Follow the Money

by Fingers Murphy

  The Judge cut in again. “But what about the criminal history? Why is it so impossible to believe that Mr. Bishop could have committed the murder. The kid’s got a rap sheet a mile long and a demonstrated history of committing crimes — crimes against women mind you — using a knife as his weapon of choice. Why shouldn’t a jury be entitled to at least hear it all and sort it out for themselves?” Judge Atkinson sat back. Griggs flipped the pages in his brief.

  “Uh, your Honor,” Griggs began, slowly. “As the Court knows, the mere commission of subsequent criminal acts cannot be used to prove that Mr. Bishop committed an entirely different criminal act on an entirely different occasion.”

  Carver rose to speak. “As to that objection, your Honor, if I may.”

  The Judge cut Carver off. “Mr. Carver, I’m sure you’ve got thoughts on that issue, but you’ll have that on appeal, should you need it. I’m not sure the evidence of the criminal convictions adds much one way or the other, and I’m inclined to disregard it for purposes of my decision. I want to make clear that, although I find it interesting, my decision in this case is in no way based upon petitioner’s inclusion of that evidence.”

  “Now, your Honor,” Griggs continued.

  “Mr. Griggs, I think I understand and appreciate your points.” Judge Atkinson spoke in a tone that made it clear he’d heard enough. “This is not an easy case. It’s not easy to overturn a conviction, especially one involving the complexities and heinous acts at issue.”

  Griggs sat back down and Judge Atkinson shuffled through some papers he had in front of him. When he spoke again, he addressed the entire room.

  “The right to counsel and the right to due process guaranteed by our federal Constitution requires that a criminal defendant cannot be properly convicted under our laws without competent representation by counsel or a knowing waiver of the right to counsel.”

  My eyes went back and forth between Carver and Andersen. Both of them were smiling.

  The Judge went on. “There can be no doubt that the jury convicted Mr. Steele on evidence that was, at best circumstantial and inconclusive. The most salient fact the jury had to consider was the simple fact that there was no other suspect. It is my opinion that the failure to investigate Mr. Steele’s alibi in light of the evidence that was clearly obtainable constituted ineffective assistance of counsel. I believe that a reasonably competent attorney would have done more than rely on the police interview of Matt Bishop and that a minimal investigation would have uncovered the evidence offered today. Finally, I conclude that, had the jury been presented with the evidence presented today and in the briefing, the outcome of his trial would have been altered. Based on the forgoing, I hold that the conviction of Mr. James Steele was obtained in violation of the Constitution of the United States and it is therefore vacated.”

  Commotion was already erupting in the courtroom even before the Judge finished. The reporters were clamoring over one another for interviews, lobbing questions on top of questions. Carver reached out to shake hands with Reilly and me, everyone was smiling, everyone was laughing.

  Griggs packed his briefcase and made his way through the crowd, he was followed by Andersen. I watched them thread their way through the mob. Griggs wore a scowl and would say only that he would review the decision and proceed from there. Andersen said nothing at all, but I noticed that his expression had not changed from before. He walked slowly. The smile never left his face.

  19

  I did not want to take Liz to the end of the summer party. But Liz knew all about it — every firm had one — and I felt guilty about Morgan, so there I was, driving my new convertible BMW 335 up the driveway of the Sunset Grand Hotel thinking about how funny my own life was.

  Less than three months before I’d been completely broke and worried about the cost of new dress shirts. Now I was on the fast track. I’d taken the ten grand the firm gave me and trotted on down to the BMW dealership to buy a car like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

  The hotel grounds were immaculately manicured, palatial, and the long driveway curved up the hill through tall palms that stood crisp against the fading evening light. But it was lost on Liz who could only exclaim over and over, “I cannot believe this car!”

  I was almost embarrassed by her enthusiasm. “It’s just a car,” I said, glancing at her, smiling and shaking my own head in disbelief.

  “I’m not saying I’m impressed and I’m not saying I approve of such a waste of money. But my God, this is sweet!” She leaned her head back against the firm leather seat and looked up into the darkening sky. “I can see how riding around in something like this could almost make you forget about selling your soul.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I just might, but not because of the car.” She laughed as she leaned over and tried to nibble my ear. I shrugged my shoulder and squirmed away from her.

  “The valet! Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe.” She giggled, as the valet opened her door and she stepped out onto the grounds of the grand old Hollywood landmark that sat above Sunset Boulevard, tucked into the hills. I watched her slink out of the car in her small blue dress. Liz didn’t dress up often, but when she did, she turned heads. My nerves were taking over. I hoped that somehow Morgan would not be there and my eyes scanned the crowds, straining to confirm that hope.

  The ballroom was not large, but it was elegant in a way that most things in Los Angeles are incapable of being. Built in the 1920s in what was then a quiet village at the outer edge of the city, it had the feeling of a grand old theatre. Which made sense, because most of its functions served the then burgeoning movie industry. The ceiling was a maze of art deco ridges and crowns and swirls. The walls were more of the same, combined with rich tapestries. The floor was an intricate series of inlayed woods, the massive pattern of which could only be appreciated from the aerial view of one of the four seat balconies that sat high up in the middle of each wall.

  I studied the room for Morgan when we walked in and, not seeing her, breathed a little easier. There would be a cocktail hour prior to dinner. My plan was to avoid her by ensuring that we sat as far away from her as possible during the meal. Once the dinner was over, I planned to leave without partaking in the festivities. If all went well, we would slip out without any tense moments of any kind.

  We made polite conversation with people I knew only slightly. Standing in groups of four or five, there were introductions, perfunctory talk about what a nice location it was, and then the conversation would nose dive into discussions of work and whether people were going to accept their offers. I was saved only by having to return to the bar for more drinks. And, while waiting for a gin and tonic and a glass of chardonnay, I heard her voice from behind me.

  “I take it she’s not your sister.”

  I turned to see her in the tight black dress I’d once peeled off of her. I tried to laugh it off and turned back to the bar, trying not to think about our night on the town.

  “She’s cute, for a fool.” Morgan went on. “Where have you been hiding her?”

  “Please,” I said, holding the glass of wine and waiting for my drink. “I was never hiding her.” I smiled. “I was hiding you.” I surprised myself with my own boldness, and I regretted saying it almost immediately. But Morgan laughed it off.

  “I can’t blame you for that.” She moved past me and up to the bar. I thought of Mack’s, and then I thought of what happened after. “Just remember.”

  “Remember what?” I responded, sensing a threat in her tone of voice. I reached for the gin and tonic and tried to relax. My heart was pounding. Morgan hadn’t done anything wrong. I was the bad guy. I reminded myself of that. Pissing Morgan off was the worst thing I could do. I felt sweat at the back of my neck.

  “Nothing dearie. Just remember, that’s all. I didn’t come here to cause you any problems.” She turned back to the bar. I walked off with the drinks, my head racing with fear. There were a thousand ways she could destroy me and I thought
of them all simultaneously.

  But when I returned with the drinks, Liz seemed not to notice the tension in my face. She took her glass of wine and smiled at me with eyes that said, “I don’t know why I wanted to come to this thing.” It was the same boring party that all work related functions turn out to be. An evening of food and drinks with people you already spend too much time around and do not consider “friends” in any real sense of the word. I put my arm around Liz and we slowly made our way to the far side of the room, as far from Morgan as we could get. I kept glancing across the room, monitoring her position as we moved through the crowd.

  We sat at a large table with Jim Carver and his wife, Tom Reilly and a date, and a couple of other summers and their dates. It was painful. I could see Morgan sitting across the room with the other summers from Yale, all of them ingratiating themselves to several partners who’d also gone to Yale. It looked like a pep rally promoting the virtues of incest.

  Jim and his wife talked about their vacation in France, how they rented a villa, took walking tours, and ate too much. One of the other summers mentioned that his uncle owned an estate in the same region, but he said it as though it were practically his. It was a comment designed to impress Carver, but it didn’t seem to work. Reilly, however, made a point of commenting on everything, as though compelled by some inner need to constantly remind the world of his existence.

  At one point, Liz leaned over and whispered in my ear. “My God, this is going to be more painful than I’d imagined.” I had to agree. All in all, it was a thoroughly intolerable conversation that gave me a reason besides Morgan to want to leave as soon as possible.

  The conversation died off as everyone focused on eating and drinking themselves into oblivion. The more often a glass or fork was in one of their faces, the less often anyone had to speak. I watched the other two summers plow through a bottle of wine apiece.

  At the end of the meal, before dessert was served, the managing partner of the Los Angeles office gave a speech that sounded very similar to the one we’d all heard at the beginning of the summer, except that all of the verbs were now past tense. The summer was wonderful. They’d enjoyed working with each and every one of us. It was painful to sit through. Everyone was glad when it was over.

  Liz and I ate several bites of bad cheesecake, drank a polite amount of coffee, and waited for the moment when it would be acceptable to get up and make an exit. I continued to watch Morgan’s movements across the room. In the hour it took to eat, I’d managed to relax and scope out the doors. The coat room was not far from where we sat and the valet was just beyond that. If we acted early, we would be gone before anything bad could happen. But I’d seen Morgan pour at least four glasses of wine and I knew she had a tendency to speak freely when she was drinking. Swiftness would be rewarded. I leaned over and spoke in Liz’s ear.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready,” she whispered back.

  I scooted my chair back. As soon as I moved the rest of the table did the same. There were polite comments about how wonderful everything had been, and then we were all standing around the table, nodding and shaking hands. It was happening at other tables too. Though there was ostensibly drinking and dancing following dinner, it appeared that few would be staying. No one, it seemed, wanted to spend that much time with their co-workers.

  Liz leaned over and said she had to run to the bathroom. Then she added, “You get the coats and I’ll meet you out front.” She smiled and winked at me as she left for the ladies room.

  I watched her go, suddenly worried about the time delay. I had not anticipated a bathroom break. I watched Liz take a place in line at the women’s “lounge” and started to panic.

  I went for the coats. As I handed the claim tickets to the short lady behind the counter, I felt an arm reach around me from behind. My heart stopped. I knew without looking. I could smell her. I turned and pulled back, but she was up against me, obviously drunk, with her hand on my chest.

  “So what are you doing after you drop her off?” Morgan giggled, looking up at me, her eyes glassy from cocktails and wine.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” My voice was filled with surprise, shock, outrage. I tried to back up but was already against the counter.

  “What? I’m leaving town on Sunday, you’ll be safe. Christ, she really makes you uptight, doesn’t she?”

  Trapped, my eyes scanned the wide, crowded hallway. The lady returned with the coats and I clutched them, desperate to make an escape. “Will you please not do this?”

  Morgan giggled, her face close to mine, breathing up at me. “Jeez, since when did you become such a stick in the mud?” She patted me on the chest with one hand and reached down with the other and brushed her fingers quickly and discreetly between my legs. “Aren’t we going to celebrate our job offers? I know you know how to celebrate.”

  I tried to push past her and stopped cold. Liz was there, only a few feet away, standing and watching and listening. How much of it had she seen and heard? Morgan turned and smiled, embarrassed for Liz, a condescending empathy in her eyes. I was nothing but an object in the world to her. Something to be toyed with when it suited her and then tossed aside.

  I could see it about to happen and then happening. There it was, the moment I’d been dreading, playing out right in front of me and I was helpless to do anything but watch. Liz’s eyes went back and forth, from Morgan to me. The recognition slowly crept into her face and eyes. She was shocked, stunned, confused, and angry all at once. She started to speak, made only a soft grunting sound, and then slowly shook her head and turned around, accelerating as she walked.

  Morgan looked at me, smiling and almost laughing. “Man, she really looks pissed.” I wanted to hit her, to punch her right in the face and knock her out, but I started to go after Liz instead. Morgan caught my arm as I turned. “What are you going to do? Chase after her like a buffoon? Do you think this is a fuckin’ movie or something? Let her go, before you embarrass yourself in front of everybody.”

  I pulled my arm free and went out through the crowd.

  Liz had already ordered a cab. She stood with her arms folded across her chest as the doorman blew his whistle and waved. I came up beside her.

  “Liz, c’mon, it’s not like that.” I reached out for her, but she moved her shoulder and shuffled away from me. “Liz,” I said again, softly. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say after that. She turned and looked at me. Her face quivered. Her eyes watered at the edges.

  “Can you not embarrass me any more than you already have?”

  I started to speak and she cut me short, putting her hand on her forehead and shielding her eyes. “Please!” She wiped her face and looked at me coldly. “Please. Just shut up and don’t make a scene. You’ve done enough already.”

  “Liz. You’ve got the wrong idea. I just—” I hesitated. I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t make my voice sound like I believed anything I was saying, let alone like it was the truth. All I could manage was, “It’s not what you think.”

  “Fuck you.” She turned to me and snatched her jacket from my hand as the cab pulled up behind her. “You fucking bring me here. In front of all of these people. Everyone knows. Everyone’s looking at me thinking what a fucking fool I am, feeling sorry for me.” She was crying now. She was angry but trying not to scream at me. The doorman held the cab door open for her and pretended not to hear.

  “Liz, it’s not like that.” I held my arms at my side, slack and defeated.

  “Goddamn you. I fucking hate you. I can’t believe it.” She wiped her face with her hand, her mascara smearing. “If you think these people don’t know that you’ve been fucking her, like she hasn’t told everyone, then you’re as big a fool as I am. You’re—” She shook her head. She was out of words. She had nothing left. She threw her coat in the back of the cab, grabbed the door, and began to climb in. Then, turning back for a second, complete disgust on her face, she said, “I hate you for this. I can’t belie
ve you did this to me.”

  Then she was gone. I watched the taxi disappear into the lush green of the palm trees and grass. I couldn’t believe I’d done that to her either.

  20

  I spent what was to be the final week of the summer trying to distract myself from thinking about Liz. The problem was, there wasn’t a lot to do. Most of the other summers had already left.

  Although there wasn’t much in the way of work, there was the monitoring of the Internet, and the reading of news stories about the case that never named me but to which I felt an intimate connection nonetheless. I cleaned my office. I bought books for my classes. I answered the questions of the curious people who just wanted to talk about the case. But in the quiet moments, my mind drifted to a singular focus: Liz.

  I could see her eyes, at the moment of recognition, when she realized that I’d been as cruel to her as I possibly could without so much as a thought about the depth of the pain I would ultimately inflict. I could see her turn and walk away. I had watched that image replay itself in an infinite loop inside my head. One moment of action that I hoped I could somehow undo, if only so she was not so hurt or, perhaps simply so I could feel better about myself.

  I had called her only once in the days immediately afterward, but I did so at a time I believed she would not be home. It was halfhearted, true, but I left a message that permitted me to think, at least for a while, that I’d placed the ball squarely in her court. That somehow it was her responsibility to fix it.

  In many ways, the shitty life a lawyer ended up with because he worked too much was easily avoided by simply working more. I found that I began to delight somewhat in the obscene logic of it all. But as the final week of the summer died, there was less and less to occupy me. As I sat in my office on the last day of the last week before classes began again, I had nothing left to distract me.