Death Penalty (34 page)

“I don't care, one way or the other. Work out whatever you want.”

“As part of the plea, you would have to promise never to return to Pickeral Point.”

For the first time she showed some interest. “Why would that be?”

“It would be a condition.”

“I understand that, but why?”

I wondered how best to approach the subject and decided head-on might be best. “Mrs. Wordley insists on it.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“I had to. I couldn't work out the plea unless she agreed. It's still up to the judge, but she was the first hurdle.”

“Does she hate me?”

“No. I don't think so. As you told me, it wasn't a happy marriage. I guess she just doesn't want to risk running into you when you get out.”

In what looked like understanding, she nodded her head.

“Where would you go, Becky, if I can work this out?”

She thought for a moment. “Cleveland, I suppose. I have a sister still living there. I could probably get work as a waitress.”

She seemed to brighten for the first time.

“Well, the probabilities are that the judge won't go along, so please don't get your hopes up. Please.”

“Hopes.” She shrugged. “There's no hope in a place like this.”

“I'll be seeing the judge tomorrow. In the unlikely event he will agree, he may want to take the plea tomorrow afternoon.”

She again tried something that looked like a smile. “I have no other appointments.”

“If he takes the plea, he will ask you if you shot and killed Howard Wordley, and you will have to answer yes, without qualification. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We'll see what happens. If it's no, I'll stop back tomorrow and tell you.”

I stood up. She looked at me with those haunted eyes. “You're doing a lot of work for me,” she said. “I can't pay.”

“The ring's plenty, Becky. Don't worry about it.”

“It's probably not even a real diamond.”

“It is,” I lied. “I'm being well paid for my services, Becky. Don't worry.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

I WENT BACK TO MY OFFICE
. Mrs. Fenton handed me the messages. Judge Bishop was not among the callers. Nor was Mallow.

I had some office work to do. Nothing particularly challenging, just some provisions for a will and a review of a real estate case.

“I'm expecting a call from a Judge Bishop,” I said to Mrs. Fenton. “If he calls, put him right through.”

There were some calls to be made to clients, and I did that. There were some calls to be made to media people, and I did a few of those, but only ones that I thought might be helpful to Miles Stewart, M.D.

The will provisions were easy, and I dictated them to Mrs. Fenton. She would fire up the computer and insert them into our standard language. When printed out, it would look like I had spent three months slaving over getting just the right words. It helped justify the fee.

The real estate problem required not a lot of work, and I did that without having really to think about it.

The day passed quickly enough and Mrs. Fenton went home, which gave me the opportunity of sitting around the office with the lights out, watching the river.

There were a few calls. I listened to the answering machine take the messages, in case The Bishop called. But he didn't.

Finally, I packed it in, grabbed a quick sandwich at my favorite local restaurant, and then headed to Detroit for the usual Thursday night meeting.

I was tempted to count the Grosse Pointe meeting as a substitute, but I was in parlous waters, and I knew it
would help my general state of anxiety if I went again.

And this one was with people whom I knew and liked.

Tomorrow I would have to face Judge Mark Evola. It wouldn't be pleasant. A big shot of courage was needed, and the AA meeting was just the place to get it.

FRIDAY CAME AND I WENT
to the office. Perhaps if the sun had been shining I might have felt better. But it was dark, drizzling, and grim. If I had something scheduled in court it would have helped pass the time, but nothing was on my docket.

Judge Bishop was notable by his telephonic absence.

Time was running and Mallow would want an answer.

My anxiety was running, too, so I left the office, grabbed a quick lunch, and killed some minutes over coffee until it was time to go to court.

Usually, Friday mornings were set aside for motions in our circuit court. Mornings were hectic. But judges tried to dispose of most business so they could sneak out early and get a head start on the weekend.

Evola must have swept things clean quickly. I got up to his courtroom a few minutes before two o'clock and found I was the only customer in the deserted courtroom.

The clerk glanced up at me.

“We're closed,” he growled.

“I'm waiting for Stash Olesky. We have an appointment with the judge.”

He frowned. He knew me. He had been the clerk to a succession of judges. For whatever reason, he'd decided rudeness was the best defense against a hostile world and had developed it into an art form without parallel.

“Stupid time to see any judge, on a Friday,” he growled again. “Stupid.”

“The judge set it up,” I said, smiling. “But you're right, it was stupid.”

He didn't like that, and his deepening frown damn near drowned his eyes.

At that moment Stash came in carrying the Harris file.

“I'll let the judge know you're here,” the clerk snapped and departed toward the judge's chambers.

“Got your pie plate in place?” Stash asked.

“Double strength,” I replied.

The clerk returned. “The judge will see you now. Go right on in.”

MARK EVOLA HADN'T CHANGED MUCH
since he'd become a judge. He was nearing forty, but he looked much younger. His blond hair and blue eyes made his smooth face look babylike. He didn't stand when we came in, just sat there in shirtsleeves behind his large desk. Had he stood, he would have towered above both of us. At six foot six, Judge Evola was probably the tallest judge in the state.

His chambers had been decorated with the same photos he used to have on his walls when he had been prosecutor. They showed him during his basketball days as a star at Michigan State University. He looked exactly the same, except the teeth he had now were made by a dentist, the originals having been left in a number of famous elbows under the basket. The other photos were of Evola with politicians, living and dead. The walls were full of grinning faces.

Evola smiled warmly at Olesky, flashing his perfectly constructed teeth. When he looked at me, the smile was there, but then it diminished, like a light slowly going out.

“Sit down,” he said, nodding toward chairs just in front of his desk. “What can I do for you boys?”

Stash opened the file. “It's about the Becky Harris case.”

“So you said on the phone,” Evola replied. “What do you have in mind?”

“As you know,” Stash said, “the Harris woman has been charged with second-degree murder in the death of Howard Wordley.”

“Right.”

“Mr. Sloan has offered to plead Ms. Harris guilty to manslaughter, if he can be assured that she will serve no more than six months. Also, as a condition, Ms. Harris agrees not to return to Pickeral Point after being released.”

“How's the widow feel about that?” Evola asked.

“She's agreed to it. I have it in writing.”

“Let me see it.”

Stash gave the document to the judge, who studied it for a moment, and then handed it back.

“And how does your boss, my successor, feel about accepting this offered plea?” Evola asked Olesky.

“It's okay with him if it's okay with you.”

Evola looked at me. “And your client?”

“She'll plead under those conditions.”

“I'll bet,” Evola said.

We waited while Evola studied the ceiling. “Becky Harris used to wait on me on many occasions when she was working at the inn. I remember her as a quiet, decent person.” He looked at Olesky. “Does she have a record?”

“One arrest and conviction. In Cleveland. A misdemeanor, accosting and soliciting.”

“A mistake,” I said.

Evola looked at me. “Oh? It's still on the record though, is it not?”

I nodded.

“I knew Howard Wordley, too,” Evola went on. “He was always trying to sell me one of his fancy cars. He'd talk to me and hot eye my wife while he was doing it. I wasn't exactly fond of him. Still, shooting car dealers is a
crime, although some may think it shouldn't be.”

Olesky laughed, but he was only being polite. Lawyers are always quick with polite laughter for judges who are in the market.

“What's your opinion, Stash? You used to work for me. Give it to me just like you used to do, hair and all.”

Olesky nodded. “I recommend the plea. Looking at it from all angles, justice is served. Becky Harris isn't Likely to shoot anyone ever again. A long prison term would serve no real purpose, given all the circumstances.”

Evola nodded. Then he looked at me. “I'll tell you what I'll do. If your client will plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll sentence her to one to fifteen years. If she doesn't get in trouble, she'll be out in six months. That suit you?”

“How about allowing her to serve the time in a halfway house. Like Stash says, she really isn't a criminal in the usual sense.”

Evola shook his head. “I'll do this. I'll recommend that after three months she be considered for a halfway house. It will be up to the prison boys, but they'll probably go along. They usually do. Also, I'll make it a condition that when she's released she can't return to Pickeral Point. Now, that's probably illegal, but if no one has any objection, it should be no problem.”

He studied me for a moment. “Well, Charley?” It was the first time he had used my name. “Is that agreeable?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Good. Stash, run out and have the sheriff bring Ms. Harris over here. Tell my clerk to hunt up a court reporter. We'll take the plea now. I'll put all the conditions on record. I'll have to wait for a probation report before actually sentencing her, but that'll be just a formality.”

“Okay, Judge.” Stash got up.

I did too, but Evola called me back.

“Close the door on your way out,” he called to Olesky.

For what seemed like a very long time, we sat in silence.

“You thought I was going to give you a hard time, didn't you, Charley?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Because of the Harwell trial,” he smiled, those big teeth smiling, taking over the room. But his eyes weren't smiling.

“I was thinking about you yesterday, Charley, and that trial. You know, if I had won that thing, I'd be in Congress now. I mean it, I would have won easily if it wasn't for the egg you left on my face.”

“It was a fair trial.”

“Bullshit. You pulled every dirty trick in the book, and a few the book didn't even know about. I wouldn't have minded losing so much if it had been fair.”

“It was fair.”

“Anyway, I was thinking about you. I heard on the grapevine that our junior senator has cancer. Terminal, I'm told. He won't be running again. You know what that means?”

“Outside of what you've just said, no.”

“It means that if I were in Congress now I would have a real shot at that Senate seat, Charley. A real shot. And, if I got in, God knows how far I might have gone.”

“You can't blame me—”

“Oh, but I can, and I do. You know what I'm going to be doing tonight, Charley?”

“I have no idea.”

“I'm going to the Marina City Knights of Columbus for the Friday night fish fry. This judgeship is an elected job, Charley, and I have to spend most of my nights shaking hands with the voters. Tonight it's the fish fry. Tomorrow, I have to go to two Polish weddings.”

“So?”

“If I were a congressman, I'd be in Washington, probably
attending embassy parties, shaking hands with the people who rule the world. Quite a difference, wouldn't you say?”

“And you blame it all on me?”

“You bet I do. This is a good job, being a judge. I'll be doing it for the rest of my life. That's a lot of fish fries, Charley. No ambassadors, no kings—just a lot of fish and a lot of polka. All because of your dirty tricks, Charley.”

“If you feel that way, why are you going along with this plea?”

The smile became almost evil. “I'm going to get you, Charley, and I'm going to get you good. And it's not going to be over some little murder case that means nothing to you. I'm going to wait until it's something where your fucking career hangs in the fucking balance, and then I'm going to nail your ass once and for all.”

The smile had gone and I was looking into two very angry blue eyes.

“Good of you to warn me.”

“You knew it anyway. This is just confirmation of what any idiot would know. I'm a patient man, Charley, and I can wait. But someday it'll happen. And it'll pay me back for every fucking bite of greasy fish I will have to endure for the rest of my life.”

Before I could reply, Olesky was back. He didn't knock, he just walked right in. I don't know what he expected to find. Maybe my throat in the judge's hands.

He seemed relieved when he found us where he had left us.

“The defendant is here,” Olesky said “So is the court reporter. We're all ready to go.”

Evola nodded. “Okay, you fellows go on in. I'll be there in a moment.”

I had just enough time to explain the one- to fifteen-year sentence to Becky.

Evola came out in his robe. It wasn't exactly a crowd.
There was Becky and the two matrons who had brought her over. The clerk still looked annoyed. The court reporter and Olesky and myself were the only other people in the courtroom.