Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  I would laugh under ordinary circumstances. Lang Trotter has prosecuted people for political gain his entire life. Every case is political, or potentially so. You never know when a simple domestic violence case turns into double murder and everyone looks back and wonders why the county attorney dropped the charges on an assault-and-battery when they could have put the shooter away. Everything is twenty-twenty hindsight.

  “I appreciate the comment,” I say. I’m staring at his face but he’s avoiding eye contact.

  Trotter places a hand on my shoulder and moves me toward the door. “I hope you win the case, Jonathan. I do.”

  I nod and extend a hand. We shake hands. I hold his grip a split-second longer than appropriate. This provokes the intended result. Lang Trotter looks at me.

  “We might have a surprise or two,” I say. I release his hand and wave to Maribelle on my way out. I find Bennett Carey over by Grant Tully’s room and tell him I’ll watch the debate at home.

  49

  “I WANT TO begin by welcoming our audience at home and in this auditorium to the first of the three debates in the race for governor.” Bill Gadsby, the moderator, is seated at a table with a single microphone. Each of the two candidates is introduced.

  We negotiated for hours over the format. The Republicans—Trotter’s people—wanted the men to stand side by side at podiums. They wanted that because Lang Trotter is a burly, six-foot-four man who towers over Grant, barely reaching six feet and rather slight. We have to overcome the presumption of inexperience that comes with a thirty-eight-year-old state senator with unfortunately boyish looks, and side by side the match-up is not flattering to us. For our part, we wanted cameras overhead as well as frontal, hoping to catch the small bald spot atop Trotter’s head.

  Trotter also pushed for spontaneous questions from the audience, as opposed to scripts. Trotter wanted this for two reasons. For one, Trotter figures he’s better on his feet than Grant. Senator Tully has a reputation as a good behind-the-scenes politician, like his father, ideal for the position of Senate Majority Leader but not necessarily suited for firing off answers from the hip. The other reason Trotter wanted this was the hope that someone in the audience would ask Grant Tully about me, his top aide on trial for murder.

  I happen to think that Grant would do just fine without a script, but we ultimately agreed on this format: the two men will sit on stools, facing the audience, microphone in hand; we don’t know the precise questions, but the general subject matter has been provided us.

  This is Grant’s chance, right here tonight, to make up the double-digit gap in the polls. Frankly, I don’t know why Trotter gave us these debates. He would take some flack from the papers but, in the end, I think he would have benefited from the lack of exposure afforded to Grant. If I were Trotter, I’d have put the kibosh on any joint public appearances.

  “Bill, I’d like to thank you and the League of Independent Voters for giving me the chance to address the people of this great state.” Langdon Trotter steps off the stool, holding the microphone like it’s an extension of his hand. I am immediately worried. This guy just reeks of confidence and power, the perfect robust, silver-haired, baritone-voiced man to lead the state. “And Senator Tully, thank you as well for attending.”

  The cameras hit Grant now. He smiles graciously and raises a hand. It strikes me immediately that Trotter is the more telegenic candidate.

  “I want to lead this state into the twenty-first century, and I want to tell you why.” Trotter doesn’t have to wear too much makeup because he has a nice tan. “This is a great state. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t ever want to leave. But we have some work to do. People still don’t feel safe in their streets, in their houses. People feel like the government takes too much of their money. People, small businesses, feel like the government gets its hands in their affairs too much. We aren’t confident enough that our schools can prepare our children for adulthood. And there are too many threats out there to our children—tobacco for one, and obscene musical lyrics and violent video games and movies that shock good-minded people.”

  Pretty good start for a Republican seeking middle ground. He won’t mention his opposition to gun control and abortion, two of the hot-button issues in our state. Because Trotter had no opposition in the primary, he did not have to veer far-right, which would have required him to go pro-gun and pro-life much more vehemently than he has. No, he’s stuck to the easy stuff—lower taxes, more cops, anti-tobacco. That’s how someone gets elected governor. If only someone could get that through to Grant Tully.

  “He’s good,” Ben says. He joined me on the ride from the auditorium. We still have work to be done tonight.

  “The Attorney General and I agree on the results we want to reach,” says Grant Tully, standing in front of his stool, “but we disagree on how to accomplish them.” The senator is in a blue shirt and red tie. The bangs of his hair are stiffly combed off his forehead, not his natural look but a more mature one under the circumstances. “I want safer streets but I believe we will accomplish that, not through expanding the death penalty but through gun control, taking guns out of the hands of gang members and kids. I want better schools but I don’t want to do that by removing tenure for teachers or cutting state funding of schools that perform poorly. Schools that perform poorly are the ones that need our money the most. Teachers in those schools, with children who perform poorly on standardized tests because they don’t have the support at home or because they couldn’t afford to eat breakfast, are the teachers that need tenure the most. Mr. Trotter and I agree that we must fight to keep our children away from tobacco addiction, but we disagree on how to accomplish that. The Attorney General wants to take the money from the tobacco litigation settlement and hand it out as a tax refund. But I say, let’s put our money where our mouth is. Let’s take that tobacco money and use it like we should—by putting it into health care programs and preventive programs to keep children from ever starting with tobacco.”

  Not bad. I hope he hits gun control as hard as we’ve counseled him. That’s the big divider in tonight’s debate, at least the one that favors us. The big winner for Trotter is taxes. The Attorney General has promoted a cut in income taxes, which is rather laughable when you consider only about three percent of our income is taxed by the state. But the senator has opposed it and promoted the tax increase to change school funding in the state. Tonight is when he sells it to the citizens, or else.

  The senator finishes his opening remarks. Bill Gadsby shuffles a paper. “The first question concerns taxes,” he says.

  “The first question concerns the position which is the least popular of Senator Tully’s entire platform,” I say to Ben.

  “Starting with Attorney General Trotter, I’d like each of you to outline your plan for the state income tax.”

  “Thank you, Bill.” Lang Trotter steps off his stool. Thank you is right. If I were Trotter I’d want to kiss the moderator right now. “We pay too many taxes in this state. It’s that simple. The economy has slowed down and people are trying to find a little extra income to pay for school clothes for their kids, maybe stow a little away for retirement. I want to help you do that.” Trotter nods, his eyes intent. “I’m not going to wow you with a fancy formula. Here’s my tax plan, plain and simple. I want to give back five hundred dollars to every taxpayer. However much you pay, whoever you are, whatever age, race, gender. The average taxpayer in this state pays sixteen hundred dollars in state taxes. I will slice that by more than thirty percent.”

  That’s pretty good. He’s never said that before tonight. He’s talked about lowering taxes in general but nothing that specific.

  “That was great,” Ben says.

  “Yep.”

  “Senator Tully?”

  Grant smiles in that relaxed way he has. “Well, I’m for lower taxes, too. I just want it to be fair. And when I say fair, I mean fair for our kids. I’m talking about schools. Education. Right now, the majority of our schoo
l funding comes from property taxes. Those are local taxes. So wealthy parts of this state have lots of money from property taxes, and not surprisingly, they have better schools. The poorer parts of this state don’t have nearly as much revenue from property taxes, and they suffer financially. So when I talk about my tax plan, I’m talking about an overhaul of how we fund education. I want to fund education through income taxes, not property taxes. So when I propose a very modest increase in income taxes, I hope everyone understands that I would also cut property taxes. If you live in a wealthy part of the state, your income tax will go up, yes, but your property tax will go down. If you live in a poorer part of the state, your income tax will go up, but your schools will have more money. The Attorney General is a smart politician, and he thinks if he runs ads saying that I will raise income taxes, you will forget the other part of the story—a cut in your property tax.”

  Blah blah blah. I told him a hundred times, we all told him a hundred times not to take this position. He unveiled it a few weeks ago and it hasn’t bought the senator a single point. You can talk all you want about property taxes, but in the end there’s nothing but a lot of white noise, the only resonating sound bite being: Senator Tully wants to raise income taxes, Attorney General Trotter wants to cut them.

  This is why I admire Grant. The guy says what he means. But couldn’t he just propose this plan once he was in office, my suggestion? Does he have to tell five million viewers that he’ll raise their income taxes? The truth is, I think his plan is solid. I think it’s a great way to even out the educational imbalance, by raising the poor end without really hurting the wealthy end. But as far as a campaign slogan, it’s right up there with “Let’s drown all the elderly people.”

  “The next subject is crime,” says the moderator. “Please explain your views on anticrime legislation and on capital punishment.”

  I close my eyes. This time, Grant goes first. Tougher laws for sex offenders and drug dealers. A quick mention of ending capital punishment but support of mandatory life sentences. More of a focus on rehabilitation. All of it can be trimmed down to: Grant Tully opposes the death penalty.

  “Well, I’m for the death penalty,” says Lang Trotter. “Because I believe it prevents crime. I prosecuted violent crime as the county attorney in Rankin County for sixteen years, and I know what it means to exact the ultimate punishment.”

  He’s good. He’s going to win. I wish someone would ask him the question, “Mr. Attorney General, isn’t it true that your nominating papers are invalid? And that you are disqualified from running?” But the time to challenge his papers has run. Lang Trotter has no idea how close he came to having his gubernatorial dreams dashed on a technicality.

  Or does he?

  It comes first as a tickle in my brain, then a frantic mental exercise in sorting out the details. I leave my spot in the living room and head for the back door, to get some fresh air. The dogs follow me out into the small backyard and scatter. I pace back and forth as I work it out. The evening temperatures are low, but my blood is pumping furiously.

  I leave the dogs outside and return triumphantly to the living room, where Bennett seems to have hardly noticed I left.

  “I’m glad you’re sitting down,” I say.

  Ben is focusing on the debate. “Where’d you go?”

  “Forget the debate,” I say. “Are you ready to hear your opening statement when the defense puts on its case?”

  That gets his attention. “Sure.”

  “Let me tell you a story, my friend.” I stand in front of the television and frame my hands. “I find a problem with Lang Trotter’s nominating papers, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I tell Dale.”

  “Right.”

  “But we decide it’s best not to use the information to knock Trotter off the ballot. Makes us look mean, and the Republicans would replace him with a more moderate candidate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So using the Ace publicly doesn’t work. Then there’s the notion of using it privately. Passing the word to Trotter confidentially and getting him to throw the election.”

  “Right.”

  “Dale knows I’m skittish about doing that. He knows I don’t like it. And he knows Grant will probably, in the end, do what I tell him.”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “So now we have the Ace out there, don’t we? Dale knows that the Tully campaign will not use it. But it’s still out there.

  Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So Dale decides to use it.”

  Finally, new information. Bennett draws up. “Dale uses it? How?”

  “Hang on a minute.” I rush to the kitchen and retrieve the folder on my case. I remove the blackmail note and hand it to Ben.

  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.

  Ben reads it like it’s the first time and not the hundredth.

  “Dale sent that note to Lang Trotter,” I say, unable to contain my excitement. “He’s saying to Trotter, give me a quarter mil, or I tell Senator Tully.”

  Bennett nods as he reads the note again. “Dale’s acting like he discovered the Ace.”

  “Right! Like he’s the only one who knows about it. And it will stay that way, if Trotter gives him the extortion money.” I point to the letter. “The ‘campaign fund’ is Trotter’s fund, not Grant’s.”

  Bennett considers the theory, the voice of reason. “That works, Jon, to a point. I accept that this gives Trotter a motive to kill Garrison. I accept that Trotter would probably be willing to do it, too.”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Okay, okay, but wait.” Bennett is treading lightly here. My enthusiasm is plain enough. He wants the rain on my parade to fall in small droplets. “How do you explain that you received a copy of that blackmail letter? And how do you explain Lyle Cosgrove’s involvement?”

  “I explain it this way, Bennett Carey.” I point to him. “Trotter was elected AG in ’92.”

  “I think so, yeah,” says Ben.

  “And he served four terms as county prosecutor in Rankin County before that.”

  “Yup.”

  “That puts him as county attorney in 1976.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That also puts him as county attorney in 1979.”

  Ben turns and looks at me. The mention of that particular year sparks his attention. “Yeah, so?”

  “These prosecutors,” I say, “it’s a little sewing circle with them, isn’t it?”

  Bennett shrugs. “I don’t know. What’s your point?”

  “Maybe after what happened in 1979, word got around. Maybe the prosecutor in Summit County talked. I mean, Simon Tully’s working behind the scenes to protect his son’s best buddy? That must have been quite the tidbit.”

  “Wouldn’t that have come up sooner, if the Summit County prosecutor talked?”

  “Not necessarily, Ben. It’s juvenile stuff, right? It’s not like you can just leak it. A reporter couldn’t print it.”

  Ben’s mouth crinkles. “But the prosecutor in Summit County? He’d talk to Trotter?”

  “Sure,” I say, the excitement beginning to well. “The prosecutor out there now is golfing buddies with Jimmy Budzinski. Summit County’s just over the state line. And Trotter’s county, Rankin, is on the east side of the state, straight south of us. Not that far at all.”

  Ben frames his hands. “So you think Trotter found out about what happened back then—about you and Grant.”

  “Maybe, yeah.”

  “And he did what? He’s blackmailing you?”

  “No,” I say. “No, no. He just kept the i
nformation stored away, for a time it might come in handy. He had his eyes on the AG’s seat for a long time. He knew Simon Tully has plans for Grant—everyone knew that. He probably figured that someday his and Grant’s political paths might cross. So he kept the information to himself back then. Waiting for the moment.”

  “And all these years,” Ben says, “Grant Tully didn’t mean squat to Trotter. He was over there in the senate. He wasn’t a threat.”

  “But now, of course, he is.”

  “Wow.” Ben looks around for a notepad. He likes to record his thoughts.

  “Trotter was probably going to spring this a month or so before the election,” I say. “Grant wouldn’t have enough time for damage control.” I raise a finger, a point of order. “But then the landscape changed. Now, Dale Garrison is blackmailing him about the Ace. Trotter needs to kill Dale. So he’s a smart guy, he puts the whole thing together. He will send a copy of the blackmail note to me, then kill Garrison and frame me. And the story will be, Jon Soliday had a secret from 1979 that Dale Garrison was going to expose, so he killed him. He kills two birds with one stone, Ben. The Ace will disappear in a puff of smoke with Dale Garrison’s death, and Grant’s top guy gets indicted for murder.”

  “And Lyle Cosgrove?”

  “Lyle Cosgrove—Trotter knows about him, too, Ben. He probably has the whole goddamn file from 1979, the prick.” I snap my fingers. “Trotter’s the prosecutor who put a ‘hold’ order on the file so it would stay around.”

  Ben, even in his role as devil’s advocate, concedes the possibility.

  “So he uses Cosgrove to kill Garrison,” I continue, my voice trembling with excitement. “That’s brilliant. He uses the guy from 1979 to do it. Then he kills Cosgrove afterward. That just makes me look worse. It’s smart. Christ, it’s damn smart.”

  “He’s sure Cosgrove will do it?”

  “Sure, he’s sure. Langdon Trotter is the Attorney General. Lyle Cosgrove just spent a third of his life in prison. If Trotter says jump, Cosgrove’s gonna say, ‘How high?’”