The Advocate's Devil (18 page)

Rendi got right on the lead and managed to locate Annie Higgins, who was working as a buyer for Filene’s. Higgins made it
clear she didn’t want to talk about Campbell. “That part of my life is behind me.” When Rendi persisted, she agreed to meet
for a quick dinner—with no promises. They met at Biba’s, a trendy restaurant overlooking the Boston Common, which had some
quiet corner tables.

“My husband was a good man,” Annie Higgins said as soon as she was seated.

Rendi observed the other woman. She was clean-cut, pretty in a peaches-and-cream way. She looked a little like Jennifer Dowling:
early thirties, tastefully dressed.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Couple of years. Joe was generous. He even put me through school.”

“Sounds like he felt responsible for your breakup.”

Annie looked out the picture window in the direction of the duck pond made famous by the children’s book
Make Way for Ducklings
. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “It’s not really his fault,” she said defensively. “He was fine before all those groupies
got to him. He used to love to take me on the swan boats while we dated.”

Rendi had the feeling that if she scratched just beneath the surface, Higgins would talk—maybe even wanted to—now that they’d
met. This woman wanted her story told. “What do you mean, it’s not his fault?”

“The sex between us was great in college, before we got married—even afterward for a few months. Then when he got into the
NBA, he started to fool around a little on the road.”

“That must have hurt you.”

“In the beginning. And then you kind of get used to it. The wives all talk about it. It goes with the turf. In those days,
no one worried about diseases. I could deal with the occasional one-night road stand. We all could.”

“Then what was the problem?”

“The problem was that after a while, it got worse.”

“More groupies?”

“No, that wasn’t the problem. Sure, there were more groupies. I’m sure that contributed to the problem. Sex became boring
to Joe. It was no challenge when he was home with me, it was still good—at least in the beginning. I could still, you know,
satisfy him.”

“So what changed that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was the groupies. Maybe it was something else. All I know is that after a while, when he got home,
he couldn’t, you know, perform. He would be limp. I tried to be understanding, to help him. We even went to a marriage counselor
for a couple of sessions, but he was embarrassed talking about it.”

“About what?”

“About his impotency.”

“Was he impotent with everybody, with the groupies, too?”

“That’s what he told me. And that’s what he told the therapist. Now I know it wasn’t true.”

“How do you know?”

“I once found a letter from some slut in Phoenix—and I mean this girl was the worst kind of trash—which described their lovemaking.
It had the ring of truth. It sounded like the Joe Campbell I loved in college. Why he would want to make it with that kind
of woman is beyond me.”

“So what did you do?”

“I should have left him right there and then. The handwriting was on the wall. I stayed a few more months, and they were the
worst.”

“In what way?”

“This is really embarrassing, Miss Renaad. Can we talk in absolute confidence?”

“Yes, we can. This is just between us girls. We’re trying to help Joe Campbell and other women.”

“All right, let me tell you what happened. God, I’ve never told anybody about this.”

“Good, keep talking. You’ll feel better.”

“Joe really tried to make it good between us. Some guys might just have given up on the sex or just kept going out with the
sluts. To his credit, Joe put a lot of effort into solving his, you know, his problem.”

“Why do you think he went through the effort, since he was able to satisfy himself with the groupies?”

“You have to understand Joe,” Annie said. “He hates to think of himself as a low-class jock who only makes it with dumb sluts.
He came out of a low-class background, and he prides himself on having overcome that. He wants very badly to be able to love
intelligent, accomplished women. Only he can’t. At least not without some weird stuff.”

“What kind of weird stuff?”

“He tried to make it more exciting for himself.”

“In what way?”

“This is really difficult to talk about,” Annie said, her voice choked with emotion.

“Please keep trying. It’s important.” Rendi placed an arm around Annie’s shoulder.

“All right. Let me just say it. He started to play games with me. He made me pretend that I didn’t want to have sex with him.
I would say no, at first in a kind of joking way, but that didn’t work. So he made me say it and act like I really meant it.
That turned him on, and we had good sex.”

“So did that solve the problem?”

“For a while it did. Then it stopped working. He couldn’t arouse himself if he knew that I really wanted to have sex with
him. So he started to have sex with me when I
really
didn’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t like having sex during my period. He knew that, and he made me do it, while I was menstruating. Then he would
wake me up in the middle of the night, especially after a long day, and force himself on me.”

“You mean he raped you?”

“No, it wasn’t rape. We were married.”

“A marriage license is not a license to rape,” Rendi insisted, becoming a bit strident.

“I know. I know,” Annie said defensively. “But I sort of went along with it. I wanted him to become aroused, even if I didn’t
enjoy the sex. It was a kind of bargain with the devil. It wasn’t rape. At least not in my book.”

“But is that why you left him?”

“No. I left him because it got even worse. During our last few weeks together, he could only get aroused when he really hurt
me. He would tie me up—force me—I had bruises. The last time he held me down so hard I almost lost consciousness. So he slapped
me and then he…” Annie couldn’t go on. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

“That
was
rape,” Rendi said quietly as she reached out to touch the other woman’s hand.

“It really wasn’t his fault,” Annie insisted. “Those groupies—the lifestyle—screwed him up. That wasn’t the real Joe.”

“That may be the real Joe now,” Rendi said as she signaled the waiter for the check.

N
EWARK
—
M
ONDAY,
A
PRIL
24

While Abe was preparing for his confrontation with Campbell, Justin had to tend to some unfinished business with Nancy Rosen
in Newark.

This time they met in her office. Out of the blue Nancy had called Justin, inviting him down for a chat.

Nancy’s “office” was actually a storefront on Springfield Avenue, tucked between a rib joint and a Jehovah’s Witnesses “temple.”

“My law store used to be Cohen’s haberdashery,” Nancy said proudly, pointing to a framed photo on her wall of the old store
with a Jewish man standing in front.

“Things change,” Nancy mused. “The Jews used to be the haberdashers, the workers, even the petty thieves.” Pointing to a small
newsstand across the street, she told Justin that the Silver-stein gang used to run numbers from that stand in the 1950s.
“Now the African Americans own the stores, along with some Koreans. We have to remember our roots.”

Justin was not particularly interested in Nancy’s nostalgia trip. He had traveled to Newark for one specific purpose. “Why
did you call me, after refusing to return my calls?”

“Because I realized that you were right,” Nancy said. “I can’t just play by the rules and let Odell die. I’ve got to do something.
After all, how can a lawyer who defends civil disobedience refuse to engage in it herself?”

“That sounds like something Haskel Levine would say.”

“It is. I called him. Luckily, he was having a good day.”

“You’re kidding!
You
called Haskel?”

“Why? You think Abe’s his only former student who values his advice?”

“Thank God, Nancy. You’re doing the right thing. What made you call Haskel?”

“A number of things. First, I did further checking on that Leo Frank case—the one that I told you about last time we met.
I discovered that the sanctimonious old lawyer who wouldn’t break the rules actually bent them a bit in an effort to save
Frank’s life.”

“What did he do?” Justin asked.

“It’s not completely clear, but he apparently did
something.
In his autobiography, which I managed to dig up, he implies that he
somehow
let the governor know that Frank was innocent.” After pulling out an old volume, Nancy read a cryptic sentence: “Without
ever having revealed to Governor Slayton the facts which were revealed to me in confidence, I have reason to believe that,
in some way, these facts got to him.”

“Coy old son of a bitch,” Justin said. “He sounds like he’s part of my WASP roots. So what did the governor do?”

“He commuted Frank’s death sentence to life, but he couldn’t explain why he was doing it, and there was an outraged reaction
from the people.”

“So what happened?”

“A group of upstanding citizens marched on the prison, grabbed Frank, and lynched him.”

“Wow, what a story. And that’s what made you change your mind?”

“I can’t let him die,” Nancy said. “I read in the advance sheets that your emergency appeal was denied.”

“Yeah, the appellate court chastised Judge Cox for his antics, but agreed with his bottom line.”

“And Charlie’s taking his pills?”

“Yes, he is, and they’re beginning to work.”

“So he will soon be competent to be executed?”

“Yes, he will. And what are you going to do to stop it?” Justin asked. “Can you tell me who killed Williams?”

“No, I can’t tell
you
. I’m going to try to make a deal with the prosecutor.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I’ll offer him the name of the killer in exchange for total immunity for my client. I won’t give him my client’s name until
he agrees to the immunity.”

“Do you think Duncan will go for that? He’s a real hard-ass prosecutor. As far as he’s concerned, the guilty guy is already
on death row.”

“Duncan knows me, Justin, and deep down he’s gonna believe me when I tell him my own client did it.”

“Won’t he be able to figure out which of your clients is the guilty person? You have some pretty notorious clients.”

“That’s the beauty of my plan. This guy is not one of my notorious clients. He’s a one-shot client. Walked in off the street
on the day of the Williams shooting, before they fingered Odell. He thought they might go after him. No one even knows that
I represent him. I haven’t seen him in months. Once they picked up your guy, he disappeared into the woodwork. Calls me once
a month to check in.”

“Could the cops find him if they knew who he was?”

“Probably. He’s keeping a low profile, but they could probably find him if they really wanted him badly. Hasn’t gone underground
or anything. Without his name, nobody would think of him. He looks a bit like Odell when he smiles, but to most of the cops,
all thin twenty-seven-year-old blacks look alike. You won’t believe it when you hear the motive. Nothing political.”

“Nancy, I really appreciate this,” Justin said, placing his arm on her shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“I hope you’re right. And I pray that it works.”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

“At a time like this I can use all the help I can get,” Nancy said with a worried smile.

C
AMBRIDGE
—
M
ONDAY,
M
AY
15

Nancy Rosen’s plan failed miserably. The prosecutor, Kevin Duncan, not only refused to grant her client immunity, he also
accused Nancy, Abe, and Justin of concocting a false story in order to save Odell’s life.

“There
is no
Rosen client,” Duncan told a journalist. “Ringel and Rosen are two radicals who are making this whole thing up in a misguided
attempt to save Odell. Remember, this is the same Ringel who told Odell to stop taking his medicine. He’ll stop at nothing.”

Justin and Nancy were back to square one, and there were no good moves on the horizon.

Charlie O. had been restored to competency, all appeals were exhausted, and the execution date was now three weeks away. All
that stood between Odell and the injection was Nancy Rosen and her anonymous client.

Justin called Nancy to discuss what else they could do. “Are you willing to give me the name now?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘yet’? Will you give it to me in time to save Charlie? I don’t want Charlie to end up like Leo Frank—dead!
It’s just three weeks.”

“I know that, Justin. I told you I won’t let him die, and I keep my word.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I can’t tell you yet,” Nancy said. “You’ll know soon enough.”

N
EWARK
—
M
ONDAY,
M
AY
22

A week later Abe got an angry call from Duncan. “Mr. Ringel, Nancy Rosen has told us that a client of hers named Rodney Owens
killed Monty Williams, and that she can prove it. Can you come to my office tomorrow to discuss this development? And please
bring your associate, John Justin Aldrich.”

“How about this afternoon?” Abe asked, flipping through his pocket flight guide. “Is four o’clock okay?”

“Four will be fine.”

“Why do you want my associate?”

“Because Ms. Rosen told us that she has been dealing with Mr. Aldrich on this matter.”

On the way to the airport, Justin called Nancy on his cellular phone. “How come you told the prosecutor and not me?”

“Because I needed a few days’ lead time. Let me tell you what we’re up against. Is it safe to talk on this phone?”

“Yeah. We bought one of those cellulars with a security system—for just this reason. Go ahead.”