUR PAROLE OFFICER! Another sheet contains a list of employment services that are willing to use ex-cons, a hotline number to call, etc. I pass through several more—“Frequently Asked Questions,” “What To Do If You’re Arrested,” a list of rehabilitation counselors and religious services available. Behind all of that is a newspaper article, unevenly cut and weathered, looks like from the Daily Watch.
TULLY WAR CHEST REACHES THREE MILLION
It’s a story run last year, showing that Grant Tully had already amassed a sizeable amount of cash for a run for governor. A small photo of Grant, not very flattering. The article mentions his announcement for the governor’s race the prior week. We were showing off the money to scare off any challengers.
So Lyle Cosgrove was well aware of Grant’s money.
I consider for a moment what to do with this article, finally deciding to slide it back into the pocket where I found it. No sense in keeping it. What am I going to do, run to the police with this?
Nerves at full throttle, I move quickly through the papers in the other side pocket. They are court documents, petitioning for parole and the official proclamation of the grant of parole. I jump as the telephone rings, a blaring call from across the room, causing me to spill the documents from the folder.
“Shit.” Settle down now, go through them quickly and put them back in order. The first document was the petition for parole, Cosgrove’s written plea that he be released from prison. I grip it as my eyes wander to the bottom of the page, the attribution of the lawyer.
Respectfully submitted,
Dale T. Garrison
Counsel for the Petitioner
I drop the paper from my hand, almost falling backward in my crouch. I stand up for no particular reason and look around the room.
Dale Garrison was Lyle Cosgrove’s lawyer for his parole hearing. Dale helped Lyle get parole. Hardly a motive for murder. Lyle didn’t kill Dale out of revenge for screwing up his trial, not if Dale was kind enough to throw his weight behind a parole application. But maybe he killed him for another reason.
More to the point: they’ve been talking recently.
I move quickly to the documents I haven’t reviewed yet, the bottom of the small pile on the carpet. One is a two-page letter bearing the letterhead of Dale Garrison’s law firm, with Dale’s stamp on the signature line. The letter is dated August 6, 2000—twelve days before Garrison was murdered.
Mr. Cosgrove:
I enjoyed meeting with you today. Congratulations again on your parole. I write only to make clear something we discussed today, which left me troubled. You asked me a precise legal question—the statute of limitations for murder—and I gave you an answer, that there is no statute of limitations for murder. But other comments you made left me wondering why you asked.
You never openly stated your intentions, or why you requested this knowledge, and it wasn’t my place to ask. But our discussions about the long-ago past make me curious about what you plan to do with this information. Let me advise you, very strongly, that you should not attempt to dig up something from over twenty years ago. You stated to me then, and I believed you, that Jon Soliday did not force sex on that young woman and that she was alive when he left her house. I believed you when you told me, and you swore to that fact under oath. The prosecutors accepted your sworn testimony, and other evidence corroborated that testimony.
If you attempt to swear differently now, you may be open to prosecution for any number of crimes, including perjury, obstruction of justice, and tampering with evidence. You should also be advised that juvenile proceedings are confidential, and the disclosure of anything related to them could lead to a criminal charge as well. I have not reviewed the relevant laws on this subject, but I must advise you of the possibility.
Let me say again what I said in my office today: that while our discussions were protected by attorney-client privilege, this privilege does not attach to discussions between attorney and client regarding future crimes. If I were to learn that you are attempting any crime related to the events of 1979, I would be required to revisit our conversation and determine that we were discussing a future crime in my office today. In that event, I would be compelled to disclose the substance of our conversation. At this point, however, it does not appear to me that you are planning any future miscon
duct, so unless something happens to change my mind, I am bound by the attorney-client privilege to keep our discussion confidential.
Please think hard about what I’ve said to you. You should focus on the future, not the past.
Regards,
DALE GARRISON
Dale Garrison
I place the document on the floor gingerly and struggle to keep my wits about me, to resist the avalanche. I walk across the room, back and forth, a nervous pace, a moment of utter panic, before I force myself down from the ledge. Lyle’s not coming home anytime soon. I can sit here a moment and think this through.
Dale Garrison was the lawyer for Lyle Cosgrove in 1979. Hired by the Tullys. He got Lyle on the same page with my story and I walked.
I read back over the letter from its position on the carpet, afraid to touch it. Dale’s letter serves two purposes, to warn Lyle off blackmailing me and to cover his own ass. He “believed” Lyle in 1979 when he said I didn’t do anything wrong. He “believes” it now. Of course. Otherwise, he suborned perjury. He “wonders” why Lyle Cosgrove wants to know the statute of limitations for murder. It “does not appear” to him that Lyle’s planning to commit blackmail. Sure. Because Dale would have to report it, and bring down a tidal wave of an inquiry about Senator Grant Tully’s chief counsel.
Lyle had to kill Dale after this letter. And he framed me. If you’re going to set someone up for the murder, who better than the one person who can’t point the finger back at you?
There is, after all, no statute of limitations for murder.
34
I’M BACK AT my law firm, Seaton, Hirsch, for the first time since my arrest. Walking in at close to midnight is a little strange, but Bennett gave me the assignment to go over the documents from Dale’s computer, and I don’t feel like having the dogs distracting me at this particular moment.