Try Try Again Page 8

  Charley was trying to remember his impressions of the curbside shawarma truck back in D.C., and its merchant. What was the name on the side of the truck? He could give that to the cops. But the only name he remembered was “Halal.” Yes, that was on the side of the truck. But if the cops arrested Halal, they’d pretty soon find out he was innocent and Charley had been lying again and they’d sweat him and push him around again, and administer a few practiced kicks. He didn’t know if he could take that anymore.

  So he didn’t mention Halal’s truck. What he said was, “I didn’t see those Arab guys before – before about a week ago. On the street. They knew I was an ex-con, and broke.”

  “How’d they know that?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t ask ‘em.”

  The Chief looked at the other cops, said “back to his cell, double guard at all times. Now. I’ll call the FBI again.” The young Legal Aid attorney sat dazed, as if imagining he could now be an actor in a major scene of world history.

  After some discussion at the Bureau, one FBI agent argued that Dukes’ ‘Arab’ story was intentionally implausible. Dukes must have wanted them to say it was nonsense, right? But maybe it was true all along, and that’s why it sounded so crazy. The agent was ignored, as he had been in similar situations before.

  Another Bureau agent was sent to Grantwood, to assist in interviewing Charley. After one interview, and another, and another, the agent regretfully told the Grantwood police Charley’s story of Arab terrorists was, as he put it, “unsubstantiated.” Chief Gardner translated that term as, a crock of fucking shit, without specifying what such a miraculous substance could be.

  As Sebastian George soon discovered, the “Arab terrorist” connection to Barnes’ death, that the FBI had investigated, soon became known to the world, thanks to a gabby cop.

  He was startled, then relieved, then worried. He hadn’t been named. Who had come up with that dumb Arab story? It wouldn’t stick, he knew. Arabs didn’t do that stuff. Not anymore. Did they?

  George met with Sybille Haskin and gave her a detailed narrative of everything he had done to ensure the Barnes assassination went smoothly. He didn’t mention he, himself, had been forced to kill Barnes because Charley had missed. And when Haskin expressed anger Charley Dukes was still alive, George didn’t mention he’d tried to kill Charley and failed. He didn’t tell Haskin the fake drug deal story was his idea, the story he never thought Dukes would have an opportunity to tell anyone.

  Instead and on a lighter note, George regaled Haskin with the “Arab terrorist” story that Dukes must have dreamed up himself, it was so dumb and impossible. Haskin, who had not heard this news before, didn’t seem to find this funny. Her face drained of what little color it normally had.

  George saw immediately, something about “Arab terrorist” had hit Haskin very hard. His face did not reveal a hint of what he’d just learned, what bright and wonderful opportunities could now be opening for him. Sebastian George was, after all, a very skillful criminal, and a Vegas-class poker face was one of those skills.

  After her meeting with George, Haskin knew that he knew, he had hit, without intending to, a very raw nerve. He must be thinking about that right now, she thought, why a fake story of Arab terrorists was such a concern to her. He must be contemplating his new power over her, and how to use it. She should have him killed. But he must have thought of that possibility by now, and was moving to take out some kind of “insurance” against her. Just wait. His time will come.

  Chapter 12: Several Days After the Assassination

  Police Chief Scott Gardner was nearing the end of his rope. Charley had given him a fake story three times, and no progress in the case had been made. Not to mention that kerfuffle about the Arab terrorists, that had brought down the nervous laughter of the whole country on Grantwood, and on him personally. And now the State authorities were pressuring him to turn over the prisoner to them, and let some real experts do the questioning, not those hicks in Flyover Acres, Pennsylvania. One more go at Charley, then if he’d got nothing useful he’d have to cave.

  Gardner walked into Charley’s cell. Charley could see the Chief was about to lose it, and he pretty much knew why: Charley had told stories that were lies, and stupid lies at that. Charley had never pretended to have enough brains to lie successfully. This was one reason he’d been convicted of so many crimes.

  So now there was nothing left but the truth. He wouldn’t lie, well, not much. He’d tell the cops what they wanted to know – everything but ‘Art’, and that ‘Art’ might be ‘George’. And he wouldn’t tell them anything about Darlene, either.

  “OK,” he said, “Here it is. Some D.C. guy I never seen before paid me to come up here and kill Barnes. I was desperate and broke. I needed the money or one of those gangs, you know, would have beat me up worse than you did, maybe killed me to get their other debtors to fork over. So I said I’d do it.

  “He drove me here to Grantwood, like I said about the Arabs but this guy wasn’t no Arab. And he gave me a phone number in Harrisburg, told me to call them and go there and they’d hide me, help me get away. That’s why I was on the road to Harrisburg when I got caught.

  “I know their phone number. I was supposed to call that number and they’d hide me for a while, and give me the money for shooting that politician.”

  That was pretty close to the truth, although not the whole truth. This time, Charley thought he might be believed. And, he considered, it protected George as long as the H-burg gang didn’t involve him, and it protected Darlene. And if the H-burg gang did give up George to the cops, George might not blame Charley. He hoped. He hoped.

  In any case, Charley couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. He was just a minor-league crook, and the cops had never given him a hard time before, just busted him and tossed him in jail. Never had the “third degree” before, barely the second degree.

  “So what’s the number?” Gardner asked.

  “717-255-6970,” Charley said.

  The Chief left the room briefly, and then returned.

  “OK, Charley, I’ve got a guy checking up on that number. You look like you might be telling the truth now. So we can stop sweating you if this phone number checks out, and you can wait in a nice quiet place until you’re tried for murder.”

  An aide walked in and whispered to the Chief. The Chief looked at Charley. Charley looked at the floor.

  “We looked up that number,” the Chief said,” Charley held his breath. George’s friends. The ones who were going to save him. Or who could rat him out.

  “Some mob kingpin who might back up your bullshit story?” the Chief’s face turned purple and his voice became a shout. “It was the God-damned fucking-ass Greyhound bus station, that’s what it was!” He stood there, legs apart, an expression of both frustration and contempt on his face.

  Charley was confused. Maybe Greyhound was a front. George must have been extra clever. But that couldn’t be it, could it?

  “You know what,” the Chief said, “I just had a thought, looking at your stupid face now, I think you think you’re telling me the truth. I think somebody played a real cruel joke on you, Charley. There’s nobody waiting for you in Harrisburg, nobody at all. Nobody to save your ass, just get on the bus, Gus! And they’d know the bus station’s the first place we’d look, in case you’d happened to get that far.”

  The Chief marched out of the room to spread the good, if somewhat erroneous, news of his making brilliant progress in the case soon to be called State of Pennsylvania vs Charley Wayne Dukes.

  The Chief and a couple of trusted aides got their heads together and reached some conclusions. Yes they, whoever “they” were, wanted Charley to get caught. That must have been it, because they’d made it so easy for him to get caught. They were planning that all along. So Charley must really not know anything important after all. He didn’t have to cover up, because the plotters hadn’t told him anything the police could use. Bet they were laughing even now.


  But who were they? Grantwood County police could spend months trying to figure that out, the Chief himself constantly pressured by the State authorities, and the Feds, not to mention the God damn press, to get results. Scott Gardner, Chief of Police, would look really incompetent.

  Couldn’t let that happen. Let’s say Charley Dukes acted alone. Just like he said before we pushed him around and got those dumb stories. Get a quick, sure conviction that way. Over and out.

  Chief Gardner ordered Charley put back in lockup, under full-time guard. Charley’s official attorney, he’d heard, had been appointed and would arrive the next day, and he’d have to put up with her. Yes, “her.” He hated women lawyers. That Legal Aid jerk was a lot better; he’d let the Chief do what he had to do for public safety. Women bitched about that. Sometimes they called it “torture.”

  Natalie Jameson had been pestering the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol for the return of her beloved Chevy Nova, which was being held as a material witness, she’d been told, or something like that anyway.

  In order to get to her yoga classes on time she’d, had to buy one of those Hummers from her next-door neighbor’s dealership. Mostly just to shut him up. A big truck but nice, she thought; it would do until she got her Nova back. And other drivers let her merge now, which hadn’t been true with the Nova.

  But after two weeks, she gave up waiting and called the Governor, who wasn’t delighted to help his mother remove the spokes from the wheels of justice. But he did, and she got her Nova back. This made her very happy, even though drivers cut her off again now.

  On Election Day that November, Thomas James Conning was re-elected to the U.S. Senate by fifty nine percent of the voters. Arnold Grigsby, Ezra Barnes’ last-minute replacement, had no chance. Conning thanked the voters at his campaign headquarters, but seemed distraught. In his victory speech, he honored the memory of Ezra Barnes, as everyone knew he would. Oddly enough, according to whispers, his grief seemed sincere.

  The newly re-elected Senator met confidentially with backers to set the stage for his Presidential run in two years’ time. Initially he had been worried about what Haskin might do, but not having heard from her in some time, he concluded ConDyne would be no problem. He was delighted to think, should he not be elected President in two years, he would still be Senator for another four, and could try again.

  Barnes’ House seat was won by a major donor to her party, a woman with no qualifications other than well-practiced sincerity and an open wallet.

  Chapter 13: One Month After the Assassination

  The two months prior to the trial of Charley Dukes went by with only a few notable events:

  .. Charley Dukes remained in jail, and was formally indicted. The effort to find a conspiracy behind him was on the back burner, because there was no relevant evidence and Charley wasn’t talking, beyond his final ‘confession.’ Chief Gardner insisted Dukes had acted alone, out of a false sense of something or other. Charley disliked being in the City-County jail. Once he was back in a real prison, he considered, at least the meals would be on time.

  .. Studying the evidence, Brent Nielsen, the State’s Attorney for Grantwood County, decided Charley Dukes could readily be convicted of second-degree murder, but he would try for first-degree with a fair chance of success. And he was going to seek the death penalty in a case that could make his career. He decided not to tell anyone yet he was going to go for death. There was no ethical requirement – not quite – to inform the defense in advance. Would he mention the death penalty in his opening statement, or wait for closing arguments? Probably the former, to avoid a possible appeal, even though he would rather have waited.

  .. Olivia Saunders had several meetings with a client, a manufacturer of outdoors equipment including tent pegs, with regard to suing a different manufacturer for infringement of its tent-peg patent. A patent attorney was working with her, and the two did not get along particularly well.

  .. Judge Harriet DuCasse was assigned to hear the case. Judge DuCasse was known, behind her back, as ‘The Duchess,’ a compliment to her demeanor, airs, and authoritatively thin lips.

  .. Jillian Hall had another fight with her husband Roger, as a result of which Roger had moved to a cheap hotel in nearby Lancaster. Roger asked if he could come back just to shower, since the cheap hotel had plumbing issues. Jill had laughed at him, but let him come back. After Roger had showered, the two held a spontaneous “truth in love” meeting that went south very quickly.

  .. JTJ told her junior college Media Techniques class they would be filming the Dukes trial as their major assignment that semester. Having made the commitment out of whole cloth, she was determined to make it happen. Whatever arms or other body parts she had to twist.

  .. Sybille Haskin was only slightly concerned about the trial. It was obvious Charley knew nothing that could involve her.

  The Legal Aid society had asked to have their young attorney back, and their wish was granted. A bar association clerk looked up the pro-bono list, firms that had volunteered to contribute an attorney. The legal talent required by law was sifted and sorted and expertly evaluated, and finally Holmes & Epperly, P.C., were tagged at random with this particular pro bono. The clerk duly notified the firm their services would be required, to provide counsel to one Charley Wayne Dukes, accused of murder in the first degree.

  In the course of legal matters where no great amount of money is at stake, there is a substantial amount of buck-passing, not-me’s, I’m too busy’s, and why don’t you pick on the other guy this time’s. This conversation, with a few variations, played out among the partners and senior staff at Holmes & Epperly that evening.

  Martin F. Holmes and Belinda Chase Epperly got their heads together and chose an attorney from their ranks to donate as defense counsel. There was little dispute when the name of Olivia Saunders was bruited: she was talented, knew her law, and could argue well. But to clients, her manner had not exuded comfort, or strength, and at times even belied the real competence she had. Perfect to defend a guilty criminal who couldn’t pay anything and couldn’t say no to whatever counsel walked in the door.

  Epperly gave her junior associate the news. “Good news and bad news, Ms. Saunders.”

  Liv looked up from her desk, where she’d been pretending to be busy and wondering what the hell she could charge to today and tomorrow. And that “Ms. Saunders”: The partners called everyone else in the firm by their first names, but they called Liv, ‘Ms. Saunders.’ She wondered how long she was going to last at Holmes & Epperly; not long, she figured. But perhaps …

  “Yes?” She looked up at Epperly, with what she hoped was eagerness mixed with friendliness.

  “A trial, and it’s all yours. Pro bono.”

  One up, one down. Pro bonos were for attorneys who didn’t have a client account to bill to. But her own case? That sounded good. Even if.

  “What’s the case?”

  “You know Congressman Barnes, who was shot in town here?”

  “Certainly. The suspect was picked up within two or three hours. And he might not be guilty?”

  “Oh he’s guilty all right. Confessed right away and he’s never retracted. The County shrink said he wasn’t wacko or anything, just not very bright.”

  “So – what can we do for him?”

  “Not much. Just try to get him twenty years, maybe less if you can. And if you can’t, then go for life instead of the needle.”

  “No problem; there’ve been only four executions in…”

  “I know. Life’s almost automatic instead of the death penalty here. But we can make out like we saved his worthless ass, OK? That’s fair publicity. Besides, a prosecutor who gets a capital conviction here, will be headlines for years – very tempting, don’t you think? So they’ll be shooting high.”

  “Ah – OK. Who’s prosecuting?”

  Epperly looked at her notes. “Brent Nielsen. He’s doing it himself.”

  Saunders sucked a sharp breath. Brent was very good.

&n
bsp; Epperly misunderstood the sound. “Brent’s a good prosecutor, but he’s easy to get along with. He won’t make it tough for you – as long as he wins the case and you don’t.”

  “Which he will?”

  “Absolutely. We’re helping the wheels of justice run over a killer here, one who never had much of a life anyway.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Epperly. Glad to do it. I’ll speak with Brent right away.”

  “No ‘Ms. Epperly’ needed, Ms. Saunders; we’re informal here, just call me Belinda.” Belinda Chase Epperly turned and strode out of the juniors’ cube farm.

  Liv’s thin fingers played on the computer, calling up one news story after another about the killer of Ezra Barnes, about his desperate attempts to explain his motives, each more implausible than the last.

  He could be unstable. Could have diminished responsibility. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing at the time he was doing it. All very chancy. Actual innocence? Apparently not a chance. OK, her aim would be to plead him for manslaughter, settle for second degree, try to limit the sentence to as few years as possible. Not that Liv wanted Dukes back on the street, but a defense client deserved to get the lightest punishment a judge and jury would inflict. Or rather, defense counsel had an obligation to work for that outcome, results not guaranteed.

  It had been a while since she’d been in front of a jury. How would she look to the jurors? She stood and walked to the ladies’ room, looked in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall, slim, hair a little too long, a little too stiff but that could be fixed. At forty-one, no grey hairs yet. Firm thin face, her mother had called it a “no-nonsense face,” not really a compliment: a face that might not be attractive, that is, might not attract the kind of men she might like; men her mother believed Liv deserved, given her intelligence and dedication to her work.