Son of the Endless Night, page 18
"Convince me," Conor said.
"I was third in my class at Georgetown Law Center. I took every course in criminal law they offered. That doesn't make me a trial lawyer, of course. You're born with the talent, you polish it in the rough and tumble of a courtroom. I had the advantage of growing up watching my father in court. He was one of the best criminal lawyers in New England. Anyone will be glad to vouch for that."
"And how long have you been at it?"
"Going on eight years."
"How about you, Lindsay? Are you a lawyer?"
"Yes. Boston U. I've been with Adam— I mean, Kurland Bates Harpold— for four years." There was a big candle in the middle of their table. She was seated opposite Conor. Her eyes, like a soothsayer's, gathered light while much of her face lay in flickering shadow. He was becoming addicted to those eyes. They were as potent as Chinese mustard.
"Why do you want to defend Rich?" Conor asked Adam. "Can he be defended?"
"Of course. Before I explain how and why I'd like to defend him, I want you to know there is a possible alternative to a trial. Considering the violent nature of the crime, Richard undoubtedly will be indicted for first-degree murder. If convicted, there is no mandatory sentence, only a minimum sentence of at least thirty-five years; the judge who does the sentencing can stiffen that considerably. But once your brother is indicted, we may be able to plea-bargain. Do you know what that is?"
"I'm not sure."
"We would agree to enter a guilty plea in exchange for a reduction of the charge, from first- to second-degree murder, which in Vermont is worth ten-to-life, with a possibility of parole after six years and eight months."
"That doesn't sound so bad," Conor said hopefully. "He's just a kid now. Six, seven years— he'll only be thirty when— "
"Unfortunately, as I see it, we're not likely to get far with a plea-bargain maneuver. The state's attorney probably will not be willing, in spite of the cost to his office, to let go of a first, especially when there's bound to be a lot of publicity attending the murder. And there's another factor. Vermont has a commendable system that elects lay judges to assist presiding judges in our superior courts; they're allowed to rule in questions of fact and sentencing in criminal proceedings. And the 'side judges,' as they're called, have been influential in discouraging plea bargains in capital cases."
"So— what can you do for Rich?"
"From what I've learned about the case so far, the only logical plea is temporary insanity. Just to be careful we would keep the case out of superior court. There are no side judges in district court who might complicate matters. I'm confident I can win acquittal for Richard in district court."
"How can you be so sure?"
"For one thing, I know I'll be up against Gary Cleves for the state. Gary does a competent job. He works hard. But the simple truth is, I'm better than Gary in a courtroom, particularly when insanity is the issue."
Lindsay nodded her approval, having made a face when Gary Cleves was mentioned. Conor now openly admired Lindsay, was pleased that she let him know she noticed. He liked the way she drank whiskey, without a chaser. She listened well, and obviously felt no need to promote herself or second everything that Adam Kurland was. saying. So far Conor liked everything about her. Conor was developing, after a day of tension, pain, and bewilderment, a ravening need for the attractive Lindsay. It happened to him sometimes, with this much impact: immediate arousal, longing. But he never did anything about the women who stimulated him. He wouldn't do anything about Lindsay Potter either, although he dearly wished he could.
"Anyway," Adam continued, "I want the case not only because I believe your brother was innocent of premeditation, but because I think we're in danger of losing the insanity plea in capital cases. Many states have already amended their statutes to disallow it. Part of the backlash from Hinckley. But I think it's a valid and necessary plea. There are mentally ill people who commit crimes because they are unable to control their actions, but probably no more than two percent of all the criminals who are brought to trial. Use of the defense in no way represents an abuse of our legal system. Your brother's case may well be a textbook example of NGRI."
"Rich wouldn't have to go to prison?" Conor said, a little stunned by the implications after a day of heartache.
"We know he was totally incoherent following the fatal assault. At least five witnesses will corroborate that. I believe I can prove that at the time of the assault Rich was
acting under psychotic compulsion. Yes, he wanted to punish her, that was his motivation. But once it was done, according to what I've heard, he wasn't aware he'd even hurt her very badly."
"Do you think Rich is insane now?"
Adam spread his hands. "I haven't talked to him. You have."
"He's certainly disturbed. Unbalanced, maybe. I don't know what to tell you. He's not the Rich I know."
Adam leaned forward confidently. "I would push for an immediate psychiatric examination. Tomorrow wouldn't be too soon."
"Why do you say he wanted to punish Karyn?"
"There are witnesses at the Davos Chalet who saw her playing around with another guy up there."
Conor finished his whiskey and immediately lusted after another. Lindsay read his desire and signaled the waitress. He smiled at Lindsay. She looked directly into his eyes. It bothered Conor, and inflamed him as well.
"That's hard to believe, about Karyn."
"His name, believe it or not, is Trux Landall."
"A hunk," Lindsay murmured, tying small knots in the cocktail straw that had come with Adam's whiskey sour.
"Karyn dated Trux and probably had an affair with him when she was a freshman at Smith. Then he showed up in Vermont, and Rich tangled with him night before last; caught Trux kissing and feeling her up in the hall outside their room. He tried to punch Trux out, but came off second-best."
Conor looked at him in admiration. "How did you find that out?"
"Let's give credit where credit is due," Lindsay proposed.
Adam flashed a smile at her and held up her right hand above her head; Lindsay made a triumphant fist. "Lindsay's a damned good investigator. Obviously Rich couldn't tolerate the competition. Something snapped."
"Crime of passion? It's so hard to believe. Sure, Rich loved Karyn. But I can't see him going berserk just because there was another guy."
"Berserk is the only way to describe his behavior. And we know the results."
"Yeah," Conor said glumly.
Another whiskey arrived for him, and one for Lindsay. She sipped along with him. A jukebox was playing "Misty Blue." They all got off the subject of Rich for a while. Adam entertained with anecdotes about his grandfather, a shrewd country lawyer in the tradition of Daniel Webster. The steaks came. Conor ate his and wished he had two. There was more whiskey, throughout the meal; Lindsay just kept it coming and, incredibly, as far as Conor could tell, she matched him drink for drink.
After a while her face was all he saw. The high cheekbones, the precious part between her teeth. He knew just how her lips would feel, enclosing the end of his cock. Sheer ravishment. There were times, after he'd wrestled night after night for weeks, only the occasional Sunday off, when he'd find himself standing exhausted in the middle of a ring in some town he couldn't remember the name of, sweating, bleeding, bruised, and look around for a long moment. And think, None of this makes sense. He felt the same disorientation now. He was about to choose a set of lawyers, crucial to Rich's future, mostly because he wanted to see Lindsay Potter again tomorrow after an empty tonight, and because there was a pornographic vision inside his head of how her pussy and naked breasts would look in his bed.
"I don't have much money," Conor said, knowing his tongue was thick. "People think, well, he's a wrestler. But we're the poorest paid group in pro sports. I risk a hernia or a ruptured disk every night for maybe a couple hundred bucks and change."
"The fee isn't that important to me," Kurland said. "I'd want five thousand dollars as a retainer, the rest on contingency."
"Five thousand. Well, I think— I ought to talk to my wife."
"I understand. Why don't I give you a call in the morning?"
"Okay."
They shook on it, hands across the table. Conor, clumsy, upset a stemmed water glass, drenching Lindsay's lap.
She took it just fine, telling him not to worry. He was so embarrassed he started to cry. Couldn't help himself. But
Lindsay understood that he was an emotional man. He felt very secure in her understanding.
After she had dried off they walked him out to the car, Kurland's white Seville, although Conor made a sincere effort to stay on his feet all the way, without help from anybody. In the back seat, lulled by instant warmth and the new-car smell, he sprawled out and was asleep in two minutes, snoring.
Lindsay found something soft and pleasing on the excellent car radio and snuggled against Adam.
"Poor son of a bitch," she said.
"Conor? Why?"
"Today's probably the worst day of his life. He doesn't have an inkling the real shit storm is yet to come."
"Tomorrow he may wake up and fire us."
"No he won't. He's loyal to his friends. And we're already the best friends he's ever had."
Adam squeezed her knee. "I hope so. Going to be a tough one, Linds."
"I'm a little scared of it." She laughed uncertainly. "Make that a lot scared. How are we going to come up with the big zeros we need to mount a decent defense? I don't think Conor has any money to speak of."
"First thing tomorrow we'll put a lock on publication rights."
"What are they worth?"
"Who knows? Conor's profession makes him interesting. The girl was lovely. We'll contact a good agent in Manhattan. Better set up a press conference for noon on Monday."
"Office, or courthouse?"
"Courthouse," Adam said. "After I've talked with our new client. Give Maggie Renquist a call, see when she can get up here from Hartford to run some psychological tests." He whistled a few shrill and tuneless notes, softly, his way of announcing a possibly outrageous notion. "If we're quick, we just may be able to get Devon declared incompetent to stand trial."
Lindsay smiled, skeptically. "Pross will demand their own shrink, as soon as we file. Probably Ingersoll. He hasn't sided with a defendant in years. Remember that poor asshole who was found sitting on his dead mother's head masturbating? Ingersoll considered that neurotic, not psychotic behavior."
"Ah, that's what makes it all so interesting," Adam concluded, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. He was a fast, assured driver. There was a little smile on his face as he peered ahead into the darkness peeling away on both sides of the high beams as they hurtled back down the road to Chadbury.
35
Conor was awakened, with a splitting head, at five minutes to eight the next morning. It was Gina on the phone.
"Why didn't you call me last night?" she demanded, a little shrill from worry.
"I was— I had a long conference with Rich's lawyers."
"Oh? Who are they?"
"His name is Kurland. Distinguished Vermont legal family, or something. Her name is Lindsay, Lindsay— I forget what." A nutcracker had laid open his skull. His brain felt shriveled and rancid.
"Her?"
"They work together."
"What's it going to cost? Rich's defense."
"Haven't worked it out yet."
"Get a contract."
"I will."
"I want to read it before you sign." Gina had once taken night courses in law at BU, while she was carrying Charley-chuck and thoroughly bored by yet another period of gestation. "Did you see Rich?"
"Yeah. Poor kid. He— his mind— " The only word that would come to him was chaos. "Rich isn't making a lot of sense, Gina."
"I wish I could get out there. Maybe if he talked to me for a little while, it would help."
Conor didn't think so; and he didn't want Gina seeing
Rich the way he was right now. He asked her how the kids had taken the news.
"Oh, you know how kids act when something so enormous has happened. They can't find a way to talk about it, let it out. They get too loud and exaggerate every little grievance; their emotions are like shadows under the skin. I hope you remembered to cancel Albany last night."
I called Dilworth. He made the arrangements. I think Kurowski subbed for me. I told him he'd better find another body for Worcester on Tuesday."
"Conor, is something else wrong? I can always tell by the tone of your voice."
"I'm hung over."
"I expected that," Gina said, with a lack of delicacy that approached shrewishness. "I mean, what did Rich tell you? Did he have much to say?"
"Not much. He said— " Conor, at this hour, found himself unable to adequately convey the gist of what he'd heard from Rich's lips; the effort to concentrate was rewarded with physical pain, a spasm in the already tense muscles of the back of his neck beneath the cranium. The pain brought tears to his eyes. "It's all hazy in my mind," he mumbled, trying to beg off.
"Talk to me, Conor."
"Gina, I don't know— some nonsense— he's got this weird idea that he's possessed."
He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then she said something fervent and rapid in Italian that he couldn't sort out. Switching to English, Gina exclaimed, "Holy Mary! Where did he get a notion like that?"
"I don't know."
She made a tremulous, keening sound, unusual for Gina, although it reminded him of mourners at an Irish wake. "I'm getting goosebumps. I don't like this, Conor."
"But it's nothing. The kid didn't know what he was saying. Karyn is dead and he can't remember what happened and he's groping for answers. Like the rest of us."
"Are you sure?"
"Gina, I just got up. I'm not sure of my own name. I'll see Rich again this morning, talk to others who might know more. Last night I heard that an old boyfriend of
Karyn's had been hanging around. Rich got jealous; you know."
"So? He might give the guy a knuckle sandwich if he was provoked. But he wouldn't touch a hair on Karyn's head, just because of jealousy." Her tone changed again. She sounded weary, fatalistic. "Conor, maybe you'd better— just to be safe— when you visit Rich again, take the local father with you. And— and holy water."
"Gina, stop it."
She was silent for a few seconds. He heard her sigh. "But there's no rational explanation for what he did. Is there? All I'm asking, be careful."
"Rich isn't dangerous."
"But the Evil One is! And you were a priest. You know how that's always worried me."
He had to laugh. "You mean since I've already fallen, I'm more easily tempted?" Conor shifted the angle of the receiver against his ear and caught sight of himself in a mirror opposite the foot of the bed. His spontaneous laughter became a deep, unconvincing chuckle. Father, forgive me, I have sinned; last night I lusted after a woman not my wife.
"Don't make fun. I miss you! I couldn't sleep. None of the kids wanted any breakfast. I made walnut waffles. It's so gloomy around here! We're all seeing Monsignor Raines after Mass. I hope he'll be able to put things in a little better perspective for them."
"I know he will. I should talk to them myself. Next time I call. Let's make it six sharp tonight."
"They'll be waiting. Where will you be if I need you in a hurry?"
"Try the state police in Chadbury. If I'm not there they'll get a message to me."
"Have they been helpful?"
"Yes, but I have to remind myself whose side they're on. The main thing, I think what we all want to know, is why Rich did it."
36
Richard, it's Polly! You remember me, don't you? You told me I could call you if I ever needed anything. Well— they've been hurting me, Rich. I'm afraid they'll hurt me a lot worse if somebody doesn't stop them!
Captain Moorman played the Record A Call tape twice, sitting back in cool appraisal of Conor's reactions. Conor only shook his head.
"I don't know what it's about. I don't know who the girl is."
After rewinding the tape the policeman took the cassette from the machine on his desk and replaced it in a small clasp envelope, which went into an accordion folder with Richard Devon's other personal effects.
Moorman then confided, "We do. Her name is Polly Windross. She's twelve years old. Her father is Henry Windross. He owns and manages the Post Road Inn, where Rich and Karyn stayed when they came up here for the skiing three days ago."
With a little start of excitement that caused his hangover headache to come snarling back to life like a large bad dog he'd been trying to tiptoe around, Conor said, "Windross. That's one of the names Rich mentioned."
Moorman sat on a corner of his desk to load up his pipe. The tobacco was dark, strong, and very smelly. To Conor, in the throes of recuperation, it was as bad as the odor of gangrene released from a pocket of his abused, corrupt body.
"The Chadbury chief of police is Jim Melka. He had some interesting information about your brother." Conor waited, edging toward the windows where the fragile morning lay under wraps, as yet untouched by sun. Moorman got his pipe going. "It seems that Rich appeared at the police station shortly before ten o'clock last Thursday night. He was dirty; his clothes were smudged and his hands.blackened by charcoal. Also, according to the officer on duty, Stefanie Van Zant, he was very upset and wanted to lodge a complaint of child abuse."
"Polly Windross was the abused child? Then Rich must have seen her."
"Your brother claimed to have visited Polly in a room of the burned-out wing of the inn. He said she was chained to a bed in that room, and showed signs of having been whipped, presumably by her father and some religious fanatics he'd fallen in with. Officer Van Zant called Melka, who met them at the inn. They spoke to Mr. Windross, who flatly denied the allegations. He told them that his daughter was living with his sister in a remote village in Quebec."
"Why would he tell such an obvious lie?"
