by A. W. Gray
“But the way this has to happen … ”
“Relax, Whitley, I was only giving an example. Sometimes, with women, I can make it look like a rapo. That way nobody ever suspects it’s a contract murder, you know? You got to collect on a partnership insurance policy. Way you and your partner been getting along, you’re lucky it’s you talking to me instead of him. Am I right?”
Resignedly, Morris said, “I suppose you are.”
Adriani looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to interrupt this little talk. Just like when Mimi interrupts your meeting to give you a blow job. Something on the news I want to see.”
Adriani picked up the remote and turned on the big screen, sipped orange juice while Morris fretted in silence. Adriani’s pliant features changed from impatience—as the Houston scenes rolled across the screen—to disgust—as the mayor addressed the gays. As the station played the feature on Rusty Benson’s arrest, Adriani squinted attentively. As soon as Rusty and his deputy escort disappeared into the jail, Adriani switched off the television.
“I may have fucked up again, Whitley,” Adriani said.
“How’s that?”
“Didn’t you see? Fucking guy’s a lawyer. Anytime a lawyer’s involved, you’re in for a world of hurt.” Adriani reached into an end table drawer, came up with a pad and a ballpoint. “Now we’re ready for particulars, Whitley. Going in. I don’t fly nothing but First Class. Let’s have that understood at the outset, okay?”
12
BINO CALLED THE HARRIS COUNTY JAIL AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING and learned about what he’d expected. Rusty was on his way to court as part of a prisoner’s chain gang. His lawyer could consult with him in the holding cell behind court around eight o’clock, an hour before the bond hearing. The deputy on the phone had slurred speech, as if he was speaking through a jawful of chewing tobacco. Bino asked directions to the felony court where Rusty’s case was assigned. The deputy wouldn’t say for security reasons, and referred Bino to the Harris County District Attorney. Bino called the D.A.’s office, found out what he wanted to know, and hung up the phone.
He went in to take a shower. He had a tough time adjusting the massager-nozzle so that the Niagara of water wouldn’t knock him out of the tub, and an even tougher time squeezing enough shampoo from the tiny complimentary bottle to wash his hair. He somehow shaved without cutting himself, but singed his scalp with the hotel blow dryer. Finally he looked himself over in the mirror. His lips were bruised and the cut over his eye probably could have used some stitches. Well, if he couldn’t argue Harris County into granting bail for Rusty, maybe he could scare the judge into action.
He left the bathroom and dressed in his lone navy blue suit and red polka-dot tie. He never went on a trip without forgetting something. This time it was his dress belt. That meant going through the day with his coat buttoned and hoping his pants didn’t fall down. What the hell, he’d have to live with it.
He gently shook Carla. She mumbled something, pulled the sheet tightly around her, and snuggled deeper down in the bed. He went over to the bureau, located stationery, and left her a note. Looking at Carla reminded him of what she’d said about Judge Edgar Bryson, which further reminded him that he had a couple of bones to pick with Rusty. He left the hotel at a brisk walk, covering the six blocks to the courthouse in less than a quarter hour.
The Harris County Criminal Courts Building was pure county government, an uninteresting, plain structure of ten or twelve stories with a white stone exterior. He had some time, so he spent a few minutes watching the parade of rush-hour bus and auto traffic, and perspiring in the muggy Houston air. Jesus, but it was humid in the bayou. Bino had gone to law school in Houston, at South Texas College of Law, and once he’d received his sheepskin he’d vowed never to set foot in the town again. It was a vow that he hadn’t been able to keep—there was just too much commerce between Texas’s two largest cities for a Dallas lawyer to escape a trip to the bayou every once in a while—but that didn’t stop him from hating the place. He’d seen all of downtown Houston that he wanted to see. He went over to the building entry, held the door while three women in business dresses brushed past without so much as a thank-you, and went inside.
The lobby guard, a chubby young guy wearing a pistol, gave him directions to the courtroom. He took the stairs up for the exercise and arrived in court fifteen minutes too early
to visit the holding cell, so he sat down on a front-row spectators’ bench to wait. Three other guys in suits with briefcases waited as well.
The man seated directly beside him said, “Hey, how’s the hook shot?”
Bino turned his head and looked the guy over; long and lanky with thinning brown hair, green eyes with little laugh crinkles at the corners. “Jimmy Lankford,” Bino said, extending his hand. “Long time.” The great State of Texas was a very small world.
Lankford had a firm grip. “Damn near twenty years since the last time you-all beat us down here. You swished so many baseline jumpers that the scorekeep had to get a second sheet.” He glanced at Bino’s puffy eye. “What are you, a lawyer or a boxer?”
Bino winced as he touched his lip. “I still play a little basketball. Collision with the gym floor. Since you’re asking, I didn’t think Rice grads went to law school. I thought all you guys were engineers, sat around building bridges and whatnot.”
“Sometimes it takes four years of college to find out what you don’t want to do,” Lankford said. “I went back to school after a couple of years, and now I spend most of my time arguing with the D.A. over how much time my clients are going to get.”
“Along with the rest of us.” Bino rested his ankle on his knee, leaning back. “I’m lucky to run into you. I’m a fish out of water in Harris County, so I wonder what I’m up against with this judge here.”
Lankford glanced toward the other two lawyers, then leaned close and said guardedly to Bino, “You really want to know?”
“Please don’t say it’s that bad.”
“For most cases, about what you get up in Dallas,” Lankford said. “Stacked against the defense about 75-25, but all right. The client I’ve got today should be in misdemeanor court, but it’s the fourth time he’s walked off with a shirt or pair of underwear at Foley’s, and they’ve bumped him to a felony. But he’ll get an okay deal. You, though ... if I took a wild guess, Bino, I’d say you’re representing Rusty Benson.”
Bino raised his eyebrows. “I got a sign on or something?”
“Seems you represent everybody that gets on television,” Lankford said. “I watch the news, old buddy. Don’t you have one of those Dallas cops under indictment in the fed?”
“Yeah,” Bino said. “Tommy Clinger. Hey, I don’t try to get in the newspapers. With Rusty Benson, we’d be better off if there wasn’t any publicity. Today I got a plain vanilla bond hearing that ought to take about five minutes. With the coverage, I don’t know. I might have to bring my lunch.”
Lankford was suddenly serious. He glanced furtively toward the back of the courtroom, then said, “You’d better hold onto your ass with both hands on that Benson case, old friend.”
Bino tilted his head. “How so?”
“I’ve got a client that’s a diver. I’m talking out of school, but I’ve got some things you ought to know.”
Bino cleared his throat, uncrossed and recrossed his legs.
“My client was one of the divers that helped haul Mrs. Benson out of that canal the other day,” Lankford said. “The weird thing was, his deal was with the Channel Board and the HPD. Two days he spent, pulling up one wreck after another, and those cops weren’t running makes on those old heaps. Harry thinks they knew what they were looking for all along. And he thinks the feds were involved.”
“Fuck a duck,” Bino said. “What made him think so?”
“According to Harry,” Lankford said, “the entire time he’s diving within a hundred
yards of the spot where they finally located her car. They had the Caddy pinpointed. Then they told Harry and his partner to keep their mouths shut or else, and even paid them in cash as an incentive. This can’t go any further, Bino, otherwise my client’s liable to find himself locked up just for telling me about it. But the payoff, where they sent him for his money, was the Houston FBI office.”
Bino cocked his head. “Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that,” Lankford said. “If anybody finds out I—”
“You don’t have to worry,” Bino said. “And thanks for the information. I don’t know what I’ll do about it, the first order of business is to get my client free on bond. Tell you the truth, I probably won’t be Rusty’s lawyer after the bond hearing.
We’ve got a little conflict of interest problem, has to do with that cop I’m representing.”
Lankford checked his surroundings once more. One of the other lawyers was watching; Lankford hitched himself around to face Bino, then said, “I don’t want to nose into your case, so just tell me and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“You’ve already given me more help in five minutes than I’ve gotten from anybody,” Bino said. “So please go on.”
“Well, if I were you,” Lankford said, “I wouldn’t be expecting to get my boy out on bond. Not Rusty Benson.”
“Oh, come on,” Bino said. “Like him or not, Rusty’s not any bond risk. Plus, you know the law, that hearing this morning is a probable cause. Before they can hold him they’ve got to put on evidence that he did it, and believe me, Rusty’s got alibis up the yin-yang for the past two weeks.” Almost as if he knew he was going to have to account for his whereabouts, Bino thought.
Lankford clicked his teeth together. “It doesn’t work that way in Harris County, bucko. Dallas lawyers get their asses in a crack down here every day. Most local law enforcement has it in for the feds, but Harris County does whatever Uncle Sam says in these cases. I wish you luck, but if the feds want Rusty Benson in jail in Houston, Texas, then that’s where he’s going to stay.”
The holding cell behind the 142nd District Court for Harris County had a barred door like a scene from a western movie. Behind the bars prisoners sat on a double row of iron benches, milled around aimlessly, or sat on the floor Indian style with their ankles crossed. There was a single stainless-steel toilet enclosed in chest-high partitions within the cell. As Bino and the deputy-in-charge approached, a black man who was built like a fireplug took a leak with the door open. The deputy said loudly, “Shut the fuckin’ door, asshole.” The prisoner sneered over his shoulder and kept on pissing.
Bino spotted Rusty seated on the far end of one of the benches, alongside a Mexican guy with a handlebar mustache. Rusty sat leaned forward with his forehead resting morosely on his lightly clenched fist, like The Thinker. He hadn’t shaved and his watch and rings were missing; encircling his left wrist was a white plastic prisoner’s ID band. He wore a khaki-colored jumpsuit with the words “County Jail” stenciled between his shoulder blades in large black letters. He wore no socks; his feet were in black plastic sandals and showed raw red marks where the sandals had pressed into his ankles and insteps. Even in this situation Rusty stood out; Bino couldn’t help thinking of a matinee idol, Alec Baldwin perhaps, playing the part of a guy in jail.
The jailer rattled the door. “Benson. Your lawyer’s here.”
Rusty looked up slowly. His eyes were bloodshot beneath puffy lids. He showed a weak smile. “I’ll bet I’m a lot gladder to see you than you are to see me,” he said, getting up, approaching and wrapping big hands around the bars. A black guy and a Mexican guy had a race for the seat which Rusty had vacated. The black guy won.
The deputy said, “Rules are, you stand a foot apart. Don’t pass anything between you other than pen and paper. I’ll be sitting over there.” He backed away and sat in a chair near the door leading to the courtroom.
“I’ve stood outside a lot of holding tanks, just like you have,” Rusty said to Bino. “You get to think you know what it’s like to be in here. Believe me, you don’t.”
Bino glanced behind him to where the deputy now read a newspaper, then said to Rusty, “We’ve only got a few minutes, so we’ve got to talk fast. First of all, you need to know, I got some pretty straight poop that the feds are involved in arresting you.”
There was a slight shift in Rusty’s gaze. Bino went on. “There’s more. When did you and Judge Edgar Bryson get to be buddies?” He kept his expression calm and waited for some reaction.
And did he ever get one. Rusty sagged like a man punched in the solar plexus. He looked at his feet. “Who told you that?”
“What does it matter?”
Rusty looked up. “Well, it’s nobody’s business.”
“Maybe it’s not. But a judge palling around with a defense lawyer practicing in his court? Somebody will make it their business, if I don’t.”
Rusty pointed a finger. “I hired you to get me out on bail. That’s all.”
Bino’s chin moved to one side. “That’s right, you did. And I’ll do my damnedest to. Tell you the truth, I don’t think the state’s got dick for evidence, and I think you’ll get bail.”
“That’s all I want.” Rusty backed away. “Are you through now?”
Bino looked at him.
“If you are, I’ve got some thinking to do,” Rusty said.
Bino stepped back as well. “Yeah, Rusty, I’m through. You know, I just learned something good.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“That regardless of whether this murder beef is bullshit,” Bino said, “things are looking up for my main client. You know, Tommy Clinger?”
“I thought we weren’t discussing that case,” Rusty said. “You and I.”
“Oh, we’re not,” Bino said. “It’s just that Tommy’s going to be glad he’s not the big fish in that federal investigation any more. If you want to see the whale, baby, go look in the mirror. See you in court, Rusty.” He started to leave, then stopped and turned. “Oh, and Rusty. On the murder. Start thinking about a lawyer. Once you get released on bond, I’m outta here.”
As he sat alongside Jimmy Lankford, waiting for the judge to arrive in court, Bino gave himself a pep talk. He had to get himself inspired. He’d taken Rusty’s money and agreed to represent the guy, and like it or not, for the time being he was stuck.
Lankford pointed to the front. “Ready to meet the other side?”
Bino followed Lankford’s direction. A man lounged at the state’s table, talking to the bailiff. The guy was in his thirties with coal black hair, sideburns chopped off even with the tops of his ears. He wore a navy blue pinstripe, and his eyes had an I’m-suspicious glaze about them.
“The prosecutor?” Bino said.
“Persecutor is more like it,” Lankford said. “Roger Tiddle. He handles special cases. Like yours.”
“Nice guy?”
Lankford snickered. “Judge for yourself. Talk to me after you meet the guy.”
Bino went through the railing and touched the prosecutor’s shoulder. “Bino Phillips,” Bino said. “Here representing Rusty Benson.”
“Roger Tiddle,” Roger Tiddle said, gripping Bino’s hand halfheartedly, without standing up. “Man, that’s a nasty cut over your eye. I don’t think we’ve got anything to talk about.”
This was another guy whom Bino wasn’t going to like. The list was growing. “Oh?” Bino said. “How come we don’t?”
“If you want to discuss bail for your client, forget it. I’m going to hold him.”
Bino had now had it up to here. “You are? I must be in the wrong country. I thought that was up to the judge.”
One side of Tiddle’s mouth turned up, like the smile of a man partially paralyzed. “You know, you’re right. It is up to the judge. So that’s who you should be talking to, not me.” He turned his back a
nd continued his conversation with the bailiff.
Bino very nearly grabbed Roger Tiddle by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He controlled himself, however, smiling like a Baptist on his way back to the spectator section. Whatever incentive he’d needed in giving Rusty a good effort for his money, Bino now had in spades.
As Bino sat down, Lankford said, “Well?”
Bino crossed his legs, looked toward the prosecution table, then grinned at Lankford. “Could stand some attitude adjustment,” Bino said, “couldn’t he?”
• • •
If Bino’s conversations with Jimmy Lankford and Roger Tiddle had begun to deflate his confidence in getting Rusty out on bond, his first glimpse of Judge Anson Griggs finished the job. To begin with, Griggs was a sawed-off little toad. Bino’s own perspective, he thought, was likely distorted by gazing down at the world from his own six-six, but his experience with short guys hadn’t been pleasant. The short men in his life seemed hell-bent-for-leather to make up for their lack of size by snarling and snorting at everyone within earshot, and the taller the person under the short guy’s control, the more the short guy was likely to buck and rear.
The same deputy who’d taken Bino to the holding cell escorted Griggs into the courtroom, and the top of Griggs’s head was on a level with the deputy’s shoulder, the short-legged judge having to hustle to keep pace. Griggs’s robe looked to be about three sizes too big for him, and the stack of files he carried in his left hand seemed bunched up in his sleeve. The jurist ascended to his throne and sat down, and since Griggs’s chest and shoulders remained visible Bino assumed there were several cushions piled up on the judge’s chair. Griggs swept the courtroom with a withering glare, then bellowed, “Beee seated,” every bit as loudly as the bailiff had said, “Awwwl rise.” As Bino sank into his own seat in the front row of the spectators’ section, he decided that the hearing wasn’t going to be much fun.