One memory sparked another. He remembered urging summary judgment for the now-defunct Apollo Consortium, remembered pleading for the life of a mentally challenged defendant. And perhaps his greatest professional triumph, defending Christina when she was charged with murder. The day he got those charges dismissed was a day he was proud to be a lawyer. Even in his darkest moments, when trials degenerated, his personal life crashed, or he was forced to endure an idiotic lawyer joke for the five millionth time, he could flash back to that case and immediately know why he was doing what he was doing.
Until the Wallace Barrett case. After that wrapped up, it was as if everything he knew, or thought he knew, had been erased, invalidated. He learned he couldn’t single-handedly ensure that justice was done; he’d learned that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Suddenly he didn’t know why he was a lawyer. Worse, he didn’t want to be a lawyer. Despite the pleading and cajoling from Christina and Jones and Loving, he just couldn’t do it. He didn’t know what the point was, what he was hoping to accomplish.
Except … here he was again, back on a case. But he still didn’t have answers to the questions that had plagued him for the last six months. He had come back to work because a friend needed help and had few options. He couldn’t let Earl down.
He rode the elevator up to the third floor of the city offices and made his way to police headquarters. The officer at the front desk recognized him. He glowered, but waved Ben through. Guess he doesn’t like my tie, Ben mused.
He wound his way through the partitions until he found a closed wooden door bearing a nameplate: MICHAELANGELO J. MORELLI, HOMICIDE.
Ben cracked open the door and stuck his head through. “Is it soup yet?”
Fortunately, Mike was alone. He looked up, then glanced at the digital clock on his desk. “Yes!”
Ben stepped inside. “Bad time?”
“No, perfect. And with mere seconds to spare.”
Ben looked at his watch. It was two minutes till noon. “I don’t follow.”
“I made a bet with Harry, the guy at the front desk. Twenty bucks that Kincaid would be in my office before noon.”
“That explains his frown. Am I so predictable?”
“In a word, yes. Have a seat.”
Ben took one of the chairs opposite Mike’s desk. “I came to discuss Earl. What do you have?”
Mike stroked his chin. “Excuse me, counselor, but I think we’ve had the conversation where I explain that I work for the prosecutor and you work for the defendant. Which means we don’t work together.”
“I agree.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“I agree we’ve had the conversation before.”
Mike grinned. “I think you know everything we know.”
“I’d like to be sure. Can I see your files?”
“Ben—”
“You know you have an obligation to produce exculpatory evidence.”
“To a defendant, yes. But your client has not been charged. Ergo, he is not a defendant.”
“Don’t play Speedy Trial semantics with me.”
Mike folded his hands. “I repeat: you already know all we know. He committed a murder just like it over twenty-two years ago.”
“He didn’t commit that murder.”
“He sure as hell pled guilty.”
“He didn’t want to play craps with the electric chair.”
“Is that what he told you?” Mike shook his head. “Man, you’ve swallowed some pathetic hard-luck stories before, but this takes the cake. Wise up, Ben. People don’t plead guilty to crimes they didn’t commit. No one’s that scared.”
“When you’re poor, black, undereducated, and probably depressed—”
“Ben, stop already. The man pled guilty!”
“He was told—”
“And I have personally spoken to the detective who handled that case. He’s retired now, but he assured me he had no doubt whatsoever of Earl’s guilt.”
“Even if he did commit a similar crime in the past—”
“Similar in gruesomeness,” Mike interjected. “Similar in a detail that most people couldn’t duplicate even if they wanted to. Plus, the corpse was found in his place of business, in a restricted area to which he had access. Plus, the victim was a woman with whom he had been romantically linked.”
“That’s all circumstantial—”
“I have eye- and ear witnesses, people who were at the club, who tell me Earl was acting strangely all night. Anxious, disturbed.”
“That’s easily explained. He was expecting Lily to show up and she never did.”
“Or he had just killed her. How about that for distress?”
Ben rubbed his hands together. If he didn’t do a better job of rebutting evidence at trial, Earl was sunk. “That still doesn’t prove—”
“And I have several other witnesses—patrons—who will testify that, just before you moved the stage light and brought the body cascading down on top of you, Earl was shouting from the wings for you to leave it alone. True?”
Ben stopped short. He had forgotten about that until now. At the time, it hadn’t meant much. But in retrospect… it didn’t look good.
Mike leaned back. “Thought so.” He folded his arms across his chest. “What d’ya think about my case now?”
“Earl just didn’t want me messing with his stage light.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There was a big crowd. He wanted me to get on with the show.”
“Right.”
“All these things can be explained.”
“Excuses can be contrived. But convincingly explained? Nah. Face it, Ben. He did it.”
“Then why haven’t you charged him?”
“Let’s just say that there’s the tiny matter of Tyrone Jackson to work around. But don’t worry. We will.”
“Are you saying his testimony isn’t credible?”
Mike poked around the myriad half-tumbled stacks on his desk till he found the file he wanted. He tossed it across his desk so Ben could see it. “This is what I’ve found out already about Mr. Jackson. It explains why he was so reluctant to talk to me.”
Ben didn’t have to look. “Two outstanding warrants.”
“Right. One related to that gang shooting of Officer Torres a year and a half ago. The other was a street con.”
“I’ve talked to him about the shooting,” Ben said. “He assured me he wasn’t involved.”
“Which in fact, I believe,” Mike said. “That’s why I haven’t pressed harder on that warrant. We’ve already convicted the main players in that tragedy. And I can’t get too worked up about the scam Jackson ran on one of the most notorious pimps working Eleventh Street, either. But these matters do call into question his credibility.”
“You mean you’re going to use them to question his credibility.”
“I’m not doing anything with them. That’s for you lawyers to work out. I’m not making any underhanded deals, either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I knew you wouldn’t,” Ben said. “But what about the prosecutor? Bullock will do anything to get a conviction.” An unkind remark to make about one’s mentor, but true, just the same.
“Bullock was suspended after the Barrett case concluded. He hasn’t actually tried a case for six months. I don’t know if he ever will.”
“Still—”
“Ben, your client has a criminal past. That’s going to call into doubt the veracity of anything he says.”
“I saw the rug man, too.”
“I know you did. And we’re reinterviewing all the potential witnesses in an attempt to track that man down. But the fact that someone else was there, even in a disguise, doesn’t automatically make him a murderer. Why would someone come to the club in a disguise just to drop a body off? No, Earl Bonner is a far more likely suspect. And if it wasn’t him, the second most likely suspect would be someone else who worked at the club.”
That got Ben’s attention. “Some
one else?”
“Yeah. Someone else who would have a reason to be there. And therefore might have a reason to kill someone there or bring the corpse there. Someone who would have easy access to the stage.”
Ben’s brain started racing. “Like who?”
“How should I know? The crew, the guys in the band. You.”
Ben thought back to the night of the abortive anniversary show. The barmaids would have no reason to go onstage where the body was found, and neither would the bouncer or the cashier. Even with the curtains closed, if any of them had moved toward the stage, someone would surely have noticed. But no one would have thought anything of seeing a member of the band up there. In fact, they could have carried large bundles without inviting the least bit of suspicion.
“Maybe I should get a lawyer myself.”
“Relax, shyster. Uncle Earl did it.”
Ben sighed. “Will you call me before you have Earl arrested so I can avoid some awful traumatic scene?”
Mike looked away. “Notifying defense counsel of a pending arrest would of course violate departmental policy. You might decide to do an Al Cowlings down the Cimarron Turnpike.”
“So will you do it?”
“No.”
Ben turned away.
“But I have been meaning to call you to see if you have any updated snaps of that nephew of yours. I like to keep tabs on that rascal. So I might do that. Capisce?”
Ben understood. When Mike phoned about baby photos, it was time for Earl to pack his toothbrush.
Ben rose to his feet. “I’ll check by later to see if the lab reports are in.”
“As you wish.” Mike returned his attention to the stacks on his desk.
Ben stopped at the door. “You’re a good friend, Mike.”
Mike’s eyes rose up from his desk. “You’re a good lawyer, Ben.”
Chapter 22
HE CRUSHED THE newspaper between his hands. Excellent! And here he’d thought this was going to be hard!
He strolled out on the patio, relishing the fresh morning air. He should have known he could count on the press to reveal every little secret. Even the ones that were likely to get someone killed.
He’d thought he was going to have to do some intense work. He’d expected to spend days trolling the North Side, watching O’Brien Park, cruising Memorial Drive or some of the other hot youth hangouts.
And now none of that was necessary. Now he had everything he needed handed to him on a silver platter.
He unwadded the paper, smoothing out the creases, anxious to read it all again.
NO ARREST IN JAZZLAND SLAYING, the banner headline shouted. He skipped the first few paragraphs, detailing the police department’s “ongoing investigation” and recapping the sensational account of the corpse “plummeting to the stage in front of hundreds of spectators.”
Eyewitness accounts were quoted liberally: “I was on the front row when it happened. The corpse came flying out. Blood splattered everywhere, all over me. I just started screaming, clawing to get away. I totally lost it.”
None of this interested him in the least. What sustained his attention, what brought forth his beaming smile was a small paragraph toward the end: “Police are also investigating the report of one youth in attendance who claims that a workman delivering a rug may have been wearing a disguise. Although the police said they wanted to follow all possible leads, they warned that the witness in question, Tyrone Jackson, 21, a club regular and associate of the owner, had a history of criminal activity and may not be reliable.”
He closed the paper again and hugged it close to his breast. He couldn’t ask for much better than that. Talk about sweet music! This was a Coltrane original, a Gershwin rhapsody, and a B. B. King solo all set out in newsprint.
He fell into the patio chair. This certainly simplified things, didn’t it? All he had to do was keep an eye on the club and wait for the brat to show his ugly black face.
His hands skittered across the glass-topped patio table and began stroking the shiny silver serrated blade. He didn’t like loose ends, but when he had one, he knew what to do about it. He turned to his polished silver, his treasured weapon. The razor-sharp knife he liked to call Mr. Entertainment.
And why Mr. Entertainment, you might ask?
A glow settled over his contented face. Because it could bring smiles to the faces of so many people.
Chapter 23
BEN ENJOYED THE smooth scenic ride of the glass elevator as he soared up to Jones and Loving’s office. He still couldn’t get over what plush digs the two of them had come up with. They had the right idea, he realized. When you’re starting over, you should make everything fresh, new, exciting. With a place like this, he could almost imagine …
But no. One more case and he was out of here. He still had plenty of money in the bank, and his music career was just getting started. Maybe he’d start work on another book. He wasn’t going to let himself get derailed again.
Loving was just locking up when Ben approached the outer office door.
“Skipper! I wasn’t ’spectin’ you back tonight. Need somethin’?”
“Well, actually, I was looking for you. I wanted to consult with you about something. I hate to take up your time when you’re off duty, but …”
“No problem, Skipper.” He beamed, clearly flattered. He reopened the door and stepped into the office. “What’s up?”
Ben leaned against his desk. “You used to play poker, didn’t you, Loving?”
He shrugged. “Some nickel-and-dime stuff. Me and the boys down at Orpha’s Lounge. They had a little place in the back …” He looked up. “That was before I met you, of course. ’Fore I got myself straightened out. Why d’you ask?”
“Well, I’m playing poker tonight myself.”
Loving looked at him with large round eyes. “You?”
“Right.”
“Playing poker?”
“You think I can’t do it.”
“No, Skipper. It ain’t—I mean, I’m sure you could learn the rules—”
“But you think I’ll get creamed.”
Loving craned his neck awkwardly. “You gotta understand, Skipper. Poker requires a certain … subterfuge, you know? Deviousness.”
Ben tapped his foot. “And?”
“Well, Skipper, you’re about the most totally transparent person I’ve ever known.”
Ben frowned. “Is that good?”
“Not when you’re playing poker.”
“Look, all my life I’ve heard this macho male bonding hype about what a deep, strategic game poker is. Personally, I think it’s about as deep and strategic as Old Maid.”
“As far as the rules go, yeah. But if you want to win, you’ve gotta be able to bluff.”
“Which is a nice word for lying.”
“Bluffing isn’t lying, Skipper. Bluffing is not telling. See, your problem is, you’re so blasted honest, you always come straight out with whatever you know. But sometimes it’s best to hold somethin’ back. Sometimes it’s best to make the other guy guess, maybe let him imagine somethin’ that ain’t necessarily so. That’s half of what poker’s all about.”
“And the other half?”
“Taking risks. And frankly, Skipper, that’s not your strong suit, either.” His face scrunched up. “Why on earth would you want to play poker? Ain’t you still got lots of dough from the Barrett case?”
“Yes. But Earl and all the other guys in the band are playing poker tonight.”
“So?”
“Mike has the idea that the most likely suspects in the Campbell murder are the people who had access to the stage.”
“I see. This is part of your investigation.”
Ben nodded. “I remember something Harry Truman said once. If you really want to get to know a man, you should play poker with him. And I really need to know these people. I want to see how they react when I bring up the murder. When the cops drag them in, they’re guarded, prepared. I want to see what I can f
ind out when their guard is down.”
“You’re going to need help.” Loving wrapped his muscled arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Lemme give you some tips. Three rules to live by.”
“That would be appreciated.”
“If your hand sucks right off the bat, fold.”
Ben grimaced. “Why do I not think this is the secret of champions?”
“Look, maybe you can bluff, maybe you can’t. But no one can do it every time, and no one is going to succeed every time. It’s just like cross-ex—you gotta pick your battles. And there’s no point riskin’ a tub of money on somethin’ that’s prob’ly hopeless from the get-go.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll fold. What else can you recommend?”
“Watch the other players’ faces. Most everyone in the world has some facial tic, gesture, or automatic response to a certain kind of hand. If it’s good, they lean back in their chair. If it stinks, they draw themselves up and pretend it’s a royal flush. Whatever. Almost everyone does somethin’ without thinkin’ about it—and most important, without knowin’ it. If you watch ’em, you can learn the signals.”
“That sounds like good advice. What’s the third rule?”
Loving grinned. “Set aside your cab fare home.”
“Well, well, well. Our esteemed piano player. Now this is a special occasion. Come in.”
Gordo escorted Ben inside his spacious South Tulsa apartment. The poker game floated; tonight it was at Gordo’s. His apartment was much nicer than Ben would have expected for a marginally employed guitar player. Fancy furniture, plus an ample outside porch with an impressive view of the city.
Gordo escorted Ben to the living room, where the other players were huddled around a green table. Cash was flying; chips were being distributed. In addition to Earl and the three musicians, Diane was present; she was wearing a black cap that read TOP GUN and smoking a long skinny cigar. Earl was shuffling, looking none the worse for wear despite all the stress of the past few days. Scat was wearing his trademark dark shades despite the fact that, if anything, it seemed a bit dark in the room. Denny was wearing a blue floral fishing cap, something like a tourist might wear in Hawaii.
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