The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  Can he find out about that and try to use it against me?” I imagined the doctors’ notes splayed across Page One of the PD.

  “HIPAA protects your health care records. Unless we bring it up—which we won’t—it’s off limits.”

  That was a relief, but what she said about taking the stand scared me. Flanagan would be merciless. “So you’re thinking I might have to testify?”

  “The last thing that any defense lawyer wants is to put the client on the stand. So don’t sweat it, for now. A trial is like a chess game, and we can’t decide every move in advance.”

  Chess. Yeah, Jennifer was the queen, and I was her pawn to maneuver.

  Or sacrifice.

  “One more thing. Hey, you still with me? We’ll need an investigator, and a good one. I have some recommendations, unless you have somebody in mind.”

  Right away, I thought of Jack. I could hear him already. What the fuck you got yourself into now, Johnny? Hope the pussy was worth it. “I do know somebody. Jack Corrigan, an ex-cop who did PI work after he left the force. He’s up there, but in his day, there wasn’t anybody better.”

  The fact that Jack drank too much gave me pause, but he knew the ropes, was a tough SOB, and I trusted him. Arlene let me use one of her conference rooms, where her framed undergraduate degree from Howard University hung next to a diploma from Georgetown Law School. Jack answered right away, as if he’d been expecting my call.

  “Didn’t I fuckin’ warn you, tell you to stay away from this shit?” he yelled.

  “I know you’re pissed at me, but I’m calling for help.”

  “Well, you sure as hell need it.”

  I counted to three. “I want you as our investigator, Jack. This murder thing …”

  “Thing? Wake the fuck up. You’re in some serious shit.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Ahh, fuck. Like I need this.” There was a long pause. “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “Arlene Johnson.”

  Another pause. “The black one?”

  “That’s her.” I had to cut Jack some slack. In his day, there probably hadn’t been a black, let alone a woman, in a position of authority—and certainly not in Lakewood.

  “Look, I know some lawyers who are good with these kinda cases.”

  “I want her, Jack. If you tell me you can’t work with her, I’ll understand.”

  “I’ll think about it, get back to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, I ain’t said yes. You know, it’s been all over the news, what you done.”

  “I know.”

  “Your wife and kid had to see that shit.”

  “I know that, Jack. This isn’t the time for a lecture; it’s bad enough as it is.”

  “I’m sure it is. George Moore? The choice? You sure as hell made the wrong one, Johnny.”

  The line went dead.

  31

  “I really thought that she might bump the bond up to two mil.” The separate counsel tables were only a few feet apart, and Mark Flanagan turned to Arlene when the arraignment concluded. His brown hair was fashionably long, framing a chiseled face and unusually vivid green eyes.

  “Not given the County Bond Commissioner’s recommendation.” Arlene’s confident reply bolstered me. The judge had listened to their arguments intently. Had the court agreed with Flanagan, I’d be spending a lot of time staring at walls.

  “So you’re ready for our next go-round. What are we now, 6–6?” Flanagan stood, and I judged him to be just short of six feet tall and in his midthirties. He’d been a popular wrestler at St. Edwards’ High School and, later, at John Carroll University. I remembered him from the sports pages, and it looked like he’d stayed in damn good shape. Since he pointedly ignored me, I remained seated, my crutches resting against a chair near the empty jury box.

  “Good memory. I haven’t forgotten our last dance, that felony weapons charge, when you laughed after my guy refused to cop a plea. The jury acquitted in under an hour.”

  Flanagan gave her his deadly Great White grin. “I remember. But that won’t be an issue here; there won’t be any deal offered. Just so you know.”

  “Just so you know, we weren’t looking for one.” Arlene smoothed a lapel on her charcoal suit.

  Flanagan flashed his full grill once again and turned toward the cluster of cameras—his chance for a little publicity. Vanessa Edwards was there, and I recognized some of the other talking heads, too.

  The grand jury had fulfilled Arlene’s prediction and indicted me for murder with a felony murder spec. We waived a preliminary hearing, because the only issue would be whether probable cause existed to issue the warrant for my arrest. Arlene assured me that a bloody knife covered with my fingerprints would do the trick, and there was no sense in giving the prosecutor an easy win and the media a headline.

  We headed toward a side exit, to an elevator that was off-limits to the press, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. “Good work in there, Arlene. If she’d raised the bond …”

  “One step in a long journey, John.”

  “What do you think of the judge?” For trial, my case had been assigned to Howard Seidelson, whom I’d never appeared before or even met, since he lived in one of the Jewish communities on the east side of town.

  “Competent. Not especially bright, but he knows how to run a jury trial, I’ll give him that.”

  “I guess that’s something.” I could have chosen a three-judge panel to decide my fate, instead of a jury. Either way, the decision had to be unanimous, and the odds of persuading one out of twelve were better than one out of three.

  “Tell your man, Corrigan, that we need to know if he’s on board. If he’s waffling, we need to get somebody else. Talk to him and call me, okay?”

  After promising to follow up, I took a cab home, my crutches balanced on my thighs. The driver, a black dude wearing a faded Kent State cap, kept glancing in the rearview mirror, like he was wondering if I was that guy.

  The lake was angry; rollers the color of graphite surged into the jetty at Edgewater Park and burst into the air. The wind was already whipping through the trees. I was relieved that we reached my house before the coming storm hit.

  I sat at the kitchen table, surveying the coffee cups and plates that needed scraping and loading into the dishwasher. A dollop of butter had melted on a plate that I’d failed to return to the refrigerator. I reached for the phone and dialed Jack.

  “So you heard,” he said, actually sounding a tad excited. “I just found out myself.”

  “Heard what? I’ve been in court, my arraignment.”

  “They found the Butcher dead in her cell this morning.” He sounded almost gleeful to be the one to tell me. He sipped something. Coffee or Kessler’s, most likely, or maybe both. “Suspect she had a heart attack in her sleep.”

  I said nothing for a long moment, reflecting on her and Billy, the bolt cutter, my muffled screams. “Are you buying it, Jack? She probably got into the infirmary somehow, took some kinda pills. She wasn’t going to prison.”

  “So? She’s dead. Does it matter?”

  “Doesn’t seem right that she goes out like that.”

  “She’ll burn in eternal hell, Johnny. Gotta have faith.”

  “Yeah, faith.” My life was on trial, and the Butcher had just drifted away. I had hoped that she’d somehow avoid the death penalty and live a long life, tormented by sadistic prison guards in a place of cold gray steel. And as much rough, nonconsensual sex with bullying inmates as a human could possibly tolerate.

  “They tell me they found nothin’ in the house to identify Torso. The county has birth records for a Mary and William Smith. Death certificates, too. Infants killed in a house fire in the early fifties.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Our friend Torso had the names and DOBs from the paper, or a tombstone, of two dead kids. Back then, that’s all he would have needed to obtain IDs
for his own—what should we call them? Spawn?”

  “Sounds about right.” I could think of a lot of labels that applied to the Butcher and Billy. “Listen, about my case, Jack. You in? The lawyer wants to know.”

  He hesitated. “What you did to Cathy was wrong. You had no business screwin’ that Browning broad, and you weren’t straight with me.”

  “Christ, Jack, you want me to fall on my sword, I will. I’m askin’ for your help here.”

  “I shoulda seen all this coming when you couldn’t let go of the murders.”

  “Damn it, Jack.” I clenched the receiver. “I was right. The Butcher was watching me, my family.”

  He cleared his throat and it sounded like he spit something up. “I’ll give you that, Johnny, but you went way over the top. Getting your ass beat at some dive, the mess with Frank … and Jennifer? Jesus.”

  I pressed my free hand into the table top. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I wished you’d listened to me. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “Look, if you’re tellin’ me to get somebody—”

  “Who knows you better than me?” He took a slurp of whatever he was drinking. “Fuck it. I’m in, but it ain’t about you. It’s for your old man and Cathy and most of all, your little girl.”

  A single tear appeared in the corner of my eye. I imagined that Jack was with me in my empty house, reaching across the table and resting a hand on my shoulder. “You know I appreciate this.”

  “Hell, I just can’t let you screw this up, too. When’s your court date?”

  “They haven’t set it yet, but Arlene expects it will be sometime next spring.”

  “We’ll see. Some of them judges are slower than molasses. When do you want me to start?”

  “Let me call Arlene and find out. What do you charge for this kind of thing, anyway?” There was no way that Jack was doing it for the money. I sensed that he really was protecting me and looking forward to one last chance to swing into action.

  “Not enough, I expect. We’ll talk. Hey, turn on the TV. There’s a report about the Butcher now.”

  I hung up and flicked on the television. A photo of the Butcher, smiling and kindly, filled the screen. Was that really the face of the woman who had driven my father to his grave, had wielded the sharp blades that sliced my toes away? For Daddy. I glanced at the cupboard where my liquor was stored. But knocking one back, with dark memories of that basement fresh on my mind, seemed like a mistake.

  The rain began, pitter-pattering on the shingles, and thunder rumbled in the distance. I negotiated my way into the living room and, checking the mail slot by the front door, leafed through a couple of bills and a sheaf of discount ads. My hand froze for a moment on the final letter, from a law firm known for handling domestic relations matters. I tore the envelope open. The attorney, a woman I did not know, informed me that she represented Cathy Coleman, who was filing for divorce.

  The second paragraph was the one that caused me to sit down on the couch and rest the letter on the coffee table. I read the paragraph a few times, focusing on the words visitation would not be in the best interests of your child. My temples throbbed.

  I accepted that my life was shattered. The divorce was expected, my tattered career was finished, and my next job would involve peddling beef ’n cheddars at Arby’s. Whatever friends I had would shun me. You’re a shit, had been Bernie’s accurate and painful words.

  But I would not give up my Molly.

  I didn’t handle domestic relations cases but knew that even accused murderers could see their kids. Innocent until proven guilty and all that. My alleged crime was not one of sexual violence, and I had never even swatted Molly, let alone hurt her.

  Cathy wouldn’t answer if I called her cell, that was for sure. There really wasn’t a choice but to try and haggle my way past her sister again. Not giving a damn about the crutches, I lurched to my feet and hobbled toward the kitchen phone. Instead of Alison, my brother-in-law answered the phone.

  “Let me talk to her, Carl.” I sat down at the barren table where my family had once shared breakfast.

  “You shouldn’t be calling here.”

  “Carl …”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  There was a crack of thunder as the rain picked up, and I clenched the phone. “Put her on the fucking line.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Damn it, Carl. It’s about Molly. If I have to get into my fucking car and drive over there, I will.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  His threat prompted me to laugh. “Think I give a shit? Is a trespassing charge gonna make my life any worse? This is my daughter we’re talking about. Put Cathy on.”

  I could sense his hesitation, pictured him muffling the phone with his sweaty palm. His voice was indistinct, and then Alison’s came through clearly as she admonished Cathy: “Don’t be stupid!”

  But Cathy came on the line. “This isn’t a good idea, John. The lawyer said you might—”

  “Fuck the lawyer. I won’t fight you on anything, anything you want. But I will do anything to see Molly. Spend every last dime, represent myself, whatever it takes. Just don’t try to keep her from me.” She was quiet, and pellets of rain hammered into the windows. “Your own lawyer should handle this. Let them talk.”

  “We don’t need lawyers to work this out. You can supervise the visits if you want. I’ll see a shrink, quit the booze, start going to Mass again. Swear to God, just let me see her.”

  “Interesting choice of words, John. You, swearing to God, after what you’ve done.”

  “Cathy …”

  “Never mind.” She was quiet, and I pictured her, head bowed, clutching her earlobe. “Molly’s not been herself with all that’s going on. I’m making her go to school, but she doesn’t want to anymore. The other kids …”

  I knew what she was going through. Did my little girl have somebody like Bernie in her life? She didn’t need anyone to fight her fights, but the thought of all the hurt and anger bottled up inside Molly was maddening. “We need to talk to her, Cathy. You and me. Just the three of us, no lawyers.”

  “Except you?”

  “C’mon, I’ll be fair about this.”

  “I’ve already sat down with her and explained everything.”

  “She needs to hear from me that this has nothing to do with you. Every mistake was mine, and I’m sorry. And she has to understand that it’s not about her. Sometimes, kids blame themselves; you know that.”

  Silent again, Cathy breathed into the phone. Then she said, “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.”

  “Wait.” There was one question that I needed to ask. “Was it your idea, the no visitation?”

  She hesitated. “No. The lawyer suggested that we start there. I went along.”

  “We don’t need lawyers negotiating, sending us bills. We can work this out.”

  “I said I’ll call.”

  “She’s my girl, Cathy. I lost my dad and grew up with Jack Corrigan and other guys who felt sorry for me. That can’t happen with Molly. I have to be there for her, don’t you see?”

  Cathy sighed, and her voice grew husky. “What the hell were you thinking, John?”

  She hung up. I cradled the phone and shuffled to the freezer, no longer preoccupied with thoughts of the Butcher or Oyster’s frozen visage. I dropped some cubes into a tumbler; soon, the ice crackled beneath a healthy dose of whiskey.

  Months would pass before the trial began, and I’d be damned if I would wait that long without seeing Molly. And a worse outcome loomed, too: losing the case and visiting with my daughter occasionally, if Cathy would even escort her to prison. I pictured Molly inching through a security line, prison guards roughly patting her down, a hand slipping here, there. By mistake, of course. We’d have to speak through a Plexiglas window, our voices distorted by tinny-sounding telephones. Or perhaps we’d be allowed to meet in a supervised communal area, seated at a bolted-down tabl
e, where they would let me hold her hand for a few precious minutes. She’d tell me about driving lessons and her cute boyfriend and dancing the night away at the prom.

  The rain hammered against my house in unrelenting sheets.

  32

  Cathy still had on one of her teacher outfits, a beige skirt paired with a white blouse. Molly wore her faded jeans and a black T-shirt with the word Extreme scrawled in yellow lettering. She hugged me when we met at the door, but the embrace was half-hearted and brief.

  We sat in the living room, exactly where my discussion with Cathy about the fragile state of our marriage was to have occurred. Cathy and Molly were on the sofa, and I settled into my easy chair on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  After Cathy had called and agreed to meet, my mind had been devoted to planning what to say to my daughter. Now, every word that tumbled out of my mouth sounded stilted.

  “Your dad did a very bad, very stupid thing.” I was conscious that my head bobbed, as though encouraging Molly to agree with me.

  “I read it in the paper and talked about it with Mom.” Molly parroted my nod.

  All the manuals advise against discussing the sex thing when an affair causes a divorce, instead recommending the use of terms like feelings or growing in different directions. Unfortunately, that advice was not practical when my fling with Jennifer had been a headline on the front page.

  “What you need to know, Molly, is that your mom is not to blame, not in any way.”

  She nodded her head very slowly and then said to me, “Jimmy Cannon bets that Mom’s a lousy fuck since you were screwing around.”

  “Molly!” Cathy reddened. “That’s not language we use.”

  “Ignore idiots like him.” But I knew from my own experience that she couldn’t. There was a ditty that my mom would recite to me that sticks and stones would break my bones, but words would never hurt me. Whoever coined the phrase had never heard the words that had tormented me on the playground or the ones that were likely being hurled at Molly every day. I wanted to kill Jimmy Cannon.

  “And they say you must have murdered that man. They found the knife in your car.” Molly’s eyes were wide and questioning, waiting for me to respond.