The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  He closed the phone, returning to his place at the counter and wondering what had happened. He waved at the waitress for his check. While she wrote it up, he worked on his sandwich, finishing it in three quick bites. Someone had turned on the TV mounted on the wall, probably a result of his cell phone conversation. Teddy didn’t blame them. He hated people who used cell phones in public places, too.

  He glanced at the TV. The local stations had interrupted their program schedule with a special report, confirming the rumors Teddy had been hearing all morning long. William S. Nash and his legal workshop at Penn Law had substantiated that someone District Attorney Alan Andrews prosecuted for murder and later died by lethal injection was actually innocent. Nash had the DNA results, the evidence of Andrews’s blunder as indisputable as science. But just in case anyone still had doubts, Nash also presented DNA results and a confession from the man who really did commit the murder, a career criminal facing rape charges and a second murder rap now awaiting trial in a city jail. In spite of this, the district attorney’s first response was to attack Nash and the students participating in the workshop. DA Andrews wasn’t known for his mistakes, but for his high percentage of prosecutions. Teddy knew Andrews had career plans and watched the man sweating it out before the cameras. Alan Andrews was in line to become the city’s next mayor. The election wouldn’t be held for another year, but everyone knew Andrews was the frontrunner. Even if he’d just skidded on the ice and slammed headfirst into a brick wall.

  The waitress walked over with the check and handed it to him with a smile. Teddy left a tip nicer than he could afford, grabbed his briefcase and stepped over to the cash register. Andrews could scream at the cameras all he wanted, but it would never work. William S. Nash had a national reputation for being one of the finest attorneys to ever step into a courtroom. He’d retired a half decade ago and begun teaching at Penn Law. The law school couldn’t believe their good fortune, and Teddy knew that they would do everything they could to back him up.

  Teddy glanced at the clock on the wall, buttoning his overcoat and bolting out of the diner. As he approached the doors to the market, a blast of ice-cold air hit him in the face and he stepped outside. Bracing himself in the wind, he started up Filbert Street at a pace just short of a run. The district attorney’s problems seemed less important than his own right now and he was angry. Barnett had given him a throwaway case, yet Teddy had come through. The judge was about to make his decision. This was the moment. Teddy’s first decision in his first solo case. What could Barnett be thinking?

  It occurred to Teddy that Barnett didn’t really want to see him at all. Brooke Jones had made the whole thing up out of spite. By the time he reached the office, found out it was a joke and made it back to court, he would be ten minutes late. He knew Jones was capable of this sort of thing. That for some reason he didn’t understand, she resented him. But as he passed the Criminal Justice Center, he caught a glimpse of Jones on the sidewalk outside City Hall. She was rushing toward the building entrance with her briefcase and lugging research files in a canvas tote bag that Teddy recognized as his own. Teddy had the motion papers in his briefcase. But the judge had already made his decision, so there was no real reason to bring any files at all. Unless you were Brooke Jones.

  He crossed the street, zigzagging his way past City Hall to Market Street and picking up his pace again. Barnett & Stokes occupied the sixteenth and seventeenth floors at One Liberty Place, the tallest building in the city. Construction for One Liberty Place had been controversial because of the building’s height and what it might do to Philadelphia’s historic skyline. But when the developer had completed the job, no one said a word. One Liberty Place was a work of modern art that seemed to draw out the historic buildings so you could see them again. The skyline never looked better.

  Teddy rushed through the building lobby, nodding at the guards and ignoring the Christmas carols over the PA system as he found his way to the elevators and made the quick ride up to the seventeenth floor. Racing past the receptionist, he pushed open the glass doors and legged it down the long hallway to Barnett’s corner office at the very end. Barnett’s legal assistant, Jackie, was on the phone and looked worried. As Teddy approached her desk, she lowered her eyes and waved him through.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Barnett said as he entered.

  Barnett was standing before his desk, loading his briefcase with files, various prescriptions from his doctor, even a backup battery for his cell phone. He appeared upset, more worried than his assistant, maybe even sick.

  “I was due in court,” Teddy said. “What’s happened?”

  “Where’s my fucking address book?”

  Teddy moved closer and looked at the man’s desk. He noticed a copy of the newspaper opened to the society page. Barnett and his wife, Sally, had hosted a charity scavenger hunt benefitting Children’s Hospital last weekend, and the story, along with their photographs, had made the paper. Beneath the newspaper, Teddy could see a copy of Philadelphia Magazine’s Power 100 issue. Barnett had risen from thirteenth to eleventh this year and no doubt would eventually make the top ten. He was in his mid-fifties and still grinding. The man had plenty of time to reach his goal.

  “I’m supposed to be in court,” Teddy said. “Brooke called. Now tell me why.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. I should’ve called you myself, Teddy. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” Before Teddy could respond, Barnett gave him a nervous look and added, “I need a big favor.”

  Barnett found his address book underneath the magazine and threw it into his briefcase. As he yanked open a desk drawer and fished out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, Teddy noticed that Barnett’s hands were trembling.

  “Someone’s been murdered,” he said. “I need your help.”

  Teddy lowered his briefcase to the floor and leaned against the arm of the couch. It was a big office, luxuriously furnished, with a million-dollar view. For some reason, it appeared unusually small and insignificant just now.

  “A girl,” Barnett went on. “Darlene Lewis. She was only eighteen-years-old. Shit, Teddy, she was still in high school. I’m in a jam, and I need your help.”

  “Do they know who did it?” Teddy asked.

  “Her mailman. A guy named Oscar Holmes. They’ve got the murder weapon. It sounds like they caught him in the act.”

  Barnett shuddered. Teddy had never seen him act this way before and looked him over carefully. At six-feet-one Barnett was the same height as Teddy but bulkier by about fifty pounds. In spite of the extra weight, Barnett appeared in good shape and carried himself well. The man’s grooming was meticulous, his clothing handmade by a tailor Barnett visited once a year in Milan. His hair was a wiry mix of brown and gray, his eyes sky-blue and sparkling, even in the grim light of a conference room. But what struck Teddy most about the man was his face, usually overflowing with confidence and a measure of charm he could turn on and off at will. Jim Barnett was a master at litigation, his skills as a negotiator well known. Until now, Teddy thought. It looked as if the man had lost his self-control.

  “What’s the favor?” Teddy asked.

  Barnett forced the bottle of Tylenol open and gave him a look. “We’re representing Holmes,” he said.

  A moment passed. Then Barnett shook two caplets out and swallowed them with whatever was in his coffee mug.

  “We don’t do criminal law,” Teddy said, trying to suppress his concern. “No one here has experience.”

  “We’ll get help if we need it.”

  “Who is this guy? Why are we getting involved?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Barnett said. “The girl lived in Chestnut Hill. She came from a good family. A nice, old-money family. The cops are still at the house, processing the crime scene under what they’re calling unusual circumstances. I couldn’t send Brooke because I don’t know what that means. That’s where you come in. I want you to go there and find out what they’re up to. I need to know what it means.�
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  Teddy wanted to say no, but didn’t. He had a revulsion for criminal law and had done everything he could to avoid it in school. His interest in law centered entirely on real estate. He wanted to work with architects and developers and build a career on something he could feel and touch with his hands. When he’d received a job offer from Barnett & Stokes, he jumped on it. The firm’s real estate department was the rival of every other firm in the city, accounting for almost a quarter of their business.

  “Where are you going?” he asked Barnett.

  “The roundhouse. Holmes is already there. The cops are probably trying to beat him into making a statement right now. I’ve gotta get there before he does.”

  Teddy thought it over. The roundhouse was a nickname for police headquarters at Eighth and Race Streets. It seemed strange hearing Barnett use the nickname with such ease.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Teddy said. “If it’s another favor for someone, why not put them in touch with a criminal attorney who handles this sort of thing every day? This isn’t a personal injury case for the president of an oil company. This isn’t about money.”

  “Listen to me, Teddy. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t like it either, for Christ’s sake. But I can’t be in two places at once. You’re driving out to the crime scene, and I’m heading over to the roundhouse. If they won’t let you in, and they probably won’t, then do the best you can from the street. Once you get a bead on things, I want you to get back here and handle the preliminary arraignment. I’ve gotta get home at a decent hour. Sally’s got something going on I can’t get out of. We’ll talk tonight—keep your cell phone on—then trade notes in the morning and figure out what the hell we’re gonna do. You’ve been like a son to me, Teddy. I need your help now.”

  The door swung open and Jill Sykes walked in with a notepad. Jill had been a student at Penn Law one year behind Teddy and managed to get a job at the firm as a law clerk without knowing anyone while she prepared for her bar exams. She had a witty sense of humor and the ability to cut to the bottom line in an instant. Although Teddy had seen her on campus last year, even found her attractive, they hadn’t met until she was hired by the firm. Over the past three months, they had become good friends.

  “Thanks,” Barnett said to her. “Did you get the address?”

  She nodded, tearing a sheet of paper from her pad and handing it to Teddy with a look. It was Darlene Lewis’s address in Chestnut Hill. The murder scene. Barnett slipped the bottle of Tylenol into his jacket pocket and turned to Teddy.

  “Now get going,” Barnett said. “And be careful. My guess is the district attorney will be there. The way I see it, we’re gonna cop a plea and then play let’s make a deal. I want to avoid headlines at all costs. Be polite, and don’t believe what you’re hearing around town. Alan Andrews is Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Osama bin Laden rolled into one pint-sized motherfucking asshole. He’s on the political fast track. We need to keep things friendly, you understand?”

  Barnett’s charm was back. Teddy nodded, grabbing his briefcase and heading out the door.

  THREE

  The elevator dropped from the seventeenth floor, and Teddy felt his stomach break loose from his body and slam against the back of his throat. When the doors finally opened, he stepped into the garage letting the dread follow him to his car. He found his beat-up Corolla parked between a restored Jaguar and a BMW 740i, complete with sport package. His Corolla had a hundred and twenty-five thousand miles under its rusting body. Something about the sight of his old friend in these surroundings brought a smile to his face and the tension eased.

  He backed the Corolla out of the space and pulled up the exit ramp into the light, noting the time and quickly considering his route. There was no easy way in or out of Chestnut Hill, but he was ahead of rush hour traffic by almost an hour. Avoiding the expressway just in case, he turned up the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, hit the circle before the art museum and shot down Kelly Drive.

  The road followed the winding path of the Schuylkill River, and it looked as if a thick fog was settling in. He checked the trees and noticed the wind had died off. As he passed Boathouse Row, he saw the buildings buried in the fallen clouds and couldn’t help but think of brighter days in the warm sunlight. Teddy loved sculling, and had been a varsity rower as an undergraduate at Penn. Now he was on his way to a crime scene. A young girl had been killed and he was representing the man who murdered her. He could feel his heart bouncing in his chest and knew he needed to get a grip on things. Take a step back, keep the details at bay and let the rest of the day just blow.

  He eased the car onto Lincoln Drive and started through the woods, following the narrow S curves two miles up the hill. Turning right, he raced down West Allens Lane and made a left at the light onto Germantown Avenue. The road was cobblestoned, the Corolla vibrating over the choppy surface as he pushed past the trolley station and entered the quaint old town twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Many of the buildings lining the street were over two hundred years old. Antique shops and art galleries whizzed by, along with restaurants and fashionable boutiques that could afford the high rent. He could see people on the sidewalks carrying packages to their cars. Most likely they were gifts for the holidays—the kind you couldn’t buy from a chain store at the mall.

  Teddy glanced at the address Jill had written down. 931 Scottsboro Road. He made another left, leaving the shopping district behind and entering a neighborhood of homes that seemed to grow in stature with each passing block. When he hit a stop sign, he looked down the street to his right and caught the flashing lights atop a long row of police cars. This was it, he thought, making the turn onto Scottsboro Road and finding a place to park behind a news van five houses down.

  A small crowd had formed in front of the death house. As Teddy walked up the wooded street, he could see people being held back by crime scene tape that looked as if it extended deep into the property. Cops in uniforms stood behind the tape, one with a clipboard who checked off names as various people were let through. Another cop, this one dressed in a suit, stood off to the side and spoke with the press. Teddy’s eyes moved to the fence in the neighbor’s yard. When his view cleared, he got his first look at the Lewis house. It was a three-story Tudor, probably built in the 1890s, set on a well-planted, two-acre lot. On any other day, he would have called it majestic. But not today. Not with the medical examiner’s van parked on the snow-covered lawn and backed up to the front door with its rear gate open.

  Teddy grimaced, but kept walking until he reached the cop with the clipboard. He gave the man his name and told him who he worked for. What seemed like a long, icy stare followed before the cop grabbed the radio mike clipped to his parka and spoke with someone inside. Ignoring the black vibes, Teddy turned back to the death house. If the medical examiner was still here, then so was the body. That meant there was a chance Teddy would have to look at it. His eyes fell away from the van. He noticed an attractive woman with blond hair standing in the doorway with a two-way radio in her hand. She was staring at him. After a moment, she nodded at the cop with the clipboard. The cop nodded back and shrugged, taking Teddy’s full name down and letting him pass without another word.

  Teddy walked up the driveway, then cut along the slate path that had been cleared of snow from the last storm. Curiously, every window on the first floor of the house was open and he couldn’t help but wonder why. As he started up the steps, District Attorney Alan Andrews met him at the door.

  “Where’s the package, kid?”

  Teddy stopped under the weight of the man’s eyes. He realized that Andrews had looked him over, mistaking him for a messenger or law clerk.

  “You’re from Barnett’s office, right?”

  Teddy nodded, watching the district attorney size him up. Then the woman with blond hair reappeared, moving in behind Andrews. Teddy was nervous and knew it was showing. After a moment, their gazes eased up and Andrews came close to fighting off
a smile. It didn’t take much to guess what the district attorney was thinking. Teddy wasn’t a messenger. He was a kid just out of law school with no experience. When the case got to court, Andrews would eat him for lunch.

  Andrews’s half smile evaporated, and as he shook Teddy’s hand, he introduced the woman as Assistant District Attorney Carolyn Powell. Teddy shook ADA Powell’s hand as well, but Andrews broke in before he could say anything to her.

  “So here’s the deal, Teddy Mack. Your client’s the friendly neighborhood mailman. Six hours ago a neighbor saw him running away from the house with blood on his clothes. She got a good look at him. Blood was all over his fucking face and hair like he was swimming in it. She’s the one who found the body and called nine-one-one. She knew her mailman by name. Oscar Holmes. Detectives looked for him at work, but he was absent without leave. Holmes rents a small apartment at Twenty-third and Pine. They spotted his mail truck out front and caught up with him there. When Holmes answered the door he was all revved up. The detectives noted the blood on his face and made the arrest. Once the warrants arrived, the guys went in and found his clothes hidden in the trash.”

  Teddy cleared his throat. “What about the murder weapon?”

  Andrews paused a moment, then met his eyes. “It was a knife. A big one with enough blood on it to make the lab’s ten best list. We found it buried in his mailbag with this year’s Christmas cards.”

  Andrews glanced at the street, his jaw muscles flexing like a predatory animal savoring its kill. He was shorter than Teddy by half a foot, but lean and tight and built like a sledgehammer. The man had a definite edge going and was obviously pissed off. He had a right to be, Teddy thought.

  “So here are the rules,” Andrews said. “The house has been cleared. Every room but the dining room. You want to look around, be my guest, but nothing’s gonna be happening for another hour or two. If you have any questions, ask ADA Powell. Where’s Barnett?”