“Accessory to murder. Sure. Have to be. But if she could insert the element of doubt into a jury's collective head about Ukie doing those people. And the probabilities of one or more accomplices. Or if she can prove him to be insane at the time of the crimes and so-called confessions. Or if she could show that—"
“His rights were violated,” Jack offered.
“Uh huh. Or if she could show that the surrounding counties were so prejudiced against Ukie because of all the hoopla in the press that Mr. Hackabee could no longer get a fair trial.... Okay, here's the scenario, Noel is the attorney of record, she files a motion for a change of venue, the court says no and denies the motion and she goes, ‘Gotcha’ and laughs quietly ‘cause she knows that she wins either way. She goes to trial. If a jury finds Ukie guilty beyond a reasonable doubt she files for a mistrial for the motion of change of venue being denied. If she wins she wins. It's no gamble."
“Heads I win, tails Ukie gets another shot and so does Ms. Collier."
“Exactly. That's just one possible deal of the cards. Let's say—and I don't know the statutes for sure and I don't know the law that well—but let's say a judge gets a wild hair and issues a denial of her motion, and she slaps a supersedeas I think it's called on the court so that it stops the execution of the denial—some kind of goofy writ bullshit—and then blah-blah-blah, and there's a fucking mistrial. Or she loses and appeals endlessly. Or she gets a jury that loves beautiful women. I mean the scenarios are endless."
“You're saying a lawyer has a shot with the most improbable clients, that the facts of a murder case don't matter?"
“In a way I think that is precisely what I'm saying. Want some proof? Would you have bet money that the most famous lawyer in the country would have taken the case of a man who murdered the most famous assassin since John Wilkes Booth, and correct me if I'm wrong but didn't he shoot the fellow on TELEVISION? I mean, we are talking about the most flamboyant and publicized defense lawyer living and he JUMPED at the case. And if I remember right he won the sucker. I think he got a reversal and people were going, ‘If you want to prove it rolls uphill call HIM,’ and he was Mr. Magic. That's got to be a heady magnet for these big-star lawyers. Look at the size of the egos involved."
“Yeah. I know. But Noel Collier didn't seem ... Aw, hell, I dunno. I just didn't read her that way. I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. It's just hard to see her in that kind of situation. She's so pulled together from my impression.” He wasn't saying half of what he really felt.
“I don't know, Jack. You remember that kid that shot the old woman in the store? The boy named—what was it—uh, Ivey-yeah. The Ivey kid. Noel Collier took that and won it. Jones-Seleska couldn't have made five dollars off it. But that's the case that really put her name out front. And, like we were saying, may be these rich lawyers just say to themselves once in a while, ‘It's the right thing to do. We owe the public this one.’”
“Maybe so."
The phone rang and Wally Michaels reached over and answered it, “Michaels.... Okay. Right now? ... ‘Kay, I'll tell the man.... No, he's right here.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Ukie Hackabee's hollerin’ for Jack Eichord. Says it's real important. Want to see him now?"
“Sure,” Eichord said and gestured with a shrug. “Why not? Can't dance."
Eichord felt like he looked, and he looked like week-old tacos. He remembered his old pard Jimmie Lee telling him how he resembled the ole nasty brown stuff and how he was boozing too hard. How he wasn't getting enough sleep. How he was irritable and apprehensive about nothing and just generally felt and looked awful. Thing is, he hadn't been boozing lately and he still looked like shit and be thought he felt worse. He still wasn't sleeping. He was still irritable and apprehensive about nothing and he felt worse than ever.
And his cheerleader fantasy wouldn't let go of him. He refused to see it for what it was. One of those no-way-Jose deals that he couldn't face. Noel Collier was his housewife fantasy, his movie-star fantasy, his nun fantasy, his teenybopper fantasy, and his—to use her sophisticated word for it—headfuck all wrapped up in one strong, overachieving, Dallas-dyno-mite knockout of a lady.
Most really choice women—the top-of-the-line beauties—they have something, some small flaw you can concentrate on that helps take the sting out of the fact you'll never possess them for your own. You see the obvious cap job, or they wear a mask of makeup that stops at the throat giving them that orange-and-white look, or their limbs are too thin—to the point of anorexia—or they're stupid when they speak, or the voice grates, or the lips are not quite right, or ... You can find something.
Not Noel Collier. Lady was A-1 USDA prime from top to bottom, he thought, and I do mean bottom. She was what they call out on the Coast your real QUIM. This was Nastassia Kinski, full-lipped, hi-hipped, leggy, juggy, double-bongo super-zongo finger-lickin’ good Dallas quim, and quim just flat don't get no better.
He still saw her as a possible. And tonight, when he slipped back into his bathrobe of humiliation and fell asleep in front of a flickering, bolted-down TV set in the Lido, he would show her what a man she was missing.
But he was getting too old for these hot, steamy love affairs. You can take that shit when you're a kid but when you get a few gray hairs up there you don't need all the fast elevator rides up and down and the general Chinese fire-drill effect of going nuts over somebody. And then, on the other hand, he thought as he smiled to himself, who can say where this might lead? Anything is possible, right?
What a mood he was in. If Ukie started that double-talk shit today he was afraid he'd haul off and let him have one right in the old turquoise turnips. Perhaps already in the back of his aging mind somewhere he was trying to prepare himself for the moment when he might have to deal with the baseball-bat-to-the-skull embarrassment of the dreams and the imaginary spaghetti and the, yes, dammit, the headfucking and the fact that he'd convinced himself he was a candidate for a “hot steamy affair” with Noel Collier. Maybe he already sensed the kind of dues he'd have to pay.
Eichord sighed, rubbed his face vigorously, ran a hand over his head to make sure it was still attached to his neck, and went in the room where they had Hackabee waiting. Only it didn't look like the same Ukie. This looked like Ukie after the Cowboys had used him for a tackling dummy for a couple of days.
Dallas
The effect is misleading. The optical illusion typical of the surveillance cameras. Ukie appears to be sitting at the end of a long hallway. Eichord thinks how bad he looks when they play the tape back, as if Ukie had been pressed by a steamroller and slid under the door. He looked worse than Eichord, which surprised Jack.
“Ukie."
“I gotta get outta here."
“Hmmm?"
“You gotta get me outta here.” The face was drawn. The voice flat, none of the usual animation. He was slumped over. Dejected and drawn in the face as if he'd been crying. His eyes were reddened and lacked the usual nutsy sparkle.
“How do you propose we accomplish that, Ukie?” Jack had made up his mind that if he started up with the neohermetic regenerations and the post-Pythagorean regurgitations he was just getting up. Not getting mad. Just getting up. Leaving. Smack it.
“I didn't do it."
“Uh—huh."
“I know you know."
“I know you know what,” Eichord said calmly, waiting for the punch line to fall like the other shoe.