Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  “Joel Driscoll was a friend of mine, so I’m interested in bringing justice—no matter who killed him.”

  Emmanuel squinted. “You plan to undermine my efforts to acquit Mr. Trambata?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s charged with killing your friend.”

  “I’ll stand on the side of justice.”

  The attorney mocked. “You sound more naïve than you look. Justice for a homicide defendant requires fighting in front of a jury—sowing seeds of reasonable doubt.”

  I overlooked his dig. I knew how the system worked—better a guilty man go free than an innocent man suffer for a crime he didn’t commit. I didn’t become a private detective to let guilty men go free. “I spoke with Detective Jackson earlier this morning.”

  He scowled. “Without my permission?”

  “Who says I need your consent? I don’t work for you.” Time to play my ace. “Besides, Herron Industries is anxious for me to assist with Mr. Trambata’s case.”

  After the $25,000 retainer Herron had given to me, I suspected they’d paid even more to secure Emmanuel’s services.

  McMillan’s description of Lucas Emmanuel as a cross between Dirty Harry and a televangelist hadn’t appeared. So far, Detective Jackson’s characterization of him as sitting on the wrong side of the sanctuary, rang true.

  He rearranged a few yellow Post-it Notes on his desk top. “I already have a PI, Mr. Frame, a man I’ve known and trusted for many years—you’d only get in the way.”

  I pulled out my cell and punched in a number. It would go to my voice mail, but he didn’t know that. “I’ll see what Todd Vicary would like me to do.”

  The lawyer palmed his hand in the air like he was patting me on the head. “Wait.”

  I made a show of ending the call, deposited the phone in my pocket, and nestled back in the chair with my best make-me-an-offer expression.

  “Perhaps you could be useful—in a limited way—since you know Mr. Trambata.”

  “I don’t.”

  Emmanuel looked confused. “He seems knowledgeable about you.”

  Thanks to Sal Zalinski, Trambata knew quite a bit about me. “Only indirectly. We’ve never met.”

  Emmanuel tilted his head in surprise. “When I spoke with him last night, he kept repeating your name.”

  Megan’s story came to mind, about Carlin mouthing framed when his back was turned to the detective. Based on this new information, sounds like he was stating my name. “If your client wants me, explain why you’re encouraging me to walk away from this case.”

  “It’s nothing personal.” The lawyer rubbed his hands together. “We have a well-oiled machine in this office. Those I’ve worked with, from paralegals to investigators, can practically read my mind when prepping cases. I’m superstitious. Don’t want you fouling up the works.”

  “Are you aware of the evidence they have against Trambata?”

  He nodded. “My investigator summarized it for me.”

  “Detective Jackson’s confident, but I see holes. The same ones a jury would see.”

  Emmanuel’s face registered the first glimmer of respect for my views. “Go on.”

  “Grant you, Trambata may be an amateur when it comes to homicide, but he’s been a crafty businessman most of his life, involved in hundreds of cutthroat deals. He pulled a fast one on my family’s business in a patent dispute, luring one of our trusted employees to work for him—his fingerprints nowhere near it.”

  “Detective Jackson reminded my investigator that Trambata hired a private detective to follow Joel; made no secret of it.”

  “Yeah, because Joel was having an affair with Megan Trambata. It’s the kind of surveillance that usually leads to divorce—not murder.”

  Emmanuel put his palms on the desk. “Understood.”

  “Now, we’re supposed to believe he traveled to Baltimore by train—in full view of dozens of witnesses—checked into a hotel under his own name, and then called a taxi to transport him to the scene of the crime? A man with Carlin’s resources could hire a hit man and arrange to be a half a continent away when the murder took place.”

  “Makes sense, and the jury might buy it. But the prosecutor is going to argue this is a crime of passion.” In a baritone worthy of Shakespeare’s Othello, he continued, “The man was so incensed that Joel Driscoll would have an affair with his wife that he wanted to see the look on Driscoll’s face as he plunged the dagger into his abdomen.”

  I began to see Emmanuel’s skill as a courtroom orator. “Carlin is in his sixties.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat.

  I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Not saying that’s old. According to Megan, he’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I’m anxious to learn who or what lured him to Baltimore last Saturday. Was he blackmailed into following a pre-determined schedule? How explicit were his instructions?”

  “You make a lot of sense, Mr. Frame. Mr. Vicary alerted me to the Parkinson’s. I’ve got a meeting with Trambata this afternoon...my first extended opportunity to talk with him. Perhaps you could join me for part of the meeting?”

  “Sure. Where? What time?”

  Emmanuel sighed. “He’s in the local lockup. A disgusting place. Edgar Allen Poe was reportedly incarcerated there back in the 1830s, that’s how long it’s been around. My meeting’s scheduled for two o’clock.”

  “Any chance of bail for Trambata?”

  Through his grimace, the attorney said, “Not likely. He’s entitled to an initial hearing on the charges against him, at which time I’ll ask for bail. The hearing is late this afternoon. We’ll make the case given his health.”

  I stood. “I’ll meet you there after I grab lunch.”

  Emmanuel stretched. “I’ll join you. It’s the least I can do for us getting off to a bad start. Do you like crab cakes?”

  The local delicacy. “Of course.”

  Emmanuel leaned over the side of his chair and retrieved a pair of crutches propping them against his desk. With hands braced on the chair he struggled to stand before deftly positioning the crutches under his arms. Aside from his obvious disability, he was shorter than I expected from seeing him behind his desk.

  “Should I call a cab?”

  “No. I’m fine. Need the exercise. We’ll walk down the block to Herb’s. He’s used to seeing me at lunch.”

  Once underway, Emmanuel maneuvered just as fast as me. He must have sensed my curiosity, blurting, “Spinal stenosis,” amid the traffic noise of Baltimore at lunch time.

  26

  By the conclusion of our lunch we were on a first name basis. I feasted on a Reuben, deciding I’d wait until Valarie’s visit for seafood. Lucas ordered a Cobb salad big enough for two. He even took care of the bill.

  I paid for the taxi to the Baltimore Detention Center. Although I’d visited grim lockups before during my time as a detective, this facility took the prize for most depressing. The hallways had a distinctly unpleasant odor, exhibiting more than a century and a half of human despair.

  Lucas knew where he was going and trundled ahead of me down the dismal corridor. Over his shoulder he remarked, “Wait till you see where we meet with the prisoner.”

  I can’t imagine.

  Following behind, I noticed braces affixed to his shoes, one of which had a thicker heel. Lucas entered a door with a visitation placard suspended above it. Although a glass door, all the notices taped to the surface rendered it opaque.

  The room brought back memories of my high school principal’s office, a chest-high counter separating visitors from an area with two metal desks that might have first seen service in World War II.

  The attorney leaned into the counter. “Lucas Emmanuel to meet with Carlin Trambata.”

  The guard behind the counter frowned and held up his hand. “Lemme get the deputy.” He disappeared through an archway.

  “Not a good sign,” Lucas muttered.

  The guard returned moments later with a man w
earing a suit, who motioned us to step toward the far end of the counter.

  Lucas knew him. “What’s going on, Walter?”

  “Your client isn’t here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was an incident in the cell block before lunch.”

  Lucas clenched his jaw. “Incident?”

  “According to witnesses, Mr. Trambata bumped into one of the other prisoners who was delivering clean trays in the food service line. A scuffle ensued. Trambata got wrestled to the floor by the other guy who used one of the trays to apply pressure to Trambata’s throat. There was quite a commotion, and by the time guards intervened Trambata had passed out.”

  Lucas gripped his crutches, his arms shaking in anger. “What happened to my client?”

  “The guards, assisted by a couple of the prisoners, pulled the attacker off him. Trambata turned cyanotic, struggling to breathe. When the paramedics arrived, they were able to stabilize him.”

  “Where’s my client, right this minute, where?”

  “They transported him to University Medical Center. He’s in intensive care.”

  I braced my hand against the middle of Lucas’ back, worried his anger might prompt a stroke. I piped up. “What else aren’t you telling us?”

  Walter took a deep breath. “The altercation crushed his larynx. He couldn’t talk when they took him away in the ambulance.”

  I snickered at the odd way he pronounced am-BOO-lance.

  Lucas spat, “Christ Almighty,” then turned and scooted toward the exit as fast as his legs would propel him. Once outside, he stopped to make a call. “Karen, please contact my three o’clock appointment and reschedule with my apologies. Mr. Frame and I are on our way to the hospital.”

  Lucas upstretched one of his crutches to summon a cab. “If anything happens to Trambata, I’m gonna sue their asses from here to Sunday.”

  “Maybe that’s what it’ll take for them to build a new jail.”

  He grunted. “Everybody knows they need one. They’ve been talkin’ about it for years. Politics is the holdup. I can think of a few elected officials they should lock up. Might be a game changer.”

  After stopping to secure visitor’s badges, we made our way to the hospital elevator that would take us to the Medical Intensive Care Unit. When the door glided shut behind us, I speculated whether Trambata’s room might be under armed guard.

  Lucas glanced up at me. “We could say we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses come to pray with Mr. Trambata.”

  I stared back at his devilish smile and laughed. He has a sense of humor.

  We were an odd couple, short/tall, black/white, and wearing dark suits with nearly matching blue ties.

  The elevator doors opened. A work station for the ICU loomed in front of us. Lucas stepped up to one of the nurses and cleared his throat to arouse her attention. “We’re looking for Carlin Trambata’s room.”

  “I just came from there.” She smiled and pointed to our left. “Third door on the right side.”

  My jaw dropped at the sight awaiting us. This slight-built man with short, grey hair, eyes closed, was propped up in the hospital bed at a thirty-degree angle. A plastic tube extended from his throat to a noisy respirator. Two IV bags hung from a metal post, their dripline inserted via a needle into the man’s left hand, while a different tube traveled from his nostril to a bag of milky-white liquid.

  “My God, they’ve given him a trach.” Lucas stood next to the bed shaking his head. “Now he can’t talk.”

  Wires snaked from under Trambata’s hospital gown to record EKG, respiration, and oxygen level. His blood pressure fluctuated, setting off an alarm, which drew a nurse into the room.

  Lucas waited until she silenced the monitor. “Why are his hands tied to the side rails?”

  “For his own safety. He’s tried a few times to pull out the ventilator tube.” To the look of shock on our faces, she added, “It’s often an involuntary reaction for patients who first receive a trach.”

  After she left, Carlin stirred. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at us.

  “I’m Lucas Emmanuel, your attorney. We met briefly last evening.” Pointing to me. “This is Brad Frame.”

  Carlin moved his head slightly and gazed at me. The corners of his mouth curled upward. He tried to speak, producing no sound. He jerked his hand, becoming aware of the restraints.

  Lucas explained. “You have a trach to help you breathe. Your hands are tied so you don’t pull it out. You won’t be able to talk until they’re able to remove the trach.”

  Following Dad’s second stroke a few years earlier, he couldn’t speak for nearly a week. I returned to the nurses’ station and asked if they had any alphabet grids, like Dad had used back then to communicate. She reached in a file drawer and handed me a stationary-sized paper with the letters of the alphabet and numbers 0 – 9. At the top of the page were the words YES and NO.

  I returned, stood on the right side of Carlin’s bed, and held up the sheet of paper. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you think you could point to the appropriate letters?”

  Carlin nodded.

  “I’m going to untie your hand so that you can point.”

  After doing so, I glanced at Lucas for him to start, while I held the paper in front of Carlin’s hand.

  “Do you remember being attacked at the jail?”

  Carlin pointed to YES, followed by a shrug.

  “So you remember some of the details, but not everything?”

  Another yes.

  “On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you in?”

  He pointed at the number 5.

  Lucas continued. “You understand you’ve been charged with first degree murder?”

  Carlin looked agitated. He began pointing at letters. D-I-D-N-O-T-K-I-L-L-H-I-M

  Not sure if Lucas had been able to follow all of that, so I repeated, “Did not kill him,” then said, “Who asked you to come to Baltimore last weekend?”

  His finger poised over the page, Carlin began to point. M-E-S-S-A-G-E-F-R-O-M-D-R-I-S-C-O-L-L.

  Lucas and I exchanged looks. “Did you phone in an order for a pizza while you were staying in your Baltimore hotel?”

  Before he could answer, Detective Jackson strolled into the room, accompanied by a uniformed officer. “Well look who’s here. I couldn’t beat this pair with a full house.”

  I gazed at Trambata, who glided his finger to the word NO.

  27

  Valerie bounded out of the doors from Baltimore’s Union Station with a large purse slung over her shoulder, dragging a roller bag behind. I stood alongside my rented SUV in the short-term parking area in front of the Beaux Arts-style building and waved. She beamed when she spotted me. We enjoyed a warm embrace before I tossed her luggage into the trunk and headed to the hotel.

  We off-loaded her belongings before setting off on foot to dinner. She loved seafood. The hotel’s concierge recommended Phillip’s at the Inner Harbor, a Maryland tradition for more than eighty years.

  We had a seven o’clock reservation that Friday evening, so we used the time beforehand to stroll through the neighboring shops.

  The woman at the reception desk escorted us to our booth. Valerie sighed as she slid into the bench across from me. “It’s great to get away. Thanks for inviting me.”

  Our waiter appeared and took our drink orders, returning a few minutes later with her chardonnay and my Dewar’s with a twist. Valerie had a few questions about the menu. After prompting from the waiter, she ordered seared scallops with garlic crab. “Garlic,” she repeated, eyes sparkling. “You’re forewarned.”

  The teasing left little doubt that the evening would end amorously.

  “Mmmm. Guess I better fight fire with fire.” I asked for a garlic shrimp appetizer we could share and seasoned crab cakes—their specialty—for my entrée.

  “What have you been up to today?” she asked after the waiter left.

  I reached over and took her hand. “I�
��d rather hear about your day.”

  She worked in the admissions office at Haverford College. Even though the semester had just gotten underway, she’d participated in a half dozen college fairs aimed at recruiting entrants for September 2002.

  As much as I listened and heard her every word, I couldn’t get my mind off of Carlin Trambata’s arrest and hospitalization. The confident way he’d spelled out the letters in “Did not kill him,” made him more believable than if those same words were spoken.

  At least he would be safe in the intensive care unit. Lucas promised to re-schedule the bail hearing for first thing Monday morning. In a twist of fate, Carlin’s attack at the jail might help make the case for why he should be released. Unlike the average schmuck under arrest for murder, Trambata could put up a sizeable cash bond.

  If Detective Jackson hadn’t kicked us out, we might have learned more about Carlin’s belief that the murder victim had sent him a message. If written, did he still have a copy? The only message from Joel that could have enticed him to travel to Baltimore alone would have involved Megan.

  The waiter arrived with our appetizer and a basket of warm rolls. We dug into the shrimp. After several bites, I feigned a garlic-laden exhale in her direction.

  She dragged one of the shrimp through the tangy sauce and took an oversized bite. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  We both laughed.

  Yeah, it’s gonna be a fun night.

  Conversation dwindled after our entrées arrived.

  The pizza box with the murder weapon crossed my mind. If, as he claimed, Trambata hadn’t ordered the pizza, then an elaborate effort had been hatched to frame him for the crime.

  Valerie lifted her wine glass. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You seem a little distant.”

  Damn, it shows.

  “Just thinking about a man who got beat up in jail and is in intensive care.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Is that the case you’re working on?”