by Martin Clark
“I’ll sleep on it,” Mason said. “Grand jury meets on the eighth—I’d need to do it before then. How about you guys helping me with the research, see if Ed and the AG’s office can tie Stallings’s hands once he’s appointed as special prosecutor? I’ve spent several hours on the computer reading every case I could find, and I think we can rely on the agreement, but I’d rather have a more objective opinion.”
“I’ll have your answer by tomorrow,” Sharpe promised.
“Every case I found references commitments made by the commonwealth,” Sharpe explained in a call Mason took at his mother’s house the next day. “The rulings don’t necessarily focus on individual prosecutors except in the sense that they’re agents for the state and can therefore make agreements on its behalf. Who better than the heaviest hitter of them all, the attorney general and his authorized staff, to conduct the commonwealth’s affairs? Do we really think a judge is going to ignore an immunity offer made by the cop in charge of the case and the office of the commonwealth’s chief prosecutor? You could very legitimately argue that the attorney general is Stallings’s boss and can trump him. Legally, my opinion is the same as yours—we’ve got the horses on immunity if you want to have a go at the polygraph. Tactically, of course, it’s up to you. Jim has raised a number of very valid points contrary to mine.”
Ultimately, Mason sided with Custis and Sharpe, concluding that there was a strong possibility of enforcing the deal and defeating any prosecution if he could beat the test. Mason himself phoned Ed Hoffman, and they rearranged several schedules so Mason could drive to state police headquarters in Salem and undergo the examination before the grand jury convened. “Who you want on the box?” Hoffman asked.
“I get to pick?” Mason replied.
“So long as it’s one of our guys. Or one of the feds.”
“Huh.” Mason thought about the possibilities. “I’ll take Morgan Witmer.”
“I would, too. Good luck, my friend. I’m rootin’ for you.”
Mason spent hours preparing for the test. He would ask himself the money questions out loud and practice saying no, attempting to repeat the deception again and again and again and again until he was immune to it, desensitized. He concentrated on his breathing, the pace of his heart, the adrenaline bumps in his stomach. He rehearsed with a thumbtack positioned in his shoe, pressing it into his middle toe before he began each series of questions to himself, hoping to elevate his breathing and heartbeat so there would be less room for deviation from the recorded baseline, no peaks and valleys. To dull his responses, he washed down a Valium with his breakfast orange juice before leaving for the exam.
Aware the cops might search him or require him to remove his shoes and discover the tack, he parked at a Hardee’s in Salem, slit the underside of his middle toe with a razor blade, placed a slender, flesh-colored Band-Aid on the cut and experimented with the pain level. He was satisfied—the fresh slash hurt more than the tack he’d used as an approximation. Pat Sharpe met him at the entrance to the state police building, wished him the best and accompanied him down a long hall with fluorescent lights and dingy white ceiling tiles, several discolored by water stains.
Morgan Witmer was careful not to grant any advantages or favorable treatment. He spent forty minutes asking questions and explaining the test and ground rules before he hooked Mason to the machine with wires, a chest strap and a blood pressure cuff and asked the first question: “Is your name Mason Hunt?”
Mason mashed his cut toe into the floor and monitored his breathing. “Yes.” He was still wearing his shoes, perhaps a concession from Hoffman, or maybe the experts weren’t concerned with countermeasures gleaned from the Internet, confident they could see through a layperson’s most disciplined subterfuge, barefoot or not. The control question was “Have you ever lied about anything to keep from getting in trouble?” and Mason answered yes, aware this wasn’t the key inquiry, nor was it really directed at his case. “Did you kill Wayne Thompson?” and “Do you know who killed Wayne Thompson?” were sandwiched between innocuous softballs about the color of his shirt and Mason’s home mailing address.
Witmer then repeated the questions word for word, this time in a different order. “You can relax,” he said at the end of the second round, and the device’s skittering, darting needles went calm over their paper.
Hoffman and Witmer left the room after the exam was concluded, and Mason made an effort to appear relaxed and assured, given that he was most likely being recorded by a concealed camera. Having ambled in to join his client, Pat Sharpe was calm also, a pro, and he projected confidence, chatting about deer season and his son’s roster of teachers at elementary school. Ten minutes later, Hoffman returned alone. Dispensing with the customary song and dance and post-interrogation razzmatazz, he stood in front of Mason, his arms against his rib cage, a soldier’s posture almost. “So, you want Mr. Sharpe to stay here?”
“Absolutely,” Mason said, his mouth dry, his stomach suddenly hollow, realizing from Hoffman’s question that the results were not going to be favorable. He saw Sharpe quickly remedy a dejected mouth, masking his own disappointment.
“Well, you got fifty percent. Passed on whether you killed the boy. No surprise there. Showed deception on knowledge of who killed him.” He glanced at Sharpe, not Mason. “For me, no surprise there either.”
“The test is wrong,” Mason protested. He struck the right tone, too: firm, astonished, aggrieved.
“This isn’t a police trap is it, Ed?” Sharpe inquired. “The Hail Mary where your polygraph guy actually has no idea, but you claim Mason failed so you can pressure him into admitting something? Hope he’ll collapse because you tell him he failed a test we both know is on a par with tarot cards and Ouija boards?”
“Witmer says he’s lying. I don’t like it either. At least give me credit for not underestimatin’ you gents. I’m not interested in screwin’ Mason.”
“Thanks,” Mason said. “You’ve been completely fair. It’s not your fault. I was probably too nervous or overanalyzed the questions.”
“I told Witmer to make you a copy,” Hoffman said. “You’re welcome to have an independent take a look at it. But you and me know Morgan Witmer’s a straight arrow.” He peered at Sharpe. “Hell, I wanted Mason to pass. This investigation’s off track. Wrong.”
“So this stays between us?” Mason asked.
“Me, you, Mr. Sharpe, Witmer, your classmate at the AG’s office.” He reached inside his coat pocket and handed Mason a sheet of paper. “You have the only other copy of the agreement. Morgan can’t destroy the test, but you have my word we won’t mention it. He’s filin’ it under my name, not yours. This is deep-sixed.”
“So what if an independent examiner will certify he passed?” Sharpe asked.
“If he’s credible, we’ll talk.” Hoffman pulled one side of his mouth taut. “See, Mr. Sharpe, I’m not a man who wants to convict the wrong guy. For the sake of lookin’ good. The big bust. Make my bones in the papers. Another pretty letter in my permanent file.” His arms were still slack, against his sides. “Here’s what I know. What I’ve known for a while. Gates Hunt killed this guy Thompson. Gates is a dogshit criminal. He has reasons to lie—thinks it’ll help him with us. Or maybe he’s only bein’ spiteful. Years ago, Gates’s brother helped him with the cover-up. Brother takin’ care of a brother. Young boys, immature. Tough upbringing. I don’t know how deep Mason’s in, but I figure it’s enough to make it bad legally.”
“If that’s your theory of the case,” Sharpe said, “then why are you planning to indict Mason?”
“’Cause we have the evidence to do it. Sad to say. Mason’s gettin’ hosed because he lied and continues to lie. Now he’s so tangled up, if he tells the truth, it potentially makes matters worse. Gives his jailbird brother credibility.” He caught Mason’s eye. “Right, Mason?”
“I didn’t kill Wayne Thompson,” Mason said, the reply rote. “I’m not lying.”
“Minter and Bass, g
ood men. They see it different. They believe you did. Truly believe it. There’s another thorn for you.”
“Any suggestions?” Sharpe asked.
“Me, I’d try to cut a deal for Mason. I’d come clean, toss this grenade back to Gates. Where it belongs. Maybe lock in a misdemeanor, plead guilty, no jail, community service, go after the man who actually pulled the trigger. Probably over the girl. There’s your motive. I personally will do everything I can to sell it to Stallings. People would understand. Brother and brother. I’d recommend an obstruction or the like for Mason. If he quits lyin’, damn it. He’d have to testify.”
“You can recommend it,” Sharpe said, “but Stallings has to go along.”
“True. Truth is, he might not. Sense I have, he won’t.”
“How strong is your case?” Sharpe asked. “How do you evaluate it?”
“As it stands now, I’d lay my bet on us.”
Mason smiled. “Are you giving odds, Ed?”
“Nah.” For the first time, he appeared perturbed. “By the way, Mason. Morgan said to inform you bitin’ your tongue wouldn’t skew the test. They can tell.”
“Huh? Bite my tongue? I didn’t bite my tongue. What a bizarre thing to say.”
“I’m just repeatin’ what he told me.” Hoffman gestured slightly with his hands.
“I’ve read that you can use thumbtacks or pins or, yeah, bite your tongue, but you and Morgan can look at mine if it makes any difference.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Hoffman replied, still irked. “Sorry this went south on you. Wish we coulda done better.”
Chapter Twenty
The night before he was due to be charged with first-degree murder, Mason brought Grace to their kitchen table and told her about his likely grand jury indictment and what she could expect because of it: the arrest, the media attention, the gossipy stares and smirks, the uncertainty, the pressure, the whole ball of wax that accompanied a high-profile homicide case, especially one in which the defendant is the county’s commonwealth’s attorney and a local boy who’d overcome a hardscrabble past. The tale would be terrific fodder for the newspaper writers and ravenous local TV reporters, rags to riches to ruin, the tragic cycle, capped off with neon irony, a prosecutor in danger of a trip to the hoosegow.
Grace went from bored to alarmed to hysterical, her eyes paralyzed in horror, her mouth drawbridged open, mutely pleading with her father: Oh God this can’t be real, can’t be happening. She seemed stricken, spastic, as if her windpipe were clamped shut and no air was reaching her lungs. Her neck filled with pink, saw-toothed splotches, and before Mason could say more or attempt to comfort her, she dumped herself forward, collapsing onto the floor, her knees hitting first with full force. She clutched her stomach and lowered her forehead, rested it against the Spanish tile her mother had bought and set and grouted, every beautiful square aligned, every joint quarter-of-an-inch perfection. Blond hair spilled across the tan hues like pick-up sticks.
Mason joined his daughter on the floor, sitting beside her with his legs folded, his tentative hand rubbing patterns between her shoulder blades. He didn’t force the issue, speaking only occasionally to reassure her, and she stayed hunkered down and withdrawn for what must have been half an hour. When she finally was ready to talk, she rocked onto her butt and rested her jaw on the bony point of her knee; she was facing the cabinets beneath the sink, her view slanted sideways, still not directed at her father. Sobbing, she wanted to know if Mason could be “sent to the electric chair.”
“It’s not possible. No chance. None. I’ll be charged with first-degree murder, not capital murder. There’s a difference. You don’t have to be concerned.”
“You swear? You’re not just saying it to baby me?”
“I swear,” Mason said. “Plus, there’s no way I’ll be found guilty. This will be terrible, but in the end, I didn’t shoot anyone or break the law and I’ll be acquitted and we’ll be normal around here again. I can’t honestly tell you it’ll be easy, but we’ll be okay.”
“Would I automatically go live with Grandma Sadie? At her house?”
“Yes. But I’m not going to prison. If we have a trial, I’ll win.”
“It’s possible, though, isn’t it?” She turned and met his eyes, switching cheeks on her knee. The crying wasn’t as bad.
“Anything’s possible. True. It’s possible the oceans will disappear in the next five seconds, but it’s not something to worry yourself with, is it? You’re becoming too much of a lawyer.”
“Why is Uncle Gates doing this? Why?” She dropped her head again, fitting it between her knees. “Why?”
“Because he’s petty and selfish and he thinks this will help get him out of prison early. He’s trying to trade this lie for a break in the judicial system. Sometimes people who help the authorities, even if they are rotten to the core, are given special consideration.”
“I hope he dies.”
“Can’t argue with you.”
“Why is this happening to me?” she asked, and it was the moment that weakened Mason the most, bludgeoned his resolve and pierced his heart.
“It’s a big burden. You’ve had lots to carry, sweetie, too much for a girl your age, none of it your fault.” His voice clotted in his throat. “I can’t tell you why, much as I wish I could. I’ll always do my best for you, though. Always protect you, always love you.” He bucked up, determined not to cry and dilute the snake-oil palliative he was trying to sell her. He hugged her with both arms and tipped her toward him, and they remained stuck together on Allison’s tile floor, the kitchen quiet except for the soft, soft hum of the refrigerator and the surprising clunk of the ice-maker birthing cubes into its plastic bin. Mason ended the silence when Grace separated from him. “I don’t want you to think this is another I-walked-ten-miles-to-school-in-the-snow story from the prehistoric days, another tiresome reminder of how difficult it was for me, but my daddy, your grandfather Curt, was the nastiest, craziest, most worthless parent who ever lived. A complete sonofabitch who gave me nothing but grief. It was hard, but I got through it. Unfortunately, Gates didn’t. No matter what, Grace, you have a father who adores you and will never, ever abandon you. Right now, maybe that doesn’t seem like so much, but trust me, it’ll mean a lot in the future. You always have a safe place with me. I’m an absolute for you. You understand?”
She nodded that she did.
“He ain’t my son anymore,” Sadie Grace announced, spitting mad, when Mason stopped by her house early the next morning and gave her the news. “After all we’ve done for him, this is the thanks we get.” She was in a housecoat and bedroom slippers, and she appeared older without her makeup, the cigarette wrinkles around her mouth more obvious, her lips pale.
“I’m sorry I have to tell you. I’d like to think you’ve earned the right to enjoy retirement and take bus trips with your friends and spoil your granddaughter.”
“Shut up, Mason,” she barked. “You brought some of this on yourself, now didn’t you? I’ve told you a million times to keep your distance with Gates. But you wouldn’t listen. Nope. Ignored my warnin’.” She was standing, and she jammed her hands against her hips. “I knew when it happened, like a mother always knows, somethin’ was fishy. The day Danny Owen come by here askin’ questions about that dead boy, I knew Gates was in the wrong. I shoulda grabbed you up right then and gotten to the bottom of this so we wouldn’t be having this discussion now.”
“Well, I’m sorry you’ll have to suffer all the scrutiny and embarrassment.” He paused, chose his next words. “I’m to blame to some extent, you’re right. But Gates would’ve done this no matter what, whether I’d been in contact with him or not. It’s his last straw. I realize it’s awful for you.”
“How can he say all this and not drag himself into deeper trouble?” Sadie Grace asked.
“He claims I shot the Thompson boy. A damn lie. Claims he was just there, a bystander. Didn’t see it coming, didn’t participate. Who exactly can contradict
him? It’s just me versus him. Pretty cunning on his part—I have to give him credit.”
“He’s his daddy’s son, no doubt. It’s in his genes, Mason. Has to be. Curt was a man—if you can call him that—who hit his own baby boys and turned my every hour into hell on earth, and it never caused him so much as a second thought. It’s a kind of ugliness you can’t understand or explain or remedy.”
“I’m optimistic we’ll win this, but I wanted you to hear it from me. I hate it more for you and Grace than I do for myself. We both know I’ve survived worse. I’m more worried about you two than anything else.”
Sadie Grace momentarily avoided Mason, seemed occupied by a framed scene on the wall, a reproduction of The Last Supper.
“I’ll let you know this evening how the grand jury went,” Mason promised, “though it’s pretty much a done deal.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry to have upset you.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have gotten ill with you. It’s…it’s just you’re all I have, Mason. You and my granddaughter. Sixty-six years on this earth, and my only joy is you and Gracie. Now the single good thing in my life is bein’ threatened.” She shifted her eyes, stood taller. The crinkles in her face intensified. “I’ll tell you this, and me and you will never speak on it again: whatever I need to say or do to keep you out of trouble, I will. We’re goin’ to fight fire with fire. We’ve made it this far, me and you, through thick and thin, and we ain’t backing down now, not to a coward like your brother. If this jury decides the way you think it’s gonna, I’ll be there by your side. With my chin up. You fight as strong as you can, and you don’t worry about me.”