The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Returnin’ to my question,” Custis said, “tell us why you think Mason’s wound up in this shooting? I’m hearin’ you represent that his brother’s makin’ claims.”

  Bass reached inside a file and produced several typewritten pages joined by a single staple. He didn’t read from them or offer them to Custis. He rolled the papers into a tube and clutched them with both hands. “Gates Hunt has give us a statement which says Mason and him were stopped by Wayne Thompson after they left the home of Denise Puckett, who was Gates’s girlfriend. Mason had been drinkin’.” He caught Mason’s eye and spoke in his direction, holding the gaze. “Accordin’ to your brother, you and him and Mr. Thompson had a disagreement on the side of Russell Creek Road. Gates says he and Thompson were arguing over Denise; she’d been datin’ both of ’em. Gates and Thompson have a scuffle, a fight, but Gates whips him pretty easy, just kind of pushes him away. Then Thompson sets in on you, Mason, sayin’ unpleasant things about your father and how you guys—you and Gates—have ganged up on him. He starts at you with a club.” Bass slapped the papers against his thigh. “Gates says you were mad and scared and shot him when he was cursin’ you and comin’ at you. Favorable to you, he says you claimed you only meant to nick the deceased, not kill him.” He hit his thigh again. “What’s the old saying? You’re the guy who brought a gun to a knife fight. Except with you and Mr. Thompson, it was a little blackjack, not even a knife.”

  “That is a fucking complete and absolute stone-solid lie. Totally untrue and made up by a damn worthless coward.” Mason was so livid, so indignant, so rabid, so furiously unrehearsed that Minter ducked his head and Bass shrank back against his chair as if they’d been flogged by fierce weather, wind and thunder. Mason pushed out of his seat, stood and slammed his fist into his desk. Whump. While the noise from the first blow was still lingering, he hit it a second time. Whump. “And you motherfuckers treat it like it’s from the pope.” His face pinched and red, Mason yanked at the knot in his tie, loosening it. “And what did my brother want in exchange for this valuable information? Wait—let me guess. He wants to get out of jail.” Mason was yelling.

  Ed Hoffman watched impassively, his hands idle on his bump of a belly. “Nada. Nothing. He knows we can’t help him.” Hoffman shrugged. “Don’t want a thing. Made me think there was less chance of him lyin’. Why would he? He did ask about a pardon. I told him we’d be happy to write the governor on his behalf. Also informed him the governor will say no.”

  Custis put his hand on Mason’s shoulder, but Mason kept standing.

  “He’ll want more,” Mason sputtered. “You mark my words. Gates never does anything unless it’s calculated to help him.” He wasn’t as fiery, had quit shouting. “Even if he realizes there’s no benefit, I wouldn’t put it past him to do this because he’s a jealous, petty, mean, common punk who blames everybody but himself for his problems. He’s mad at me because I won’t bend the rules to help him. Envious because I’ve worked hard and have a life and he’s squandered his.”

  “Actually, he ain’t got that long left to pull,” Minter said. “He tells us he only wants to clear his conscience. Wants to start with a clean slate.”

  “You guys are loadin’ up on Mason because of a convict’s uncorroborated song and dance?” Custis was calmly fishing, attempting to extract as much as he could from Minter, Bass and Hoffman.

  “The boy pretty well passed a polygraph,” Hoffman said casually. “Two of ’em. Two different examiners.”

  “Pretty much?” Custis asked. “Pretty much doesn’t cut the mustard, does it, Ed?”

  “We know Gates was there when it happened. He knows who done it. Mason was with him. Mason hid the gun. Mason did the alibi. He’s twice truthful on those points, Custis. Passed with flyin’ colors. I don’t like it either.”

  “He’s a sociopath,” Mason said. “He probably believes his own cock-and-bull fantasies.”

  Custis removed his hand from Mason. “He flunked the only one that counts, didn’t he, Ed? You asked the sorry turd if Mason shot Wayne Thompson, and your boy Gates went south, didn’t he? Even a practiced liar like Gates Hunt couldn’t trick the box on the grand-prize question.”

  “We don’t have to tell you our case, Mr. Norman,” Bass chimed in. “But let’s just say we wouldn’t be here unless we were fairly confident of his version of events and had verified it.”

  “He failed on one and the other was inconclusive,” Hoffman said. “I don’t mind tellin’ you. You’re entitled to know. Get the results for trial anyway.”

  “What a huge surprise,” Mason said sarcastically.

  “But damn, the men with the voodoo say he’s Abe Lincoln on everything else.” Hoffman wasn’t combative, wasn’t gloating.

  “They can say he’s Malcom X,” Custis replied, “and they can confirm it till the cows come home, and we all understand it’s not admissible in court. It’s worthless to you at trial.”

  “True,” Hoffman agreed. “You asked. I told you. You know me well enough to know I’m not goin’ off half-baked. There’s a reason I’m investigating. Another small nugget: Gates knows details. Information which wasn’t made public. Knows about the club. How the car was positioned. Location of the body. Lights were on high. Details.”

  “Hell, Ed,” Custis scoffed, “everybody knows everything in Stuart—people are all up in their neighbors’ business. Rescue squad guy tells his wife what he saw at the scene, she tells her mom, the cat’s outta the bag. Can’t say I’m impressed.”

  “I’m just addin’ the numbers, Custis,” Hoffman said. “Same as you’d do.”

  “So it’s still only my brother’s wild accusations,” Mason said. “As I’m understanding you, you’ve confirmed by a polygraph I didn’t shoot the victim, and my brother was there and knows who did. Seems to me you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

  “Nice lawyer trick, but that ain’t exactly what the results was.” Bass was firm, dogged. “If his version is true, then you’ve been lying ’bout every kind of thing, whether you shot the boy or not.”

  “So it’s his brother’s word and a lie-detector test you can’t use?” Custis wanted to see how much more Hoffman was willing to give.

  “Nope. Bass and Minter recorded Mason. Their first trip to talk to him.” Hoffman’s hands hadn’t moved, and his head hung slightly too far forward, as if it were oddly weighted and straining his neck. “Mason spooks bad when they tell him they got the gun. The gun from the shootin’.” He was trained on Custis, speaking as if Mason weren’t present. “Sounds guilty. Says it ain’t possible we could have the weapon. They jumped him with a little setup. You listen to it, Custis. See what you think. You can tell.”

  Mason flew hot. “Wait. Hold on. Wait a minute. So you sons of bitches faked a whole damn criminal investigation attempting to get a rise out of me?” He decided to glare at Minter. He jabbed a finger at him. “You tried to…to…test me by making up an entire fucking case?” He was surprised at how angry he actually was.

  “Man, that’s some bad shit there,” Custis remarked. “Crooked shit. Is that true? You fellows were scammin’ Mason and me?”

  Minter and Bass seemed momentarily cowed. Hoffman didn’t hesitate: “Yep. The Roberts case wasn’t real. We ran it by the AG’s office. We were extremely careful what we told Roberts. We never accused him of anything. Never arrested him. Asked him a few questions. Played around in his yard and came up with a gun. Let him know we had it. We’ve explained to him since we were at his house that he’s not a suspect. ’Course, we had to tell his wife and write him a letter since he lawyered up on us. Slammed the door. Wanted nothing to do with us. Mad.”

  “That’s the type of police manipulation that should land you fuckers in a world of hurt,” Custis said, frowning as he spoke. “I hope Allen Roberts sticks a stake through somebody’s heart. You’re out of line, Ed. I’m surprised.”

  “It’s frigging illegal to lie to obtain a search warrant last time I checked,” Mason said disgustedly. “
And serve it on Allen’s wife.”

  “Never happened,” Hoffman replied. “They walked onto his land, made a show for everybody to watch and flashed the fake gun. No more. Asked Mr. Roberts about the shooting and about the gun. Two or three questions. No accusations. They gave his wife their business cards and a paper with our addresses and phone numbers. There was never no warrant. We told you it was served on his wife so you wouldn’t be askin’ Mr. Roberts about it. We created the rest. The witness Frederick Wright was a Salem cop we sent to Roberts’s job site. Posed as a carpenter, a subcontractor. Him passin’ the lie-detector test was baloney. We had to be sly. Do it different. You’re a smart man and a lawyer. If Mr. Roberts has a gripe with us, we’ll deal with it. His situation don’t help you none, though, Mason. Whether we was right or wrong with how we treated him. Not as I can see.”

  Mason wasn’t finished. “Cat got your tongue, Officer Minter? Don’t have the guts to admit how you tried to have me indict an innocent man, scared the shit out of him and abused the system? Broke every rule in the book and fabricated evidence to deceive me? You can go to sleep tonight knowing—knowing—that your ass will be investigated the second you walk out of here. You and your dipshit partner both. Hope you weren’t counting on a pension. You guys are totally off the rez.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Minter replied. “See if I care. If I was you, I’d be more worried about my statements on the tape than how we got ’em. Remember, you’re the fool who pulled Roberts in and grilled him, not us.”

  “I didn’t say shit on your tape. You three are acting like I confessed or something.”

  “Help me here, but didn’t your sting prove Mason’s innocence?” Custis surveyed all three cops. “Huh?” He bunched his lips and pretended to be piecing the facts together for the first time. “Man, I gotta tell you, as the assistant commonwealth’s attorney for this county and the brother with over twenty years’ experience in this office, Mason reviewed the file with me and green-lighted it. I mean, come on, he told me to call you and agree to indict.”

  “Never would’ve happened,” Bass said. “Misdirection.”

  “Hell, it did happen,” Custis insisted. “I’ll show you the damn paperwork. We were ready.” He stood. “In fact, seein’ how you guys are playin’ this, I’m gonna have Sheila go fetch the actual document and give you a copy for your file, so you’ll know we were on the up-and-up and ready to take it to the grand jury.”

  “Appreciate it,” Hoffman said.

  “I’m not impressed,” Custis remarked. “This isn’t like you, Ed.”

  “I’m trying to be as fair as I can,” the officer replied.

  “Anything else we should know?” Custis probed.

  Hoffman smiled, a grin without any happiness. “Sorry. Have to turn off the spigot. You’d be entitled to this stuff anyway before trial. But it ain’t our ace. I’m not at liberty to divulge any more. I would if it was possible.”

  “Your ace?” Mason asked, trying to sound sure of himself. “Sounds like you’ll need it, because so far you’ve shown us a two and three of clubs.”

  “I wouldn’t be so cocky if I was you,” Bass said smugly.

  “I will tell you,” Hoffman added, “that Judge Williams down in Henry County has already appointed a special prosecutor. He’s calling the shots now. The attorney general’s office is basically through.”

  “So who’s the turncoat prosecuting a fellow commonwealth’s attorney?” Custis asked. “Based on this bullshit evidence.”

  “Went through nineteen people to find somebody,” Hoffman replied. “Least that’s what I’m informed. You should take that as a compliment, Mason. Recognition of your good reputation. The guy they finally got is a reckless little shrimp from Waynesboro, name of Leonard Stallings. Ink addict this one, with big plans for himself. This would be a hide for his trophy wall. I wish for everybody’s sake we’d done better in that area.”

  “You want to talk about the shooting?” Bass asked. “Tell us your side? We’ve somehow managed to jump off track, but we’re here to interview you. It’d probably be helpful to us all if you cooperate. Help you and us.”

  “Yeah. Take out your pad and pen. Listen carefully to my cooperation. Write this down. My brother is a liar. I didn’t shoot Wayne Thompson. I have an absolute alibi which you can confirm from the old files. End of story, end of our interview.”

  “It only makes it worse if you—”

  “Mr. Bass, I’m afraid I’m not going to be swayed by the Dick Tracy strategies they taught you in the three-hour interrogation class at the academy. What—next you’re supposed to offer me a cigarette or a free soda? I’m not a junkie or a dim-witted thief. We’re done. I’m innocent, so there’s nothing to discuss.”

  “I was only trying to give you a chance—”

  “You heard Mr. Hunt,” Hoffman interrupted forcefully, respectfully. “He said we’re done, and so we’re done.” He shot Mason a frank look. “This is bad for the both of us. Ugly business. I’m not happy with none of it. But the truth is, as much as it hurts, unless things change, come this fall, Stallings is gonna insist on an indictment. He’ll skip June grand jury. Too rushed. Case still needs our report from today and a little more prep. But it’s comin’. Let me know if anything occurs to you between now and then.” He finally disturbed his hands, lifting them to chest level. He matched fingertip to fingertip but kept his palms spread apart. Head bowed, speaking almost inaudibly, he said, “It would be awful to try and help a man and have it switched around on you. A brother. Your favor used against you.”

  Mason could feel Custis beside him. He smelled the chemicals in Custis’s dry-cleaned suit and a pungent edge on his breath. He waited for Hoffman to set the hook with his eyes, to invite him into an easy, compromised door, but Hoffman cut it off there, never showed anything more than the top of his shiny head. Mason avoided the temptation to answer, and the police filed out, gone.

  Cautious and rattled, Mason and Custis remained tight-lipped after the cops exited the room, their positions unchanged, Custis propped against the credenza, Mason listless in front of his high-backed leather chair, the seams outlined by decorative brass nailheads. Eventually, Custis shuffled to the door and closed it, first checking outside the office to make certain no one was within earshot. He flopped into the seat Minter had just left, his huge, thick legs stretched and splayed.

  “Damn,” Mason said.

  “No shit,” Custis replied.

  “Damn.”

  “Man-oh-man, this saga all of a sudden got ill. Severe.”

  “What else do you think they have?” Mason asked. “I mean, hell, what else could they have? Huh?” He picked up the phone and had Sheila confirm that the cops were no longer in the building. “They’re bluffing, aren’t they?” he said when he’d finished speaking to her.

  “I don’t know, Chief. It wouldn’t be Ed Hoffman’s style to threaten cards he’s not actually holdin’. I’m worried sick. He’s shrewd, too—you hear him talking about how awful it’d be for your own brother to take advantage of you? Ed’s no chump. ’Course, I figure he’s doin’ all he can to benefit us, revealing as much as possible.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know. I’m hard-pressed to see how we’re gonna beat the odds on this, Mace. Sounds as if they’re waiting for the grand jury, and ain’t much we’re able to do. I swear I think this Stallings motherfucker’s going to drop papers on you.” Custis shook his head, stopped, then shook it even more vigorously. “You talk about this and think about it and it’s all abstract and just like that they show up with the badges and bullets and pepper spray and it grabs you by the collar and completely mugs you, whales on you, real as can be. I gotta admit it kinda caught me off guard.”

  “Maybe they’re bluffing,” Mason repeated without much conviction. “They ran an elaborate sting to start this, right? Gates simply can’t give them a shred of hard evidence. He can’t. It’s impossible.” Mason’s color had seeped away—his skin was blanched,
mushy, the hue of lima beans left simmering too long on the stove. For the moment, there was no fight in him, no resistance. He was limp, squashed, passive, bobbing in the undertow. “Mystery to me,” he mumbled. “A few months from now, though, unless there’s a hellacious change, I’m going to be arrested.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Custis promised. “And if we don’t, we’ll coldcock the bastards at trial.”

  “This is unbelievable, Cus.”

  “Damn.”

  Mason recovered some, firmed up. “If you need to, feel free to hop off the bus right now. I mean it. I appreciate your being here today and everything you’ve done, but—”

  “Hey,” Custis butted in, “fuck that. I’m your lawyer, right? I’m not about to take a dive on you, nosir, not a chance. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  “Thanks. So I guess we just wait for the other shoe to fall, huh? Unless we can magically turn my shitbird brother around, and I don’t think we’ve got too many options where he’s concerned.”

  “Well, let’s concentrate on that for a minute,” Custis said. “Perhaps we can—”

  Sheila knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response. “Sorry, guys, but we’re already way behind, and Mr. Gunter has to be at the dentist’s and Mr. Stovall has a load of cows to take to the stockyard and everybody’s getting impatient. Can I send them in?”

  “Yep. Go ahead,” Mason told her. He glanced at Custis. “We’ll keep thinking and see if we can come up with a solution.”

  “Definitely,” Custis said. He thumped Sheila on the top of her head as they were leaving Mason’s office, a silly, playful pop with his forefinger that caused her to laugh and freeze where she stood and ask him if he thought other professionals acted like second graders, childishly harassing staff members. “I don’t know why they wouldn’t,” he kidded her. “Especially if their staff’s all grumpy and wound tight and it’s not even noon yet.”