Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  “So Bennett wants to point the finger at Lyle Cosgrove.”

  “Yeah.”

  Grant makes a steeple with his hands, his elbows on the desk. “And in doing so, there’s no escaping the fact that the events of 1979 will come to the surface.”

  “No escaping it,” I say.

  The senator drops his hands flat on the desk and hums—maybe groans—to himself.

  “I’m painted into a corner, Grant. I’m being charged with a crime I didn’t commit and I need to do whatever I can.”

  “I know that, I know that.” He inhales, freezes a moment. There must be some battle raging within him, his desire to be governor balanced against his wanting to help me. Knowing him, it’s not much of a fight. “Does that mean you’re going to tell Bennett? You’re going to make what happened back then public?”

  “It will hurt you,” I say. “At a minimum, guilt by association. I’ll be even more of an albatross. And if people start digging, they might come up with the idea that you helped me out back then. Maybe cut some legal corners. That could hurt.”

  He makes a face, like what I’ve just said is meaningless. “I’m worried about you,” he says. “If you bring this up, can’t they still say that you murdered her? Can’t they revisit that?”

  “Yeah, they sure could. I wasn’t acquitted. There’s no double jeopardy.” I look at the ceiling. “That’s some line of defense I’m looking at. I beat one murder charge by implicating myself in another one.”

  “Not true.” Grant’s response is so quick he almost cut me off. “You didn’t do anything back then. They’ll never make that case.”

  “Grant.” I adjust in my chair as if I’m talking to a four-year-old. I’m surely not, but when it comes to me, Grant’s fraternal, if not paternal side clouds his judgment. “The county attorney is Elliot Raycroft, remember? He sees a chance to revive a murder investigation against Senator Tully’s top aide—with all sorts of sensational drama, a rape and murder of a young girl, and with you there on the periphery—you think he’ll hesitate one second? Even if it doesn’t pan out, he’ll ruin us. He’ll ruin you.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” says Grant.

  His calm disarms me. I want to shake him. “You’re saying I should do it,” I say. “Tell the whole story. Point the finger at Lyle Cosgrove, explain how he and I are connected, argue that I was blackmailed and framed and how I didn’t commit either of the two murders.” The description deflates me. What a spot I’m in.

  Grant Tully leaves his chair and takes the one next to me. “If you have to, of course. You make it sound so dire. Forget about the race a moment, just for a moment. You argue that this Lyle was blackmailing you, Garrison didn’t go along, so he killed him, framing you in the process. Tell them you didn’t do anything in 1979 but Lyle was threatening to bring it back up, anyway. Just to smear you.” He opens his hands. “That works. That makes sense.”

  “And you lose the race,” I say.

  “Or you go away for life. For a crime you didn’t commit. Which is worse?”

  Tough to rebut that one. Grant seems entirely comfortable with this. He’s always derived some satisfaction playing the big brother to me.

  He smacks my cheek lightly. “And don’t assume I’ll lose the race.”

  I let out an enormous sigh. “If I had any other choice—”

  “I know.”

  “—but I don’t.”

  “I know.”

  I nod, unable to say anything more. I rise and head for the door. I’m near the hallway, patting the door frame, when the senator calls back to me.

  “Do we have to reveal everything?” he asks.

  I know what he’s talking about. The drugs. The cocaine. The fact that Jon Soliday got messed up and potentially implicated in a murder is one thing. The fact that Senator Grant Tully was snorting cocaine beforehand is quite another. The hearing back in 1979 was obviously focused on me, and there’s no evidence out there that puts Grant with a straw up his nose.

  “No,” I answer. “All I remember you doing is having a few beers.”

  Grant nods with me. “Is that okay?”

  “It’ll be just like it was back then,” I say. “I remember doing drugs with Lyle and Gina. I don’t recall you being upstairs with us. You and Rick didn’t get mixed up with the drugs.”

  Grant shudders. He seems to feel guilty about this, as if the monumental favors and risks he’s taken for me add up to nothing. The fact is, I pretty much have to stick to what I testified to in 1979, anyway. It’s the story that helps me walk.

  “I’ll have to let Bennett know about this pretty quick,” I say.

  “I know.” The senator is not looking at me. “Go win the case.”

  I thank him and walk down the hallway. I stop briefly at my secretary Cathy’s station, looking for any mail that may have come my way, allowing a moment to let the electricity settle within my body. From Senator Tully’s office, I hear a commotion, the sound of several files of paper flying across the room and slapping against the wall.

  37

  TODAY IS THURSDAY. My trial begins in a little over a week. Bennett’s been working on all of our pretrial motions, so he’s up to his ears. I don’t know where the time has gone but we are in the final stages now, with not a lot to show for it. Bennett has pursued the notion of an alternative cause of death, but among the various forensic pathologists he’s talked to, none of them thinks that his theory is more likely than the easy call—that Dale was strangled.

  I still haven’t spoken to Bennett about Lyle Cosgrove. It took me a while to accept the fact that all of this fit together like it has, that Lyle was probably blackmailing me about my past and Dale Garrison got in the way. I suppose I was protecting Grant Tully as well as myself in trying to bury this stuff. But now it is clear I don’t have a choice, and Grant has even given his blessing.

  I’m doing laundry this afternoon—after five weeks of build-up, I’ve been reduced to wearing underwear with rips and holes—when I hear the pugs going ballistic upstairs. Their nails slip on the hallway tile as they run. Their normally muted barks are at high pitch. Someone’s at the door, in other words. I ignore it initially, because most likely the caller is soliciting for something and I’m not interested. But the dogs are still making a racket when I get to the top of the stairs, so I drop a basket full of clean undies and go to the door.

  It’s Bennett Carey, looking rather worn down.

  I push open the door. “Hey.”

  Ben has been working furiously on my case, following leads, writing the pretrial papers to get certain evidence excluded. For the most part, he tells me, there’s nothing critical in any of them. This case comes down to my believability, and to pointing the finger at Lyle Cosgrove. The only key piece of evidence Ben is trying to exclude is the blackmail letter. There’s nothing tying Dale Garrison to the letter, so there’s no relevance.

  “You said to stop by today,” he says. “I needed a break.”

  “Sure, now’s fine.” I lead him into the living room. He declines my offer of a drink or anything to eat. I let the dogs out so they won’t be a distraction.

  “So what’s up?” he asks, slapping his hands together as I return to the room.

  “Lyle Cosgrove.” I take the couch opposite his chair. “We need to talk about him.”

  “Okay…” No doubt, Ben can read my facial expression. He is calculating now. He’s probably wondered all along if I have a skeleton in my closet, something to which the blackmail letter could be referring.

  “And I was going to tell you this earlier,” I start. “I should have, I realize that. At first, I wasn’t sure, because I knew that once you had the information you’d use it to its maximum extent—and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. But that’s settled now.”

  Ben opens his hands. He seems to anticipate that he will not enjoy hearing what I have to say. He delivers his response with a somewhat icy tone. “Tell me now.”

  I rub my hands together. “I’
ve never talked about this,” I say. “I—I have some history with Lyle Cosgrove.”

  Bennett’s lips part but he waits me out. His tongue appears to be working furiously inside his mouth. This is not good news, what I’m about to impart.

  I start with the basics of what happened in June 1979—at least to the extent that I’m willing. Grant and I drove to Summit County for a party. We met up with Lyle Cosgrove, some guy named Rick, and Gina Mason. I omit the fact that the whole reason we went to Summit County was because Grant couldn’t use cocaine around his neighborhood, not the son of a senator, so apparently he found a guy across the state line.

  “So anyway,” I continue, “we’re at this party. Lyle, Gina, and I go upstairs. We start with weed. We’re getting pretty stoned—at least I am, I don’t have much experience with the stuff. Then Lyle shows up with coke. Long story short, next thing I know it’s past midnight. Party’s over. I’m messed up beyond belief.”

  “Where’s Tully?” Ben asks, eyes narrowed.

  “Grant went home.”

  “Grant went home.” Ben considers this. “Without you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the other guy—Rick?”

  “Went with Grant. Drove him home.”

  “So where did you go, Jon?”

  “Well—I went with Lyle. To Gina’s.”

  Bennett’s head inclines slightly. He is fixated, his eyes intense, his hands clutching the chair as he leans forward.

  “She was expecting me,” I say. “I—I went into her bedroom and we”—I twirl a finger—“we had sex.”

  “She was expecting you.”

  “That’s what I said, Bennett. She was expecting me.” I gather myself a moment, ignoring the sweat on my brow. I steady a hand. “Look. That’s it. We had sex, and I went back to the car, and Lyle drove me home.”

  My lawyer has not lost his intensity. No doubt, my story has not ended.

  “So—apparently—well, that night she died.”

  “She died?”

  “She died. I think she overdosed. That’s what the coroner probably thought happened.”

  Ben shifts in his chair, his glare severe. “Probably…thought?”

  “There was some thought,” I continue, “that she might have been killed. Maybe even raped and murdered.”

  “By?” Bennett already knows the punch line.

  “Well, by me.” I exhale. “But the evidence didn’t prove it. They investigated the thing and closed it. I wasn’t charged. No one was charged.”

  “So tell me what this means.” Bennett is shaking his hands, either in plea or fury, perhaps both.

  “Well, I think Lyle Cosgrove was—”

  “Blackmailing you.” Bennett nods. The color has left his face. He swallows hard. “Threatening to bring all of this up. You don’t raid the senator’s war chest, he exposes a dirty secret in the middle of a campaign.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And how does Garrison fit in?”

  I purse my lips. “You want some water or something?”

  “I’m fine. How does Garrison fit in?”

  “Garrison was Cosgrove’s lawyer back then.”

  Bennett blinks rapidly. The revelations are coming one after the other, and the trial is around the corner. “So—Cosgrove was investigated, too, back then.”

  “Well, sure. Initially. But they knew I had had sex with her. I was the easy target.”

  Ben falls back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Garrison was handling juvie stuff back then?”

  “Dale was hired by the Tullys, Ben.”

  He makes a face. “So Cosgrove was friends with Grant—”

  “It’s not so much that,” I interrupt. I want to tread carefully here, but my lawyer needs to know what’s lurking out there. I lower my voice for some reason. “The Tullys hired him to protect me.”

  Bennett’s eyes, still cast to the ceiling, close. I’ve told him plenty here. He places his hands on top of his head and sighs. “How formal was this investigation?”

  “They had what they called an inquiry.”

  “So it was formal.”

  “I guess.”

  “Transcribed,” says Ben. “Evidence presented into the record. And you were arrested.”

  “All true except the last part,” I answer. “I was never arrested.”

  His eyebrows rise. “That’s quite a courtesy. I don’t even want to know how that was arranged.”

  “You probably don’t. Frankly, I don’t know myself.”

  Bennett finally breaks out of his trance. He looks at me directly. The hint of scolding in his voice has not completely disappeared. “Did Cosgrove testify at this thing?”

  “He did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That things were fine. He dropped me off to go into Gina’s house. He came to get me when he was getting impatient, and I was kissing her goodbye.”

  “Kissing her goodbye?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But is that true?” Ben persists. “You said you thought she was alive when you left. So I assume you weren’t kissing her goodbye.”

  I wave a hand. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t remember, Ben. Okay? I don’t remember. I remember being with her—you know, I remember the sex, at least kind of. And I remember crawling out the bedroom window—I banged up my knee, I remember that. In between that, afterward, I don’t know. I don’t recall.”

  Bennett studies me, trying to read between the lines while, at the same time, absorbing all of this information. “What do you recall next?”

  “Waking up in the morning.”

  “No,” he says quickly.

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “You’re being totally straight with me, Jon? You don’t remember a thing after that?”

  “I don’t, Ben.”

  He evens a hand. “You’re telling me everything? You’re leaving nothing out?”

  “Ben, Jesus. I swear.”

  “You remember crawling out the window and next thing, it’s morning in your bed?”

  “Right.”

  Bennett’s elbows hit his knees; his hands lace together. A man praying. His tongue rolls along his lips.

  “You’re worried that I can’t effectively rebut what Cosgrove will say.”

  Ben doesn’t answer. He is still sorting out the thoughts. Thoughts of the impact of this information on the trial. Thoughts of his friend, his boss for the last several years. How far I must have fallen in his eyes, in the space of ten minutes. Finally, Ben gets to his feet. He stands awkwardly, unsure of his next move.

  “Ben,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this stuff sooner. But I’m not sure we’re done here.”

  Bennett turns to the window, though he doesn’t appear to be looking at anything at all.

  “Maybe we continue this later,” I offer. “I’ll stop by later tonight. At the office.”

  Bennett nods absently but says nothing. He opens the door with caution, moving slowly to the driveway. My eyes follow him through the window to his car. He gets in but looks up at the house and makes eye contact with me. He is no doubt wondering who the person is looking back at him.

  I pick up my portable phone as Ben drives off, and punch the numbers. Cal Reedy answers on the third ring. “Cal, it’s me. I’ve got something else. Find a guy. Sure, Bennett knows about it. This one could be tougher, so I’m paying you, I insist. Your regular rate. I don’t know his last name, that’s the thing. Not even sure of his first name. He could be dead, for all I know. Or in jail. There are only a few details I can give you.”

  I hear Cal murmur to himself as he reaches for a pen and paper.

  “Summit County,” I say. “Nineteen-seventy-nine. First name, Rick. Nickname, Ricochet.”

  38

  BENNETT CAREY LOOKS better when I find him in his office at seven o’clock that evening. This is not to say that he looks particularly well—fourteen-hour days preparing for your friend’s murd
er trial will do that, to say nothing of the history I laid on him earlier today—but at least he’s not shell-shocked.

  “I’ve made some notes,” he greets me. “I have some thoughts. And some questions.”

  I take a seat in his office. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wasn’t sure this was connected to 1979, and I was afraid once I told you, you’d use it. I wasn’t sure I wanted you to.”

  “I got that,” says Ben. “It was a bad move but I hear you.”

  “Okay.” I pat the arm of my chair. “Do you want to start or me?”

  “Me.” Ben’s holding a pencil over a legal pad. “Explain why Lyle killed Dale Garrison.”

  “Dale got Lyle parole recently. Dale was the lawyer. So they had contact.”

  “Huh.”

  “And Dale knew what happened in 1979. We’ll never know exactly what attorney and client discussed, but Dale probably had a pretty good grip on things.”

  “Right.”

  “So, when Lyle got out of prison, he broached the topic with Dale.”

  Ben raises a hand. Stop. “Are you saying Lyle talked to Dale about blackmailing you?”

  “Yeah. Not in so many words. But Dale got the drift. And Dale tried to talk him out of it.”

  “Dale tried to—” Ben fixes on me. “How do you know that, Jon?”

  I open my briefcase and remove the letter I found from Dale to Cosgrove. “One of the things I was gonna show you before you wandered out of my house in a trance.”

  Ben takes the letter and looks at the paper itself before reading it. It’s thick stock, creased at each third from when it was mailed. The original. I’ve made a copy, which I hold.

  My attorney looks at me, ready to ask me where I got this, but I say, “Just read it,” so he complies.

  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.