Storymania - No Team To Root For by B J Bloch

No Team To Root For (31)
B J Bloch

XLII

   At nine am, one hour before his first trial, Mason Stoner opened the door to his office to admit an agitated Miles Garrison. The judge had on a short sleeve white shirt and no tie. He wore sloppy looking brown house slippers. The attorney was in his usual three-piece suit.
   "Come in, Garrison." The two men shook hands. "Your call last night sounded mighty urgent."
   "Well, it was at the time, but now --- I'm not so sure." Miles sat down in the same old worn out chair in front of Stoner's desk. Then he casually looked around the room. "You know something , Stoner? You need new furniture."
   "Look, Garrison." Mason sat down behind his desk. "I know you didn't come all this way to help me redecorate. So get to the point!"
   "It's about the trial." Miles loosened his tie.
   "I thought we settled all that!"
   Miles leaned in and looked the judge directly in the eye. "This is the first time in a long time that I've been bested in a courtroom. And it pissed me off to a point that I came here with every intention of filing for a mistrial and initiating an all out investigation into what seemed like flagrant doings during the course of the trial." He paused and took a deep breath. "We both know that the whole thing was a set up." The attorney then sat back in his chair. "Un-fortunately --- I have no proof."
   "Proof? Proof of what? I --- "
   "Cut the bullshit, Stoner! You sound like Walt Ivers. You know damn well what I mean!"
   Mason Stoner waited a long time before he responded. "Okay, counselor." He folded his hands and laid them on the desk. "So you really didn't know."
   Then he shook his head. "Well I'll be a son-of-a-bitch! You were bluffing. And Walt Ivers was right for one of the few times in his dull life. Bluffing. Ha!" Stoner shrugged. "But it makes no differ-ence now. I couldn't care less. Just make your damn point and go! I got no time to play any more games!"
   "What I'm trying to say is --- I changed my mind."
   "You changed your mind?" The judge leaned in toward the attor-ney, his wrath evident. "You came over her at nine am disrupting a very busy schedule to tell me about an appeal that is not going to be filed and about an investigation that is not going to take place?"
   "Yep! That's it in a nutshell."
   Mason stared at Miles for several seconds. "You know, Garrison, sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass!"
   "Maybe I'm getting old or lazy --- or both. But a damaged ego is just not enough reason to launch an all out war." Miles glanced at his Rolex. "Especially a war that I would most certainly lose. Nope. It doesn't seem worth the effort."
   The judge got up slowly and moved his large body to the front of the desk. "You know, Garrison, for a long time I wasn't sure if I would take an early retirement or merely bide my time doing mis-cellaneous shit --- or try for a lower court. Just take it easy for three years." He sat down on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. "This little visit has made my decision easier. Much eas
ier! Early retirement is an unchallenged winner." Mason smiled. "And now thanks to you, there are no more decisions to be made. No sir! Not any more!"
   Mason Stoner then walked back to his chair. He leaned forward, both hands flat on the desk. "So you go ahead and file your griev-ance. Or go ahead and launch your all out war." The smile faded. "I don't give a fuck! Because I'll be a million miles away!"
   Miles got up to leave. As he opened the door, Stoner's words stopped him. "You know, Garrison, you were foolish. If you had pushed a little harder, I would have given your client eight years."
   "Maybe you were the foolish one, Your Honor. I would have set-tled for twelve!"

*



                   BOOK FOUR


                                        BARRETT

XLIII

   After Barrett had been in prison for six weeks, Miles Garrison fi-nally paid him a visit. The reasons he gave in his letters for not coming sooner was that he hated Lucasville --- it depressed him. And besides, he said, he had nothing significant to report. Barrett did not question the logic.
   But Miles would always be Miles, thought Barrett. His nails were perfectly manicured, his three piece tailored suit was wrinkle free and his face was as smooth as a baby's ass. And as usual, he had not one hair out of place!
   "I thought I would go over a few things with you before I leave for New York."
   Miles and Barrett sat down across from each other on a long gray wooden bench and spoke through a large opening above the table that separated them. Guards were at either end.
   Miles cleared his throat and continued. "I will abide by our agreement that if we lost you would owe me nothing."
   "Look, Miles, you got me ten years instead of life. That has --- "
   "That was not a victory, Barrett. That was a compromise."
   Barrett took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. But I still have some money --- "
   "Forget it! Things didn't really turn out as we had hoped." Bar-rett started to speak but Miles went on. "I realize there were ex-tenuating circumstances and quite a bit of confusion. But it's okay. I don't need your money." Then he picked up the pace. "I'm going to try and get your sentence reduced. I know the chances are slim to none. But it won't hurt to give it a shot."
  "Okay." Barrett answered unenthusiastically.
   I think it's safe to say we can forget an investigation into any wrongdoing. And I would love to nail those bastards --- especially Hollstadt! But they are Lily white --- spotless! Even George Archer struck out!"
   "It's okay, Miles. I know I gave you a hard way to go."
   "Yeah --- well --- " Miles looked at his watch.
   "And I know you did your best." added Barrett. "I don't think anyone could have done more --- considering."
   "Well, Barrett. Sometimes our best just isn't good enough --- is it?"
   Barrett hesitated. He knew he had to change the subject. "How is George?"
   "Oh he's fine. He sends his regards."
   Barrett knew that George Archer was far too provoked with him to send any sort of greeting. But he would let the idle remark pass.
   "George says he wants to retire. All of this is getting to be too much for him. But he can't retire anymore than I can. We both love the tumult and we both still love the good fight." Miles started to get up then abruptly changed his mind. He took a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. "I almost forgot." He turned some pages then looked at the prisoner. "I came across something I thought would be of some interest to you. It's a brief interpretation of a short story by Edgar Allen Poe called The Tell Tale Heart." Barrett looked quizzically at his attorney. Miles went on. "This ex-planation was written by a psychoanalyst --- oh --- about nine years ago." The defense lawyer then looked back at his notebook. "I'm sure you know this bizarre tale about a protagonist that did away with someone in a most brutal fashion."
   Barrett felt his mouth drop open. He suddenly remembered the gruesome story. Miles turned the page. "He buried the dismem-bered corpse under the floorboards. Then shortly after the poor man's demise, the protagonist begins to hear --- a heart beat." A shiver went through Barrett's body. "These heart beats seemed to emanate from the body." Miles looked at his client. Barrett hadn't moved. "Sound familiar?"
   Barrett closed his eyes and nodded slowly.
   "According to the psychoanalyst, this phenomenon is known as --- paranoid delusion. It's a form of auditory hallucination. One finds this rare occurrence in cases in which the person responsible for the murder is besieged with either guilt or fear --- or both." Miles closed the notebook and re
turned it to his jacket pocket. "Anyway, I thought you would find it interesting --- to say the least."
   Barrett a deep breath and again nodded.
   Miles stood. As he did so, he smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie. "I have to go. But let's do try and stay in touch."
   "Sure thing, Miles." But as they shook hands, Barrett knew that he would never see the New York attorney again.

*

   Later that afternoon Lysle Richardson came to the prison.
   "Boy!" said Barrett. "Either no one comes to visit or everyone comes." The two shook hands warmly. "Miles Garrison stopped by this morning to tell me that I'll be here for the full ten years."
   "That's what he said?" The dejection in Lysle's voice matched the dejection in his face.
   "Well --- he didn't use exactly those words --- but he didn't have to. The message came through loud and clear."
   "Barrett --- I --- what can I say?"
   Barrett shrugged and ran his fingers through his thin hair. He had to change the subject and used the envelope in Lysle's hand as the reason. "What are those papers?"
   "This is a contract on your house."
   As he pushed the envelope through the opening a guard came over immediately to inspect it. The guard looked at Lysle then at Barrett, then finally walked away. Barrett shook his head disgust-edly.
   "It's about four thousand less than you wanted, but --- "
   "It's okay. Take it." It wasn't okay.
   "I really tried to get your price." Lysle continued apologetically.
   Barrett took the papers and separated them. As the dentist handed him a pen, the same guard came over again.
   "It's a pen, okay?" Barrett was livid. "It's only a fucking pen!"
   When the guard finally saw what it was, he left.
   "Bastards really trust you here!" added Barrett.
   As Barrett was signing at the X's, Lysle cleared his throat and said. "Some recent graduates may want to come here and talk to you about your practice."
   Barrett looked up. He held the pen in mid-air. "They want to come --- here?"
   "Well --- what else do you suggest?"
   "Lysle. It's embarrassing!" Barrett knew his pupils were the size of dimes.
   "I know it is. But --- "
   "Okay. Okay!" Barrett turned back to the contract. "Do what you have to!"
   Lysle paused then cleared his throat again. "Just don't expect to get a lot of money for it. Getting your price is going to be tough."
   Barrett winced privately. He had worked so hard and so long to build up his practice and now he was going to end up giving it away.
   More tough shit, Dr. Jessop!
   "I figured that would be the case." Barrett finished signing and put the pen down.
   Lysle had no answer. Then he looked over both shoulders and leaned in as close as he could. He asked softly, "How are you really doing here --- truthfully?"
   "Well --- " Barrett handed the pen to Lysle. " --- it's far from pleasant. And I like it a whole lot better on the outside." He whis-pered. "But I've been here --- oh --- about forty-five days. And I haven't cracked yet."
   Both men eyed each other silently. Barrett watched Lysle stare at the many new lines on his face. He knew his cheeks looked hollow and dark circles were bulging under his eyes.
   Barrett continued. "The food is mediocre --- at best. The pressed meat is soggy and the bread is stale." He forced a weak smile. "The cuisine is not even close to what an affluent person such as myself is used to." He handed Lysle the contract. Then he continued. "The clothes are uncomfortable, the shoes are too tight and this fucking shirt itches like hell!" Again Barrett smiled weakly. "They're cer-tainly not clothes befitting an ex-member of the professional com-munity."
   Lysle didn't return the smile. He only nodded.
   "Let's face it, Lysle. I'm just another prisoner." He pointed to the pocket on his shirt. "Number 90234 to be exact! Another incorrigi-ble for the State to deal with." He glanced quickly at the guards, then added very softly. "Although, with the money you bring me --- from my dwindling bank account --- I'm able to bribe the guards." Lysle's mouth dropped open. "They in turn keep the other prisoners from hassling me --- if you know what I mean."
   Lysle nodded again. He knew what his friend meant.
   "In fact, I'm one of the few prisoners that is alone virtually all the time --- except for meals and recreation. And even then I can usu-ally find a secluded spot --- somewhere." Barrett licked his lips and continued. "The exercise programs and volleyball games make the times I spent on my stationary bike seem like the grandest of pleas-ures." Barrett noticed the deep grim concern that showed on his friend's face. "Lysle. I'm handling it --- okay?" Then he leaned closer, trying to keep the conversation light. "Look, Lysle. You're supposed to be reassuring me and lifting my spirits --- cheering me up. Not vice-versa." Barrett tried to force another smile, but couldn't.
   When Barrett stood, he felt the jail garb hanging off his thinning frame. Lysle gaped.
   "Yeah. I know, Barrett." Lysle stood also. He put the pen in his shirt pocket and the folded envelope in his pants pocket. "Well --- I gotta run. I'll call you later this week."
   They shook hands and Lysle headed for the exit. Then he sud-denly turned back and said. "I --- uh --- hate to be the one to tell you. And maybe you'd never have heard." The agitated dentist took a step toward Barrett. "But if you did hear, I wanted you to hear it from me."
   Barrett waited. "I'm listening."
   Lysle hesitated then took a deep breath. "Dale Stemen died."
   Barrett stared for several seconds. "Really? Wow! The last time I saw Dale was at a football stag at Darrell Saltz'." He sat back down. "It seems like a hundred years ago, Lysle."
   Lysle only nodded.
   "Didn't he retire and move to Florida?"
   "Yep." Lysle nodded again.
   Barrett shook his head dejectedly. "That sure was a short retire-ment."
   "It sure was." Lysle agreed. "You plan and plan and then --- "
   "Dale worked his whole life. All those years --- "
   "And for what?" asked Lysle rhetorically. "Look what happens!"
   "Yeah." repeated Barrett. "Look what happens!" I know some-one else like that! "Hey, Lysle!" He changed the subject again. "I forgot to tell you. I've decided to write my memoirs."
   "Boy. Some ambition!"
   "Yeah, what the hell!" Barrett stood. "I got nothing else to do."
   After a brief pause, Lysle cleared his throat. "Listen, Barrett. I really do have to go." Once again they shook hands. "I promise to stay in touch."
   Barrett's eyes followed his friend until he was out of sight. Then he motioned to the guard to take him back to his cell. When the guard came over, Barrett handed him the five twenty dollar bills Lysle had slipped him on the way out.
   Even though Barrett cringed whenever he doled out money, he knew he had no choice if he intended to maintain even a fragment of his sanity. However, it served as a constant reminder of the main fear he had when he wanted to divorce Janet, which was to keep from pissing it all away. So big fucking deal! I'm doing it any-way!
   He sat down on the small cot in his cell, picked up a pen and be-gan to write.

*

   XLIV

   It was one month later that Lysle Richardson paid his next visit to Barrett Jessop. Barrett had lost more than nine pounds during that interval and never having been heavy to begin with, the
weight loss combined with a gradual receding hairline made him look considerably older than his fifty-seven years. In addition to that, his cheeks were sunken deeper and the circles under his eyes were darker. He dreaded looking at the aged figure that greeted him in the cracked mirror each morning.
   "Barrett, you look like shit!" Lysle said it jokingly, even though both men knew it wasn't funny
because it was true.
   "Jesus Christ, Lysle! Take it easy, okay? I know you were never one to mix words. So if this is your idea of cheering me up --- " Barrett gave his friend the finger.
   "I see you haven't lost your sense of humor." said Lysle.
   "You need one to survive in this fucking hole!" Barrett's voice was weak.
   "Barrett, let's get down to the business at hand here." Lysle scratched his forehead. "I'm trying my damnedest with this practice of yours. But we have to face the facts." Barrett could see his friend struggle. "No one is willing to pay you what it's worth."

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