Absolute Rage (17 page)

The elder of the two said, “Do we hafta, Maw?”

“Don't pert off, child. Do as you're told.”

In short order they had a convoy of two started, Mrs. Washburn following in the red pickup.

“The Welches are good folks,” said Emmett over the roar. “They just have a lot of troubles.”

“Are they very poor?”

“No, really about average for Robbens County, I guess. Burt—that's the husband—he's got a mechanic's job at the mine. They got a sick kid, and Burt was laid up most of last year.”

“Anyway they've got satellite TV,” Marlene observed.

“Oh, yeah. Folks around here'll live on lard and flour to pay their satellite bills, thems as don't outright pirate the signal. My dad used to say that satellite destroyed the working class worse than the mine owners did. Sports and porno for the boys, soap opera for the ladies, and cartoons for the younguns. There wasn't any TV at all up here, and hardly any radio, before the dishes came in. The hollers had their own way of life. Now they're getting just like everyone else.”

“Is that bad?”

“It is if they become dogs and don't mind feeding off whatever scraps the big boys toss at them. My dad reminded them of what they used to be, fighting men, union men, and all that. Now . . . hell, I don't know what's gonna happen to them.”

Marlene did not know either. She was from a union family herself, but had never been particularly interested in working-class politics, beyond the usual guilt at worldly success and a tendency to vote the straight Democratic ticket. Lefty posturing had bored her in college, especially as pitched by the upper-middle-class kids who typically espoused it. A vague social responsibility stirred in her breast; she suppressed it. She said, “Well, let's see what we can do about getting this guy out of the can and the investigation started up again.”

The jail was in the basement of a two-floor, brown-brick structure adjacent to the handsome courthouse. Marlene and Mrs. Washburn went in, while Emmett took the Washburn girls for an ice cream. The deputy in charge was a scrawny man in a tan uniform and clear-framed glasses, with thinning hair combed across his scalp. He was not pleased to be taken away from his television set. He nodded to Mrs. Washburn and stared at Marlene. “Only family allowed to visit,” he warned.

“I
am
family,” said Marlene. “I'm Cousin Marlene. From Ashtabula?” The stare increased, became incredulous; Marlene met it with her own more powerful one. The man grumpily relented and led them down a sewer-smelling iron staircase to the basement.

The jail had four cells. Moses Welch was in the only occupied one. He was a large man, fleshy like his sister, with the sweet, confused expression of the dim in his pale eyes. His hair was startlingly blond, almost white, and hung lanky over his ears.

“Hey, Betty,” he cried when they appeared. “Hey, Betty, did you bring ice cream?”

Marlene was surprised and touched by the way brother and sister hugged. Betty sat on the bunk next to him and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “We'll see about ice cream later, honey. I want you to say hello to Marlene here. Marlene says she's gonna get you out of this jail.”

Marlene said, “Hello, Mose.”

“I saw a mouse, Marlene. It was just there.”

“That's nice,” said Marlene. “Mose, tell me: Do you know why you're in here?”

“Yes'm. On account of I kilt those folks.”

“Yes, but you really didn't kill them, did you?”

“Sheriff says I did. On account of those boots.”

“Yes, but you didn't really.”

“Those boots is too tight anyways. They was real new so I thought they would fit me. I never had no real new boots.”

“Uh-huh. But you found those boots, right?”

“Yes'm. 'Neath the green bridge where they's frogs and all.”

Mrs. Washburn said, “He means the bridge on 130 over the Guyandotte. He's always playing down there.”

“Right. You found the boots, but you didn't kill anyone,” said Marlene. “That's what you have to say from now on.”

“Will I get in trouble?” the man asked, worry appearing in his mild eyes.

“No, you won't, because I'm going to be your lawyer now. Do you know what a lawyer is?”

A confused shake of his head.

“A lawyer is for when you get in big trouble. She tells the sheriff you didn't really do it. Do you want me to be your lawyer?”

The man looked at his sister, who nodded. He nodded, too.

“Okay, great!” Marlene took a paper out of her bag. “Can you write your name?”

“Yes'm. Betty learned me how.”

“Good. Then I want you to write it on this line here.” Marlene gave him a felt-tip and he did so, slowly, his tongue protruding in concentration.

“Can I have my ice cream now?” he asked brightly.

*  *  *

Marlene watched Mrs. Washburn drive off with her two chocolate-smeared kids. “Emmett, where's this Poole hang out?”

He pointed across the square. “That's his office there. Unless he's drinking at the VFW.”

“I might be a while, then.”

“I'll be here. Take your time.”

She took her dog and entered the building, a three-story brick structure with a lunchroom on the ground floor. The directory inside the door displayed the names of the tenants, mainly lawyers and bail bondsmen, court reporters, and a couple of real estate firms. Ernest J. Poole occupied 3-E. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Nothing. She pounded. Silence. The door was unlocked. Inside she found an anteroom with a secretary's desk and a shrouded typewriter, both covered with dust. A philodendron had died in a pot in the corner. She saw a frosted-glass door with the lawyer's name on it in gold letters, tapped on it, and called out, “Mr. Poole?”

She heard an indistinct human noise that she accepted as an invitation and entered. The lights were out, the venetian blinds shut. The smell was of unwashed clothes, sour-mash bourbon, and the underlying ketone stink of a drunk. The drunk was lying sprawled on a brown leather couch, drunk. Marlene nudged him. No response, except a groan and an effort to bury his face in the corner of the couch. She found the light switch, flipped it on, made a tour. The desk, a heavy mahogany structure, was covered with a scant drift of papers and unopened junk mail, a large, butt-choked ashtray, a half-empty fifth of low-end bourbon, crumpled take-out food bags, filthy paper plates and cups. These also stuffed to overflowing the nearby wastebasket. Black flies buzzed heavily through the fetid air. One wall held diplomas (UWV and Vanderbilt law school) and the sort of award plaques small-town lawyers accumulate, together with group photographs of the occupant with local notables. The newest looked about twelve years old. In the photographs, Poole was in his forties sporting a sharp Chamber of Commerce optimistic look. He wore his thick, dark hair fashionably long. A square jaw with a dimple in the chin, a broad forehead, a manly nose, and a wide mouth completed a face that might once not have been out of place on a campaign poster. Marlene yanked up the blinds. A whimper sounded from the couch. She found a coffeemaker, filled the pot with cold water from a cooler, and poured it over Ernest J. Poole's head.

He sat up, sputtering. The candidate's face, she saw, had been considerably eroded by the bad living, the features softened and gullied, the skin coarsened. The head of hair was, however, still intact, although not as neatly barbered as it had been in the photos.

“Wha . . . wha . . . who . . . who the hell are you? Goddamnit, I'm all wet.”

“My name is Marlene Ciampi, Mr. Poole. I'm Moses Welch's new lawyer.”

“Whose what?”

“Moses Welch. He's been indicted for murdering the Heeney family. You're his court-appointed attorney. Now you're my local co-counsel.” She held out the paper the defendant had signed for him to read. He glanced at it without interest; all of that was reserved for the bottle on the desk. He rose, wobbled, stepped, reached for it. She was quicker.

“Give me that! That's mine,” he snarled. He made to grab it from her, but was arrested by a noise like a cold engine cranking. Gog bounded between man and mistress and exhibited his famous smile of destruction. Poole shied away and fell back on the couch.

“Get that animal away from me!” he demanded weakly. “If it touches me, I'll sue.”

“If he touches you, you won't be in any condition to sue.” Wiggling the bottle before his eyes, she said, “I know you need a drink, but you can't have one now. You need to do some work first. I'm going to make you a pot of strong black coffee, which you will consume until you are as sober as you ever get. Then we will have a professional conversation about our client and decide what to do next.”

He gaped at her and wiped at his reddened eyes. “Who the hell
are
you?”

“I told you. I'm Marlene Ciampi, I'm Moses Welch's—”

“Yeah, I got that. What're you doing in McCullensburg?”

“I was a friend of Rose Heeney.” Marlene put the coffee on. “Her sons engaged me to get Moses Welch out of this stupid situation and get the police back onto looking for the real killers.”

“That's your plan, is it?” he asked, his voice tired and hollow. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. “You don't know much about Robbens County, that's for sure.”

“No, I don't. That's another reason I need your help.”

He snorted a sort of laugh. “Well, if you need
my
help, lady, you're in a sorry state. I tell you what I will do though. If you put a shot in my coffee, I will enlighten you as to how things are done around here. After which, you will kindly get the hell out of my office.”

Marlene had nothing to say to this. She poured out a mug of coffee, added a splash of the bourbon. His eyes were fixed on the bottle's lip. With body English he urged a more generous pour, but was passive when he saw it would be minimal. He drank and talked. She sat on the edge of his desk and listened.

“Well, let's start with Moses Welch. Moses Welch is an idiot. He should have been put away a long time ago, but the Welches, of course, wouldn't hear of it. It's only a matter of time before he walks in front of a train or a coal truck or decides to grab some little girl and play doctor. He came to town in shoes soaked in the Heeneys' blood. He was duly arrested. At the arraignment, I pleaded him non compos, which he is. That plea was rejected by Judge Murdoch, and Mose was deemed fit to aid in his own defense.”

“That's nonsense.”

“I know. Don't interrupt. I have petitioned the court for a psychiatric examination, which will demonstrate that Moses Welch is, in fact, incapable of telling right from wrong. After he's convicted, he'll be remanded to the state institution at Morgantown indefinitely, which is probably the best place for him, all told. I want some aspirin.”

This was found, a bottle of two hundred in a desk drawer. He downed four with the coffee. “There. That's the sad story of Moses Welch. Case closed. Now, please go away and leave me alone.”

“But he didn't do it.”

“He confessed to it.”

“Yes, and you were probably right there with the ice cream. Oh, hell, just look at the poor sap! He wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, the Heeneys were killed by at least two men.”

“How do you know that?” Poole's hands shook when he said it, slopping the coffee.

“Because the Heeney boys figured it out. Lizzie was killed with a pistol shot to the head. Do you actually believe that our retard walked into the Heeney home, outshot an armed man, killed him and his wife, and then calmly pranced into a little girl's bedroom and shot her while she was still sleeping peacefully? Have you ever heard a twelve-gauge go off in a confined space?”

“He could've shot her first.”

“Oh, please! And then put away his pistol, grabbed his shotgun, and dispatched the Heeneys? With Red Heeney alerted and a .38 in his fist? Who're we talking about here, John Wesley Hardin? Whose side are you on anyway?”

“You don't understand.”

“Okay, enlighten me. Explain why you're selling out your client.”

“I'm not selling out my client. I'm doing what I have to do to keep more people from being hurt. Look, miss, whatever your . . .”

“Marlene.”

“Marlene. Let me ask you this—what do you think is going to happen when you mount your spirited defense of Moses Welch's innocence? You think everyone in town's going to say, oh, jeez, we made a mistake, thank you so much? Do you think the sheriff is actually going to look for someone else? They will not, and he will not. What they will do is look for the source of the upsetting reversal of a very nice arrangement. They will find it in you, and in me, and in the Heeney boys, who called in a fancy out-of-town lady lawyer. And they will expunge the persons responsible.”

“Who is this
they?”

“The
they
who run our little town. They didn't like Red Heeney unsettling things, with the results you know. It will be the same with you and me and the Heeney boys. What I'm trying to say is, you can't bring Rose back. Do you really want to be responsible for wiping out the rest of her family? Can I have a little more?” He held out his cup like a beggar, eyeing the bottle.

“No. Are you talking about Weames and the union?”

“Oh, he's part of it.”

“And what's the whole thing look like?”

He laughed, a short pair of dry syllables, like a curse. “Have you got a year? A decade? I don't. I'm tired, lady. Why don't you go off and do good in some other nice county? Oh, my head!”

He lay back on the couch and groaned.

“Where's your file on Welch?”

He gestured vaguely at an oak filing cabinet. She rummaged. The file was thin, consisting only of the indictment, the arrest record, the three autopsy reports, a copy of the letter requesting a psych consult, and some technical data from the state lab regarding the blood on the defendant's boots. Or alleged boots. She noted where the report said they were a size nine and a half, a small man's size. Mose was a moose; he'd said they were too tight.