Mark the Sparrow

by Clark Howard

  So that was how it stood, White thought. How interesting.

  When Genevieve Neller entered the visiting room the next afternoon, the first person she saw was a thin, angular woman with hair like ink. It was combed straight back from her forehead and fell like a nun’s cowl to the middle of her shoulder blades, where it ended abruptly in a razor cut as perfect as a draftsman’s edge. Her thin body lacked as many pounds as Genevieve carried as surplus. But she was a woman who obviously knew how to use what she had. The way she stood, the way she turned to look at something, the way she used her hands and arms, were all to the very best advantage. She was dressed in bright summer print, the type Genevieve could never wear because of her weight. Her face was pretty: gauntly pretty, though not unhealthily so, because she had a nice even suntan. If only she were very pale, Genevieve thought, she would be a complete catastrophe. Then Weldon probably wouldn’t look twice at her—

  “Ah, Miss Neller,” Borden White said as Genevieve walked over to them. “I’d like you to meet Carla Volt, my legal assistant. Carla, this is Genevieve Neller, the lady who’s been so instrumental in keeping Weldon Whitman in the public eye.”

  The two women exchanged greetings and the briefest of handshakes.

  “I hope coming up on such short notice didn’t inconvenience you,” Borden White said. He was wearing an exquisite blue suit today, perfectly tailored, accessories perfectly coordinated, as though he had just materialized from Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  “I am always available when Weldon needs me,” Genevieve replied. “You mentioned something on the phone yesterday about a contract, witnessing a signature?”

  “Yes. Here, let me show you—” The attorney took several copies of a three-page agreement from his briefcase and gave one to Genevieve. As she read it, White briefly touched on its content. “It’s more or less the standard contingency-fee contract, except that the fee portions have been omitted, leaving only the representation agreement.”

  “What is this paragraph regarding publicity?” Genevieve asked. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like that in a lawyer-client contract before.”

  “Yes, well, that was put in at Weldon’s suggestion,” White said. “He wanted to make sure the press knew that releases were authorized to come from our law firm as well as the Save Whitman Movement.” Smiling, he turned to Carla Volt. “Answer any further questions Miss Neller has, will you, Carla? I want to speak to the guard about giving these copies to Weldon to sign.”

  He was gone immediately, leaving the two women alone.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to know?” Carla Volt asked. Her voice had a slight, natural huskiness to it. Before Genevieve had time to reply, both women heard the prisoner elevator open.

  The condemned man appeared serious as he approached them; he was looking at Carla Volt, whom he had not seen before. Then his eyes shifted quickly to Genevieve and he grinned his engaging grin at her and she smiled brilliantly back at him. Genevieve introduced him to Carla.

  “Oh, yeah,” Whitman said. “You’re the legal assistant. Hello.”

  “Hello,” Carla said. “Yes, I’m Mr. White’s legal assistant. He just stepped over there to see the guard.”

  “While we’re waiting for him, I wonder if you’d excuse Genevieve and me for a minute? A little personal matter—”

  Whitman motioned Genevieve to a spot farther along the table and they sat down with their faces again as close as the divider between them would permit.

  “Hello, baby,” he said to her, still grinning. “Wonder where White got that bag of bones?”

  “Don’t you think she’s attractive?” Genevieve asked innocently.

  “Not me, honey. I like a woman with something to hold onto, with some hot flesh to get next to. That broad there is probably like an icicle in bed.” He could see that Genevieve was pleased by his words. “Listen,” he said, changing the subject, “I’m sorry to have you rush up here on such short notice—”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “—but I wanted you to be here because I don’t feel right dealing with these people by myself. I mean, I want this guy’s help, his legal help, because I need it, you know? But it isn’t like he’s going to be one of us: you and me and Rob. We’re the real people in this thing. Maybe this Borden White and his law firm can do us some good, maybe not. Personally I think it’s worth taking a chance on. That’s why I agreed to sign an attorney-client contract with him—but that’s also why I wanted you here. If we find out later that White and his partner are looking out for their own interests at the expense of our interests, then I want to be able to get out of the agreement as quickly as possible.”

  “How could I help you do that?”

  “If it came down to it, I’d want to petition the court to discharge White and his firm as my counsel, and the reason I’d use is that I didn’t fully understand the agreement. I’d want you to back me up on that; to say that in your opinion I didn’t really know what I was signing. Would you do that for me, Gen?”

  “Why, I—yes, I suppose so.” She put the palm of one hand on her cheek. “I’m sure I’d feel very odd lying like that, but—”

  “I know,” Whitman said quietly. “I’d feel very odd going to the gas chamber, too.”

  The color drained from Genevieve Neller’s face. She stared starkly at him for a long, terrible moment, then said, “Of course. I’ll say whatever you want me to, whenever you want me to.”

  “That’s my girl,” Whitman said proudly. “Listen, let’s get this signature business over with and send Borden White and his skinny helper out of here so we can have our private visit.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Genevieve said eagerly.

  When Genevieve arrived back home early that evening, she found Robert Cloud, to whom she had given a key to her apartment, having a sandwich and glass of milk in front of her television.

  “Well, hello,” she said, surprised. “When’d you get back?”

  “Couple of hours ago,” Cloud said around a bite of the sandwich. He got up, turned off the television, and stepped over to a chair where he had draped his coat. From his pocket he took a folded document and waved it before her. “One publishing contract,” he announced. “Five thousand dollars advance against royalties and a guarantee to have Room 22, Hotel Death in the bookstores within ninety days.”

  “Oh, Rob, that’s wonderful!” Genevieve shrieked. She threw her arms around him and kissed him wetly on the lips. “You’re a genius! A genius who tastes like mayonnaise, but a genius nevertheless. Publication so soon; that’s marvelous! And five thousand dollars!”

  “There’s more,” Cloud said. “Grayson Hamilton, the head of Hamilton House, is personally going to handle the sale of the paperback reprint rights and movie rights.”

  “Movie rights! You mean Weldon’s book might be made into a movie?”

  “Maybe,” Cloud said. Weldon’s book, he thought. He went back to the couch, sat down, and drank some more milk. “Hamilton is even talking about a sequel. Wants to know if Whit and—well, if Whit would like to do a second book, with you and me in it. Picking up the story where he leaves off in Room 22.”

  “What did you tell him?” she asked eagerly.

  “I said yes, I thought so. It could probably be done in six months, maybe less. And it would mean another advance that we could use for legal fees that are sure to be—” He noticed her expression change. “What’s the matter?”

  “We won’t have to worry about legal fees,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. She slumped down in a armchair facing him. “Weldon is now being represented, free of charge, by the law firm of Niebold and White.”

  “Did you say free of charge?”

  “I did. But I’m not so sure it won’t cost us something in the long run. And I don’t mean money.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “There’s someone I haven’t mentioned yet,” Genevieve said the following Monday evening. They were in her car on their way to an after-dinner
meeting at the home of Morris Niebold, Borden White’s senior partner. “A woman,” she continued. “Her name is Carla Volt.”

  “Who is she?” Cloud asked.

  “She’s a legal assistant to Borden White; at least, that’s what she calls herself.”

  “You don’t like her,” Cloud observed.

  “I don’t,” she replied almost impatiently, “and don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s just intuition. Or something in her eyes. Her close association with Borden White. The fact that she’s thinner than I am. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be meeting Carla tonight,” Genevieve said. “You can draw your own conclusions about her. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”

  Genevieve guided the car off the freeway onto a four-lane boulevard with a divider of cypress trees down its center. She followed the boulevard north into the plush Madre Grande district, an area of wide, walkless streets fronted by the grounds, mostly fenced, of large estates.

  “I think this is it,” she said, as she turned into a long, straight drive. The extensive manicured grounds on both sides of the drive were subtly lighted. In the distance stood what Cloud supposed must be the closest thing to an English manor that northern California could boast, complete with ringed hitching posts on one side as they approached the house. Genevieve drove onto a cobblestoned area off the front entry and parked next to a gunmetal gray Continental. Cloud rang and they heard the faint sound of chimes inside. The door was opened immediately by a black butler who greeted them pleasantly and showed them into the library, where their host awaited them with Borden White and Carla Volt.

  “Ah, Genevieve. And this must be Mr. Cloud.” White extended his hand. “Good of you to come.”

  White led them to a massive fireplace set between two walls of solid books. Carla Volt was standing next to the hearth. Sitting near her, in a shining chrome wheelchair, was their host.

  “I’d like you both to meet Morris Niebold,” White said, leading Genevieve and Cloud up to him. He was a darkeyed, bushy-browed man with thick, almost pouting lips, and cheeks slightly too plump for the rest of his face. There was about him such an aura of confidence that one might easily have wondered why he did not simply get out of the wheelchair and walk if it pleased him to do so.

  “I am delighted to meet you both,” Morris Niebold said. He squeezed Genevieve’s hand and smiled. “Times like these I regret more than ever being unable to stand and bow.”

  “Why, thank you, that’s very kind,” Genevieve said. Niebold turned to Cloud.

  “I’ll call you Robert, if you’ll permit me the familiarity of age,” he said, shaking hands. “In fact, nothing would please me more than for all of us to be on a first-name basis.”

  “Fine,” Cloud said. He glanced past Niebold at Carla Volt. She was staring frankly at him.

  The man in the wheelchair noticed Cloud and Carla Volt with their eyes locked. “I’m afraid we’ve been remiss in the introductions. There are still two of us who haven’t met.” Niebold deftly spun his chair around. “Carla Volt, Robert Cloud.”

  Cloud stepped over to where she stood and took the hand she offered. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Cloud said quietly, “Hello, Carla.”

  “Hello, Robert,” she replied. Her touch and the huskiness of her voice affected him instantly; the back of his neck warmed and he suddenly felt very good.

  They all sat near the fireplace, sipping Niebold’s fine old brandy from handcut lead-crystal glasses, talking quietly about Weldon Whitman and capital punishment in California. Cloud and Genevieve sat together, as did Borden White and Carla; Niebold had wheeled himself to a point between the two settees so he could attend them all conversationally, although he obviously concentrated on the two newcomers.

  As they talked, Cloud observed Carla Volt. She was wearing a bright flowered jersey in two pieces: a long-sleeved blouse open at the throat, and a long skirt. It was impossible to tell much about her figure, except that there was not a great deal to it: barely any bustline interrupted the flatness of the jersey top, and all that could be distinguished of her hips was that they were extremely angular. Cloud was fascinated by her hair—the sheer pitch of it—and by her too-wide mouth with corners that turned down, so her smile had to go a little farther to reach the surface. Cloud kept his eyes on her as much as he dared throughout the evening, and several times she caught him watching her. And then several times when he looked away from her and then brought his eyes back, he caught her watching him. It became an obessive game with them all evening.

  “I’m sure you’re all waiting to hear my ulterior motive for our little get-together this evening,” Niebold said after almost an hour of generalities. “Being cognizant of the fact that I am an attorney—and one whose specialty is constitutional law, at that—I am sure you must have suspected something underhanded.” He paused to allow his guests time to chuckle respectfully, then said, “As a matter of fact, I do want to propose something, and I’d like to get the opinions of all of you on the merits of that proposal. Our main purpose, as we all know, is to save from California’s gas chamber a young man whom we all feel is being punished unjustly. Guilty or innocent, it matters not: Weldon Whitman should not have been condemned to death.” He leaned over and patted Genevieve’s hand. “And I’m sure we all know that but for the gallantry of this young lady in determining to help a fellow human being, none of us. would even be aware of the injustice being done Weldon Whitman.”

  Not quite true, Cloud thought. But he let it pass. Like Weldon’s book, he decided, it really didn’t make that much difference. Besides, his mind was busy with Carla Volt.

  “What I want to propose here tonight is that we incorporate and formally establish an organization to be called the Weldon Whitman Foundation—”

  Genevieve started to object. “But we—”

  “Wait, please,” Morris Niebold stopped her with a slight but commanding movement of his hand. “Hear an old man out first,” he said, with a smile, “and then I’ll listen to objections all around.” He sipped the last bit of his brandy and put the glass aside. “I realize that you, Genevieve, and you, Robert, already have what you call the Save Whitman Movement, and I think that is splendid; I wouldn’t suggest changing that in the slightest. After all, it is fairly well known by now and already established in some circles as the Whitman organization. What I’m proposing in the foundation, however, is not merely a movement to save Weldon Whitman, not merely a movement to remedy the injustice being done to one person, but an organization which will attack the very principle of that injustice, an organization that will ultimately benefit all Weldon Whitmans. Do you begin to see what I’m driving at? Robert, do you?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Cloud replied. He was already thinking of the publicity and feature-article possibilities.

  “Good. Let me touch on a few advantages I think will interest all of us. First, of course, the foundation would at once remove the suggestion of our fight being personal, being a battle strictly to save one man from the gas chamber. Instead, it would immediately become a drive to combat general judicial injustice; it would become something that—superfically, at least—could be identified with by many, many more people than would ever cast their lot with one condemned man.” Niebold smiled and spread his hands before him as if pleading. “Now, I don’t advocate that we actually attempt to help anyone except Weldon Whitman; certainly, he is to remain our primary interest. But in the mind and eye of the public, he will gradually become the symbol of something far bigger.” He paused and looked intently at Genevieve. “Am I beginning to make any sense to you, my dear?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Genevieve said. Her caution had been increasing daily since she met Borden White.

  “Exactly how would you go about establishing this foundation?” Cloud asked.

  “You tell him, please, Borden,” the older man said.

  “Certainly,” said White. “There’s not much to it really. We would first draw up a statement of intent and purpose, much t
he same as for any nonprofit corporation. We would have to elect officers, of course—I”

  “That would be no problem at all,” Niebold interjected. “The only logical, the only acceptable, president of the foundation would be Genevieve.”

  “Oh my, I don’t know,” Genevieve said uncertainly.

  “And Robert here for her next-in-command, her vicepresident,” Niebold continued unabashed. “One of the other of us could serve as treasure, or we could elect an outside member from some accounting firm. Carla could serve as secretary.” He turned to Cloud, whom he sensed to be on his side—or at any rate not against him. “Tell me, Robert, do you think Weldon would like having a foundation named after him?”

  Is the Pope Catholic? Cloud thought. “I think he would probably agree to it if we all decided it was the right way to go.”

  “And how about you, Genevieve?” he asked, patting her hand again. “Do you still have reservations?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said, although not as adamantly as Cloud expected. “I would have to have time to really give it some thought—”

  “Well, of course,” Niebold said patronizingly. “It isn’t as though we have to make a decision tonight. I think that’s enough business for one evening anyway. Suppose I have some chocolate mousse and coffee brought in—” He quickly wheeled himself to the desk where he had an intercom.

  “None for me, thanks,” Carla Volt said. “I have to run.” She went over to a side table where she had left her purse. Cloud put down his brandy glass and followed her.

  “It’s still early,” he said. “Do you have to leave?”

  “I want to leave,” she said simply.

  “I was hoping we might have a few minutes together—”

  “We still can.”

  “How?”

  “You leave, too.”

  Just like that. You leave, too.

  And just like that he said he would. “Give me a minute—”

  He went over to where Genevieve was sitting. She was momentarily alone, Niebold on the intercom and Borden White pouring more brandy. Cloud sat down beside her.