Death Penalty (31 page)

“You too.”

He stood up and pulled off the robe. “This was just for effect.” He held it out. “I think I should get this thing cleaned. It's getting a little rank.”

He shook my hand. “Sit down, Charley. How about a drink?”

“I don't drink anymore, Budy.”

He nodded. “I heard, but I didn't believe. Me, too.”

“AA?”

He laughed. “Nope, fucking ulcers. I miss it though.”

“Me, too.”

“Cork, go get the demon prosecutor, and we'll do a little business.”

The sheriff left and we brought each other up to date on our personal histories.

“Then, I got elected to this job,” Rudy said. “This kid Eddie Rand replaced me as prosecutor. Good lawyer, by the way. I'd be worried about him sniffing after my job except he's too busy laying half the broads around here, and the word is he smokes a little dope on the weekend. The people up here will tolerate that in a prosecutor, but not in a judge. He's no competition, so we get along splendidly.”

He sighed and slipped into the robe once again. “Well, I'm going to grant the first-degree charge against your
client, Charley, and bail is out of the question. I presume you'll want an examination?”

I smiled. “Absolutely.”

He nodded. “Nine days from now. A week from Thursday. I'm open then. Time enough? I don't think Eddie would object if you wanted more time to prepare.”

“Nine days is good.”

He paused, and the smile became almost sad. “I suppose this has to be said. I love you like a brother, Charley, you know that. But you'll get no special breaks here. I'm not in the habit of doing business that way.”

“That's a shame,” I said.

His laugh sounded like it was carrying an echo.

Cork Miller returned with the young prosecutor.

“The first time I seen this prosecutor, Charley,” Judge Hathaway said, putting an arm around Rand's shoulders, “I thought he was a dope dealer. Looks it, don't he?”

He didn't wait for Eddie Rand's reply. “Let's do some business. We'll arraign Doctor Death, no bond, and set examination.”

“You do allow trials up here, I presume,” I asked.

His smile grew large. “Yeah. Sometimes. If people ask real nice.”

Before driving back I stopped in the only bookstore in Broken Axe and bought a half-dozen books, five technical and one Bible, to occupy Miles Stewart's mind. I knew the Bible would irritate him, so I couldn't resist. I delivered them to the jail.

On the other hand, Cork Miller was genuinely impressed by the Bible and assured me he would see the doctor got the books. I thought maybe old Cork might drop back to Stewart's cell for a nice religious chat, which would be a major irritant for the egomaniacal doctor. The prospect brightened my day.

The drive back was almost free of traffic, which left me plenty of time to think.

I thought of how I might possibly defend Doctor Death again. This time the case appeared much stronger.
This time they had an eyewitness. I had nine days until the examination. I planned to spend one or two days prior to that in Broken Axe. By that time, I would have the autopsy report and additional information. A day or two up there to prepare seemed adequate.

But during the three-hour drive, I mostly thought about what I would do if Mallow called.

It was a long drive and I came up with a number of possible answers. None of them seemed really to fit the situation.

IT WAS DARK
by the time I arrived back at Pickeral Point. I decided to stop by the office before I went home. The outside stairway was lit, but I hardly needed it. A huge full moon, like a celestial spotlight making a full sweep, illuminated everything, including the river. I unlocked the office and flipped on the light.

Mrs. Fenton, as usual, had left everything as tidied as though we were expecting an inspection. I ignored the answering machine, which was blinking with the fury of a warning device.

My mail was in one perfect stack; my telephone messages in another.

The mail held no magic, nothing unusual or even interesting. But the telephone messages were another matter entirely.

Apparently the media had gotten word of Doctor Death's arrest about 3
P.M
.; that was the time of the first message. There had been a flood after that: Detroit reporters, national newsmen, and television stations. Everyone wanted a callback. Everyone wanted an interview.

For a few days I would be a celebrity again. I wanted to feel that it was all annoying, but what I really felt was flattered, and I wondered if what I was doing was again growing
a bit too fond of the spotlight. In the old days when I was drinking, I used to love that kind of attention.

Things had changed. I hoped I was one of them.

I hit the button for the phone messages. My machine could record up to twenty-five message units, and it looked from the number of blinks as if it had already gone to the limit.

Each message was preceded by an electronic blip, and then the taped words.

“Hi, Charley, this is Sherman Martelle of the
Free Press
. I called before. It's about your client Doctor Stewart. Please give me a call at the paper”—he carefully recited the number—” or at my home.” Again, a slowly spoken number. “No problem with the hour. Anytime. Thanks.”

The messages from media people followed, like soldiers, one after another. I did get one from a client who was having trouble with a neighbor. I jotted down his number to call in the morning.

I was almost at the end of the tape when the familiar voice spoke in that deep and commanding baritone.

“Charley, this is Judge Mallow. My friend and I believe you and I should get together. Don't ignore this call, Charley. Call me at my office tomorrow morning. I usually get in about ten.”

I knew it was coming, so I shouldn't have felt so shaken, but I was.

The last message was from Mickey Monk. He was very drunk and apparently very jubilant. “Hey, Charley! Old Doctor Death handed you up another big one! We're on a roll here, pal, I can feel it. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, Charley, I honest-to-god can! Luck is with us! We can't help but win. We are going . . .” The tape ran out.

It was like a message from my conscience. His life, as well as McHugh's, was in my hands.

I turned out the lights in the office and sat in my chair, turning to look at the river.

The lights on the Canadian shore looked like a string of Christmas decorations, with the moon silvering the river from shore to shore. A large freighter passed in front of my window, moving like a dark ghost, except that the running lights made me realize that the freighter and lights were real. It sounded its horn, signaling another boat somewhere down the river.

The horn sounded like the blast of that last horn on judgment day.

At least it sounded that way to me.

And, in a way, perhaps it was.

I SPENT AN HOUR OR TWO
calling media people I thought might be important in launching a publicity campaign for my defense of Doctor Death.

I called Sherman Martelle at home.

“Thanks for calling, Charley,” he said. In the background I could hear a television, which suddenly got turned off.

“Basically, what's your defense going to be this time?” Martelle asked.

“Same as before. He didn't do it.”

“They say they have an eyewitness, one of the daughters of the deceased. They say she saw your man do the injection, and that death followed almost immediately.”

“Who is
they
, Sherman?”

“He laughed. The prosecutor up there, a guy named Rand. I think he's getting a kick out of this. I asked him how many murders they had up there last year, and he said just two. Uncivilized place, apparently. Just two.”

“Maybe modern culture will come creeping up to Harbor Beach County yet. What's my man supposed to have used?”

Sherman chuckled. “Didn't Doctor Stewart tell you?”

“He said he didn't do anything wrong.”

“The prosecutor says he used potassium. Stopped the old guy's heart like hitting the brakes on a car.”

“There's no way he can prove that.”

“He says he can. What's your position, Charley? I still have time to call it in. It'll help offset what the prosecutor told us. You'll at least get your innings in for tomorrow's edition.”

“Miles Stewart was invited up there as a friend of the Cronin family. He did not treat or touch Sean Cronin. The old man died in his sleep of natural causes. He was very ill. Apparently there is a problem between the two daughters, the only children of the deceased. These kids, by the way, are in their sixties, Sherm.”

“Toddlers. Go on.”

“One of the sisters trumped up this entire thing to gain advantage in the coming fight for the old man's estate. She knew of my client's problems and used that as an excuse to try to get an edge on her dear sister. Miles Stewart is innocent, Sherman, and we are fully prepared to prove it.”

“Sounds good, Charley. Won't fly, of course. But it sure does sound nice. By the way, how's old Doctor Death taking this?”

“Off the record, he's pissed to beat all holy hell. On the record, he is heartsick that someone would use him in such a cruel way.”

“I love it, Charley. You do know, of course, that your guy was paid two hundred thousand dollars for the hit?”

“That was a contribution to a research foundation run by Doctor Stewart.”

“Charlie, do you honest-to-god believe that?”

“Of course.”

He laughed. “Those people up in the Thumb, Charlie, are all old farmers. They are practical people. Your standard
bag of tricks won't work up there. The only kind of bullshit they go for is the kind they can spread on their fields. They won't buy any of your usual sleight-of-hand stuff. A jury of those hayseeds will knock your big-city ass off.”

“I plan to wear overalls, Sherman, and a straw hat.”

“This is one trial I gotta see.”

The other phone calls were similar. Doctor Death's nonculpability and my credibility were obviously quite suspect. No one was hostile, just disbelieving.

And so was I.

THE PROBLEMS OF MILES
Stewart, M.D., occupied my mind sufficiently enough that I didn't think of Jeffrey Mallow, and my sleep was undisturbed.

But when I awoke, I knew I would have to do something about Mallow, and the old feeling of anxiety returned.

At the office, Mrs. Fenton seemed to be enjoying the attention of the press even more than I. She was as excited as I had ever seen her, which wasn't much, but was more than normal. Phone messages were coming in by the minute.

There was no use in putting it off, so I dialed Mallow's office number and even asked for him by his old title, avoiding another skirmish with his secretary.

“Good morning, Charley,” he said, coming on the line almost immediately. “I see your old client has been up to his usual line of work.”

“That's what's alleged. What can I do for you, Judge?”

“A meeting, Charley. How about this evening?”

“I'm pretty busy. Besides, you already know my answer.”

“Then think of it as a courtesy. I belong to a health club downtown here. The Riverside Club. Do you know it?”

“No, I don't.”

“It's small, but quite charming. Exercise room, sauna, and a large pool. It's part of the Riverside Hotel complex, right near where the old stove works used to be.”

I did know the hotel.

“I'll meet you there at say, six. We'll have a nice swim.”

“Look, Judge—”

“Be there, Charley. I'll leave word that you are my guest. There's parking right next to the place.”

“This is a waste of my time and yours.”

“It's an obligation. That's how I feel. More important, that's how my friend feels. I'll see you at six.”

“Look, this is getting out of hand—” I abruptly stopped when I realized he had hung up.

The balance of the morning was taken up with talking to the media. I made several appointments for television interviews, although I wouldn't permit anyone direct access to my client.

Two minutes on television and a lynch mob would come after the arrogant Dr. Stewart, innocent or not. I would have to be the front man, just as before. Whether it would do any good or not remained to be seen.

At noon I called Judge Bishop. He had just come off the bench. I reported on Mallow's request for a meeting.

“The Riverside Club. I don't know it. It must be new,” he said.

“He wants a swim and a talk,” I said.

“Well, Charley, that can't hurt, can it? As I say, it might be interesting to see just how far he means to carry this thing. I'm certainly curious, even if you aren't.”

“It won't change my answer. I already told him that.”

There was a pause. “No harm done then, eh? Meet with him, Charley, then let me know what happened.”

“Judge, if I dance with him much longer it might look like I'm a part of what he has in mind. People still go to jail for criminal conspiracy, you know.”

He chuckled. “That's only if they agree to something illegal. You say you won't, so you have nothing to worry about. Isn't that right?”

Judge Bishop hung up.

It seemed to me that recently people were hanging up on me a lot.

I didn't have time for lunch. I gave an interview to a crew from a Detroit television station. They didn't like the lighting in my office so we did the interview out on the river boardwalk.

A small crowd gathered as the woman reporter asked me inane questions about Miles Stewart and the charge against him. My answers were probably as inane as her questions, but I hoped they would sound positive, if not entirely rational, when shown on the evening news broadcast. I also knew my shot would be about seven seconds long. No great harm or help can be done in seven seconds. I felt safe enough.