Shadow of A Doubt Page 4

  I turned to go into my office building.

  “You’ll regret it,” he snapped.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Fuck you, Sloan.”

  I turned. He was climbing into the limo.

  “The same to you, Hoppy. And have a nice day.”

  I waved as his car pulled away. I smiled, but I was shaking with anger, and maybe just a touch of fear.

  *

  THE small-brained, big-breasted receptionist actually recognized me. Her big, dull eyes were filled with dumb awe as she handed me a fistful of telephone messages.

  “Jeez, I never talked to so many important people before. I think you may get invited to be on the Manny Silver Show. They want to talk to you.”

  Manny Silver was the latest star of late-night talk television. A former movie comedian, he burst upon the scene with gabby programs and experts ranging from animal sex advocates to people who claimed to collect gourmet recipes from other planets. It was a show for people with IQs of seventy or less. The receptionist more than qualified.

  I thumbed through the messages. Most were from media people. A few were from lawyers. I recognized the names of most of them. They were publicity hounds, famous in their own way. Most were a cut above Hoppy Crane, the hookers’ friend, but not much. They would offer more “deals.” Those messages I tossed as I sought the peace of my tiny office.

  Suddenly I needed a drink. It happens, not so often lately, but it happens. Without warning, usually. The overwhelming need is almost physical, as if some invisible metal claw reached out and grabbed your soul. When it happens you can’t think of anything else, just that terrible desire. There are various techniques. I use time.

  I looked at my watch and told myself I wouldn’t drink for fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes, that’s all I had to do. If the feeling hadn’t passed by then, I’d do fifteen more minutes without a drink. Eventually, the screaming need would subside. All I had to do was concentrate on the face of the watch and hold out for the next fifteen minutes.

  The telephone rang and I grabbed it. No matter who it was, talk would help ease my mind away from the clawing desire.

  “Yeah,” I said, snapping the word.

  “Jeez,” the receptionist said. She was incapable of speaking without opening with “Jeez.” “The lady who was in this morning wants to talk with you.”

  “Mrs. Harwell?”

  “That’s her. You want I should put her through?”

  “Please.”

  The phone clicked. “Charley?”

  “I was about to call you,” I said. It was true. As soon as the fifteen minutes had worked its magic I would have.

  “Did you see Angel?”

  “Yes, I did. She seemed in pretty good shape, all things considered.”

  “Can you get her out?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Charley, the police want to talk to me.”

  “Which police?”

  “A man named Morgan. Do you know him?”

  “He’s a detective here. What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. I suggested he talk to you first.”

  I thumbed through the messages. Morgan’s call was in there, I had just missed seeing it. “I’ll call him. You did the right thing, Robin. Don’t talk to anyone about any of this, not unless you check with me first.”

  “Charley, can you come over? I think we really need to talk.”

  “Okay, but I have to do a few things first.” Things like depositing her twenty-thousand-dollar check in my bank before she changed her mind and stopped payment. That, and call Morgan.

  “I’ll tell the guards to expect you,” she said.

  “Guards?”

  “I borrowed some security men from the boat plant. We are under siege here by media people. There are remote television trucks parked out on the road and photographers by the gate. Some of them even rented boats and tried to get here by coming up the river. The security men stopped that. It’s like an invasion. If you had tried to call, you couldn’t have gotten through. I’ve had the phone bells turned off.”

  “I understand detectives talked to your servants. Is that true?”

  “This morning they did.”

  “Do you know what kind of questions they asked?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “I’ll want to talk to them when I get there.”

  “Okay, Charley. I’ll make sure no one leaves until they see you.”

  I heard a man’s voice in the background.

  “Who’s with you, Robin?”

  “Oh, that’s Malcolm Dutton.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the manager of Harrison’s plant here. He came over to see if there was anything he could do.”

  Like cozying up to a rich recent widow, no doubt. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Are you okay, Robin?”

  There was a pause. “Some bad moments, but generally I’m okay.” She paused, then spoke, her voice just above a whisper. “Hurry, Charley. I need someone here I can trust.”

  3

  I STILL NEEDED THE DRINK, BUT NOT AS MUCH. I dialed the number Detective Morgan had left.

  “Sheriff’s office, Morgan speaking.”

  “This is Charley Sloan, Harvey. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Charley, how the hell are you? Damn if we didn’t have a visit today from Danny Conroy. Like old times, you know? You, him, us. I looked out the window to make sure I was still in Pickeral Point and not Detroit. It’s like the old Recorder’s Court gang, all together again.”

  “So, Harvey, you lining up an alumni dinner or what?”

  “It’s a thought, isn’t it? Actually, Charley, this is business. I called Mrs. Harwell to arrange to take her statement and she asked me to check with you. She tells me you’re representing Angel Harwell.”

  “I am, Harvey. At the moment. I thought you talked to Robin Harwell this morning.”

  “I did, Charley. Of course, things were in an uproar then. She was naturally upset and we didn’t know what we had. I’d like to talk to her now to clear up a few things that have come up since.”

  “Like what?”

  He chuckled. “Cm’on, Charley, this is just routine.”

  “So, what kind of routine questions do you have in mind?” He paused, then spoke. “We’ve talked to the household staff, Charley. We’ve heard a number of stories about Angel and her relationship with her father. I want to get Mrs. Harwell’s version.”

  “Mark Evola claims Angel confessed. Is that so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Again there was a pause. “It’s being typed up.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Harvey. You get me a copy of the alleged confession and I’ll set up a meeting with Robin Harwell.”

  He laughed. “Evola told us to guard Angel’s statement with our lives. If it was just me, Charley, I’d show it to you, but this is Evola’s case and we have to follow his orders.”

  “Tell me what she said.”

  “I’d rather not. Things can get muddled in translation.”

  “Strong stuff, Harvey?”

  The pause was longer. “Look, Charley, don’t try to worm it out of me. You can maybe get a copy when she’s arraigned.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Tomorrow morning. District Court.”

  “Evola said he’s going to charge her with first-degree murder.”

  “He is,” Morgan replied.

  “I presume on the basis of that alleged confession?”

  “That, and several other things. All will be made known to you at the proper time.” He chuckled. “This is like a card game, Charley. You can’t see the cards until they’re dealt. Now, when can I talk to Mrs. Harwell?”

  “Are you going to the arraignment?”

  “I don’t have much to do tomorrow, I’ll be there.”

  “We’ll talk about it then.”

  “We can bring her in, Charley
.”

  “You can try, Harvey, but I hope it won’t come to that.”

  He paused and then spoke. “Are you thinking about a plea?”

  “Depends.”

  Morgan sighed. “Don’t count on it. Evola wants to go the whole way with this one. He’s got his eye on bigger things, and a circus trial beats having to buy advertising. I don’t think he’s open to any deals on this one. If you keep this case, Charley, I think you’re going to have to try it.”

  “If I have to, I will.”

  Morgan sighed again. “It’s a ballbuster, but suit yourself. Well, you never know what will happen. Nothing in this business is predictable. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hung up. The terrible urge to drink was finally gone. My mind was full of other things. Morgan’s tone had held a note of genuine sympathy, plus the ghost of a suggestion that I might be wise to consider ducking what was to come. That was worrisome. Morgan was no bluffer.

  Publicity can be a two-edged sword. It might be great for Mark Evola and get his name out far beyond the borders of Pickeral Point. But for me a humiliating loss might be the final nail in the almost-closed coffin that contained my career. Harvey Morgan had sounded a little sorry for me.

  *

  I THOUGHT the teller at the bank might be impressed by the amount I was depositing, but she didn’t bat an eye. She stamped Robin’s check, filled out my receipt, and shoved it at me while carrying on a spirited conversation with the teller at the next window. She didn’t even glance in my direction. It was as if I wasn’t even there. But I was, and my sparse account was suddenly fatter by twenty thousand dollars.

  Money has its own seductive quality. If I didn’t try the case I would have to give it all back, or most of it. I found I liked having money again. My resolve to find another lawyer for Robin remained, but it wasn’t quite as strong as before.

  There was no problem figuring which riverfront home was the Harwell place. Robin’s description was accurate. The street in front of the entrance was lined on both sides by TV remote units with newsmen and photographers gathered in several small groups. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of newsmen flocking around the homes of presidential candidates when something was about to happen.

  Two uniformed security men stood like sentries at each side of the driveway entry. I pulled in.

  “Hey! This is private property,” one of the guards yelled. “Get outta here!”

  “My name is Sloan,” I said as one of the guards advanced on me. “I’m Mrs. Harwell’s lawyer.”

  Photographers came bounding up as if I had just announced that I had a carful of naked women. They clicked their cameras at me as the guards tried to shove them away.

  The guard eyed my old Ford with obvious disdain. “What’s your name again?”

  “Sloan.”

  Some of the newsmen shouted questions at me. I pulled a Reagan, pointing at my ear as if I had suddenly gone deaf and shrugging a mute apology.

  The guard frowned, not quite convinced that a Harwell lawyer would be seen in the kind of car I was driving, but he grudgingly waved me in. He and the other guard stopped the sea of newsmen trying to follow.

  The Harwell place was magnificent. Queen Victoria herself would have loved it. It didn’t look real, it was so well maintained. Glistening white, its three elegant stories rose to a carved roof edge. It was very big, more like a small hotel than a home. It even had an ornate widow’s walk at the top of the roof facing the river.

  The crushed white stone drive ended at a multicar garage at the rear of the huge house. Two Mercedes and a Cadillac, all gleaming and new, were parked in front of the garage. I pulled my car into a space next to them. The contrast was painful.

  A maid admitted me. A Hispanic girl with skin the color of fine teak and haunting olive eyes, her tentative smile seemed forced, more nervous than welcoming.

  “Mrs. Harwell’s in the sun room.” She led me through the enormous house. The ceilings were old fashioned and very high but there was nothing Victorian about the interior. The place was furnished in Park Avenue style, all elegant silks and satins. The carpeting was so thick it felt like walking across a cloud.

  The “sun room” was a magnificent atrium running the entire width of the place. All glass, curving and rising, it provided a breathtaking view of the river.

  I took a quick look around. At one end a huge Jacuzzi had been built in front of what looked like the cockpit of a jet plane, a stereo containing equipment that probably the Japanese didn’t have yet. A person could sit in the bubbling Jacuzzi waters, listen to the stereo, sip champagne, and watch the boats on the river. It suggested a lifestyle I had almost forgotten existed.

  Robin was sitting at the other end of the long room, at a table with a very tall, rather elegantly dressed man about my age.

  They were sipping something as I approached; they placed their glasses on a small table in front of their chairs.

  “Charley,” Robin said, nodding at her companion. “This is Malcolm Dutton.”

  He didn’t get up. He looked me over slowly and then stuck out his hand as if he could think of no way to avoid it. The hand I shook was long and bony but strong.

  “Malcolm is our Pickeral Point factory manager. He came over to help. Those are his guards at the gate.”

  “I have some more men at the river,” he said. “These newspeople are pretty innovative.”

  “Can I offer you a drink, Charley?” Robin asked.

  “Orange juice would be fine.”

  She nodded to the olive-eyed maid, who scurried away.

  “Robin tells me you’re helping Angel. Have you had much experience in criminal matters?” Dutton spoke with the kind of supercilious tone you might use to interview a job applicant, one who had little chance of getting hired.

  “Some.”

  “No offense, Mr. Sloan, but I called several lawyers to see who might be the best man for this kind of thing. As I told Robin, something this serious calls for an expert.”

  “I take it I didn’t make anyone’s short list?”

  He frowned. “Some knew of you. It seems you’ve had some of trouble with the bar association.”

  “It happens. Even Clarence Darrow had a few problems that way.”

  Dutton’s eyes were as cool as his manner. “I managed to come up with two names that everyone recommended. A Sylvester Drake, and a Walter Figer. Do you know them?”

  I nodded.

  “Good men?”

  “The best. There’s a saying in Detroit. If you’re innocent get Drake, if you’re guilty get Figer.”

  “Who would you recommend?”

  “Charley’s going to try the case,” Robin said.

  Dutton ignored her. “If you had a choice, Mr. Sloan, which one would you pick?”

  I accepted the orange juice and took a sip. Then I smiled. “I’ve tried cases against both. They are excellent workmen.”

  “You tried cases against them?” His voice reflected his surprise.

  I nodded.

  “I presume you lost.”

  “You presume wrong.”

  He waited for an explanation, but I merely sipped again at the orange juice.

  “Look, you may have been adequate at one time, but I’ll be frank. The people I talked to said you have a drinking problem.”

  “That’s right, but it’s in the wrong tense. I had a drinking problem.” His manner was beginning to become more than merely irritating.

  “Whatever. I don’t think you’re the right man for this job, Sloan.”

  “Malcolm,” Robin said sharply. “That is my decision.”

  He shook his head. “Not really. The choice is Angel’s.”

  I had come over to again urge Robin to get another lawyer, despite the allure of the big check I had just cashed. And I had planned to recommend Wally Figer. I thought I could work with Wally, maybe even keep some of the money that way. And it was his kind of case. Angel looked very guilty and guilty people were Wally’s specialty.
But Dutton’s supreme arrogance had gotten to me. Maybe I wouldn’t recommend Figer. Maybe I wouldn’t recommend anybody. Maybe I would try the case.

  It was a dangerous way to think.

  “Angel will be arraigned tomorrow,” I said, ignoring Dutton. “They’re charging her with first-degree murder.”

  “I told you it was serious,” Dutton said, looking at Robin.

  But she was staring out toward the river. A huge oceangoing freighter was gliding by.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the ship.

  “For openers, it means there is no bond. She has to stay in jail through the trial. If she’s convicted on that charge, it carries life with no parole. There is no death penalty in Michigan.”

  “I’ll arrange for another lawyer,” Dutton said, the words crackling with authority.

  Robin turned slowly, her emerald eyes fixed on me like the points of sharp steel arrows. “What can you do for her?”

  “Tomorrow, nothing. It’s a formality. The charge is formally presented and bond set. Of course, in this case there will be no bond. And a date for examination will be set.”

  “By a doctor?”

  “It’s not that kind of examination. This will be before a judge. The prosecution has to show that a crime was committed and there is reasonable cause to believe the defendant committed it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a way of keeping the prosecutor and the police honest. They can’t run around throwing charges at people willy-nilly. They have to back them up. They have to present evidence before a judge to show they have good cause for what they’ve done.”

  “I’ll have the company lawyers get someone,” Dutton said.

  “Shut up, Malcolm,” Robin snapped, never taking her eyes off me. “What will happen, Charley?”

  I finished the orange juice. “A lot depends on what Angel said to the police. If it isn’t too damning, I may be able to get the charge reduced to second-degree murder at the examination. If that happens, bond will be set and she can get out pending trial.”

  “Suppose she’s convicted of second-degree murder?” Robin asked. “Then what happens?”

  Dutton was scowling.

  I smiled at him, then spoke to Robin. “There are sentencing guidelines. If it’s a first offense and there have been no other problems, eight years is the suggested sentence.”