No Team To Root For (19) "Last night to be exact. A passing motorist spotted the wreck-age." Barrett's head felt like someone had stepped on it. If Aaron Claypool is dead, so am I! "Son-of-a-bitch!" "I spoke with the state police. We're going to try and ID what's left of the person who was fried to the steering wheel." Barrett sat back and closed his eyes. A car honked far off in the distance, and a dog barked right outside his window. Then the room began to swim. Darrell's words were barely audible. "If I was you, Doc, I'd call my lawyer." The click ended the con-versation. * XXIII Pansy Stalder was forty-eight years old, had long stringy red hair, was fifty pounds overweight causing her to waddle when she walked and wore dresses that were too short and too tight. She used an excessive amount of makeup and adorned herself with cheap costume jewelry. Pansy had just gone through a traumatic divorce in which her abusive ex-husband was awarded custody of their three teen-aged boys. Dr. Lucille Napier was in the midst of helping her to put her life back in order when the intercom buzzed. The psychologist dis-liked being interrupted during a session, especially one in which the emotional fever was at such a very high pitch. "I am sorry to disturb you," said the agitated receptionist, "but there is a Miles Garrison here. He insisted that I ring you. He does-n't have an appointment, but he says he has to see you on a matter of the most urgency." After a brief pause, Lucille asked with restrained fury, "When is my next appointment?" "In forty-five minutes." answered the receptionist. Again Lucille paused. "Okay, Joyce. I will be done in --- oh --- about ten or twelve minutes. You can send him in then. But not one second sooner! I don't care how urgent it is!" After a perturbed Pansy Stalder left the office, Lucille pushed the button on the intercom. "Please send in Mr. --- " "Garrison!" said Miles as he burst into the room. "Miles Garrison. May I sit down?" He did not wait for an answer and sat in the chair vacated by Pansy. The psychologist stopped and stared for several seconds then said with as much sarcasm as she could muster, "Mr. Garrison! I find your behavior very rude and ill-mannered." She looked at the clock. "You have exactly twenty-five minutes to tell me what is so ur-gent to necessitate your interrupting me as you did!" She then calmly lit up a cigarette. "Dr. Napier, what you think of me is of little importance. And I would appreciate it if you did not smoke!" The psychologist slowly put out her cigarette, never taking her eyes off the attorney. Then she sat back, folded her hands on her lap, and waited patiently for this audacious little man to speak. "Well, Lucille --- may I call you Lucille? I hate formalities." "Uh --- Mr. --- " Her body was tense. "Miles. Call me Miles." He spoke cordially. He knew the atmos-phere was hostile. "Okay --- Miles. Now just what is it you so desperately want?" She looked at the clock again "You have seventeen minutes!" "Your timing me is most annoying! However --- " The attorney took out a small piece of paper. Lucille looked on, angry and puz-zled. "I need to speak with you about a --- " Miles turned some pages. " --- Jodi Bartless." "Jodi --- " Lucille pursed her lips and squinted. " --- why is that name so familiar?" "You treated her a few years ago. I believe she was a patient of yours." Lucille Napier thought a moment. "As a matter of fact I do re-member Jodi." She moved some papers to the side and put her folded hands on top of her desk. "What about her?" "She was found dead a few weeks ago." "Oh --- I am truly sorry." Lucille Napier did indeed remember Jodi and wondered what happened to the young girl she had lost touch with. But she was not about to convey any of her thoughts or feelings to this insolent attorney. "Well, I have a client who is a suspect for murder." Miles leaned in and added, "Jodi's murder!" He paused and sat back in his chair. "However, we feel that suicide may be a very real possibility." Lucille Napier remained silent. Yes. Suicide is definitely a very real possibility! "Therefore," continued Miles, "If there is a trial, and there very well could be, we would like you to testify as to whether or not Jodi Bartless was in any way --- suicidal." "How did you know she was a patient of mine?" "I didn't. You just told me!" Miles smiled victoriously. "Maybe we were --- friends." Lucille couldn't smile. She was livid. "Hardly." The attorney put the small notebook back in his inside jacket pocket. "Your name was in her rolodex. You were definitely her therapist!" "I see." There was a long silence. The psychologist remained adamant. "Well --- I will not do anything that would reveal what took place between me and my patient. You seem to have discov-ered that particular aspect of the situation." She took a deep breath. "My patient's files are not for public distribution. They are private and it would be most unethical of me to share them with you or anyone else. As a professional yourself you should know that bet-ter than anyone!" She reached for a cigarette then met the attor-ney's eyes and changed her mind. "I can appreciate that. And on any other occasion I would be in agreement with you. But this situation is unique. Jodi is dead!" Now Miles had raised his voice slightly. "And my client is fighting for his life. If this case comes to trial, I'm afraid I will need your tes-timony!" "Mr. --- Miles. You have four minutes." Lucille stood up, her hands at her sides, starring daggers at the attorney. "I am sorry. But you have wasted both your time and mine as well." Now Miles stood. He spoke firmly and confidently. "I understand your position and you must understand mine." He waved his forefinger dramatically in the air. "My record as a defense attorney is par excellent! Whether there is a trial or not is immaterial. Either way I do not plan on losing this case!" Miles turned abruptly, heading for the door. As he was leav-ing, he turned back towards Dr. Napier. "But if there is a trial, you will testify!" * XXIV Barrett Jessop, seated comfortably in his easy chair in the family room, would have dozed off had it not been for the sharp sound of the telephone. He grabbed the receiver on the second ring. "Hello." "Barrett, I'll get right to the point." Miles said agitatedly. "You have been indicted." The optometrist was silent. "Barrett, are you there?" His response was barely audible. "Yes." Miles continued. "An arraignment has been set next week. The trial is in one month." There was more silence. Then Barrett said evenly, "I suppose all this is the result of there being probable cause." "That is correct." Miles felt helpless. "Shit!" Fear was mixed with anger. After a brief pause, Miles added, "Well, Barrett, as long as I'm in the neighborhood I might as well dump this on you too." He took a deep breath. "I spoke to the medical examiner this morning about the body in the car." Barrett felt his inside drop to his toes. According to him --- " Miles took out his notebook and began to read. " --- individually the results are inconclusive." "That's good, isn't it?" Miles ignored the comment and continued. "There were two healed fractures. One was from a broken femur. The other was from a cracked humerus. There were some old scars that could have been anyone's. His belt buckle was a popular item two years ago and could have belonged to any of a thousand different people. Dental records were negative since most of his teeth were blown out. But believe it or not, his wallet was intact. His drivers license and Visa were in-side." Miles chuckled. Barrett was unable to share in the gaiety. "He was actually sitting on it!" The papers stopped rattling. "But he could have stolen the wallet --- along with the car." "Okay, Miles." Exasperation and fatigue had temporarily re-placed fear and anger. "So where does this leave us?" "Well, as I said, individually the results are questionable. But col-lectively --- the wallet, the scars, the belt buckle, the car, his physi-cal size --- strongly indicate that this hunk of charcoal is indeed Aaron Claypool." Miles took another deep breath. Barrett remained stunned and speechless. "Between you and me, Barrett, it really doesn't matter if Claypool is alive or not. There's not one shred of evidence to link him to Jodi Bartless. And even if there was, there is no data that would place him at the scene of the crime. There are no fresh prints, no witnesses --- nothing!" "Why am I not surprised?" Again Barrett's response was almost a whisper. "Barrett, I think we should stop wasting time on Claypool and pursue other avenues." "Goddamn it, Miles! I hear what you're saying. But I'm still con-vinced ___ " "That Claypool is guilty. Well, forget it!" "So he gets away with murder, right?" Like someone else I know! "Barrett, I can't answer that. But it's of no consequence either way. No judge or jury in the world would look at us twice with what we have. Dead or alive, we have no case against him!" There was a long silence. Barrett sighed deeply. His breathing was erratic. "I know this is not the way we wanted it." Miles said compas-sionately. "I'm sorry. There was just no easy for me way to tell you." Barrett waited for several minutes before he responded. His voice was edgy but calm. "We both know this is total bullshit, but --- I understand. I'll just have to put my faith in your judgement and --- my life in your hands." He took a deep breath. "I know we'll beat it!" "Good attitude, Barrett!" Miles knew his patience would be put to the test. "Yeah, right!" After a short pause, Barrett asked, "What's the next step, Miles?" "We go to see Judge Wymant and enter your plea --- which is obviously going to be not guilty." "Obviously!" "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight thirty." Miles' opti-mism sounded forced. "And good luck --- to both of us." "Goodbye, Miles." Barrett hung up, then sat down dejectedly, trying his best to digest the dismal news and perceive some logic. After several minutes, he felt he was beginning to envision some sort of pattern. Maybe, he thought, this strong decision on the part of the grand jury had nothing to do with Jodi. Maybe it was a de-layed reaction concerning Janet! If this were true it would mean he hadn't gotten away with any-thing after all. He could very well end up paying for the wrong crime. Perhaps he would be a victim of poetic justice! * XXV Miles and Barrett, both wearing three-piece suits, followed a po-liceman to a closed door with a small sign reading: JUDGE JOSLYN WYMANT - COMMON PLEAS COURT. The police-man left, and the two men walked into a large crowded courtroom, finding seats in the next to the last row. Miles got up and handed a piece of paper to the tall thin bailiff, who in turn handed it to a young muscle-bound clerk, who placed it under a stack of papers on Judge Wymant's huge desk. Barrett looked around the room filled with 'seedy' looking char-acters. They were unshaven and dirty with uncombed hair and slept- in clothes. It was a frightening reminder of whom he saw in his mirror after he got home from leaving his jail cell. A sudden cold wave shot through his body. Interspersed with these 'seedy' characters were a number of men and women with dark suits. Some were criminals and some were in the legal profession. It was be difficult to make the distinction. The longer Barrett sat, the more jittery and the more uneasy he became as case after case was brought up --- many resembling his own. The cases ranged from robbery to rape to murder. He wanted desperately to leave, but he knew he couldn't since the rest of his life might depend on the well-dressed man sitting next to him. "Miles." whispered Barrett. "What do I say? We've never dis-cussed it." "You say nothing. I'll do all the talking." Miles whispered back. "We'll enter a not guilty plea. Then bond will be set and that will be that!" At ten minutes to five, one of the clerks stepped forward. Barrett figured him for a first or second year college student. He was young, clean-shaven, and his noticeable air of innocence was unmistakable. "Call Barrett Jessop. Docket case number 3391511. Please step forward." Miles led Barrett to Judge Wymant's desk. "How do you plead?" continued the young clerk. "Not guilty, your Honor." said Miles confidently. "And if it please the court, considering the fact that the evidence here is circumstan-tial and that my client has a clean record and is a member of the professional community, I would ask that minimal bond be set and that my client continue to be on his own recognizance, pending trial as so stipulated." Judge Wymant sat back in his chair. He looked at Barrett, then at Miles, then back at Barrett --- rubbing his chin the entire time. He had rough olive colored skin, a thin mustache, and narrow gray eyes. His clear plastic eyeglass frames were halfway down his wide nose. His bald head showed several small pink birthmarks. Barrett thought him to be in his middle to late forties. "So," Wymant said, "You are an --- optometrist. Well --- " He picked up several pieces of paper, studying them one at a time. "I haven't had an eye exam in --- oh --- four or five years." He then looked directly at Barrett and smiled. "Terrible isn't it? You would think I'd know better." He began to turn over the papers in his hand one at a time, perusing them closely. Barrett felt as if he had been standing there for eons. "I will set bond at one-hundred-thousand dollars. And you may continue to be on your own recog-nizance." He folded his hands and looked Barrett in the eye. "I would have your counsel advise you not to leave town." He banged his gavel. "Bailiff, call the next case." * XXVI George Archer was a sixty-eight year old ex-cop. But his wiry six feet two frame and solid one hundred-eighty-five pounds easily passed him off as someone much younger. He ran five miles a day and worked out on the nautilus regularly. He felt trim and strong and knew he could keep up with men half his age. It was 11:15 pm and he was sitting in an overstuffed easy chair eating low fat popcorn and completely engrossed in an I Love Lucy rerun when the telephone rang. "Who the hell is calling at 11:45?" He spoke aloud then picked up the receiver. "Hello." "Hello, George. Miles here." "Miles --- do you know what time it is?" George sat up almost spilling his popcorn. "Forget the time. I need your help!" "Oh." The attorney's statement was familiar. "I have taken on a case in this small hick town in Ohio." "Really?" I knew it! "I did it as a favor to my cousin Joey." "How small a town is it?" George suddenly felt more like a straight man than a cop. "If you count the farm animals the population is tops --- two thousand. Anyway, tomorrow I want you to meet me at twelve noon in the lobby of the Capital Hyatt on Market Street. You can't miss it. It's an old building in downtown Chicago near the Water Tower." Miles moved the receiver to the other hand. "I've made all the necessary arrangements for you. Your plane leaves LaGuardia at 10:05 am. Flight 161 US Air. Any questions?" George had no questions. He knew from experience that you never questioned Miles Garrison when he had specific plans on spe-cific dates at specific places. It was something he had never gotten used to. He put down his half eaten bag of popcorn, took a pencil and pad, which he always kept by the phone, and wrote down all of the pertinent information. "Okay, Miles. See you tomorrow. The Hyatt at noon." "You got it." Miles hung up with no goodbye. It was something else George would never get used to. He knew that Miles could be rude and difficult at times and tomorrow he would have to drop everything and go to Chicago. But the pay was good and the bene-fits even better. They traveled first class, ate at only the best restau-rants, and stayed at only the finest hotels. After their brief conversation, George turned off the TV and went right to bed. He had a hunch that tomorrow was going to be a very long day. * George Archer arrived at O'Hare International Airport at 11:10. A black chauffeured stretch limousine awaited his arrival and took him directly to the Capital Hyatt, getting him there a little ahead of schedule. But he knew it wouldn't be a problem because Miles Gar-rison would be on time. Miles was always on time. The small lobby had thick black carpeting and bone white walls and ceilings. The two huge sofas were black leather and the scat-tered chairs were white leather. At 11:55 the two men exchanged cordial hellos and a warm hand-shake. "You know, George, with that fancy warm-up and those Reeboks, you look more like a jogger then a detective." They both smiled. "Come on." Miles continued as he put his arm around the detective's shoulder. "Let's go into the bar and have a drink --- and talk." "I assume we're both checked in." George said rhetorically. He knew the answer. "You assume correctly." Miles waved his hand in the direction of the porter stand. Soon a short gray-haired black man in a fresh blue uniform walked up to them. Miles then gave him money and he took George's two suitcases to the room. George knew better than anyone that the well-dressed attorney's reputation always preceded him as being generous, organized, pre-cise, and prepared to get the job done regardless of what it took. The two men found a clean and out of the way booth at the back of the bar. "George, I'm glad this place is not very crowded. What I have to say to you must be said in the utmost of confidentiality. And as you know, I trust no one. You are my one and only confi-dant." Miles leaned in toward the detective, his hands folded on the table. "So just listen!" Two tables away, three teenagers temporarily left abandoned by their parents, began to get rowdy and at the same time a jet plane flew over the hotel. It all happened just as Miles was ready to speak. Over the din it was difficult for George to hear what Miles had to say. But he spoke slowly and distinctly so that his associate could hear and understand every word. "Are you serious? Jesus, Miles! That is one tall order!" "Yes, I know it is. But if anyone can do it, you are the one. And --- I need it in two or three days." Miles sat back grinning as he watched George's mouth drop open. "I --- I don't know --- " George began to move the salt shaker back and forth nervously. "Five or six days would be pushing it." "I understand all that." Miles put his hand on top of George's and put back the saltshaker. "But time is a factor." George shook his head drearily and stared at Miles incredulously. "Well --- I'll do the best I can."
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