“Nothing fancy, okay? Just feel him out and explain the situation. I’ve had media people in and out all day. Just don’t do anything that would embarrass me, okay?”
The best method of breaking loose from Alvin when he’s in one of his uptight moods is to act smart. He’d rather walk away than deal with it.
“After I give him his hacksaw-layer cake we’ll have a harmless little chat. That’s all.”
I strode out, enjoying the after-image of Harris’ face. It was a haunted, totally exhausted expression, the kind you see on marathon runners at the end of the race.
As I headed for the Juvenile Detention Center I digested the few facts I had gleaned from the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office earlier. We usually get along with them because our clients and their crimes are mostly minor league, so nobody’s career is on the line. Of course the Callison case was different. Peter Senior was a leading citizen and our fair city had not been subjected to a triple murder for many a year.
The Chief Criminal Deputy assigned the case to himself. Scuttlebutt around town had him running for the top job this fall. He needed an adult trial, a conviction, and consecutive life sentences. He couldn’t ask for the death penalty for a fifteen-year-old. An incompetency ruling would not enhance his reputation; an acquittal would destroy it.
He had placed himself in a box and the tension showed. He gave me ten minutes, lukewarm coffee, and Peter Junior’s school records, including sketchy interviews with teachers and fellow students.
Peter attended a public high school, had an IQ of 153, and a C-minus grade average. He participated in no activities. He had no real friends. His teachers characterized him as quiet and obedient. His peers pegged him as weird. A loner.
Our Juvenile Detention Center was frayed around the edges and chronically understaffed, but they tried. I’d been there before on behalf of runaways who had got into mischief. Today, as then, the noise was random and continuous. It was not a happy place.
I was taken to the isolation wing, where the heavy felonies and drug overdoses were housed. The cells were small and padded. Most of the kids were kept at the other end in Army-style barracks.
I asked the counselor a stupid question. “Is Callison isolated for security reasons or has he been disruptive?”
The counselor smiled tolerantly. “Everyone here should behave so well, but he’s not here for stealing hubcaps, you know.”
A police officer sat outside Peter Junior’s door. I wasn’t sure if he was there to keep Callison in or reporters out. He let me in and locked the door.
Somehow I wasn’t surprised by Peter’s appearance. He had a pasty complexion, was short for his age, slender, and almost feminine. He was no chip off the old block.
“Dave Clay,” I said. “From the Public Defender’s Office. If it’s all right with you, we’ll be going into your hearing together.”
He got up from his bunk, nodded politely, and offered a limp handshake. His eyes struck me immediately. They were merely optical instruments, with no emotional backlighting. He gestured for me to take a seat on the bunk, as if one businessman were inviting another into his office to discuss routine matters. Peter was fifteen going on fifty. I didn’t need professional training to determine that the boy was a psychological cripple of some sort.
I explained the procedure to him, outlining the possibilities he might have to face.
Then I trotted out the clichés used in the movies to delineate attorney-client relationships, emphasizing confidentiality and the need for absolute frankness between us.
He replied with a patronizing smirk. I deserved it since I had patronized him, but I hate that response from anyone, let alone a fifteen-year-old.
“Did you do it or didn’t you?” I asked bluntly.
Peter shrugged. “Maybe, but not that I recall. They say I did, so I could’ve blacked out or something.”
“They haven’t found the gun yet,” I said. “Let’s say you did do it and don’t remember. Where might you hide something you don’t want discovered? Do you have a special hiding place for things?”
“Dirty books and stuff like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope. I don’t think Mom ever cared enough to snoop.”
“I doubt that very much,” I said.
Another patronizing smirk. Again I was repaid in kind.
I tried the shock method. “Peter, I want you to realize that the death penalty is back on the books in this state. We have to help each other.”
He nodded and said, “It’s the electric chair, isn’t it? I was curious about that. Do they do it with high voltage or is it the amps? I’ve experimented with electric motors on my model planes, but they’re really too heavy for the power they put out and—”
I interrupted with a reference to the psychiatrists who had seen him, risking total loss of rapport. People are quite sensitive when their innermost feelings are probed. They don’t want to admit that they’re walking around with a head full of stripped gears. I told him that the ability to stand trial is a subjective thing and that he’d best plant both feet on the floor and level with me.
He was amused rather than offended. “Those doctors were nice guys. It was stimulating.”
Stimulating!
“What did you talk about?”
“Mom, Dad, and Sis, mainly. They wanted to know how we got along.”
“How did you?”
He patted an empty pocket on his coveralls. “Do you have a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Very sensible. Oh, we got along fine. My parents had obligations toward me. Food, clothing, shelter, education. You know. They took care of all that. My obligation was to behave, attend school regularly, and make a bed. We all did our jobs.”
It was early June and Peter’s cell was sweltering. My arms were moonscapes of goose pimples. I wished I’d brought a sweater.
“I was impressed with your den. A vigorous family.”
Peter chuckled. “Oh, the Holy Room? I guess I didn’t fill up much space in there.”
I thought of Peter Senior, of his athletic prowess, of the business he had built. I doubted if he had had much truck with losers, with noncompetitive types. To have a weak son, a product of his seed, must have been intolerable.
“I imagine you and your father shared a common interest in aviation. His business. What I saw in your room.”
The smirk tilted higher. “Are you kidding? Dad didn’t fly. He didn’t even like to get on an airliner. He knew how to make money and there’s lots of money in air cargo, you know.”
I took the photo I had lifted from his room and gave it to him. “I had to remove it from the frame. Even so, it’s still considered contraband here, but I thought you would like to have it.”
Peter flushed. I had rung an emotional bell, but most of the emotion stayed beneath the surface.
“I appreciate this, Mr. Clay.”
“It’s Dave. Anyone you know?”
“Sure, Uncle Paul.”
“Your father’s brother who lives in Portland?”
“Yeah. It’s an old picture of him but my favorite. That’s his F-86. Did you know he shot down four MiGs? Got two in one day. One more and he’d have been an Ace, but they strafed his runway. His unit was being scrambled and while he was running out to his ship, he caught some bullets in a leg, so he got shipped home.”
“Sounds like a helluva guy. Did you see much of him?”
Peter didn’t answer for nearly a minute. The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees.
He said finally, “I’m getting kind of tired. Can we do this some other time?”
“Friday’s closing in on us, Peter.”
He shrugged once more. “You know where I’ll be.”
Psychiatric evaluations frequently coincide with the wishes of the side ordering them. You can expect to enter court knowing that the bad guys have an opinion one-hundred-and-eighty degrees out of phase with your own.