The Heavens May Fall

by Allen Eskens

  “You going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” Max whispered. “I’ll be alright.”

  Chapter 14

  Boady Sanden stayed on his porch long after Ben Pruitt left. He watched kids pass by on bicycles. He watched joggers getting in their daily run after work. He watched the shadows of his oak trees spread across his yard. All the while, he contemplated Ben Pruitt’s offer. He tallied the numbers in his head, weighing the loss of his teaching income against the fees he would get from Ben, the scales tipping overwhelmingly in favor of taking the case. But then again, it had never been about the money.

  The question he grappled with as he sat on his porch was, could he go back to that world? The high points of his years as a criminal-defense attorney came back easily: the victories, the accolades, the money. But he forced himself to remember the dark days, the last couple years when his guilt caused him to tremble as he approached a jury. He had made the mistake of believing in his own invincibility, which cost him dearly—and it cost his client his life.

  As he watched the evening start to crawl across St. Paul, he wondered if he could honestly go back to that life, and he wondered if Diana would permit it. She had been the one to insist that he leave his practice.

  Boady had been sitting on the edge of his bed at three in the morning, unable to sleep and unable to think straight. He had put on a suit, but couldn’t remember why. He’d lost so much weight that his pants crinkled into small folds under his belt. Then he felt Diana’s hand on his shoulder. She pulled him gently to her and held him like a mother might hold a scared child. She told him that he had to quit practicing law or it was going to kill him. He didn’t fight it. He knew she was right. And he did what she asked.

  Diana had texted Boady to let him know that she had a house showing that evening, a prospective buyer who couldn’t be available until after normal work hours. So goes the life of a realtor. Boady had long ago become the family cook because of Diana’s frequent absences, a role he was glad to take on. He expected her home around seven, so shortly before that, he rose from his seat on the porch and went to the kitchen to start preparing a stir-fry.

  As he cut green and red peppers into thin strips, he thought about Ben and Jennavieve and the many times he watched them together, two people as perfect for each other as he believed he and Diana were. He’d come at the thought of Jennavieve’s death from as many angles as he could, and every path led to the same conclusion. Ben would never hurt her. Boady believed that to his core.

  He remembered when he’d first met Ben and Jennavieve. Ben had just put in his twelfth year at the Dakota County Attorney’s Office when a case they had against each other went to trial. It had been a burglary case where the victim and the accused had been boyfriend and girlfriend at one time. She broke up with him and he didn’t take it well, breaking into her apartment to confront her about it, pushing her to the ground, and skinning up her elbows.

  Boady went to trial on the demand of his client, who was certain that he’d prevail. Boady didn’t see how. What neither Boady nor Ben knew was that by the trial date, the couple had reconciled. These lovebirds weren’t even supposed to be talking to each other, and they orchestrated the boyfriend’s acquittal. All the attorneys could do was watch.

  At trial, the girlfriend took the stand and confessed that she’d made the story up because she was angry at her boyfriend. She swore that he’d never been there that night and she busted the door lock with a hammer to frame him. Because he’d been long gone before the police arrived, his guilt rested on her testimony alone.

  Ben didn’t see the flip coming and he did what all young prosecutors do: he tried to introduce the girlfriend’s original statement. Boady, ten years Ben’s senior, objected and explained to the judge and to Ben Pruitt the Dexter problem. Dexter was a case that prohibited a prosecutor from putting a witness on the stand only to impeach her with a prior statement. “The prior statement can come in,” Boady pointed out, “but it can only be used to impeach. In other words, he can use it to show that the witness is lying, but he can’t use it to show that the burglary ever occurred. If there’s no substantive evidence that the burglary actually occurred, then all you’re left with is proof that the witness lied—nothing more. There is no evidence upon which a jury can legally find my client guilty.”

  The girlfriend was the State’s last witness. After her testimony, Ben rested his case and Boady moved for a judgment of acquittal. The judge took the matter under advisement, and while Ben and Boady waited for the judge to return and issue the acquittal, which they both knew was inevitable, the two men struck up a conversation.

  They talked about some recent cases handed down by the Supreme Court, and Ben, like Boady, disagreed with restrictions the Court had been placing on Fourth Amendment rights. Ben talked more like a defense attorney than a prosecutor. It was in that conversation that Boady floated the idea that Ben should come to work for him.

  Ben asked for a week to think about it, but called Boady the next day to ask if they could have dinner together to talk about the offer, a dinner that would include their wives. They met at the University Club in St. Paul, a beautiful, private club that overlooked the southern edge of St. Paul. Boady had been a member since moving to Summit Avenue, just a few blocks west of the club.

  It had been his plan to impress Ben and his wife with the fine meal and extravagant surroundings. He had no idea that Jennavieve Pruitt, formerly Jennavieve Adler, was a member of the Minneapolis Club, an equally swank private club in Minneapolis. Not only that, but Jennavieve’s mother and father had both served on the Board of Governors for the Minneapolis Club. She practically grew up in the place.

  But Jennavieve didn’t come across as someone who gave a lick about clubs. Boady got the impression that they could have just as well been meeting at a fast-food joint for all she cared. Jennavieve was beautiful and gracious and completely levelheaded, and Boady took to her immediately. When Boady asked what she thought of the club, a question born of a momentary and uncharacteristic conceit on his part, Jennavieve never mentioned her illustrious upbringing. It wasn’t until months later, after Ben had made the leap from prosecution to defense that Boady learned of her family position.

  Boady saw Diana’s car pull up the driveway just as he finished slicing the chicken. He poured a touch of oil into the pan and turned on the heat.

  Diana entered through the back porch as she normally did. Boady met her at the door to the kitchen and gave her a kiss. But as she went to pull away from the kiss, he held her gentle brown hands in his pale white hands. He pulled her back in and embraced her, squeezing her tightly against his chest.

  “Have you caught any news today?” he asked.

  A look of concern eased into the edges of Diana’s smile. “What happened?”

  “Jennavieve Pruitt is dead. She was murdered last night.”

  “Oh my goodness. Murdered? Are you sure?”

  “Her body was found this morning. She was stabbed in the throat.”

  “That’s horrible. Are Ben and Emma . . . ?”

  “They’re okay. Ben came by after he identified her body.”

  “Ben . . . came here? Why would he come here?”

  Boady went to the stove, where his oil was hot and ready for the chicken. He laid the chicken strips in and stepped back as the oil crackled and spit. He spoke now without turning to face Diana. “Ben wants my help.”

  Diana crossed to the kitchen counter next to the stove. “Why does he want your help?”

  Boady still didn’t look at Diana. “He thinks they may try to point the finger at him. It’s standard procedure to suspect the husband. He just wants to have the benefit of my advice.”

  Diana put her hand on Boady’s arm and turned him to face her. “Is he a suspect? Do they think he killed Jennavieve?”

  “They haven’t named him as a suspect. He’s understandably concerned. He wants me to be his lawyer, hold his hand as he goes through this.” Boady could feel her studyin
g his face, searching for signs of the struggle she must have suspected raged in his head. Boady dumped the chopped onions into the pan.

  Diana slowly walked to the kitchen table and sat in a chair. She didn’t speak for what seemed an eternity. Then she said, “He wants you to defend him?”

  “He’s not charged, so there’s nothing to defend.”

  “He must think he’s going to be charged. Otherwise he wouldn’t come to you.”

  “Not necessarily. Back in the day, I represented quite a few clients who were under investigation who didn’t get charged. Ben has an alibi. We just need to put the proof together. A simple thing even for a marginal defense attorney like myself.”

  “But you’re not a defense attorney. He of all people knows that. He knows why you quit practicing. How can he ask you to go back to that? He can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Honey, he trusts me. He doesn’t want just another lawyer out for a cash-cow client. He needs someone who believes in him. If I were in his shoes, I’d feel the same way.”

  “And do you believe in him?”

  “Diana . . . you’re not saying . . . this is Ben Pruitt we’re talking about. Ben and Jennavieve. You once said that they were as perfect a couple as we are. Remember?”

  “But we haven’t been a part of their lives for a long time now. We’ve seen them maybe four times in the last six years.”

  “He was my law partner. I’m Emma’s godfather. I know Ben. He didn’t have anything to do with Jennavieve’s death.”

  “I’m not saying he did. I just don’t know how he can ask you to go back into a courtroom. He knows how the Quinto case nearly killed you.”

  Boady turned the heat off and moved the pan to a backburner. He walked to the table and sat down with Diana, holding her hand in his. “I know you’re worried. I went though some bad times after Quinto, and that means that you went through those bad times too. I wouldn’t take this case if I had any doubt about Ben. I know you’re concerned about how I might react, going back to court. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous myself. A lot of rust can build up in six years.”

  Boady smiled, but she remained hard. “How would I feel about myself if I didn’t help my friend? He was there when I needed him. He picked up the pieces of my crumbling practice. For almost two years, he kept things going while I wallowed in my self-pity. No one ever knew how self-destructive I’d become because he kept the practice going. He didn’t turn his back on me. So how can I turn my back on him?”

  Diana raised Boady’s hand up to her lips and kissed him. “I know you have to help Ben. I’m sorry. You have to do this. I can’t help it if I’m a little selfish when it comes to you.”

  “There’s one more wrinkle in all this.”

  Diana closed her eyes. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “Max Rupert is the lead investigator.”

  Diana sat back in her chair, her eyebrows raised. “Does Max know you’re representing Ben?”

  “Not yet. I was thinking about telling him tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It’s the anniversary of Jenni Rupert’s death. I was planning on going to the cemetery anyway—just to make sure he’s okay. If the topic comes up, I’ll mention it to him.”

  Diana leaned in, kissed Boady on the forehead, and nodded her understanding. “It’s going to be dark soon. We’d better get you fed so you can get going.”

  Chapter 15

  Boady pulled up to the northwest corner of Lakewood Cemetery and parked. He looked around at the quiet street, no walkers, no traffic, no one to see him heave his body over the fence—again—the second time in three years. The last time had been on the first anniversary of Jenni Rupert’s death, and Boady prayed that this visit would be far less distressing.

  That time, Boady had been at home, already in bed as it was nearly midnight, when his phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Boady, this is Alexander Rupert, Max’s brother. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  Boady put the phone to his chest and cleared the slumber from his throat in a futile attempt to sound awake. “No, Alexander, I was up grading some papers. What’s up?”

  There was a slight pause, then: “I was hoping that Max might be there. I know it’s a Tuesday and you guys usually play poker on weekends, but I was just thinking that he might have stopped by.”

  “I don’t understand. Is Max missing or something?”

  “He’s not answering his phone. I’ve been trying to get ahold of him for a couple hours now. I just thought I’d call a few of his friends and see . . . well, it was a year ago today that Jenni died.”

  “Oh.” Boady sat up, slipping his legs over the side of the bed.

  “We had lunch today and he was acting strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “I don’t know, what’s the word . . . morose maybe? He couldn’t concentrate. Kept losing his train of thought. Hardly touched his lunch. Finally, I came out and asked him what the hell was wrong. That’s when he pointed out that today was the first anniversary. I felt like an idiot for not remembering.”

  “When’s the last time you heard from him?”

  “I called him around five. He said he was going home for the night. I thought I’d drop by there to check up on him around ten, and he wasn’t there. I thought maybe he might have contacted you or . . . I don’t know. I mean he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself, but he seemed so out of sorts at lunch.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Well, Max isn’t the kind of guy to go out to bars all by himself, but there are a few places he and I go to have a beer. I thought I’d check around and see if anyone’s seen him. Maybe he can’t hear his phone ringing.”

  “Would you do me a favor?” Boady asked.

  “Sure.”

  “If you find him, can you call me and let me know.”

  “Sure, Boady.”

  Boady hung up and walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a small handful of carrot sticks out of a bowl of cold water. As he nibbled on the carrots, he thought about his wife, Diana, asleep in the bedroom. How would he react if he ever lost her? How would he handle the anniversary of her death as the years passed?

  Boady went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed next to Diana, the movement stirring her from her thin sleep. “Max is missing,” he said.

  “I heard,” she answered. “Are you worried?”

  “No. Max isn’t the kind of guy that needs looking after.” Boady rolled back into his nest and pulled the comforter up around his shoulders.

  Diana turned onto her right side, her face nuzzled into her pillow, her eyes closed, her words still half-asleep. “If I ever lost you, I’d probably never leave the cemetery,” she said.

  Boady let a heavy sigh leave his chest. Of course, he thought.

  He slipped out of bed, put on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, and headed out the door.

  On the drive to the cemetery, he tried to remember where Jenni Rupert had been buried. Lakewood Cemetery was two hundred and fifty acres of rolling hills riddled with thousands of grave markers, everything from small, bronze placards to large statues of angels. He got lost trying to drive out of that cemetery after Jenni’s interment, and that was in broad daylight. He held little faith that, at night, he would be able to find a single, brown-marble stone tucked away in the heart of that enormous labyrinth. But he went anyway.

  He remembered that, as they gathered around the casket, there’d been a small lake to his back, a basin of still water for mourners to gaze upon as they contemplated their sorrow. Boady also seemed to remember a moose—no, it was an elk, a life-sized bronze elk about a hundred yards from the grave site. The elk had been facing in the general direction of the ceremony. And then there was the silver maple tree, one of the largest Boady had ever seen. He stood in the shade of that tree as they lowered Max’s wife into the ground.

  Boady tried to remember these markers as he pulled
up to the cemetery gate, a closed gate with a sign that read that visiting hours ended at 8 p.m. He paused at the entrance for a moment and examined the length of wrought-iron fence that reached into the distance as far as he could see. The black pickets stood in formation, six feet tall and pointed, but not sharp—the kind of fence intended to discourage intruders but not prevent them, even late-middle-aged men with questionable knees, like Boady.

  He eased back onto the road and drove slowly along the northern border of the cemetery, looking for a good place to enter, and found a spot on the northwest corner, a spot where streetlights cast very little light and a pine tree inside the fence reached its branches out over the iron spikes. Boady pulled to the side of the street and put his car in park. It was then that he saw Max’s car parked a few feet away. Boady walked up to the car, just to make certain that it was Max’s car and that Max wasn’t in it. He was right on both assumptions.

  Boady placed a call to Alexander to let him know that he’d found Max’s car, then Boady went for a stroll.

  He paused opposite the pine tree inside the fence and glanced around. No one around. He hoisted himself onto the top rail of the fence, the iron spikes pressing against his forearms. He swung a hand up, grasped a pine branch, and pulled his weight up enough to get a foothold atop the rail. From there, it was a simple matter of climbing down a tree, something he’d perfected as a boy growing up in in the Ozark hills of Missouri.

  He believed that the lake he remembered lay somewhere near the center of the cemetery, so he set a course into the heart of the field of gravestones.

  About the time that he crested his second hill, he began to doubt his memory. But on the third hill, he glimpsed the shimmer of the full moon rippling on the surface of water. He headed for the lake, stepping a bit slower now that he knew he was in the right neighborhood. The elk had to be nearby. Twice he stopped to peer through the darkness at what he believed to be horns but turned out to be branches catching the moonlight. He had to duck behind a statue of an angel as a car with a security guard in it rolled past.