A Handy Death (4 page)

“Good. First of all, then, where were you—physically—when you were watching this baseball game?”

“On the south wall.”

“With the guards there? In one of the towers?”

“No. Over the athletic field. The field is located between the south wall and the main cell block, with the shops and the power plant and the hospital and rec building around it like sort of half an H. Anyway, over the athletic field, maybe halfway along the wall between towers, they've built a little sort of press box mounted down from the top of the wall a bit. A spectator box would be a better word for it; I guess they don't get many reporters at their sports events. It's for visitors, or off-duty guards, or anyone else who wants to watch a game and has the clearance to sit there.”

“And you have clearance?”

Coughlin looked at Ross as if this was a question beneath the intelligence of the other. Ross returned the stare imperturably. Coughlin shrugged.

“Of course.”

“Were there any other visitors there at the time? Any off-duty guards watching? Or were you there alone?”

“I was alone. Oh, the warden came by and said hello, but that was before the game started. They were at batting practice when he was there. All little angels. But I was up there alone when the game started.”

“How about on the field itself during the game? Any non-convicts? Who umpires the games, by the way? Other convicts? Trustees?”

“Guards,” Coughlin said emphatically. “They used to have prisoners as umpires—trustees—but the story is that after one bum call, or anyway one unpopular call, that trustee wandered into the Yard after lunch and was ganged up on. Damn near killed. Now they use guards.” He smiled humorously, his huge teeth showing. “The men can't hate umpires more than they already hate screws.”

“I see. And who coaches the ball club? Or ball clubs? Do they have more than one team?”

“Well, sure. You ever try to play ball with just one team? They have a regular league. Six thousand men at Attica, remember.”

“And who runs the league? Who schedules the games, handles the equipment, things like that? Other guards?”

“Father Swiaki handles the whole sports program. He's the prison chaplain. Remember Swiaki? All-American from Holy Cross about '65 or '66? A fabulous tackle.”

Ross disregarded Father Swiaki's credentials.

“Was Father Swiaki present at the time of the game? And the disturbance?”

“You mean the so-called disturbance. The Maypole dance. Sure,” Coughlin said. “But he was sitting on the bench. I could see him.” He paused, leaned forward significantly, and added, “You can't see a thing from field level. You sure can't judge a ball from a strike sitting on the bench. That's why I get such a kick out of a manager charging from the dugout and screaming about a call. Hell, he's lucky he can see the batter's shoes from there!”

“But you can see clearly from the spectator's box?”

“Clear as a bell,” Coughlin said smugly.

“And what did Father Swiaki do during the riot? According to you, the so-called riot?”

“What could he do? Oh, he was out there trying to separate guys, but it was a joke. Like I'm trying to tell you it was a plant, a fake. It wasn't a real riot. Five will get you ten nobody got a scratch in that Maypole dance!”

“I'm not a betting man.” Ross picked up a pencil idly; he looked from the pencil to Coughlin's face. “All right. I've got the scene. Now, tell me about the ball game itself.”

“I told you. Dupaul purposely threw four straight balls to a klutz like Ryan to give the men a chance to yammer, and they did. And that was the cover-up for the escape try. Clear?”

“Clear enough,” Ross said. “In your story—or rather, the story you passed on to a staffer on the
Mirror
and for which you got no credit—did you mention your suspicion that the riot had been staged?”

“It was no suspicion.”

“Whatever it was. Did you mention it?”

“Who, me?” Coughlin assumed an innocent air, but there was a faint smile on his face. “And open myself up to a possible libel suit? Or—even worse—find myself testifying to that effect in court? Not a chance. Oh, I may have said that an unidentified guard claimed it as a possibility, but that's about all.” He paused significantly. “Otherwise I wouldn't be here doing you this favor.”

Ross nodded. He put his pencil aside and leaned back in his swivel chair, his hands behind his head, studying the confident figure across from him. He seemed to come to a conclusion and brought his hands down, straightening up.

“All right, Mr. Coughlin. Let me see if I understand you correctly. According to you, you are the sole reliable witness as to what occurred yesterday on the athletic field at Attica Prison. The guards on the field were in no position to properly judge the pitching—other than the umpire, who agrees with you—and Father Swiaki was on the bench, which is also a poor place for proper observation. And the prisoners in the bleachers, of course, would have been in on the plan. Correct?”

“You're doing fine, Counselor.”

“Now,” Ross continued, “if I also understand you correctly, what you saw at the ball game clearly indicated that Billy Dupaul threw four balls purposely for the purpose of giving an excuse for the riot that followed, and in which three men, including a guard, died. This testimony, in your opinion, would be very detrimental to Billy Dupaul's chances in his pending murder trial. Am I still correct?”

“Right on,” Coughlin said, and nodded his head, as one would to encourage a bright child in a recitation.

“All right,” Ross said. “You are also willing, I gather—for a price to be determined—to go on the witness stand in court and, according to your statement here today,
perjure
yourself and state that William Dupaul pitched both honestly and well, but that Dupaul was the victim of poor umpiring. I assume as a sports reporter you could qualify as an expert. Therefore, Dupaul would be innocent of any part in the escape attempt, and therefore of any culpability in the death of the prison guard. Is that substantially it?”

“Mr. Ross!” Coughlin looked shocked, but the pose was transparent. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “If you should really have a tape recorder going—”

“I don't.”

“—I would simply like to go on record as saying I suggested no such thing! I would
never
perjure myself on the witness stand. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I'm really not stupid.”

He paused with the significance he had exhibited earlier, and said, “In any event, the entire question will probably be academic. I probably won't even be around at the time of the trial. And without my testimony, Mr. Ross, a good lawyer like you could make mincemeat of any evidence given by people who only saw the affair from the field itself. Or from other equally poor places to see things.”

“You flatter my ability,” Ross said modestly. “I'm sorry you might not be around to testify. Where will you be?”

“I've been thinking of traveling.”

“Oh?” Ross asked politely. “Do you know where?”

“I was thinking of Europe—”

Coughlin was openly grinning now. Ross thought that for a man who considered the possibility of tape recorders, Coughlin should also have considered a hidden motion-picture camera to catch that grimace. Unfortunately, he thought, neither one or the other was focused on the thin man.

“—or possibly South America,” Coughlin went on airily. “I hear Europe gets cold this time of the year.”

“And you prefer hot places, but not too hot.”

Coughlin laughed. “That's right.”

“When are you thinking of going?”

“That's sort of a problem.” Coughlin's face fell. “That depends on finances, to a large degree. Things have been a bit tight, lately. I might have to borrow some money for the trip.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Coughlin said sadly, his eyes glinting with laughter. “Money is the very devil. Still, fifteen thousand dollars should be able to swing the trip. Fifteen thousand—my credit ought to be good for that amount at least, don't you think, Mr. Ross?”

“Fifteen thousand? That's a pretty expensive trip you're planning, isn't it?”

“First class,” Coughlin said. “I like to travel first class. All the way.” He came to his feet slowly and looked down at Ross. Ross looked back contemplatively. Coughlin smiled at him. “I'll drop you a postcard from Venice, Ross; or maybe Rio …”

He walked to the door, opened it, and looked back over his shoulder.

“
Addio.
”

The door closed behind him softly. Ross looked after the man a moment and then leaned over, clicking on the intercom.

“Molly? Ask Sharon to come back in, and get me Mike Gunnerson in his office right away, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael Gunnerson was a private detective who handled all of Ross's investigative work; in addition, long acquaintance and mutual respect had made the two men close friends. The private line that connected Hank Ross's office with that of the investigator on the floor below in the same building rang almost instantly, three short rings, their usual signal that the call was personal. Ross picked up the receiver.

“Hello. Mike?”

“As ever. What can I do for you?”

“Who do you know over at the
Daily Mirror?
”

No question from Ross could completely faze Mike Gunnerson, nor did he usually answer a question from the attorney with another question. This time, however, there was no help for it.

“What department?”

“Sports,” Ross began, and then thought a moment. “Or somebody in their top management might even be better.”

“Well,” Gunnerson said, considering, “I know Mickey Sullivan in sports, and Sid Richards is the Old Man's fifteenth assistant assistant in the front office, if that impresses you. Take your choice.”

“You take
your
choice,” Ross said. “I want to check on a character who claims to be a stringer in the sports department. He has a card, but it could be faked. I have a sneaking suspicion the only time he sees the paper is when he puts out his money at the newsstand. He also sounds as if he learned part of his English in a prison cell.”

“Oh.” Mike laughed. “I thought maybe you wanted to sue them for that article in their late edition today.”

“Article? What article?”

“The one in the
Mirror
. It just hit the street and I picked it up on the way back from a job I was on. It says you are convinced that William Dupaul is completely innocent of all charges, accusations, allegations, insinuations—did I forget any?—oh, yes; criminations, a nice old English word—against him, and that you intend to take on his defense and prove it,” Mike said, and added, “Not a bad spread. The article was by-lined by some character named Jerry Coughlin.”

There were several moments of pregnant silence. Suddenly Mike Gunnerson brayed with laughter.

“Want to make a bet, Hank?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ten to one that was the stringer you wanted checked out. Right?”

“Too right,” Ross said and sighed. “Well, forget it.”

“Forget it? You wanted him checked out before you knew anything about that article, and certainly not merely because he said he worked for the paper. He must have done something to irk you. What?”

Ross said calmly, “He tried to blackmail me.”

There was a moment's silence. Then Gunnerson said quietly, “Is he going to get away with it?”

“I don't know,” Ross said. “It isn't my money—which he obviously must have known—but I doubt it.”

“Let me do a complete rundown on the guy,” Mike said. “Blackmail's a two-way street, you know.”

“Save your time and my money. I'll let him hang himself.”

“How?”

“I haven't a clue,” Ross said. “But I'll manage.”

“If you say so.” Gunnerson didn't sound too sure. “By the way, any truth in the article?”

“I'm defending Billy Dupaul against the first-degree murder charge, if that's what you mean. Charley Quirt of the Mets called this morning and asked me to handle the case.” Ross's voice was expressionless. “And apparently held a press conference as soon as I said I would.”

Knowing Charley, Ross thought he could well have held his press conference even before he called. Charley never lacked confidence. Of course he could be doing Quirt an injustice; maybe he had a secretary who—He became aware that Mike Gunnerson had been speaking to him.

“I'm sorry, Mike. What did you say?”

“I was just saying that tomorrow's papers should be interesting, too,” Mike said, and laughed.

“Oh? Why?”

“Because it's a certainty that Louis G. Gorman of the DA's office will accuse you of attempting to try the case in the newspapers.”

“After that interview he gave to the papers that was in this morning's
Times
? I wish he'd try.” Ross grinned at the telephone. “If he does, I have just the man to write the article. Our friendly neighborhood newspaper man—Jerry Coughlin.”

Gunnerson laughed. “It ought to be interesting to see the DA's reaction to blackmail.”

“No more than my reaction,” Ross said, suddenly sober. He added his goodbys and hung up.

CHAPTER

3

“About this Billy Dupaul—”

Steve Sadler paused and decided to wait until he had all his ammunition at hand before continuing. He shoved his thick glasses back on his nose, opened his stuffed briefcase, and began to stack the contents in neat piles before him on the conference table.

Steve was a tall, thin, studious-looking young man in his early thirties, whose thick glasses failed to hide the sharp intelligence in his gray eyes. He had come to Ross's law firm directly from Brooklyn Law School, had more than proven his ability and worth in the first year of his association with Ross, and had turned down many offers to change locations since. Nor had he ever mentioned these offers to Ross, who nonetheless heard of them from other colleagues in the profession. It was one more of the facts that bound them—along with the other members of Ross's professional family—together in mutual respect.