Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  Brownie exited the enhancement program, and the image on the screen returned to normal. He was about to shut off the unit when another soldier in the group photo caught his eye. He moved the cross-hairs over and reactivated the enhancement program. There was something about the man next to Graves that seemed familiar.

  Soon the other face was enhanced, clarified, and aged twenty-five years. When the process was complete, Brownie’s mouth gaped in shock.

  “Son of a bitch! I don’t fuckin’ believe it!” He’d been searching high and low for months, but it had been in front of him all the time.

  Brownie grabbed the photo from the enhancer. Anders had written each soldier’s name on the back. Brownie circled the next to last one. “Son of a bitch!” he hollered again. He’d been searching for months, and finally, there it was. Brownie had found his man.

  Gardner was woozy. What the hell was he doing? He’d anticipated that things might turn out this way, and sure enough, they had. Now he was in Washington, miles from home, with no defense and a case that wouldn’t wait another day. That called for a drink.

  Gardner maneuvered his car off Constitution Avenue. Chinatown was just up the street. He could take a breather there and gather his thoughts.

  Traffic was light, and soon the ornate dragon gateway passed over his head. On either side of the street, Chinese letters touted food and goods. He parked at a meter and entered the Orchid Inn, a small restaurant on the corner, BEST PEKING DUCK IN TOWN, the sign said. Gardner entered a dim hallway and was ushered into an even dimmer dining room. He took a seat in a booth.

  “Cocktail, sir?” the waitress asked.

  “Martini. A double.”

  The waitress slipped behind the bar and returned with a heavy glass. Gardner took a sip. The chill made his eyeballs ache, but the alcohol warmed his throat.

  “Order food now?”

  “In a minute.” Gardner t(x)k another sip, and then another. Soon the drink began to kill the pain.

  The waitress returned again. Gardner ordered spareribs and asked for the telephone.

  “In the back.” She pointed.

  Gardner found the phone near the men’s room. He dialed a number, and Lieutenant Anders’s doctor came on the line. “We met last night,” he said.

  “I remember.”

  “I want to summon the lieutenant to court tomorrow. I need his testimony.”

  “Forget it.”

  “This is an emergency, Doc. Life or death.”

  “Anders can’t make it into court.”

  “He’s that bad off?”

  “He has a bacterial infection that isn’t responding to antibiotics. He may not last the week.”

  Gardner closed his eyes. “How is he doing right now?” Maybe they could get a videotape deposition.

  “Semi-comatose, on life support.”

  “Since yesterday?”

  “He had a relapse after you left.”

  “He seemed all right when we talked.”

  “He was acting. The man is very sick, too sick to help you with your case, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

  He hung up and dialed another number. “Judge Thompkins?”

  “Gardner!”

  “I’m in deep trouble.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I think I made the wrong decision switching sides. I can’t take a chance on reasonable doubt. I know that now. Jennifer said it best: I’m no defense attorney.”

  “Jennifer is here as we speak. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s this damned suicide defense. I’m trying like hell to prove a man killed himself when I know it’s not true. I’m only playing games, going after Ruth’s alter ego. And just now, the thought hit me: so I come up with the psychiatric records and witnesses, and I prove Ruth was a lunatic, then what do I get?”

  “You get your client off.”

  “Maybe,” Gardner replied. “Maybe I get him off if the jury buys it, but…”

  “But the killer walks free.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the prosecutor in you is uncomfortable with that.”

  “Correct again. You told me to check out another perspective before I quit my job.”

  “Don’t blame me, Gardner. You made the choice. I didn’t push you…. You know what your problem is? You’re a perfectionist. That’s the number one obstacle in your life. It’s got you turning circles.”

  Gardner sighed. Everyone seemed to know his problem.

  “Defense attorneys are eternal pragmatists. They go where the wind blows; they ride the waves; they take whatever they can get. If they can raise a doubt, they’ve done their job. That’s satisfaction enough for them, and it’s all any client has a right to expect.”

  “But you said I could do that,” Gardner argued. “You encouraged me.”

  “You can do it if you choose to. I just told Jennifer that there comes a time in every attorney’s career when he has to let things work out the way they will. That time has come for you.”

  Gardner sighed again. The truth about himself was finally emerging.

  “Do what you can to raise doubt, then let it go. That’s the secret to defending a case. You have no duty or obligation to seek a greater justice than that.”

  “Let me speak to Jen.”

  “Here she is.”

  “Gard? Where are you?” she said when she got on the line.

  “Frankly, where you are is more interesting.”

  “Judge Thompkins is trying to help.”

  “With what?”

  “Things.”

  Her voice buoyed him up. “Where were you last night? I called the apartment after I got back from the VA hospital, but there was no answer.”

  “I didn’t feel like talking.”

  “We got a major lead on Ruth. He was messed up in ‘Nam.”

  “Are you going with it?”

  Gardner hesitated. “Not sure. That’s why I called the judge.”

  “And what did you two decide?”

  “Maybe I’ve been approaching this thing from the wrong direction. Maybe it’s time I took a different route. Will I see you later?”

  “Maybe.”

  After he hung up, Gardner returned to his table. He finished his drink, ate two ribs, paid his check, and went out to the street.

  There was a 7-Eleven in the next block. Gardner walked quickly to it. “Is your fax working?” he asked the counter man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gardner went to the pay phone and dialed the county clerk’s office. Soon Judy Field was on the line. “Judy, this Gardner Lawson. I have an emergency request. I need a criminal summons in Brownie’s case, and I need it now.”

  “There’s no time to get service.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just draw it up and fax it to me.” He got the store’s fax number from the clerk and gave it to Judy.

  “But—” Judy was about to tell him it wasn’t valid if done that way.

  “Don’t worry about formalities, Judy. I’ll take full responsibility. Just prepare it and fax it. Okay?”

  Judy agreed. “What name goes on the summons?”

  “Paul Jefferson Brown.”

  Brownie was in the county jail. It was late afternoon, and the investigation of his father’s death was almost complete. He just needed one more detail.

  Brownie tried to relax as he waited. The final solution was at hand. Suddenly the door opened.

  “Here he is,” Warden Frenkel said. “I had to pull him out of the chow line.” He directed a dazed Henry Jackson into the office.

  “Guess you want privacy,” the warden said.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Take all the time you want. When you’re ready to leave, give me a buzz.”

  Frenkel left the room, and the two men were alone. Henry stirred restlessly in his chair. Brownie didn’t look happy.

  “What�
�s wrong with you, man?” Henry finally asked.

  Brownie stood and put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “You lied to me.”

  “What?”

  Brownie started to squeeze. “The last time we spoke, you gave me information on some cloned cellular phones. I wanted to know who you fenced them to, and you gave me some names. You remember that?”

  “Yeah.” Brownie’s grip was painful.

  “But you lied. I said was that all, and you said yes. But that wasn’t all, was it, Henry? There was one particular name you didn’t give. Another person you supplied with a phone.”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  “Give it up, Henry,” Brownie said. “In case you don’t know, my time is running out. I’m liable to be your cellmate in a couple of days, and you don’t want me mad at you.”

  Henry dropped his head, and Brownie released his shoulder.

  “I know why you held back, and I don’t care about that now. I just need for you to say it. Tell me who you gave that last phone to. “

  Henry’s face came up, apology in his eyes.

  “Tell me,” Brownie repeated.

  “I can’t,” Henry moaned.

  “You can, and you will.”

  Henry shook his head, and Brownie drew back his fist. “Don’t make me do it, Henry. You got no protection in here, and I can hit a hell of a lot harder than he can!”

  Henry covered his eyes.

  “Tell me!”

  “Okay,” Henry blubbered. “Okay.” And he whispered a name.

  Gardner hesitated outside of Paul Brown’s apartment door. It was evening, and he’d been met by suspicious looks on the street and distrustful stares in the building, sullen faces peering from unlit halls. Gardner knocked.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Gardner Lawson. Joseph’s attorney.”

  “Go away!”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “I said go away.”

  Gardner drew a breath. He could leave the summons, and Paulie would be served. But that wouldn’t do. “In the name of God,” Gardner shouted, “open the door!”

  A lock clicked, and the door cracked. “In whose name, motherfucker?” A pair of dark eyes burned through the opening.

  “Almighty God,” Gardner answered. “We have to talk, Mr. Brown.”

  The door opened slowly, and Gardner entered a small candlelit room. A man was seated on the couch and another stood beside Paulie, both muscled and strong.

  Gardner looked at Paulie. “I’d like to talk with you privately.”

  One of the men laughed. “Didn’t know you had a white-meat boyfriend, K. Want us to leave?”

  “No.” Paulie looked at Gardner. “What did you come here for?”

  Gardner straightened his back. “Your brother is in trouble. He needs your help.”

  Paulie moved closer. He was wearing a tribal hat, and his skin looked burnished in the dancing light. “Did he send you?”

  “No, he didn’t. I came on my own to ask you to help him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Paul—”

  “That’s my slave name.”

  “He’s called Katanga,” a man interjected.

  “Katanga. Your brother has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to beat the charge.”

  “That’s his motherfucking problem.”

  “But he’s your brother.”

  Katanga squared off aggressively. “I don’t have a brother. I got a shufflin’ Uncle Tom who shares a mother and daddy. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “He loves you.”

  “Bull-mother-fucking-shit!”

  Gardner swallowed. “You were at the power station the night Thomas Ruth died. Not Joseph.”

  Katanga took a step forward.

  “Sounds like he’s making an accusation against you, Brother K.” The man on the couch stood up.

  Gardner looked Katanga in the eye. “I am.”

  The other man approached. “Be careful, now….”

  “You were at the power station!”

  Katanga’s jaw tightened, and the two men moved on either side of him.

  Gardner stood firm. “Your brother is going to prison to protect you.”

  Katanga scowled. “White-assed mother—”

  “He’s shielding you again. Like he did last time!” Gardner aimed a finger at Katanga’s chest.

  The men started to react, but Katanga stopped them.

  “I know all about it. You, a police officer’s brother, vandalized your school, defaced your history classroom, and destroyed the books. You’ve always blamed Joseph for arresting you. You thought he was doing it for whitey, but he wasn’t. He was doing it for you.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “What was the verdict in your case?”

  “What about my case?”

  “Did you ever wonder why it was dismissed, why you weren’t prosecuted? Your brother destroyed the evidence. He put his career and his life on the line for you.”

  Katanga’s eyes widened.

  “They investigated him at the police department, accused him of misconduct, had him up on charges. And he went through it all in silence. He never told a soul what he’d done.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Gardner pulled a copy of the internal affairs report out of his pocket and thrust it forward. “It’s all here. Joseph asked for the case so he could get you off the hook. That’s why he made the arrest. He didn’t want anyone else messing with you. And he wanted to make sure the case never went to trial.”

  Katanga grabbed the paper and began reading.

  “And now history repeats itself,” Gardner continued. “Joseph lifted your fingerprint from Thomas Ruth’s shoes.”

  Katanga looked up.

  “But he destroyed it, and there’s no other evidence to incriminate you. You are his ticket to freedom, but he will not turn on you! No matter how much you hate him. No matter what you do!”

  Katanga crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.

  “Time to go now?” a man asked.

  “Yeah,” Katanga replied. “Time to go.”

  “You can help him by testifying,” Gardner said. “You have to.” He shoved the summons into Katanga’s hand.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “A subpoena for court tomorrow.”

  Katanga crumpled that, too.

  Gardner glared at him. “You talk brotherhood, but look how you act toward your own blood. Joseph is sacrificing himself to save you. What a fuckin’ waste. You’re not worth saving!”

  The henchmen sprung forward, and Gardner braced for the attack.

  “Get out now!” Katanga warned.

  Gardner took a step backward and felt for the door. “Why don’t you be a man for a change and take responsibility for your aaions? Stop letting your brother cover for you!”

  “Leave now!”

  “See you in court, Katanga.” Gardner turned and walked back the way he had come. He was shaking so hard he could barely unlock the car door, and he was still trembling when he roared up the street toward the interstate. The seed of truth had been planted. And tomorrow it would either germinate or lie dead in the ground.

  Part Five

  WITNESS

  twenty-seven

  The trial resumed promptly the following morning.

  Dr. Sand was waiting in the hallway when Gardner arrived at court. Briefed on the records situation, he repeated that unless they had firm documentation of Barton Graves’s mental problem, they couldn’t mount a strong case. Gardner then tried to phone the CAIN compound from the public booth, but service had been disconnected. A deputy sheriff told him the quarry had been vacant for days; Fairborne and the others had apparently skipped town. That meant Gardner couldn’t call them as witnesses as a last resort.

  There was only one avenue remaining. The defense would rest entirely on Dr. Sand’s assessment of Ruth’s mental condition from the pu
blic record and Brownie’s testimony of what happened. That would be it: their only hope. Unless, of course, Paulie showed up.

  Rollie hit the gavel and called for order.

  The judge looked at the defense attorney. “Counsel?”

  Gardner stood. “Motion for judgment of acquittal,” he said.

  “Excuse the jury,” Ransome ordered.

  A moment later the jury was gone, and Gardner delivered his legal argument. “The prosecution has not made out a prima facie case. All of the evidence, taken in a light most favorable to the state, has failed to present a level of proof sufficient to convict.” It was a canned, pro forma presentation, offered at every criminal trial. It was almost always overruled.

  “Overruled,” Ransome said. “The state has met its burden at this point. Proceed with the defense, Mr. Lawson.”

  The jury returned to the box, and the courtroom quieted.

  “Proceed, Counsel,” the judge repeated.

  Gardner checked the door of the courtroom and then Dr. Sand in the back row. This was the end of the line. His gamble had failed. Paulie’s summons said 9:30 A.M. If he was coming, he’d be here by now. He’d have to argue suicide.

  “Any day, sir,” Ransome said sarcastically.

  Gardner was still playing for time. “We call Dr. Julius Sand,” he finally announced.

  Sand rose and walked down the aisle. He then took the stand and the oath.

  “You may examine, Counsel.”

  “Please give your name and address for the record,” Gardner began softly. After yesterday, his heart was barely in it. He was played out.

  “Julius Sand, M.D., One-oh-five South—” He stopped talking.

  “South what? “ Gardner asked.

  But Sand didn’t respond. He was staring past Gardner, at the door.

  Gardner spun around, and the people in the audience followed, craning their necks toward the rear.

  “Counsel?” Ransome asked.

  But Gardner ignored him. “Yes!” he whispered. Standing at the back of the room was a man in a business suit. There was no African hat, no fierce expression. Paulie Brown had come home to help his brother.