Trick Question Page 5

  “Yeah. Ninth Ward. Right on St. Claude Avenue.”

  “Did you go to high school?”

  “McDonough Number 82. I graduated.”

  “That’s good. Any college?”

  “No. I’ve been hustling or working since I was seventeen.”

  “Okay. When did you start working at New Orleans Medical Center?”

  “Three years ago. I’m a janitor.”

  “Right. What did you do before that?”

  “Same thing. Marriott Hotel. Out at the airport. I’ve had some good jobs. I always worked.”

  “What were your good jobs?”

  “I just told you about them, man.”

  “Oh. Okay, what about your prior drug bust?”

  “That wasn’t my fault. Somebody put some stuff in my apartment. I didn’t even know it was there. The police were looking for this dude’s girlfriend for something she did, and they thought she was staying with me. So they busted down the door and searched the place. I was the only one there. They found the stuff in the couch. I told them I didn’t know anything about it, but they didn’t believe me.”

  “You copped a plea?”

  “Yeah. I pleaded guilty to possession with intent and got three years. I did one year, six months, and four days, and I was on probation after that.” Like lots of people who had done time, Cletus could count the days.

  “No other arrests or priors?”

  “I got in a fight and spent a night in Central Lockup.”

  “No other drug arrests?”

  “No. I don’t use drugs.”

  “How’d you find out about the medical school?”

  “I was a temporary, like day jobs. I did all right and they made me a permanent.”

  “No trouble on the job?”

  “No, I get along fine there. Except with Dr. Valentine.”

  “What was wrong with Valentine?”

  “He had an attitude. He reported me if there was a tissue paper left in the can. He actually looked for dust and fingerprints.”

  “That’s all?”

  “He caught me what he said was playing with the rats one night and told my supervisor.”

  “Why were you playing with them?”

  Cletus met Tubby’s eyes. “I hate to see them little animals all caged up. They generally just kill them, you know.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s their experiments. They give them diseases. Some got tumors on their heads, like in their mouths, and kind of a mange on their bodies. I hate to see it. It ain’t my business, but I try to cheer them up sometimes.”

  “Did Valentine ever say anything to your face?”

  “Maybe once or twice. I didn’t hardly ever see him. I came in at seven o’clock at night. He was usually gone by then.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me why I didn’t spray 409 on the counters, and I said I did. He asked me did I touch his rats, and I said no. He accused me of taking some medicine, and I said no I didn’t, ’cause I didn’t.”

  “What medicine?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of barbiturates.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “What was your job?”

  “Mop, sweep, and clean.”

  “What happened on Sunday the twenty-second?”

  “That’s when I found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing but that. I was doing my job. I open the door and out he comes. I didn’t know what it was. It sure scared me to death. And when that head broke off I was nearly sick right on the man. I dream about it almost every night. Can you get something to help me sleep?”

  “Maybe. Did you work on the Friday before?”

  “Yeah, I works every Friday.”

  “Did you see Valentine then?”

  “No. He must have been gone.”

  “Did you see him over the weekend?”

  “No.”

  “On Sunday night when you went in, nothing was unusual?”

  “Not a thing. Same ol’ place.”

  “Why’d you open the freezer door?”

  Cletus didn’t answer right away. He looked angrily at his cigarette pack.

  “I couldn’t say,” he grunted finally.

  Outside in the fresh air, Tubby tried to make himself relax. The day was turning cold and cloudy. His client had told him nothing he found useful. Tubby was not even sure he believed that Cletus was innocent.

  The man was secretive, angry, and unsociable – just the sort of person judges and juries loved to chew up, spit out, and ship to Angola. He followed the chain-link fence wrapped in razor wire to the courthouse, sidestepping a scavenger searching for beer cans in a trash barrel.

  He was depressed. “I’m getting older,” he told himself. Funny, when you’re young you want each day to be better than the last. After you’ve traveled a few miles, you just wish each day could be as good.

  CHAPTER 10

  The meeting with Judge Stifflemire did not go well. The judge was not happy to see these two particular lawyers in his chambers, though he was polite enough to direct them to sit in the plush leather chairs facing his desk. Mickey O’Rourke, dignified but a little unsteady, took the one by the potted ivy. He became physically smaller under the judge’s stare.

  A child’s crayon drawings were thumbtacked to the bookshelf behind His Honor’s head, but they did not make the judge appear any friendlier.

  Tubby said, “Good morning, judge,” and sat.

  The judge glowered at him, too.

  “Let me guess, Mr. Dubonnet. You are going to assist counselor O’Rourke here and represent Cletus Busters.”

  “That’s right, Judge. Sort of on an emergency basis. Mickey, why don’t you explain the situation to the judge?”

  Stifflemire held up his hand to stop O’Rourke from talking.

  “I think I understand the situation very well. You, Mr. O’Rourke, say you are unprepared for trial. You are unable to handle the rigors of being a lawyer, you say. You have brought in another attorney to help you. And you want a continuance.”

  “That’s close, judge,” O’Rourke began.

  “And I’m going to deny your request,” the judge ruled.

  “Your Honor,” Tubby said, “I don’t think you know the whole story. Let me explain what’s going on.”

  “All right. I’ll be fair, Mr. Dubonnet. But please make it short.”

  “Okay, Judge. No beating around the bush. Mr. O’Rourke has a serious problem with alcohol. He’s sick. He shouldn’t have been appointed probably in the first place to represent Busters. But whatever, he’s not up to the job. He’s got the shakes half the time. He’s probably got a pint in his briefcase right now. His mind is a blob of Jell-O, no offense, Mickey. He’s going to embarrass everybody if he has to try this case.”

  “Okay, so now he’s got you to help him,” the judge said reasonably.

  “Yes sir, and I need to prepare the case. I simply can’t get ready by a week from Thursday.”

  “What do you suppose Mr. O’Rourke has been doing for the past four months?”

  “Mainly drinking Scotch, Your Honor,” O’Rourke said sadly.

  “Mickey, I’ve had enough of this,” Judge Stifflemire snapped. “You were the same way in law school. Always fucking off. Taking things easy. Winning the Werlitzer case was the worst thing that ever could have happened to you. It was too easy. A quadriplegic crushed by a piano falls right in your lap. You didn’t have to break a sweat to win a million dollars for him. So now another sob story from you.”

  “Judge,” Tubby broke in, “this is unfair. The issue is not whether Mickey O’Rourke is a perfect human being. It’s whether Cletus Busters can get a fair trial. This is a capital case, Your Honor. I need to construct a defense.”

  “I don’t buy it, Mr. Dubonnet. Mr. O’Rourke has had ample time to prepare his case. I can’t allow lawyers to manipulate this court’s docket. If I let him push off this trial I’ll ha
ve no end of lawyers in here telling me their drinking problems, their drug problems, or how they’re not getting along with their wives, or their husbands, for God’s sake. No sir. It’s not going to happen, Mickey. You graduated cum laude from Loyola. You’re in good standing with the Bar Association. I expect to see you in court next week, with or without Mr. Dubonnet.”

  “Judge,” O’Rourke pleaded. He held his hand out, palm down and flat, and Tubby and the judge watched it flutter.

  Stifflemire shook his head. “That’s all for this morning, counselors.”

  He opened a file on his desk and started reading, or pretending to. Court was recessed. Tubby and Mickey O’Rourke exchanged helpless looks. They got up and left.

  The next stop was no better.

  “I’m going for the death penalty,” Assistant District Attorney Clayton Snedley said cheerfully.

  He was an ex-priest, and he loved his job, it being easier to punish the guilty than it had been to forgive them. They were in the main hallway of the Criminal Courts Building, their voices echoing in a swirl of lawyers looking harried and common people looking lost.

  “On what basis, Clayton?” Tubby asked, his voice full of scorn. “First violent felony charge. No murder for hire. No multiple killing. This is a plain vanilla murder, if it even was a murder.”

  “What do you mean, if? You think the guy committed suicide by freezing himself to death?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bullshit. Read the coroner’s report.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Snedley raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “You better get cracking, son. Trial’s around the bend. This was a murder, fearsome and foul. Especially atrocious, heinous, and cruel. That’s why it’s a death case.”

  “That’s weak, Clayton. Freezing is slow and peaceful. Main thing, though, is you got the wrong guy.”

  “I’ve got his fingerprints on everything connected with the killing. He and the deceased frequently argued. Busters was stealing drugs. He got caught and killed the witness. I’ve got a solid case.”

  “What would you give for a plea?”

  Snedley looked thoughtful.

  “I don’t really need a plea. I’ve got him by the balls. Maybe, just to save the taxpayers the cost of trial, I’d consider life without parole if he’ll plead guilty to murder one.”

  “How about manslaughter,” Tubby suggested. “That’s tough enough for an innocent man.”

  “Nuts,” the DA said.

  “He says he didn’t do it.”

  “Look at the evidence,” Snedley said.

  “When?” Tubby asked.

  “File your discovery notice. Bring me a copy. I’ll handle it on an expedited basis. No secrets here. You could see the whole damn file this afternoon.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Clay.”

  “See you in the circus,” Clayton responded, and he was gone into the crowd.

  Tubby walked down the steps outside to where O’Rourke was waiting.

  “This is a fuckup,” Tubby admitted.

  Mickey didn’t reply, but when they reached the sidewalk he told Tubby he had a stomachache and needed to go home to rest.

  “Come by the office as soon as you feel better,” Tubby said. “We need your help.”

  “Sure, Tubby,” Mickey said, making no commitments, and ambled off toward the bus stop.

  Tubby hurried to his car. He had driven the Lincoln today because the red Spyder’s canvas top leaked even in mild humidity, but now he was afraid some kid might be stealing his road car’s hubcaps. It turned out his automobile was fine, but he had a parking ticket – another black mark on the day.

  The sad truth was, he had to learn a lot about Dr. Valentine and Cletus Busters in eight days. Tubby deeply regretted that he had stirred up the newspapers about a case that could potentially be a disaster. Bad press, he did not need.

  CHAPTER 11

  Denise DiMaggio tossed her gym bag onto the floor and paced distractedly around her small apartment, punching on the air conditioner, stowing some empty juice bottles under the sink, and checking out what the refrigerator had to offer. It always took her a long time to settle down after a workout, especially on a night when Baxter Sharpe was coming over.

  Exercise, breaking a sweat, taking a pounding, got her so high that she could almost fly like a bird. The experience of showering down afterward was for her what a hot fudge sundae was for other people – pleasure sensuous beyond description. But then there was usually nothing to do until bedtime except think about her lesson plan for the next day at school – as if there were a new and exciting way to teach the multiplication tables – or watch dumb television. And lately, Baxter, her coach, came over sometimes, but that did not exactly make her life any richer.

  He filled some crazy void in her, but he did not give her joy.

  She had dreams about winning a championship, about feeling powerful and victorious, about dancing around the ring wearing bright silk, hands waving in the air, while the crowd roared.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Hiya, sweets,” Baxter said loudly, when she let him in. He was about her height but much chunkier and broader. He worked out a lot and brown muscles bulged under his T-shirt.

  He hugged her. “You were looking sharp today” – his favorite expression. Baxter’s mustache nuzzled her ear. She always felt small in his embrace.

  “I felt pretty good about it,” she said, which for Denise was high praise.

  “You let Carmella get to you a couple of times with her left, but you’ll improve.”

  “Or she’ll break my nose.” Denise frowned. “Come in, why don’t you sit down.”

  He landed on the couch, and she fixed them both a glass of spring water with a wedge of lime.

  She sat beside him.

  “I don’t know if I’m making progress fast enough,” she said.

  Baxter took a sip from his glass and slung his arm over the back of the sofa, letting his fingers graze her shoulder.

  “You’re doing fine, Denise,” he said. “You just need some more coaching, that’s all. You’ve gotta develop that upper-body strength.” He squeezed her bicep.

  She flexed. He squeezed harder.

  “You think I’ll ever make it?”

  “I know you’ll make it, baby.”

  “I just want to win so badly,” Denise said. She could hear the crowd cheering.

  Baxter’s hand had drifted down to her breast.

  “There are things I want badly too,” he whispered.

  Denise never liked this part as much as she was supposed to. It wasn’t as exciting as the adrenaline rush she got when her right hook connected and her opponent’s head snapped back.

  Baxter had both arms around her now. He nibbled her neck and moaned softly into her ear.

  She liked the warm feeling, the obedient feeling.

  “I’ve got to see more of you,” he said gruffly. “Stand up.”

  She did as she was told.

  “Now take off that shirt,” he demanded.

  She complied, and while she pulled it over her head he reached out and traced a circle around her navel with his fingertips.

  She stripped off the rest of her clothes, in the order instructed, and twirled around naked, hands clenched in the air imitating victory.

  “You ain’t quite won yet.” He grabbed her around the waist, and she thought her spine would crack when he pulled her on top of him.

  He was rough, and did not even get out of his pants. His blunt fingertips left marks on her softest parts, but she was used to pain.

  After he was finished she curled up on a chair and looked at him.

  “I think it’s time I had a key to your place,” he said, staring above her head. “We’re starting to develop a relationship.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Cherrylynn had spent the previous afternoon carrying discovery pleadings around the courthouse, finding a judge to sign them, and serving them on the DA. She waited while c
opies were made of those portions of the state’s files Snedley was willing to let the defense see; then she brought it all back to the office so that by Thursday morning Tubby could sit at his desk and begin to read.

  He now had the police report, including the officer’s transcripts of his interviewees. They were Josef Malouf, the security guard who found Busters holding the frozen head; Dr. Charles Auchinschloss, the chief of the lab; and a Dr. Randolph Swincter, who worked there too. Tubby had the coroner’s report. He had copies of fingerprint cards, marked to show where they were lifted, and with a number on each which he interpreted as the number of points each had in common with the fingers of his client. The numbers ranged from 10 to 12, and that sounded discouraging. Then there was his client’s statement. Tubby settled back to read.

  Malouf, the security guard, worked from four p.m. till midnight every night but Wednesday and Thursday. The body had been discovered on Sunday, and had presumably been converted from a physician into a corpse on the previous Friday, but Malouf had no light to shed on anything else. He had a desk by the entrance to the wing of the hospital that was occupied by the Moskowitz lab. Only authorized personnel were permitted past him. They had to show a plastic ID card, but they didn’t sign in. Almost every professional and most of the normal people who worked at the hospital had the requisite plastic pass.

  People came and went all the time. The corridors usually thinned out after nine o’clock, and the guard would generally walk around the halls at that point looking for anything unusual. Other than doctors necking in the labs, or escaped rats or rabbits in the hallways, he never found anything unusual. Until one Sunday night when he opened the door to Lab 3 because he’d heard noises, and found a frozen corpse and a frightened Cletus Busters.

  He didn’t remember when he had last seen Dr. Valentine. He didn’t remember who had been in the labs Friday, day or night. The usual crowd, he said.

  Dr. Auchinschloss, forty-three-year-old Caucasian male, reported that Dr. Valentine had been a fine researcher and that there had never been a single murder in the lab before. The institution’s purpose, simply stated, was to identify diseases and toxins that threatened or killed people and to develop cures and antidotes. He may have answered the question about what projects Dr. Valentine was working on, but the cop interviewing him was way under water and summed it up with “poison research.” Valentine worked closely with Dr. Swincter on several projects. He could promise that Swincter and the other six doctors on the research staff would cooperate fully.