Felony Murder

by Joseph T. Klempner

  Once on the top, Dean unclipped the rope from the carabiner on his harness and shouted, “Off belay!” to Gary. He heard an answering “Belay off!” which told him that Gary would be unhooking from the tree and tying his end of the rope onto his own harness in preparation to climb. Dean found a tree to tie himself to, took a sitting position, wrapped the rope around his body and pulled up the slack in the rope. When he felt tension he called, “On belay!” Moments later he heard Gary’s “Climbing!” and answered, “Climb away!”

  Within twenty minutes from his start, Gary’s face came into view, and he pulled himself up to Dean’s level. Even within sight and reach of each other, they completed the ritual of “Off belay” and “Belay off” before permitting themselves to sit back and enjoy the view they had earned. Then, while Gary rested a bit longer, Dean set up a rappel for their descent. He had learned long ago that climbing down could be much harder than climbing up. Unlike the upper portion of the body, the lower portion had no eyes, and climbing down a difficult route entailed placing the feet blindly each step of the way. It also meant leaving behind protection needed for the final climber’s descent, or a bottom belay running up and around a tree at the top, then down to the descending climber, an arrangement that sometimes jammed and was never good for the rope. So, like most climbers, Dean preferred to rappel.

  He located the midpoint of the rope, where the color pattern changed to identify it. He found a solid tree near the edge of the top and dropped first one and then the other end of the rope to the ground, leaving a single strand around the back of the tree while creating a double strand on the downhill side for the rappel.

  Gary had caught his breath and was ready to hook up. Dean helped him tie onto the doubled rope with a figure-eight to add friction to the system. Unlike Marine Corps commercials featuring sudden drops and dramatic kicks against the cliff, rock climbers’ rappels were tightly controlled maneuvers, meant to minimize the wear on the equipment, which tended to heat up considerably during a rapid descent, and Gary backed over the cliff carefully and disappeared from view.

  Gary’s “Off rappel!” several minutes later signaled that he was down and Dean was free to hook up. He used a brake-bar, a straight piece that fitted across a carabiner for added friction. By threading the doubled rope over the brake-bar within the carabiner, attaching the carabiner to the one at his waist and running the rope around his back as though he were in a belay stance, Dean was able to move himself to the edge of the cliff and lean backward out over it, feet planted so that he faced the tree uphill that secured the rope. As he increased his lean, his body became almost horizontal, and his view changed from the tree to the sky above him. Then, overcoming a moment of fear - and for Dean there was always that moment of fear - he gradually opened his arms to reduce the amount of rope touching his back. The resulting decrease in friction freed him to begin walking down the cliff in a nearly horizontal position while supported by the rappel rope. If he needed more tension, he simply brought his arms forward and together; for less, he opened them and held them behind him. Once underway, Dean’s momentary fear vanished, replaced by a sense of exhilaration in his ability to defy gravity, and he walked his way down the cliff as deftly as any spider might have.

  They tackled two other climbs, an easier but longer 5.5, and a 5.6. Gary opted out of the final climb, so Dean rappelled down after completing the first of its two pitches. They found a large flat rock to stretch out on. The sun was hot, and they were exhausted, thirsty, and hungry. They broke open their food and spread it out.

  “Sure beats working for a living,” Gary observed. It was a hard statement with which to disagree.

  On Monday, Dean met with the Bronx Assistant DA, who was “interested” in Dean’s “theory” that Nathan Ramsay had stabbed his victim in self-defense. He agreed to look into it. Dean sensed that this case was going to be an uphill battle. But at least he’d managed to buy some time.

  Three Mexican law students, part of a group visiting New York, got into a fight outside the Sheraton Something in Midtown, and Dean promised the Mexican vice-consulate that he’d represent one of them.

  Mark Wexler called to ask if Dean would buy the beer for the bachelor party next weekend. Dean said he guessed he could do that.

  It rained for four straight days, flooding streets and shortening tempers.

  And Dean went back to the drawing board.

  He got out his file again and began to leaf through it for the umpteenth time. He stared at the list of “Good Stuff” he had made two weeks ago, the same list that had prompted him to call Larry Davidson about the dibenzepin.

  Good Stuff

  1. Forged signatures on written statement

  2. Denial of robbery during Q&A

  3. Alcohol: Bartenders/Joey (drunk) v. Serology (.04%)

  4. Toxicology (a) aspirin (b) dibenzepin

  5. Knife: difficult to see dark handle @ night.

  He focused on items three and four. He knew now he would never be able to prove that the drug had caused Commissioner Wilson’s death. But that didn’t stop him from suspecting that it had. And right above that item on the list was the alcohol controversy. Dean still didn’t know whether to believe Joey and the bartenders at Chandler’s, who said Wilson had been intoxicated, or the serology report, which indicated that he hadn’t been. He put the list to one side and continued through the file.

  The document that stopped him was the death certificate. Not that he hadn’t seen it before; he had read it at least a dozen times, noting the cause of death listed as “massive coronary occlusion,” and the time of death as “2:30 a.m.” What stopped him now was the next of kin: “Marie Crawford Wilson 76 Bleecker Street New York, N.Y.”

  Who was in a better position than the Commissioner’s widow to know what medication her husband had been taking just prior to his death and what his drinking habits had been? Then again, Dean realized just as quickly, who would be less likely to talk to the lawyer who spoke for the man accused of murdering her husband? No matter; he knew he had to give it a shot.

  Dean received a phone call from the managing editor of Courtroom Television, a cable-network program that covered trials of interest to the public. Would Dean agree to an in-depth, on-camera interview regarding various aspects of the Wilson case? Dean said he’d think about it and asked that they get back to him in a day or two.

  He straightened out his desk, caught up on paperwork, paid some overdue bills, and filed some others that he didn’t have the money to cover. He ordered a half keg of beer for Angelo Pertrocelli’s bachelor party, using a credit card that would give him a month to find some way to pay for it.

  Then he turned his attention to Marie Crawford Wilson.

  He went to the library and spent three hours in the microfilm section, going over old New York Times articles about the Commissioner. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a cover story in a Sunday magazine section profiling Wilson. Toward the very end of the article, he came upon a paragraph devoted to Mrs. Wilson. It described her as an articulate, energetic woman, whose interests included theater, opera, and charity work. She served on the board of directors of the American Cancer Society, the American Foundation for AIDS Research, and the Pegasus Society.

  Bingo.

  The Pegasus Society was a foundation devoted to drug treatment. Somewhat smaller than Daytop, Odyssey House, Phoenix House, and several other better-known organizations, Pegasus enjoyed a good reputation for working with black and Hispanic inner-city heroin and crack addicts who were generally considered tougher cases than their white, suburban, marijuana-abusing counterparts. Pegasus offered a variety of services but was known best for its tough two-year residential program. Many entered, few stuck it out. But of those who did, the five-year recidivist rate was said to be less than 15 percent, an astounding figure in a landscape of statistical disaster.

  Bingo, not just because Dean had had clients in Pegasus programs, and as a result, knew a handful of counselors and at least on
e assistant director. Bingo, because Dean knew Judge Patricia Washington.

  Patricia Washington was a Criminal Court judge, now presiding over felony trials as an acting Supreme Court justice. Dean had met her when she had been assistant United States attorney in the Southern District of New York, the federal counterpart of an Assistant District Attorney. As adversaries, they had tried several cases against each other, including a lengthy drug trial that had twice ended in hung juries. When Patricia Washington had been approached regarding an offer of a Criminal Court judgeship, her lack of familiarity with the New York State court system had left her uncertain as to whether or not she wanted the appointment. One of the people she had called for advice was Dean Abernathy.

  In spite of Dean’s advice, Patricia had responded with interest and had been appointed by the Mayor six months later. She had risen to acting Supreme Court justice after three years, earning a reputation as a demanding judge who was tough on prosecutors and defense attorneys alike. Her high standards and low tolerance for sloppiness earned her more admirers than friends. Recently her name had surfaced as a candidate for a federal judgeship, but her Harlem roots and liberal politics had combined to disqualify her in the mind of the junior senator of New York, whose turn it was to pass on the nomination to the White House.

  Through it all, Patricia Washington remained tough on the bench, cheerful off it, and good friends with Dean. He knew from conversations with her that she played tennis, rode horses, took fencing lessons, and sat on the board of directors of the Pegasus Society.

  On Wednesday, Mark Wexler called to report that he had rented four porno movies for Angelo Petrocelli’s bachelor party.

  “Four?” exclaimed Dean. “No sane person can sit through more than two of those things. There are only a certain number of orifices in the human body, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Mark. “But this way we got choices.”

  “Choices?”

  “Yeah. We got Naughty Nipples, we got When Carry Met Sally, we got Sweet Cheeks, and - my favorite of all - Inside Teenage Vixens, Part Two. How’d I do?”

  “You missed your calling, Mark.”

  Later that day, Dean dropped into Part 43, the courtroom of Patricia Washington. He sat in the front row, where she would be sure to see him, and waited while she completed several matters on her calendar. Then she called him up to the bench with an official-sounding, “Step up, please, Mr. Abernathy.”

  At the bench, she dropped the formality.

  “How are you?” she asked, her face breaking into a warm smile.

  “I’m good,” said Dean. “But I have to warn you: I’m here to ask a favor.”

  “Not because you love me?”

  “Of course I love you. But honesty compels me to be straight with you.”

  “Bullshit. Tactics compel you.” Her smile was infectious, and they both laughed. Then, to the courtroom, Judge Washington announced a ten-minute recess. She got up, and Dean followed her into the jury room just outside the court. It served as her robing room.

  “So,” she said, taking one of the twelve chairs arranged around the long table, lighting a cigarette, and motioning Dean to sit, “what’s this favor?”

  “I want to talk with Marie Wilson.”

  “Marie Wilson, as in Mrs. Edward Wilson?”

  “Yup.”

  “Marie Wilson, as in the widow of your celebrated client’s victim?”

  “Yup again.”

  “Marie Wilson, who no doubt would like to rip out your heart?”

  “Three for three.”

  Patricia Washington pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and exhaled loudly. Finally she said, “You’re going to owe me big time for this, Abernathy.”

  The meeting took place Thursday evening at the Wilson townhouse on Bleecker Street. Patricia Washington had called Dean that morning to tell him that the Commissioner’s widow would talk with him and had supplied him with her phone number. If it had taken a lot of doing, Patricia had not made a point of telling Dean. She had simply repeated, “Big time.” They had both laughed.

  Dean had dialed the number. Marie Wilson had answered, had recognized his name, and had suggested he stop over at the end of the day. Dean had said he could be there at seven.

  A tall, attractive black woman with graying hair answered the door. Dean introduced himself to her.

  “I’m Dean Abernathy.”

  “Yes, come in, Mr. Abernathy. I’m Marie Wilson.”

  He followed her into a living room with thick carpeting on the floor and books on every wall. He sat when she motioned to a sofa.

  “I’m just making some tea. Do you take milk or lemon?” Refusal was not offered as an option.

  “Lemon would be fine,” said Dean.

  Marie Wilson disappeared into an adjoining room. Dean was struck by the absurd civility of the scene. Here he was, the defender of the man accused of murdering this woman’s husband, and she was serving him tea in her living room. He felt as though he were acting in a movie. He crossed his legs, straightened his tie, and tried to look good for the camera he knew was not there.

  Marie Wilson returned carrying a tray. She served tea not in delicate china cups, but in large mugs with comfortable handles.

  “So,” she said. “Patricia twisted my arm pretty good. She thinks a great deal of you.”

  “Patricia is one of my favorite people in the world,” said Dean.

  “We have something in common, then. What can I, of all people, do for you?”

  “Well,” Dean began, putting his mug down on the coffee table in front of him, “I feel very awkward about this, but certain things have come up in this case that strike me as contradictory.”

  “Isn’t that usually the way?”

  “Yes and no,” said Dean, trying to buy time while he composed an answer. “I’m not talking about normal variations, such as where one witness remembers the perpetrator as five-six, and another says he was five-nine. I’m talking about things that I can’t reconcile in my own mind as simply perceptual differences.”

  “For example?”

  “For example,” said Dean, “there’s a major conflict in the evidence on the matter of what your husband had had to drink that night. On the one hand, I’ve got a toxicology report showing he had had maybe two drinks at the most. On the other hand, I’ve spoken with several people who served him that night. They describe him as intoxicated. Uncharacteristically intoxicated.” Dean purposefully omitted Joey Spadafino’s account of the Commissioner’s staggering down the block. He looked at Mrs. Wilson. She said nothing.

  “For another thing,” Dean continued, “I’m surprised that your husband had been drinking at all, given the fact that he was taking an antidepressant that you’re not supposed to mix with alcohol.”

  One of Marie Wilson’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. Still she said nothing.

  “Furthermore, your husband had a history of heart disease, and the antidepressant he was on is contraindicated in such cases. And it’s not even sold in this country. So I guess I don’t understand why he was taking it in the first place.”

  “Is that all?” Mrs. Wilson asked. Dean, painfully aware that it wasn’t much, braced himself. He considered it likely that she was about to abandon her politeness and throw him bodily out of her apartment.

  “I’m afraid so,” he admitted.

  “Where does this lead to?” Mrs. Wilson asked. She gave no sign of throwing anyone or anything.

  “I don’t know,” Dean confessed. “It’s led me to you. I’m hoping you can clear it up for me.”

  Marie Wilson stood and walked to a window that was framed on all sides by bookcases. Dean had the feeling he was about to be dismissed. When she spoke, she looked not at Dean but out the window.

  “I’m not aware of any antidepressant medication my husband was on. His doctor had him on an aspirin a day. He sometimes took something for indigestion.”

  “Was he depressed?” Dean asked gently.

  “
Not to my knowledge. He was an active man. He had a stressful job, and he got frustrated and upset from time to time. But I wouldn’t have called him depressed.”

  “And the drinking?”

  “My husband drank very little. Beer at a ball game. A glass of wine at dinner. I’ve been married to him for twenty-seven years, and I’ve never seen him drunk.” Dean wondered if she realized that she’d shifted to the present tense.

  “Jack Daniel’s?”

  “Never,” she said, turning to look at him.

  “Not even celebrating some occasion?”

  “No way. He’d sooner have drunk motor oil.”

  “The medication, Mrs. Wilson. It’s called dibenzepin. It’s sold under the brand name Noveril. Strike a bell?”

  “Absolutely not. How much was in his system?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” said Dean. “The toxicology report doesn’t say. And apparently the only way to know if it was a significant amount would be to do a thorough examination of his circulatory system. And the cremation makes that impossible, of course.”

  “Yes, that was very upsetting.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dean, realizing he had offended her with the implication of a second autopsy.

  “No, I mean the cremation was upsetting.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dean.

  “I never requested it. In fact, our church is opposed to cremation. But apparently there was a mixup of some sort. Someone in the department thought I wanted my husband’s body cremated, and it was done right after the autopsy. I was very upset at the time. But I find I’ve been getting upset at all sorts of foolish things lately. I’m told it’s part of the healing process, working through the anger.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dean said, feeling stupid.

  “So what does all this mean, Mr. Abernathy?”