Juice (24 page)

“I wonder if he knows we're talking about him.”

“Of course he does,” Helen said. “If he didn't, he'd assume it anyway.”

“I feel like a traitor,” Mrs. Newberry said. “I shouldn't talk to you about him this way.”

Helen was instantly grave and embarrassed. “I suppose you're right,” she said. “We'll talk about something else.”

“We will?” Mrs. Newbery asked hopelessly. “But there isn't anything else. And they won't be home for hours.”

16

Judge Francis Winkelmann and Mrs. Winkelmann—who
loved
society—occupied a large Georgian house, with a porte-cochere, on two acres of land fifteen minutes east of the Century Club and thirty minutes west of the County Courthouse in Los Pinos. “I'm an urban type,” Winkelmann liked to explain, “and the judiciary, being relatively independent of politics, doesn't have to worry about residence requirements and constituencies. I prefer being fairly close to the center of things.” The Winkelmann son, Alfred, lived in Idaho, but when he and his wife and three children came to visit, the Georgian house accommodated them comfortably. Winkelmann was proud of his six bedrooms; he was even more proud of the dumbwaiter that ran from his kitchen to the master bedroom. He claimed to enjoy breakfast in bed and would not have admitted that balancing the tray was a chore, that he slopped coffee into his saucer, or that he could not manage the newspaper and the meal at the same time.

His study was an admirable room. Two of its walls were lined with textbooks and bound volumes of various law reviews. One wall was no wall at all, but French windows, beyond which lay a balcony, beneath which lay a formal garden. In the fourth wall was a fireplace. When Winkelmann sat in his oaken swivel chair, behind his oaken desk, his back was to the fire, his face to the balcony. On his glass-topped desk were twelve racked pipes and a one-pound tobacco can, a pen in a penholder, an old-fashioned rocker blotter, two file folders, and a goose-neck lamp.

The room was smoky; Winkelmann had been seated at his desk for almost forty-five minutes, puffing at the thirteenth pipe. When the doorbell rang he went out into the carpeted hallway, closing the study door behind him because his wife did not permit tobacco smoke in any other room, and admitted Arthur Rhein.

“Hello, Francis,” Rhein said. “Turning cool.”

“Good evening, Arthur,” Winkelmann said. “Shall we go back into the study? I've got a pipe going, and you know Anna.”

“Of course,” Rhein said.

“Will you want a drink?”

“I'd like coffee and brandy. Servants out?”

“Servants, hey?” Winkelmann laughed. “Servant, you mean, and yes, she's out. Come on back. I'll fix you up.”

Rhein followed him. Winkelmann was three or four inches taller than Rhein, and burly; he was silver-haired, and his face was lined, and soon he would be the perfect judge. His voice too was good: a vestryman's baritone. Rhein smiled.

Winkelmann found the switch; the kitchen brightened. Winkelmann was fifty-one years old, Episcopalian, Independent, native of Kansas, and not a member of the Century Club. He hefted the coffee pot. “Good,” he said. “I won't have to offer you that powdered stuff.”

“Good, indeed,” Rhein said amiably. “Next thing they'll have instant brandy. Then where'll we be?”

Winkelmann laughed; he seemed to fill the kitchen. Rhein stared meditatively at the blue flame. Winkelmann was opening cupboard doors. “You want local brandy, or the French?”

“The French,” Rhein said.

“You're a snob,” the judge said. “I can't tell the difference.”

“I can,” Rhein said. “That makes me an insufferable snob.”

Winkelmann laughed. He set the bottle and two glasses on the oilcloth-covered table. He set two cups and two saucers beside them. “Turning cool, you say?”

“Yes. Breeze coming down the valley from the north.”

“Good. Means fair weather for the weekend.”

“Golf?”

“Yes. With Clem Dirks.”

Good, Rhein thought. Excellent. “I haven't seen Clem lately,” he said. “Is he getting us any more free public works?”

“Always,” the judge said. “He brings home more pork, that fellow.” He chuckled. They were silent for almost a minute. A wisp of steam escaped the coffeepot. “I'll take the pot and the cups. You follow with the bottle and the glasses.” He preceded Rhein toward the study. “Anna'd give me hell for leaving the kitchen light on. She's upstairs, anyway.”

They entered the study. Rhein set his burden on the desk. While the judge poured coffee, Rhein poured brandy. He took his cup and his glass to an end table, seated himself on the worn sofa, and looked up at Winkelmann, who laughed uneasily.

“Well, what's it all about?” Winkelmann asked. “You're a businessman. Don't beat around the bush.”

Rhein sniffed at his brandy. “It's about Joe Harrison.”

“Now wait a minute.” Winkelmann raised a heavy hand. “You know better than that. You can't come in here and talk to me about a pending case.”

“Good brandy,” Rhein lied. “What do you pay for it?”

“Six ninety-eight,” Winkelmann said. “I get ten per cent off on the case.”

“I'll get twenty off for you at the club,” Rhein said.

“Bribery, by God!” Winkelmann laughed. “What club?”

“Century,” Rhein said.

“Good food down there,” Winkelmann said. “Sorry it fell through tonight.”

“So was I,” Rhein said. “Best kitchen in the city, after mine. Although the roast pork's invariably overdone.”

“Trichinosis,” the judge said.

“I suppose they have to be careful,” Rhein conceded. “I wanted to talk about Harrison because there are certain special considerations.”

“There are no special considerations before the bench, Arthur.”

“Perhaps. But there are outside the courtroom.”

“If they don't bear directly on the case, they should stay outside the courtroom.”

“My feeling exactly.” Rhein smiled. “Which is why I'm here tonight.”

“Arthur,” the judge said, and shook his head, “this is not right.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Rhein said. “I know what you mean, and you know what I mean. We're two old friends, alone, taking coffee and brandy together.”

“Even so,” Winkelmann said.

“Does Dirks golf much?”

“Well, no,” Winkelmann said.

“Just enough for political purposes.” Rhein smiled.

“That's about it.” The judge smiled.

“How much do you know about Harrison?” Rhein asked.

“Well, he's your right hand down there, solid citizen, never been in trouble as far as I know, and now he's committed what looks like involuntary nonfelonious manslaughter.”

“The penalty for which is what?”

“Up to a year in the county jail. But we rarely invoke it. A man with a clean record, in an obvious accident—”

“And if he'd been drinking?”

Winkelmann was momentarily shocked; he sipped quickly at his coffee and said, “Well, it depends on how much he'd had. If he was really drunk he could get five years in the state prison. Or if the jury directed it, one year in the county jail. Jury has latitude. Also a fine. Five hundred.” He reflected. “Or if he was just a little tipsy, one to five in state prison or ninety days to a year in county jail, with a fine of two hundred to five thousand.”

“I see,” Rhein said. “It's a terrible thing. One mistake. The ruin of a man.”

“And the death of another,” Winkelmann said delicately. “But then we don't often impose the heavier sentences.”

“So,” Rhein said. He twirled the brandy and then sipped at it. “Harrison's case seemed rather cut and dried at the hearing.”

“Yes, it did,” the judge said. “Except that he was a little upset. I didn't understand him at all.”

“Very upset,” Rhein agreed. “I think he was still in some sort of shock.”

Winkelmann shook his head somberly.

“He may even have a little, ah, fixation about this,” Rhein went on. “I think he feels guilty. Psychologically speaking.”

“Understandable,” the judge said. Rhein looked up at him sharply. “Psychologically speaking,” the judge said.

“Yes. He's not himself. He may persist in that attitude.”

“A doctor should be called in.”

“Perhaps,” Rhein said, “but it isn't really that sort of thing. You know how complicated it can be with psychiatrists contradicting each other. But it's quite clear from the testimony that this is just a crazy idea he's picked up.”

“Quite clear,” the judge said.

“I suppose there's some legal way for you to refuse such an outlandish plea of guilty.”

“Well, I should think so,” the judge said. “After all, if I admitted it, and the man later changed his mind, with all that contradicting testimony, there'd be some way to call it reversible error. Reversible error is—”

“I know,” Arthur Rhein said.

“I've never had just that problem,” the judge said. “It may be that if the man is properly represented by counsel—provided counsel's in his right mind—” the judge chuckled ponderously—“I'd have to accept the plea. There's the insurance, you know. The civil case. And what happens in my court affects the civil case.”

“I wouldn't worry about the insurance,” Rhein said. “You know, I've tried to give Harrison all the help I could. I got Davis for him. And I had Biedermann take charge of the case personally. I worked through Frank Farrow.”

“Oh,” the judge said. “I don't think you should—”

“Old Borden's retiring, isn't he?” Rhein asked comfortably. “Why don't you light your pipe?”

“Yes, good idea,” Winkelmann said. He picked up his pipe, dropped it, bent to retrieve it, and opened a desk drawer in search of matches.

“On the desk,” Rhein said.

“Oh, yes,” Winkelmann said.

“Borden's been a judge about forty years, hasn't he?”

Winkelmann nodded.

“Fifteen of them on the federal bench.” Rhein shook his head admiringly. “A distinguished career.”

“An admirable man,” Winkelmann said. “A man of principle or he wouldn't have gone so far.”

“Yes. I suppose Dirks will have a great deal to say about his successor.”

“I suppose so,” Winkelmann said. He lit his pipe. His face showed sad patience.

Rhein laughed—a full, hearty, amused laugh. “I'm sorry, Francis,” he said. “I've given you a rough time. But you're such a damned solemn old owl.”

Winkelmann smiled without enthusiasm.

“You shouldn't have much trouble,” Rhein said. “And I'll spare you further embarrassment by leaving now.” He grinned. “Shall I go out the back door?”

“Oh, good Lord, Arthur,” Winkelmann protested.

Rhein laughed again.

“How will you get back to town?” the judge asked.

“I kept the cab,” Rhein said. “No, don't bother to see me out. Sit there and finish your pipe.” Rhein approached the desk and extended a hand. “Thanks, Francis. I imagine I'll be seeing you at the club one of these days.”

“Oh,” Winkelmann said. “Yes. Well. I hope so.”

“And give my best to Anna. Friday night is ladies' night, by the way.”

“Ah,” Winkelmann said. “She'll be pleased.”

“Good night,” Arthur Rhein said, and walked out.

Winkelmann smoked his pipe. He was alone in his study, and he felt a deep but unidentifiable sadness; yet he knew that this was the best way. And it was not as though he had been taken by surprise; he had seen it coming for almost twelve hours. Farrow and Biedermann and Dirks, the gods of things as they are, and behind them the whole political structure of the county. Well, that was what politics was for, sometimes. Delicate balances. And if anything went wrong, there would be hell to pay.

He wondered how much it had cost Rhein. Juice could be expensive.

He winced inwardly, thinking of the newspapers. If anything did go wrong, if the public overheard the slightest murmur, the press would turn on him; the whole state would turn on him. Him? Him and Biedermann and Dirks and God only knew who else: Rhein lunched with the governor now and then.

But that makes it all right, he thought persuasively; that makes it better. There can be no mistakes at those levels. But damn Rhein anyway with all his friends. Damn all politicians. Me included, he thought.

Me. A federal judge. Is that what they call irony? Or means and ends?

The Century Club.

He was reaming his pipe when the doorbell rang, and he pulled himself out of the oaken chair and trudged reluctantly down the hallway, thinking, I wonder what more he wants to do to me.

17

“There he goes,” Davis said. “I'm not omniscient, really. It was only a hunch.”

Joe Harrison was silent.

“Chin up,” Davis said. “One of us has to stay rational, and it might as well be you.”

They watched Arthur Rhein, a block away, enter his taxi. The taxi moved off. Exhaust fumes drifted through the cone of light.

“Now what?” Harrison asked.

“Now me,” Davis said. “Never follow one banjo act with another banjo act; but we have no choice. I imagine I could be disbarred for this.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“Good God, no. We'd both wind up in pokey. You sit here and meditate the vices and virtues of Arthur Rhein. Or play the radio. It's set for classical music.”

“I've been doing just that,” Joe said. “Meditating Rhein, I mean. I'm a little mixed up, you know.”

“I know,” Davis said. “Changing your mind? You'd make me the happiest little lawyer in the world.”

After a moment Joe said, “No. I can still do that in the morning.”

“Yes, of course. At the last possible moment. Much more confusing that way.”