The Hanging Tree sl-2

by Bryan Gruley

  “No, Shirley,” Mom said. “Please.”

  Once more Shirley tried to force her way past D’Alessio. The cuffs came out. She kept yelling as he dragged her away. “You can’t have it. You bitch. You got what you wanted. You got what you wanted. Now you don’t get a penny. Not a fucking penny. Do you hear me? Not a goddamn penny.”

  Mrs. B stepped between me and my mother and embraced her. “Bea, are you all right? Never mind her, sweetheart.”

  Mom pressed her face into Mrs. B’s parka. “My God,” she said.

  I stepped around Mrs. B and took my mother by an elbow. “Mom?” Behind me I heard the town hall doors being opened. The line began to move past us. I saw Philo beneath one of the trees, snapping photographs. “Come on. It’s all right. Let’s go over here.”

  She yanked her elbow away. The look on her face was defiant.

  “Mom, what is going on?”

  “I came for the meeting, Son. Come on, Phyllis.”

  She and Mrs. B locked arms and pushed past me. I watched the rest of the people pass, heard them mutter, “Some people should just avoid each other” and “Like a couple of damn cats.”

  I entered last. Just before I turned to go in, the Suburban pulled up to the curb across Elm and parked. The driver must not have seen the fire hydrant half buried in snow.

  Laird Haskell turned his back on the seven members of the Starvation Lake town council and faced the rest of the room.

  “This,” he said.

  Next to his head he held up a copy of that morning’s Free Press. He pointed to Mich’s story. He turned slowly to his left then to his right so that everyone in the room could see.

  He read the headline aloud to the people filling all the seats to his left, standing along the wall beneath photographs of former council members, most of them dead. “‘Feds Investigating Car Makers’ Nemesis,’ ” Haskell said. He swiveled toward his right, where I was standing, but he avoided my eyes just as I was avoiding those of Jim Kerasopoulos, sitting at the opposite end of the front row, eight seats down from Haskell. On the wall beyond Kerasopoulos stood Jason Esper, his neck wrapped in gauze. Philo sat in the back row on my side of the room, scribbling in his notebook.

  “‘Feds Investigating,’ ” Haskell repeated. He let the paper fall to his side. He was wearing his denim shirt and a tan corduroy jacket with cocoa-brown patches on the elbows. Denim and corduroy went over fine in Starvation Lake, but usually not with starch and elbow patches. At the moment, it didn’t matter. Laird Haskell was going to bring a new hockey rink to Starvation Lake, a new attitude, new championship banners to hang in the rafters. We just had to help him a little more than he’d told us before.

  The council had dispensed quickly with the early items on its agenda, referring one concerning potholes back to the roads commission and approving the Girl Scouts’ request to set up cookie tables at hockey games. All that remained was the executive session that folks had been hearing would get the new rink back on track to open for the start of the next season.

  Before the council went behind closed doors, though, Haskell wanted to say a few words.

  “Forget the rest of the headline,” he said. “All I could see this morning, as I was sitting down to breakfast with my wife, Felicia, and our beautiful son, Taylor, was ‘Feds Investigating.’ ” He bowed his head. I took note of Taylor Haskell, in his blue-and-gold River Rats jacket, and Felicia, her hands enfolding her son’s, sitting in the front row next to Haskell’s attorney, Parmelee Gilbert. Haskell looked at his wife and son.

  “I’m so sorry that I’ve brought this on our family,” he said. Felicia nodded. Taylor just sat there, probably not knowing what to do. I felt uncomfortable watching him. Haskell turned back to the room.

  “And I’m sorry-deeply sorry-that I have brought this opprobrium on you, the good people of Starvation Lake. You’ve been so good to me and my family.” He set the Free Press down on his chair and brought his hands together gently in front of his chest. I’d seen the moves before, in front of a jury. “But you won’t see Laird Haskell issuing any blanket denials. Those might go over well down in the big city. But not here. You deserve better. You deserve an explanation. No more hiding. I want to come clean with all of you.”

  Two or three people clapped. Then a few more, until the council chair, Elvis Bontrager, lightly rapped his gavel.

  Then Haskell explained. It took a while. In fact he had gotten over his head financially on “certain unrelated projects” downstate. He’d had to follow through on some charity commitments he’d made when things were better. He hadn’t expected some of the rink construction permits to take so long to obtain, not that he was blaming anybody here.

  He’d shifted money around among his businesses to make sure the new rink was taken care of before anything else. In doing so, he may have neglected to cross some T’s and dot some I’s, tax-wise. The IRS had noticed. Now he was “cooperating fully” with the IRS to ensure that he paid his fair share of taxes. It was an “unrelated matter” that would have “zero effect” on his ability to complete the rink “so long as I have the support of your elected officials today.”

  It was as simple as that. No mention of his forays into day-trading or his other businesses downstate. Not that I expected any.

  “I had hoped, and I was truly confident, that I could handle this quietly, without burdening my family or anyone else,” he said. “This morning, of course, part of it found its way into the public eye. But I want you to know-and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe this-but even before that article appeared, I was thinking about what I needed to do. Because there’s something else, too, that has weighed on my mind, something more flesh and blood, more life and death, than taxes and permits and construction projects.”

  A low murmur slid through the room. Haskell pursed his lips and shook his head, as if to reprimand himself. “A young woman,” he said. “A young woman with a long life to live, and who-knows-what good things to bring to this world, chose to end her life last week.” I heard my mother gasp. Then a few others.

  “It is terrible,” Haskell said. “A terrible thing indeed that happened to Miss McBride. I have to tell you, good townspeople, that I hold myself at least partly responsible.”

  The room grew so quiet then that I could hear the wind rustling the willows outside. I looked Philo’s way. He was writing as fast as he could. Over his shoulder now I noticed my enormous friend with the bad complexion standing along the back wall, a hard-shell briefcase under an arm. He was smiling. I looked at Haskell. His cheeks had flushed red. He’d seen Crater Face too.

  “People hear a lot of things in a town like Starvation Lake,” Haskell continued. “I know some of you have heard that I sent Miss McBride a rejection letter regarding her application for employment at the new rink. Small detail: I personally did not send a letter, nor would I have. But I nevertheless accept full responsibility.”

  No you don’t, I thought.

  “And I ask, in all humility, for your forgiveness and the forgiveness of Miss McBride’s family and friends.” I looked at my mother. She closed her eyes. “It was, in fact, a tragic mistake,” Haskell said. “Her application was mishandled. She shouldn’t have gotten any letter, acceptance or rejection, until thirty days before the rink was to open. But with the uncertainties over financing, and some degree of uncertainty as to the local commitment to the rink”-now he glanced my way-“somebody took it upon himself or herself to send her a rejection. And for that, I am profoundly, profoundly sorry.”

  He paused again. “Some of you will, of course, be rightfully skeptical of my version of things, and of my motivations. I don’t blame you. But you should keep this in mind.” He moved to where Taylor Haskell sat. “My son-my only child-was in the rink the other night when that explosion went off. I cannot tell you how terribly that frightened my wife and me.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “We’re confident the police are doing everything they can to determine what happened.” He chanced a look at Crate
r Face. “But all I can think is that somebody out there is trying to scare us. Somebody out there doesn’t want Starvation Lake to move forward with its plans and dreams. I will tell you now, that they might have momentarily, and understandably, given us pause. But they will not stop us. They will not stop us.”

  Applause broke out again. Haskell sat and took his wife’s hand. Crater Face, who did not applaud, set the briefcase on the floor behind his legs. He folded his arms. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Chairman Bontrager banged his gavel once. “Well put, sir,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel. My nephew was on the ice that night when that whatever it was happened. And I’ll be damned if it’s going to scare me from doing what’s right for this great town.”

  “Hear, hear,” someone called from the back.

  “Mr. Haskell,” Elvis continued, “I’d like to thank you on behalf of the entire council and my fellow townspeople for that heartfelt apology and explanation, sir.”

  Haskell nodded.

  “And now, in the interest of time and of moving forward from things we can’t do a darn thing about, I would entertain a motion to take this meeting into executive session. Of course, the council will vote in full view of the taxpayers of Starvation Lake, but some matters, as we all know, are best discussed in private.”

  Now the council had the cover to give Haskell his $100,000. What was he going to do with it, though? Did he have to choose between the feds and Vend? Who scared him more? Some pear-shaped guy in a suit in downtown Detroit? Or the hulk at the back of the room who would be pleased to mangle his limbs?

  “Do I have a motion?”

  “So moved,” said Councilman Ted Huesing.

  I spied a flash of brown and mustard through the windows in the twin doors to the meeting room. Then Dingus’s handlebar appeared briefly in one, Darlene’s face in the other. Others cops were milling around out there too, wearing the blue of the Michigan State Police.

  “Do I have a second?” Elvis said.

  “Second,” Floyd Kepsel said.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chairman.”

  It was councilman Clayton Perlmutter, who had tipped me off to the loan the council was preparing to give Haskell. He glared at Elvis. “Mr. Chairman, are you suggesting that this council might be doing something under wraps because if we did it in full public view, the public might not like what it sees?”

  Elvis stared straight ahead. “We have a second. All in favor?”

  “Point of order, Mr. Chairman,” Perlmutter said. “Wasn’t the request we’re supposed to discuss amended just a few hours ago? Are we not therefore required to postpone the executive session until our next meeting?”

  So Haskell had asked for even more than $100,000, as Vend had suggested. Or demanded.

  “Oh, get over it, Clayton,” Kepsel said. “This isn’t the CIA. We’re just trying to build a skating rink for our kids, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Sometimes it feels like the CIA, Floyd.”

  “The only spy in this room is you, Clayton, and you know it. And you’re not going to get with the program until you get your little cut of the action, and you know that, too.”

  “Enough,” Elvis said. “Mr. Haskell has been nothing but forthright and honest in his dealings with this council.” He turned and stared at Perlmutter. “Which is more than I can say for you, sir.”

  “A man can have both a public and private life, Mr. Chairman.”

  Elvis ignored him. “We have a motion and a second to move to executive session to consider a matter regarding the new hockey arena. All in favor?”

  “Aye,” came six voices.

  “Opposed?”

  “Abstain,” Perlmutter said.

  “The council will now adjourn briefly. Folks, you may wait or-I’m sorry. Sheriff? Is there a problem?”

  Dingus now stood at the back of the room near Crater Face. Darlene moved into the room behind him. She had her handcuffs out.

  “Afraid so,” Dingus said. “Mr. Haskell?”

  Haskell stood and faced Dingus. “Yes?”

  “Laird Kenneth Haskell, you have the right to remain silent.”

  “What?” Felicia shrieked, jumping up from her chair.

  “No,” Haskell said. “Sheriff, there’s been a misunderstanding. This is strictly a federal matter. Please, my attorney.”

  Parmelee Gilbert stepped between Dingus and Haskell. “Sheriff, is this really necessary? My client isn’t going anywhere.”

  Elvis was slamming his gavel again. “Sheriff! Sheriff, please forbear!” Most of the audience was now standing to see better. D’Alessio and Deputy Skip Catledge strode into the room and flanked Dingus. Four state police officers took up positions at the entrance. Across the room, Jason was sidestepping his way to the emergency exit behind the council bench. I looked the other way for Crater Face, saw his wide back exiting the room.

  His briefcase remained.

  “Step away, counsel,” Dingus said to Gilbert, “or you’ll be joining your client.” Gilbert moved aside. Dingus addressed Haskell. “This has nothing to do with your financial matters, sir, but with something more flesh and blood.”

  Haskell’s face went as white as the frozen lake. For a second I thought he might collapse. Felicia Haskell jumped up and put her arms around him from behind, screaming, “No, no, no!”

  Their son stood, alone and looking around.

  “Dad,” he said.

  Darlene moved behind Haskell with the cuffs. A TV camera lit the circle of cops and citizens pressing around Haskell. Tawny Jane Reese pushed a microphone in Haskell’s face as Catledge peeled Felicia away from him.

  “Mr. Haskell,” Tawny Jane said. “How are you feeling?”

  Darlene cuffed him. Harder than she needed to, I thought.

  “You have the wrong man,” Haskell said. “He’s getting away.”

  Dingus used his big body to ease Tawny Jane aside, and she angled the mike over the back of his shoulder.

  “Anything you say,” he told Haskell, “can and will be used against you-”

  “No, Sheriff, listen to me, you have the wrong man. My God, he was standing right there.” He tried to point with his shoulder. Darlene started to push him through the crowd.

  I slipped down the side wall and around to the back as Darlene shoved Haskell through the door. I tried to catch her eye, to no avail. I squeezed out and trotted down the corridor to the main entrance. Across the street, the man with the cratered face was frantically circling the Suburban, illegally parked and blocked in by the Channel Eight van.

  I ran back to the meeting room. The cops were bringing Haskell out. Darlene pushed him past me, trailed by Catledge and Dingus. I grabbed Dingus by the elbow. “Sheriff, look,” I said. He yanked himself away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You want another Zamboni bomb?”

  He stopped and followed me back into the room. I pointed at the briefcase still sitting on the floor against the wall.

  “The guy who left that behind just bolted out of here in a big hurry.”

  Dingus stared at the briefcase for a hard second. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. He yelled into the corridor, “Frank!” and D’Alessio hurried over. “Stay here,” Dingus told him. “I’ve got to call the damn bomb squad again.”

  twenty-three

  We had waited for almost an hour in the shift room at the Pine County Sheriff’s Department when Dingus swept in followed by Darlene, D’Alessio, and Skip Catledge. The deputies lined up in front of pop and candy vending machines on the back wall, their hands folded behind their backs. Dingus stepped to a lectern set up between two long white folding tables. A TV camera light shined on his face.

  “We are on the record,” he said. “But, Ms. Reese?” He motioned to Tawny Jane, who stood with her cameraman behind the two rows of folding chairs where the rest of us sat. “No cameras, please.”

  “But Sheriff, we need some live-”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of pictures from your little e
pisode on the street this afternoon. Be thankful we didn’t give you a ticket.”

  The Channel Eight van had blocked in the illegally parked Suburban. License plates were checked. The briefcase was whisked away. Now Crater Face waited in a cell somewhere in the building where we sat.

  The camera light went dark.

  “Thank you,” Dingus said. He faced eight reporters, including Philo, Tawny Jane, me, the Associated Press guy from Grand Rapids, and others from as far away as Petoskey. Reporters from the Detroit papers were probably on their way. Maybe even Michele Higgins.

  I sat at one end of the back row of chairs. In one jacket pocket I carried the Build it and they will die note; in another was Gracie’s blackmail note to “L.”

  “First,” Dingus said, “a little housekeeping. We will try to be as helpful as we can with information about the pending case. But we will not try this case in the media. We understand that you all have your jobs to do. We hope you’ll understand that we have our jobs to do.”

  “Sheriff Aho?”

  It was Jim Kerasopoulos, sitting ten chairs away from me in the back row, near Tawny Jane. I’d ignored the dirty look he had given me when I came in with a notebook in hand.

  “Sir, I will take questions when I’ve-”

  “I apologize, Sheriff.” Kerasopoulos stood. “But there’s something you probably should know before you continue. One of the journalists here-I believe you know him, Mr. Carpenter-has been suspended by our publication, the Pine County Pilot. I don’t believe he legitimately belongs.”

  The deputies and all the reporters turned their heads toward me, except Darlene, who stared straight ahead, and Dingus, who said to Kerasopoulos, “Excuse me, sir, but who are you?”

  Kerasopoulos looked surprised. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I am James Kerasopoulos, president and chief executive officer of Media North Corporation, parent company of the Pilot.”