The Detroit Electric Scheme (17 page)

When I heard the amount of the bail, I slumped in my chair. Now I barely looked up to reply. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge picked up the papers on his desk and straightened them. “I'll see you all back here for the preliminary hearing on Monday, November 28, at 9:00
A.M
. Anything else?” He looked at Higgins and then Mr. Sutton.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Sutton said. “Until the bond is posted, we would ask that Mr. Anderson is allowed to remain in solitary confinement for his own safety.”

The judge looked amused. “Safety from what?”

“The other prisoners, Your Honor. Mr. Anderson, being, well, of a certain class—”

“Save your breath, Mr. Sutton. That's already been arranged by the mayor's office. Why do you think he hasn't been in the pound?” He banged his gavel. “Adjourned.” He stood and walked out a door in the front of the courtroom.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I supposed there was some chance my father could raise that kind of money, but I couldn't imagine he would be willing to risk that much on me. I turned around and looked back at him. His face was ashen.

 

I spent the rest of the day and night in the same dank cell. Though it was freezing, I was covered in a film of sweat.

Life in prison. A death sentence seemed the more humane fate. At least then it would be over quickly.

A couple of years ago, my father had seen Thomas Edison kill an elephant with a 6,600-volt blast of electricity, powered by George Westinghouse's alternating current system. Edison's position was that AC power was too dangerous to be used in the home, unlike his own patented, and competing, direct current electricity. Edison continued trying to scare people off by publicizing the electric chair, a device lethal with AC power, but, of course, not with his DC system. Edison,
however, lost “the War of the Currents” to Westinghouse. Though a few DC systems remained, AC had become the standard. A side effect of Edison's demonstrations was that a number of states, looking for a more humane method of execution, had switched from hanging to the electric chair.

Unfortunately, the Michigan legislature wasn't getting on board. With no death penalty, they had no need for “Old Smokey.”

At first light I gave up trying to sleep. I was punchy. My nose still throbbed. I had a darkening heaviness about my head and couldn't remember when it had started. It felt like an integral part of me. I had spent the past year in the bottomless abyss of melancholy, but I'd never felt this bad. I would have finished myself right then had I been able to think of a way to do it.

In the late afternoon a surly looking guard opened my cell door and gestured for me to come out. “Time to go, Anderson.”

“Where am I going?” Surely they couldn't be taking me to the state prison already.

He didn't say anything, just reached in, grabbed my arm, and shoved me down the corridor past the other cells. I held up my pants with one hand, shuffling along so my shoes wouldn't fall off. The criminals again taunted me, but I was too dazed to care.

I almost collapsed from relief when I saw my father and Mr. Sutton waiting just inside the large barred door leading from the jail into the rest of the police station. They were fidgeting, Sutton from habit, my father from nervousness. Without a word, my father handed me my black greatcoat, and both men turned and headed out of the jail. I pulled my arm away from the guard and hurried along behind them. We stopped at a window, where a smart-aleck cop returned my possessions, including my belt and shoelaces. I put them on, and we walked toward the exit.

Behind me the guard called out, “See you soon.” I swallowed my response.

At the door stood two men who looked like policemen, but weren't in uniform. Sutton turned to me and said, “It's crazy out there. Just keep your head down and follow these gentlemen. And don't talk to anyone.” He grabbed my elbow and turned me toward him. “Ever. Reporters are
going to try everything to get you to talk. Everything you say will be twisted and rearranged to fit their story.” He squeezed my arm and looked into my eyes. “If you can't do anything else, keep your mouth shut.”

He gestured for the men to go outside. One of them opened the door, and they pushed through it into a mob of reporters. My senses were overwhelmed. The sun was bright, causing me to squint as though I had been in solitary for years. Men were shouting over the top of one another, clamoring for our attention. I was overwhelmed by questions, all some variation of a theme: Did I kill John Cooper?

My father and Mr. Sutton stood on either side of me. We were jostled continuously as we followed the two men who pushed and shouldered their way through the crowd. The noise was tremendous, voices shouting at me from all sides, cameras clicking all around me. I kept my head down and walked as close to the men in front as I could. We finally made it to the curb, where my father's roadster sat. He and I climbed into it while Sutton and the two other men shoved away the reporters.

The roadster pulled away from the curb with a squeal of the tires. My father got it up to fifth speed in a matter of seconds and took the first three corners at twenty-two miles per hour, looking back over his shoulder every few seconds to see if we were being followed. Satisfied, he dropped down to third and relaxed.

I could hardly believe I was back in the real world. Glancing at my father, I asked, “How did you get me out?”

He was quiet for a moment before looking over at me with a furrowed brow. “I put up the company against your bond.”

I was stunned. “After I lied to you?”

He shrugged. “You're my son.” He paused for a second and then said, “Would you like to come home?”

“Home? Your home?” It didn't seem possible he would still trust me. I had underestimated him. I hoped, for his sake, he wasn't overestimating me.

He shook his head firmly. “It's
our
home, Will.”

“No. I won't do that to you and Mother. I should just go to my apartment.”
After the scene with the reporters at the police station, I could only imagine what the next few months would bring.

I really looked at my father for the first time and barely recognized him. He looked old and feeble. Lines cut deeply into his face. I was overwhelmed with guilt. “Father, I didn't do it. John called me, and I did go to the factory, but he was already dead. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything before.”

He remained quiet, his eyes on the road.

“Don't you believe me?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Of course I believe you. Even with the engagement, I don't think you would have killed John.” He shrugged. “I don't think you
could
have killed him. But I don't know how you're going to get out of this. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“I know.” I glanced at him and said quietly, “Thank you for helping me.”

Looking surprised again, he said, “You're my son, Will. Of course I'll help you.”

He turned onto Peterboro and hit the brakes. A big man stood outside the door of my building, arms folded over his chest. In front of him were a dozen or so other men, some with cameras, some with notebooks. “He's one of Sutton's men,” my father said. “Still, let's try the back. They say it's been quieter there.” He threw the roadster in reverse and backed out onto Woodward, narrowly missing a coal wagon before he put the car into first and started down the road again.

He turned right on Charlotte and again onto Second Street. We approached the building slowly, the near-silence of the electric motor a real benefit. No reporters were in sight. “Stay inside if you can,” he whispered, “and phone me if you need anything. Otherwise, I'll be back here Thursday at nine fifteen to pick you up. We're meeting with Sutton to discuss your defense.”

I thanked him again and jumped out of the car. The bourbon bottle was calling me.

My father said, “Here, take this,” and handed me a brown leather briefcase. “Thought you should know what you're up against.”

I thanked him again, ran to the back door, and unlocked it. When I threw it open, a burly middle-aged man in a gray suit and derby stepped in front of me. “Hold up there, fella.”

“What? I live here.”

He looked at me carefully. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Anderson.” He smiled and tipped his derby. “Carl Hatch. I'm helping to keep the pests out.” He nodded toward the back stairs. “Go on ahead.”

I took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. The corridor was empty, and I hurried to my apartment. I got inside as quickly as I could, threw the briefcase on the table by the door, and headed for the kitchen and the glistening row of Old Tub bottles. I used my teeth to pull the cork from one and took a long pull. The heat of the liquor filled my mouth and throat, then my midsection. Another long drink and the warmth spread throughout my body.

The apartment was still. A shaft of sunlight cut across the floor, dust motes cycling through it like tiny snowflakes. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The familiar scent of home: upholstery and carpeting, a slight mustiness, a hint of the kitchen—a dollop of coffee, a dash of grease. And, of course, the sweet caramel aroma of bourbon. My heart slowed. My breathing slowed. I was home.

I took a long bath, put on a fresh suit, and walked over to Wesley's apartment. He answered the door looking much better than he had the last time I'd seen him, though, to be fair, it would have been difficult to look worse. His face was bruised, his hands were bandaged, and he moved like an octogenarian, but the twinkle had returned to his eyes.

“Hey, convict,” he said.

“I'm not a convict. Not yet anyway. Thanks for talking to the police.”

He shrugged. “Don't expect them to believe me.”

“No, I don't think they did. But thanks. Listen, Wes, I'm really,
really
sorry about getting you and the Doyles involved in this mess.”

“That was my doing, not yours. I volunteered, remember? As did the Doyles. It wasn't your fault.” He nodded toward the interior of his apartment and said, “Come on in.” He didn't wait for me to accept, just walked back to the parlor.

I followed him, trying to ignore my hesitation. The man had almost
given his life to help me, and I was still afraid someone would see me with him.

The parlor was immaculate. The wallpaper was ivory, vertically striped with fine blue swirls. A yellow floral-patterned settee and a matching pair of upholstered chairs, Louis XIV, I thought, surrounded a large mahogany coffee table. A small crystal chandelier hung in the center, and a pair of cut crystal lamps adorned the end tables. Against the wall, a small bar sat next to a sofa table topped by an oversized Victrola with dozens of records propped against it.

Wesley waved me to one of the chairs. “Sit, sit. How about a drink?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I don't have bourbon. Scotch okay?”

“That would be great. Nice place you've got here.”

He ignored the compliment and gestured toward my face. “Looks like you took quite a shot. I'd like to see the other guy.”

“No. You wouldn't. Trust me.”

He bent over the bar, using his damaged hands to try to pour whiskey into a pair of glasses. I thought I should probably help him, but I didn't. He managed to pour a few fingers of Scotch into each glass, then brought me one, holding it between the palms of both hands. When he returned to the bar for his, he said, “I just got a record you should hear—Sophie Tucker. She's unbelievable.” He fumbled with the disc record and Victrola, finally getting it to work. A dynamic female voice poured out from the horn. Wesley grabbed his drink and sat on the settee. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “So what are you going to do now?”

“Do? I . . . don't know.”

“I'll tell you what I'm going to do. As soon as I'm capable, I'm going to find the son of a bitch who murdered the Doyles. And I'm going to kill him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His face was red. “You don't understand, Will. I've been beaten more times than you could imagine. I don't do that anymore.” He looked into my eyes. “He's a dead man.”

“I believe you.” We made small talk for a few minutes before I finished
my drink and stood. “Well, I should probably be going. I've got a lot to catch up on.”

With a grimace, he pushed himself off the settee. “Sure, I understand.” He followed me to the door.

After I opened it, I turned back to him. “Thanks for the drink. And thanks for everything you've done for me. God knows I wouldn't have done it for you.”

He grinned. “Friends, remember? And Will, my offer is still open. I want to help you. If it gets me closer to the killer, so much the better. Don't try to deal with this on your own.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I stood at the door for a moment. “Wes?”

He waited.

“Sorry I've been such an ass.”

He waved off the apology. “Don't worry about it. I knew we'd be friends.” He smiled. “Eventually.”

I laughed. Such an optimist had never lived. “What I said about not helping you out with something like this? Just give me the chance.”

 

Bottle in hand, I walked into my den and phoned the Detroit Electric garage. Elwood and Joe would never believe what had happened to me. When the phone was answered I asked for Elwood.

A minute or so later he picked up. “Hello?”

“Elwood, it's Will. How about I buy you and Joe a drink after work?”

“Will. Oh, uh, I can't tonight. I've got something.”

“Since when do
you
have anything? Come on, one drink, ten minutes.”

“No.” He was firm. “I can't. Listen, Will, I've got to get back to work.”

“How about tomorrow night then?”

“I'm busy tomorrow, too.”

“All right, spoilsport. Let me talk to Joe.”