Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction (17 page)

“I’m sure not going to be around,” he says, grinning sourly at his own black humor.

“Look, this doesn’t add up, no matter how you do the math. Wallace was killed with a twenty-two pistol.

What kind of hit man uses a popgun? The cops searched the house and found nothing. There was no sign of a struggle, no forced entry. Wallace was hardly the type to invite his killer inside for a cup of coffee and then draw an x on his forehead for him. He would have fought like hell. If Wallace was really worried about his health, don’t you think the cops would have found a weapon or two around his house?”

I rub my eyes, trying to keep up. By this time of night, my I.Q. is in the single digits.

“So she’s making all this up?”

Chet looks down at the papers in front of him.

“Maybe the death threat, I don’t know. It’s not like I can call up the distributor in San Francisco and get him to go on David Letterman to talk about this deal. Maybe Leigh’s getting a little desperate. Maybe she made up the threat because she’s scared the porn business will come out in court, and pull her father and mother into the slime. This could really be a problem for her family.”

People are weird. She’s on trial for murder, and she’s worried about her daddy’s reputation?

“Maybe Shane knew about the porn stuff and killed Wallace,” I suggest, taking the opportunity to raise the subject of Norman’s alibi.

“I could see that a lot quicker than him killing Wallace because he was keeping Leigh away from the church.”

Chet fidgets in his chair. As his face becomes thinner, his ears seem to get larger.

“That’s garbage,” he says curtly.

“He’s seen a lot worse than what Wallace was involved in.”

Perhaps so, but not where his own daughter is concerned.

God damn it. I feel my face burning. The son of a bitch still hasn’t checked out Norman’s alibi. What has Norman got on him? Chet must have confessed to some crime and has had to cut some deal. So much for confidentiality between priest and penitent. Norman could leak information about Chet in a million different ways, and Chet won’t be around to save his reputation.

But surely Norman wouldn’t risk his daughter’s freedom this way. What in the hell is going on? I realize I’m beginning to think of Norman as a thug instead of one of the most respected men in the state. The odd thing is that I like the man. In some ways he and I don’t seem all that much different. Hell, yes, I could murder someone. And so could Norman.

“So what do we do with this?” I ask, watching Chet take a beer from a cooler he has beside his chair. I wouldn’t mind a beer right now, but, feeling like a junior law clerk, I don’t ask.

Chet makes a face as he untwists the cap from the bottle.

“At this point we’ll follow it until it dries up or we run out of time. Even if it turns out to be worth less than dog crap, we’ve got to throw some sand in the jury’s face. Shit, we don’t have any choice. This is all we’ve got at the moment. I want you to go to San Francisco and see what you can find out about the distributor. If we have to put Leigh on the stand with this story, we need to know a hell of a lot more than we do now.”

Why should I go? I’m a lawyer, not an investigator.

“Can’t Daffy go or someone else? There’re a million guys who’d love a free trip.”

Chet shakes his head and takes a long draft before he speaks.

“What I’m mainly interested in is you finding someone out there whom we can qualify as an expert witness to testify that Leigh and Art had something to worry about. An investigator won’t have that kind of credibility. I’d go myself if I were in better shape.”

With the trial only little more than a week away I feel I’m being gotten out of the way. From a defense standpoint, it’s not a wild-goose chase; Chet is right. We’ve got to give the jury area son to acquit Leigh, but it is as if there’s something here Chet doesn’t want me to find.

The main tent is in Blackwell County, not San Francisco.

“Shouldn’t we be asking for a continuance?” I ask, searching his face for clues.

Chet looks down at the table and winces as if he had just discovered some kind of flaw in the wood.

“We wouldn’t get it. Besides, I may not have that kind of time. Trust me on this one,” he says, glancing up at me with an attempt at a smile.

“My track record is pretty damn good. I may not even put Leigh on to testify, but we’ve got to be prepared to go with this story if we have to.”

My mouth feels dry, but for some reason I decide not to ask for anything to drink. This case feels terrible.

Yet, I can’t argue with him. He has won acquittals for some clients for whom I would have been satisfied to accept a plea bargain of life imprisonment. I warn him, “I’ve got to be back no later than Thursday night. I’ve got a custody case to get ready for Friday I told you about.”

Chet nods absently and slides me a file.

“My Visa is in there, and so are Daffy’s notes. I’d like to see you gone by tomorrow night.” He stands up, dismissing me.

“I promised Wynona I’d get home early. Call me tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to decipher Daffy’s handwriting. I won’t be coming into the office.”

Wondering what’s on my calendar for the next two or three days, I let myself out of the heavy, fortresslike door. I can put off an uncontested divorce, and Dan, who owes me one, can make an appearance for me in municipal court on a DWI I know is scheduled. As I pull away from the curb, I feel a strong need to discuss this recent turn of events with Dan. I don’t understand what Chet is doing in this case. As good for nothing as Dan can be sometimes, he provides a decent sounding board.

I take Skyline Drive along the Arkansas River, knowing he and Brenda will be through with dinner and watching TV, which is all they do until bedtime, so I probably won’t be interrupting anything. With money on both sides of her family, and none on his, Brenda keeps Dan on a short leash, although why she doesn’t cut it altogether probably neither of them understands.

He says they were put on earth to make each other miserable, and from the expression on her face when she answers the door, tonight is no exception.

“Sorry not to call first, Brenda,” I say, without an ounce of sincerity in my voice, “but I need to talk to your old man if he’s not yet comatose.”

Brenda, who is smaller than Dan but not by much, jams her hands into an old gray cardigan sweater she is wearing over extra-large sweats and stares warily at her husband’s best friend.

“Come on in,” she decides.

“He’s still awake. But just barely.”

I look down at my watch. It is not quite eight o’clock. Married love: almost as exciting as bachelorhood.

She leads me down a hall toward the back of the house.

“How are you, Brenda?” I ask, pleased as a life insurance salesman to gain entrance. My theory is that this would be a relatively happy union if they would quit trying to conceive children and try to buy a couple instead. Brenda can afford it. If they would, then Brenda could quit trying to make Dan grow up and turn her attention to kids who at least have a chance of maturing.

For an answer, Brenda says, her voice rich with the snideness she is famous for, “I hear Sarah has found Jesus.”

The carpet in the hall is so lush I nearly stumble.

“I

guess there are worse ways to spend your time,” I say, unwilling to incur Brenda’s full wrath, but also unwilling to deny my own flesh and blood. I can kick my own kid around, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let somebody else.

As usual, Brenda has the last word.

“I can’t imagine what they’d be,” she says, leading me into the den.

“Gideon’s here,” she informs her husband over the sound of a documentary on what appear to be dolphins and other sea creatures. My theory is we love animals because they can’t talk back. If they could, there’d be no end to their grievances against us. Wholesale slaughter not the least of them.

His head bent low over a bowl of cheese dip, Dan looks up with a sheepish expression. He has assured me he is on a strict diet.

“Come to check on me, huh?” he says, grinning.

“It’s gotten so bad in this country that you can’t even lie to your friends without them getting suspicious. Want a beer?” he says, punching the remote.

Beside Dan’s recliner, separated by a small table, is a couch that makes into a bed. As good friends as Dan and I have become, I have been in this room only a time or two before. Dan prefers to escape, and Brenda’s parties don’t include me. I can feel Brenda’s disapproval radiating next to me.

“Love one.” I’d drink an entire case if I thought I could get her goat.

Dan lifts his obese body half out of the chair and reaches to his left to open a door to a small refrigerator.

“Take your pick,” he says. From where I’m standing, I can see a six-pack of Miller Lite and at least as many soft drinks in cans. If he had a microwave in here, they could rent out the rest of the house.

“I’m going to bed,” Brenda announces, and Dan climbs out of his chair and pads across the room to pacify her. Obviously irritated, nevertheless she lets him kiss her on the cheek and pat her wide shoulders. Like so many fat women, she has a pretty face.

I go take a beer.

“Good night, Brenda.” I am tired and do not plan to stay long, but Brenda doesn’t have to know that.

She murmurs something I can’t pick up, and Dan disappears down the hall with her. I sink down on the couch and grab a chip from the bag of Lay’s beside me.

When he comes back, I say, “I didn’t mean to spoil her evening.”

Dan shrugs, an embarrassed grin coming to his lips.

“We got a TV in our room. She’ll be okay. What’s up?”

he asks, arranging himself in his chair. He speaks softly as if she might be listening through the wall. How do retired couples stand each other all day? Dan says he and Brenda can’t get through a weekend without at least one fight. Considering how long people live nowadays, it’s surprising there’s not something called eldercide.

“You gotta promise to keep your mouth shut,” I warn him, but before he can open his mouth, I fill him in on my visit to Chet’s office.

“What the hell do you think this is all about?” I ask, when I am finished.

Dan moves in on the cheese dip he had temporarily abandoned.

“Bracken’s sending you on a wild-goose chase,” he says instantly.

“He’s protecting Norman, obviously, and doesn’t want you sniffing around the church, because as soon as you do, you’re gonna find that nobody saw him during the time Wallace was killed.”

I sip on the Miller Lite after crunching into the chips.

I could add a couple of pounds tonight easy. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he be protecting Norman?”

Dan wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“Somehow Norman found out about the porno, probably from Leigh,” he guesses, “and killed Wallace. As bad off as Bracken is, it’d be easy for Norman to convince him that Wallace was truly evil and deserved to die. For all we know, Norman has convinced Bracken that this is his ticket to paradise. This is Bracken’s last case. He doesn’t care that he’s covering up a murder. He just wants to go to heaven. Hell, it wouldn’t be the only time he’s pulled shit like this.”

I tap the can against my teeth. In a case that forever earned him the enmity of a former prosecutor, Chet hired a psychologist who had the reputation of fashioning his theories to fit the facts and won an acquittal for a major child abuser. Then there are the stories about violent paybacks. Though Dan and I are on the same wavelength, I try to play devil’s advocate. I argue, “But the guy just converted to Christianity. The last thing in the world he would do is get involved in a cover-up.”

Dan dips a chip into the cheese.

“Who in hell could be worse than a guy that profits from porno and corrupts his wife? Wallace sounds like a scumbag to me, and while these Bible churches preach love, they love the Old Testament’s eye for an eye.”

I sip at the beer, trying and failing to think of a decent reply. Violence is the easiest thing in the world to rationalize. Every time a handgun is sold in this country, somebody does that. Norman is no idiot. He easily could have heard about Bracken’s reputation for taking revenge. Chet probably told him. Even if leopards could change their spots, it wouldn’t happen overnight. I look at Dan, who is chewing thoughtfully and staring at the wall above the TV.

“Why would he ask me to help him? Somebody who’s trying to pull off a cover-up like this isn’t going to want another lawyer looking over his shoulder.”

Dan snorts, and when he speaks his voice is full of condescending mirth.

“Lawyers like you and me are the perfect cover. Bracken knows his reputation. He can say night is day and get guys like you and me to believe it.

When it comes down to it, he knows you’re not going to question him. He’s the great Chet Bracken. The only thing that can screw this up is him dying before the trial.”

I put down the beer can.

“Where this breaks down,” I say, “is they wouldn’t expose Leigh to a conviction.”

Dan rolls his eyes.

“What conviction? Leigh’s probably in on this, too. Where do you think she came up with the story about the death threat? Bracken fed it to her. By the time he gets through with Wallace’s reputation, the jury will be glad he’s dead. Hell, he’ll probably have you giving the closing argument while he sits back and pulls your strings. The guy’s slick as pig shit. He’s got you believing he just stumbled on Wallace’s porno deal. Look at the way he had his investigator discover this a week before the trial. He made you think that weirdo broke this case himself! Bracken probably rubbed his nose in it until he nearly suffocated.”

Dan belches. I lean back in my seat to get away as far as I can.

“What do you think I ought to do?” I ask, stung by his assessment of us. Hell, he’s right. Around Bracken I’ve been acting as if I were a first-grader afraid to raise his hand to ask to go to the bathroom.

Yet Dan and I are hardly the first persons in history to be intimidated by a forceful personality. Demagogues are made, not born, and in the South it has been a specialty.