by Unknown
He said at last, ‘I’m glad he made it. I didn’t think he would. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would find it easy to survive in the joint.’ Joint – she was startled by the word, it was the first time she felt the hard reality of what this businesslike man did for a living.
‘I was worried you wouldn’t remember him. You must have so many cases.’
‘You always remember your failures.’
Not of course that there was much besides failure in a job like his, he explained, since very few of the people he defended got off – the best he could do in ninety-eight per cent of the cases was to cop a plea that reduced their sentence. Yes, he did his best to help them all, and yes, he believed that they deserved both the best defence he could give and a fair trial. But he wasn’t stupid, and it went without saying that almost all of the people he represented had done the crime.
But Gehringer hadn’t been sure about Duval – he had been different from the start, with an air of innocence about him that seemed entirely genuine. Gehringer wasn’t naïve: he’d had plenty of innocent-looking clients even by that time, early in his career – there’d been one young woman in particular, sweet-faced and soft-spoken, who’d still managed to strangle her nephew. But with Duval he’d been convinced that it hadn’t been an act: he seemed too bewildered by his situation. He’d been a hero, too, said Gehringer. Duval had saved someone in a fire, and been badly burned himself.
But facts were facts, and the case against Duval seemed open and shut. The victim had said she was attacked by a security guard, which was Duval’s job at the hospital, and he had just gone off shift when the attack took place. There was a match of blood types as well, not that it meant very much – Gehringer recalled that it was ‘O’, which many, many people had. The real clincher for any jury was the victim’s instantaneous, unwavering identification of Duval in a line-up.
But then something peculiar had happened: Gehringer had received a tip-off. This was not unknown – sometimes there’d be scuttlebutt about a case that helped him, usually when some cop went overboard with a suspect. Not wanting to be disloyal yet troubled, another cop would tell him about it on the understanding that the information stay unattributed. This time, however, the tip came in the form of an unsigned typewritten note. ‘It shows how long ago this was,’ said Gehringer now to Anna, ‘because I could tell it was from an IBM Selectric.’
And the note said that when Peggy Mohan had first been interviewed, under guard in a Billings Hospital room (the same hospital where she had been attacked) she had not identified Duval Morgan as her assailant.
‘What?’ asked Robert, sitting up suddenly on the sofa, drawn in against his will.
Anna gave a small, cynical smile. ‘That’s what the note said.’
‘But she identified him when she was on the witness stand.’
‘Yes. And she also did at a line-up in the police station on 63rd Street.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his growing excitement faltering. ‘What does that mean then?’
She shrugged. ‘The inference was clear, according to Gehringer. The police had it in for Duval. It had nothing to do with racism, since they already knew from the victim that the assailant was African-American. But Duval was the obvious suspect. Gehringer said there would have been a reductionist logic at work that made the police reluctant to clear Duval.’
‘I’m confused.’
‘Are you? Gehringer made it clear as day; it must be me who’s complicating things. What he meant was that the police were sure it was Duval, and if the Mohan woman hadn’t identified him initially, they would have worked on her. Informally, of course. By the time she was well enough to attend an identity parade, she would have seen Duval’s photo so many times she would have picked him out if there had been five hundred black men standing in the line-up.’
‘What did Gehringer do about the note?’
‘He talked informally with the police, especially the one who first interviewed Mohan in hospital and showed her mug shots. But this cop, who was called Ferraro, told him an entirely different story, saying Mohan had picked out Duval right away. When it came to court, Ferraro said exactly the same thing. Gehringer did his best to shake him, but he couldn’t – after a while, Judge Bronstein got impatient and told him to move on.
‘So they lost the case, which didn’t surprise Gehringer, though even he was taken aback by the severity of the sentence – Bronstein had given Duval fifty years. He’d had nothing to work with in the trial except testimonials to Duval’s unblemished character – the fire chief in St Louis sent a letter about his bravery that Gehringer had read in court. Though even then, one of the character witnesses had pulled out at the last minute.’
Robert wondered who that could have been. ‘And that was it as far as Gehringer was concerned?’
‘No. He wanted to appeal, but there weren’t any grounds for it – Bronstein might have been a monster, he said, but he did things by the book. He didn’t put a foot wrong during the trial, and his instructions to the jury were unimpeachable. Gehringer said there simply weren’t any grounds.
‘But he said the case gnawed at him; he couldn’t forget it. It was a long shot, but he went to see Ferraro. He still denied that Mohan hadn’t fingered Duval at once, but Gehringer thought there was some uncertainty in the policeman, maybe even guilt. But when he saw him again, he actually went out to Ferraro’s home on the West Side – this time Ferraro wouldn’t talk to him. Ferraro must have asked his boss to call Gehringer’s boss, because back at the office Gehringer was told to leave Ferraro alone or he’d be suspended. After that, Gehringer’s hands were tied.’
Robert said, ‘He would have been scared he’d lose his job if he persisted.’
‘Gehringer wouldn’t give a toss about that,’ she said, and she looked at Robert as if he didn’t understand. ‘This is a man who’s truly committed to helping people. But if he got fired, he wouldn’t be in a position to do that any more. That’s what kept him from pursuing Ferraro.’
She stood up and went to the window, where the lowering sun cast a long carrot of light across the front lawn. Robert found himself dreading that she planned now to confront Ferraro herself, and he tried to pre-empt this. ‘Maybe there wasn’t anything to it. You said yourself Gehringer admitted it might have been some twisted attempt at revenge. Or a nasty rumour – bar talk. Doesn’t mean it was true.’
‘Yes, well, we’re never going to know for sure.’
He was puzzled by this apparent abdication. ‘Why?’
‘Ferraro retired twelve years ago. He moved to Meyer’s Beach on the Gulf side. I spoke to his wife on the phone this afternoon. She was a nice-sounding woman.’
‘Yes, but what did Ferraro say?’ How typical of a woman to start talking about how nice another woman sounded on the phone.
‘He didn’t. It turned out I was speaking to his widow.’ She paused, her voice suddenly dull with disappointment. ‘Ferraro died three years ago. When I asked her about Duval’s case, she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘Oh, shit,’ he said, but it wasn’t because he was sharing Anna’s sense of let-down. It was because he could guess what she was going to do next.
3
The weather got warmer still, hitting 90 by noon the next day. The mothers and kids in the playground formed a vivid tableau of skin and scanty clothes, and a hydrant burst down the street, shooting an angled stream of water into the steaming air. That morning the radio had announced the water temperature in Lake Michigan would hit 75, which meant even Anna would find it warm enough to swim. They could spend all Saturday in the water at the dunes, he decided, with a picnic on the beach. Then he remembered the Saturday appointment in Evanston with Duval.
Just before lunch, he had a phone call from David Balthazar. Their conversation was short and to the point, and when Robert put down the phone he called out to Vicky. She came in, carrying the copy of Nicole Krauss she was reading. ‘Could you please ask Dorothy to come see me righ
t away?’
She looked meaningfully at the phone on his desk. Why did she look younger when she was acting out? He said nothing and she left with a sniff, but was back in a minute. ‘Dorothy’s going to lunch. She said she’ll come in after that.’
He suppressed his irritation – no, it was more than that, he felt a growing fury. ‘Go catch her now before she leaves. I need to see her immediately.’
‘But she said she’s meeting someone and she’s late already.’
He looked at Vicky, trying to stay calm. ‘If you’d like to work for the National Dispute Resolution Committee, I’ll see what I can do. If you’d like to work for me, then do what I ask.’
This time there was no sniff, and within a minute Dorothy came in the door, with her leather handbag slung over a shoulder. ‘I’m not used to being summoned like some flunky.’
‘Close the door, please, and sit down.’
She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to walk out. But she closed the door, quietly, and sat down in a sulk, putting her bag in her lap.
‘I’ve had a call from David Balthazar. He tells me that last week he received an email with the full script of Fourth and One: The Memoirs of Jay “Bud” Carlson.’
‘I told you he was almost finished.’ She spoke confidently, but he could see uncertainty in her face.
‘Balthazar, unsurprisingly, says it’s very good. So good, in fact, that he is sending it tomorrow to the following houses.’ He looked at his notes of the phone conversation. ‘Morrow, Random House, Houghton Mifflin, HarperCollins, and Doubleday.’
‘What about us?’ Her voice was quieter now.
‘We can buy a copy when it’s published.’ He swung around in his chair and looked out at the playground. A little boy had fallen off a swing, and his mother was comforting him. Robert swung back to face Dorothy. ‘Naturally, they’ll return the advance. What was it, 25K?’
She gave a reluctant nod. ‘At least that will help the balance sheet.’
Was she serious? He’d sent her on a finance course six months before and wished he hadn’t. He said, ‘The university doesn’t care about the balance sheet. Cash flow, yes – though it’s not as if we spend a lot of money on advances. P and L, yes. But not the balance sheet.’ He looked at her with disbelief. ‘Jesus, Dorothy, you said it was all okay. What happened?’
‘Carlson told me he had lots of agents sucking up to him. He acted like Balthazar wasn’t any different.’
‘But did he say explicitly he would stay with us?’
For the first time she hesitated. ‘It didn’t really come up. It was just a given.’
He sighed, and she said angrily, ‘Anyway, why should we believe Balthazar?’
‘What reason would he have to lie?’
‘Because maybe he’s still trying to talk the coach round. Maybe he’s buying time while he does that. I can’t believe the coach would lie to me. Can you say the same of this New York shyster?’
Shyster? Balthazar was a Jew – of course. And half of Robert was one, too. Is that what she was trying to say – that there had been a conspiracy of landsmen? He decided to ignore it. ‘Listen, with Balthazar, what you see is what you get. I’m not pretending he’s an attractive personality. But he’s very successful. You can’t do that by lying, Dorothy; you get found out. I know. Carlson was either lying to you, or he’s changed his mind. Either way, it looks like we’ve lost the book.’
She didn’t reply at first, and stared at her bag. ‘Can I go now?’ she said flatly, and he wondered what she was thinking.
She seemed shaken, but he couldn’t tell if she really cared. ‘Sure, go to your lunch. But understand something: I’m going to see Carlson. Don’t call him unless he calls you. Is that understood?’
And at least he had the small satisfaction that as Dorothy got up, she nodded.
4
He woke early on Saturday morning to a cooler, overcast sky, and found himself apprehensive about Duval’s arrival. Fortunately, Sophie had a play date with a school friend – her parents were taking them both to Zion National Park – and though normally he felt a possessive pang when she wasn’t at home during the weekend, he was glad she would be gone while Duval was there. Had Anna known that when she asked Duval to come? He hoped so.
The other parents picked Sophie up at nine, and Duval showed up half an hour later, driving an old red Impala. Robert went outside right away.
‘You got a car,’ he said as Duval got out.
He shook his head. ‘It’s Jermaine’s. He’s selling it because he’s got himself a 4x4, but no one’s bought it yet.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to a paper bag in Duval’s hand.
‘I brought my lunch.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he said, and realised he was relieved. ‘Anna’s working upstairs – you’ll see her later. Why don’t I show you what the job is?’
He led the way around the side of the house, past the hose wrapped like a sleeping snake on the ground and into the back yard. Duval was dressed for heavy outdoor work – black boots, olive work pants, a long-sleeved wool shirt that looked ex-army issue. Without his glasses he looked tougher, lean and muscled rather than gaunt. Robert felt embarrassed at how little he was asking him to do.
Their house was at the end of the block. A high privet hedge separated them from the street; on the other side, a white picket fence divided them from the Jeffersons, an old retired couple who kept to themselves. The second time Mrs Jefferson had spoken to Anna, it was to complain about the previous owners of the Danziger fence. ‘They did nothing,’ the old lady had hissed. ‘They didn’t even paint their side of the fence.’
Robert had taken the not-so-subtle hint and was going to paint it himself, until Anna had intervened with her offer. He had bought two five-gallon tins of Dulux, a sponge roller and pans, three brushes of assorted length, and a large bottle of turpentine. He’d put them all on the picnic table in the back yard.
‘It really just needs a single coat,’ he told Duval, pointing to the fence. ‘No need to scrape.’
Duval nodded. ‘I’ll get started.’
Robert went into the house and upstairs. They had four bedrooms, so both he and Anna had the luxury of their own studies. His was at the front of the house, and if he pushed his chair back he could see Anna at her desk down the hall; she was reading prospectuses for work, but she glanced from time to time out the window at the yard. He pulled his chair back to his desk and tried to concentrate on Dorothy Taylor’s draft report on the coming year’s programme, but his mind kept wandering – to the yard. He gave up and walked down the hall.
‘How’s he doing?’
She shrugged and didn’t look out the window. ‘I’m sure he’s being very thorough.’
Robert looked down, where Duval had painted perhaps the first three feet of fence. He wasn’t using the roller, but held one of the brushes, and after each stroke he stood back to inspect his handiwork. ‘You mean slow, don’t you?’ he said, and went back to his study.
At eleven they went out to do their weekly shop, planning to find lunch at one of the bistros and cafés that sprouted in Evanston like alfalfa. ‘What’s Duval going to eat?’ Anna asked, and Robert explained he’d brought his own lunch. When he went out to tell Duval they’d be gone for a while, Anna came with him.
‘It looks great, Duval,’ she said.
‘Good to hear it. Wait ’til I finish and you won’t recognise it.’
‘We’ll be back by two or so, Duval.’ Robert pointed to the picnic table. ‘Make sure you stop for lunch.’
They bought groceries at the local market, Anna still delighted by the fact that they cost half what she’d have paid in London, and then they ate a mediocre Mexican meal around the corner. When they got home they were putting the groceries away in the kitchen when Robert saw Duval, walking stiffly towards the back door. He went and opened it. ‘You okay?’
‘Bobby, can I use the bathroom, please? I’m about to burst, man.’<
br />
‘Of course, Duval. You should have used a bush outside.’
Duval shook his head. ‘The old lady next door was keeping watch.’
Robert pointed to the small cloakroom just inside the door. ‘Be my guest.’
Anna was by the sink, and she turned towards him angrily. ‘Did you lock the back door when we went out?’ she hissed.
‘Yes. I couldn’t see any reason for him to be inside while we were gone.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Robert.’ When she smiled it was at Duval, coming out of the loo.
In the afternoon the cloud cleared and the temperature rose. At three Robert went downstairs and made a pitcher of lemonade out of frozen concentrate, then filled an enormous jelly glass and took it outside. Duval put his brush down at his approach, and Robert handed him the glass and watched as he drank greedily. Sweat streaked both his cheeks like tears, and his forehead was matted with fine bubbles of perspiration. His wool shirt looked soaked through, stained by dark patches of sweat under both underarms and by a blotch the size of a pancake on his chest.
‘Duval, why don’t you take your shirt off? Nobody’s going to mind. It’s hotter than hell out here.’
Duval finished drinking and handed the glass back with one hand, while he wiped his lips with the other. ‘I don’t want to scare anybody.’
What did he mean? Mrs Jefferson again? Did he think the neighbourhood was so lily white that the sight of a half-naked black man would have neighbours calling the police? Maybe he was right. Race reared its unattractive head yet again, and inwardly Robert sighed. It had been gone so long from his life he thought it had disappeared for ever. How wrong I was, he thought wearily, saddened that his old friend and he were not beyond that.
‘You’re not going to frighten the horses, Duval. You must be boiling.’
Duval’s expression suddenly set like plaster. ‘Have a look,’ he said, and with both hands he lifted the bottom of his sweat-soaked top up to his armpits.
Along Duval’s right flank, from his appendix to his collar bone, ran a strip of damaged skin the size of a long skirt steak, marked by crusted bubbles of scar tissue, like a melted cheese sandwich left too long under the grill. It was a revolting sight, and Robert struggled not to look away.