by Ed Gorman
The difference between public polling and internal polling is sometimes complicated but generally comes down to the fact that internal polling is done in more depth. Public polling is about the horse race; internal polling goes after demographics—age, occupation, general political beliefs—and delves into issue details. Another factor is where respondents come from. Public polling tends to use random numbers from the phone books. Internal polling uses registered voters. What made me happy this morning was the sudden shift we were seeing in rural voters supporting Susan. We’d been lagging behind. But now we’d jumped up by four percent and that was encouraging. Same with blue-collar males. Duffy was still ahead with this group, but in the past week we’d added three percent blue-collar males. The trend was up, and we were sitting on a story tying Duffy to some union-busting operations done by two companies he owned part of. We had decided to hold these until the next debate. This would help us get more blue-collar votes.
Ben came in with his hand wrapped around a large paper cup of coffee and the scent of autumn morning on his clothes. “You don’t look too bad.”
“Thanks, neither do you.”
“You think we’re getting respectable in our old age?”
I laughed. “You’re going to have us buried before our time.”
He sat down at his desk. “Well, since you’re so young and studly, did you get lucky last night?”
“Nope.” Then I looked up from the internals I was still going over. The way he’d said it—“You mean you got lucky last night?”
He swiveled in his chair so I could see him and his big happy face. “Hold your applause, but yep, I did indeed get lucky last night. This reporter from Channel 6. The NBC affiliate. Forty-three and worried about her job with all these hotties coming right out of college and working for half of what she’s making. I like her.”
“Good. Now that you’ve lost your virginity I’ll have to see about losing mine.”
He pointed to the desk two down from his. “You know who sits there?”
“Oh, no. No, thanks.”
“Last night Kristin told me that she had a very serious crush on you.”
“She’s too young.”
“She’s not that much younger.”
“You know what happened last time.”
“Hey, Kristin isn’t like—what the hell was her name?”
“Donna.”
“Kristin isn’t like Donna. Donna was all fucked up.” Pause. “Plus she was making it with Neil Ransom on the side, anyway. You know, when she was seeing you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. That’s why everybody in the office hated her. She was doing this stalking number on you, but she was also getting it on with Ransom.”
“I thought they hated her because she was bragging about sleeping with the boss.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You mean you really didn’t know?”
Ben’s phone rang. Just before he picked up, he said, “Well, I told Kristin I’d tell you that she’d like to go to dinner tonight. She ended up going out with her cousin last night and having a pizza.” Then: “Hello?” And: “Who’s calling, please?” He covered the speaking end of the receiver with his hand and said, “She sounds very young and very upset. Line three.”
“No dinner, Ben. Seriously.” I picked up my phone.
“Mr. Conrad?”
I recognized the voice immediately even through her tears. “Gwen?”
“You said I could call you.”
“Yes. Of course. Are you all right?”
“I am, but Bobby isn’t. He’s in jail. They arrested him this morning. They said he killed that woman. Somebody saw him running from her hotel room. I’m scared for him and I’m scared for my baby.”
Full circle. The motel room to the red-haired man to Monica Davies to Bobby. “Where are you now?”
“I’m at the police station. They won’t let me see him.”
“You stay there. I’ll be right down.”
“I’d really appreciate it, Mr. Conrad.” Starting to cry. “He didn’t kill her. He really didn’t.”
After hanging up, I said to Ben, “I need the name of a good criminal attorney in this town. Fast.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Just the name, Ben. I’ll have to explain later.”
“Well, one of our backers is a man named James Shapiro. Very good reputation. Very nice guy.”
“Fine. Thanks. You got his number?”
A minute later I was talking to James Shapiro’s secretary. “He’s not in right now.”
“I’m with the Cooper campaign. Dev Conrad. Something’s come up and I really need to talk with him. I hate to lean on you this way, but it’s important.”
“Well, he’s probably in court.”
“Can you reach him there?”
“Yes, one of his people can get a message to him.”
“Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll be in my car soon, but please have him call me as soon as possible.”
“All right. Mr. . . . Conrad?”
“Yes. Conrad. Thank you.”
I got directions to the police station from Ben.
“You got me scared, Dev. Young woman crying and a criminal defense lawyer . . .”
“It’d take too long to explain. And it’s between you and me, obviously.”
“Really? Shit, I thought I’d call the Chronicle and give them an exclusive.”
Traffic was light so I moved quickly. I was getting close to the street I wanted when my cell phone toned.
“Mr. Conrad?”
“Thanks for calling, Mr. Shapiro.”
“Jim. Please. You probably don’t remember this, but we met one time at the governor’s inauguration ball. Debby said it was an emergency. I just stepped out into the hall to call you. One of my associates is conducting the cross, anyway.”
I told him what I knew without mentioning Susan. Just that I liked this young woman and wanted to help her.
“So you don’t know anything about this Bobby?”
“Afraid I don’t.”
“Monica Davies, huh? I wish I could say she didn’t have it coming.”
“I feel the same way.”
“All right, Dev, I’ll be there. I need a little time, but I’ll be there.”
I pulled into the parking lot of the long, low, lean police station. The tan limestone exterior and the wide windows in front gave it an open feeling you don’t find in many law enforcement facilities. I swung the car into an empty parking spot. “I’m at the police station now.”
“I’m about six blocks from you. I need fifteen minutes, give or take. I’ll see you then.”
The same architectural feeling continued inside the police department. The walls were painted a light blue, the tile floors were a complementary darker blue, the lobby furnishings were modern but comfortable, and the front counter was held down by two attractive women in regular blouses and skirts, no uniforms of any kind. This might have been the office of a medical clinic. The grit was found in the back half of the building, the one where the windows were barred up and down.
I went to the counter and asked if Detective Priya Kapoor was here and if I could speak to her. One of the women told me to have a seat and she’d see if the detective was available. Then I asked her about Gwen. She said, all maternal rather than all cop, “She’s in the bathroom being sick.”
I sat down and started to wait. I’d been there only a few minutes when the front doors opened and a sobbing woman and an angry man disrupted the busy but tranquil air.
The woman, mid-forties I guessed, worn from work and dashed dreams, sat in the seat across from me. She kept dabbing her face with her gnarled handkerchief and looking at me with watery blue despairing eyes. If she even saw me. Sitting there in her rumpled, fake leather jacket and blue jeans, she seemed to see beyond me, to some other terrible realm that was summoning her.
The man, now at the counter, had taken to shouting. “He took it
for a little ride and brought it back! This is total bullshit! I want to see Cummings! That bastard has it in for my kid and won’t give him a break!”
The woman didn’t turn her head to watch her husband. But each time his voice got especially loud her body would jerk as if she’d been stabbed.
The man came over and sat down in the chair next to hers. He took her hand, a surprising bit of gentleness given his flinty face with its broken nose and scars across the left side of his throat, the same tender way Bobby treated Gwen. This man had a full dark gray-streaked beard and massive arms sticking out of his yellow sports shirt. His Bears cap had a union button on it.
She put her head to his shoulder and said, “This time they’ll send him to a real prison, Bob. A real prison.”
“Those sons of bitches,” he said.
After my years in army intelligence, when I’d functioned pretty much as a detective, I’d thought about joining a police force somewhere. I’d spent three nights in a squad car riding around Chicago. The dangers I’d seen were tolerable; there’d been moments when they’d been exhilarating. But the heartbreak was what I couldn’t handle. The beaten wives and the forlorn children, the sad junkies, the prisons of poverty, the people afraid to walk the streets of their own neighborhoods. I didn’t have the gut for it.
I studied their faces as they slumped together across from me, the eternal grief of parents whose child is in serious trouble.
Detective Kapoor wore a wine-red blouse and a black skirt today. She was a dream of radiance and charm. “Mr. Conrad, if you’d like to follow me.” She made no eye contact with the couple on the chairs.
“I’m meeting a lawyer here in a few minutes. A Mr. Shapiro.”
The smile was enigmatic. “Oh, yes, Mr. Shapiro.”
I couldn’t tell if her tone was disapproval or some kind of amusement. When I got to my feet I felt guilty a moment for deserting the couple across from me. As if I should have stayed with them in silent commiseration. But I was relieved, too. I had a desperate situation of my own to tend to.
Her office was small but organized with ruthless efficiency. God forbid that anything was out of place. She had a Mac and a window and a framed photograph of her with a very young girl who resembled her a good deal. Her desk was cleared and her pencils, six yellow ones, were lined up like bullets next to a small notepad.
“I’m wondering why you’re here, Mr. Conrad. And what your interest is in Bobby Flaherty.”
“I’m a friend of Mr. Flaherty’s wife.”
“I see. But a young woman like that—would you mind telling me how you know her?”
“I’m just a friend.”
“So you’ve known her for a long time?”
“Not a long time. But some time.”
This was her morning for enigmatic smiles. “Jim Shapiro doesn’t come cheap.”
“I assumed that was the case.”
“And Mr. Flaherty certainly won’t be able to afford him.”
“I assumed that would be the case, too.”
“Will you be paying Mr. Shapiro’s fees?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk about money with him yet. But I’m sure we’ll work things out.”
“I’m just surprised that you’re so interested in this case.”
“As I said, Gwen is a friend of mine.”
The knock on the half-open door was perfunctory. A tall, trim, gray-haired man came into the office. He roiled the air with his sense of energy and purpose. He looked like one of those adventurous men you see in print ads for expensive brands of whiskey, the kind of masculine self-confidence juries love and prosecutors fear.
He carried a slender briefcase and a ready smile. “Watch out for her, Conrad. Her bite is much worse than her bark. I’m Jim Shapiro.”
We shook hands and he took the empty chair next to me. “How’s the beautiful Priya today?”
This time the smile wasn’t enigmatic at all. She obviously liked Shapiro. “The beautiful Priya, as you say, is sitting here trying to figure out why Mr. Conrad is so interested in helping Mr. Flaherty.”
“It’s just his nature. Mr. Conrad’s. Helping other people.”
“You two have never met before now, have you?”
“Not technically, Priya. But how did you know that?”
“Body language. I make a study of it. You’re two strangers sitting side by side. Which makes me all the more curious.” She addressed her question to me. “Did you get Jim’s phone number from the Yellow Pages?”
“Men’s room wall,” Shapiro said. “You know, ‘For a good time call . . .’ ” They both laughed at his joke. Then: “Look, Mr. Conrad and I really do need to talk. How about you drifting off somewhere for about ten minutes and letting us use your office?”
She pushed back from her desk and said, “Actually, there is something I need to check on. But I can’t give you more than ten minutes.”
“Perfect. I really appreciate this.”
As she came out from around her desk, the stylish cut of her skirt emphasizing the pleasing line of her long legs, she said, “Maybe in ten minutes you and Mr. Conrad can come up with a reasonable explanation for why Mr. Conrad is so interested in this case.”
She left us with another one of her unreadable smiles. She was careful to close the door tight.
Shapiro jumped up and parked himself on the edge of her desk. “We can talk here. I’ve used this room before. Priya assured me it’s not bugged.”
“And you trust her?”
“We used to date for a while. We both got divorces at the same time. But you know how those kinds of relationships go. We weren’t over our spouses. But anyway, she’s a cool lady. And yes, I trust her.” He rubbed his hands together as if savoring a hearty meal. “So what’s this got to do with Susan?”
He knew how to cut through the bullshit. “What makes you think she’s involved?”
“Dev, look, if we’re going to work together, remember one thing—I’ve been around the block more than a few times. Okay? You arrive in town yesterday, Monica Davies is murdered, and here you are getting a lawyer for this Flaherty kid. Have you even met him?”
“Once.”
“When and where?”
I described the motel scene. I didn’t mention Susan’s involvement.
“So you just happened to be cruising past this motel and you decided to pull in. And you just happened to find a room where this girl, Gwen, was crying. Two big coincidences there. Now, tell me how Susan plays into this.”
“Attorney-client privilege?”
“Just give me ten bucks.”
“In movies they only give the lawyer a dollar.”
His grin took ten years away from his face. “Fuck movies. This is real life. Movies never get anything right anyway.” Then he was serious again: “Now, where does Susan come into this?”
I told him what I knew, including the part about a witness seeing Bobby run away from Monica’s hotel room. Shapiro had a small notebook tucked into his back pocket. He dug it out and started scribbling with one of Priya’s carefully laid-out pencils.
“Wow,” he said when I finished. “None of this makes any sense yet, does it?”
“Not to me. Susan obviously knows the Flahertys somehow.”
“And yesterday morning she told you that everything is all right now?”
“That’s what she said. But I’ve learned that she can suck it up and play it real happy even when it’s all going to hell. That’s what makes her such a good candidate.”
“I want to talk to Gwen. See what she’ll tell me.”
The knock came. I yanked out my wallet. He saw a one peeking up and plucked it free. “This’ll do.” The grin again.
Detective Kapoor came back in and said, “I can take you back to where Mr. Flaherty is, if you’d like, Jim. And you don’t have to worry about him having said anything damaging. He won’t say anything at all.”
She stood aside while I walked out into the hallway. When Shapiro walked out
I said, “You have my cell phone number. Call me right away when you’re finished.”
The detective’s dark eyes gleamed with amused suspicion. “Oh, yes, Mr. Conrad here is very interested in this case even though he can’t explain why exactly.”
Shapiro patted me on the back. “A good Samaritan if I’ve ever seen one.”
Her eyes rested on me briefly. Then she turned back to the lawyer and they began walking to the far end of the hall. I walked to the lobby, hoping that Gwen was back.
The married couple was gone. Gwen, appearing to be younger and frailer than ever, sat with her hands clutched tight together staring at the opposite wall. Today she wore a faded brown maternity top that looked as if she’d bought it used. She didn’t quit staring at the wall even when I sat down next to her. Her nose and eyes were a furious red. I took one of her hands and placed it in mine.
“I noticed a coffee shop about half a block from here. Why don’t I buy you something to eat?”
“I’d just throw it up.” Despite her appearance, her voice was strong, steady. “But I could use some tea.”
I hoped the autumn day soothed her as we walked. The temperature was in the high fifties and the sun made the painted colors of the trees bright as copper. She eased along with her burden: young, sweet, lost. More than once I’d wondered if my interest in her was a form of repentance for being such an absent father to my own daughter while she was growing up. The siren call of elections had kept me on the road, and not until the last few years with my daughter back East in college had I gotten to know her.
The coffee shop was small and of another era with its chrome-bottomed counter stools and its hand-painted pine booths. I noticed photos of the previous owners—faded black-and-white pictures of a deceptively simpler time.
When my Danish came I sawed off a third of it, placed the slice on a napkin, and pushed it over to her side of the booth. “Give it a try.”
“I don’t know if I can hold it down.”
“Up to you. It’s there if you get the urge.”
She sipped her tea. “This is what I need. It’s just been—we weren’t even awake when they came. The police, I mean. We were down to our last few dollars, so we were in this real dive of a motel. It was a lot worse than the one we were in yesterday even. Bobby registered under our real name. That’s how they found us.”