Andrew Klavan - True Crime

“Great. I live to make him happy. But that’s not my problem.”

“How can you be so goddamned self-destructive?”

“Practice, Alan. But that’s not my problem.”

“You should’ve fucked my wife. I’d’ve just punched you.”

“I did fuck your wife.”

He laughed. “Lucky bastard. How was she?”

“She sends her love. But that’s not my goddamned problem, Alan.”

“All right. What’s your goddamned problem? Tell papa. You soulless shit.” He popped the last of the candy into his mouth.

“Frank Beachum,” I said.

“The soon-to-be-dead guy?”

“Yeah.”

He crumpled the candy wrapper and laid it up in the air with a flick of his wrist. It plonked into the metal can against the wall. “For two!” he said.

“I’m supposed to interview him this afternoon,” I said.

“A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I think he could be innocent.”

“Is that your problem?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s not,” said Alan. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”

He stretched out in the high-backed chair, folding his hands atop his volleyball belly. I flicked an ash angrily off my cigarette so that it looped into the wastebasket. Alan sniffed, annoyed.

“I’m serious,” I said then.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. Look at my face. This is my serious face, Alan. This is how you can tell.”

“Steven,” he said. “Young Steven Everett. Listen to me a minute. Listen to your mentor and guide. Life is less mysterious than we know. Things are almost always exactly what they seem. The guy was busted, tried and convicted. This isn’t TV. You’ve been in the courts. You know he’s guilty.”

I grinned with gritted teeth. Smoke seeped out between them.

“All right,” he said finally. “What’ve you got?”

I lifted my cigarette hand as if to speak. Then, not speaking, I held the filter to my lips and sucked on it hard. What was I going to tell him anyway? That six years after the event, there were potato chips in my line of vision? That I looked into Dale Porterhouse’s eyes and knew he was lying? That it bothered me that Nancy Larson hadn’t heard any gunshots even though she had a perfectly good reason why she shouldn’t have?

“Oh,” said Alan sadly. “Oh, Ev.”

“No, no, wait …” I said.

“Ev, Ev, Ev …”

“Just listen to me.”

“Ev. I don’t have to listen to you. I’m looking at you, Ev. I’m looking at you and I see a reporter who’s about to tell me that he has a hunch.”

“Alan, I’ve done some checking up …”

“Do you know my opinion of reporters who have hunches?”

“I talked to one of the witnesses.”

“I can’t fart loud enough to express my opinion, Ev.”

“There are discrepancies.”

His chair came forward with a sharp report. He stared at me, bugging his eyes. “Discrepancies? Did I hear you say there were discrepancies?” His thick eyebrows bounced up and down. “After a police investigation? A trial? A conviction? Six years of appeals? You found discrepancies? What did it take you, half an hour?”

“Come on. You know the appeals system. His first lawyer was probably some twelve-year-old Legal Aid guy and if he didn’t object to something at the trial, the replacements couldn’t use it later for the appeal. You can’t even argue proof of innocence anymore.”

“Ev …”

“Alan, for Christ’s sake, they’re gonna kill the guy.”

“Ev …”

“I’m telling you.”

He cocked his big head at me. “Oh, oh, Mr. Everett.”

“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ve got a hunch.”

He sat back again. “Ha.”

I pointed my cigarette at him. “But you know my hunches, Alan. They’re based on …”

“A desperate attempt to cover the shabbiness of your personal behavior with a show of professional skill.”

“Right. And this is a strong one. Something stinks about this case.”

“That’s me. I had one of those veal heros for lunch.”

“Goddammit.” I stepped over to the wastebasket. I bent down and crushed my cigarette out against its rim. “Damn it, damn it,” I said again.

There was a chair in front of his desk. I went over and sank down into it. I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands. After a long moment, I guess Alan took pity on me. I heard him shift in his chair with a low groan.

“All right,” he said. “Let me get it straight what we’re dealing with here. If you can turn this routine execution into some kind of big fight-for-justice story, maybe-and I do mean maybe, my friend- maybe I can stand up for you a little when Bob tries to fire you.”

I nodded even before I had lifted my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess that’s the idea.”

He regarded me with what, in Alan, passed for compassion. “You’ll still lose the wife and kid, you know. She’s gonna find out.”

“I know, I know.”

“And you’ll be shit on the floor out there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the city room. “They love Bob on the floor, man. They’d walk through fire for him. They’ll wipe you off the soles of their shoes.”

“I know. Believe me.”

He lifted his broad shoulders. “But hey, what the hell. I’m not your father. I don’t think I’m your father. Am I your father?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Because no son of mine is going to use this newspaper for his own sleazy personal motives.”

“No, no, I’ll play it straight.”

Alan snorted. “Don’t pretend to have integrity with me, young man.”

“Sorry.”

“Who knows?” he said, raising his hands philosophically. “There’s always something in a criminal case that didn’t go right. You might work it up into some kind of crusading journalism type thing. Then, when Bob comes in here and asks me to transfer you to the toilet, I’ll be able to say, ‘But, Bob, look at that great Beachum story Steve made up out of practically nothing.’ He won’t give a shit, but I’ll be able to say it.”

“I really think there might be something to this,” I said with as much conviction as I could.

Alan gave a deep chuckle. I avoided meeting his eyes. I was still hunched over in my chair, my elbows on my thighs.

“So what do I do?” I said.

He shrugged again. “Beats me. Just make it sound good, pal. I’ll run it for you, but only if it sounds good.”

“Yeah, but I mean what if I really find something?”

He reared back in his seat. “What, you mean like evidence? Today? You got nine hours before they juice the guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what if I do? We can’t just wait for it to run tomorrow.”

Alan made a face as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess you could go to Mr. Lowenstein.”

“You think?”

“Why not? He’s the governor’s pal. If he calls the state-house and says it’s important, the gov’ll pick up, no question.”

“Okay. Except Mr. Lowenstein hates me.”

Alan gave a deep belch. It lifted him in his chair, bloated his cheeks. “Everyone hates you, Everett,” he said. “Even I hate you, and I’m your pal. But I will say this: You go to Mr. Lowenstein and it better be awfully good. It better be solid down to the ground or he not only won’t call the governor, he’ll eat your heart and throw your body to the dogs. You don’t have to sleep with his wife, friend, he’ll fire you for free.”

I let out a breath, pushed off my knees and stood up. “Okay. Thanks,” I said.

“Hey, don’t thank me. I think you’re a scumbag. Bob loves that girl, and no matter what we think about him, he doesn’t deserve this. And Barbara gave up her job and her fucking home and everything so you could come here and make good after you pronged the owner’s daughter in New York. She doesn’t deserve this either. And what about me? I’m a wonderful person, and now you’re gonna use my newspaper to save what’s left of your smarmy little existence? Let me tell you: I’ve lost what little respect for you I may have had. So she was really pretty good, huh?”