Try Try Again (7 page)

The local bar association was asked to provide a pro bono,
and in the meantime a representative of Legal Aid was summoned for temporary
duty.

Charley’s for-the-minute attorney, a young man, appeared. To
Charley, he seemed impressed with himself that he was, at least temporarily,
representing a murderer. Police questioning proceeded, although more gently.
Charley was advised to say nothing, but he did anyway. The police told the
attorney what Charley had said about the drug deal, and no one had believed it.
It was important, y’know, to get the real motive out of him right away; other
Congressmen might be in danger. The damn Capitol had even been locked down for
a while.

Considering these circumstances, the attorney gave police some
latitude, and then some more. Questioning became physical once again, and more
urgent than before.

After only a few hours, Chief Gardner walked into the interrogation
room, his bandaged right hand, a badge of honor. He waved it around, as if to
emphasize that badge as well as his official one.

The Chief inhaled to emphasize his powerful chest and a gut
a cop could be proud of. “Now, Charles Wayne Dukes,…”

“It’s ‘Charley,’” said Charley, with a last vestige of
pride. “My mom named me ‘Charley.’”

“Then she’s as stupid as you are,
Charley
. Look:
We don’t believe that story about the drug deal, some drug gang involved with
Barnes. Not that they’re aren’t some snorters in Congress, at least I’ve heard
that. But not Barnes. And the clincher, hey, was that even if he wanted drugs
he’d never get ‘em from some street creep, especially from a loser like you.”

“Just felt like it,” said Charley. “I hate politicians.”

“So now that’s it?” the chief said with some outrage, his
spittle-spattered face just inches from Charley’s. “‘Just because’? or ‘Just
felt like it’? or whatever. Forget that crap, because we don’t believe it, and
we won’t believe anything like it, either. There’s got to be money somewhere,
Charley. Every item on your rap sheet had to do with money. You never did
anything because you ‘just felt like it.’”

Charley was silent, but he was thinking. What could he come
up with next? Give them the Harrisburg phone number? But that might lead them
to George.

The next morning, the Chief visited the accused again. “Now Charley,
you don’t strike me as especially crazy. Now you say again you acted alone,
didn’t have help, didn’t anyone pay you anything, and since we blew up the drug
story; we never believed that one in the first place. Didn’t your mother tell
you never to lie, or whatever bitch raised you?”

Charley’s face turned red and he gritted his teeth, but he
said nothing, just wished the Chief would have a major heart attack right there
in front of him..

“So
why
?” the Chief continued. “Who are you
protecting, and why? We’re going to pound the shit out of you – pardon me,
counselor, I didn’t say that” he said to an uneasy Legal Aid attorney, “– until
you tell us who paid you or promised you something, or some reason I can
believe why you’d kill Ezra Barnes!”

Charley knew he had to say something, or eventually they’d
break him, and George would hear about it, and Darlene would be killed, and
Charley’s grandson, too. It occurred to Charley he didn’t even know the kid’s
name. Sure as shit they wouldn’t name him “Charley.” The cops were right, he
had no reason to kill Barnes and not even the resources and brain to do it all by
himself. Desperately, Charley tried to think who he could blame. What bad guys
had been on the radio five-minute top of the hour news lately?

Meanwhile, FBI agents were working on more important things.
They’d visited Charley’s haunts, including his cheap room and the Stirrup, but
that had given them no leads, the locals denying all knowledge of any “Dukes, didja
say that was his name?”

Being focused on Washington, D.C., the Bureau then decided
to look at the murder from a different angle, for the moment ignoring Charley
Wayne Dukes. Why would anyone want to kill Ezra Barnes? No corruption or
payoffs; the FBI would have known. No cheating on his wife, or the FBI and
The
Post
would both have known, although neither would have broadcast that
knowledge.

What had Barnes been doing? Looking for something to hold
over his rival for the Senator, Thomas Conning. That’s what his staff said,
anyway. Did Barnes have anything on Conning? Nothing at all they knew for sure,
it seems, and no leads; just suspicion. A profound WTF feeling crept through
the Bureau. A nebulous but reassuring statement was released to the press.

At the Grantwood police station, Charley had a thought: “It
was the Arabs,” he said, voice shaking. “Terrorists. In D.C. I don’t know why
they wanted that guy dead; they never told me. They didn’t walk around in
sheets or anything or with a diaper and fan belt on their heads, just dressed
normal. There was two of them. They drove me up here and gave me a gun and told
me where to go and what to do. And said they’d give me a lot of money if I did
it right and kill me if I didn’t.”

Charley was trying to remember his impressions of the
curbside shawarma truck back in D.C., and its merchant. What was the name on the
side of the truck? He could give that to the cops. But the only name he
remembered was “Halal.” Yes, that was on the side of the truck. But if the cops
arrested Halal, they’d pretty soon find out he was innocent and Charley had been
lying again and they’d sweat him and push him around again, and administer a
few practiced kicks. He didn’t know if he could take that anymore.

So he didn’t mention Halal’s truck. What he said was, “I
didn’t see those Arab guys before – before about a week ago. On the street.
They knew I was an ex-con, and broke.”

“How’d they know that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t ask ‘em.”

The Chief looked at the other cops, said “back to his cell,
double guard at all times. Now. I’ll call the FBI again.” The young Legal Aid attorney
sat dazed, as if imagining he could now be an actor in a major scene of world
history.

After some discussion at the Bureau, one FBI agent argued
that Dukes’ ‘Arab’ story was intentionally implausible. Dukes must have wanted them
to say it was nonsense, right? But maybe it was true all along, and that’s why
it sounded so crazy. The agent was ignored, as he had been in similar
situations before.

Another Bureau agent was sent to Grantwood, to assist in
interviewing Charley. After one interview, and another, and another, the agent
regretfully told the Grantwood police Charley’s story of Arab terrorists was,
as he put it, “unsubstantiated.” Chief Gardner translated that term as,
a
crock of fucking shit
, without specifying what such a miraculous substance
could be.

As Sebastian George soon discovered, the “Arab terrorist”
connection to Barnes’ death, that the FBI had investigated, soon became known
to the world, thanks to a gabby cop.

He was startled, then relieved, then worried. He hadn’t been
named. Who had come up with that dumb Arab story? It wouldn’t stick, he knew.
Arabs didn’t do that stuff. Not anymore. Did they?

George met with Sybille Haskin and gave her a detailed
narrative of everything he had done to ensure the Barnes assassination went
smoothly. He didn’t mention he, himself, had been forced to kill Barnes because
Charley had missed. And when Haskin expressed anger Charley Dukes was still
alive, George didn’t mention he’d tried to kill Charley and failed. He didn’t
tell Haskin the fake drug deal story was his idea, the story he never thought
Dukes would have an opportunity to tell anyone.

Instead and on a lighter note, George regaled Haskin with
the “Arab terrorist” story that Dukes must have dreamed up himself, it was so
dumb and impossible. Haskin, who had not heard this news before, didn’t seem to
find this funny. Her face drained of what little color it normally had.

George saw immediately, something about “Arab terrorist” had
hit Haskin very hard. His face did not reveal a hint of what he’d just learned,
what bright and wonderful opportunities could now be opening for him. Sebastian
George was, after all, a very skillful criminal, and a Vegas-class poker face
was one of those skills.

After her meeting with George, Haskin knew that he knew, he
had hit, without intending to, a very raw nerve. He must be thinking about that
right now, she thought, why a fake story of Arab terrorists was such a concern
to her. He must be contemplating his new power over her, and how to use it. She
should have him killed. But he must have thought of that possibility by now, and
was moving to take out some kind of “insurance” against her. Just wait. His
time will come.

Police Chief Scott Gardner was nearing the end of his rope.
Charley had given him a fake story three times, and no progress in the case had
been made. Not to mention that kerfuffle about the Arab terrorists, that had
brought down the nervous laughter of the whole country on Grantwood, and on him
personally. And now the State authorities were pressuring him to turn over the
prisoner to them, and let some real experts do the questioning, not those hicks
in Flyover Acres, Pennsylvania. One more go at Charley, then if he’d got
nothing useful he’d have to cave.

Gardner walked into Charley’s cell. Charley could see the
Chief was about to lose it, and he pretty much knew why: Charley had told
stories that were lies, and stupid lies at that. Charley had never pretended to
have enough brains to lie successfully. This was one reason he’d been convicted
of so many crimes.

So now there was nothing left but the truth. He wouldn’t
lie, well, not much. He’d tell the cops what they wanted to know – everything
but ‘Art’, and that ‘Art’ might be ‘George’.  And he wouldn’t tell them anything
about Darlene, either.

“OK,” he said, “Here it is. Some D.C. guy I never seen
before paid me to come up here and kill Barnes. I was desperate and broke. I
needed the money or one of those gangs, you know, would have beat me up worse
than you did, maybe killed me to get their other debtors to fork over. So I
said I’d do it.

“He drove me here to Grantwood, like I said about the Arabs
but this guy wasn’t no Arab. And he gave me a phone number in Harrisburg, told
me to call them and go there and they’d hide me, help me get away. That’s why I
was on the road to Harrisburg when I got caught.

“I know their phone number. I was supposed to call that
number and they’d hide me for a while, and give me the money for shooting that
politician.”

That was pretty close to the truth, although not the whole
truth. This time, Charley thought he might be believed. And, he considered, it
protected George as long as the H-burg gang didn’t involve him, and it
protected Darlene. And if the H-burg gang did give up George to the cops,
George might not blame Charley. He hoped. He hoped.

In any case, Charley couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. He
was just a minor-league crook, and the cops had never given him a hard time
before, just busted him and tossed him in jail. Never had the “third degree”
before, barely the second degree.

“So what’s the number?” Gardner asked.

“717-255-6970,” Charley said.

The Chief left the room briefly, and then returned.

“OK, Charley, I’ve got a guy checking up on that number. You
look like you might be telling the truth now. So we can stop sweating you if
this phone number checks out, and you can wait in a nice quiet place until
you’re tried for murder.”

An aide walked in and whispered to the Chief. The Chief
looked at Charley. Charley looked at the floor.

“We looked up that number,” the Chief said,” Charley held
his breath. George’s friends. The ones who were going to save him. Or who could
rat him out.

“Some mob kingpin who might back up your bullshit story?”
the Chief’s face turned purple and his voice became a shout. “It was the
God-damned fucking-ass Greyhound bus station, that’s what it was!” He stood
there, legs apart, an expression of both frustration and contempt on his face.

Charley was confused. Maybe Greyhound was a front. George
must have been extra clever. But that couldn’t be it, could it?

“You know what,” the Chief said, “I just had a thought,
looking at your stupid face now, I think you think you’re telling me the truth.
I think somebody played a real cruel joke on you, Charley. There’s nobody
waiting for you in Harrisburg, nobody at all. Nobody to save your ass, just get
on the bus, Gus! And they’d know the bus station’s the first place we’d look,
in case you’d happened to get that far.”

The Chief marched out of the room to spread the good, if
somewhat erroneous, news of his making brilliant progress in the case soon to
be called State of Pennsylvania vs Charley Wayne Dukes.

The Chief and a couple of trusted aides got their heads
together and reached some conclusions. Yes they, whoever “they” were, wanted
Charley to get caught. That must have been it, because they’d made it so easy
for him to get caught. They were planning that all along. So Charley must
really not know anything important after all. He didn’t have to cover up,
because the plotters hadn’t told him anything the police could use. Bet they
were laughing even now.

But who were
they
? Grantwood County police
could spend months trying to figure that out, the Chief himself constantly
pressured by the State authorities, and the Feds, not to mention the God damn
press, to get results. Scott Gardner, Chief of Police, would look really
incompetent.

Couldn’t let that happen. Let’s say Charley Dukes acted
alone. Just like he said before we pushed him around and got those dumb
stories. Get a quick, sure conviction that way. Over and out.

Chief Gardner ordered Charley put back in lockup, under
full-time guard. Charley’s official attorney, he’d heard, had been appointed
and would arrive the next day, and he’d have to put up with her. Yes, “her.” He
hated women lawyers. That Legal Aid jerk was a lot better; he’d let the Chief
do what he had to do for public safety. Women bitched about that. Sometimes
they called it “torture.”

Natalie Jameson had been pestering the Pennsylvania Highway
Patrol for the return of her beloved Chevy Nova, which was being held as a
material witness, she’d been told, or something like that anyway.

In order to get to her yoga classes on time she’d, had to
buy one of those Hummers from her next-door neighbor’s dealership. Mostly just
to shut him up. A big truck but nice, she thought; it would do until she got
her Nova back. And other drivers let her merge now, which hadn’t been true with
the Nova.

But after two weeks, she gave up waiting and called the
Governor, who wasn’t delighted to help his mother remove the spokes from the
wheels of justice. But he did, and she got her Nova back. This made her very
happy, even though drivers cut her off again now.

On Election Day that November, Thomas James Conning was
re-elected to the U.S. Senate by fifty nine percent of the voters. Arnold
Grigsby, Ezra Barnes’ last-minute replacement, had no chance. Conning thanked
the voters at his campaign headquarters, but seemed distraught. In his victory
speech, he honored the memory of Ezra Barnes, as everyone knew he would. Oddly
enough, according to whispers, his grief seemed sincere.

The newly re-elected Senator met confidentially with backers
to set the stage for his Presidential run in two years’ time. Initially he had
been worried about what Haskin might do, but not having heard from her in some
time, he concluded ConDyne would be no problem. He was delighted to think,
should he not be elected President in two years, he would still be Senator for
another four, and could try again.

Barnes’ House seat was won by a major donor to her party, a
woman with no qualifications other than well-practiced sincerity and an open
wallet.