He grimaced at the sound of her name. “She’s not a very nice person, either, is she?”
I hesitated. “How does Kenny Budrell feel about her?”
“Very flattered.” Linden smiled. “Here is a minor celebrity making his case a prime-time issue. He has a huge scrapbook of her-he keeps her letters under his pillow. He said to me once: ‘She loves me, so I must be a hero. I’ve worried a lot about that.’ ”
There was a stir in the crowd and the warden, flanked by two guards, came into the room. I stiffened, dreading the next deliberate hour.
“It will be over soon,” I whispered.
“I know. I hope I’ve done the right thing.”
“Are you going to watch the execution?”
Linden shut his eyes. “There isn’t going to be one. I found an irregularity in the police procedure and got the case overturned. I’ve just made Kenny Budrell a free man.”
“But he’s guilty!” I protested.
“But he’s still entitled to due process, same as anyone else, and it’s my job to take advantage of anything that will benefit my client.” He shook his head. “I can’t even take credit for it. It just fell into my lap.”
“What happened?”
“Remember when they captured Kenny at the roadblock?”
“Yes. He was wounded in the shoot-out.”
“Right. Well, in all the excitement nobody remembered to read him his rights. Later, in the hospital, when he was questioned, the police assumed it had already been done. One of the state troopers got to thinking about the case and came forward to tell me he thought there had been a slipup. I checked, and he was right: Kenny wasn’t Mirandized, so the law says there’s no case. The trooper told me he came forward because of all this business with Varnee. He said maybe the guy deserved a break, after all.”
Tracer got a first-class series of pictures of the warden telling Varnee that her new husband was now a free man until death do them part, and of Varnee eventually starting to scream right there in front of the TV cameras. As far as I’m concerned, they deserve a Pulitzer.
A SHADE OF DIFFERENCE
MILTON PALMERSTON TAPPED his pencil against his monogrammed coffee mug as if he were calling himself to order. Tacked to the wall in front of him was a sign he’d printed with his laundry marker: EXAM TOMORROW! The fact that his floor was buried beneath piles of scribbled notes and political reference books should have been sufficient reminder of this, but Milton couldn’t be sure. Last February he had left his overcoat on the bus to Peterborough, and hadn’t noticed the loss until his advisor drew him aside a week later and offered to lend him the money for one. That had been during finals week, too.
After that he had taken to jotting reminders on his hand. His left hand at the moment read: GLOVES! BREAKFAST! DIEFENBAKER/RECIPROCITY! He stared at the message. Did he somehow owe a breakfast to John G. Diefenbaker? Surely not. He hazarded another guess. Gloves-in his coat pocket. Breakfast-a French roll to be eaten on the way to the university. And Diefenbaker/Reciprocity must refer to the article he had just spent an hour reading, of which he remembered nothing. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he knew the rest of the course material like the back of his hand-which was to say, that it made very little sense to him at the moment. He was blanking out again from the pressure.
Obtaining a master’s in history was more difficult than his family cared to believe, although they were grudgingly impressed that someone who had to keep a copy of his own address-twenty-four Wessex Drive, he thought hastily (just checking)-could memorize so many less familiar names and dates. Usually such facts and figures danced about in his head-what was the importance of a fly swatter in the diplomatic history of the French Third Republic? (he never forgot that)-but during exam week, his mine of information became a barren tunnel salted with surface trivia.
Milton sighed. Trying to figure out what caused his anxiety was a bit like trying to figure out what caused the German inflation of 1923. Eventually you sit down, and sigh, and admit that everything caused the German inflation of 1923.
Perhaps a study break would help to clear his mind. He considered dropping in for a chat with what’s-his-name, the New Yorker across the hall-but that might turn into an all-night debate, which it often did. The New Yorker, Gerald-what was his last name? Ford? Probably; it sounded familiar. Anyway, Gerald was specializing in international diplomacy. “You’re studying Canadian domestic politics?” he had demanded when they first met. Milton had acknowledged that this was so, and the Yank had grinned facetiously. “Isn’t that a bit like raising dairy cows for foxhunting? I mean, the potential seems hardly worth the effort. All you guys do diplomatically is referee. Now my country…” Milton shook his head. He wasn’t up to debating tonight. Better reread that piece on the Liberal Party of Canada. He groped for the book.
“I am here to demand that you change your vote on the Western Grain Stabilization Act,” said a stern voice from behind him.
For a stricken moment, Milton thought that he had warped out in the middle of Professor Paulsen’s exam, only to find himself unprepared, but no, this was definitely his room. Cautiously, he turned around and saw that it was only Mackenzie King, who had been dead since 1950 and could hardly be appearing as a guest lecturer at York. He smiled with relief. It was only a hallucination. He’d been expecting them, anyway.
“Don’t sit there smirking at me!” snapped the apparition. “I tell you, the Western Grain Stabilization Act simply will not do!”
“Oughtn’t you to be weighted down with a chain forged of old ballot boxes or something?” asked Milton mildly.
“Nonsense! You’re confusing me with a U.S. president! Several, in fact.”
“Very possibly. At any rate, you’re confusing me with someone else as well. I can’t vote in parliament. I’m a graduate student.”
The late prime minister pointed to Milton’s coffee mug. “M.P.-there it is, sir, plain as day!”
“My initials,” said Milton diffidently.
There was a short silence. “Oh.” Another pause. “Isn’t this twenty-four Sussex Drive?”
Milton consulted his wrist. “Twenty-four Wessex Drive,” he announced.
“Oh. I haven’t got the hang of this yet. It was easier when I was on your side. Just sit at the table and stay alert: one rap for yes, two for no. Now I’m expected to navigate. Higher plane indeed! Oh well, sorry to have disturbed you. Carry on!”
The figure walked into the wall and began to fade from sight, its features mingling with the roses on the wallpaper. Milton cleared his throat. “Actually, though, there isn’t anything wrong with voting for the Western Grain Stabilization Act…”
The figure ceased to blend. It seemed to seep outward from the wall again, taking on a distinct, even portly form, which began to walk back toward him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said: ‘There’s nothing wrong with voting for the Western Grain Stabilization Act.’ It will stabilize the whole economy of the region without costing the taxpayers anything. Because, you see, you have to consider the multiplier effect, which in the case of a farmer is a factor of three; therefore-”
“No! No! Don’t give me twaddle about multiplier effects. Have you talked to the farmers? Have you asked them what they want? You have to approach this in a spirit of compromise, to-I thought you said you weren’t in politics.”
Milton drew himself up. “I’m a graduate student in Canadian history. Naturally I follow politics,” he said, warming to the topic.