Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  Baxter resolutely shoved another mushroom into her mouth. “This was not a suicide, Morelli. And I’m going to prove it.”

  “You’re delusional! I mean, it’s a sad story, I grant you. But the woman was depressed and lonely and she didn’t want to live anymore!”

  “Really.” Baxter yanked a receipt out of the box and waved it under Mike’s nose. “Then please explain to me, O Master Detective, why four hours before her death, she spent a small fortune of her own money to redecorate her office?”

  Chapter

  13

  Gabriel Aravena stared at the man in the tacky suit sitting across from him. Was it really polyester? Surely not. But it seemed like it. If it wasn’t polyester, it was something almost as bad. Not that he was any fashion plate himself; the FastTrak salary didn’t permit such indulgences. But he never looked this pathetic. At least he hoped not.

  “And although many parolees find the experience liberating, some also confront serious adjustment problems, once the final tether is broken and they are full-fledged citizens once more. It’s a difficult time for most. I remember a case. . . .”

  Aravena could hardly stand it. How long could the man possibly rattle on by himself, without the slightest encouragement from the person to whom he was ostensibly speaking? But this was the last time, he thought, calming himself. The last time ever.

  “ . . . getting new bank accounts. Finding a neighborhood. Building relationships with other people. That’s the challenge. But that’s also the great joy. Because in a very real way, you’re building your whole life again from scratch. How many people have that opportunity? Not many. I know a few billionaires who wouldn’t mind having a chance to start over again. Now, I remember one case where . . .”

  How many times had he been forced to come to his PA’s office since his release? Two hundred? Three? He wasn’t sure. It seemed like a million, trapped in this tacky cubbyhole he called an office, reeking of coffee and cigarettes. Listening to the man’s interminable stories . . .

  Melvin Feinstein wasn’t really a bad sort, not once you got past the terminal ennui. As PAs went, it could be a lot worse. Or maybe Aravena had just gotten used to him after all these years. The food-stained shirts. The loud wide ties. He was a package. And despite some wariness, he seemed to genuinely believe Gabriel was over it, that he was going to try to make good now.

  Fool.

  “You know, Gabe, you ought to get yourself some kind of hobby.”

  “Hobby?”

  “Yeah. Something to do in your spare time. Something to take your mind off other things.”

  Like little girls?

  “Like me, see, I collect snow globes. Don’t ask me why or how. I just love ’em. Even the cheesy ones.”

  They’re all cheesy ones, Aravena thought silently.

  “I guess my mom gave me one when I was twelve, when she and the old man got back from some big trip to Hawaii. I’ve been collecting them ever since. And I take care of them. Dust them, clean them. Rearrange them. Play with them. Gives me something to do when I’m not working. Something to relieve the pressure. You oughta have something like that.”

  How about your daughter, you smug son of a bitch? “Well . . . I like to watch television.”

  “Pfff.” Harvey pushed the air with his hands. “TV is for morons.”

  Whereas snow globes were for Mensa members. “My work at FastTrak does not leave me a great deal of spare time.”

  “Yeah.” Harvey shifted around so he could look at the file on the table before him. “I can believe that. Your supervisor thinks you walk on water, you know. He’s very impressed. Thinks you’re going to be considered for promotion again in no time at all.”

  “I’m glad that he is pleased.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” Harvey winked. “Wouldn’t mind having a few more bucks in the basket, huh?”

  Aravena tried to smile. What an utter boob this man was. And the State of Oklahoma had required him to visit this cretin once a week, ever since his release. As if any possible good could come from it. At least Dr. Bennett was a doctor. This man was nothing. A fool. A total waste of time.

  But, he consoled himself—a waste of time who would soon be out of his life for good.

  “So, you feelin’ all right, Gabe?”

  “I am well.”

  Harvey nodded. “Medication still working for you?”

  “Of course.” At least he wasn’t asking about erections and ejaculations. Not in so many words.

  “Must be a hell of a thing. I mean the . . . the . . . you know.” He waved his hands around his chest. “Do they itch?”

  That again. Why did the whole world obsess over his breasts? “They did. I now . . . bind them. Both for comfort and for appearances.”

  “I expect that would draw a lot of attention at the FastTrak.” He drummed his fingers on the table. Aravena could tell there was something he wanted to say. “You know, Gabe, what you did . . .” He drew in his breath. “We haven’t really talked much about your crime. I didn’t see the point. I assumed you preferred it that way. But I have to ask. Before I give you the final check mark. Do you think you might ever . . . you know . . . have any . . . feelings like that again?”

  “Absolutely not,” Aravena said. He tried to wear that confident, square-jawed look he knew would impress this buffoon. “I no longer have any sexual feelings.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “ ’Cause you know, it’s still possible.”

  “I no longer have any such feelings . . . as I once did. I know I never will. That is all in the past.”

  Harvey peered into his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. “You know what, Gabe? I believe you. I really do. I’m going to okay your release from supervision.” He began scribbling on a form in his file.

  Aravena tried to suppress his elation, but it took some doing. It was finally going to happen! No more tether. No more visits to the shrink. No more injections. No more endless stories from this fool. No more unexpected visits to his apartment. Freedom. Total and utter freedom. To do whatever he wanted. Whenever he wanted.

  Harvey slid the form across the table, grinning. “Congratulations, Gabe. You’ve passed.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

  “Of course, you’re still expected to take the medication.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” If the man would believe that, he’d believe anything.

  “And I’d still like to drop by to visit. Just every now and again. On an informal basis. To see how you’re doing.”

  “I would be honored.” I will move. I will change the locks.

  “One other thing, Gabe. I hate to mention it, but . . . you know, we’re supposed to register former sex offenders. Once they’re released from custody.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Oh, some of the boys in the department go door-to-door to inform the neighbors. Just so they won’t be blamed later if something should happen.”

  “If the police go door-to-door to inform all my neighbors . . . then I won’t have any neighbors.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.” He pondered a moment, then made a few pencil scribbles on his file. “You know, Gabe, I’m going to forget to forward this information to the law enforcement boys. I just don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “It could do you a lot of harm. And no good at all. None that I see, anyway.” He fell silent a moment. “But this means I’m trusting you, Gabe. I believe you’ve changed. I really do.” He peered across the table, insisting on eye contact. “Don’t make me look like a fool, okay?”

  “Of course not,” Aravena said. You do that for yourself so well already.

  The two men rose and shook hands. “Thank you for everything you have done on my behalf all these years,” Aravena said. “I mean that sincerely.”

  Harvey smiled. Aravena had a sense that he wished to embrace, but that wasn’t going to happen. There
were limits to what even he would do.

  As Aravena left his PA’s office and stepped out into the sunshine, it did indeed seem as if he had entered an entirely new world. A world filled with challenges. And possibilities. And there they were, all around him. The woman walking toward him on the sidewalk. That little piece of jailbait on the other side of the street . . .

  He had regained his freedom, despite everything, despite every evil thing he had locked up in his heart. He had done his time and survived. But the best of it was—they had never learned the truth. They had no idea. The worst of it. They didn’t have a glimmer. If they knew what he had done . . .

  But they didn’t. And now he was free.

  He strolled toward the Tulsa Transit bus stop, a happy man. There were always so many women riding the bus. So many women crowded together in such a small space.

  The world was filled with possibilities.

  Chapter

  14

  Ten minutes after the hearing was supposed to start, there was no one in the courtroom other than the principal players—the attorneys for both sides and the court bailiff. Somewhat ironic, Ben mused. Every time he tried a murder case, the courtroom was packed. People thought trials were exciting (even though, in the main, they weren’t), full of tricks and high drama and witness hysterics and Perry Mason–style manipulation—all leading up to that dramatic moment when the jury rendered the verdict. But no one ever came to see an appellate hearing. A bunch of lawyers talking? Who cared? But the truth was, what took place at these hearings was often more interesting—and more final—than anything that happened in a trial.

  “Got your argument mapped out?” Christina asked. She was sitting beside him at counsel table, armed with three tall stacks of photocopied case law.

  “I think so. I’m going to start with a few token citations to the precedents for granting habeas corpus relief.”

  “All five of them, huh?”

  “Right. But I won’t spend much time there, because I know the judge already knows all that. What I hope to make implicitly clear, as I discuss the result in each case, is that the federal courts have traditionally stepped in, on whatever grounds, when they believed there was serious doubt about the defendant’s guilt. And then I start laying down all the doubt.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  “It might. If the judge is halfway reasonable, at the very least we should convince him to postpone the execution while we continue to investigate.”

  “Are you going to use my second-man theory?”

  He looked at her sternly. “Christina, we may be desperate, but we don’t have to act like it.”

  From the other side of the courtroom, a heavyset man in a somewhat worn suit approached Ben. “Looks like we have some time on our hands.”

  “Yeah. Any idea why?”

  “Who knows? Federal judges do whatever they want.”

  “I suppose.” Ben knew Jerry Weintraub from the days when he had interned at the DA’s office, before he moved to Tulsa. He was a big bear of a guy—always upbeat, impossible to dislike. He was representing the AG’s office in this hearing; the attorney general traditionally represented the state in criminal appeals.

  “The problem is, these appointed-for-life federal judges all think they’re God. And it’s hard to keep God on a timetable.”

  Ben half smiled. Jerry had always been one of his favorites, back in OKC, and he still was—even when he was on the other side. “I can’t believe you’re still with the AG’s office after all these years.”

  “Hey—it’s job security. Don’t knock it.”

  “Don’t you get tired of being the AG’s gofer?”

  Weintraub appeared indignant. “Who’s a gofer? I’ve outlasted three attorneys general and four governors. I run the place. They take orders from me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You should never have left the DA’s office, Ben.”

  “After the big blowup with Bullock? I had no choice. Not that it matters. I like choosing my own cases.”

  “Well, if this is an example of what you choose, you were better off doing government work.”

  A rustling from the back of the courtroom told them the judge was making his way out of chambers. “Well,” Weintraub said, “time to put on my self-righteous-law-and-order-zealot face.” He skittered back to his own table.

  “All rise.” The judge’s clerk stepped out of chambers and called everyone to attention. “This court is now in session. The Honorable Richard A. Derek presiding.”

  Ben’s jaw fell three inches lower. “Did he just say—”

  Christina nodded solemnly.

  “We were supposed to get Holmes. This is Holmes’s courtroom. The clerk told us it was going to be Holmes.”

  “It seems the clerk was wrong.”

  The two attorneys watched as Judge Derek, Ben’s former nemesis at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, slowly walked to the bench, a grave expression on his face. He was, as always, extremely handsome. There was more gray flecking his temples these days, but predictably it just seemed to augment his underwear-model good looks.

  “Why him?” Ben muttered under his breath. “Why did it have to be him?”

  “Stay calm,” Christina whispered.

  “How can I stay calm? The man hates me. He goes out of his way to make my life miserable.” He cast his eyes upward. “Why couldn’t it be Ellison or Seay or Eagan—”

  “Isn’t she a Republican?”

  “Even so. Better a judge who wants to hang the defendant than one who wants to hang the defense attorney.”

  Derek stopped on his way to the bench to harangue his clerk. Ben couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could tell the poor underling was getting a major chewing-out. Probably forgot to pick up Derek’s dry cleaning or something.

  Ben sighed. The man hadn’t changed a bit in the years since they had both been at Raven. This was going to be a disaster.

  Derek took his seat, placing his hand against the side of his head. He made it look like a scratch, but Ben knew better. He was checking the lie of his toupee. A more vain man never lived.

  Derek gazed out into the courtroom. As soon as he laid eyes on Ben, his expression soured.

  “Great,” Ben muttered. “Just great.”

  His shoulders heaving, Derek read from the papers already on his desk. “This is Case Number CJ-675-03D, In Re the Habeas Corpus Petition of Raymond D. Goldman. Are counsel ready to proceed?”

  Weintraub stood. “We are, your honor.”

  Christina nudged Ben. “Go for it.”

  Ben shook his head. “No way.”

  “What do you mean, no way?” she hissed. “You can’t back out now. Think about Ray.”

  “I am thinking about Ray,” he whispered back. “And guess what, Christina? You just became lead counsel.”

  “Did I mention that I don’t want to be here?” Mike asked.

  “No,” Baxter said wearily. “But I’m sure you will.”

  Mike watched as the mourners—and there weren’t many—filed past the gravesite. Did Erin really have so few friends? he wondered. Or did the fact that her death was commonly believed to have been a suicide keep people away? Had she had so much trouble reuniting herself with the real world, after the tragedy she had endured?

  A few of the ten or so people in attendance at Erin Faulkner’s funeral Mike recognized from the organ clinic—Dr. Palmetto, for one. But most he didn’t know. And as he watched, it seemed to him that most of them didn’t know one another, either.

  In the movies, Mike thought, it was always raining at funerals. But not here, not today. The sun was shining and it was unseasonably warm. Some of the attendees were probably melting in their black clothes. Didn’t seem right, somehow. This was play weather. This was a day for the park. Not Bartlett Cemetery.

  He and Baxter kept a good distance away so as not to be a distraction, but not so far that Mike couldn’t pick up scattered words and phrases. “We need not grieve for this woman,” he hea
rd the minister try to assure those present. “Now she is home. Now she is at peace.”

  “I think coming to Erin’s funeral to conduct interviews is in incredibly bad taste,” Mike muttered.

  “It wasn’t my idea. Sheila Knight requested that we meet her here. And I thought that as long as we’re doing one interview here . . .”

  “This is the sort of idea that might appeal to a new cop, but anyone with any seasoning would know better.”

  Baxter’s face clouded over. “I’m new to Tulsa, Morelli. I’m not new.”

  Mike watched as the minister with the red scarf around his neck closed his small Bible. The interment rites would soon be over. “We should’ve met her at her home.”

  “She specifically said she didn’t want us to come to her home.”

  Really? That was interesting. “Then you should’ve made her come downtown.”

  “And if she said no? Leave me be, Morelli. Go hit on one of the mourners or something.”

  Mike shoved his fists deep into his coat pockets. “And furthermore, I hate funerals. I didn’t even go to my father’s funeral, and I adored him.”

  Baxter shrugged. “We all have to die sometime.”

  “Right. ‘Send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’ “

  “Is that more of your poetry?”

  “It’s Donne.”

  “Thank goodness.” The funeral was over, and the assemblage was beginning to break up. “I’m going to talk to Sheila. Maybe you could track down the boyfriend.”

  Because you don’t want me horning in on your interview with Sheila? Messing up the girl talk? “No, I’ll do Sheila. You find the boyfriend. He’s probably the young guy in the cashmere coat.”

  Baxter frowned. “Sure you don’t want me along? It might involve some . . . you know. Women’s issues. Girl stuff.”

  What Baxter obviously wanted, Mike realized, was for him to tell her he needed her. That she might be useful. Which he wasn’t about to do. “I’m sure. It’ll save time.”