Ben called 911 and the Ithaca Police were there within minutes. Shortly thereafter, he found Nelson’s cell phone number in his office and called him as well. Detectives Nelson and Cole arrived about an hour later, and they were out in the garage now conferring with the Ithaca Police, who had taken control of the crime scene. Ben did not allow Funk to talk to the police until Mark had arrived. Rather, he explained what happened since it had been Funk, not himself, who had fired the fatal shots. By now, Funk had fully regained his senses, yet the impact of what had occurred was certainly not lost on him.
Ben sat sprawled at one end of the church pew, his feet up, sipping on his beer and occasionally holding the cool bottle against one of the cuts, scrapes or bruises that covered his face. Brad Funk sat in one of the rocking chairs, while Mark took the other. Funk shook his head and took another long drag from his beer. “It’s like Clint Eastwood said in that movie.”
Ben nodded. “It’s a funny thing killing a man …” Ben said.
“Yeah,” Funk replied.
Ben looked at him thoughtfully. “But Brad, you didn’t have choice. He was going to kill me for sure, and if he knew you were in the office or if he had heard you, he would have hunted you down too. He might even have killed Sally.”
Funk nodded. “I know that. I did the right thing, but it’s not what you expect when you see it on TV or in the movies.”
“No,” Ben agreed, “it’s not.”
They heard footsteps in the hall and Detectives Scott Nelson and John Cole joined them. Cole leaned against the receptionist’s desk and Nelson took his hand and swung Ben’s feet to the floor and sat down on the pew next to him.
Ben winced and held his hand to his side. “What? You’re not going soft on me now, are you?” Nelson asked.
Ben shook his head. “Funny. I think I caught another one in the ribs sometime during the fight. Same spot as before, God dammit.” Then Ben looked at Funk. “Not that I’m not grateful, but where in the hell were you and why did it take you so long to get here?”
Funk shrugged. “You won’t believe this, but I was at the pistol range doing some target shooting. I got here as fast as I could.” Ben looked at him sideways and Funk held up his hand and said, “I swear.” Then he shook his head. “This was a lot different,” he whispered.
All fell silent. They could hear the evidence technicians murmuring off somewhere in the distance. “Sure is,” Detective Cole said after a minute. Funk looked down at the floor.
“My ears are still ringing a little bit,” Ben said.
“You know,” Nelson said, “I’m pretty impressed with how you fought him off. He was a pretty big guy.”
Ben smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I did okay for a while,” he said tipping his beer toward Funk. “But if Sally and then Brad hadn’t arrived, I’d be dead. At the end, he was the guy holding the gun.”
Nelson offered Ben a slight grin. “Still … anyway, you’ll be happy to know,” he said, “that I just got off the phone with Bridget Fahey.” Ben raised his eyebrows and Funk looked up at the Detective. “I told her that her case against your client just went to shit. I told her who did it and that he was dead and that her case was dead too.”
“How’d she take it?” Ben asked.
“Not too well, as you might expect,” Nelson said, his grin widening. “But what the fuck is she going to do? It is what it is. Between you and me, I think she knew it was going downhill anyway.”
Mark got up from his seat, moved over to Ben and extended his hand. Ben shook it. “That’s not going to do anything for her political career,” Mark said with a laugh.
“Who said an ill wind doesn’t blow someone some good?” Nelson added.
Ben looked over at Funk. “Brad, you get the job of calling Phil and explaining how you shot up the office.”
Funk grinned. “He’ll probably make me pay for the damage. Hey, none of my shots missed. I didn’t even damage anything.”
“I, on the other hand,” Ben said, “get to call Megan and tell her she just got the rest of her life back.” He looked at his watch – almost ten-thirty. “I think she’s probably still up. It’s probably worth a phone call.”
Nelson looked at Cole and said, “Pretty soon this will be all over the television.”
“Probably already is,” Mark said.
They all nodded, and no one said anything for a minute or two. Then Ben looked over at Nelson and asked, “What are you going to do about the paternity issue? Greenfield’s dead. Does anybody really have to know? Do we have to put the kid through all that on top of this?”
Nelson sighed. Cole looked at him and shook his head. “That is a good fucking question,” Nelson said, clearly not relishing the prospect.
They all thought about unintended consequences for a moment. “Mark, my friend,” Ben said, breaking the silence, “tell you what, why don’t you go into the kitchen and bring us each back a beer and we’ll talk it through. In the meantime, does anybody want to hear my closing argument?”
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A Legal Thriller
Terry Huebner
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A Legal Thriller
Terry Huebner
1
The man smiled, raised his glass in salute to the television and downed the vodka in one long gulp. Raymond Burr as Perry Mason had just gotten the better of Hamilton Burger once again and the man appreciated the skill, the virtuosity and the style with which it had been accomplished. He had seen this episode before, of course, for he had seen them all before, many times. Perry Mason was sort of his hobby. He admired the great trial lawyer, for he had once been one himself, perhaps even the best and most famous trial lawyer of his generation. He was, after all, Daniel Patrick Lindsay, the boy wonder, the young lawyer who became famous when he got that rich banker acquitted of killing his wife long before the advent of all-news channels on cable television. If CNN had been around back then, he would have been bigger than Perry Mason. He was a real-life Perry Mason, only better. It was the night before Christmas Eve and Lindsay poured himself another vodka and saluted the great trial lawyer once again as the signature theme music played.
If Lindsay had been a great trial lawyer, he certainly wasn’t one now. He hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom, at least as a lawyer, in years. His last big case had been when he cross-examined that lying cop in the actor’s trial as part of the Hollywood Defense. That had been good. Everyone had seen on national television just how good he could be. He had gotten himself in shape for that one and it had paid off. But that had been more than a decade ago, and the time since had not been kind to Pat Lindsay. Too much booze, too much spending and too few cases over the years had finally taken their toll. Friends from the old days tried to help him out by shoveling him a few scraps, cases he never would have looked twice at in his heyday, but he didn’t even want to get out of bed for that shit. So he didn’t. Most days he just sat with his feet up in the sitting room off his bedroom watching TV and drinking vodka by the bottle. Some life. A friend had even gotten him the entire run of Perry Mason on DVD, but the box sat gathering dust on the floor in the corner of the room because Lindsay had never bothered to learn how to operate the DVD player.
Down below, a figure clad all in black emerged from behind a dilapidated gazebo in the back of Lindsay’s yard and leaned against the trunk of an orange tree. The evening had cooled to the low-60s from an afternoon high in the mid-80s and the man wore a jacket over a black turtleneck and jeans. From this vantage point, he could see the entire rear portion of Lindsay’s house, a white frame structure showing its age and Lindsay’s lack of upkeep. He could see Lindsay too, a dark shadow behind pale drapes just like always. The figure could see the lights from the television dancing on the walls of the room behind the drapes. He looked around the yard. A pair of rabbits played tag before disappearing into the far bushes. The man smelled something s
trong and fragrant coming from his right and turned in that direction. He thought it was lilacs, or maybe gardenias, he didn’t know the difference. Something strong anyway.
Before Lindsay had let the place go to hell, it had been professionally landscaped, complete with an expensive lighting and watering system. Where once this was the scene of lavish parties, now the overgrown shrubs and bushes merely provided privacy from the prying neighbors in this North Palm Beach, Florida neighborhood. The water in the pool was a slimy green with algae and broken lawn chairs littered the flagstone deck, now cracked and crumbling. The outside lights were all off, victim of a court-mandated austerity campaign, and the only lights seen emanating from the back of the house came from the kitchen on the first floor and the TV in Lindsay’s bedroom on the second.
The figure picked his way through the debris in the backyard and came to a set of French doors which led to an eating area off of the kitchen. He pulled on a pair of black gloves as he peered inside. He turned the handle and the door opened, he had left it unlocked on a previous visit, and entered the house. He didn’t have to worry about the alarm system either, for that was another victim of bill collectors and a civil judgment. He strolled casually into the kitchen, where he found six gallon-sized jugs of Smirnov vodka sitting on a chipped granite island next to a stack of unopened mail. Otherwise, the kitchen looked neat and clean, almost sterile, as though it hadn’t been cooked in for months. Probably hadn’t, the man thought. The room smelled of orange-scented cleaning solvent.
Just for kicks, he carefully opened the refrigerator door, although he knew the stealth probably wasn’t necessary. All it contained was a six-pack carton of Budweiser long necks with three full bottles left inside, a near empty jug of milk that looked sour, a couple of eggs in a dirty plastic bowl, a variety of salad dressings and barbecue sauces and a carton of baking soda. The man smiled. Lindsay must have wanted to make sure that he killed all of the odors. The freezer contained a box of Good Humor ice cream bars and a mostly full five-pound bag of ice. Couldn’t run out of that.
The man moved through to the front hall in the manner of someone who knew exactly where he was going. He came to it from underneath a grand staircase that gently curved to the left as it rose to a large formal landing framed in ornate iron that seemed to come straight out of Gone with the Wind. From the discoloration down the center of the mahogany stairs, the man concluded that a carpet runner had recently been torn out. The tapestry wallpaper also appeared worn and threadbare. Across the way, between the stairs and the front entrance to the house, a door stood ajar. The man looked at his watch, still a little early, and considered his options. From the bottom of the stairs, he noted the smell of cigarettes wafting down from above. The only light came from the upstairs hallway and the man could faintly hear the sound of the television off in the distance.
Without ever taking his eyes off of the landing, the man crossed the front hall and pushed into the study. The room smelled musty with just a hint of furniture polish. He silently closed the door, but quickly found a light switch on the wall and a desk lamp went on. The room contained a beautiful, hand carved desk in dark mahogany, inlaid on top in green leather, with a matching green leather desk chair and sofa, both worn slick and shiny with age. In the far corner, stood an empty TV stand. Built-in bookcases stained a dark brown covered the entire near wall and were crammed full of volumes in all shapes and sizes. More books, covered in a light patina of dust, were piled in four 2-foot high stacks on the desk. The man walked casually over to the couch as though waiting for an appointment and took a seat. His eyes moved around the room and settled on the bookshelves. He closed his eyes, thought about his next move and waited.
Thirty minutes later, the man rose and moved to the door, cutting the lights before opening it. He peered out from behind the door. Seeing nothing, he moved out into the hallway and headed up the stairs, slowly and deliberately. He stayed to the right side, near the wall, where the stairs seemed to creek less. When he reached the landing 24 steps later, he took a quick glance to the left and then back to the right, where light leaked out of a room at the end of a long hallway. The smell of cigarettes grew stronger the closer he got to the end of the hall, a door to a bedroom on the left standing half-open.
When he reached the doorway, the man paused and stood just out of view of the inside, listening for the sounds of movement. All he could hear was the television, an infomercial for a chicken fryer was playing. He stepped inside and looked around. To his right, was the main part of the bedroom, complete with master bath. The sitting area was straight ahead and around the corner to the left. The bedroom looked as though it hadn’t been picked up in weeks. The bed stood unmade, blankets pulled to the floor, and clothes were strewn everywhere. Two empty jugs of vodka sat on a nearby dresser. The room smelled strongly of cigarettes, mixed with spilled vodka and body odor.
The man took several steps into the room, far enough to see the back of the television in the sitting room, and put his right hand in the pocket of his jacket as he walked. He listened again. Still nothing but the television. He moved silently to the doorway and looked inside. Lindsay appeared to have fallen asleep on a small, worn loveseat, once a blue plaid and now a dirty grey, with collapsed cushions and cigarette burns throughout. Three more empty jugs of vodka and four dirty glasses sat on a nearby coffee table. He wore gray sweatpants, a pale blue golf shirt and no socks. His salt and pepper hair was wild and uncombed. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.
The man took a deep breath and sighed, before reaching around and turning off the television with his left hand, his right hand remaining in his pocket. The silence seemed to startle Lindsay awake and he gradually began to come around. Through the haze of sleep and alcohol, a vague glimmer of recognition crossed his features. “Wha? Who’s that?” he stammered trying to sit up. “What? Is that you? What are you doin’ here?”
The man smiled. “How are you, Pat? It’s been a long time. Too long. It’s good to see you.” The man spoke calmly in a very quiet voice. “When no one answered the bell I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind. Don’t you remember our appointment? I’m sorry I’m a little late. Traffic.”
Lindsay smiled and blinked at his visitor, trying to will himself to remember, but then seemed to grow confused. “I don’t quite, well, you know, I guess I’d forgotten that you were coming.” He looked at himself, growing a little embarrassed. “I would’ve gotten cleaned up or something. Sorry.”
The man smiled a kind smile. “That’s okay, Pat,” he said standing very still. “You look comfortable. A man should look comfortable in his own home. There’s nothing wrong with that. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind.” The man was prepared for this. “You remember, I was coming by to meet with you about a new case.” The man nodded.
This seemed to put Lindsay at ease somewhat. He nodded back, even though he didn’t know what the man was talking about. “That’s right,” he said. “Tell me again. What’s the case about?”
“It’s a murder case. But we’ll get around to all that.” The man nodded in the direction of the empty bottles. “You look like you’ve got some dead soldiers there. I could go for a drink. Do you have a fresh bottle downstairs? A vodka on the rocks might hit the spot about now. What do you say? Want to have a quick one with an old friend?”
Lindsay brightened. “Why sure. Sounds like a great idea. I think I’ve got a couple of bottles downstairs in the kitchen. I sent my girl, you know, the maid, out to get a couple of bottles. I was thinking of having a party, you know. She usually leaves food and stuff on the counter in the kitchen.”
The man smiled again, his right hand still in his pocket. “Then it’s a plan,” he said. “Why don’t we head down to the kitchen? We’ll talk downstairs over a drink.” Even though he was still wearing gloves, the man was careful not to touch anything.
Lindsay struggled to his feet. He had probably gained at least fifty pounds since the man had last seen him and he hadn’t looked v
ery good even then. Now he looked bloated and red-faced, a stroke waiting to happen. But the man didn’t want to wait. Lindsay looked outside, suddenly very aware of his surroundings. “Hey,” he said following the man through the bedroom, “what time is it anyway? It’s late, isn’t it?”
The man smiled like a doctor trying to reassure a small child getting his tonsils checked for the first time. “Yes, it is late. Sorry about that. I just got in from Europe and my flight was delayed. Meeting with your new client. I was supposed to be here a couple of hours ago. You must’ve dozed off waiting for me. That’s why you didn’t hear the door. That’s okay, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Lindsay didn’t remember any of this, but went along. Sometimes he forgot things, he knew, and he had to cover for it. Maybe he should cut back on his drinking. Maybe he’d be busier with this new case. That would be a good thing. He could get himself in shape again. He took another look at the man as they made their way slowly down the hallway toward the stairs, craning to get a better look at the man without being too obvious about it. It was tough because the man’s face was largely in the shadows. The man noticed, but said nothing. “You look different,” Lindsay said sounding a bit befuddled. “I can’t place it.”
The man laughed a jocular laugh. “I’ve lost a little weight since you’ve seen me last. You know, clean living and exercise.” He rubbed his chin with a gloved hand. “That, and I’ve got this beard now.”
Both men laughed now. “That must be it,” Lindsay agreed. “Maybe I’ll try that exercise thing. I’m too old an Irishman to try clean living.” They laughed again.
Final Exam: A Legal Thriller Page 39