Defense, p.22
Defense, page 22
I sat up, more angry than I realized. “Just what the hell is your point?” I barked. “What difference does it make what distinction anyone might or might not draw about what happened in the privacy of his home fifteen years ago? The only people who know anything about it are Leopold and her, and she’s quite dead!”
“And whoever she told about it during all the years between the time it happened and last night!” she shot back.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said as I got to my feet and walked over to the window. “Maybe it’s nothing more than the sordid speculation those stupid goddamn reporters began to engage in as soon as Leopold told them she once worked as his housekeeper!” The mountain seemed to come closer the longer I stared at it.
“Do you really believe someone like Denise Morel would take a secret like that to her grave?”
I had no answer. “So what am I supposed to do about it?” I asked wearily, as I turned toward her.
“Nothing,” she said calmly. “But maybe you should think about whether you should be doing this. No, don’t get angry. Just listen. You love Leopold Rifkin like he was your father. Can you really represent him, being that close? What about that detachment you’ve always told me is so important?”
She paused as if she were deciding whether to say something that she clearly thought had to be said.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I’m not angry. Say what you were going to say.”
Alexandra stared straight into my eyes. “All right. I’ll say it. What if he really did it? What if he killed her? What then?”
xviii
Alexandra was right. It was all anyone could talk about, and they talked about it whether they knew anything or not. Every daytime radio talk show managed to find someone who supposedly knew what had once gone on between the woman who murdered her husband and the judge with whom she used to live. Character counted for nothing; every accusation carried its own credibility. Addicts, pushers, prostitutes, and thieves, eager to share the ephemeral attention of temporary celebrity, divulged what they claimed were the secret confessions of the murdered woman. Instead of expressing outrage and disbelief, the public clamored for more.
None of this seemed to bother Leopold Rifkin, not even the trucks from the local television stations that were now permanently parked on the street outside the gate to his driveway. Every afternoon he wandered down the drive to get his mail. He waved to everyone who gathered at the gate, and with cheerful regret explained that he was under strict instructions from his attorney not to talk about the case. It quickly became a game with its own tacitly understood set of rules. Rifkin would make his announcement and the reporters would immediately ignore it. Under an obligation never to let anyone else decide what they should ask, they shouted the questions they knew he would not answer. With a patient smile he waited until they were finished. Then he would ask them if they had any questions about the way the legal system really worked, or about the criminal law, or sometimes, he would start to ask them questions, about what they did, why they did it, and whether, on the whole, it was a good thing. After a while they forgot why they were there.
Leopold Rifkin’s undisturbed equanimity was a marvel to behold and an example no one else even tried to follow. In the inner circles of state government no one debated the question of Rifkin’s guilt or innocence. That was not important. What really mattered was that the judge had become an embarrassment and something had to be done about it.
The call came from the office of the chief justice. In a voice trained to frighten the disobedient, his secretary announced that Justice Cornelius would like to see me the next day.
It was ten-thirty in the morning, and I had not moved from my chair since sitting down at my desk three and a half hours earlier. For three days the rain had fallen. Mt. Hood had disappeared, and the buildings a block away were gray apparitions that appeared for only a few moments at a time. It was the first week in June and when I turned on the car radio on my way home at night I half expected to hear Christmas music.
Amazed that I had not responded immediately, she said it again. Justice Cornelius wanted to see me.
“Is he going to be in Portland?” I asked.
“No, of course not. He expects you here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any plans to be in Salem, either tomorrow or anytime soon.”
I might just as well have been a village priest who declined a request from the pope to visit Rome. There was no precedent to tell her what to do.
“Just a minute, please,” she said finally.
“Mr. Antonelli,” said a vaguely familiar voice a few moments later. “This is Jason Cornelius. How are you?”
He had the bluff, candid voice of someone who can look you in the eye and believe everything he tells you no matter how many times he has lied to you before.
“You’re calling about Judge Rifkin.”
He had not expected that, but it did not stop him. “Yes, how is my good friend doing? What a terrible thing to have happen!”
“Why don’t I give you his home number? I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.” I waited for a second, and then added: “He always speaks of you with great admiration and gratitude.”
“That’s fine, fine. I’m very glad to hear it. Leopold and I go back a long way, a very long way. But, no, I have his home number, thanks. I wanted to talk to you. I understand you can’t come by tomorrow morning?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I have to be in court.” It was a lie, and I was proud of it.
“I see. I see. Well, then perhaps the beginning of the week?”
“Let me save you some time, Justice Cornelius. Leopold Rifkin did not kill anyone. So, if you’re calling to suggest that he resign from the bench, then…”
“I wasn’t going to suggest anything, Mr. Antonelli. I just thought it might be helpful if we explored some of the possibilities.”
“There are no possibilities, sir. He has taken a leave of absence, which you were kind enough to agree to, and he will be back on the bench the day the jury brings back its verdict.”
“Depending on the verdict, of course,” he said. The tone of his voice suggested nothing more than the normal judicial proclivity for stating the obvious.
I mouthed an obscenity and sent it winging silently through the air. “The one thing you can depend on, is that the verdict is going to be not guilty.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But, still, Leopold needs to consider—would want to consider—the effect all this—a trial—will almost certainly have on the court, on the public’s faith in the judicial system.”
Leaning forward, both elbows on the desk, I stared straight ahead as if he were sitting right in front of me and I wanted to show just what I thought of him. “I would think, Justice Cornelius, that you of all people would not need to be reminded that the system you’re so worried about is based on the principle that everyone—even a judge—is innocent until proven guilty. And besides,” I added before he could get a word in, “the system is in no real danger. After all, if it’s been able to survive all your years on the bench, what harm can a little murder trial do it?” I asked, and then hung up.
I started to dial Leopold’s number to let him know the nature and extent of the loyalty he could expect from his brethren in the Oregon judiciary. But realizing it would probably not come as any real surprise, I called Horace Woolner instead. He was not surprised either, but he was intrigued.
“Good old Cornelius. He always was a horse’s ass,” he said, punctuating the words with a low, growling laugh. “You should have gone to see him. It would have been worth the drive down. You would have been given the whole treatment. Arm around the shoulder, the commiserating smile, the understanding eyes, the smooth, flowing voice assuring you he wants you to view him as a friend you can trust. And then, three sentences into the conversation, he’d look at you and tell you that you really should consider becoming a judge, that the court needs people with your experience, your perspective, your brilliance. Man, by the time you left, you would have thought the son of a bitch was on his way down the street to the governor’s office to demand you be appointed to fill the very next vacancy on the court.”
“You forget, Horace, I’ve met the son of a bitch before. Several times. He never talked to me like that.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t need anything from you then. Now he does, and it’s damn interesting,” he remarked, growing more animated. “It’s damn interesting, because it confirms what I’ve been hearing. The talk in Salem is that Gilliland-O’Rourke may have overreached herself this time. At first all anyone talked about was what an old man like Rifkin must have been doing with some young chick living in his house. Christ, they don’t even stop to think that she might have been young, but fifteen years ago Leopold wasn’t all that old. Anyway, people are starting to think that maybe Leopold didn’t do it. And one thing you can count on with clowns like Cornelius is that though they may not know any more law than the last guy you represented on a breaking and entering, they sure as hell can sense a change in the wind.”
“Hell, Horace, we’re only six weeks into the case.”
“Doesn’t matter. People down there spend their whole lives worrying about the next election and the one after that. Some of them worry about elections that aren’t going to happen for a dozen years. That’s what they do: worry about how everything that happens might affect everything else, especially their own careers. And, listen, they should worry. Your client ain’t exactly your normal murder suspect.”
“You’re talking about last Saturday,” I said.
“Well,” he laughed, “last Saturday wasn’t bad. You have to admit, the old man is a goddamn genius. I mean, hell, first he starts coming down that driveway of his in broad daylight, knowing full well they’ve got a television crew there round the clock, wearing that crummy cardigan sweater and those stupid old leather slippers. He looks about as threatening as Mother Theresa. And then he starts talking to them—not about the case—oh, no!, his lawyer, that mean son of a bitch Mr. Antonelli, won’t let him do that!” Horace roared. “He’d really like to, but he can’t. But he really is eager to talk to them about—themselves! In a couple of days he’s become everybody’s favorite grandfather. And then Saturday!”
“Never mind, I saw it, too.”
It was too late. He didn’t even hear me. He was having too much fun. “A panel truck rolls up, the driver gets out and goes around and opens the doors and starts handing out coffee and bagels. Coffee and bagels, for Christ sake! Leopold was sorry he couldn’t invite them in and this was the best he could do! Jesus! If you screw up and he gets convicted, he’ll probably cater his own goddamn execution!”
“Are you suggesting?” I asked, “that I don’t have control over my client?”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing, too. Now, about that horse’s ass, Cornelius,” he said, suddenly very serious. “You won’t hear from him again. What will happen is that in a few days—beginning of the week, maybe—you’ll get another call. This time it’ll be from Gilliland-O’Rourke.”
I did not understand. “What’s the connection?”
“They’re not happy with this. These people would turn on their mothers. Leopold has become a major liability. If they could have gotten him to resign, that would have given them some separation, some distance. But now they know he’s not going to do that. They only have one more move. They need a deal.”
“Over my dead body! There’s not going to be any goddamn deal so long as I’ve got anything to say about it! Who do these people think they are!”
“Settle down,” Horace chuckled. “I know that. You know that. What I’m trying to tell you is that they don’t know that, not yet. Cornelius will call Gilliland-O’Rourke. Hell, he may be talking to her right now. They’re good friends, you know. Practically related. The political establishment in this state—especially that crowd down in Salem—it’s incestuous. Cornelius has known her all her life. He probably attended her christening. Without actually saying so he’s going to let her know she made a mistake, and that she needs to correct it. He’ll tell her to fix it anyway she can, but that she has to take care of it quickly.”
I had learned a great deal about crime; all I knew about politics was that criminals seemed to have more ethics. “She’ll let Cornelius make that kind of decision?”
“No, not on the surface. She’ll tell him that she has to prosecute everyone the same way. Then she’ll remark, almost as an afterthought, that of course she’s always willing to enter into plea negotiations with the other side. They’ll understand each other. In that group it’s almost intuitive. Anyway,” he said before he hung up, “you have a few days. They can’t afford to have you suspect that one call had anything to do with the other. But now you know, don’t you?”
It was nearly nine o’clock before I left the office that night. Though I had refused even to think about taking any new cases after Leopold Rifkin became my client, there were still dozens of other people I was obligated to defend. Driving home through the limited visibility of the bleak, relentless drizzle, I was too tired to think about anything except a long, hot shower and a dreamless sleep.
Dragging myself up the stairs, I took my clothes off in the bathroom and left them where they fell on the gleaming white tile floor. For a long time I stayed in the shower, eyes closed, the water streaming down my face, groaning out loud at the simple pleasure of not having to do anything. Finally, I turned the water off and stepped out, surrounded by billowing steam. I rubbed my hair dry with a thick, fluffy towel while I slowly staggered, stark naked, into the bedroom.
“Some things are worth waiting for.”
My hand fell down to my side, the towel dropped to the floor. “What are you doing here? It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” I said, trying to remember if it really was.
Alexandra was in bed, her head propped up on two pillows. An open book was laying face down on her knees. “Yes, it’s Wednesday,” she laughed.
“But on Wednesdays…” I started to say.
She was laughing louder, and then I realized why. “Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I said as I reached down, picked up the towel and wrapped it around my waist.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, laughing still.
I went up to her and took hold of the blanket. “Really! Well, let’s just see what you’re wearing tonight.”
She slid down until the cover came up to her chin. “Later. First, sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing all day.”
She moved over and I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was worried about you,” she explained. “I went to class, but I left during the break.” She reached up and stroked my face with her open hand. “Are you all right? You’re really working too hard. You’re exhausted.”
“I feel a lot better when you’re here. Why don’t you just move in, all the time? Then I can see you seven nights a week, not just five.”
“Will you promise not to work so hard?” she asked softly.
I moved from the edge of the mattress to a cloth-covered chair that sat in front of the writing table beside the bed. “I can’t promise that,” I said, stretching out my legs. “Not until this is over. This is the most important thing I’ve ever done. Probably, the most important thing I’ll ever do. If I lose this case—if Leopold Rifkin is convicted for something I know he didn’t do—I’ll never try another case as long as I live.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked, as she pulled her knees up under the covers and wrapped her arms around them.
I did not understand. “About what?”
“Don’t be angry with me for this. It’s not that I believe he did it. It’s not that at all. But, how can you be so sure he didn’t do it? Remember Bernie Rothstein, and what you told me then? You said there were two kinds of people, those you can tell are guilty just by looking at them and those you can only wonder about.”
“There are two kinds of people,” I said as I crawled in next to her. “Two kinds and Leopold Rifkin.”
She reached over and turned out the lamp. I put my arm around her and pulled her close, and the next thing I knew it was morning. She was gone by the time I got up. There was a two-word note on the kitchen table. “Seven nights.” It was the best I had felt in weeks.
* * *
Horace had known what he was talking about. The call from Gilliland-O’Rourke came the following Tuesday morning. She thought it might be a good idea if we discussed the Rifkin case, and would I have any time to come by her office?
“Just a minute. Let me check,” I said, trying to sound as pressed for time as I could. I stared at my appointment book. I did not bother to open it.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. This week is awful,” I sighed. “I’m just jammed. The only thing I have at all is lunch, this Thursday.”
She had something scheduled then, but she thought she could rearrange it.
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble. Next week, especially the end of the week, is much more open.”
It was no trouble. Thursday lunch would be fine.
I was waiting for her at a booth in the back. “Old times?” she asked, as she settled in on the other side of the table. She stared at me and tossed her head until her hair fell back over the thin slope of her shoulders, like the flaming tail of a meteor. She wore a dark green skirt and jacket. The white blouse was open just enough to reveal the beginning of her breasts. She laughed when she saw me look. “Old times?” she repeated, this time as if the question answered itself.
I shrugged. “I thought you might have forgotten.”
“Forget the worst food in town? When my secretary told me you called and left this as the name of the restaurant, I couldn’t believe it. I haven’t been back here since the last time.”
“I haven’t been back here either,” I said, watching her, waiting to see how much she was willing to talk about.
A slightly built Mexican waiter, sixteen or seventeen years old, with dazzling white teeth, took our order.
