Extenuating Circumstances

by Jonathan Valin

  I didn’t answer him.

  O’Brien smiled his toothless smile. “Well, let’s just agree, for the sake of argument, that that’s what he said. Anyway, it’s on the record—one of the few things that is.” O’Brien reached across his desk and fished out a piece of paper. “I have here a list of exhibits that the prosecution has prepared for disclosure. You want to look?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you might notice that a couple of items are missing. Like a bloody tire iron found in the trunk of Lessing’s car. Some jumper cables.”

  “So what?”

  “I guess the prosecution didn’t think they were evidentiary, huh?” He dropped the sheet of paper back on the desk. “Kind of hard to explain how Lessing’s blood ended up on those items, if Terry just hit him with a rock.”

  “All you got for that is Carnova’s word. He could have used any number of weapons.”

  “Then why isn’t the prosecution presenting the stuff from the trunk as evidence?” He slapped his palm on the edge of his desk and Kitty Guinn jumped. “I’ll tell you why. Because there’s been a concerted effort to withhold certain facts in this case—facts that would make a murder-one conviction difficult or impossible to get. You know as well as I do that Lessing was a homosexual, that he’d been seeing Terry for better than three years, that on the night of the murder he’d picked Terry up outside a homosexual bar.”

  “I don’t know anything like that,” I said.

  “Now who’s bullshitting?” O’Brien said. “Let me tell you a few things you really don’t know. For instance, I have a witness who will swear that Terry was driving Lessing’s BMW on the afternoon of June 15, almost three weeks before the murder.”

  “And who would that be?” I said sarcastically. “His girlfriend here?”

  Kitty Guinn stirred on the couch as if I’d prodded her with a stick.

  O’Brien shook his head. “The guy’s name is Quincey Calloway. He’s the service manager at Riverbank BMW in Covington. He’s prepared to testify that Terry brought the car in, waited for two hours while the car was serviced, and drove it off. Terry told Calloway that the car belonged to his father, and Calloway had no reason to doubt him until he saw the kid’s photograph in the paper. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”

  “So what? So Carnova was hired to run an errand. That doesn’t prove anything. Lessing may not even have known about it.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I believe that Carnova killed Lessing.”

  O’Brien shook his head again. “Christ, you people really want to crucify Terry, don’t you? Why? Because he’s a poor kid who made his living on the streets? Who learned how to fend for himself by watching guys like Lessing pick up eleven- and twelve-year-old boys on dark corners?”

  “Save it for the jury,” I said disgustedly.

  “You’ll be there to hear it, Stoner. I kid you not. Somebody in this case is going to have to start telling the truth about Ira Lessing.”

  “Whose truth? Carnova’s? Kitty’s here?”

  “He didn’t do it!” the girl exploded. “It was Tommy T. He kept egging him on, making like Terry weren’t no real man, like he was soft for liking Mr. Lessing. Tommy T. was jealous is all. Pure mean and jealous, ‘cause Mr. Lessing thought more of Terry than he did of him. That’s how come it happened—pure mean jealousy. Tommy T.’s the one who started the hitting. He was showing Terry up. Showing him what Mr. Lessing was really like. Didn’t Tommy T. tell Terry he’d done it to him? Didn’t he tell him that very day that Mr. Lessing used to pick him up to have it done to him? He liked to have it done to him!”

  I glanced at O’Brien. “To have what done to him? What the hell’s she talking about?”

  O’Brien didn’t smile this time. “Look, I never met Ira Lessing. But the people I’ve talked to . . . well, they’ve told me he was a good man. A kind man. That’s why I’ve held off on this for so long. I’ve kept it out of court and I’ve kept it out of the papers. But if you people don’t stop lying about Terry’s confession, you’re not going to leave me a choice.”

  I was still confused. “Kept what out of the courts?”

  O’Brien sighed. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘beat freak,’ Stoner?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s street slang for a homosexual masochist. For a guy who likes to be hurt while he’s having sex.”

  I laughed out loud. “You’re telling me that Ira Lessing was a beat freak? That’s quite a reach, even for a lawyer.”

  “You think I like it?” O’Brien said, flushing angrily. “I don’t like any of this. But that happens to be the truth. Periodically, Ira Lessing hired Tom Chard to slap him, to punch him, to put his fist . . . inside him, to choke him almost to death while he masturbated.”

  O’Brien’s face had turned bright red with embarrassment. “God knows how a man gets that way. I’ve talked to a forensic psychiatrist about it, and he says that some twisted part of Ira Lessing needed the punishment, the humiliation. He was irresistibly drawn to it, probably for most of his life. That part of Lessing was looking to be punished—for past sins, shortcomings, maybe for the masochistic need itself. Whatever the reason, he wanted to be badly hurt.” O’Brien rubbed one of his red cheeks. “And I guess he got his wish.”

  I stared at him contemptuously. “So Lessing committed suicide? That’s mighty damn convenient for your client. You’re not actually going to feed that drivel to the papers, are you? That psychobabble?”

  He didn’t answer the question. “Ira Lessing didn’t commit suicide. He was slowly and viciously beaten to death by Tommy Chard.”

  “What about Terry? What did he do, just sit around and watch?”

  “Lessing’s relationship with Carnova was different. Apparently, he was genuinely fond of the kid, and the kid thought of him as a father. It was Tom Chard that Lessing went to when he wanted . . . the rough trade. Tom Chard has the reputation for it. Ask about Chard on the street. Ask at the homosexual clubs—the Underground, the Ramrod. It was Chard that Lessing picked upon the night of the Fourth. Terry Carnova just went along for the ride.”

  I got up from the couch. “I don’t believe a word of this crap. I’m not even sure I believe that Tom Chard exists. Hell, every prisoner in jail says he’s the wrong guy.”

  “Terry Carnova didn’t,” O’Brien said coolly.

  “And you know why?” I said, pointing a finger at him. “Because he’s a fucking psychopath.”

  “Terry’s a very screwed-up kid. But he didn’t kill Lessing. Tom Chard did. And Terry confessed because . . . hell, I’m not even sure why myself. Because he didn’t want to be a squealer. Because he wanted to be a big man. Because he looked up to Chard the way younger kids admire older brothers. Because he felt so guilty about what happened to Lessing that he thought he should be punished for it. Take your pick. And there’s something else.” O’Brien glanced at Kitty Guinn. “Terry was afraid for his family. For Kitty and his aunt. Afraid that Chard would do something to them if he ratted on him.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?” I said. “The cops bust this kid, Chard. He and Carnova get separate trials. Each one makes a deal to cop out on the other. And neither of them gets the chair. The only guy that ends up dead is Lessing.”

  “Look, all I’m asking you to do is check out what I’m saying. Christ, you’re a detective—ask a few questions. But I’m telling you now, if you and the cops and the Lessing family don’t quit pretending that Ira was just an innocent victim, all of this is going to come out in court and in the papers. And you’re going to be sworn in as a witness.” O’Brien gave me a long, hard look. “I kid you not.”

  “What does the family have to do with it?” I asked him.

  “She knows,” the girl said, turning toward me with a wild look. “That man’s wife knows. You ask her if she don’t.”

  16

  THE FIRST thing I did, when I got back to the office, was call my
lawyer, Laurel Gould. I didn’t tell her about Carnova or Lessing. I didn’t even tell her that I might be called as a hostile witness in a murder trial. Instead I asked her about Jack O’Brien—what kind of lawyer he was, what kind of man he was.

  Laurel thought about it for a moment. “Uninspired about covers it.”

  “He’s not a headline hunter? Or some sort of bleeding-heart ACLU type?”

  “Just the opposite. He’s a second-rate attorney with a conservative practice. He makes a living, but not a great one. I’ve never heard anybody say anything bad about him. But then nobody talks him up, either. I suppose he’s competent. Why? Are you dissatisfied with the service at this window?”

  “Christ, no. It’s in reference to a case I’m working on.”

  “Meaning I’m not supposed to ask any more questions. Right?”

  “Right.”

  She hung up.

  I stared at the phone, thinking that I didn’t want to hear what I’d just heard. I’d wanted Jack O’Brien to be a guy on the make, looking to get into politics, looking to get his name in print. The fact that he wasn’t didn’t make me believe what he’d said. There were just as many sincere idiots as there were insincere ones. But it sure as hell made him harder to dismiss.

  Just so I could tell myself I’d done the right thing, I picked up the phone again and called Art Finch at the CPD.

  “Long time no hear,” he said, as if he wouldn’t have minded if it had been longer still.

  “I just got done talking to Jack O’Brien.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s threatening to make a stink if you guys don’t release Carnova without a trial.”

  Finch laughed.

  “Seriously,” I said. “O’Brien claims he’s got some nasty information about Lessing that he’s going to give to the press.”

  “I know all about it,” Finch said. “He came to us, too, last month.”

  “Then you don’t believe him?”

  “Hell, no. All he’s got is Kitty Guinn’s hearsay. And she’s in the bag all the way. The girl’s a junkie, in case you didn’t know. Jack probably didn’t mention that, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Sure, we heard that shit about Lessing’s love life. And we heard about the so-called real killer. What the hell did you expect him to come up with? He’s got no defense at all unless he can discredit Lessing. Or unless we’ve got the wrong boy.”

  “You don’t, do you, Art?”

  Finch’s voice hardened in a hurry. “You’re not about to go south on us, are you, Harry?”

  “I’d just like to make sure that the guy I’m helping you convict is the right man.”

  “You know fucking well he’s the right man. Jesus Christ, you heard the scumbag confess. Do the world a favor and save your sympathy for Lessing.”

  “What about Tom Chard?”

  “What about him? He’s a bad boy. But there’s no one but the girl to connect him to Lessing. Besides, he’s got an iron-clad alibi for the night of the Fourth. He spent the evening with some fag named Coates.”

  “You checked it out?”

  “Yeah,” he said disgustedly. “We checked it out. And if you don’t mind, I got better things to do than hold your hand.”

  “One last question?”

  “What?”

  “Why aren’t you using the items from Lessing’s trunk as evidence? The tire iron and cables?”

  “Jeez, even you should be able to figure that out. We didn’t get any usable prints off the stuff. No prints. Got it?”

  “So you can’t tie them directly to Carnova.”

  Finch grunted. “Right. Now, are you satisfied? Or do you want I should arrange a home visit from Terry?”

  ******

  I let it go after that. If I got subpoenaed . . . well, I’d worry about that when it happened, although I think I already knew I’d lie on the stand. I toyed with the idea of phoning the Lessings or their spokesman, Geneva, to let them know about O’Brien’s threat. But I was weary of bringing bad tidings to that bedeviled family. Besides, there wasn’t anything they could do to change things. Either Kitty Guinn’s story would come out or it wouldn’t. What the Lessings did didn’t matter.

  That was a Tuesday. Two days later, on a Thursday afternoon, Terry Carnova’s aunt showed up in my office.

  Of course I didn’t know it was his aunt until she’d introduced herself. At first sight I thought she might be a hooker. She was short and well built. Maybe thirty years old, with a tough, handsome, experienced-looking face, heavily made up around the eyes and mouth. Her short copper hair was set in curls, little ringlets that danced along her forehead and down either cheek like wire springs. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a white cotton blouse tied in a knot beneath her breasts.

  There was a teenage boy trailing after her. A thin, sullen-looking kid, with a burned-out face that reminded me of Kitty Guinn’s—parchment-white and old beyond its years. He wore his bleached blond hair in a Mohawk, dyed purple at the tips and growing out mud-brown at the roots, like a two-tone Chevy with a pinstripe.

  “You Stoner?” the woman said in a down-home voice.

  I said, “Yes.”

  She had a cigarette in her mouth, and the smoke crawling up her face made her wince. “I’m Naomi Trimble—Terry Carnova’s aunt. And this here is Kent Holliday.”

  The boy nodded perfunctorily.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Trimble?”

  “Don’t know if you can do anything.”

  She took the cigarette out of her mouth, cupped her hand, and tapped the spent ash into her palm.

  “There’s a tray right there,” I said, pointing to the corner of the desk.

  The woman walked over and stubbed the cigarette out, brushing the ashes from her palm.

  “I ain’t never been in a detective’s office,” she said. “I ain’t never had no trouble I couldn’t handle on my own—up till now. But I guess I got to talk to somebody, or Kent here does.”

  She glanced at the teenage boy, who was still staring sullenly around the room.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not the guy you want to talk to. I don’t have anything to do with Terry’s case.”

  “You got something to do with it,” the woman said with certainty. “I heard Kitty say your name and how you was going to testify for Terry.”

  “Kitty’s dreaming. If you’ve got something to report, talk to Jack O’Brien, Terry’s lawyer.”

  “I ain’t gonna talk to no lawyer,” the teenage boy said, with such ferocity that I turned in the chair and stared at him.

  “Why?”

  He stared back at me defiantly. “‘Cause I ain’t gonna testify in no courtroom is why. I ain’t gonna do that bitch Kitty Guinn no favors neither. Not the way she bad-mouths me and Naomi.”

  The woman gave the kid a long-suffering look. “Hush up with that stuff now. That ain’t what we come to talk about.”

  Turning to me, she said, “It’s true that girl and me don’t get along so good. I just ain’t that fond of junkies, always sneaking around and stealing stuff. And as far as going to Terry’s lawyer, well, he ain’t interested in talking to us neither.”

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “To tell you the truth, he come by about a month ago looking for me to be a, whad’ya call it, character witness. Only I didn’t have nothing good to say about Terry, so he left all pissed off. Pissed off Kitty so damn much that she threatened to shoot me.” The woman shook her head stubbornly. “But I ain’t gonna be intimidated by no threats. I told him and I’ll tell you, Terry’s been a burden to me since he was twelve years old. Always in trouble, always on the street. I tried to do the best I could by him, but the fact is, I ain’t cut out to be nobody’s mom.”

  She touched the tight knot in the shirt beneath her breasts as if she were touching her heart. “I work nights and sleep most of the day. Ain’t much of a cook and ain’t much on cleaning house. The little time I have to myself, I don’t want t
o spend keeping an eye on some wild kid. I told Estelle that when she brought Terry by six years ago. But there wasn’t really any other family to leave him with—what with his daddy run off and Estelle having her problems with the booze. So I let her talk me into looking after him till she got back on her feet. Then she went off and got married to some guy who didn’t want to hear about no other children, and I got stuck with Terry. First night I had him, he run over to Fourth Street with some of those boys. Didn’t come back till Friday, stoned out of his head and smelling like a brewery. Been that way ever since. Soon as I leave the house he just runs off and ends up in trouble. Used to be I could whup him or scare him with the truant officer. But since he got so damn big and mean, I’ve been afraid to do anything. And once he got tight with that Tommy T., well, I could see the handwriting on the wall. I just knew Terry’d end up killing somebody, and, by God, he did.”

  I was surprised by her candor. And even more surprised by the fact she wasn’t defending Carnova. “You knew how he was making his living?”

  The woman ducked her head. “Yeah, I knew. I never come right out and said it to myself. But I knew he was shaking queers down to get money to cop T’s and B’s. Him and Tommy T.”

  “What do you know about Ira Lessing?” I asked curiously.

  “Not a thing,” she said flatly. “Never heard his name before I read it in the newspaper. Kitty says that he and Terry were real close. But I never saw it. Course for the last couple of years, Terry’s been living over on Baltimore with Kitty, so I ain’t seen that much of him. Could be Terry and him were close. But I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, Kitty’d say about anything to help Terry out after she turned him in. And for another . . . Terry just don’t have no feeling in him. I mean not so’s he’d be friends with a man like that Lessing. The way Terry grew up, he lost all his respect for other people. Not having a daddy. Bouncing around from place to place, with Estelle getting so drunk she’d have to be locked up, and Terry getting farmed out while she dried out. That just killed all his sympathy.”