Phillip Margolin - The Last Innocent Man

“I don’t know what to say,” David answered, his tone betraying some of the anger that had replaced his initial shock and confusion.

“Aw, come on, Dave. You’re not mad, are you?”

“Dammit, Tom,” David said, his face flushed, “that’s not something to kid about.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong, boy-o,” Gault answered. “The first thing you learn when you are soldiering is that Death is a joke. The ultimate prank, old buddy.”

Gault leaned across the desk. He was talking toward David, but David sensed that Gault was speaking to himself.

“Death is everywhere, and never forget that. The more civilized the surroundings, the harder it is to spot the little devil, but he’s there, hiding in the laundromat, peeping out from your microwave oven. He’s got more camouflage here in Portland, but he’s always present.

“Now, there’s two ways of dealing with Death, old buddy: you can fear him or you can laugh at him. But I’ll tell you the truth: it don’t make no difference how you treat him, because he treats us all the same. So when you’re in the jungle, where you see Death every day standing buck naked right out in the open, you get to know the little devil real well and you learn that he is a prankster and not a serious dude at all. And you learn that it’s better to die laughing than to live each moment in fear.”

Gault stopped abruptly and sat back in his chair.

“I hope I remember that,” he said. “Be great in my next book, don’t you think? Real profound.”

“Very, Tom,” David said, still unsure of what to make of Gault’s confession and disconcerted because of his uncertainty. “Look, do you mind if we work on the book some other time?”

“Hey, I didn’t upset you, did I?”

“No, Tom,” David lied, “I just didn’t expect you and I’ve got some things to do. Why don’t we get together sometime next week?”

“Sounds good,” Gault said, standing. “I’ll give you a call.”

Gault started to leave, then stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

“One thing, Dave. If that had been the truth, if I really had killed Julie, would you have kept it a secret?”

“I never reveal a client’s confidence.”

“You’re all right, old buddy. And you should take care of yourself. You don’t look so hot. Get more sleep.”

Gault winked and he was gone.

It took David a long time to calm down after Gault left. Was it all a joke? Gault had a sadistic streak in him. He had enjoyed seeing David wriggle on his hook. But when he was discussing the murder, he seemed so sincere, he seemed to be reliving an experience, not creating one. David didn’t know what to think, and the worst thing was that the attorney-client privilege prevented him from discussing with anyone what Gault had said.

The intercom buzzed and David was grateful for the diversion. It was Monica calling from the district attorney’s office.

“Can you come over, Dave?” she asked.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I want to talk to you about Tony Seals.”

“What about him?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “And bring your shopping cart. We’re giving the store away today.”

An arrow corridor led back to the depersonalized cubbyholes that passed for offices at the district attorney’s office. Monica had seniority and rated a corner cubbyhole somewhat larger than the rest. Her sole attempt at humanizing her work space was a framed Chagall lithograph that added a splash of color to the white and black of her diplomas.

Monica was working on a file when David entered, and she waved him toward a chair. There were two in front of her desk, and he took a stack of files off one and placed them on the floor, then glanced at the newspaper that was draped over the top file on the other chair. Monica looked up.

“I need Seals’s testimony and I’ll give him immunity to get it,” she said without ceremony.

David said nothing for a second. He was watching Monica’s face. When he was certain she was serious, he asked, “Why do you need his testimony?”

“Because he is the only one other than Zachariah Small who can testify that Sticks pulled the trigger up on the mountain. Without him Sticks will get off.

“We had an informant who heard the three of them talking after they shot Jessie. Sticks and Zack were bragging about shooting her, and it was pretty clear that it was Sticks who shot from the car.”

“Why don’t you use your informant?”

“He’s gone. He split shortly after we interviewed him. He’s a transient who was staying at the Gomes house when the boys were arrested. I guess he got scared when he realized that we wanted him to testify. I’ve got the police looking for him, but even if we found him, I’m not sure how much good he’d be to us. He has a police record and he’s a drunk.”

David was churning inside. He leaned forward slightly.

“We get complete immunity?”

“Yes.”

David stood up. “I’ll talk to my client.”

The guard led Tony Seals into the interview room at the county jail. The room was long and narrow, and a row of rickety wooden folding chairs was scattered along its length. There was one Formica-topped table at the far end. David sat in front of it, watching his client walk toward him.

“Buzz me when you’re through,” the guard said, pointing to a small black button set in a silver metal box under some steam pipes near the barred door. Then he slammed the door shut and David heard the key turn in the lock.

On visiting day this room was usually jammed full of anxious wives and girlfriends, talking in quiet tones to men they might not be making love to for a long time. But this was early on a weekday, and David and his client were alone.

T.S. smelled worse than the last time they had met. There was a body odor that prisoners at the county jail had that was unique and vile. It was the type of smell you could believe would never be scrubbed away.

David searched his client’s eyes as the gangly teenager shuffled toward him with a loose, puppetlike gait that made him look as if he had straw where bones should be. The eyes were vacant and as lifeless as his perpetual half smile.

“Hi, Mr. Nash,” T.S. said. He had a soft voice that rarely fluctuated with any emotion.

“Sit down, T.S.”

T.S. did as he was told. He always did. David wondered if he had ever initiated an action in his life. Monica was right. It had to have been Sticks and Zachariah. He was dealing with a boy who lacked free will. Another person’s creature who got from point A to point B by suggestion only.

“How’ve you been?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“I want to ask you a few questions, T.S., and I want truthful answers. This is important, so you have to be straight with me.”

“Sure, Mr. Nash.”

“Who shot Jessie when you were down at the hole? The first shot.”

“That was Zack.”

“You didn’t shoot her?”

David detected a flicker of fear.

“Honest, Mr. Nash. I didn’t never shoot her.”

“And up on the mountain? Who shot at her there?”

The boy’s right hand raised slowly and began to pick at a whitehead on his cheek. The tip of Seals’s tongue licked his lower lip, then darted back into his mouth.

“Well?”

“Uh…well, there was Zack. He done it first, right after we left her. Then we drove off some and Sticks said we should make sure. So we turned around and Sticks asked Zack if he could take a shot and Zack give him the gun.”

David watched T.S. closely. Remembering anything seemed to exhaust him. He wondered what it would be like to go through life with a brain that worked so slowly.