Wendy Hornsby - Bad Intent

I wanted to be able to hear what was happening in the rest of the house. Someone was washing dishes in the kitchen, MTV was on the living room TV. I was being left alone to cool off, but it wasn’t working. Because of Leroy Burgess.

Burgess dominated the slot:

Every year Pastoral Crusade gets hundreds of requests for help from men in prison who say they are innocent. Most of their cases have no merit. Now and then we find one that does, like Charles Conklin. We won’t even look into a case unless every avenue of appeal has been exhausted and there is no one else who can help.

Take Charles Conklin. Here’s a poor, barely literate individual, with no resources, no connections whatsoever. How is he going to get the ear of the courts? When Charles wrote to me, I did some checking. From the beginning I saw that the conviction was seriously flawed.

I gave in and turned up the volume. I needed to know about the beginning.

We dug into the case record. We found conflicting testimony, a tainted confession, the word of a jailhouse snitch who got conjugal visitation rights in payment. We went back into the neighborhood and found the witnesses who had testified against Mr. Conklin at his original trial. Every one of them told us that they were pressured, threatened, and even bribed by the detectives assigned to the case, Detectives Mike Flint and Jerry Kelsey.

That’s when we took the files over to D.A. Marovich. I fully expected to be thrown out of his office. But I should have had more faith that our Lord, who loves justice, would be in our corner. Mr. Marovich listened to us, understood the implications of our findings right away. He has such confidence that the original investigation was tainted that he persuaded one of the city’s big-dollar law firms to represent Charles Conklin on a pro bono basis. Without charging a retainer, Jennifer Miller will lead the appeal team. Here Burgess leered at the young woman sitting erect beside him.

I picked up the telephone and dialed Ralph’s direct number at SNN.

“Faust,” he said.

“I’m going to sue your ass, Ralph,” I said, seething.

“Maggie!” He seemed pleased. “You’re watching the broadcast. I’m flattered.”

“You’re fucked. I’m going to drag up every despicable shard I have on you and sell it to Hard Copy and the Enquirer. `Scumbag reporter sodomizes chickens in the jungles of El Salvador while colleague lies wounded at his feet.’ I have film, Ralph. You know I do.”

“Calm down, Maggie.” Ralph seemed to find my anger funny. “Jesus Christ.”

“I sold you single broadcast rights to that piece of tape and you sold it all over town.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, you lied to me about why you wanted Etta Harkness.”

“What, you never lied to a colleague?” Ralph laughed, a smug bark. “You’re an old industry pro, Maggie. You know I would never give away a breaking story.”

“Who tipped you about Etta’s relationship to Charles Conklin?”

“I have sources, just like you have sources. I don’t give them away, either. You’re acting like a baby, Maggie. What’s the big deal?”

“I expected a higher professional standard from you.”

“Professional standard? Look who’s talking. For you this whole thing is personal. Personal in the person of Detective Mike Flint. I’ve heard about what the affidavits in the D.A.‘s office say about your boy’s interrogation techniques, kiddo. Makes me think you have unplumbed potential. I just wish you’d told me a long time ago that you like it rough. We missed out on a whole lot of fun, you and me.”

I had to take a couple of deep breaths before I could say anything. In that small space of time, my mind cleared considerably.

Ralph kept talking. “You should know better than to sleep with your story, Maggie. It’s your objectivity that gets fucked.”

“Keep in mind, Ralph,” I said with new calm, “you breached my copyright when you resold the tape. Now, your ass, your firstborn, the deed to the miserable hovel you call home are mine to broker. My attorneys will call you.”

I slammed down the receiver and turned off the television. I hadn’t seen Mike standing at the far side of the bed.

“Feel better?” he asked. Without the television, the room was dark. All I could see of him was his starchy white shirt and the dark line of his tie.

“I’m all right,” I said. Actually, I did feel better. So much better to scream at Ralph than at Mike. “Where’s your father?”

“Michael drove him home. Dad likes you.”

“I don’t know why. Sorry I abandoned you with the dishes. I didn’t want everyone to hear what I had to say to Ralph and I couldn’t wait any longer.” I sat up, decided I might as well go on living. Mike started to turn away. I reached for him, hooked my fingers inside his belt to hold him.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“I didn’t lie to you. I told you in the beginning that I put Tyrone’s papa in the slam.”

“When were you going to tell me Tyrone’s papa was Charles Conklin?”

He smiled, the beginnings of a teasing smile. “I have to let you find out some things all by yourself. Besides, when I introduced you to Etta, Charles Conklin was still nothing but LAPD prisoner number 1475533-C. Who knew Star Search would come looking for him?”

“Tell me how you came to set me up with Etta.”

“Etta,” he repeated. “You were asking me about the projects, about the kids who grow up there, right? I thought of Etta right off because she had just called me. The D.A.‘s investigator and this Burgess guy came around her place asking questions about Conklin, what she remembered about the old case. She thought it had to do with Conklin’s parole hearing, but all they wanted her to talk about was me. She called me, thought I should know about it. I told you, me and Etta go way back. I used to help her out now and then.”

“Tell me exactly how you helped her out.” Etta and Mike were about the same age. She was not unattractive and I was sure that in ordinary circumstances she was a lot of fun.

“I told you Etta’s daughter was a junkie,” he said. “When I was still working Southeast, my partner and I were all the time picking up the girl for dealing and solicitation. Every time she was arrested one of us would always go to her house, fetch Tyrone, and take him over to Etta’s, make sure she had enough for extra groceries until her daughter made bail. No big deal. A couple of times, when the little snot got bigger, Etta asked us to come straighten him out. You know, put a little healthy fear into him. That’s all.”

“Etta told me, and I quote, ‘for damn sure I got no help from the lyin’ mothuhfuckin’ poh-lice.’ If you helped her, why would she say that?”

“Because she was upset and she didn’t have anyone else to blame. We take shit like that all the time. She didn’t mean me.”

“That’s what she said. Was your partner Jerry Kelsey?”

He frowned, shook his head. “I only worked that one case with Kelsey. By choice.”

“Why?”

“Because he was a boozer.”

If I were a suspect and Mike was grilling me, I would cave, confess anything to him. He always seemed to know everything. I sighed, relaxed a little. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For helping them. Now you’ve been identified by name it can get very uncomfortable. All I can do is say I’m sorry I played into their hands in any way. But it’s your own damn fault for trying to end-run me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that there are just some things you don’t need to know?”

“Never.”

Mike took the telephone off the bed and set it on the night stand, fussed with the cord, straightened the lamp shade. Changed the subject. “Do you really have film?”