“No, Renee,” I said. “I’m sorry but you’re mistaken. I know you saw us talking in the courtroom hallway, and I assume you spread the word to the councilman, which may explain certain things, but you did not hear what we said to each other. Only Leslie and I know what was said and what she promised.”
“Would you like some sugar with that, Mr. Slocum?” asked Leslie.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“I must admit,” I continued, “I was confused for a while. It was Chuckie’s murder and my being shot at that confused me. You see, when you told me that you had heard the voices on the wind and that you wouldn’t let them kill Chester, I had assumed you were referring to the same people who had killed Chuckie and were maybe trying to kill me too. At that time I had thought that maybe your husband was in some way responsible for Chuckie’s death and for the attempts on my life and that somehow you had stumbled on that information. I have since learned that I was mistaken. Chuckie was killed by a drug dealer whose operation is being financed by your husband.”
“Lies,” hissed Renee. “All lies.”
“He joined with the devil,” I said, “to build his monument to Nadine.”
Mrs. Moore didn’t seem flustered in the least by the accusation. “Some cream, Mr. Slocum?” she said. “Or would you prefer tea?”
“No, thank you,” said Slocum. “This is fine.”
“And at the trial,” I continued, “to my chagrin, I learned I was being set up as a dupe by your husband and his lawyer. No one ever tries to kill their dupe. Dead I was of no use to them, alive I could set him free, which I eventually did. So, while I was on a recent trip down South I began to wonder who it was you were promising to protect Chester from.”
“What kind of nonsense are you talking to us about, Mr. Carl?” asked Renee.
“Oh, Leslie understands exactly what I’m saying, Renee.”
“How about some cookies, Mr. Slocum?” said Leslie. “I have some fine cookies in the pantry. Let me get them for you.”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Slocum. “Really, I’m fine.”
“Chet’s in jail now,” I said. “His bail has been revoked. He is awaiting sentencing on the federal charges, preparing for his trial in state court on the murder charge. I visited him just yesterday. He is not adjusting well. He is a little too thin, a little too handsome, which is a very bad combination in prison. During our conversation he almost broke down into tears. You know Chet, you know his self-control. He is cracking. He is of no consequence anymore in the larger scheme of things, a threat to no one. There is only one man who is trying to kill him now.”
I took another sip of my coffee, staring at Leslie even as I tilted my head down to the cup. Her eyes were moist, cast downward, and her hands nervously clutched one the other.
“In another month,” I said, “Chet is going to stand trial for murder. Mr. Slocum is going to prosecute the case. He is going to ask the jury to sentence Chet to death. And I believe, Mrs. Moore, you can stop Mr. Slocum from killing Chet Concannon, just like you promised.”
After a long pause, Leslie said, “Renee, please, why don’t you get yourself another drink.”
“I think I should stay right here,” she said, “and keep my eye on Mr. Carl, make sure he doesn’t steal the ashtrays.”
“Get the drink, Renee,” Leslie said, her voice suddenly filled with an authority I didn’t know she could muster.
Renee shrugged and headed out to that other, less tidy room.
When she had left Leslie said, “I can’t tell you what you want to know, Mr. Carl.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“We have had difficult times in our marriage, I won’t deny that. And after Nadine’s death, for the longest time there was nothing left for either of us. I can understand now how he could seek comfort with that girl. But the ordeal of this trial has resurrected our commitment to each other. We have gone to counseling, we have opened our hearts to one another. It has changed both our lives, I am sure. It is as it was when we were first starting out together. In fact, it is better.”
“Chester Concannon is going to be put to death with a lethal injection, Mrs. Moore,” I said.
“We have both learned again what it means to give, to cherish one another, to trust.”
“They’re going to strap him to a gurney, tightly binding his arms and legs with leather straps,” I said, “and stick a needle in his arm. And attached to that needle will be an intravenous sack filled with a deadly barbiturate, the fluid laced with a chemical paralytic agent to make sure he doesn’t jerk the needle out of his arm as they kill him.”
“We have both learned again what it is to love.”
“They’re going to empty that sack into his arm,” I said, “and his muscles will freeze and his brain will slow from the drugs and Chester Concannon will fall into unconsciousness and die from barbiturates just like Nadine fell into unconsciousness and died from barbiturates.”
“Stop it, stop it now,” she said and then, still without looking at me, in a whisper, “You don’t understand. We have renewed our vows to each other, we have reaffirmed our commitments. He will no longer cheat on me, he has promised, and I will love him again, as I had loved him before I stopped loving him. We are together again, I can’t turn against him now.”
“You mean you won’t.”
Her head lifted and she stared squarely at me. “That’s right, Mr. Carl, I won’t. I can’t be forced to testify against my husband, is that right, Mr. Slocum?”
“That is correct, Mrs. Moore,” said Slocum. “We cannot force you to testify against your husband. But what we are talking about here is testifying in favor of Mr. Concannon.”
“And you would want me to testify?”
“I don’t want to kill an innocent man,” said Slocum.
“Then let him go.”
“I can’t, Mrs. Moore, without evidence. Right now, as it stands, I believe I’m going to convict him of first degree murder.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carl. I am so sorry.”
“So am I,” I said, reaching for my briefcase. “Sorrier than you can know.”
I placed the briefcase on my lap, bullet hole side up. It was a brown leather number, with thick strips binding the edges, a Hartmann, one of the finest cases made. It was a gift, from my uncle Sammy, a message of his faith in my future. It was a solid briefcase, the briefcase of a successful lawyer. I used to like heaving it around, as if the accoutrements could define the man. Now it embarrassed me. All the more for what it contained. I freed the leather straps guarding the latches and opened the case. From inside I pulled out a manila envelope. Carefully I closed the case and placed it on the rug beside the couch and unfastened the metal clasp holding the envelope shut. Then I brought out the photographs.
Morris had had them taken for me. He had complained about the assignment. “I don’t do such stuff, prowling with a camera in the dead of night,” he said. “I am an investigator, not a piece of dreck.” But when I told him what it was all about and how a man’s life might depend on those photographs, and how I was out of town in Corpus Christi and couldn’t do it myself, he relented. “There might be nothing, you know that, Victor, nothing at all.” I told him I knew that, but that I had a hunch. “You and your hunches, where have your hunches gotten you, mine freint. Take my advice, and keep your hunches away from the racetrack and maybe you won’t die a beggar.” Of course he had not taken the photographs himself, as he might have been recognized, but he gave the assignment to Sheldon. “All the stuff he has,” said Morris. “These fancy-schmancy cameras, lenses like telescopes, special meters like from NASA, special filters, special film, a regular Eisenstadt. So tell me, Victor, why when it’s time for a picture of me and mine wife, the heads he cuts off like an executioner.” But in these photographs, Sheldon had not cut off the heads.
I placed the first on the coffee table, facing Leslie.
It was a high-resolution black-and-white photograph from inside one of the terminals still under renovation at the Philadelphia International Airport. Gate D5, a United Airlines gate, where two attendants were taking tickets at the counter and handing out seat assignments. On the board was listed Flight 595 to Chicago, leaving 4:55 P.M. In front of the counter, posing for the photographer, was a man holding up a copy of the Daily News. The headline running the entire length of the page read, “EAGLES SACK PACK,” touting the Eagles’ great surge to.500 on the preceding Sunday.