Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

So what the hell was he doing? Here he was defending two clients, one of whom was almost certainly guilty. How could he justify that? Why was he doing it?

Well, he knew why. He was doing it because some idiotic, romantic fool had sent him an anonymous retainer from some plot ripped off from a storybook, and he’d been placed in a position where he had to either defend him or risk being disbarred. That was why.

Or was it?

He’d risked disbarment before. He wasn’t a squeamish guy. If he thought he was right, he’d wade right in and let the chips fall where they may. So he wasn’t in this just to cover his ass. That was too easy an explanation. Too easy a way out. Too pat an answer to a moral dilemma. If he was in this, he was in it by choice. He’d chosen to defend these two people. To try to get them off.

Well, why not? Everyone’s entitled to representation. A lawyer isn’t a judge and jury. It isn’t a lawyer’s place to try to decide if a client’s innocent or guilty. Legally, ethically, morally, Steve had every right to do what he was doing.

So why did he feel like shit?

Steve paid off the cab and took the elevator up to his office. Tracy Garvin would be manning the desk. Steve felt a twinge of resentment. She’d want to pump him for information, and he just didn’t feel like dragging through the whole story again.

Steve realized he was being unkind. Tracy Garvin might be a young, silly, twit of a girl, but why shouldn’t she be interested.

Steve Winslow pushed open the office door and knew at once that he’d been reprieved. Tracy Garvin’s face was animated.

“I tried to reach you at Fitzpatrick’s. Mark Taylor called. Said it was urgent.”

“Get him,” Steve said.

Steve walked into his office, flopped down at his desk. One light on the phone was on, so Steve picked it up and pushed that button. He heard Tracy Garvin’s voice asking for Mark Taylor, and seconds later Taylor came on the line.

“Taylor.”

“It’s Tracy. Hold on for Steve.”

“I’m on,” Steve said. “What is it, Mark?”

“I got something hot I’d rather not talk about on the phone. You in your office?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Steve Winslow hung up the phone. Thank god, he thought. Let it be a break. Something. Anything. Get me off the hook.

Minutes later, Tracy Garvin opened the door.

“Mark Taylor’s here.”

Taylor pushed by her into the room. Tracy trailed in behind him with a steno pad.

“You’ll be wanting notes?” she said.

Steve was about to say yes, largely due to the uncharitable thoughts he’d had toward her earlier, when Mark Taylor said, “No. I’m sorry, Tracy, but this is something I’ve got to talk to Steve about alone.”

Tracy bit her lip, pouted, and went out, closing the door.

“I think you just blew your love life,” Steve said. “What’s so important?”

Mark Taylor took a breath and blew it out again. He shook his head. He did not look happy. “Steve, look. I’m working for you. You’re my client. I gotta protect you. But I got a moral dilemma here.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“Look, Steve. You know I got a pipeline into police headquarters. Well, that man is very important to me. So important, I don’t want to use his name, if you know what I mean. Well, he gave me some information and it’s hot. The thing is, it’s too hot. It’s burning. And because of that, no one’s supposed to know about it.”

Steve looked at Mark impatiently. “So?”

“So, if I tell you, you’ll know. And if you use it, people will know you know. And they’ll want to know how you found out. And the thing is, this information is so protected, there are only a few sources it could have come from. You see what I mean? There’s a good chance my man’s cover could be blown.”

Steve frowned. “I see.”

“Look,” Mark said. “I know you’re a lawyer. You can’t make any promises. You gotta do what’s best for your clients. But I’m begging you. If I tell you this, if there’s any way you can, don’t use it.”

Steve shook his head. “Jesus, Mark.”

“I know, I know,” Mark said. “It’s a bitch. So?”

Steve shook his head. “You said it yourself. I can’t make any promises. You wanna tell me or not?”

Mark sighed. “I can’t hold it out. It’s a murder case. If I didn’t tell you, and your client was convicted, I couldn’t live with myself.”

“All right, Mark, you understand the situation. You got the information. You wanna shoot, shoot.”

“O.K.,” Mark said. “Pauline Keeling.”

Steve stared at him. “Who?”

“Pauline Keeling,” Mark said. “She’s the best kept secret in this whole case. Well, Pauline Keeling happens to be-or perhaps I should say, claims to be-Bradshaw’s common-law wife.”

“What?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d the cops find her?”

“They didn’t. She went to them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Here’s how I got the story. After the murder, after Marilyn had been arrested and charged, a woman named Pauline Keeling shows up at headquarters claiming to be Bradshaw’s common-law wife. She read there was money found on the body. She wants the money. She claims she was his common-law wife, and if Bradshaw left no will, the money should go to her.”

Steve was excited. “When did she show up? How long has she been in town? Has she been to his apartment?”

“That’s the whole thing,” Mark said. “The way I got it, she hit town two weeks before the murder. She didn’t move in with Bradshaw, she was living somewhere else. Naturally, that weakens her claim. But as I understand it, she had called on Bradshaw at his apartment.”

“Then her fingerprints would be there.”

Taylor nodded gloomily. “Yeah.”

“And might even be the unidentified ones currently on display in court.”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus Christ. Where is she now?”

“Same place she’s been staying since she hit town. In a furnished room in Queens. Astoria.”

“She under police guard?”

“Not that I know.”

“Got the address?”

“Yeah.” Taylor sighed. “Look, Steve, that’s everything I know. How are you gonna play it?”

Steve gave him a look. “How do you think I’m going to play it, Mark?”

Steve pressed the intercom. “Tracy.”

Tracy’s voice showed she was still angry about being excluded from the interview. “Yes.”

“Grab your steno pad and get in here.” Steve looked at Mark, then back to the intercom. “We’re going to make out a subpoena.”

It was a second floor walk-up on Astoria Boulevard. The foyer door was open. Steve stopped Mark Taylor on the stairs.

“Now look. We don’t say we’re cops. We just walk in and start talking.”

“You don’t look like a cop,” Taylor said.

“How would she know? I’m an undercover detective, for Christ’s sake. If we can make her think we’re cops, that’s fine. Otherwise, we just play it the best we can.”

“Right.”

“Keep the subpoena in your pocket. Don’t show it. Don’t serve it until I give the signal.”

“Right.”

“You go first. You’re big and beefy, you look more like a cop.”

“Thanks a lot. What should I say?”

“I don’t know. We’re here to talk to her about the trial. Just wing it.”

“Great.”

They went up the stairs, found the door, and knocked. There was the sound of footsteps and then a woman opened the door. She had dark, teased hair. She was about forty, but had sought to disguise the fact by the use of too much makeup. The end result, Steve thought, was to make her look closer to fifty.