Death Penalty (46 page)

The Mona Lisa was smiling at me. “You took a terrible
risk, Charles, in not cooperating. Fortunately, for your sake, things have worked out, despite your reluctance.”

“I don't understand.”

He took out a key from his pocket and unlocked his desk. “When you met with Harry and Captain Hagan in my basement, Charles, you suspected we didn't believe you, isn't that right?”

The thought had occurred to me.”

He nodded, taking out a small tape for a microcassette recorder. “We had other knowledge, in addition to that which you offered. Both Franklin Palmer and Jeffrey Mallow were known to be in very dire financial straits. There was a persistent rumor that a judge, or judges, on the appellate court were corrupt. But nothing of a concrete nature presented itself until you came to me. As you know, I served on the judicial tenure commission and have continued to enjoy a certain unofficial relationship with the bar and police in cases where judicial corruption is suspected.”

He opened the recorder and inserted the tape. “It was fortunate that you came to me. I was most flattered that you did.”

He held up the small recorder. “Do you play poker, Charles?”

“On occasion.”

“Then you know that sometimes a good player, lacking good cards, can still win if he's canny enough to run a convincing bluff.”

“It happens.”

“I could tell you what happened, but I think this recording—Harry Sabin gave me a copy—will explain more quickly and efficiently. No poker player ever ran a more successful bluff. By the way, it was all the idea of that state police officer, Lucas Hagan. You owe him a lot, Charles.”

Before I could reply, he hit the play button and pushed
the tape recorder across the desk toward me.

I heard Harry Sabin's voice.

“Good morning, Judge Mallow,” he said. His tone was not warm. “And this is Captain Lucas Hagan of the state police.”

Jeffrey Mallow's deep voice boomed. “Good to meet you, Captain. And welcome to my office. Now, Harry, you sounded quite mysterious over the phone. What's up?” He sounded self-assured, congenial, but with just a touch of arrogance, the kind of condescension displayed by some people when they're meeting with those they consider to be a little bit lower on the social scale.

“A sad duty, Judge. You are under arrest for solicitation of a bribe, and—”

“What the hell is this?” Mallow demanded, his words cracking like a whip.

“I am required to give you your Miranda rights.” Harry gave them in a singsong voice, despite being interrupted by Mallow, and he continued to the end.

“I know my goddamned rights,” Mallow's voice was full of menace.

“Knowing that you don't have to answer any questions, do you wish to make a statement?”

“Hell, yes. I have nothing to hide, nothing.” Mallow's tone was full of outrage.

“All of this is being recorded. Do you know an attorney by the name of Charles Sloan?”

“The drunk? Sure, I know him. Why?”

“He claims you—”

“Oh, let's cut out the shit!” It was Captain Hagan's rough voice. “We have the whole thing on tape, Mallow. We set you up and we got you.” The cop's tone was nasty, malevolent.

“Bullshit,” Mallow snapped back.

The cop's laugh was even nastier. “You thought you were being clever, didn't you, meeting him at that fancy
health club, looking at his bare ass to make sure he wasn't wearing a wire.”

“What do you mean?” This time Mallow's tone was a degree less arrogant.

“You're a stupid shit. What were you doing, playing James fucking Bond?” The cop's laugh was like a slap. “We had him wired, you pompous asshole. We had the wire in his watch.”

“What?” The single word was barely above a whisper.

“Why did you think he didn't go for a swim? He couldn't get the watch wet.” Now the laugh was like barbed wire. “You even looked at it. We damn near shit but in the truck when we heard that. But you didn't notice it wasn't working. It wasn't a watch, it was a microphone. Jesus, what a jerk.”

Sabin's voice was low but strong. “He's right, Judge. We got it all on tape. Everything.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence.

Then Mallow spoke, but this time there was no arrogance. “Look, perhaps we can work out something here.”

“There's nothing to work out,” Sabin said. “I'm sorry.”

Mallow's voice had almost left him. “You don't understand. I was just a messenger boy.”

“Fof who? Franklin Palmer?” Sabin asked. “Frankly, we don't think Palmer had anything to do with any of this. As far as we can see, this was a one-man operation. Yours.”

“No, no, not at all,” Mallow said. “This whole thing is Palmer's idea. I just told you, I was his messenger boy, nothing more.”

“We don't have Palmer,” the cop snapped, then laughed. “But we've got you, and that's enough.”

“I can give you Palmer,” Mallow said quietly, very quietly.

Again there was silence on the tape.

“What do you mean?” Sabin asked, just as quietly.

“He has nothing,” the cop snapped. “He's just trying to wiggle off the hook.”

“I can give you Palmer,” Mallow repeated, his voice shaking.

“How?” Harry Sabin sounded doubtful.

“I can wear a wire. I'm the one who delivers the money. I can do that. You can use marked money.”

Again there was a pause.

“And what would you want in return?” Sabin asked tentatively.

“Immunity.”

“Fat chance,” the cop growled.

“Look,” Mallow said, close to whining. “Palmer set this whole operation up. I'm just his messenger. Oh, I get a commission, but a small one. It's Palmer's thing. I'm just a minnow here. Palmer's the fish you want.”

“He's your friend,” Sabin said.

“A business arrangement,” Mallow replied shakily. “That's all, just a business arrangement.”

“C'mon, Harry, let's arraign this asshole and get it over with,” the cop said harshly.

There was a pause.

“I can't give you immunity,” Harry Sabin said. “I'd have to talk to the attorney general.”

“Talk to him,” Mallow pleaded. “He'll want Palmer.”

“I can't grant you immunity, Judge,” Sabin continued, “and I'm not going to the attorney general unless you tell me everything right from the beginning. But remember, if immunity isn't given, it can all still be used against you. Knowing that, will you answer my questions?”

“Jesus,” Mallow said. A peculiar sobbing sound reverberated through the tape.

“Well?” Harry asked softly. “Is that agreeable?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Mallow repeated, but his voice sounded stronger. “Okay.” The word caught in his throat. He paused for a moment and then sounded as if he had
pulled himself together. “You see, none of this was my idea. But one day Palmer and I were talking—”

Bishop reached over and snapped off the tape recorder.

“Spilled his guts,” he said, “as the saying goes. Of course, he put everything on Palmer, but that was to be expected.”

“Did they grant him immunity?” I asked.

“They played with him a while, and then they did, on the condition that he cooperate fully. He did. He helped them make a hell of a case on Palmer.”

Bishop sipped his coffee. “Of course, Mallow will be disbarred for life, obviously. It's a shame there won't be harsher punishment, but they couldn't have gotten Franklin Palmer without Mallow's help.”

“Do they have him?”

He nodded. “They wired Mallow and set up a meeting. Mallow was instructed on what to say. Palmer walked into the trap without suspecting a thing. That was Tuesday. Today, they set up and taped another meeting, and Mallow passed the marked money to Palmer. Everything was recorded. Palmer was arrested as he left Mallow's office a few minutes ago.”

“My God.”

“It could have gone the other way, Charles. If Mallow hadn't gone for the bluff, they'd have only your unsubstantiated statement, nothing more. Mallow would have gone after you. Your license might well have been in jeopardy. Of course, you knew that.”

I nodded.

“You have nerve, Charles. Guts, as they say in the street. I'm impressed.”

“Now what happens?”

He leaned back in his chair. “As we speak, Captain Hagan is driving Franklin Palmer up to Lansing to be arraigned on the charges. It will be done privately.
Franklin will be released on personal bond. He will be allowed to drive back here on his own. Of course, everything will explode when Harry Sabin holds his press conference.”

“When?”

“Today. Three o'clock. Up in Lansing. That's when you become a hero, Charles.”

“What!”

He chuckled. “None of this would have happened, Charles, if it hadn't been for you. Harry Sabin is going to give you full credit.”

“Jesus!”

“I take it that you're not pleased.”

“You take that right. Look, I really didn't want anything to happen. I just wanted to do my job, try my case. All of this is like a nightmare. Now, it's going to look like I'm the prime whistle-blower in Middle America.”

“Oh, Charles, people will know you are an honorable man. They'll respect that.”

“People? What about judges? Jesus, every time I walk into a courtroom the judge will think I may be coming after him. It'll be like Jonah coming on board a ship. This is a personal disaster.”

He smiled, a little warmly for the first time. “You did the right thing, Charles. Judges, lawyers, many others, will honor you for that. Many wouldn't have done what you did. Corruption is always so very easy. And opposing it is very difficult. Believe me, by the end of the day you will be a popular hero.”

“What about Palmer and his family? You suppose I'll be a hero to them?”

“Franklin Palmer, whom I like, became a thief,” Bishop said. “He did it voluntarily. He knew there would be a price if he were caught. He is going to pay that price now.”

“Oh, my God.”

Bishop got up. He came over and extended his hand. “For what it's worth, you have my respect.”

He shook my hand, but it didn't make me feel any better. I wondered what Judge Palmer might be thinking as he was being driven up to Lansing. I wondered what he might be thinking about me.

“The press will have this at three o'clock, Charles. I suggest you make yourself available. It's always best to get these things over as quickly as possible.”

I got up.

He chuckled. “This will make two nights running that I will be seeing you on television, Charles. You're going to be famous.”

I had escaped the personal destruction that I had expected, but I didn't feel any better for it.

In fact, I felt worse.

I drove back to Pickeral Point, staying in the right-hand lane and driving slowly. I was conscious that annoyed drivers were whipping past my slow-moving car, but I didn't care.

Franklin Palmer had been arrested in Detroit, according to The Bishop, sometime around nine o'clock. Lansing was about two hours away from Detroit by car. The arraignment would take only minutes. Unless he stopped along the way, Franklin Palmer would drive back to Detroit and arrive somewhere around one or two o'clock. I wondered where he would go. I wondered if he would duck the press, go into hiding, or perhaps handle the charge defiantly.

I glanced at the car clock. If I was correct, Franklin Palmer would now be driving back from Lansing.

I wondered if he might also be driving slowly in the right-hand lane.

I wondered what he might be thinking.

I wondered if he thought about stopping and having a drink.

I know it was something I was thinking about.

THE STORM BROKE
before the three o'clock news conference in Lansing, but only minutes before.

I was in my office, trying to organize my thoughts so that I could make a careful reply to the avalanche of reporters that I knew would soon descend upon me. I even made some notes.

Mrs. Fenton had been informed to hold all calls until after three, and to screen everything after that. I asked her to work late, and to my great surprise she agreed. She sensed something big was up and curiosity won out over established routine.

If Franklin Palmer didn't plead guilty I would be called as the main witness against him. I wondered how I would feel, sitting in the witness chair, his eyes on me, listening as I drove the final nails in the case against him.

I tried to put it out of my mind. Given the circumstances, I was sure he would plead guilty. Prison was certain, but maybe he could bargain for a shorter term.

“I know you don't want to talk to anyone,” Mrs. Fenton said, peeking into my office, “but there's a state police captain on the phone, and he won't take no for an answer. His name is Hagan.”

“I'll talk to him.”

I picked up the receiver. “Hello, Captain.”

“Harry Sabin asked me to call you,” he said. His voice was professional, emotionless. It was a voice I knew well, the voice of a working cop.

“Are you in Lansing?” I asked.

“Yes. The Detroit police just called. Franklin Palmer has shot himself.”

“What!”

“Apparently he drove directly from the court here to the boat he keeps at that yacht club on Belle Isle. Several people, the police say, talked to him but noticed nothing unusual. He seemed distant, but that was all. He went directly to his boat. He was the only one on it. A boat boy heard a noise and reported it. They found him in his cabin. He used a .38 caliber pistol, registered to himself, put it in his mouth, and blew the back of his head off.”

“Oh, my God!”

“The police checked. He called no one that they know of. He left no note. At least none has been found. Harry Sabin said I should let you know immediately. This ends our case, of course, but it will just make the publicity that much more. The newspapers know he killed himself. In a few minutes, Harry will tell them why.”