I used Sulo’s phone to call my office. Sleeping Sulo didn’t even stir in his chair. “Maida,” I said, “it’s kind of looking like we might be in this damned Manion murder case.”
“Good, good,” Maida said. “But what’s he going to pay you with? Purple Hearts? Didn’t you know professional soldiers never have a dime? Remember, I was once married to one.”
I gulped and swallowed like a kid caught raiding a cooky jar. “I don’t know yet. We—we haven’t discussed it. All I’m after now are the facts, ma’am. You’re so coldly commercial, Maida.”
“Well, you’d better discuss your fee, you’d better get commercial. I’ve just been going over your check book.”
“Sh … . Not over the phone, Maida. I’m supposed to be the successful, well-heeled defense lawyer. I’m loaded, see, and I only take cases out of my sheer love for an oppressed Humanity. My heart bleedeth for the under dog. I’m just an incorrigible old Liberal who toils solely for blind Justice and the battered Bill of Rights.”
“You’re also damned near broke. Tell me, what’d you do with the fee in the King estate, help salt a uranium mine?”
“I just bought a few necessaries.”
“What necessaries?” Maida persisted.
“Only a little booze and a Burberry jacket. My old one’s in tatters. And a nice little surprise for your birthday. Look, I called to tell you I won’t be back this afternoon and you lecture me how broke we are. Better cancel any appointments. I’ll finish up on the mail tomorrow.”
“There are no appointments,” Maida said. “People are beginning to think you’ve migrated to the woods. And I’m beginning to think maybe they’re right. Parnell McCarthy was in, there’s an air-mail special from your mother—and that’s all.”
“What’d Parn want?”
“He had his usual Monday morning sickness. Probably wanted money—what else does he ever want? Will you be back this afternoon?”
“No, I’ll work here and then I’m going fishing tonight.”
“Fishing, fishing, fishing,” Maida said. “You just had a long weekend of it. Look, Boss, are you mad at the trout?”
“I’m afraid it’s a blood feud, Maida. For years I caught them and now they’ve caught me. I’m getting to hate ’em worse than women. And there’ll be damn little time for fishing once I dive into this case—if I take it. If you’ve nothing better to do but brood over my check book you can leave early.”
“Anything to do!” Maida snorted. “I’m on the latest Mickey Spillane.”
“Good girl. Always improving the mind, eh, Maida? But I thought you’d waded through the Spillane abattoirs long ago.”
“I re-read him every year, faithfully, like some people take a retreat. I find him so consoling.”
“Not retreat, Maida,” I said. “The magic word is bugout.”
“What did you say?”
“Bugout,” I said softly. “And good-by.”
That’s the way it is between Maida and me.
I hung up the phone and stole a look at Sulo, who’d begun gently to snore. I speculated that some day some Good Samaritan would tiptoe in and take down the big brass key and empty the jail, stink and all. I also wondered what Lieutenant Manion might be tempted to do if he knew that the only person who stood between him and freedom was fast asleep. I turned to rejoin him and found him standing in the Sheriffs open office door. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling slightly. “I’m not going to bolt. It wouldn’t help and anyway it might be fun to wait and see what happens.”
“Ya, ya, ya,” Sulo muttered, rubbing his eyes. “You through already, Polly?”
chapter 4
We were back at the Sheriff’s desk. It was time to get down to cases. “Last night after I talked with your wife on the phone I read the newspaper account in your case,” I said. “Have you?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“Is it substantially correct?”
“Yes.”
“Touching only the high spots now, the newspaper states that you walked into Barney Quill’s bar at Thunder Bay about forty-five minutes past midnight last Friday night—really early Saturday—and shot him five times; that you drove in your car back to your house trailer in the Thunder Bay tourist park; that you awakened the deputized caretaker of the park and told him you had just shot Quill; that he then left to summon the state police from Iron Bay; and that you waited in your trailer until the officers arrived. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“The paper further states that the officers then took you into custody and brought you in to this jail; that your wife accompanied you; and that your wife told the officers that earlier that evening Barney Quill had raped her in the woods and then later beat her up at the entrance gate of the tourist park. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That the jail physician was called, who took a vaginal smear; that this smear was later reported by him negative for sperm; that he gave out his opinion that she had not been raped; and that your wife volunteered to take a polygraph or lie-detector test as to the truth of her story; that such a test was given but the results are undisclosed. Right?”
“Yes.”
“The newspaper also states that you have refused to amplify your original oral statement to the officers that you shot Barney Quill. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You have not made or signed any other statement to the police?”
“No.”
“All right. So far so good. Now let’s talk about some things that may or may not have been in the newspaper. Did you see Barney Quill rape your wife?”
For the first time Mr. Cool’s eyes showed some reaction; they seemed to move lidlessly, swiftly, like a serpent’s—more of a quick glittering flutter than a blink. “No,” he said softly.
“Did you see him beat her up at the gate?”
“No.”
“Or hear her shout, as she claimed?”
“No … . Well I did seem to hear shouting, as though in my dreams. Anyway I met her at the trailer door.”
The old ex-D.A. was hitting his stride. “So the first time you learned of the attacks on your wife by Barney was when she told you about them?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do then?” I’d force him to say something more than yes or no.
“I took care of her, of course. She was in terrible shape. One eye was nearly closed, both eyes and her face were badly bruised, also her arms; her skirt was torn, her panties were missing, and—and—” He paused and again there was the glitter of a coiled serpent in his eyes.
“Go on,” I said.
“And this—this man left his—his marks on her thighs.” This was more hissed than spoken.
“What, if anything, did you do with these—ah—marks?”
“I wiped them off her body and burned the evidence.”
“Right then and there?”
“Immediately.”
I paused and examined my nails. Still examining them, I said, “Did it not occur to you that this would have been pretty conclusive evidence that the man had had sexual intercourse with her?”
His dark eyes seemed to wall up and cloud over; he sipped his small mustache that I was learning to love so well; and then he went into the ritual of loading his Ming holder.
“Did it?” I repeated.
“Did it what?” he said coolly.
It was no time for evasions. “Did it not occur to you that you were destroying the best evidence that Quill had laid her?”
“I never thought of that,” he blurted, almost flinging the Ming holder from him. “I—I couldn’t stand the sight—I—I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.”
“Did this happen before or after you shot Barney Quill?”
“Before.”
“Hm … . How long did you remain with your wife before you went to the hotel bar?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think it is important, and I suggest you try.”
After a pause. “Maybe an hour.”
“Maybe more?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe less?”
“Maybe.”
I paused and lit a cigar. I took my time. I had reached a point where a few wrong answers to a few right questions would leave me with a client—if I took his case—whose cause was legally defenseless. Either I stopped now and begged off and let some other lawyer worry over it or I asked him the few fatal questions and let him hang himself. Or else, like any smart lawyer, I went into the Lecture. I studied my man, who sat as inscrutable as an Arab, delicately fingering his Ming holder, daintily sipping his dark mustache. He apparently did not realize how close I had him to admitting that he was guilty of first degree murder, that is, that he “feloniously, wilfully and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder one Barney Quill.” The man was a sitting duck.
It was tempting for me to ask the fatal question, sorely tempting for me to let this cool bastard boil in the oil of his own lardy ego. Why should I barter my years of experience to try to save this Mister Cool? Why, oh why, indeed? It was a nice question and I sat there pondering it. Was it because I saw a chance to beat this case, and at the same time beat Mitch Lodwick? Hm … . Or because it was my big chance to win a big tough case and finally knock that garrulous old fraud of an Amos Crocker from his pedestal as the leading criminal defense lawyer of the county, if not the Peninsula? Hm … . Was it because I was running for Congress against Mitch and this was my opportunity not only to beat him, but to demonstrate by dramatic contrast our relative capabilities? More dimly, but there: was it because some character had once made a drunken pass at my older sister, Gail, when she was in high school, years before, and my father Oliver had beaten him within an inch of his life and then dared the authorities to arrest him—a dare they didn’t take? Or was it because a frustrated 4F could now bask in the reflected glory of defending a genuine military hero, a man who had fought in two bitter wars? Was it because of all of these things? And what did any of this have to do with the guilt or innocence of Frederic Manion? Or this elusive thing called Justice?
At this point Sulo Kangas poked his head in the door. “Noontime,” he said. “Lunch he’s served.” As I sat pondering how Sulo had ever come awake, whether he had set an alarm clock, he gave me a look of dawning inspiration and said: “You like eat with us, Polly?” He beamed, the genial host. “You very welcome.”
I recoiled inwardly with horror at the thought. Sheriff Battisfore’s food would doubtless sustain life but, I suspected, contribute little or nothing to its sublimity. I glanced at my watch and swiftly arose.
“Sorry, Sulo,” I lied stoically. “Got a luncheon date downtown.” I glanced at my prospective client and found he was smiling. The man was actually smiling.
“Well done, Counselor,” he murmured after Sulo had retired. “Hope you enjoy your lunch.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Same to you. See you at two.”
chapter 5
I drove to the Iron Bay Club and had a leisurely lunch. After lunch I played Billy Webb at cribbage and won over thirteen dollars. I was going hot and skunked him twice. By two I was back at the jail and was pleased to find that Sheriff Battisfore was still away. Perhaps I still wouldn’t have to go up in the cell blocks to see my man.
“Do you mind if we use the Sheriff’s office again, Sulo?” I inquired sweetly. I was afraid I had offended him by failing to stay for lunch.
“Sure, sure, sure, Polly,” Sulo replied, ever good-natured. “Sheriff he still be out on patrol.”
I waited for Sulo to fetch Lieutenant Manion down from his cell. I reflected that while sheriffs rolled up more patrol mileage (and consequent mileage fees) than almost all other species of flatfoots and cops put together, that during their wanderings they were, as a class, not unlike the three wise monkeys: they heard no evil, spoke no evil, and resolutely saw no evil. I tried to recall the occasions when any sheriff I had ever known or heard about (but one) had ever regularly made any arrests on his very own. The effort was not fruitful. Though sheriffs and their men relentlessly scoured the highways and byways, day and night, lo! no drunk drivers seemed ever to cross their paths, speeders were totally nonexistent, and nobody, but nobody, ever ran a stop sign or a red light. All the public had to do to abolish crime, apparently, was to ignore it—at least crime seemed to flee underground whenever the sheriff was around. It was little short of miraculous. It was also part of the dreary system; a sheriff couldn’t possibly change it if he would—that is, and still stay in office.
Old Pamell McCarthy had hit the nail on the head. “How,” he once asked me, “how in the name of the blessed saints can you expect a man to turn around and arrest the very people who elect him and keep him in office? It’s contrary to human nature and our rare ‘good’ sheriffs are political freaks whose lot is swift and total political oblivion. We don’t want good sheriffs. How could we when the only qualification we ask for in a sheriff is that he be twenty-one?” Parnell had paused and rolled his eyes. “And, merciful Heaven, we get what we ask for, that we richly do—they’re invariably twenty-one … .”
“Hello, there,” my man said. “Did you have a good lunch?”
“Look, Manion,” I said, suddenly blowing a small gasket, “my name isn’t There—it happens to be Biegler.” If I was going to represent this aloof bastard I was certainly not going to have him calling me “There.”
Coolly: “Excuse me, Mr. Biegler. Did you have a good lunch this noon?”
“Excellent,” I said. “And you, Lieutenant Manion?”
“I was just beginning to forget it.” He closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“‘Courage, Camille! This pain, too, must pass away,’” I quoted abstractedly. “Sit down,” I went on. “I’ve been thinking about your case during the noon hour.”
“That’s good,” the Lieutenant said. “What’s the verdict?”
“Sit down,” I repeated, “and listen carefully. Better break out your Ming holder. This is it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Manion, obediently sitting down and producing the Ming holder. His lawyer was making ready to deliver the Lecture.
And what is the Lecture?
The Lecture is an ancient device that lawyers use to coach their clients so that the client won’t quite know he has been coached and his lawyer can still preserve the face-saving illusion that he hasn’t done any coaching. For coaching clients, like robbing them, is not only frowned upon, it is downright unethical and bad, very bad. Hence the Lecture, an artful device as old as the law itself, and one used constantly by some of the nicest and most ethical lawyers in the land. “Who, me? I didn’t tell him what to say,” the lawyer can later comfort himself. “I merely explained the law, see.” It is a good practice to scowl and shrug here and add virtuously: “That’s my duty, isn’t it?”
Verily, the question, like expert lecturing, is unchallengeable.
I was ready to do my duty by my client and he sat regarding me quietly, watchfully, as I lit a new cigar.
“As I told you,” I began, “I’ve been thinking about your case during the noon hour.”
“Yes,” he replied. “You mentioned that.”
“So I did, so I did,” I said. “Now I realize there are many questions still to be asked, facts to be discussed,” I went on. “And I am not prejudging your case.” I paused to discharge the opening salvo of the Lecture. “But as things presently stand I must advise you that in my opinion you have not yet disclosed to me a legal defense to this charge of murder.”
I again paused to let this sink in. It is a necessary condition to the successful lecture. My man blinked a little and touched both sides of his mustache lightly with the tip of his tongue. “Could it be you are advising me to plead guilty?” he said, smiling ever so slightly.
“I may eventually,” I said, “but I didn’t quite say that. I merely want at this time for you to have the trained reaction of a
man who—” I paused “—who is not without experience in cases of this kind.” I was getting a little overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of my own modesty and I fought the impulse to flutter my eyelashes.
“Yes, but how about that bastard Quill raping my wife?” my man said quietly. “How about the ‘unwritten law’?”
I had been waiting for that one. “There is no such thing as the ‘unwritten law’ in Anglo-American jurisprudence,” I said, a little pontifically. “It is merely another one of those dearly hugged folk-myths that people regularly die for, like the notion that raw rhubarb is good for the clap or that all chorus girls lay or that night air is bad. In fact many a man who has depended on the myth of the ‘unwritten law’ has instead depended from a rope.” I paused, rather relishing the phrase, and resolved to remember it.
“But there is no capital punishment in Michigan, is there?” the Lieutenant said. My man had evidently been doing some thinking on his own during the noon recess.
“The rope was a figure of speech,” I said. “We lawyers are great fellows for figures of speech. But to answer your question: except for treason—and of that there’s been no recorded case—you are correct: there is no capital punishment in Michigan.” I paused and went on. “But I would offhand guess, Lieutenant, that if you were convicted of this charge you might prefer that there were.”
I had sunk the harpoon pretty far. Lieutenant Manion stared down at his strong delicate hands a moment and then at me. “You’ve made a pretty shrewd guess,” he answered slowly. He looked about the bleak, gray-painted room and, stout man, took a deep breath. “I’d sooner die than spend my days in a place like this,” he said.
Anatomy of a Murder Page 5