Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 04 - BOY ON TRIAL - A Legal Thriller

by Clifford Irving

  We ground to a stop, and both dogs raised their heads. Carter banged open the glove compartment and snatched a flashlight. Its beam was dim.

  “Daisy, don’t move. Penalty of death.” He wrenched open the door on the driver’s side. “You don’t mind, Little Lord Fauntleroy, I could use some help. Hold this flashlight.”

  I was halfway out the door when I remembered what Carter had said about Pablo and Daisy eating through leather. If they could eat through leather, they could eat through canvas, and canvas was all that protected Iphigenia from their deadly jaws. I grabbed her travel bag, hugged it to my chest, and jumped.

  I didn’t dare to let Iphigenia get wet. I slipped out of my suede windbreaker and wrapped it around the bag, and tied the sleeves together; then I shoved the bag under the truck where the rain couldn’t get at it.

  Carter was wearing his yellow fisherman’s jacket. He pulled the hood up over his head so that he looked like he was bent to the deck of a boat in a storm. I held the flashlight and raindrops glistened in the bright tunnel made by the beam. Carter jacked the truck up in less than a minute. He spun the lug wrench, wrestled the ripped tire off the front wheel, threw it in the back where it rolled and clanged, and in another minute he had the spare in place, he’d spun the nuts, and he kicked the jack out from under and tossed it in the back—another huge clang.

  “Good work, partner. Christ almighty… looka you!” The light had been shining on him all the time so he hadn’t seen me. “You’re kind of wet, amigo. Where’s that fancy coat of yours?” He turned toward the truck.

  I yelled, “Don’t start the engine! Iphigenia’s under there!”

  I squirmed under the chassis. Iphigenia weighed so little that the bag felt empty. My windbreaker had been pressing against the truck’s axle and was full of grease.

  I squeezed into the front seat, beating Pablo down to the floor with a fist until there was enough room for me. I put my hand in the bag to feel Iphigenia. She trembled.

  “I’m late,” I said, more to myself than to Carter, but he heard it.

  He yelled, “Hold tight, chief!” He floored the gas pedal, taking the truck up to sixty, and a minute later, in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone coming up to Skimhampton Road to Indian Wells, we heard wah-oh-wah-oh-wah-oh, and I saw red flashers in all the rear-view mirrors.

  Chapter 10

  The cops wore shiny black raincoats with hoods. One cop held a huge black umbrella over both cops’ heads and shoulders. East Hampton police didn’t like getting wet unless it was in the surf on the Fourth of July.

  Carter began to argue before they could say a word..

  “Sir, I’ve got this soaking wet boy here who I’ve got to deliver to his folks in Amagansett so he don’t die of pneumonia. Not to mention three animals — one of which you can’t see, but it’s a rare breed of African monkey — and they’re all soaked, ‘cause we just now had a flat. This is a night meant for fish and alligators, and I ask you to have a little mercy and let me deliver this kid to his lawyer dad before he starts to fade before our eyes.”

  One cop, a yellow-haired young man who wore blue sunglasses even though it was a rainy night, handed Carter back his driver’s license. “May I see the insurance card, please?”

  “Officer, let me explain —”

  The vehicle was insured, but Carter had left the card at home on top of his TV because he’d just found out that his little daughter was in Southampton Hospital and he’d rushed to get there — they could check on that — and now this boy who was in his care, the son of the lawyer, was coming down with pneumonia.

  The second cop wrote out a speeding ticket and handed it to Carter.

  Carter said, “How much is this gonna cost me?”

  “One hundred and fifty dollars.”

  I saw the veins in Carter’s neck start to bulge.

  The second cop wrote out a second ticket for driving with one headlight.

  “And how much for that?”

  “Sixty dollars.”

  “Oh, a fucking class-A bargain,” Carter said.

  The cop told Carter to show up the next day at the police station with his insurance card. “Failure to do so will result in another violation. And get that headlight fixed soon, sir, and until then don’t drive after twilight.”

  Carter yelled, “I’m a working man, not a goddam New York City rich sonofabitch. Either of you assholes hear a single word I said about why this happened?”

  The cops had already sniffed his breath and knew he wasn’t drunk. They walked away. If Carter had been alone, I decided, they would have hauled him off to a night in jail.

  It was five minutes past seven. I didn’t know what I was going to tell Aunt Grace, who might have been on the phone to these same police right now. “A few inches over four feet tall, about sixty-five pounds, brown eyes, brown hair that stands on end, no visible scars, has a nice smile…”

  Carter missed the shortcut and screeched off Main Street on to Oak Lane.

  “I’ll pay half the speeding fine,” I said.

  No lights were burning in the house. Simon was still out somewhere with his buddies. Aunt Grace’s Thunderbird wasn’t in the driveway.

  “Where are your folks?” Carter asked. “Out to some cocktail party?”

  “My mom’s in Washington. My dad was at Yankee Stadium. My Aunt Grace was supposed to be here.”

  “Yankee Stadium? The World Series? Today? Your dad watched the Yankees whip ass?“

  “I don’t know who won the game.”

  “The Yankees did. I caught some of it on the radio. And your dad was there. I think you should pay the whole ticket.”

  “The whole ticket?”

  “You went, ‘Step on it,’ right? I was trying to be the good guy, which is almost always a mistake.”

  “Carter, you were already flooring it in Sagaponack.”

  “Because you kept looking at your watch and making me nervous.”

  You always think later what you should have said, and you’re always brilliant. However, all I did was sneeze. And Iphigenia was cooling down, beginning to shiver. There was no heat in the front seat of the truck unless you counted the steam coming from Pablo’s wet jaws.

  I reached for the door handle. “This monkey’s in trouble,” I said.

  “And these dogs are dying of thirst. Would you mind getting a bowl of water? Two bowls, so they don’t fight over it.”

  “They can’t come in the house.”

  “Did I say I wanted them in your goddam house? You want them to lap up water from the gutter? Jesus, I’m arguing with an eleven-year-old kid. Just show me where the kitchen is. Later we can talk about who pays the ticket.”

  Clutching Iphigenia’s bag, I climbed out of the truck. Carter jumped out the other door and slammed it shut. Daisy, trying to wriggle out behind him, yipped in pain when it rapped her nose.

  “Now you made me hurt Daisy.”

  I took off my muddy sneakers and dropped them on the porch. Carter was inside with me before I knew it. There was nothing I could do about it. I switched on lights, heading through the living room toward the kitchen. I heard Carter, behind me, suck in his breath.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  From under the crystal chandelier in the entrance hall, you could go either through a teak sliding door to the den or under a high white stone arch to the living room. A carpeted staircase led up to the second and third floors. Except for the den, which had the forty-inch TV and music cabinet and bookcases, full of sets of Dickens and Conrad and book club selections, floor to ceiling, and a maple floor with thick Tibetan rugs in front of the easy chairs, the house was carpeted for the most part in pale gray Berber. Persian rugs were thrown here and there over the Berber.

  Carter strolled into the fifty-foot-long living room, where my parents had some of their art collection, their Tiffany lamps, and Diana’s treasure of heart-shaped silver frames with photos of the various Bravermans and Adlers going all the way back to the 19th century in Be
rlin and Schwabia. The photos sat on glass side tables, and on the mantel above the fireplace, and on a Steinway baby grand. None of us could play it, although Simon gave the keys a daily pound with his fist when he came home from school and passed it on his way to the kitchen.

  I put the gym bag, with Iphigenia in it, on top of the Steinway.

  The first thing I saw in the breakfast nook in the kitchen was the red phone button blinking.

  Pick me up!

  All right, all right…

  The first message was from Aunt Grace.

  “C’est moi, stuck in Atlantic City. Having a fab time at this conference. Ba-aaaad Gracie! Can you survive without your naughty auntie? … kiss kiss hug hug.”

  I erased that one.

  The next was from my dad.

  “Boys, if you’re screening calls, pick up. I’m in a taxi on the Throg’s Neck Bridge, headed for the Stadium. I’ve left my leather briefcase at home, probably in the den. Please find the briefcase, take the sandwiches out of it, and put them in the fridge. Then call me on my cell.” Static followed. “— something wrong with… love you both…”

  I saved that one.

  The last was a woman who didn’t identify herself and whom I didn’t know. “I tried your cell three times, you rascal.” She pronounced the word as rah-scal. “Call me. And make sure you erase this before she gets back from Washington.”

  In a hurry, I filled two big plastic bowls at the kitchen sink.

  I heard a crash — the house shuddered. I knew right away that it was a doorknob smashing full force into the rubber stopper that prevented it from breaking into the drywall. Carter had shut the front door, but not tight enough, and one of us hadn’t shut his door of the truck, and Daisy and Pablo had slammed their way into the house.

  I opened the door to the living room. Both dogs were drenched and Pablo was covered with mud. He shook himself twice on my mom’s Berber carpet.

  I hollered, “Carter!”

  But except for the panting of the dogs and the beating of my heart, the house was silent.

  Daisy, pouring rainwater from the barrel of her body, headed toward me, the bearer of drinkable water.

  Pablo was a big ten-month-old mutt, part Chesapeake Bay retriever, part German Shepherd. Carter had selected him from all the other mutts wagging their tails in the East Hampton pound because he wanted a brute to guard A-1 Self-Storage.

  Pablo saw Daisy aiming for me and the water. No way, you fat bitch. You’ll drink it all. So he slammed a shoulder into Daisy’s ribs. An airborne Daisy hit my ankles like a small tank. I was knocked off my feet, and the two bowls of water flew from my hands. One hit a Tiffany lamp, cracking it in three separate places. The other knocked half a dozen of my mom’s heart-shaped silver-framed family photos off an end table, and then it soaked the sofa.

  Pablo slammed to a halt and focused his eyes on Iphigenia in her gym bag on the piano. That’s the critter was in our truck…

  Hoisting himself up on his great hind legs, Pablo began pawing at the piano to get at her.

  Iphigenia screeched in terror.

  I shoved Daisy to one side, and I launched myself at Pablo. I rocketed up from below him, grabbed him by the hocks and spilled him. He came down with a thump, his head slamming against the cherrywood leg of the baby grand. Cherrywood was harder than Daisy’s ribs and had no padding.

  Pablo fell to the carpet, and his head sank down between the his paws.

  I crawled out from under the piano. Daisy had vanished. I opened the gym bag. Iphigenia was curled up at the bottom, and when I lifted her out, her cold little body jerked and shook; then it was still; then it jerked and shook again. She was spasming.

  In the back of the huge aluminum fridge in our kitchen, I had placed a small paper bag sealed with Scotch tape. On the bag I’d printed: IPHIGENIA’S VITAMIN-B SHOT – TO SAVE HER LIFE – DO NOT THROW OUT.

  I carried Iphigenia into the kitchen and laid her down on a pile of clean dish towels in a wicker basket. As if an electric current was being passed through her, she spasmed. I saw her eyeballs jerk.

  “Iphigenia, please don’t die.”

  I got the box with the throwaway needle out of the cold paper bag. I had one chance to do this right. Shave the area first, the pharmacist had said. No time for that. I pushed the needle to get any air bubbles out. I held Iphigenia’s skinny chest and front legs with one hand, so that I felt her nickel-sized heart beating. I slid the needle about half an inch into her haunch. She stirred a little. Then I had to slide it back out a bit to make sure there’s no blood. I had studied this. I had prepared.

  The yellow liquid moved up the tube and vanished into my monkey.

  I pulled the needle out just in time or it might have broken off inside her, because a second later Iphigenia shot straight up off the table. She landed on all fours, next to the basket of towels that I’d thought might be her deathbed, and shook her head as if she’d just awakened from a bad dream.

  I calmed her and put her back in the basket. I climbed up on a chair and put the basket on top of the fridge.

  I was afraid to open the door from the kitchen. But I did it.

  Pablo had woken up, but either he was groggy or he thought he’d done enough damage for one evening. He was stretched out in front of the fireplace, alive, head forward on his paws, gazing bleary-eyed into the grate.

  Daisy, however, had clumped into to the den, where my dad had left his briefcase with his Yankee Stadium sandwiches in it. Daisy had dragged the briefcase into the living room, and laid down there for her evening meal: smoked chicken with herb stuffing, Tuscan cowhide, and yellow legal paper with my dad’s pencil scrawl all over it.

  I screamed at her to stop, and she looked up out of that smashed face. You could kick Daisy, and you could ram her, but she drew the line at being robbed of food and leather that she had earned by hard chewing. She growled – a soft but cold sound – and that stopped me in my tracks.

  I yelled again: “Carter! Where are you?”

  “Right here, kid. Take it easy.”

  He marched at a measured pace down the stairs, fisherman’s slicker slung over one arm, a strange expression illuminating his face. He looked as if he’d been dreaming and was having difficulty waking up. He’d never taken off his boots and the staircase was stained with mud footprints.

  At the same time I heard a familiar creak and slide of wood over carpet. Cold air darted into the room and I spun around.

  The front door had swung completely open. Standing on the porch in his canvas barn jacket and woolen Irish cap from County Kerry, with the cold rain bucketing down behind him, was my dad.

  No one had returned his calls. He’d needed his edited documents of United States v. National Nursing Homes for the morning’s meetings at Foley Square. So in the top of the eighth inning he called the limo service and arranged to be driven home to Amagansett. He heard the final outs of the game on the radio. His team didn’t let him down.

  The limo rolled into our driveway. The rain stopped the gravel from popping under the tires.

  Brown mud and black dog tracks streaked the carpet. One flank of the cherrywood piano had claw gashes from top to bottom. Broken glass from the silver photo frames had created a hailstorm on the floor. A cracked Tiffany lamp tilted on its base. A large hairy dog occupied the entire area in front of the fireplace, and shreds of United States v. National Nursing Homes littered the living room, where a bulldog was consuming the Italian leather briefcase.

  Moreover, a unkempt and unknown man was ambling down the stairs from the second floor.

  Also, at the same time, a terrible smell rose from my dad’s feet. filled that part of the living room. It was the smell of shit, of dogshit. A gift from Daisy or Pablo, maybe both. My dad had brought it in from the darkness outside. He had tracked it all over the carpet. He looked down, realizing what he had done. His face twisted with the pain of it.

  Carter reached the bottom of the staircase. my dad’s voice trembled at him.
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  “Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Upstairs in my house.”

  “Carter Bedford.” Carter showed his shiny white teeth. “Friend of Billy’s. Great kid. Real hospitable.”

  He extended his hand, but my dad, instead of shaking, took a step backward and pointed a finger at the animal life.

  Carter grinned as if the judges at the annual dog show held by the East Hampton Ladies Village Improvement Society were approaching him to tell him that one of his entries had won the blue ribbon. “Left to right, Daisy and Pablo.” And he tipped a hand in their direction.

  “That bulldog is eating my briefcase.”

  Carter roared: “Daisy! Drop it! Outside, bitch!” He gave her the karate chop threat.

  Daisy, opening her jaws so that what was left of the destroyed briefcase slid in a slobbering brown mess to the carpet, squirted piss all over the carpet to mingle with her shit — or it might have been Pablo’s; there was no way we could ever find out — and slunk out the front door.

  “Pedro, too,” said my dad, a little white around the nostrils.

  “Pablo,” Carter said, correcting him. He surveyed the living room. “I hope you’ve got good insurance.”

  My dad clenched his fists at his side. I knew he was strong for his size – tough, like me – but I didn’t think he could handle Carter Bedford, who lifted garbage cans five days a week.

  But Carter didn’t react that way. He gave my dad a cold and feral look, and then grabbed hold of Pablo’s collar and hauled him across the room and out the door. Together they thumped off the porch and crunched across the gravel driveway.

  I heard the pickup’s engine rumble, then growl off into the night.

  “Better check the phone messages, Dad,” I said. And I added: “You rascal.”

  Chapter 11

  I sneezed like a machine gun until my nostrils turned raw around the edges. I had read that a sneeze can fire out spray at a hundred miles an hour, and now I believed it. On Monday morning Inez took my temperature, and it was a hundred and one, so she said, “No school,” and fed me hot chicken soup. Aunt Grace came over and took my temperature again: it had risen to a hundred and two.