Undue Influence (8 page)

In an age when kids are packing Mac-tens in the classroom and pistol whipping teachers who look at them cross-eyed, Jack sees a note from home as something on the order of the Great Wall of China. “The man doesn’t miss a beat,” she tells me. “We’re noticed for a hearing on temporary custody in five days. Got any ideas?” she says. Jack has found the soft underbelly. Laurel is not likely to show in court, and her lawyer, having already appeared on the custody matter, can’t avoid service. Jack will take a default on Laurel, grab the kids, and cut off support, all in one fell swoop. It is what you notice first about Jack, not his blinding intelligence, but his devotion to the rules of opportunity. Facing Melanie’s funeral, and a sea of grief I do not deny, he still finds time in a busy day to sort out the silver lining in his wife’s death. As much as a lawyer can be, Hemple is depressed by all of this.

To Jack there was never anything sacred about taking care of his family.

For a guy with a woman in every room, support payments were viewed as nothing but an exorbitant stud fee. I tell her this. But she doesn’t laugh. There is a dark cloud, something unstated, hanging over our conversation, the sense that Gail is waiting to unload something more on me. We tiptoe around it for several minutes, mostly lawyer’s small talk, adventures in divorce land, a ride on every theory, none of them with a cheerful ending. Then she punches my ticket. “I may as well tell you,” she says. “I’m not going to be able to go on representing her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m filing a motion to withdraw as counsel,” says Hemple.

A lawyer leaving a case unfinished conjures all the images of Fletcher Christian lowering the longboat to put you over the side in this case, given my limited grasp of things domestic in the law, without benefit of compass or charts. At this moment there is a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach not unlike what you would get out on the rock-and-roll of the bounding main. “You can’t do it,” I say.

She’s got a million reasons. A waste of Gail’s time and Laurel’s money, what it comes down to in the end. She can hear me fuming on the other end, the silent thought that a lawyer should never cut and run. Though in this case, with Laurel on the lam, I must admit that it is an open question who has abandoned who. “Listen, if it’s a question of money…

”

“It isn’t the money. That ran out a month ago. Laurel passed me two bad checks since,” she says. “Bounced and skipped like flat stones on a pond,” she tells me. We are siblings under the skin, Gail and I. Like the criminal bar, it seems rubber is the stockin-trade of divorce. “I kept going for the reason that a lawyer always keeps going,” she says.

“I didn’t know how to say no.” I tell her to send me her rubber checks and I will give her cash.

“You’d be putting good money after bad,” she says. “It’s not just the money. It’s the case. There is no way,” she says. “How do I tell the court that my client hasn’t abandoned her kids? Your honor, she’s a fugitive from justice, the cops can’t find her, but she is a good mother. She cares for her children. She just does it long distance.’ It isn’t gonna wash,” she says. I bite my tongue. I want to tell her about my conversation with Laurel, but disclosure has implications. As absurd as it might seem, at this moment Laurel could claim that she was just traveling, some urgent mission with a purpose, unaware that the cops were after her. I am the only one who knows from her own lips that this is not the case. For the moment I must keep it that way. “They haven’t charged her with anything,” I say. “If she turns up, what then? There could be a logical explanation for her disappearance.” Some pained breathing on the other end. Gail Hemple trying one more time to muster the sand to say no. “Vega’s getting ready to turn a paper blizzard,” she says. “And right now he’s got a monopoly on all the wind machines. If she came back today maybe, with a good story, I’d have time to prepare.

After that, anybody appearing on the merits is nothing but a punching bag. There would not even be a basis for the slightest compromise,” she says. “In a way she might be better off unrepresented,” says Hemple. “If she beats the criminal charges, or they don’t bring them, a court on review might be more sympathetic revisiting custody.” I have no answer for this.

“If you hear from her before five, and she has a good one” Gail means a story “give me a call,” she says and hangs up. The State Capitol building is a showcase, historic rooms preserved on the main floor like museums and gilded elevators with live operators, at least when the Legislature is in session. The hundred and twenty men and women office here live like rajas, with personal attendants to cater their every whim. There is no money for schools or hospitals, but austerity is not part of the decorative scheme here. As the boundless party-line goes, the dignity of the people demands that their elected leaders operate in opulence. The political class of this state are about as out of touch as the fops of yore whose heads rolled from the guillotine. To get to Jack’s office I run the gauntlet of a rogues’ gallery, framed oil portraits the size of small houses, spaced along the walls leading to the rotunda. These are pictures of former governors, mostly robber barons from the last century who bought respectability with their public office. Mixed in with these are the feckless oily smiles of a few contemporaries, actors and the sons of political nobility, official portraits of men bearing expressions of constipation, straining to look like they belong to the ages. What Jack wanted to talk about when I returned his call could not be discussed over the phone. I trek to his office in the Capitol, more from curiosity than anything else, the thought that any information, even that which Jack wants me to have, is better than none. His receptionist offers me coffee and a chair to cool my heels while Jack holds forth behind the closed door of his office. I can hear the rumble of voices, men belly-laughing. As a chairman of a standing committee, Vega rates a suitable office and a battalion of publicly paid minions, mostly young, each striving to look more important than the other, and all off on their own urgent mission to prop up the world. Twenty minutes go by and the door to Vega’s office finally opens. I hear Jack’s voice, but it is lost in a well, behind a bull of a man who fills the doorway. The guy’s back is to me. There is nothing fat about him, just big, more cloth on his suitcoat than the Graf Zeppelin. The guy’s shaking Jack’s hand, talking the jargon of this place, something about legislation, a “juice bill,” meaning there is money in it. The wonders of politics in the free-market world. The man doesn’t see me sitting here, and Jack’s view is blocked by the hulk in front of him.

The guy tells Jack it’s time to go see the “guy, down in the corner office. Not the big place out front, the little office in the back, where the real deals are cut,” he says. Jack wishes him luck.

“No need for luck when it’s wired,” the man says. What every lobbyist would have you think, that his hand is up some elected official’s ass making the mouth work. Clinton Brady is one of the better-known members of the third house, the unofficial, but many would insist most powerful branch of government, the six hundred or so registered lobbyists in this town. He pats Jack on the shoulder and turns to leave. In a blue serge suit with sleeves an inch too short, Brady looks like something that climbed down from the beanstalk. He straightens up, noticing that strangers are in earshot, and cants his head to one side in order to clear the transom over Jack’s door. Brady represents insurance interests the way the Fuhrer represented Germany, a lot of blitzkrieg and scorched earth to any who oppose him. With his contacts and high profile he has become more important than the interests he represents. He owns whole committees and sells his services to clients like the mob sells protection. He has by now learned that giving money to Jack and his ilk is like feeding fish to seals. Word has it for the last decade that Jack has been living in one of Brady’s pockets. At this moment the lacquered grin on Vega’s face would do little to dispel this thought. “Clint needs some copies. Clint needs to make a call. Clint needs this.

Clint needs that.” Jack is Clint’s own gofer, doing his own form of the soft-shoe between Clint and the secretary. He takes a pile of papers from Brady and hands it to his secretary to be copied. The woman moves with the flash of lightning, like her job depends on this. Brady’s then ushered down the hall to some subaltern’s office, a detour to make a few phone calls before heading off to see the “guy” no doubt a telephone request to his clients to wire more cash. Politicians in this state don’t accept reasoned argument, and they don’t take American Express.

Jack gives me a wag of his head and no greeting. I follow him into his office, where he closes the door behind us. Though the consumption of alcohol in the Capitol is a misdemeanor, Jack maintains a rolling liquor cabinet in a walk-in closet, more jingling glass than the dime toss at a county fair. “A drink?” he says.

I decline. He would probably have me arrested.

The office is hot, the product of an hour of deal-making behind a closed door. I take off my jacket, hold it in my lap as I sit in one of the chairs on this side of the desk. Jack is sweating like a bull, but still wearing his coat. He compensates with a tumbler of iced scotch, and dances toward the business side of his desk, where he finally lands in cushioned leather and swivels to face me. “Been talking to my lawyers,” he says. “They told me to stay away from you.” Jack’s contempt for lawyers has him ignoring his own. The wall behind him is covered with political mementos, plaques and resolutions of appreciation from business and civic leaders in his district. These are mostly people trying to get where Jack is, who figure that planting their nose up his ass can’t hurt. There are three large trophies centered on his credenza.

Perhaps things other people let him win, little bronze men embedded on marble pedestals with a single arm outstretched. I can read Jack’s name engraved on the brass plate of one of these. He holds up a few papers from the center of his desk, letter-sized, looking like receipts.

“Dealing with the funeral home,” he says. “Gonna have to be closed casket.” He looks at me to see if I will ask why. “Her head,” he finally says, shaking his own. “One shot to the head.

The morticians couldn’t do much.” The willfulness of this, a shot to the head, not some heedless act of instant provocation, has its effect on me. “I suspect there are a lot of things you don’t know,” he says. “She was executed. There are pictures,” he tells me. I’m thinking coroner’s shots. Then he says: “Of Laurel, at the house.”

“Shooting Melanie?” I cannot resist.

He shakes his head. “May as well be. Videotape of her arguing with Melanie on the front steps. Neighbors heard it. Security camera filmed it all until Laurel smashed the lens with a flowerpot.” The way he says this, Jack clearly imputes a little method to Laurel’s madness, a purpose in destroying the camera. Something I suspect he’s either picked up from the cops or planted in their minds. “Where were you?”

“I had a meeting. Didn’t get home till late that night.”

It was Jack who found Melanie’s body in the master bath and called police. According to what he tells me, forensics figures that about three hours passed between the row on the porch and the murder. “They believe Laurel probably went to get a gun and had to think about it for a while before she worked up the nerve.” The “they” Jack is talking about I suspect is Jimmy Lama, who is busy trying to inspire thoughts of premeditation and deliberation to some wily prosecutor. “How do you know it was her?”

A pained expression, like give me a break.

“I suppose you still don’t know where she is?”

“I don’t,” I tell him. “Not a word from her?”

“And if I had, I would tell you?” I smile. “Touche,” he says. Jack’s musing over his drink, talking about Melanie’s funeral, which is scheduled for tomorrow. I had not expected to see him in the office, a period for grieving. I tell him this. “It’s easier to cope if I go about my day,” he says.

Jack’s talking like he’s had time to think. The immediate rush of anger so evident at his house that night has passed. This is not unlike Vega.

Jack has always lacked the stamina to hold anger for long. He talks about the kids, what to do with their mother. It’s not easy. It’s not his decision, but he and his children will have to live with whatever happens to Laurel. “For their sake,” he says, “I cannot see her sentenced to death.” It’s starting to sound like Jack is coming to his senses. There are little beads of sweat running down his nose. He puts the side of the iced tumbler to his forehead and catches the sweat with the sleeve of his coat. “They will find her,” he says. He is dogged in this. “What I want to know is what you’re going to do,” he says. I look at him.

“When they catch her. Are you going to represent her?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I tell him.

He smiles. Bullshit is Jack’s native tongue. By nature he is not confrontational. Manipulation is his special gift. I get a lot of penetrating looks from across the desk as he sizes me for some pitch. “I suppose it would make sense if she were represented by someone who knew the family well. I mean the whole situation. It would be easier,” he says, “for the kids, for all concerned if it was over quickly. And the evidence,” he says, “is irrefutable.” He goes on at length that there is a certain symmetry and sense to my representing Laurel. At least then I’d be in a position, in his words, “to make it easy on the family.”

Jack is taking me on his own sojourn of mercy. If he can’t keep me away from the case, Vega’s busy mining the circumstances for some silver lining. He would use me like a handy tool to have Laurel cop a quick plea. “It’ll keep her out of the deathhouse,” he says. “And the kids.

It’ll be easier on them.” It’s like he’s talking to himself, thinking out loud. “Of course you’d have to know the circumstances. All the details. How she did it and why.” He stops for a moment and looks at me as if perhaps I already know these and will share them with him now.

This is a conversation we shouldn’t be having. It is not only premature, it is ridiculous. I tell him that. “Just keep an open mind,” he says.