Indefensible (16 page)

Our assumption has been that, for all his painstaking care in cleaning the bathroom where Seth Coen was dismembered, Scud forgot to dispose of the rag he used for wiping blood spatter from his own face. Somehow, instead of being tossed into a landfill with all the other bloodied clothes, this rag was crumpled into a pocket and later ended up in the laundry area of Scud Illman's home.

I'm wearing surgical gloves. I open the evidence bag and take out the rag. It is speckled with rusty droplets of blood, which, according to our DNA analysis, belonged to Seth Coen. But more prevalent than the blood are large green-black splotches of ink. It is just what I expected to find and hoped I wouldn't. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, and for an insane instant, I think of what I could do to redeem this worthless soiled rag. Smuggle in an otherwise clean hankie spattered with blood of my own. Do the switch. DNA analysis has already been run, it's unlikely they'll do it again. We just need a rag with blood spatter and no ink; how simple it would be. Yet through the raging disappointment and criminal temptation, I envision the scene. It is incongruously tender: Scud Illman and Seth Coen, sitting at the kitchen table in Scud's house. Maybe Scud's wife sits with them; maybe Scud's stepson, Colin, watches TV in the living room. They put a towel on the table, and Seth lays his hand on it.
It's been a few years,
Scud says as he prepares the needle and ink. Seth is only a few days out of the oppressive prison culture, and here's Scud offering this act of generosity. First, for no particular reason, Scud traces the design with his forefinger, and maybe that gentle, even affectionate contact makes their nerves tinge with unaccustomed emotion. It quiets them. Now Scud, needle in hand, closes the sides of that wretched brand, and as he works, he rests his free hand on Seth's arm.

Two misfits, Seth and Scud. Scud keeps a rag on hand, blotting
the droplets of blood that surface on Seth's skin as the swastika is closed up, dot by dot, until, to the casual observer, it's just a window. When they're done, Scud crumples up the blotter rag and tosses it into his laundry pile.

•  •  •

TMU pushes an index finger against his lips. “It's dicey,” he says, rocking in his desk chair. Though he is my mentor in career matters, I'm usually his adviser on prosecutorial details. Today I'm here asking him what to do. There was barely enough evidence as it was, but without the bloodied rag, we have nothing linking Scud to Seth's murder and barely anything linking him to Zander's.

“What do you think we should do?” TMU asks.

“Release him.”

TMU nods. “We have to protect your position.”

“My position?”

“The circuit bench. Cut your losses now. You don't want to lose this one in trial.” He nods in agreement with himself.

I shift on my feet in a way that asks whether he is done and I can leave. He ignores it. “Could the guy be innocent?” he asks. He stares at me with lips pressed tight. I stare back, and we hold for a few seconds, then he explodes in delighted self-amusement. “Got you,” he says, and finally, I relax enough to sit down in one of his wing chairs.

Good joke, the idea of Scud's innocence. What TMU means, in his avuncular way, is that our error—if it was an error at all to arrest Scud when we did—was merely a strategic one. The question isn't whether he's guilty. Of course he's guilty. The question is how best to convict him.

“Is it really so clear-cut?” TMU asks, meaning the rag. It's tempting to keep quiet and let a jury decide whether Scud Illman used it to wipe the blood droplets from Seth's tattoo or the splatter from a dismembered corpse. “I mean, we don't need to do the defense's job for them. Right?”

I shake my head. “Too risky.”

“Okay,” he says approvingly, “take care of it.”

And with that, we're back to our usual roles: me advising, TMU deciding.

•  •  •

Scud is transported back to the FBI building. Kendall meets us there. Lizzy waits in Chip's office. Sparky gets set up. We ask Scud the questions obliquely, and he delivers a narrative of doctoring Seth Coen's tattoo to disguise the swastika, just as I imagined. “Did he pay you?” I ask Scud, for no other reason than that I want to know.

Scud looks up at me. The smirk is nearly absent from his unfortunate features. “ 'Course not,” he says. “There's some things you don't charge a guy for. 'Specially a friend.”

Chip, Dorsey, Kendall, and I go into a conference room. It's agreed. We'll release him. Kendall is gracious.

•  •  •

On our drive over to the Rain Tree for a late lunch, my phone rings and I see it's Kendall. I answer.

“You did the right thing,” he says.

“No right or wrong,” I say. “We do what the evidence requires.”

“Anyway. Listen, I need to talk to you. Can I swing by your office? It won't take long.”

“Talk now.”

“Better in person.”

“Yeah, well, my daughter and I are going out to lunch.”

“Teachers' professional day? Me, too. How old's yours?”

“Fourteen.”

“Mine's sixteen. Where are you going?”

“The Rain Tree,” I say before it occurs to me to obfuscate.

“Meet you there,” he says, and he hangs up. I'm not sure what just happened, whether I invited them to join us or not. I don't want him there, and Lizzy certainly won't. She's about twelve years beyond the point where I could shove her in front of any little boy or girl her age and expect enthusiasm. I should warn her, but I don't feel like
suffering her annoyance, so we ride along quietly, Lizzy in her own world and me in mine.

•  •  •

Kendall comes in the door of the Rain Tree, and immediately, I see there'll be no problem with Lizzy resenting the intrusion. The grinning teenager who follows Kendall has Down syndrome, and at this moment something I know about my own daughter breaks through from my subconscious into full recognition. Namely, Lizzy is all about compassion. It's what motivates her.

Kendall introduces his daughter as Kaylee.

“Where do you go to school, Kaylee?” Lizzy asks.

“No school today!” Kaylee answers, beaming at Lizzy through thick glasses.

“Are you at work with your dad?”

“He's working. I'm just with him.”

“Me, too. I'm staying with my dad today, too.”

“Because there's no school!”

“Right. I've got an okay dad. Do you have an okay dad?”

Kaylee turns and studies Kendall. “Sometimes,” she says, and we all laugh.

The waitress comes. Kendall says he and Kaylee aren't staying, he just wants to chat for a couple of minutes. Lizzy asks for children's place mats and crayons, and when the waitress brings them, she and Kaylee get busy coloring. The mats have a drawing of the Rokeby Mills building with the river and flowers and the Rain Tree Grill with people standing in front. There is one figure in a wheelchair.

“I love to color,” Lizzy says.

“Me, too,” Kaylee says.

“What's this about?” I ask Kendall, resisting the impulse to act like he and I are best buddies because our daughters are coloring together.

“Scud Illman knows people,” Kendall says. “I don't know how much is trash talk. He likes to act important, like nothing goes on in this city that he doesn't know about.”

Kendall and I are leaning in toward each other so the girls can't hear. It's cozier than I want to be with an opposing counsel—or at least cozier than I like being with Kendall Vance. I don't mind whispered conversation, but when my vision goes blue with the smell of the guy's Aqua Velva, it's too much.

I straighten up. “Yeah, well. This isn't a matter of trash talk. It's premeditated you-know-what.” I glance at the girls.

“No, no,” Kendall says. “What do you think, that I'm here to convince you my guy didn't do it? Fu— Screw that. That's not why I'm here. Listen to me. Forget Scud Illman—”

“Forget him? What the hell?”

“
Arguendo,
counselor. For what I'm here to talk about, forget him. Okay? He's a mouthpiece, that's all. I thought you might want to hear what he's saying.”

“What's he saying?”

“That there're things going on.”

“Things?”

“Like maybe the locals think they're in Colombia or Sicily.”

“That's vague, Kendall, let me get it straight: Your client says that—”

“No. He doesn't say, he intimates.”

“Your client intimates there are plans—”

“No plans. Just chatter. Noise. A surge of.”

“Intimidation or retaliation, or just obstruction?”

He shrugs. “I don't know what to call it. Scud says things like this: ‘So I hear from an associate of mine whose name will remain nameless that some guy whose name I don't know but who my associate calls Bulldog, he hears from him that some guys are feeling cramped and want to clear a little space around themselves.' ” Kendall uses a whispery, sinister voice for imitating Scud. “Another time he might say, ‘Schnair is bad news for people trying to do business in this town, but the times, they are a-changing.' See what I mean? Nothing to really get your teeth into. Just background. Like when you were searching his home, he said to me, ‘So that's the famous Uptown Cruthers,' and I asked him what's so
famous about Upton, and Scud says, ‘Nothing yet. But I've heard talk about guys wanting to make him famous, if you know what I mean.' ”

I glance over at the girls. They're oblivious to us. Kaylee has her mouth half open and her tongue spread flat across the bottom lip, eyelids squinted down in fierce concentration as she outlines the wheelchair in silver. Lizzy leans toward Kaylee and whispers some bit of praise for Kaylee's work.

“Why are you telling me this? Why not the Bureau? And aren't you violating confidentiality?”

“I'm telling you because he asked me to,” Kendall says.

I exhale contemptuously.

“It's true. Scud always says, ‘And you can tell that to Nick Davis.' ‘You can tell Nick Davis that I hear from an associate of mine whose name shall remain blah, blah, blah.' See, I think you have it all wrong, Nick. Scud isn't bragging or threatening. He wants you to know that he might be useful.”

“What are we talking about, Kendall?”

“I guess that's still up in the air, isn't it?” he says. “We were thinking maybe you guys would like an informant on the street. Someone to let you know just what's going on, what's what, and who's who. Somebody who knows the life.”

“Scud isn't the kind of guy we're interested in working with.”

“He could be like that Maxy character from way back.”

“What do you know about Maxy?”

“Nothing. This is all just a thought. Though I've heard rumors lately that Maxy is back and stirring up trouble.”

“Yup, and I spotted Elvis this morning.”

“Just repeating what I hear, counselor. But back to Scud Illman: Talk it over with the Bureau. Call me.”

I'm repulsed by the thought of flipping Scud Illman to our side. I'd like to get away from Kendall, but Lizzy and I are here for lunch. It's Kendall and Kaylee who are squatting. I straighten up, putting a few more inches between us.

The girls are still coloring. Lizzy is painstaking, Kaylee less so.
Liz looks at Kaylee's picture and says, “Oooh. I like that green in the sky.”

“When does Tamika Curtis resume?” I ask.

“First thing tomorrow,” he says, “and you know, counselor, you're really on the wrong side of that one.”

I ignore him, and we wait a few seconds for the unpleasantness to pass. Then I say, “What's your impression of that trooper Tina had on the stand—Officer Penhale?”

“He strikes me as kind of a weasel. What's your interest?”

“Just curious.”

I shouldn't have asked Kendall's opinion. As soon as he gives it, I dismiss it. Defense lawyers are suspicious of cops.

My own interest in Penhale is that he was there that day. He met Cassandra and drove her home from the reservoir. In the question of who leaked Cassandra's name, everyone's a suspect.

When I get back to the Federal building, I pop into TMU's office to brief him on my talk with Kendall. I laugh bitterly at the idea of using Scud as an informant. TMU doesn't laugh with me.

F
riday morning. Printers humming, fresh coffee. The cleaning staff came through last night, and the place is sparkly. Tonight Lizzy will stay with Flora out in Turner, so I'll be on my own—a thought that blossoms with possibility as I pass Tina's door with my cup of coffee. She's studying some file with an intensity that surrounds her like quills on a porcupine. But I brave it. “How's Curtis going?”

“Is that a joke?”

“What's the problem?”

“Kendall. He's got a string of bogus rebuttal witnesses a mile long. Judge Washington disqualifies most of them, but each one gives Kendall a chance to speechify about the unfairness of it all. It's a smokescreen defense, and Washington's letting him get away with it. Should have been a two-day trial. We're up to four with no end in sight.”

“Is he going to put on a defense?”

“God knows.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yeah. Go away.”

The blossom of possibility wilts.

TMU calls me. “Nick, Special Agent Neidemeyer wants a conference on the Avery Illman character.”

“Can you stall him?”

Neidemeyer is the section chief. He runs the FBI office here. A conference can only mean that the Bureau is considering offering Scud a deal.

“What's to gain by delaying?” TMU asks.

“Conviction, that's what. I don't want this guy getting immunity.
Believe me, Harold, he's not a guy you want to be doing business with.”