The room was painted institutional green. Cigarette smoke from the old days still tainted the air.
‘Fifteen minutes.’ Not harsh, not friendly. She closed the door quietly.
He bowed his head. His wrists twisted against the cuffs. A curse was lost in his throat. He looked up. His dismay was palpable. ‘What’ll happen to me, Dev? This whole thing is insane. Showalter didn’t even ask if I was guilty. He just assumed I was.’
‘Standard stuff. Just trying to scare you. Jess and everybody else knows you had nothing to do with this.’
‘I figured you’d all know better. At least, I hoped you would.’
‘Think you can answer a few questions?’
‘I’m pretty scattered right now. It doesn’t feel real. But I’ll try and answer what I can.’
‘Thanks, Cory. The first thing I need to know is what they’re telling you.’
‘Telling me?’
‘Why they charged you?’
‘They found a rifle in my trunk. They seem to be sure it was the rifle somebody fired at the congresswoman.’
I had to play cop. Show no emotion. The setup was clear. Rage was my first and foremost feeling. Such a cheap, bullshit trick had been played on Cory. But for now it was working.
‘How often do you look in your trunk?’
‘Never. Unless I need to, I mean.’
‘Do you remember where you went yesterday?’
‘I worked for the campaign, mostly, except for an hour and a half when I worked the phones. One of the women got sick so I volunteered. I figured it’d be a good experience for me. I could include it on my résumé.’ Bitter smile. ‘Résumé. Like that matters right now.’
‘How about last night? Where did you go?’
‘A party at a friend’s house.’
‘Were there a lot of people there?’
‘Yes. I had to park — that’s it.’
‘What’s “it?”’
‘There were so many people there I had to park almost a block away.’
‘Is it a well-lit neighborhood?’
‘No. It’s kind of a slum. Fraternities rent it together and then have their parties down there. I’m not in a frat but some of my friends are so they invited me. That sounds like a good time to do it, doesn’t it?’
‘Perfect time. Somebody follows you around until they see an opportunity to slip the rifle in your trunk. How long were you at the party?’
‘A few hours. The girl I was hoping to see there didn’t show up so I went home early.’
‘Straight home?’
‘Yes.’ Then, ‘You should see my folks.’ Now came the tears. He was a good kid who loved his folks. He had no trouble empathizing with how frightening this would be for them. And embarrassing. He fought crying. The tears just shimmered on the blue eyes.
‘We’ve hired the best defense lawyer in Chicago.’
‘But my folks said the bond was half a million dollars. Who am I, Jeffrey Dahmer? My folks don’t have that kind of money and I sure don’t want them to mortgage the house or anything.’
‘The bond’s being handled.’ I was just working my way through my daily allotment of tall tales.
‘It is?’ I heard the first note of hope in his voice.
‘The Bradshaw family is putting up the money.’
Or they would, as soon as I leaned on them.
‘So I can get out of here?’
‘Five hours max, I’d say.’
He forced back the tears. Grateful tears this time. Then he fell into reverie. ‘I’m not perfect — I mean, I’ve shoplifted stuff in my life and I’ve done drugs I shouldn’t have, but that was all in high school. Something like this... My mind wouldn’t even work this way. I’ve never fired a gun in my life. I wouldn’t know how to.’ Then, directly to me, ‘Do you think the whole thing was staged?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘You were an investigator. Are you getting involved?’
‘Yes, I am. Of course.’
‘This’ll cost her the election. That’s the other thing. I can’t believe it. She did so well with the debate and all—’ Then, ‘Sorry, I’m being such a baby about this.’
‘You’re hardly being a baby. You’ve been charged with a major felony.’
‘Have you ever been arrested?’
‘Three times. And once I thought they were going to put me away for a long, long time.’
‘How did you get out of it?’
‘I hired the best private investigator I could. An old friend from my army days. He proved I’d been set up. That I hadn’t broken into our opponent’s private office and crippled his security guard in the process.’
‘But it was close?’
‘Close enough that I had to consider the fact that I was going to spend seven to ten years in prison.’
‘God.’
A tale nicely told. I was using up my allotment faster than usual.
And the tale had relaxed him, as I’d hoped it would. Carried him out of this smudgy little room and into the sunny autumn air where hardworking college kids like him should be.
Then the knock. The blue uniform. The voice neither harsh nor friendly.
‘Man, I feel so much better talking to you, Dev. Thanks so much.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘You really think five hours max?’
‘Five hours max.’
This one wasn’t a lie. I believed he could be set free in five hours. Of course, if he wasn’t he’d see it as a lie.
He thanked her again as she stood aside to let him walk through the door.
It was unlikely she was used to this kind of politeness.
Twenty-Three
Mike Edelstein was one of those Big Ten college fullbacks who’d managed to keep in shape both physically and mentally. He was as fierce in the courtroom as he’d been in his glory days at Michigan State.
For once he wore his suit coat as well as his suit pants. Blue pinstripes today. Except in the courtroom, he rarely wore the jackets. At parties you’d see him get rid of it within ten minutes of crossing the threshold. He reminded me of Lou Grant on the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. As he walked in, he said, ‘I finally found another judge who might have one of those little jerk-off machines under his robes.’
Mike, like most of us, had loved the absolutely true story of the Southern judge who managed to masturbate while his court was in session. The problem was two-fold: the machine made a faint whirring noise, and occasionally the judge started getting glassy-eyed and a little out of breath. Not only did a witness catch on to this, so did the cop who stood on the right side of the bench. His interpretation — a generous man — was that the judge was having medical problems. He was in his seventies. The witness, not generous at all, talked to a reporter about it and she suggested flat out that the old guy in the robes was somehow getting his rocks off. Intrepid reporter starts looking online for whack-off machines and finds the one, as it turned out, His Honor was using. His Honor was soon busted and relieved of his duties.
‘Judge Flannagan. Kind of a young guy, too. But I keep hearing this very small noise — maybe a whirring noise. And every once in a while his head rolls back and I swear to God he starts breathing hard and sweating. What’s that sound like to you?’
Then, before I could answer, ‘Pretty crazy shit, huh? Those little machines.’
‘You thinking of getting one?’
‘I’d need a big one, my friend. A very big one.’
‘A hotshot lawyer and modest, too. So what the hell are you going to do for Jess?’
He sat in one of the client chairs in my office. This was less than five hours after I’d called him. One of his clients had a private jet. Since Mike had saved him from doing a thirty-to-life sentence, he was a most generous benefactor.