The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  “Everybody’s scared, is all. I just hope the prick is bad off, like with a cane. Or scooter.”

  “He was strong as an ape.” Jack cocked an eyebrow and reached up to scratch it. “I suppose I’m the one guy who doesn’t really have to worry, even with that letter. They’re watching me.”

  He gave a nod of his head, and I turned. A plain blue Chevy was a few hundred yards behind us, in another lane, and traveling at the same speed.

  “I said no stinkin’ protection, but once you’ve worn the uniform …” He sucked in some saliva and swallowed. “Picked up on ’em a little bit ago, but expect they’ve been following me around ever since the letter came, keepin’ an eye out.”

  I had a fleeting wish that they’d take me under their wing, too, protect me and keep me safe, but that wasn’t going to happen. As we headed up in the elevator, I imagined seeing Jennifer again; the thought was crippling. When we entered the courtroom, I noted that Cathy was already seated in the gallery. Avoiding eye contact with her, I joined Arlene at the defense table.

  “We had a cordial conversation, but she wants to hear Jennifer’s story herself,” Arlene said, buttoning the single pearly button on her gray jacket. Judge Seidelson entered the courtroom through a door behind the bench, and we all rose at the bailiff’s command. My knees wobbled. Jennifer and Cathy would soon be in the same room.

  Seidelson struck his gavel, and the courtroom came to order. Flanagan called Jennifer to the stand, and I turned to watch her enter. She wore a demure green dress and that plain silver pendant, the one that had beckoned me to her cleavage so long ago. I sensed Cathy’s steely gaze boring into me as she imagined Jennifer’s body entwined with mine.

  Jennifer settled naturally into the witness stand. A widow, mother deceased, father murdered. ESL volunteer. Anointing her seemed like the next rung on the ladder. Flanagan proceeded to have her testify about retaining me as her lawyer. He wasted no time drilling into the juicy bits.

  “And did you ultimately become intimate with the defendant?”

  Cathy’s hand would be drifting toward an earlobe, and I couldn’t bear to look.

  Jennifer dropped her head and then turned those pretty eyes toward the jury. “I’m so embarrassed. He led me to believe that he’d leave his wife for me. He was older, but … so caring, so supportive, when I needed that.”

  “Did you believe there was a future with Mr. Coleman?”

  “I certainly thought so. With my dad, and then my brother … I felt so alone, and he was there for me. Everything was a whirlwind, but I … I needed him.”

  “Did—”

  Jennifer began to cry and sought out Cathy in the spectator benches. “I’m so sorry.”

  Cathy staggered to her feet. There was an audible moan as she fixed her tearful eyes on me, and I averted my gaze. The scene could not have played better for Flanagan if he had choreographed the drama. And Arlene couldn’t very well object without searing the moment even more indelibly in the minds of the jurors. Everyone in that courtroom focused on Cathy, on her quivering in a blue dress, searching for a way out of the gallery. Sobbing and shaking, she stumbled over people’s feet—and then Jack was there, an arm around her, guiding her to the door.

  As the commotion in the courtroom quieted, Jennifer caught my eye, holding my furtive gaze for just a moment. You’re way out of your league, Johnny.

  Seidelson said to her, “Would you like a recess?”

  “No, thank you.” Jennifer pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I know this is important.”

  Flanagan, his chiseled face projecting sympathy, waited until she’d composed herself. “I know this isn’t easy, Ms. Browning, but did there come a time when the defendant asked to meet at your apartment?”

  “Yes. I called him and told him that I had organized all of my dad’s papers. I said I’d bring them to his office, but he said it would be easier if he just came by my place. I …” She wiped her eyes with the tissue again. “I’m sorry. I feel so stupid now. He kissed me, told me how much he cared for me, that he was falling in love …”

  She left no doubt: I’d seduced her. Flanagan soon moved on to my nocturnal visit to her apartment, the night of her brother’s murder. She testified about calling me after receiving some disturbing photographs in the mail. Flanagan had her describe them.

  “What was the defendant’s response?”

  “He wanted to see me, to comfort me, and insisted on coming over.”

  “What took place when he arrived?”

  “He looked at the photos, called Detective Salvatore about them, and then … tried kissing me, wanting to make love the very night my brother …” Her face contorted in disgust, and that damn tissue dried her eyes once again.

  I could sense the tension rise in Arlene. My level of deviancy had just elevated, and Jennifer’s testimony was unassailable: I’d been at the apartment and had phoned Bernie. Cathy would hear about my kissing and making love on the evening news. Those words would echo in Molly’s ears.

  When the tissue was cradled in her lap, Flanagan reviewed Jennifer’s ensuing suspicions that prompted her to call Salvatore. Then he asked, “We’ve heard testimony to the effect that the defendant did not have a history of violent behavior. Do you have any information to the contrary?”

  Jennifer nodded. “He told me he assaulted a man when he was out looking for my brother. Words were exchanged, and John said he just blew up and punched the guy, that he’d been in fights before. He had a bloody nose and seemed proud of that.”

  So Bernie had been wrong about me, and I was just the type to start a brawl with an innocent bystander. Maybe the sort to cut a man’s throat. Even if Jack could track down the bouncer from the Alley to rebut Jennifer’s testimony, would the prick admit that he basically beat the shit out of me?

  “I want to wrap up by asking you some difficult questions, Jennifer, about the murder of your brother. Is that all right?”

  She nodded demurely, her eyes doe-like.

  “You’ve seen photographs of the knife used to kill him. Is it at all possible that the defendant could have touched that knife in your apartment?”

  “No. I never, in my life, owned a knife like that.”

  “When did you last see your father’s gold retirement watch?”

  “On my brother’s wrist. He treasured that gift from Dad.”

  “With your brother’s death, are you now the sole beneficiary of your father’s two-million-dollar insurance policy?”

  “Yes, but I was already inheriting over a million dollars.” She paused for the perfect amount of time, staring at us with those big, innocent hazel eyes. “For anyone to think … even with all of his troubles, I never wanted anything more than for Frank to recover. I prayed for him daily.”

  She started shuddering and tearing up again—God, she was good at that. Flanagan gave her a moment. “Let me ask one final question, Jennifer. Were you connected in any way with the murder of your brother?”

  She turned to the jury. “Absolutely not. Despite all of his problems, I loved him and always hoped he’d come back into my life.” Her lower lip trembled. Certain people are exceptionally good at making blatant lies sound like the truth: test-a-lying instead of testifying. She was a master. I imagined Jennifer with the Butcher in her dank basement, as they each wielded bolt cutters and stepped toward me. Jennifer would snap her cutter open and position the blades around my cock and balls.

  Judge Seidelson nodded to Arlene, and she walked to the podium, taking with her the notes she’d made during direct examination. She was dogged and methodical, but Jennifer wasn’t shaken. Ice. For her finale, Arlene ended with a routine we’d practiced in her office. She walked to our table and removed a large knife from her briefcase.

  “Ms. Browning, if you’ll indulge me, I have here a knife with the same dimensions as the murder weapon. Could I ask you to hold it, please?”

  Jennifer made a face, like the very idea of touching a knife was repugnant, bu
t gingerly took the handle from Arlene. I couldn’t help but think of the O. J. Simpson trial and the if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit line. What if our planned demonstration went awry?

  “Could you move your hand closer to the blade?”

  Jennifer kept the sour face but did as Arlene requested.

  “And would you please extend the knife toward me, so the jury has a full view?”

  As Jennifer reached forward, it was clear that she, or someone, could have gripped the knife and smudged some, but not all, of my fingerprints. I breathed a sigh of relief. Our little exercise had worked: we had successfully shown that another person could have wielded the knife after me. One more seed of doubt as to my guilt.

  Flanagan conducted a brief redirect, allowing Jennifer to affirm that she hadn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t ever harm her brother. I thought she shot a glance at me as she stepped down from the witness stand, a wry grin playing on her lips. We both know it wasn’t enough, Johnny. Don’t forget to buy a huge jar of Vaseline; you’ll need it when you become some gang’s favorite bitch.

  Flanagan announced that the state had no further witnesses and rested the prosecution’s case. Arlene and Flanagan sparred for a bit over some routine motions, but the judge denied them and adjourned for a lunch break.

  Arlene sat down, leaned into me, and whispered, “She held up, John. You’ll have to testify.”

  No one could counter Jennifer’s testimony but me: I was my only way out. In a dark corner of my mind, she was smirking, tracing that silken tongue along her upper lip. Can’t focus, John? Thinking of your swollen cock pressed between my tits?

  I could not help but stare at the witness stand, my mind locked on the upcoming confrontation with Flanagan. Perhaps a better fate would be for the Torso Murderer to find me and shove his knife in hard.

  40

  My throat was bone dry when the bailiff swore me in. Arlene’s initial questions established my Cleveland roots and unblemished record, but she quickly pivoted to my relationship with Jennifer. Although I could deny my one-time lover’s characterization of what had happened, Arlene had explained that there was no point in contesting the details of my adultery. The better strategy was to focus on the core defense: I did not kill Frank Frederickson.

  “John, you’ve heard the opening statements, including mine. Do you deny the affair with Jennifer Browning?”

  “No. I could argue about how it happened, what was said. But the bottom line is that I was unfaithful to my wife, and I am sorry for that—every minute.” I searched out Cathy. She had returned to the courtroom following the lunch break, and her expression was locked in a tight grimace.

  “Then let’s talk about what you are on trial for: the murder of Frank Frederickson.” She flashed a police photo on the screen, one taken of Frank when he’d been found dead in his chair. “Simple question. Did you do this to him?”

  “No.” From my perch on the witness stand, I was acutely aware of my surroundings: the courtroom full of people, the camera feed capturing my every expression, and all eyes of the jury riveted on my sweaty mug.

  “Then let’s back up. Tell us what brought you to his apartment that afternoon.”

  I detailed the facts that led to my discovery of Frank’s body, and then Arlene pointed to the grisly photograph again.

  “What did you do when you saw this in person?”

  “I was shocked, slipped in his blood trying to get out of there. Once outside, I called the police.”

  “You didn’t go anywhere first and try to clean your shoes?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call me, or another lawyer, before contacting the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I hadn’t done anything wrong.” If my intent was to kill Frank, the jury would have to consider why I didn’t have a better plan than to stand outside of his house, my shoes covered in his blood, and wait for the cops.

  “And the money that was found in the trunk of your car, did you steal that?”

  “Absolutely not. And I certainly didn’t put it there.” The simple and direct truth. The significance of the money that the police had confiscated could not be underestimated. A guilty verdict on the theft charge alone guaranteed prison time, and the Bar Association would revoke my license to practice law.

  Arlene had me describe my stroll to the convenience store to fetch Jennifer a sandwich and some wine, while my car keys were in her possession, and then she asked me about the night I’d been smacked around by the bouncer.

  “I never hit him. He knocked me down, kicked me, beat me up pretty good.”

  “Before that night, when was the last time you were in a fight?”

  “Ninth grade. Jimmy Madison. He beat me up pretty good too.”

  I glanced at the jury, and a few of them were chuckling. Maybe I wasn’t such a rat, after all, but just an ordinary guy who had made some mistakes and was, as they say, in the wrong place at the wrong time. When Arlene wrapped up her direct, Flanagan strode to the podium and drilled me with those emerald green eyes.

  “So, Mr. Coleman,” he said and then paused. A full one, two, three. “Did you also have an affair with Jennifer Browning’s late sister, Martha?”

  I feared losing control of my bladder. The emeralds bored into me. Rumors, back in the day, you and the sister … Bernie. The son of a bitch. I thought he’d done me a solid, but my old high school buddy, my stalwart teammate, had sold me out.

  Arlene objected, then she and Flanagan stormed to a sidebar with Judge Seidelson. Before he shushed them, I heard Arlene say irrelevant and prejudicial. Flanagan countered that his question not only bore on my credibility, but also to premeditation, because my plot could have been based on information Martha gave me about Frank or Oyster. But how Seidelson ruled really didn’t matter, because the jury had heard the damning question and watched me hesitate like a doe in the headlights’ glare.

  The judge ordered me to answer. Arlene paced back to her seat, her narrowed eyes radiating betrayal. Jesus, I would have told her about Martha if I’d had any inkling that anyone knew about it. Bernie must have uncovered some proof, though, because Flanagan wouldn’t have asked the question without knowing the answer. I looked at him and said, “Yes.”

  There was a commotion in the back of the courtroom, and Cathy stalked out, shaking off Corrigan’s hand on her shoulder. Vanessa Edwards plunged after her. I had just ensured that there would be no huddling with Father McGraw to salvage our relationship. And Molly—new ammunition for the taunting bullies. My stomach heaved, and Flanagan’s voice slapped me again.

  “Don’t you think that the fact that you had an affair with her sister was something you should have disclosed to Jennifer?”

  “No, I …” Fuck. Arlene had instructed me to answer yes or no, or ask for clarification if the question wasn’t clear. But I perfectly understood what Flanagan was asking and had no idea how to answer it with a yes or no. “Well, I never meant for that night with Jennifer to happen. Besides, her sister’s gone now … there was no reason to bring it up.”

  I sounded like some raincoat-in-the-park kind of guy, flashing himself to a girl my daughter’s age. One juror, a Hispanic woman in the front row, pursed her lips and shook her head. Flanagan toyed with me, tormented me, made me sit and suffer and clear my throat and hem and haw and swivel in my seat. The searing agony of the bolt cutter was nothing compared to his precise and relentless infliction of emotional distress. Arlene tried to shield me with an objection whenever she could, but reassembling my shattered credibility was beyond even her gifts.

  “… and wouldn’t the two hundred thousand dollars tide you over nicely until you were close enough to Jennifer that she’d take care of you?”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “So we’re to trust you, Mr. Coleman? Tell me, you vowed to be faithful to your wife when you married her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you break that vow, or did
your wife agree that you could seduce Jennifer Browning?”

  “It wasn’t like that. My wife didn’t know anything about us.”

  “So you broke your vow, lied to your wife?”

  I was barely aware of answering his last several questions. Twice, Flanagan instructed me to repeat a mumbled response. When the pummeling was finally over, Arlene didn’t launch into any redirect, because I was done. Cooked. My law school professors had taught me that no one could ever be sure of what is whirling inside the minds of a jury. Except now, there was no need to even look at them. I knew. When the judge excused me to return to the defense table, the courtroom floor seemed to sway.

  Flanagan had gutted me as efficiently as the Butcher would have, as the Torso Murderer might. But the merciless man behind those glittering green eyes was the cruelest of all—he was going to let me live.

  41

  Arlene told Judge Seidelson that we had no further witnesses and rested our case. The judge instructed everyone that closing arguments would commence in the morning. As the jury filed out, Arlene thrust papers into her briefcase. Jack walked through the gate that separated the gallery from the courtroom proper, shrugged, and then gave me a blank look, like what the fuck?

  “I need to talk with him, Jack,” Arlene said, her voice edgy.

  “I can wait, if you want, Johnny …”

  “No, I’ll catch a cab.” Truth was, I didn’t want to explain about Martha to Jack, either.

  I followed Arlene into a vacant jury room, and she dropped into a chair. For the first time since we’d met, her eyes were dim. “So, when were you going to tell me about boffing the sister?”

  I sank into a chair like a chastened schoolboy and tried to answer her question, but the words were jumbled. “No one knew … Salvatore, the prick, once told me he’d heard rumors, but I never, ever …”

  “He’s a cop first.” Her eyes burned into me, and meeting her gaze was impossible. “Think he couldn’t find proof if he wanted to? Ever take your honey to dinner somewhere? What about a motel? Unless you fucked her in Buenos Aires, somebody sure as hell saw you together. All you guys think you’re so damn clever.”