“You mind if I call him?”
“Who?”
“The DA.”
“You’re getting smart.”
“I’ve been listening to your stories for four years now, McCain. The chief didn’t believe you, and neither do I.”
“How about ten minutes?”
He glanced at Mary as if for guidance. To me he said: “How about five?”
“Five? What can I say in five minutes?”
“A lot, if you get right to it.”
“How about seven?”
“How about six?”
Mary had been swallowing 7UP and almost spit it out laughing. “You two sound like seven-year-olds arguing about marbles.”
“I’ll take you back to his cell. And I’m starting the six-minute clock as soon as my key goes in the cell door.”
He kept talking to me as we walked the corridors toward the back of the station where the cells were. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking of seeing the smile on Doran’s face when I told him that I now had at least two more very possible suspects and would be telling the DA about one of them. Cliffie wouldn’t release Doran on his own, but his DA cousin could force him to. Doran needed some good news. It didn’t take long for most people to wither in a jail cell. Depression came fast; claustrophobia came even faster.
Like the rest of the station, the cell block was clean, well-lighted, well-windowed, even if the bars on them did spoil any thoughts of escape.
Doran was in a cell at the back. He sat bent over on his cot. I wondered if he was sick. If you haven’t had jail experience, your body can retaliate.
He wasn’t sick, though. He was scribbling on a yellow pad and when he turned his face up to mine, he didn’t look wasted at all. He half shouted: “Hey, man! Great to see you!”
What the hell was he so happy about?
Tomlin’s key made a scraping noise. “Six minutes, McCain. Starting now.”
He locked me in and left. I sat on the cot across from Doran.
“You doing all right, Doran?”
“This is so cool,” Doran said.
“What?”
“This-this is very, very cool, McCain.”
“This is cool? Being in jail is cool? The last time I saw you, you were terrified.”
“That’s before I had my idea.”
He was doing theater again. He was up on his feet and walking around as much as the cell allowed. He could have snapped. It’s not unknown for people in jail to have breakdowns. Or even try suicide. “Listen, Doran, I think maybe I’ve got a shot at getting you out of here.”
“Out of here! Are you crazy? You try and get me out of here, McCain, and I’ll get another lawyer.”
“Sit down.”
“What?”
“I said sit down. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I think we better get the city psychologist to have a talk with you. Of course you want to get out of here. You’re innocent-or at least I’m pretty sure you are.”
He sat down and leaned forward and snapped, “What the hell kind of book will that make?”
“Book? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My life story. All the people I’ve claimed to be. And how I wound up in jail falsely accused of a murder. And how a kind-ofdown-on-his-luck lawyer saved my bacon.”
No, he wasn’t crazy; I was crazy. The words were supposed to be that he hated it in here and that he wanted to get out before he killed himself-but for some reason my brain wasn’t tuned to the right radio station. I was hearing some insane bullshit about him writing a book and wanting to stay in jail.
“I’ve got to be in here for at least a week. So if you’ve figured out who killed the old man, you’ve got to keep it to yourself for at least five or six days. That’ll give me my ending-you know-how if I hadn’t been falsely accused, I wouldn’t ever have looked back on my life and realized that I should never have let all those women support me, even though-you know-I pretty much paid them back when bedtime rolled around. It’s the old Cecil B. DeMille stuff-fifty-five minutes of sin and five minutes of repenting at the end.”
“I quit.”
“What?”
“Unless you tell me right now that all this bullshit is a joke, I’m quitting.”
“This is my chance, man. I used to sleep with this older woman in New York. She’s a very important editor. I know she’ll go for this.”
I could hear Tomlin unlocking the door that opened on the jail.
“Look, you moron. They might convict you of this. They could get first degree. You could try diminished capacity because you were so drunk; but even if they knock it down to second, you’re in prison for a long time.”
“But you know I’m innocent. And you’re a lawyer and a private detective and-”
“It’s too much of a risk.”
“But I’m innocent!”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll be able to turn up the killer, dipshit. Innocent people get convicted all the time.”
I enjoyed seeing shock register on his pretty-boy face.
“Time’s up, McCain,” Tomlin said as he unlocked the cell.
I shook my head and started to walk out, but Doran grabbed me by the shoulder. “I still think the book’s a great idea.”
I was almost to the door when he shouted: “That editor’ll love this!”
I wondered if I had enough in the bank to get him a year’s worth of electroshock treatments.
13
One, two, three, four- I counted eight reporters including two with camera crews. The good Reverend Cartwright was getting the publicity he wanted. The crowd probably numbered seventy or eighty.
Nearest the growing heap of Beatles records, books, and other merchandise were Cartwright’s people-stern mothers and fathers who pushed their small children forward to toss more sinful material on the pile. I noticed that there were few teenagers. They’d probably been harder to con into doing this, and the ones who did go along with it were the type who thought hall monitoring and snitching were more fun than abusing yourself.
Flanked around them were the sneerers. These were teenage boys who formed a Greek chorus of snickers, laughs, jeers, and mockery. Eventually one of them would fart and then they would fall about like drunks.
Then there were the rest of us, the curious. Cartwright was fun to watch and listen to. He was so full of shit, his blue eyes should have been brown. His problems with microphones alone were worth coming to see. For as long as he’d been at it-and for as many people as he had in his church, one or two of whom must have had some proficiency with the equipment-he was always at the mercy of every kind of mike on the market.
All this was taking place right after the Labor Day parade. I’d stood next to Sue and Kenny. The marching bands and small floats excited him as usual. He swayed to the snappy band music. I was waiting for him to start saluting. Sue and Kenny were going to Sue’s folks’ for the rest of the day, so I was at Cartwright’s alone.
The side of the church where the Babylonian tower was growing by the minute had big pictures of the Fab Four taped to it. The witch hunters had scribbled all over their faces. There was also a huge poster of Jesus that looked more like a Marine recruiting poster than a celebration of an iconic religious figure. Cartwright was one of those ministers who constantly retold the Bible story of Jesus kicking the money lenders out of the temple. This was the story always used to justify religious violence aimed at those who didn’t share your own beliefs. Jesus the gunfighter; Jesus the hit man. Having a great deal of respect for Jesus, man or son of God take your choice, I’ve always resented people who twist his life and words into a call for hatred and war.
As soon as I heard the high-decibel ear-melting sound of feedback, I knew that Cartwright was ready to go.
He’d fixed up a little dais for himself. He stood on it now, glaring at the stand-up microphone as if it might attack him. He flicked a finger at the head of the mike and then jerked back when it screeched at him. He wore his red robes today. They were vaguely papal. Before starting to speak, he raised a Bible-heavy right hand and showed it around to the crowd as if he was an auctioneer trying to get some bids on it.