The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Great,” Carson said. “Your first meeting is June thirtieth, and I’ll be sending you a packet of information in the next day or so. More to the point, there’s one grant proposal that impacts your area, a request for a public-private partnership with a company called Chip-Tech. They’re basically a computer component manufacturer wholly owned by Caldwell-Dylan.”

  “Ah—there’s a name I’ve heard. Caldwell-Dylan is none other than Herman Dylan, correct?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Hunt.”

  “The Iceman. I’ve read about him. Got rich in frozen foods.”

  “It would be fair to say he’s somewhat controversial, but there are people in business and government who swear by him.”

  Mason found a paper clip and began bending it straight, trapping the phone between his chin and shoulder. “From everything I’ve seen, he’s definitely a mixed bag. What concerns does he have in our neck of the woods?”

  “According to his application, he’s interested in bringing Chip-Tech to Patrick.”

  “Huh. Well, more power to him.”

  Carson’s tone dampened. “Of course, he wants us to kick in a healthy six mil, he wants your county to waive taxes for five years and lease him a shell building for cheap, and he wants discounted water and sewer.”

  “How many jobs do we get for our largesse?”

  “Seventy. But bear in mind that number is ‘an aspiration’ as per his application. If you read the fine print, the commitment is for fifty-five positions with an average wage of nine dollars an hour.”

  “I guess that’s fifty-five more than we have now.”

  “True.”

  “I appreciate the call and information. Thanks for the warning.”

  “My pleasure. It’s what I do.” Carson chuckled. “And if I were you, I’d brace myself for a little cold weather. Keep the down jacket handy.”

  The police, meanwhile, had decided they were best served by making a formal appointment with Mason, trading away surprise for the grind of dread and worry. Late Wednesday, Ray Bass called Sheila to schedule a meeting, and she assumed he and his partner were coming to see the commonwealth’s attorney just like every other cop who requested an hour to review a case or ask advice or prepare for trial. She booked Bass and Rick Minter for Friday morning, and Mason learned of the visit Thursday afternoon when Sheila handed him his schedule for the next day.

  “Shit,” he said, staring at the photocopy of her calendar page.

  “I’m sorry. Is something wrong?”

  “No. No. I didn’t mean to curse. Seems…seems like a lot to do, that’s all.”

  “I can switch stuff if you want me to,” she offered.

  “Nah. It’s actually not so bad.” He almost asked her about the appointment with Bass and Minter but immediately swallowed the impulse, realizing there was nothing she could add and that the inquiry would only draw attention to a subject he preferred to keep off everyone’s radar.

  Convinced that the cops would sooner or later be on his tail, Mason had devoted a fair amount of thought to what he should tell Custis when the pincers began closing and the state police arrived in their unmarked Crown Vic for an interview, ready with Gates’s accusations. Custis had left earlier in the day, and Mason drove directly from their office to his friend’s home on Chestnut Avenue. He parked behind Custis’s new Caddy, left his suit coat in the car and knocked on the front door. There was no answer, but Mason was able to hear loud music and dull thumps, and he could sense a vibration in the wooden porch, movement that began inside and traced out along joists and planks and registered in his feet. He knocked again, and when Custis didn’t respond, Mason eased the door open and shouted hello. The music dropped. “Who is it?” Custis yelled from another part of the house.

  “It’s me. Mason.”

  “Damn. Maybe you should knock.”

  “I did.” He spoke louder than normal.

  Custis stuck his head around a doorframe on the opposite side of the room. “Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody. Why? You smoking crack back there?”

  Custis came through the door. He was wearing tennis shoes, white tube socks, gray athletic shorts and a red T-shirt that didn’t make it all the way to the elastic band at the top of the shorts. A strip of brown belly skin wallowed in the space between the shorts and shirt. “I’m workin’ out, smart-ass.” He was sweating and breathing hard.

  “To what? The sound track for American Graffiti?”

  “It’s a Richard Simmons tape. It was all they had at the library, okay?”

  Mason smiled and put his hands on his hips. “Richard Simmons is a category-one flame, and the routine is for fossils and ancient women with canes and artificial joints.”

  “Actually, Mace, it’s pretty damn rigorous, and even if it wasn’t, what exactly would you suggest for me?” He glanced at his stomach. “I mean, you know, right now, old fat women would be about my speed.”

  “I told you I’d buy you a gym membership and we’d go together.”

  “You think I’m gonna stroll my lardass into a public gym lookin’ like this?”

  Mason sat on a sofa arm. “That’s why you go, Custis. To get in shape.”

  “When I can go and people aren’t thinkin’ I’m ‘Rerun’ Berry, I’ll go.”

  “Your choice,” Mason said. “It’s good you’re exercising. Wherever you do it, it’s a positive.”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe how this shit creeps up on you.”

  Mason faked a wince. “Friend to friend, seeing your baby-doll shirt and kneesocks, I’ve got to say lifestyle changes are definitely in order.”

  Custis balled a fist in Mason’s direction and raised his middle finger. “Fat or not, I can still beat you down. You’d be smart to not forget it.”

  “Amen.”

  As Mason balanced there on the leather arm of Custis’s couch, about to confess his involvement in a murder, it occurred to him how frequently settings fail to match important moments, how critical, wrenching events that deserve the dignity of a hearth or respectable office or church altar wind up poorly staged, jammed into the first empty space available, willy-nilly, revelations loosed and souls bared at gas pumps, bowling alleys, carnivals, bus stops, department-store toilets, the surroundings be damned. Mason took stock of the revved-up oldies and Richard Simmons’s exhortations and the comical red shirt, but he decided they probably didn’t mean anything or make much difference. Perhaps the absurdities might even make his burden more tolerable, draw off some of the poison. “Have a seat,” he said to Custis. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound cool.” He pointed at Mason with his index finger. “Hang tight.” He left and returned wearing a bulky sweatshirt that kept his middle concealed. “Problems with the situation we discussed at lunch?” he asked, twisting the top off a bottled water.

  Mason heard the plastic seal break. “Afraid so.”

  Custis perched himself on the edge of a recliner. “I hope you know I haven’t forgotten you or ignored anything we discussed. I took it to heart, but I figured you’d get back to me when you needed to. It’s been weighing on me, though. Sure has.”

  “Thanks. Well, the time is here, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I got a fair idea of your troubles, but I’m hopin’ I’m wrong.” Custis lifted the hem of his shirt and patted his face.

  “We’re in confidence here, right? Attorney-client?”

  “Yeah, Mace.” The question obviously annoyed him. “We cashed the check. If my word and my friendship won’t hold, we can always count on the technicalities.”

  “I wouldn’t be telling you this unless I trusted you. I’ve never had a better friend. The check may end up keeping you off the griddle—it’s more for you than me.”

  “Whatever,” Custis groused.

  Mason moved from the arm onto the sofa proper. “I apologize for dragging us both into such a mess. I’m particularly sorry that over the long haul this affects you, too.” He stared at the oak floor, notic
ed a dark, swirling knot in the wood. He thought of his wife, how he never told her he’d protected his brother and allowed a killing to remain unsolved, for years aiding and abetting a criminal. He stopped studying the floor, jacked up his posture and met Custis eye to eye.

  Mason told him the story. He omitted nothing and included every detail, from the number of Budweiser beers he’d drunk before the shooting to Gates’s clumsy embrace of their mother at the prison.

  Custis listened without interrupting.

  “It’s been a shackle for nearly twenty years,” Mason said at the end. “To this day, I don’t know what the answer is, what I should’ve done. I mean, there I was, sucked into it, surprised as hell. Of course, if I’d had a crystal ball and could’ve seen what a prick Gates would prove to be, I’d have reported him to the cops. But in 1984, Custis, we were both young and he was my brother. You’ve probably heard what a beast our dad was, and I owed Gates for taking care of me. We were really a pair in those days, close. We wouldn’t have made it otherwise.” Mason sank into the cushions. “Still, I broke the law. There’s the plain old moral issue, too. Law or not, I probably had an obligation to tell the truth.” He turned silent, pensive. The upbeat music continued in the background. “I’ve often wondered,” he said after the pause, “and I’ve never said this to anyone before…I’ve wondered about Allison. Maybe in the big scheme of things her wreck was my payback. My punishment. Sort of to teach me a lesson about loss. Karma. You could find a certain divine symmetry if you wanted to.”

  “Nah. No. I doubt it’s anything punitive. You’re readin’ passages that don’t exist. Anyway, your theory wouldn’t be tit for tat. It’d have to be Gates’s wife for the score to be even.”

  “Maybe there’s a penalty and interest. The toll goes up. Who knows?”

  “It was bad luck,” Custis said. “No more, no less.”

  “So you won’t think I’m a moron, this isn’t a staggering turn of events for me, what Gates is doing. Hell, it’s almost predictable. It’s nagged me for years and years, like a damn open sore, and I guess I’ve always understood it was a possibility. A cutthroat brother with leverage will definitely make you lose sleep. A year and a half ago he actually called and threatened me, and even though neither of us mentioned it, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was finally desperate enough or pissed enough to sell us both down the river. It was like he was ready to launch the missiles. But I thought I was okay, or at least reasonably safe, because I didn’t see how he could use this to his advantage or hurt me without screwing himself worse.”

  “Well, I had this close to puzzled through. From your big ol’ hints at lunch, I figured you knew Gates was guilty or involved in the Thompson guy’s death. I didn’t realize you were there while it went down. Dumped the gun. Bald-face lied for him.” Custis took a slug of water. “’Course I damn sure didn’t guess he was tryin’ to lay his crime at your doorstep.” He screwed the cap onto the bottle. “Some dilemmas can’t be solved. Yours is murky. Tough. I can’t say what I’d have done in your shoes. Me, I’d pimp the truth for either one of my brothers or my parents. No doubt. Family trumps the Code of Virginia. Plus, it wasn’t clear-cut murder—this dumb-ass evidently was lying in wait, and then decides to chase you two down, curse Gates, call him out and threaten him with a stick. A good lawyer could generate a lot of smoke with those facts.”

  “A club. It’s accurate and it makes our case a bit more presentable.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.” Custis concentrated for a second. “Hell, it’s probably the low end of voluntary manslaughter. In hindsight, it might’ve been wise for you to have leaned on Gates, maybe persuaded him to fess up. This is Patrick County, after all. You go huntin’ for trouble and find it, even if you find it in spades, people usually are pretty understandin’ of the person who dished it out. He’d have had a strong case with a lot of mitigation. Seven or eight years, that’s what I’d do with it if it were mine. Can’t imagine a jury callin’ it much different.”

  “Fat fucking chance Gates would’ve pled to anything. And who can say what Tony Black would’ve offered or a jury would’ve done. Let’s not forget Wayne Thompson was drunk and there were two of us and my star-athlete brother had a good hundred pounds on him and a car to drive away in—it’s not as if Gates was cornered and had no option except to shoot the guy.”

  Custis stood. “Yeah, well, be that as it may, the big concern is your situation now.” He folded his arms. “Let’s game this thing out.”

  Mason recovered his posture and sat more erect. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “How ’bout you drop it truthful? Tell the gospel.” Custis walked across the room and settled into a different chair. “Come clean. By my math, you’re guilty of, at most, accessory after the fact. Misdemeanor. The statute of limitations is a year, so you’re good to go. Can’t be prosecuted. With this scenario, there’s the added advantage of your punk-ass brother receivin’ his due.”

  “Far too risky,” Mason replied. “Huge downside. Believe me, it’s the first permutation I went through, too. But here’s the problem: I really think all it would do is guarantee me a murder trial. See, if I tell the truth, Gates’s story suddenly has credibility. I was in fact there, I did dispose of the gun, I did lie, I did help construct the alibi. Any prosecutor or cop worth his salt is bound to ask why I did those things if I’m not the shooter or at least a willing participant from the get-go. Moreover, the second I choose the honesty option, the best I can hope for is a damn swearing contest with Gates in front of a jury, and even if they kind of believe I’m being straight, you and I both know it’s human nature for them to be angry and find some way to nail me. Why should a guy who helped hide a murder walk away scot-free? Or they pop me with a nice stiff sentence for being a hypocrite and sending people to jail for all these years despite my own dirty laundry.” Mason bowed his head. “God, it sounds awful, doesn’t it? When you put voice to it—when I hear it out loud—I can’t help but feel I have done wrong.”

  “Well, you did break the law. But you didn’t shoot anybody, and you tried to honor your brother as best you could. Let’s not forget who’s the polecat in this piece.”

  Mason looked up. “Yeah—I guess that makes me like a flunky or henchman. So I’m Renfield. The captain of the Wicked Witch’s winged monkeys. Great.”

  Custis hinted at a grin. “So the only other option is balls to the wall. We play it like you’ve been playin’ it, and when the cops come tomorrow, we find the props and costumes and act our asses off. Big surprise. We’re stunned. We’re the Prefect of Police in Casablanca. We pound away at Gates. Who the hell would believe Gates Hunt, a drug-dealin’ felon? You’re gonna go to trial against a well-respected commonwealth’s attorney based on the word of his felonious, vindictive, piece-of-shit brother? We do all we can to convince them they got a loser.”

  “I agree.” Mason shifted his weight. “But like I told you, my worry is I can’t exactly recall what I said to Bass and Minter in our discussions about the gun. They knew I was flustered, and now I’m betting my slip is on tape. I was so rattled I said something close to ‘that’s impossible’ or ‘that can’t be,’ and they really flagged it.”

  “But you covered yourself, right? Muddied the water? If there is a tape, it’s bound to be ambiguous. It’s not like you confessed. We pass it off as professional skepticism.”

  “Yeah, but it’s one more little brick for their house.”

  “No way a judge or jury would convict you if that’s the whole case, everything in their satchel. No chance, Mace.” Custis stood again. “I can’t imagine they’d be dumb enough to even indict you if that’s all they have.”

  “Well, you know what we say about close cases: too good to ignore, probably not good enough to win. Some you simply have to take to trial, no matter the probabilities. It’s tricky for them, too, just like it is for us from time to time. If the press discovers the state police have credible evidence that a commonwealth’s attorney committed a crime and they refuse
to file charges, they’ll get skinned alive in the newspapers—along with the attorney general, and I don’t need to remind you they’re political animals in that particular office.”

  Custis scowled. “The more I’m in this business, the more I dislike it. Hell, about half the crap we do is either boondoggle or placating people who don’t deserve it. All these rituals and fictions that absolutely shit on common sense. The worst of it is, the rest of the world’s come down with the same disease: The chumps at airport security harass wheelchair granny so we can justify askin’ the guy with the sword and prayer rug to let us search his suitcase. Clerks have to see an ID from the BMW lady in the pink sweater and three-carat diamond so they can press Lawanda when she breaks off the first starter check from her new account to buy her strawberry blunts. Fewer and fewer folks have the guts to do what’s obviously right if it means catching a little abuse in the process. Everything’s a damn referendum or a jury trial or left to the rabble in the name of egalitarianism.” Custis was agitated when he finished, his mouth strict. He returned to the recliner but kept standing.

  “We can’t do much about all that except deal with it,” Mason replied. “Besides, I’ve got my own dragon to slay. You and town council can fix the country’s shortcomings, okay? The bottom line is it’d be a difficult decision for any prosecutor to make, especially if I sound like a crook on the tape, assuming there is a tape.” Mason smiled. He crossed his legs. “Better not let the officers in the Urban League hear you spouting such heresy. If they discover you’ve signed on with the fascists and plantation owners, you’ll be banned for life. Lose your Stokely Carmichael card.”

  “It’s just wrong to indict someone because you want to pass the buck and don’t have the courage to tell the papers and whoever else to kiss your ass. That’s all I’m sayin’.” He was still disturbed. “As for my bona fides, when brothers run the planet and we fuck it up, you can take me to task on it. Till then, this is your show and you guys are the ones who’ve allowed it to fall apart. Most of the time, democracy ain’t really been the black man’s friend, now has it?” He strafed Mason with a look. “So you’ll know and not embarrass your bumpkin self, it’s Kwame Toure. He changed his name.”