True Crime (18 page)

Shortly before 23:30, the Strap-down procedure would begin. Beachum would be secured to the gurney and rolled into the execution chamber. After frequent rechecks of the phones and clocks and so on—and after the department director called the governor’s representative to ensure there were no last-minute reprieves—the blinds in the chamber would be lifted so that the witnesses could see in through the glass. Luther would read the death warrant out loud; the prisoner would be asked for his last words. At 00:01, the lethal injection machine would be set into operation.

Luther took another bite of his sandwich. It was good—the rye bread was fresh and there was just the amount of Russian dressing he liked. He chewed slowly, swallowed and went on talking. He detailed the cleanup procedure for after the execution, and the meetings with state officials and so on. In spite of their familiarity with the protocol, the men around the table showed their most serious, most businesslike faces. They nodded almost in unison as Luther spoke, Shillerman along with the rest.

Yeah, thought Luther, looking from one to the other of them. This was the way to do it. Just like in the army, just like in battle. The system got you through, the team got you through. You were part of them and you worked together and you got the job done.

The image of Frank Beachum’s face had almost entirely ceased to trouble him for the moment. This was going to be all right, he thought. He thought he was going to get through this just fine.

I
t was about two-thirty when I walked back into the
St. Louis News
. Bridget Rossiter met me at the city room door, her freckled face urgent. “Have you heard about Michelle? She’s been in a temble accident.”

Being the Trends editor, Bridget always got the news a little later than everyone else. I nodded and patted her shoulder. She shook her head sorrowfully.

“You know, alcohol figures in over fifty percent of all traffic fatalities,” she said.

“Is Michelle still in a coma?” “She’s in a coma? Oh my God,” she murmured, as I walked past.

The city room was busy now. Reporters sat at various places within the maze of desks, leaning toward their computer screens, tapping their keyboards, or kicking back with a coffee in their hand and a paper open on their legs. At the city desk, Jane Marsh and William Anger, the minority affairs editor, stood flanking Bob Findley’s chair, bending over him in conference. For a moment, I thought I might sneak in and out of the place without Bob spotting me. But it was not to be. I’d hardly taken three steps into the room, when Bob raised his head as if a radar blip had sounded. He pinned me, across the long room, with that expressionless stare which told of how his heart had erased me from the Book of Life.

I forced a pained smile and went past the desk, hewing
as close to the wall as I could. The door to Alan Mann’s office was closed, but I could see him in there through the venetian blinds. He was talking on the telephone, making expressive gestures with the candy bar in his free hand.

I didn’t knock. I just pushed the door open. I felt Bob’s eyes on my back—drilling into my back—as I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

“Right,” Alan was saying into the phone. “We’ll do a lead editorial on that for tomorrow. What’s my opinion?” He listened, his hawklike head bobbing up and down, his candy bar holding fire in his raised hand. “Got it,” he said then. “Sure thing, Mr. Lowenstein.” He rocked forward in his chair and dropped the handset into its cradle. He looked up at me from under his bushy brows. “Stop fucking Bob’s wife,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”

“Oh Christ,” I said. “What did he do, put it in the company newsletter?”

Alan pointed the candy bar at me. It was a Snickers, the kind with all the peanuts. “If he comes to me and wants your ass, I’m gonna have to give it to him. Then you’ll just be a hole without an ass around it.”

I pulled out my cigarettes and stuck one between my teeth. I hid behind the match flame as I lit it. “She started it,” I muttered lamely into the fire.

“Doesn’t count. You’ve got the dingus.” His big body fell back in the chair. He ripped a hunk of chocolate off and mashed the nuts savagely. He regarded me savagely. “You know what?”

“All right, all right,” I said.

“You’re a fucking womanizer, that’s what. It fucked you up in New York and it’s gonna fuck you up here. You’re fucking up your whole career and you’re fucking up your marriage and if you can’t keep your goddamned prick in your pants I’m not gonna be able to goddamned protect you. How was she?”

“None of your goddamned business,” I said. “Not bad.”

“Lucky bastard. I always liked her.”

“Shut up, Alan. Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me, boy. You’re the one who sinned against God and man.”

I turned away from him and walked over to the wall. It was crowded with plaques and certificates, awards and appreciations. They were what he had instead of windows. There were photos too—of Alan standing with the governor, standing with the president, standing with Mr. Lowenstein, who owned the paper. I stood blowing smoke at them.

“Listen,” Alan said to my profile. “Did I ever tell you about the ADA I fell for in New York?”

“No, and if you tell me now, I’m going to throw myself across your desk and rip your throat out with my bare hands.”

“It’s an edifying tale.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll save it for another time.”

I swiveled around. He had taken another bite of chocolate and was holding the bar up to his face, eyeing a drooping curlicue of caramel with affection.

“I’ve got a problem,” I said.

“Oh, the nickel finally drops.” His beak nose bent down as he grimaced. “Christ, boy. Don’t you know Bob’s been after you since you got here? In that quiet, earnest, morally just way of his. He’s probably
glad
you fucked his wife so he has an ethical reason to destroy you.”

“Great. I live to make him happy. But that’s not my problem.”

“How can you be so goddamned self-destructive?”

“Practice, Alan. But that’s not my problem.”

“You should’ve fucked
my
wife. I’d’ve just punched you.”

“I did fuck your wife.”

He laughed. “Lucky bastard. How was she?”

“She sends her love. But that’s not my goddamned problem, Alan.”

“All right. What’s your goddamned problem? Tell papa. You soulless shit.” He popped the last of the candy into his mouth.

“Frank Beachum,” I said.

“The soon-to-be-dead guy?”

“Yeah.”

He crumpled the candy wrapper and laid it up in the air with a flick of his wrist. It plonked into the metal can against the wall. “For two!” he said.

“I’m supposed to interview him this afternoon,” I said.

“A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I think he could be innocent.”

“Is that your problem?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s not,” said Alan. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”

He stretched out in the high-backed chair, folding his hands atop his volleyball belly. I flicked an ash angrily off my cigarette so that it looped into the wastebasket. Alan sniffed, annoyed.

“I’m serious,” I said then.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. Look at my face. This is my serious face, Alan. This is how you can tell.”

“Steven,” he said. “Young Steven Everett. Listen to me a minute. Listen to your mentor and guide. Life is less mysterious than we know. Things are almost always exactly what they seem. The guy was busted, tried and convicted. This isn’t TV. You’ve been in the courts. You
know
he’s guilty.”

I grinned with gritted teeth. Smoke seeped out between them.

“All right,” he said finally. “What’ve you got?”

I lifted my cigarette hand as if to speak. Then, not speaking, I held the filter to my lips and sucked on it hard. What was I going to tell him anyway? That six years after the event, there were potato chips in my line of vision? That I looked into Dale Porterhouse’s eyes and knew he was lying? That it bothered me that Nancy Larson hadn’t heard any gunshots even though she had a perfectly good reason why she shouldn’t have?

“Oh,” said Alan sadly. “Oh, Ev.”

“No, no, wait …” I said.

“Ev, Ev, Ev …”

“Just listen to me.”

“Ev. I don’t have to listen to you. I’m looking at you, Ev. I’m looking at you and I see a reporter who’s about to tell me that he has a hunch.”

“Alan, I’ve done some checking up …”

“Do you know my opinion of reporters who have hunches?”

“I talked to one of the witnesses.”

“I can’t fart loud enough to express my opinion, Ev.”

“There are discrepancies.”

His chair came forward with a sharp report. He stared at me, bugging his eyes.
“Discrepancies?
Did I hear you say there were
discrepancies?”
His thick eyebrows bounced up and down. “After a police investigation? A trial? A conviction? Six years of appeals?
You
found discrepancies? What did it take you, half an hour?”

“Come on. You know the appeals system. His first lawyer was probably some twelve-year-old Legal Aid guy and if he didn’t object to something at the trial, the replacements couldn’t use it later for the appeal. You can’t even argue proof of innocence anymore.”

“Ev …”

“Alan, for Christ’s sake, they’re gonna kill the guy.”

“Ev …”

“I’m telling you.”

He cocked his big head at me. “Oh, oh, Mr. Everett.”

“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ve got a hunch.”

He sat back again. “Ha.”

I pointed my cigarette at him. “But you know my hunches, Alan. They’re based on …”

“A desperate attempt to cover the shabbiness of your personal behavior with a show of professional skill.”

“Right. And this is a strong one. Something stinks about this case.”

“That’s me. I had one of those veal heros for lunch.”

“Goddammit.” I stepped over to the wastebasket. I bent down and crushed my cigarette out against its rim. “Damn it, damn it,” I said again.

There was a chair in front of his desk. I went over and sank down into it. I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands. After a long moment, I guess Alan took pity on me. I heard him shift in his chair with a low groan.

“All right,” he said. “Let me get it straight what we’re dealing with here. If you can turn this routine execution into some kind of big fight-for-justice story, maybe—and I do mean maybe, my friend—
maybe
I can stand up for you a little when Bob tries to fire you.”

I nodded even before I had lifted my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess that’s the idea.”

He regarded me with what, in Alan, passed for compassion. “You’ll still lose the wife and kid, you know. She’s gonna find out.”

“I know, I know.”

“And you’ll be shit on the floor out there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the city room. “They love
Bob on the floor, man. They’d walk through fire for him. They’ll wipe you off the soles of their shoes.”

“I know. Believe me.”

He lifted his broad shoulders. “But hey, what the hell. I’m not your father. I don’t think I’m your father. Am I your father?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Because no son of mine is going to use this newspaper for his own sleazy personal motives.”

“No, no, I’ll play it straight.”

Alan snorted. “Don’t pretend to have integrity with me, young man.”

“Sorry.”

“Who knows?” he said, raising his hands philosophically. “There’s always something in a criminal case that didn’t go right. You might work it up into some kind of crusading journalism type thing. Then, when Bob comes in here and asks me to transfer you to the toilet, I’ll be able to say, ‘But, Bob, look at that great Beachum story Steve made up out of practically nothing.’ He won’t give a shit, but I’ll be able to say it.”

“I really think there might be something to this,” I said with as much conviction as I could.

Alan gave a deep chuckle. I avoided meeting his eyes. I was still hunched over in my chair, my elbows on my thighs.

“So what do I do?” I said.

He shrugged again. “Beats me. Just make it sound good, pal. I’ll run it for you, but only if it sounds good.”

“Yeah, but I mean what if I really find something?”

He reared back in his seat. “What, you mean like evidence? Today? You got nine hours before they juice the guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what if I do? We can’t just wait for it to run tomorrow.”

Alan made a face as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess you could go to Mr. Lowenstein.”

“You think?”

“Why not? He’s the governor’s pal. If he calls the state-house and says it’s important, the gov’ll pick up, no question.”

“Okay. Except Mr. Lowenstein hates me.”

Alan gave a deep belch. It lifted him in his chair, bloated his cheeks. “Everyone hates you, Everett,” he said. “Even I hate you, and I’m your pal. But I will say this: You go to Mr. Lowenstein and it better be awfully good. It better be solid down to the ground or he not only won’t call the governor, he’ll eat your heart and throw your body to the dogs. You don’t have to sleep with
his
wife, friend, he’ll fire you for free.”

I let out a breath, pushed off my knees and stood up. “Okay. Thanks,” I said.

“Hey, don’t thank me. I think you’re a scumbag. Bob loves that girl, and no matter what we think about him, he doesn’t deserve this. And Barbara gave up her job and her fucking home and everything so you could come here and make good after you pronged the owner’s daughter in New York. She doesn’t deserve this either. And what about me? I’m a wonderful person, and now you’re gonna use my newspaper to save what’s left of your smarmy little existence? Let me tell you: I’ve lost what little respect for you I may have had. So she was really pretty good, huh?”

I laughed. “Fuck you,” I said.

“Lucky bastard.”

He was whistling to himself as I stepped back into the city room.

I
did not look at Bob but made a beeline for the supply room. I didn’t even glance in the direction of the city desk. The last thing I wanted now was a run-in with the aggrieved husband. Among other things, it was already two-fifty, and I had to be on the road in ten minutes if I wanted to get to the prison on time. Luther Plunkitt had gone out of his way to accommodate us on this interview, but if I was late, things being what they were, there was every chance he would have me turned away.