“They always do something wrong. You know why? Because there are too many damned things. Too many things to think about. It’s a bad gamble, murder — very bad. The odds are awful.”
He looked out the window with silent, subdued eyes, as if he had uncovered the very secret of existence. Then he broke into a smile.
“That must be Victor,” he said. “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”
In the Balance
by Judith L. Post
Winslow Morton stood before me, a Sorry Soul.
“Don’t be coy,” I instructed. “I can’t prepare any decent defense unless I know what we’re up against. And believe me, nothing gets by this Judge. Nothing. So you might as well level with me.”
He took a deep breath. “To be honest, I didn’t think I’d make it down the Tunnel of Light. I didn’t think I’d make it here at all.”
“Yeah, a lot of people surprise themselves.” I’d heard all this before. Actually, I’d lived — or should I say died? — it.
“I haven’t exactly been a saint,” Winslow confessed.
He could have fooled me. You’ve never seen a more innocent face, a brow more furrowed with guileless concern. “So let’s get down to the nitty-gritty,” I said. “What are you up against?”
“It’ll start with a murder rap,” he told me.
“Start? You mean, there’s more?”
“Isn’t there a commandment about honoring your father and mother?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s one of the Top Ten.”
“Well, I murdered my mom,” he explained. “So technically is that two sins in one? You know, Thou shalt not kill and...”
“I get your drift. It’s not a great combination. Is there anything else?”
“It’s possible I hid my talents, too, unless being a dutiful son cancels that out.”
“Wait a minute.” There was a glimmer of hope. “You were a dutiful son, and you killed your mom. Was it a mercy killing? Because if it was, I can get you off with...”
“No such luck. I just snapped one day and throttled her to death.”
I took a deep breath. After a few decades of serving as Free Counsellor for the Not-so-Pure Souls (the only guy who demands a fee is You Know Who, and if you have to get him, you pay with your soul anyway, so you’re screwed), I’d learned that looks could be deceiving. Actually, I’d used that to my own advantage when I was still alive. That’s why I’m stuck doing Community Service here. If you’re a crooked lawyer down there, you don’t go far up here... unless you can convince Someone you’ve changed your ways.
“Let’s cut to the quick,” I told Winslow. “Why did you choke the old bat?”
Tears misted his pale eyes. “You don’t understand. She wasn’t an old bat. She was a saint.”
“You killed a saint? And you got here? Something’s wrong. Why don’t you start at the beginning, fill me in?”
“Well, you see, my dad left us when I was only a little boy.”
“Happens all the time these days,” I said and made a quick note.
“He was an artist, a painter, but he drank too much and died before he was thirty.”
“Is he up here?” I asked. Maybe I could get him as a character witness, poke a few holes in the saintly image of the old lady, and try for a cop-out or two; you know, the old “the poor guy never had a chance” routine.
“He might have made it,” Winslow said, “but when he couldn’t sell his paintings and he ran out of money—”
“He sold his soul for fame and glory,” I finished. That happens all the time, too.
“He made a huge amount of money, but he drank it all away.”
“And his own fame did him in.” What a cliché. You’d think people could be more original.
“He was a nice person when he was sober,” his son defended him.
“A lot of nice people go to hell,” I said. “It’s a matter of choice. Some people always sell themselves short.”
“What?”
I’d confused him. Hardly anybody catches on right away. “You’re here, right?” I explained. “Anybody can come who wants to. The only people who don’t make it are the ones who’d rather hang out with Old Red, or the dupes who strike a deal with him and are stuck with his company. But it doesn’t matter in the long run, because Heaven and Hell are both a matter of degrees. The bottom rung of Heaven and the penthouse of Hell aren’t all that different.”
He scratched his head. I’d lost him. “Look,” I said, “we’re sidestepping the issue.” It was my job to defend my clients. I didn’t have to be their nursemaid. “You were gonna tell me about your mom, the saint. Your dad left you when you were little. Then...”
“Mom went to work at a hotel during the day, cleaning rooms, and she worked as a cashier in the evenings at a corner grocery.”
“Who took care of you?”
“She took me with her.”
Boy, were we in trouble. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. I’d be lucky if I could get this guy out of the basement. If he ever wanted to hear harps, he’d be pulling Community Service for most of Eternity. I know. I’ve been on probation long enough, and I wasn’t even that bad down there. Of course, I’d only been moderately good, and the Boss considers both what you do and what you don’t do. What a bummer. Anyway, I was stuck right dab in the middle, only made level five. Could just stay there and be content, but it really rankles that the guys up on eight and nine have it so much better. That’s why I’m slogging away at this gig. I figure in another decade at the longest I should be bumped to six, and then it’s onward and upward. I mean, I’ve got all the time in the world, right?
Someday I’m gonna make it to the top. But this case sure wasn’t gonna be a feather in my cap. If I could come up with anything to help this schmuck, it would be by sheer luck.
“So, did you feel neglected? Alone?” I prompted.
“Oh no. Mom always stopped by to check on me, and she gave up smoking to buy me colored paper and crayons and other art supplies so I wouldn’t get bored.”
“Are you ever gonna quit polishing her halo,” I snapped, “and give me a clue to why you offed her?”
His eyes round, he grew silent for a moment. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered at last. “I just knew I had to. I had to.”
Nodding, I scribbled a note. “Temporary insanity.” Hey, it’s not the best defense, but it’s something.
“Okay, so you left off with your mom buying you crayons and stuff. What happened next? Teenage rebellion? Drugs? A hot little girlfriend?” I asked.
He looked shocked. “After all Mom did for me? Do you have any idea how hard she had to work to keep food on our table? Do you realize how much she loved me? How often she encouraged me?”
“To do what?”
“To make good grades at school so I’d have a future, and to make something of myself.”
I eyeballed the guy. He must have been in his mid-fifties. “So what did you make of yourself?”
He shrugged. “I became an artist, just like my dad.”
How did I know that had been coming? “Successful?”
“I made a decent living at it for me and Mom.”
“Really?” That didn’t happen every day. “Then what’s the deal? What happened? You turned to booze or drugs, like your old man?”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said, “but at least you should learn from them. Since I’d seen what happened to Dad, why would I follow in his footsteps?”
I sighed and counted to ten. A guy’s supposed to be patient up here. It’s hell on the nerves, but that’s the breaks. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Your mom’s a saint, and you’re a success. We don’t seem to be getting to the meat of the matter.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he apologized. “We moved to a nice bungalow in the city. I got contracts to do magazine and book covers, then I got started on kids’ books.”