Part 8 (2/2)
I had no ready answer for that.
”I remember the case,” Kenny said thoughtfully. ”The Morgan kid admitted being there. The Zide widow and her son ID'd him. Even if Nickerson lied too-and it's a big if-it still comes out to be harmless error. Nasty, but still judicially harmless.”
”If Nickerson was lying, then whether Morgan was guilty or not, the trial was not a fair trial.”
”Gimme a break. What are we, back in law school?”
”You're the public defender!” I nearly shouted.
”And as the public defender, I have to be a realist. If I played 'Hearts and Flowers' on my violin all day long and worried whether every trial was fair, nothing would get done.”
”Your office handled all the Morgan appeals, right?”
”Up to five years ago. Then the Florida legislature created a job called CCR-the Capital Collateral Representative. It's a political office in Tallaha.s.see, and they take these cases at the review stage. Because it was a f.u.c.king traffic jam, all those hundreds of guys convicted and sitting there on death row.”
”You mean they weren't frying them fast enough,” I said.
Kenny nodded vigorously. ”Probably half the work of the Florida Supreme Court was devoted to death penalty cases. Biggest waste of human legal resources known.”
”Can I see your files?”
He nodded again. ”We always try for ineffective a.s.sistance of counsel. We never get it. We lose, and the defendant always looks depressed and says, 'Where do we go from here?' The PD lawyer says, 'You go to prison. I go back to my office.' ”
After dinner I walked alone on the beach to listen to the Atlantic crash against the sh.o.r.e. Tiny s.h.i.+ning white animals washed up on the sand with each succeeding wave. Things Kenny had said nibbled at my mind . .. trying to pretend you bad a clean job.
Was I like that? If, for example, I denied for so long that Alan was a druggie-and that was right before my eyes-wasn't it possible that I denied other things?
I tried to focus on Darryl Morgan. A man I didn't even know, somewhere far away in another darkness. In Raiford, on death row.
Why do I need to get involved in this now? What am I trying to achieve? What do I smell?
I looked down the beach and realized that if I followed its wide path far enough to the south, I would reach Connie Zide's house. I knew she still lived there. I hadn't asked, but over the years bits and pieces of information slipped through the ether and came my way. The lonely widow-become a little reclusive and, they said, a little odd. Took a young lover now and then, gave him expensive gifts, fended off the older fortune hunters, declined to remarry. Solly's estate had been divided into five equal portions: one part each to the two distant daughters, one of whom lived in Connecticut and the other in Santa Barbara; one part to Connie, one to Neil; and one part divided among a clutch of southern universities, each of which received either an endowed chair in the humanities or a varied scholars.h.i.+p fund. Most people were surprised at the wisdom of Solly's generosity.
Neil had stayed in the development business, also surprising most people by his efficiency and political smarts. The inherited millions he had parlayed into many more.
I walked back toward the cheerful lights of Kenny's house. See what you can find out tomorrow, I decided. A day is what you promised yourself. Perhaps-even for a day-recapture that feeling you used to have of being involved, of wanting to do something decent. Do what can be done, but don't tilt at windmills. You have responsibilities elsewhere: to your family, your firm, to other clients. A day, then go home.
At home that night Toba was watching TV upstairs in the master bedroom. There were nightly reruns of M*A*S*H, her favorite program. She had bathed and put on a bathrobe and old pink furry slippers that she wouldn't part with even though the quilted outer part looked raggedy enough for the Salvation Army.
She'd had a hard day and was feeling just a tad sorry for herself. n.o.body was buying houses, and even if they were of a mind to do so, they made ridiculously low offers. Sellers were saying, ”We'll wait until this bad period is over.”
Toba had been concentrating on rentals. A tenant to whom she had rented a house on Longboat Key had called the office on the day he was scheduled to move in. ”Ms. Jaffe, there are mouse droppings under the sink!” The family was moving into a motel until the mice had been exterminated. ”And no poison, please! We have a toy poodle.” Toba rushed to the hardware store on St. Armands Key and bought twenty Sure-Kill traps. She set the traps with Camembert cheese that she s.n.a.t.c.hed from our refrigerator.
The next morning my intrepid wife carted away the little gray bodies with their b.l.o.o.d.y mouths. ”G.o.d forbid the tenants should have seen,” she said to me. ”They're from Manhattan. They don't accept anything that crawls, except c.o.c.kroaches.”
It was a season of animal troubles. One midnight in December she'd been awakened by a call from a hysterical tenant in the woods of Siesta Key. The tenant was in bed, and a monstrous ten-inch-long, eight-legged hairy animal was perched on her chest. It was staring at her in an unfriendly manner.
”Mrs. Hart,” Toba said cheerfully, ”I think you've either been partying too much or you're having a nightmare.”
Mrs. Hart called the police. When they arrived, they removed a rare, poisonous wolf spider.
At about the time that I boarded the flight to Jacksonville, Mrs. Hart, through her lawyer, informed Toba that she was suing her for negligence, malpractice, and slander.
While I was walking on the cool sands of Jacksonville Beach with Kenny Buckram, Toba cooked a meal of lamb chops and apple sauce and frozen french fries. Alan set the table with red linen napkins, took out his old Zippo and, with a flourish, lit a candle. Finis.h.i.+ng her vodka tonic, Toba opened a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
”Mom, the Becker kids are going sailing over the weekend down at Captiva Island. They've got an uncle who has a fifty-six-footer with standing headroom, sleeps seven or eight, must be fantastic. They invited me along. Can I go?”
”Of course you can. You're nineteen years old-you can do things like that without asking me.”
”We'll probably check out the night life on Captiva, which I'm sure is nonexistent. But I don't like to be without any money, hang around like a d.a.m.n parasite. I hate to ask, but-”
”Don't worry,” Toba said.
”You're great, Mom.”
”Just don't get too sunburned. The sun on the water is very powerful.”
After dinner she heard Alan on the phone in the den, leaving a message for someone to call him back. He dropped into an easy chair to watch a video on the TV, and that was when Toba said good night and went upstairs to bathe. She could hear the sound of gunfire and screeching tires; it seemed to her that he always watched different versions of the same movie. She took the bottle of cabernet with her. After she had settled among the warm bubbles and lemon- scented oil of the bath, she drank another gla.s.s of wine. Later, in the bedroom, wrapped in her terry-cloth robe, she lay on the bed, supported by the special backrest with arms, while she watched M*A*S*H. From time to time she heard the little ding as the phone was hung up elsewhere in the house.
I miss Cathy, Toba thought. It's hard when a daughter leaves home.
In Ithaca, Cathy would be awake, studying. The question was: wait until eleven, when the rates go down, or call now?
Toba poured the last bit of the wine into her gla.s.s. She picked up the phone.
Alan's voice filled her ear.
”.. . man, good and f.u.c.ked! I'll get the money tomorrow for sure. It was hard tonight. She f.u.c.king drives me crazy....”
Toba's cheeks heated up steadily. She couldn't put down the phone.
A young male voice on the other end of the line said, ”One fanf.u.c.kingtastic blast. f.u.c.king wasted is what we'll get.”
”f.u.c.kin' A!”
Far across the room, in the mirror above her dressing table, Toba could see the moronic look on her own face. Her mouth had fallen open.
Alan said, ”Got 'ludes, quarter grains... . Bobby's holding the caps. ...”
”Gotta hang up, dude.”
Toba carefully replaced the receiver and slid out of bed, drawing the belt of her bathrobe tightly around her waist. Her knees felt like pudding. In the bathroom she washed her face in cold water in an effort to get the fire out of her skin. Barefoot, on shaky legs, she padded downstairs to the kitchen, to the wine rack on the wall next to the microwave. She removed another bottle of cabernet. With the bottle and the corkscrew, she climbed back upstairs to bed.
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