Read Online Death Penalty by William J. Coughlin - Free Book Online Page A

rides on this too. It’s one thing to tell about someone you’ve only seen on paper. It’s better when you really know the problem, when you’ve seen it firsthand.”
    â€œI’m pretty busy, Mickey.”
    â€œWe’re all busy, but this is important. I’m asking as a special favor, Charley.”
    I sighed. “Okay. When do you want to go?”
    â€œNext week, Monday. Is that good?”
    I flipped through my desk calendar. I had a few thingsto do but nothing that couldn’t be put off. Mickey sounded as if he was coming apart. I could afford to lose a day, if for no reason other than charitable concern for a brother lawyer.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œI’ll drive up there and pick you up.”
    Mickey, I knew, couldn’t exist the day without drinking. It would be inconvenient, but safer, if I did the driving.
    â€œI’ll pick you up in front of your office building. What time?”
    â€œTen o’clock okay? It’s about an hour’s drive from here. We can see the guy and then have lunch. Sort of make a day of it. Like old times.”
    â€œTen o’clock,” I said and hung up.
    I had a bad feeling about the case, although I didn’t really know why.
    I marked the date and time on the calendar.
    I spent the rest of the day preparing for some motions I had the next day in circuit court. The matters weren’t earthshaking. I wanted a client’s temporary alimony reduced. My client was getting desperate, and poor. He didn’t mind a bit of desperation, but without relief he soon would be sleeping in his car. The judge had been divorced twice and I thought we had a fair chance, on empathy if nothing else.
    The second motion was to reduce another client’s bond. He was a nice quiet little man unless you said something to him in a bar. He didn’t need much, maybe just a request to pass an ashtray. Little or not, he regularly inflicted great damage to flesh and property. He was going to trial on his third assault charge, having smashed one nose and broken three bar stools before being subdued. Without booze he was a mild family man who worked as an accounting clerk. Add alcohol and he was transformed into a hundred-and-thirty-pound hurricane.Bail had been set at $100,000 by the judge who had let him out on probation the last time. He would lose his job if he didn’t get out. His wife and children would suffer.
    But, despite that, I was just going through the motions. The judge’s patience had run out, and my man had as much chance of getting out of jail as I did of winning the lottery.
    My preparation for both cases was merely to recheck the pleadings and review what I was going to say.
    That done, I would dine at my usual greasy spoon restaurant and then drive into Detroit, an hour away, for the weekly meeting of my club. The club was what we called the folks who regularly came to the Thursday night AA meeting in the basement of St. Jude’s Church.
    It was not so different from any other club. We have kind of a ritual, the reading, usually of the Twelve Steps. We know and like one another, more or less. And we have a common interest—staying sober. The only thing missing is dues.
    Mrs. Fenton made her usual quiet departure precisely at five o’clock and I was left alone.
    The phone rang almost as soon as she had closed the door behind her. I could hear her walking down the outside steps. She was not rushing back, so I picked it up on the fourth ring.
    â€œCharley Sloan,” I said.
    â€œPlease hold for Victor Trembly,” an officious woman demanded.
    I waited as she patched me into recorded music. I was about to hang up when he finally came on the line.
    â€œCharley, how are you!” The greeting was as enthusiastic as it was insincere.
    â€œNever better, Victor. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI was told by the police that you have some connection with Rebecca Harris.”
    â€œThe same