The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She looked at me. “In the streets, they’d call it a big-ass knife. One covered with Frank Frederickson’s blood and your fingerprints. Can you explain that away?”

  I went limp. What the fuck?

  27

  “Arlene, I didn’t do this. Someone’s setting me up, somehow—Jennifer had—”

  “You have a lot to explain, and we’ll do it later, at my office. No interruptions, nobody walking in on us ‘by mistake.’” She nodded toward the door, her golden necklace dangling. “I’m told they’re getting your discharge papers ready; the cops want to get the hell out of here.”

  “Look, I’ve handled some misdemeanor crap, but a felony’s above my pay grade. So I spend a night in the can, then the arraignment’s tomorrow?”

  “You’ll be charged with murder in muny court, then bound over to common pleas for trial.”

  “What about bond?”

  “I’ll try to make you look like a saint and keep the number low. If things go our way, the judge will set something between five hundred thousand to a million.” Arlene was, no doubt, used to shell-shocked looks on clients’ faces—she didn’t even pause. “Whatever the number, you’ll probably need twenty percent cash as bail. Something else you’ll need to bring up with your wife, since I assume your assets are joint.”

  “Jesus, what if she says no?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge then, John. You’d better think about how to handle the conversation.”

  “This will be tough, Arlene.” I evaluated the equity in the house and a couple of modest mutual-fund accounts. “You know I’m just a solo guy, made sixty-five grand last year. With Cathy’s salary, we do okay, but …”

  “If you can’t make it, we’ll talk to a bondsman. But there’s a fee, and they’ll make you post security for the full amount. Cathy will have to sign off on that, too. Either way, unless you want to sit in a cell through trial, you’ll need her help.”

  “Picked a good time to piss her off, didn’t I?” My gaze drifted to the window again as I thought of the zoo and those rugged steel cages.

  “And there’s me too, Johnny. I don’t come cheap, you know that.”

  I shut my eyes. “How much we talkin’?”

  “All I can do is ballpark, you know that. If it goes all the way to trial, you’re probably looking at a hundred grand for my fee, easy. And I recommend you hire a private investigator, too. If you’re telling me that what the prosecutor has is all bullshit, we need to prove it.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t go that far.” A trial would wipe me out.

  “Look, if you want to check around, see if somebody will take the case for less, I’ll understand.”

  “No, I want you. This is my life on the line here, Arlene.”

  “The money situation is what it is. If you walk, you can rebuild. I need you focused on your case, understand?” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, the golden necklace swinging toward me.

  I swallowed hard and looked at her. “I couldn’t leave my wife, Arlene. The night I was with Jennifer … it didn’t feel right.”

  Suddenly, right in front of her, my voice grew thick and husky. I lifted a shaky hand to shield my eyes and started bawling, weak sounds squeaking from my throat, and couldn’t stop. Arlene said nothing. I wallowed in the shame of it all—the Butcher, Jennifer, my treatment of Cathy. Gradually, my breathing slowed. Arlene unexpectedly put a hand on my arm, and I bolted upright. “Jesus, what …”

  “You sure you’re okay?” She narrowed her eyes.

  I took a tissue from the nightstand to wipe my eyes, my gaze darting from the floor to the ceiling to the wall, anything to avoid looking at her. The pathetic voice that wiggled out was me as a boy, begging the old man to leave my mother alone. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

  “It’s all right; you’ve been through hell,” Arlene said softly. “But I’m going to suggest a couple of professionals, people I know. They can help.”

  I wormed my head into the pillow. “I expect you’ve read my history, like everyone else in town. But people don’t know about the shrinks I used to see, the meds they prescribed. It’s been awhile.”

  “That’s totally understandable. You should think about calling one of them now.”

  “Arlene, it’s not like—”

  “Think about it. I need you at the top of your game for this ride, Johnny.”

  I nodded. “Okay, promise.”

  “All right.” She leaned back in her chair. “I assume you haven’t been in the can before?”

  “No, believe it or not, even after some wild nights in college.”

  “Here’s what to expect. The cops who take you from here to there will try to rattle you, make you say something stupid. They’ll be creative, like asking whether you killed Frank because he wouldn’t give you a hand job, stuff like that. You say nothing—got it? Keep your mouth shut.”

  “That I can do.” Even contemplating the experience was intimidating.

  “You’ll enter the jail complex through the lower level of the Justice Center garage. That’s good, because there won’t be any press around.”

  I pictured the media swarming, hoping for footage of a stumbling accused murderer. I gestured to my crutches, leaning against the closet. “Will they use a wheelchair, or can I keep these?”

  “You’ll keep them, and those crutches will get you a private cell. They keep a few available for head cases or, in your situation, the worry that someone might try to use a crutch as a weapon.”

  “Nice place.”

  “You’ll be fingerprinted, then strip-searched to find out if you’re trying to smuggle anything in.”

  I grimaced. “Like a bottle of booze?”

  “You’d be surprised. It’ll be a visual inspection only, but I’m told that time passes slowly when someone wearing latex gloves is staring at your asshole. Stay cool.”

  I thought of the Butcher and Billy, touching me. “Maybe after hanging naked from a basement rafter, this will be a piece of cake.”

  “You’ve got the right attitude.” She crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt. “They’ll inventory your belongings and issue a jail uniform. Now, when they escort you to your cell, the other inmates will ride your white self. The aisle is wide, to make sure that no one can assault a guard, so you won’t be touched. Just face forward, don’t respond, and get into your cell.”

  “I’ll be locked in all night, right? I mean, no one …”

  “You’ll be safe and sound, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I stared out the window again and remembered joking around with Bernie about Frank’s popularity in the joint. “Is it true what they say, about prison? That the wolves in there … you know, are they going to knock out my teeth to make sure I give good blow jobs?”

  Arlene uncrossed her legs and shifted in the plastic chair. “We’re going to work together to make sure that prison isn’t in your future, John.”

  “But, worst case.”

  “Believe me, if you’re headed for prison, we’ll have a whole other conversation.”

  “Doesn’t sound like they’ll serve soda bread on holidays.”

  “That’s a safe bet.” She glanced at a handsome silver watch. “I’d better be going. Any more questions?”

  “No … but, Arlene, I want you to be certain of one thing. I swear to Jesus fucking Christ I didn’t do this.”

  “I believe you.” She returned the notepad to her black briefcase. “The problem is, Jesus Christ isn’t hearing the case. It’s twelve slobs in a jury box, Johnny. Twelve slobs in the box.”

  28

  Arlene’s yellow-and-black plaid skirt disappeared as she closed the door behind her. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my toes throbbing at the sudden rush of blood, and steeled myself for an exchange with Cathy. To guard against the possibility of a dropped call, I phoned the house line. Of course, there was no chance that she would want anything to do with me after le
arning about Jennifer, but making bail was a priority. Even more critical was preserving some relationship with Molly.

  I should have anticipated that Alison would be with her. She answered on the second ring, which I usually thought was a good thing, but not if it meant conversing with a pissed-off sister-in-law.

  “It’s me. I’ve gotta talk to Cathy.”

  A moment of dead air, then, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Look—”

  “What the fuck? She was all torn up about what the Butcher did to you, then she finds out you’ve been screwing around.”

  “Alison, I need—”

  “And a murder charge, you son of a bitch? All over the fucking TV. Quite a father figure.”

  I waited a beat to see if she’d start up again. “Let me talk to her, Alison.”

  “No way. She’s resting.”

  “They’re taking me to jail. I just need to say some things.”

  “So, tell me. I’ll let her know.”

  I nearly drove my fist into the metal bed frame. I found myself shouting, “God damn it, Alison! She’s my wife. Put her on the fucking phone!”

  “Oh, yeah? Fuck you!”

  Alison was, no doubt, prepared to jam the receiver into the cradle. I bit my lower lip. When the wave of emotion receded, my tone was measured. “Please, just a minute with her. My wife needs to hear me, to listen. Please.”

  There was silence, then a muffled sound; she must have cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. After a long pause, Cathy came on the line and said, “I’m filing for divorce.”

  Every syllable stung, even though the words came as no surprise. The only response that choked out of me was, “I understand.”

  “I just want it over, John, to be away from you.” She spoke in a rush, like she’d practiced what to say and now felt compelled to follow the script. Alison and Carl had probably rehearsed it with her.

  I gripped the bed railing. “None of this is your fault.”

  “I know that.”

  Maybe the best thing for everyone would be for me to just vault out of the fucking window. I twisted the receiver in my hand, wanting to crack the solid plastic against my teeth, but there were words she needed to hear. “And you need to know it was a mistake.” I really didn’t want to have sex with Jennifer, but there was strawberry jam and whipped cream …

  “I should have left you a long time ago.” Without doubt, she had dredged up a residue of emotion from deep within, recalled my prior denials from my days of running around with Martha, and concluded that I had lied to her more than once. “Did you love her, John?”

  There was a weakness in the pit of my gut, just as when the Butcher had click-clacked toward me with that swaying bolt cutter. “Cathy, I … it was one time.”

  She started laughing—I couldn’t believe it—laughing real loud and then gasping, again and again, like she was hyperventilating. “I’m moving in with Alison.”

  “No. I’ll find somewhere—”

  “Fuck you! I’m only here now to get our things. Kids are already driving by, taking pictures on their phones. And someone sent your girlfriend one of Molly and me in our own driveway! I will not stay here! This is your fucking house. Fucking, fucking, fucking …”

  The noise that burst into my ear could only have been from Cathy striking the receiver against the wall, again and again. She was screaming cheater and liar, and there was the sound of glass breaking and then Alison saying, “Don’t call her again.”

  “Alison, whatever you’re thinking, she has to help with bail. I—”

  “Ask your girlfriend.”

  “Don’t do this to me.”

  “It’s not her problem, John, it’s yours.”

  “You’re pissed off now, okay? But … I can’t stay in one of those places. They do things in there to guys like me. Please.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “They’ve got gangs in there. Black gangs, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, whatever. And punks like me. I’m begging you here. I want to see my little girl again.”

  My voice cracked, and Alison ended the call without saying another word. I was still staring at the tan phone, the push-button pad, when one of the cops stuck his head in the doorway.

  “Let’s go. We’re cuttin’ you too much slack already.”

  “Okay,” I replied, embarrassed that he’d seen the tears in my eyes, and hobbled over to the crutches. Because of the bandages, I’d wear the hospital slippers instead of my shoes. My slacks and shirt from the night that the Butcher had abducted me were on hangers. Not a button was torn, and the zipper was intact. She had meticulously stripped me naked. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of that demented bitch neatly folding my slacks, slipping off my underwear. I stared at the clothes for a while before summoning the resolve to dress and then pulled on the shirt. First thing, every bit of the defiled clothing would be doused with gasoline and torched.

  If only what I’d done to a wife and daughter who loved me could be so easily burned away.

  29

  When the municipal judge rose from the beech wood bench, Arlene and I stood respectfully at the defense table. The judge had accepted the argument that I wasn’t a flight risk but set bond at a cool million dollars. She’d also ordered me to surrender my passport, which was a bit of overkill because I didn’t have one.

  “Just be thankful the County Bond Commissioner didn’t recommend something higher.” Arlene organized the papers spread on the worn table and filed them in her briefcase. “By the way, you look natty in orange.”

  “Thanks.” Stepping into the nearly fluorescent jumpsuit had felt like stripping away a layer of dignity. “So what’s the next step?”

  “I’ve already lined up that bondsman I told you about, Jeff Huggins.” She slid the briefcase strap over her shoulder.

  “I’ve seen some of his ads.”

  “He’s doing a lien search now and will try to rush this through as a favor to me.” We headed across the brown carpet and past the jury box to the single door through which the incarcerated were escorted. That would include me, unless and until I could arrange bail.

  “But if Cathy won’t sign, what the hell good is Huggins?” I’d told Arlene earlier about the fiasco of a telephone call that had taken place with my wife.

  She turned to face me in the subdued lighting of the courthouse. “I’m an optimist, John. If I can convince Cathy to help, you come straight to my office as soon as Huggins posts bond. Take a cab; the press won’t wait around all day.”

  “But if she tells you to pound salt?”

  “We’ll have to go to Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”

  Even if Cathy agreed to help, the process was going to drain everything that we had spent a lifetime accumulating. I followed Arlene through the corridor and to the jail elevator. An escort cop who trailed behind slouched in a corner and ignored us. “I couldn’t believe all the press in court.”

  “They always roll out when a lawyer’s in the hot seat. Besides, you survived the Butcher; you’re a celebrity now.” Arlene smiled wryly. “They’ll set up a pooled feed for the trial.”

  “I forgot that they could be right in the courtroom.” Which only confirmed my small-time-player status—I had never handled a case of enough interest to attract a news crew.

  “Mandatory, per our Supreme Court. All a judge can do is control the number of cameras and where they’re placed.” The elevator opened and Arlene sidled out, headed for the St. Clair exit. “Wish me good luck with your wife.”

  The sullen cop deposited me in a holding cell, but I was eventually escorted to a close, windowless room to meet with Huggins. His huge ass balanced on a folding chair, he crooked a thick finger to summon me to a small conference table, then shoved some papers in my direction. There were sweat stains under the armpits of his wrinkled white shirt, and he smelled like a stale gym. “Look them over. The top one sets the amount of th
e bond.”

  I didn’t even look at the documents; I was already weary of the administrative bullshit of the system and being treated like a number. “My name’s John Coleman, by the way.”

  He raised his thick eyebrows, poised like caterpillars on his pudgy face. “I know. Johnson explain the process?”

  “She did. I’m a lawyer too—”

  “Not to me. I’m bonding you out of jail, for a fee. That’s our relationship.” He picked at something on his shirt, likely a fleck of last week’s meatball sub. “There’s also a mortgage, and the assignment of your life insurance policy. I’ll fill in the numbers later.”

  Huggins absolutely didn’t give a shit whether I was guilty or innocent, whether I lived or died or skulked away to Brazil. The guy had probably seen everything, heard every excuse imaginable, and now cared only about his money and his security. I inked the signature lines and slapped the docs in front of him. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Johnson said to get these to her, and she’ll let me know if your wife signs off. That’ll do it.” He assembled the papers, shoved the packet into a battered black briefcase, and rumbled out without so much as a good-bye or a good luck. I was returned to the barren holding cell.

  An eternity later, a cop rolled back the barred door. That meant one thing: Cathy had agreed to sign the bond documents. Soon wearing my own clothes and feverishly working the crutches, I left the towering cream-colored Justice Center behind me and hailed a cab to Arlene’s modern office building on Superior Avenue.

  A swarm of tailored suits, briefcases, and shiny shoes coursed through the vaulted atrium, beneath a pyramidal ceiling of maroon and onyx tile. A guard at the security desk handed over an ID badge and directed me to a bank of mirrored elevators. When I stepped into Arlene’s mahogany-paneled office, her attractive receptionist, a middle-aged black woman, warmly welcomed me. Accused rapists, thieves, and murderers file in, and she needs to smile and promise that Ms. Johnson will be right with them. Would you like some coffee? How about a sharper knife, for next time? Cream? A false passport?