by David Ellis
I open the letter from Dale Garrison to Lyle Cosgrove, which after some deliberation I decided to take. I didn’t find anything else in the apartment, and I left as soon as possible.
It’s possible that I didn’t kill Gina Mason. Still, it’s possible. Maybe Cosgrove told Dale he was willing to lie about it—implicate me—for a nice payday from the senator’s campaign fund. Cosgrove’s not above lying, is he?
It’s possible I didn’t kill her. Even if I did, I didn’t know what I was doing. I never would have done something like that in a right state of mind. It isn’t me. That’s not me.
The computer hard drive contains a number of documents not worth checking—the guts of the computer, so to speak, that couldn’t shed any light on any funny business Dale Garrison might have been up to. So I go to his word-processing system and begin looking at documents. Like me and probably everyone else, Dale’s case load is organized by folders. I quickly find the folder marked “Cosgrove, Lyle” and look at the list of documents within it. They seem to relate to his work on the parole hearing. “Petition.Parole.” “Brief.Support.Petition.Parole.” “Certificate.Service.” No mention of a letter, not from the list at least. So I open each document in the folder and read through it. None of them are the letter.
I go back to the list of folders for something like “Correspondence,” where Dale might have kept his letters, but it wouldn’t make sense to separate letters from the rest of a case file. At any rate, there is no folder for general correspondence.
It hits me, then, to do a full-text word search, to search every single document in Dale’s system for a specific phrase or word. It takes me a minute to figure it out. I fell between the generation that never used a computer and the kids who grew up with them. So I’m okay but not great. I find the template that allows me a “text search” and I choose “all files.” I look back at Dale’s letter, pick out a unique phrase, and type the words for the search:
statute of limitations for murder
The pointer on the computer turns to an hourglass for a moment, then the results come back. “No hits.” Nothing on Dale’s computer.
Dale erased the letter, or didn’t use his computer. That would make some sense, I guess. Not surprising that he’d want to be a bit discreet about this subject.
I open another document I have with me, the blackmail note, and search for a memorable phrase from that letter:
secret that nobody knows
Same result. “No hits.”
Dale didn’t send the blackmail letter, at least not from his computer. Not surprising but needed to confirm.
Bennett has taken the assignment of looking through the “hard” files—the documents themselves in Dale’s case files. I walk to his office and don’t see the boxes, then recall the conference room we have set up to review all discovery.
The conference room is well organized, which fits Bennett. Accordion files rest along each wall, all the way around the room. It’s just a question of finding which one.
“Cosgrove, Lyle.” Easy enough to find. There are about six folders within the accordion file. One of them bears the typewritten word “Parole.” I go through the documents. Many of them, I saw on the computer. There are a few letters as well. Otherwise, nothing. I search through the others for anything related to 1979, but there is nothing. Long time ago, probably purged by now.
I return to my office and continue with word-searches on Dale’s hard drive:
Soliday
The search brings up three documents:
Memo to Tully
Schedule
Schedule
I pull up the first document and find the memorandum Dale prepared on the Ace, which contains my name at the conclusion:
In summary, I must concur with the conclusions of Jon Soliday.
I wonder if the prosecution has figured out, without either Grant or me telling them, that this memo was the reason I was at Dale’s office. No doubt they’ve found this document. But nothing has come of it. We have not filed a petition with the board of elections to remove Trotter, and we won’t. Still—you’d think they would be investigating this point. Maybe Ben was right—maybe they haven’t scoured his computer. But that’s hard to believe.
The second document is just one sentence:
Lunch with Soliday at Carter’s, noon Thursday.
That was the lunch we had planned, which was changed to Friday night. The next and final document is almost as brief:
Soliday rescheduled, meeting at 7 P.M. Friday, my office.
I didn’t reschedule that damn meeting. My secretary, Cathy, told me about the change. What was it she said—“Garrison called to confirm,” or something like that? Come to think of it, what Cathy said sounded like I was the one doing the rescheduling. That’s just a misunderstanding, but I have to run this by Cathy. I look at the words again. Read one way, they give no indication as to who rescheduled. I’m already thinking like a defense lawyer.
I check my watch. Just past one in the morning. I’m tired, and I found what I wanted. Or I should say, I didn’t find what I didn’t want to find. If the letter from Garrison to Cosgrove is not in the files, the prosecution doesn’t know about it. That puts me in control. At least I have that much. I can decide when and how to use this evidence. Or whether to use it at all.
35
THE PHONE RINGS at just past nine in the morning. I’ve overslept. Not like I have any appointments or anything. I battle through the pugs, Jake and Maggie, and reach for the phone.
“It’s Ben. I have news.” The excitement in his voice cannot be contained. That’s saying a lot for Bennett Carey. “Remember the lady whose cell phone was stolen? The phone that was used to call you back to Dale’s—”
“Yeah, of course.” I clear my throat. “Souter or something?”
“Right. Joanne Souter. Cal Reedy spoke to her last night.”
“Okay?”
“Her purse was swiped from a public library on Friday, that Friday Dale died. Late afternoon. She stepped away from the table to go the stacks or something, and some guy waltzed off with it.”
“He knew he’d have some time to use it,” I say. “Before she called the company to cancel the service.”
“Right,” Ben agrees. “She cancelled all the other stuff first—credit cards, you know. The stuff that can really run up in a short time. A cell phone was the least of her worries. By the time seven o’clock had rolled around—we’re talking like three hours after the theft—she’s hardly left the police station filing the report. But here’s the good part, Jon.”
“Let’s hear the good part.”
“She thinks she saw the guy who did it. A creepy guy, didn’t seem to fit in.”
“What’d she say?” I sit up in bed now.
“Medium height, denim jacket.” Ben pauses. “Long red hair in a ponytail.”
“That’s our man?” I ask.
“Matches Lyle Cosgrove to a tee. Right down to the denim jacket, too. Gets even better.”
“I’m still listening.”
“Cal,” he says, “you gotta love him. He brings a spread of photos with him, including Lyle Cosgrove’s mug shot. She IDs Cosgrove as the guy who stole the cell phone.”
“Holy shit.” My dogs, both of them, have nuzzled their way onto my lap.
“Lyle Cosgrove made the call that brought you back to Dale’s office,” says Ben.
“Or someone else did,” I say. “And Lyle did the killing.”
“Right. Sure. And get this—a few days later, Joanne Souter gets a package in the mail. She opens it, and it’s her purse. Everything in it untouched. Except the phone, which is gone. So I guess Mr. Cosgrove has strange priorities. Murder is okay, robbery is not.”
“That just proves our point,” I say. “Only reason he stole the purse was to use the phone.”
“I know.” I can hear Ben tapping his fingers on the desk. “I wonder if we should put a material-witness tag on him.”
“What’s that?�
��
“Oh—I’m wondering if we should have him detained as a material witness.”
“We can have the police hold him?” I ask.
“Yeah. Otherwise he might run.”
“Do we want to do that? I thought we wanted to lay low on him for the time being.”
“I know,” Ben agrees. “But that was when he seemed like nothing more than a good empty chair. Now, I’m thinking maybe we have our guy.”
“Well—but do we need him for any of this? We have the lady to say Lyle stole the phone. We have the records to show that Cosgrove just got out and had a grudge against Dale. If Lyle testifies, he’ll just deny the whole thing. Maybe it’s better if he’s—y’know—the empty chair. If he can’t defend himself.”
“Hm. Well, that’s a thought,” says Ben. “Plus, that way, we don’t have to show our hand. We wait until we put on a defense, slap a subpoena on Lyle, and go at him. The prosecution doesn’t get a heads-up.”
“Makes some sense,” I say. I’m not entirely sure of my motives here. I’m telling Bennett not to call attention to Lyle Cosgrove right now. Maybe I’m just delaying the inevitable. But an objective observer might say I have another idea in mind.
36
SENATOR TULLY DROPS behind his desk at Seaton, Hirsch. The weariness is apparent in his eyes and his posture. He’s back in town for the first time in over a week. It’s Wednesday night, and Grant is ready to spend a long weekend downstate. This was my only chance to meet him.
“How’s the case?” he asks.
“Fine, I guess. Bennett’s trying to turn everything upside down.” I nod my head and kill a moment. This is the time to bring it up. “There’s a detail I need to discuss with you.”
“Okay.” Grant’s looking for some aspirin in his desk drawers.
“Bennett doesn’t know that Dale Garrison represented Lyle Cosgrove in Summit County way back when.” I speak casually, as if I’ve known all along about Garrison’s connection to the 1979 trial.
Grant looks at me like I’ve dropped my pants. “Why are we talking about that?”
“It’s true, right?” I push. “Garrison was Lyle’s lawyer.”
“Lyle,” says the senator, a hand cupping his mouth. “God, yeah.” He looks at me. “Yeah, Dale represented that kid. You didn’t know that?”
“I was in the dark,” I answer. I suppose it would never come up, over the years that I worked with Dale Garrison sporadically. Dale would never find the occasion to tell me that he helped me out back then.
“Okay, well, it’s true,” says Grant. “But I can’t imagine it’s relevant?”
“Well, that’s the thing.” I adjust in my seat as the senator awaits elaboration. “It might be relevant.”
“How’s that?”
“Lyle Cosgrove’s been in jail for years,” I say.
“Probably where he belongs.”
“But he just got out, Grant. About a month before Dale was killed.”
Grant works on that a moment, showing nothing but a blank stare. “We’re looking at this guy for killing Dale?”
“Yeah. I think he did.”
“Why?”
“Let’s not get too specific,” I say. “But I think Lyle decided that now was a good time to call on an old acquaintance to help him with his future financial needs.”
“The blackmail,” says Grant.
I slide the note across to him.
I guess I’m the only one left who knows the secret that nobody knows. I think $250,000 should cover it. A month should be enough time. I wouldn’t presume your income source, but I imagine if anyone could find a way to tap into the campaign fund without anyone noticing, you would. Or I suppose I could always just talk to the senator. Is that what you want? One month. Don’t attempt to contact me about this. I will initiate all communications.
I continue as the senator reads the note. “Lyle was blackmailing me. He was threatening to expose my little secret unless I gave him money from your campaign fund. He was well aware that you had a big war chest.”
Grant peers over the document with narrow eyes. Finally, he looks up at me. “How is Dale involved?”
“Dale tried to talk him out of it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know it. Dale helped get Lyle Cosgrove parole. They were talking. He mentioned the idea to Dale, and Dale tried to stop him. So he killed Dale.”
“Tell me how you know that, Jon.”
“No.” I slowly exhale.
He casts me a look of disapproval. “Has this guy—Lyle—has he tried to contact you again? Can you tell me that much?” Grant fingers the blackmail letter. “He says he’ll initiate all communications.”
I shake my head. “I figure he’s spooked off after I was charged with Dale’s murder.”
“Where is this guy? Lyle?”
“He’s in the city,” I answer. “Condition of parole.”
Grant swallows hard.
“Not a good situation,” I say.
He laughs bitterly, angles his head. “No, I’d say not.”
“Tell me what happened back then, Grant. Tell me about 1979. The ‘secret that nobody knows.’”
Grant takes the question badly. He squirms in his chair and breaks eye contact.
“You and your dad hired Garrison to represent Lyle.”
He considers me a moment. That much, surely, he can acknowledge. “True.”
“But Lyle wasn’t in trouble. He didn’t need a lawyer.”
“Easy for us to say,” Grant answers. “He was being questioned.”
“But you hired him a fancy, expensive lawyer to control him. To make sure he and I were singing from the same hymnal. Everyone says Jon Soliday is innocent.”
Grant folds his hands together and looks at me. “A boy in that situation will do anything he can,” he says. “He’d roll on you in a heartbeat to save himself. You think the police weren’t saying that to him? ‘Give us the other guy and we’ll let you skate’? Jon, just because we got him a lawyer doesn’t mean we made him lie. It doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.
“What was Lyle saying to the police?” I ask. “Before you hired Garrison for him.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Probably, he kept his mouth shut at first. I’m sure it wasn’t his first scrape with the law. He wasn’t stupid.”
“Tell me what you knew, Grant. Tell me what you knew about my involvement.”
“I knew you were innocent.” The words come quickly. “That was the only possible outcome.”
“Because I was your pal.”
“Because you’re not capable of it. Drunk or stoned or whatever.” He waves his hand. “It’s just not a possibility.” He leans forward and directs a finger at me. “Listen, Jon, this blackmail—it doesn’t mean Lyle lied back then. Don’t you see that? The mere mention of that case would smear you, and me. He knows that. He probably knows I’m running for governor. He knows neither of us would want that topic brought up.” He settles back in his chair. “It doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“So you didn’t know anything back then?” I ask. “Anything that implicated me? You didn’t talk to Lyle about it? Or that other guy—Rick?”
“Rick.” Grant shakes his head. “What a crew, those guys.”
“Anything,” I repeat.
The senator stands, removes his tuxedo coat and cuff links and rolls up his sleeves. He looks like he has gained a few pounds during the campaign, which is understandable—the lack of exercise and the omnipresent food at various stops. He is still slight but a hint of a paunch has crept over his belt. “You want to know?” he says. “Okay.”
I cross a leg and wag it.
“This Rick—or what did they call him, Ricochet—that guy called me afterward. After I talked to you from the jail. I can’t remember the details. It’s been, what, over twenty years?”
“Give me a nutshell.”
Grant nods. “He was talking crazy. The cops had visited Lyle, and he was fre
aking out. Rick had supplied the—you know—”
“The cocaine.”
“Right.” Grant settles on that memory for a moment. He resumes in a calmer voice. “Rick wanted nothing to do with this, because if that girl overdosed and he supplied the stuff, he could be in trouble. And Lyle was quite upset about being questioned himself.”
I open my hands. “So you struck a deal.”
“You make it sound so sinister.” He purses his lips. “Yeah, I guess so. I told him to tell Lyle, we’ll get him a lawyer and keep his mouth shut. I told Rick that we’d keep him out of the whole thing, as long as—just so—”
“As long as Lyle behaved himself,” I finish. “As long as Lyle Cosgrove exonerates me, everything will be fine. The Tully family machine will take care of the rest. The prosecutors, the medical examiner, all of these people will be surprisingly friendly to Jon Soliday, and as long as Lyle backs the whole thing up, we can all go home in the end.”
Grant’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t immediately respond.
“It was a fix-up, the whole thing,” I continue.
“It doesn’t mean you committed a crime,” says Grant. “Did we work some connections? Yes. Did Dale steer Lyle to a certain version of events? Maybe, I wasn’t there—but maybe. But we were doing this stuff for an innocent person.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I believe that. I always have.”
To my surprise, I feel relief in this answer. Although the picture is starting to get clearer on this point, I am somehow heartened by the fact that Grant never actually thought I was guilty.
“Okay.” I raise a hand. “Okay.”
Grant resumes his seat, runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ. So this guy Lyle is suspect number one now?”
“I’d put even money on it.”
He makes a show with his hands. “Wonderful. Great.”
“Bennett doesn’t know about 1979,” I say. “Or my connection to Lyle. But he does know about Lyle in general. He knows he just got out of prison, and apparently, when Lyle was last convicted, he claimed on appeal that his lawyer—Dale—was ineffective. And now we have Lyle tied to the stolen cell phone.”