Heartstone

by Phillip Margolin

  2

  “She left the baby in front of the neighbor’s door,” Stout said.

  “No kidding?” said the middle-aged nurse who had heard the story before in a dozen different forms and was only trying to make conversation.

  “She’s lucky she isn’t dead,” the policeman said.

  The nurse agreed, even though she did not really care. Dr. Tucker was coming down the hall. The policeman was going on. Something about a note the girl had left before taking all those pills. She smiled at Dr. Tucker when he passed by.

  Dr. Tucker nodded at the nurse. He was at the tail end of a hard day. One last patient and then home.

  “The neighbor says the husband left her when she got pregnant. Then she was depressed after the baby came. They thought she’d gotten over it this summer.”

  “Maybe it was the change of seasons. I read someplace…”

  Dr. Tucker missed the nurse’s theory. I’ll have to ask her someday, he thought. Change of seasons. As good as any theory about why humans try to destroy themselves. What was this one anyway? Caucasian, female, 22. He shook his head. What could be so bad that young? Well, it didn’t matter now. She would be all right. Maybe they shouldn’t try so hard to save some of them. It was their choice. Maybe this one would have been better off.

  The door opened and Dr. Tucker looked over his shoulder. A tall, sad-looking man in a heavy overcoat had entered the room.

  “Can I help you?” Dr. Tucker said, annoyed at the intrusion.

  “I’m Detective Shindler, Portsmouth Police. I wanted to know how she is.”

  Dr. Tucker was about to reply when the girl moaned and opened her eyes. They were still glassy and she was having trouble holding her eyelids open. Shindler moved closer so that he could see her.

  “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked in a voice he hoped sounded cheerful.

  She was trying to work her lips. Dampening them with her tongue. It took effort to talk and she closed her eyes for a moment to gain strength. When she finally spoke, it came out slurred and barely audible and it sounded like “Is dead?” but Shindler couldn’t be sure.

  The doctor leaned forward and tried, “Your baby is fine,” but she just stared at him with a confused look. Then she began to weep.

  “He had no face,” she cried. Her tears streamed onto her pillow. Shindler felt a cold finger touch the base of his spine. Dr. Tucker was exhausted, but he summoned his reserves and tried to comfort her.

  “They wouldn’t let him go. They just hit him.”

  “No one struck your son, Mrs. Pegalosi. Your baby is fine. He is perfectly okay.”

  She was confused again. She stopped crying and shook her head from side to side.

  “No baby. Dead. They hit…didn’t he? Died. Oh, God.”

  She was off again. Dr. Tucker sighed. Shindler moved to the edge of the bed.

  “Esther, was it Richie?” he whispered.

  The doctor swung around. He had forgotten about the detective.

  “You’ll have to leave.”

  “Was it Richie?”

  “Hey,” Tucker said sharply, “you’re out.”

  “So much blood,” Esther sobbed.

  “Doctor, I…” Shindler began.

  “I said out. This girl is in serious condition.”

  Shindler looked down at the girl. Her head lolled to one side and she was asleep. The doctor pushed him through the door.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but…”

  “I’m sorry,” Shindler interrupted.

  “You should know better than to carry on like that.”

  “Doctor, I said I was sorry and I meant it. Now, I have to talk to you. That girl may have important information concerning a homicide. Could we talk for a few minutes?”

  Mark Shaeffer opened the door to misdemeanor arraignment court and found a seat in the back of a crowded courtroom presided over by a young judge who was in the process of reading an elderly black man his rights.

  “Do you understand that you have a right to have a lawyer appointed if you cannot afford to hire one, Mr. Dykes?”

  “What I need a lawyer fo’ if I didn’t do nothin’? I been tellin’ you, I’m innocent.”

  “Mr. Dykes, this isn’t a trial court. The only purpose in having you in court today is to tell you what you are accused of, to ask you if you have a lawyer and to find out if you want to plead guilty or not guilty. You are charged with assault and that is a serious crime. You should have a lawyer to represent you in court.”

  “But see, that’s what I been tellin’ you. I ain’t done no assault. It was my bottle of wine and when I wouldn’t give that no good skunk some he grabbed me. So I natchally hit him. But it was my wine.”

  “Mr. Dykes, I don’t want to hear the facts of your case now. I am going to appoint a lawyer to represent you.”

  The judge turned to a policeman who was standing in front of a door that led out of the courtroom and into the courthouse jail.

  “Officer Waites, is this man in custody?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Dykes was standing in front of one of two tables that were set before the raised bench where the judge sat. A young man sat behind the second table, which was covered with files. The judge turned to him.

  “Mr. Caproni, what is the position of the District Attorney’s office on letting this man out of jail on his promise to return?”

  Caproni searched his files and pulled one out.

  “Your honor, the recog. officer interviewed Mr. Dykes last night and he recommended that he not be released on his own recognizance, because he could not provide him with a residence address.”

  “Mr. Dykes, where are you living?”

  “Now I’m at the Mission, but I wants to get to the DuMont Hotel. Only I ain’t got the money now.”

  “Your Honor, in light of the seriousness of the charge and Mr. Dykes’s transient status I would request that Mr. Dykes not be granted recog. According to the police report, William Thomas, the victim, required twelve stitches.”

  The judge’s brow furrowed and he thought for a moment. Then he sighed.

  “I suppose you are right, Mr. Caproni. Mr. Dykes, I will appoint a lawyer for you and continue your case until tomorrow morning.”

  “You mean I got to stay in jail?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But I ain’t done nothin’ and that skunk Willie Thomas knows it.”

  “We will take this up with your lawyer in the morning.

  “Bailiff?”

  An elderly man sitting at a table to the judge’s right called a new case as Mr. Dykes was escorted back to jail.

  “State versus Rasmussen.”

  Mark stood up and approached the table where Mr. Dykes had stood. The door to the jail opened and a grubby-looking man in his middle twenties, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, was being led out. He had a stubble of light blond hair and he gave off the unwashed, urine smell that all new arrestees who have spent the night in the drunk tank exude.

  “Your Honor, I am Mark Shaeffer. I was just appointed to represent Mr. Rasmussen this morning. I wonder if I could talk to him for a few minutes before entering a plea.”

  “Certainly. There is an interview room in the jail. We’ll call another case while you talk.”

  “State versus Marsha LaDue,” the bailiff said. The jailer led Rasmussen back to jail and Mark followed. A well-dressed young woman and an equally well-dressed older man with a briefcase were approaching the table.

  The jailer put them in a small room with a table and two bridge chairs and locked the metal door behind him. Mark opened his attaché case and took out the case file.

  “Mr. Rasmussen, my name is Mark Shaeffer and I have been appointed to represent you.”

  Rasmussen’s hand was damp when they shook. He grinned sheepishly and ran his hand through his hair.

  “I guess they got me good. I thought for sure that I could make it home. That damn cop got me a block from my
house.”

  “Before you discuss the facts of the case with me, I should tell you the legal definition of “Driving Under the Influence of Intoxicating Liquor.” You may think that you have violated the law, but…”

  “Think? Hell,” he laughed, “I was shitfaced. Look, I appreciate your help. I really do. But I did it and I just want to get this over with and get home to my wife. She doesn’t even know where I am.”

  “All right,” Mark said reluctantly, “but why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. Drunk driving is a serious charge. Maybe I can work a deal with the D.A. and get you a light sentence or a plea to a reduced charge. Now how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  “Any kids?”

  “One. A boy. Four.”

  “Employed?”

  “I’m going to college. This is my second semester. I got out of the army about six months ago.”

  Court was in recess and Albert Caproni was talking to Judge Mercante’s secretary, a sexy blond who was laughing at something the young D.A. had just said. Mark waited until Caproni had finished. Then he cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me. I’m Mark Shaeffer. I wonder if I could talk to you about the Rasmussen case?”

  “Sure. I’m Al Caproni. What’s the charge?” He asked as he rifled through his files.

  “He has a drunk driving charge. I was curious about what kind of deal we could work out if, uh, well, if he pleads now.”

  Caproni found the file and took out the police report and a printout of Rasmussen’s criminal record.

  “His rap sheet shows that he’s clean except for a speeding ticket a few years ago. Let’s see. The report says that he failed to signal when he made a right turn. Officer followed. Weaving. Pulled him over.”

  Caproni skipped around, mumbling now and then.

  “He was polite. No accident. Listen, he sounds okay. What does he do?”

  “He’s a college student. Just out of the army.”

  “Tell ya what. I’ll let him plead to “Reckless Driving.” Mercante will be easy on him and he’ll probably just get a fine.”

  “Your Honor, I have talked with Mr. Caproni. He has agreed to substitute a charge of “Reckless Driving” for the drunk driving charge against Mr. Rasmussen. I have talked with my client and he has agreed to plead to the reduced charge.”

  “Is that your wish, Mr. Rasmussen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that agreeable to the District Attorney’s Office, Mr. Caproni?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Rasmussen, are you aware that I could sentence you to six months in jail or fine you $500 or both if you plead guilty to this charge?”

  “My lawyer explained that.”

  “And you still wish to enter a plea of guilty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Your plea will be accepted. Mr. Caproni, what are the facts of this case?”

  Caproni handed the judge the police report. When he had finished reading it, he asked Mark if there was anything he wished to say on behalf of his client.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Rasmussen is a college student. He just got out of the army and is married and has a child. This is his first scrape with the law except for a speeding ticket in 1962. I think probation would be appropriate here. If the court is considering a fine, I hope you will take into account the fact that I am court-appointed and Mr. Rasmussen and his family are living off what his wife makes as a secretary.”

  “Thank you, counsel. Do you have anything to suggest with regard to sentencing, Mr. Caproni?”

  “Your Honor, I agree with Mr. Shaeffer. Probation sounds appropriate in this case.”

  “Thank you. You know, Mr. Rasmussen, you are going to get off easy this time, because your record is excellent. Your insurance would have gone sky high and you would have lost your license for a month if you had been convicted of “Driving Under the Influence.” Your lawyer did an excellent job getting this charge reduced. Next time you may not be lucky enough to have Mr. Shaeffer representing you.

  “Even more important. Next time you might kill somebody. Think about that the next time you have too much to drink and decide to drive.

  “I am going to sentence you to thirty days in jail and give you credit for time served. I am going to suspend the imposition of that sentence and put you on probation for one year. If you are arrested for drunk driving again, you will have to serve your time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There will be no fine.”

  Shaeffer thanked the judge and walked Rasmussen back to jail.

  “I want to thank you,” Rasmussen said.

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “I mean it. I would have just pleaded to the other charge and lost my license. I didn’t realize that I could get a reduced charge.”

  Mark smiled.

  “That’s why they appoint a lawyer for you.”

  “Say, do you have a business card? If I ever get in trouble again, you’re the guy I’ll call.”

  Mark laughed and gave him several of his cards. They talked for a few minutes and Mark returned to his office.

  Eddie Toller stood outside his office door and looked over the early customers who were starting to fill up the dark red interior of the Satin Slipper Lounge. Eddie was thirty-nine years old and five feet nine-and-a-half inches tall. He was skinny and, at one hundred and forty pounds, he was considerably under what he had once read was the proper weight for someone his size. Eddie stayed thin by not eating. He just did not have an appetite and, besides, he had an allergy to dairy products.

  The early crowd was mostly businessmen stopping for a quick one before heading home to the suburbs. The people who came later in the evening were a different type. More working people and singles. Eddie smiled. He had a nice smile that went well with his features, which were often described as “kindly.” The first time Joyce saw his sad eyes and the droopy salt and pepper mustache that he had cultivated in prison she thought immediately of Shep, a terrier that had lived its life with her family. In his later years, the dog lost his spark and loafed around the house all day, relaxed and content. Eddie looked like someone who had passed by youth and its illusions. He was tired and not inclined to race.

  Eddie wandered over to the bar and said hello to the bartender, Sammy White. Sammy was an ex-boxer who had worked for Carl for years. He was friendly and he had given Eddie a few worthwhile tips when Eddie started as assistant manager a few weeks before.

  Eddie looked at his watch and glanced toward the door. Joyce should be arriving any minute. He couldn’t wait to see her. During the last few years he had been in and out of jail a lot. Never anything real serious. Mostly burglaries and one auto theft. Anyhow, he had spent a lot of time in the joint and the one thing he never got used to was that there weren’t any women.

  Eddie was a guy who needed women. Wait, that was not right. Eddie was no ladies man or womanizer. What Eddie needed was one woman. Someone to take care of him and tell him what to do. Not that he admitted this to himself, but it was a fact, borne out by thirty-nine years of history, that Eddie could not take care of himself.

  When Eddie was young, his mother had looked after him so much that he never learned how to do it himself. Then the army had looked after him. It was after the army that Eddie started trying to think for himself. That, by coincidence, was when he started getting in trouble.

  Joyce walked in and Eddie waved at her. Eddie met Joyce his second day as assistant manager. She was a cocktail waitress in the bar. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but she wasn’t a dog either. Eddie liked her figure right off. He didn’t go for those busty girls that were always throwing their tits around. He liked them skinny, but with long legs. That was Joyce. He didn’t mind that she was taller than he was. He liked looking up at her blue eyes and touching her long blond hair.

  Eddie was sure that he was falling in love with Joyce. He had never had anyone who cared about him the wa
y Joyce did. Oh, he’d had girlfriends, but they were temporary things. With Joyce he found himself thinking about something permanent. And why not? He wasn’t getting any younger and things were starting to go right for him, for once. Here he was only a month and a half out of the joint and he had a steady job. His first since he could not remember when. And a girl, too.

  “You’re late,” Eddie kidded, looking at his watch.

  “Whatta ya gonna do, Eddie, fire me?” Joyce asked.

  “I just might,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You ain’t got the heart, you big lunk. I got your number.”

  He looked at her real serious and said, “You do and you know it.”

  She blushed and he did too. Then she looked troubled and unsure.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Eddie, let’s go to the office and talk.”

  “Sure,” he said, uncertain, because of her sudden change of mood. They walked over to the office. The main office belonged to Carl, who owned the Satin Slipper and managed it. Eddie had a small office down the hall. It was the first office he had ever had, except for a desk he had had in the army when he was a supply sergeant. The office was not much. An old wooden desk, a filing cabinet and some hard wooden chairs. But he was proud of it.

  “Eddie, I’ve been thinking a lot about us.”

  Oh, Jesus, was his first thought, she wants to stop seeing me.

  “I like you a lot, Eddie. And I know you like me. Don’t you?”

  “Well…Yes. I…I like you.”

  He stuttered and looked down at the desk. She touched his cheek.

  “Eddie, I want you to quit working for Carl.”

  Eddie looked up, shocked.

  “Quit? Are you nuts?”

  “Eddie, I’m worried. Carl is taking advantage of you and you are going to get in a lot of trouble.”

  “Carl! Taking advantage! Honey, Carl gave me this job. I owe him. What other guy is gonna take a chance on a guy with my record. Besides, I ain’t done anything I could get in trouble for.”

  “You know that’s not true. There’s a lot of dirty money that comes through this bar. There’s numbers and don’t think I don’t know about the drugs.”