The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  And, sooner than I wanted to imagine, my thirteen-year-old daughter would be making that same kind of stroll.

  “So what are you thinkin’ about?” Molly broke my reverie.

  “Nothing, really. How’s school?”

  She lowered her eyes, as though guarding against an onslaught of boring conversation. “If I tell you it’s fine, can I go skate?”

  “Be serious for a second. How’s it going? Is that jerk who said bad things about Mom still hassling you?”

  “Jimmy Cannon?” Molly faced forward. “Promise you won’t tell?”

  I didn’t want to keep secrets about our daughter from Cathy, but if Molly had a problem, one of us should know. “Okay. What’s up?”

  “He cornered me after school and said that he saw a picture in the paper of Jennifer Browning. He thought she’d be a good fuck.”

  “Molly …”

  “I’m just telling you what he said. Then he laughed and said that you’d be the one fucked in prison, by niggers and spics—those were his words.” She gazed over the skateboard run and across the parking lot.

  My eyes wandered in the same direction as hers. “So, what happened?”

  Molly turned to me. “I punched him, right in the gut. He took a swing at me, but I ducked and hit him in the nose. He started crying like a wuss.”

  I wanted to cheer and give her a high five, but instead I said, “He could get you in trouble, Molly. You know what the school says about fighting.”

  “He didn’t tell anybody, Dad, and he won’t. He doesn’t want the whole school to know he got beat up by a girl.”

  I barely suppressed a smile. “When this kind of stuff happens, will you tell me about it? Or Mom?”

  “Mom worries too much.”

  “How’s she doing?” My conversations with Cathy were few, and generally, they were focused on the logistics of Molly’s visitations. Our divorce was technically not final, but only because of the difficulty in agreeing upon a financial settlement, due to my situation. Cathy, bless her, wasn’t pushing, which allowed me to focus on my case.

  With the toe of her tennis shoe, Molly pushed the skateboard back and forth, exposing a multihued sock.

  “I’m not trying to put you in the middle, sweetie. I just want to know if she’s okay.”

  “She tries to act like things are all right, that living with Aunt Alison and Uncle Carl is normal. But we sleep in their guest room. With the twin beds? Sometimes, I wake up at night and hear her crying.”

  “Just give her a hug, honey.” I nearly added, give her one for me.

  Molly popped the front of the skateboard up and examined the grip tape. “Is it true what Jimmy Cannon said, what will happen to you if you go to jail?”

  There was no need to explain the difference between jail and prison. “Honey, I don’t intend to go anywhere. I’m innocent, and I have a great lawyer.”

  “But some kids say you’re guilty and they’ll stick a needle in you to kill you.”

  “Ignore all of that. We’re a long way from worrying about any of that stuff. The trial comes first, and the great thing about America is that I’m innocent until proven guilty. And they won’t be able to prove me guilty.”

  My stoic little princess dropped the skateboard and, choking up, spun into my arms. “Please don’t let anything happen to you, Daddy. Please.”

  I stroked her hair and clasped her to me. “Let it out, Molly. Believe me, I’ve cried plenty.”

  I don’t know how much time slipped past before she untangled herself from me and wiped at her eyes. She stood, put her helmet on, and planted one foot on the pink skateboard. “One last run.”

  There were a few other kids showing their stuff, but Molly was the best. Fast and controlled and beautiful to watch. I jingled the car keys in my jacket pocket and watched my little princess circle and soar. She’d be the sole bright spot in my life while cold winter storms marked my approaching trial date. I turned toward the promontory at the cliff’s edge, where escaped slaves would clamber down to a waiting ferry and cross the choppy waters of Lake Erie to the Canadian shore.

  There was no ferry boat waiting for me.

  35

  “So, yeah, I’m okay with the jury. Not particularly the lady alternate, because she’s young and might feel some bond with Jennifer, but we were out of challenges.” Arlene wore a lightweight beige suit and cream-colored blouse. The last of our lake effect snow had finally melted away, and it was an unseasonably warm spring day.

  She delivered her assessment as Jack and I huddled over coffee in one of her conference rooms. Arlene had engaged the prospects as if they were her neighbors, probing their backgrounds and experiences. She’d been able to bounce six of them who’d struck her the wrong way.

  “Well, I gotta ask you,” Jack said. “What the hell happened to a jury of his peers? I made a list: two black men, three black women, two white women, three white men, and two Puerto Ricans. Man and a woman.”

  “Peers doesn’t mean that John gets jurors just like him.”

  “It is what it is, Jack,” I said. Arlene sounded testy, and Jack seemed on the verge of pushing the wrong buttons. Three long days spent selecting a jury might account for our edginess.

  “Yeah? Well, you coulda gone to the fuckin’ mall and picked the first sixteen people who wandered out of Costco.”

  “If you’re criticizing—”

  “I’m not criticizing at all. I was there, saw the pool. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “You did great, Arlene.” I shot Jack a look. Opening statements were set for the next afternoon; the judge had a personal matter to handle in the morning.

  I’d be spending another long evening cloistered in my home. Now that the trial was imminent, I was again a feature story. Based upon the cars that trickled by, my house was viewed as a freak show tent. Even my trips to the grocery store were limited, and my sporadic jogging had become a memory.

  “You should know, a source called me on my way in.” Arlene leaned forward and pushed a yellow legal pad aside. The burnished oak conference table reflected the golden bracelet on her wrist. “Jennifer’s lawyer released a statement this morning, while we were in court. She’s been paid by the insurance company.”

  Jennifer’s tussle with the carrier, which had dragged its feet because of the “uncertain” circumstances of her brother’s death, had made the papers. “Man, that just seems …”

  “Let it go. It doesn’t affect the trial,” Arlene said.

  “Butcher came to the end of the line; maybe Jennifer will get hers, too.” Jack’s phone buzzed; he stared at it for a moment, surprised, before heading for the door. “’Scuse me.”

  Arlene glanced at her watch. “You look beat, John. Go on home. I need to work on the opening. Get some rest tonight; the jury needs to see you fresh.”

  “Sorry. I’m feelin’ a little lost here.” Jennifer now had her money. Meanwhile, a teary-eyed Marilyn had helped me cram the detritus of my shuttered practice into mismatched boxes.

  “Well, find yourself, John. You know what’s at stake.”

  Jack, looking drawn, returned to the room. “The chief’s office just called. I told them to fax it here.”

  “Fax what?”

  “Can’t believe it,” Jack muttered.

  “What is it?” I tried to imagine what would rattle him.

  “C’mon, we can read it together.” We followed him around the corner, to the alcove filled with paper and office supplies. Jack gripped the document as it hummed through the fax machine. “The handwriting’s been authenticated, matches the ones sent to Detective Merylo all them years back. It was mailed to the chief, with a request to direct it to me.”

  We huddled around a nearby desk.

  Hello, Jack Corrigan:

  I read about your role in the trial of the despicable man who entrapped my daughter and son. I wanted to see them one more time, to hold them, but now they are gone. You remember me, don’t you, the night we met face-to-face? You
must be a boastful man, Jack. The newspaper made it sound like I was lucky to escape, to flee like a coward. We both know what really happened, don’t we?

  I can still see your scared Mick features, those begging eyes. Do you remember mine, the color of them? Someone must pay for what happened to my children. Perhaps we’ll meet again.

  Cleveland has changed so much that becoming accustomed to the city has taken some time. But I’m prepared now. My plans are complete. Let’s see if the current boors in blue are more of a challenge than Eliot Ness and Peter Merylo and his pathetic bunch. That includes you, Jack Corrigan. Tell Cleveland I’ve come home.

  Jack looked stunned. Meet again: the two words were clearly a threat. I wished the letter could be dismissed as a hoax. One look at Jack, however, told me that the danger was all too real.

  “You can’t worry about this, Jack.” My words rang hollow. “It’s not 1950 anymore.”

  “Maybe I can settle what I started sixty years ago.”

  Exactly the answer I’d expect from Jack, but the bravado seemed forced.

  “Jesus, Jack.” Arlene scanned the letter again. “You have to ask about protection, around the clock.”

  “I can take care of myself, ’specially against some prick older than me.”

  “Nothing wrong with asking for backup. I need you focused here.”

  “You sayin’ I can’t do my job?”

  “C’mon, Jack, she didn’t say that at all.” The last thing I needed was for the two of them to go at it again. “What the hell’s he mean, about what you told the papers?”

  “No idea.” Jack spit out the words, and his gruff face bobbed in my direction. “But it ain’t just me who has somethin’ to worry about. Who was it he said entrapped his son and daughter?”

  “The letter wasn’t directed to me, Jack.”

  “So you think a guy who killed a couple dozen people is that obvious?” He leaned into the door frame. “I’m not tryin’ to be an alarmist, but it was despicable you he was talking about.”

  My brain was crackling like a dying fluorescent tube; I sank back against a row of shelves. I needed a drink. Arlene rested a hand on my shoulder, and there was Jack’s strong face in front of mine. Something had snapped within me, deep inside. I couldn’t contemplate what the Torso Murderer would do to me, to my heart and my head and my cock.

  36

  “You were right about the news, Jack. Headline in the PD: ‘I’ve Come Home.’ They try talking to you?” His Fiesta smelled like french fries from the fast-food wrappers blanketing the backseat. Thankfully, the spring weather was warm enough for me to crack the window and allow in some fresh air.

  “Every fuckin’ TV station, every rag, radio. Told ’em all no comment, even if I was thinking go to hell. If they wouldn’t listen to me in 1950, they ain’t hearin’ from me now.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, Jack, not a damn wink. Kept checking the locks, watchin’ the yard …” My intestines rumbled, upset from the booze I had swilled down the night before. The late start for the trial was a godsend, because some extra shut-eye and a long shower helped me pull my act together.

  “Maybe now you’ll get a CCW permit, like I told you.”

  The price I’d pay for accepting Jack’s offer to drive me back and forth to court would apparently be a daily lecture. “Would they even issue one, when I’m on trial for murder?”

  “Why not? You haven’t been convicted of a damn thing.”

  “With my luck, the bastard would grab the gun and shoot me.” Truth was, firearms made me uneasy. My father had never whipped out his service revolver, but my mother and I had been well aware that, during the darkest of his rages, a gun had been in our house.

  “Not a bad way to go, all things considerin’.”

  “I’m serious, Jack.”

  “Like they say, chill. You’re in court all day, behind locked doors all night. Gettin’ clubbed in an alley won’t happen again.” He gazed through the windshield at a sun-drenched Lake Erie, at last free of the winter ice floes. “You should, A, get a gun and, B, concentrate on your case.”

  “On trial for murder and a serial killer on my ass.”

  “Be grateful you live an interesting life.” He pulled off the Shoreway, past the gritty façades of turn-of-the-century office buildings and warehouses, and headed down Lakeside Avenue to the multileveled concrete garage nearest the courthouse.

  Judge Seidelson had allowed us to continue using the side entrance to the courtroom to avoid the press. As Jack shuffled into the gallery, Arlene stood at the defense table to greet me. She wore a black business suit over a demure white blouse and, as usual, a cheap ballpoint rested atop her notepad, in place of her Mont Blanc. She eyed my conservative dress—blue jacket, gray slacks, a muted red tie. “Very presentable, Counselor.”

  “Just following your fashion advice.” Even before jury selection began, Arlene had admonished me not to wear anything showy or expensive—not that I owned that type of wardrobe, anyway.

  She caught me glancing at the pooled media feed and jammed spectator section. “All here for the openings, John. Your case has everything. Lawyer on trial for murder, the knockout blonde and her dead brother. Oh, and a serial killer. I can’t wait to watch CNN.”

  Arlene was clearly trying to keep things light, but her effort was lost on me. Flanagan arranged his papers at the table nearest the jury box and gave me a passing glance. I resumed scanning the room and did a double-take: Cathy was huddled against the far wall in the gallery. She gave me a half-hearted smile, one that meant the world to me, and I managed one of my own in return.

  “Christ,” I murmured. “Cathy came.”

  “Don’t read too much into it. We spoke briefly when she arrived. She believes you, but she wants to hear the evidence herself.” Arlene sat down and then caught my gaze after I surveyed the rest of the gallery. “Don’t worry, she’s not here. Jennifer’s a witness, so she can’t sit in court and listen to other testimony. You won’t see your friend until they call her to the stand.”

  Judge Seidelson took the bench, dispensed with some preliminary matters for the benefit of the jurors, and moved quickly to opening statements. Flanagan was in his element, smiling a bright greeting and delving into the heart of the case. He flashed a blown-up photograph of Frank Frederickson, taken back when wearing a corduroy suit and a yellow tie was fashionable, before he ended up as a dopehead with a scarlet gash engraved in his throat.

  “Frank Frederickson. You will hear, during the course of this trial, that Frank had a troubled life.” Flanagan held the photo aloft as he sauntered to the center of the courtroom, allowing the jury to imagine a living, breathing Frank. “But he had a life! One wrongfully taken from him by this defendant, this man, John Coleman, attorney at law!”

  His face was a mask of indignation, and he made my name sound like something to be scraped from the bottom of a shoe.

  “But why, you ask, would he do it? Let’s talk about the defendant’s infidelity, how he needed the money to pursue an innocent younger woman.”

  The jury followed Flanagan’s every measured gesture, every subtle change of expression, and every cast of those blazing green eyes. He was a master storyteller, only periodically glancing at a yellow notepad that seemed like a baton when he raised his arms for effect. Even his spin on my interlude with the Butcher was clever.

  “No one wants to imagine being indebted to a serial killer, but the Butcher did all of us a huge favor. Imagine, if she had not captured the defendant, he might have gotten away with his brutal act. He could have claimed that this mysterious Mexican gang took the money. Maybe even that Jennifer had it. But when the police searched his car, searched his trunk, searched his wheel well, the defendant had nowhere to run.”

  He recited the forensic evidence against me, bit by damning bit. The matching prints, my cell records, my footprints in the blood. He finished with a flourish by again waving the photograph of Frank before the jury. He began in a whisper and gradually raise
d his voice, building to a dramatic finale. “So Frank Frederickson is no longer with us. A young man, prime of life, gone with the stroke of a knife. And why? Because of an adulterous murderer who acted on his base wants of lust and greed!”

  His eyes spit contempt, and Flanagan locked them on me as he milked the last few words. He strode back to his table, the victorious wrestler anticipating another medal.

  Arlene rose immediately to break his spell. “Yes, Frank is gone.” She picked up the photo of him and then placed it back on the table almost reverently, as though putting the poor young man to rest. “But he isn’t gone because John Coleman killed him. If John were on trial for adultery or poor judgment or for the emotional pain he caused his wife and daughter, he’d be guilty. But he’s on trial for murder, and we’ll show you that he’s being blamed for something he didn’t do. He made himself an easy target; that doesn’t make him a killer.

  “Take a good look at my client. What, exactly, was Jennifer Browning’s attraction to John, an older, married man?” Arlene didn’t copy Flanagan’s theatrics; there was no yellow notepad in her hand. She was the college professor, yet her manner of speech was genuine. “Let me be clear about her simple goal: she wanted to find someone she could manipulate.”

  She paused and stared at me, letting the jury take me in for what I was: a middle-aged ass who had looked for some thrills on the side. But a murderer?

  “Yes, John Coleman made a mistake, one that destroyed his marriage. But that doesn’t make him a killer. John was born here, went to Holy Name High School, right here in Cleveland. College and law school, too, at Cleveland State and Cleveland-Marshall. Built his career here.”

  Arlene continued to personalize me, letting the jury know that, despite my colossal screw-up, I was a regular guy who’d built a business and had no criminal past. I was grateful that there was no public record of my drinking binges or my affair with Martha. She segued into undermining the prosecution’s case.