Read Anatomy of a Murder Online
Authors: Robert Traver
Anatomy of a Murder (4 page)
“Ah, good afternoon, Paul,” he said gravely in his wheezy voice, with its trace of Irish accent, in which the “Paul” rhymed faintly with “awl.” He moved into the room with his bumpy dignified walk, talking all the while. “I come as courier, not a Greek bearing gifts. Met Miss Maida at the foot of the stairs just as I was coming up. She asked me to deliver thisâthis here now package to you.” He studied the bag. “Haven't the foggiest notion what it might contain, that I have not.” He shook the bag and listened. “Though some mild curiosity, you will observe.” He blinked his eyes and shook it again, smiling craftily. “Well, now maybe I've got a dark suspicion. Or perhaps a wee intuition. There,” he said, placing the bottle on the blotter in the middle of my desk, his plump hands hovering solicitously. “Always glad to be of service to an attractive young woman.” He surveyed the paper bag and shook his head. “Perhaps a farewell token of esteem from one of your desolated constituents,” he ventured. “And then again, perhaps a cabbage, who knows.”
I grunted. “Suppose the courier takes a peek in the bag, Parn, while I go get some water and glasses. And whatever you find, uncork it.” As I stood at the corner washstand in Maida's room letting
the water run cold I heard old Parnell rattling the bag; his squeals of simulated surprise and his sighs of wild delight, which I suspected were not quite so simulated. “Oops! My oh my ⦠. May the Lord save us ⦠. âTis a bottle of spirits, that it is ⦠. What a remarkable coincidence ⦠. An' me just after cravin' a little snort ⦠. What a fine gleamin' thing it is, too, an' old Parnell McCarthy just in time to have a ceremonial drop with his old friend and colleague, Paul Biegler ⦠. Ah, 'tis a small world, that it is, so full of delightful surprises ⦔
the water run cold I heard old Parnell rattling the bag; his squeals of simulated surprise and his sighs of wild delight, which I suspected were not quite so simulated. “Oops! My oh my ⦠. May the Lord save us ⦠. âTis a bottle of spirits, that it is ⦠. What a remarkable coincidence ⦠. An' me just after cravin' a little snort ⦠. What a fine gleamin' thing it is, too, an' old Parnell McCarthy just in time to have a ceremonial drop with his old friend and colleague, Paul Biegler ⦠. Ah, 'tis a small world, that it is, so full of delightful surprises ⦔
“The old boy is really wound up,” I thought as I stood in Maida's doorway silently watching him. He was holding the bottle up to the light, now, humming the “Kerry Dance,” executing a few steps of a grave little dance, chuckling softly to himself. At that moment I envied the man. For Parnell McCarthy possessed that rarest and most precious of human talents, a talent so elusive that it receded only the faster before those who wooed it with more gadgets and toys: the capacity for participation and joy, the enviable ability to draw vast pleasure and enjoyment from small occasions and simple things. For all the old man's show of cynicism, he possessed the sense of wonder and soaring innocence of a small boy flying a kite.
“Ready or not, Parn, here I come,” I said.
I filled the jiggers, making a highball out of mine, while old Parnell stood watching the proceedings as rapt as a child on Christmas morning. He took his jigger in one hand and water glass in the other. He leaned over my desk and ceremoniously touched my glass with his, spilling never a drop. “Here's to one of the best prosecuting attorneys Iron Cliffs County ever had,” he said softly. “And here's to a brilliant future for her newest criminal defense lawyer.”
I shook my head in wry disagreement. “Happy New Year, Parn,” I said, and we drank. Parnell, as always, took his whisky straight and followed it with a quick gulp of water. For a man suffering from chronic arthritis, and a little drunk, too, I thought the movements were incredibly swift and dexterous. But then, I reflected, the man had had years and years of practice. Practice, in fact, was Parnell's big trouble. For here was probably the smartest lawyer I ever knew, both the smartest and least successful.
“Ah,” Parnell said, smacking his lips. “'Tis a fine concoctionâfor peasants bent on extinction, that is.”
Parnell and I had then talked of many things, past, present, and future. As he usually did when we were alone and feeling mellow,
he had spoken briefly and tenderly of his wife Nora, who had died during childbirth many years before. Old Judge Maitland had told me that Parnell had never been the same after he'd lost his sweet Nora. After a long silence I had asked Parnell what he thought of my prospects for taking any criminal defense work away from old Amos Crocker, the county's leading criminal lawyer. “Do you think there's a chance?” I repeated.
he had spoken briefly and tenderly of his wife Nora, who had died during childbirth many years before. Old Judge Maitland had told me that Parnell had never been the same after he'd lost his sweet Nora. After a long silence I had asked Parnell what he thought of my prospects for taking any criminal defense work away from old Amos Crocker, the county's leading criminal lawyer. “Do you think there's a chance?” I repeated.
My question about old Crocker was not idle. Amos Crocker was a spread-eagle lawyer of the old school who lived and practiced in Iron Bay, the county seat. Ever since I was a kid he'd been stomping around in and out of court, florid and perspiring, a roarer and fighter from hell. He'd been a constant thorn in the side of my predecessors in office and by the time I became D.A. the only noticeable change in him was that he'd lost all his hair and had acquired a red wig (from Weber or Fields, I suspected) and a hearing aidâalong with a reputation for professional infallibility that was legendary.
“Humph,” Parnell grunted, shifting in his chair and, I hoped, pondering my question.
Old Crocker was known more familiarly to the rest of us lawyers simply as The Voice or else Willie the Weeper. Besides his booming bass voice, tears were the secret of his success; he wept his way through every trial; and for many years sniffling, lachrymose jurors had been rewarding him and his amazing tear ducts with verdicts of acquittals. He was said to set his fee by the amount of tears he shed, and by the time I had first tangled with him as a young D.A. his rate was reputed to have been $500 a pint. And he seldom contrived to weep less than half a gallon.
“Polly,” Parnell had finally said, leaning forward against my desk on his forearms, “on any comparative assessment of the relative legal ability and general intelligence between you two there'd be no question but that old flannel-mouth Willie the Weeper'd never get another criminal defense.” He shook his head. “And that's no great compliment to you, either. Why, that flatulent old wind bag!” he went on. “He's like an old-time Chautauqua lecturer addressin' a full tent. All he does is roar and splutter and bawl. In my considered judgment he's a dummy and a faker. He's a man of few words, yes, but he uses them over and over. When he gets through arguing to a jury, when at last the relentless torrent of his stout boiler-plate rhetoric is turned off, allâthe judge, the jury, his client, opposin' counselâall are reduced to a state of cataleptic trance. I said arguing
his cases. I take that back; he never made a real jury argument in his lifeâall he conducts are filibusters. That's how he wins the cases he does, with that and his crocodile tears.”
his cases. I take that back; he never made a real jury argument in his lifeâall he conducts are filibusters. That's how he wins the cases he does, with that and his crocodile tears.”
Parnell was warming to his subject and he stood up. “Can't you just hear him carrying on in front of a jury, Polly? Pointing with pride and viewing with alarm? You know yourself he's got only one stock jury argument in a criminal caseâand he's been using that for almost forty years. Listen to him!” Parnell had an unusual gift for mimicry. He hunched up his shoulders and blew out his cheeks and in a thrice an indignant old Crocker stood before me, even, it seemed, to the flaming red wig. He pointed a scornful finger at an imaginary panel of jurors. “Ladees an' gen'emen,” he thundered, “you can't guess this man into state's prison! Why, folks, I wouldn't send a yaller dawg to a dawg pound on this here evidence!” Parnell grinned and became himself again. “Surely, Polly, you recall those deathless phrases?”
I nodded glumly. “Yes, Parn, I know them all by heart.”
Parnell reminded me that old Crocker had defeated me only once in the past six years. In fact the biggest thing he held against the colorful old practitioner was his colossal stupidity. “All that man really knows anything about is common arithmeticâhe sets big fees an' gets 'em.
“An examination of the motives that move people in trouble to select the lawyers they do, Polly, would probably fill a five-foot shelf,” Parnell continued, more slowly. “Not to mention an insane asylum. You see, the guiltier they are, the tighter their fix, the more apt they are to hire a fulminatin' old fire-eater like Crocker. Don't you see?âif they must ultimately go to prison, as some of them must dimly suspect, they want to go down with colors flyin'. They want desperately to be sent there under the best auspices, on an expensive tour conducted by a hired professional mourner, as it were, roaring and fighting on their behalf. It somehow seems to restore their waverin' self-respect, to bolster them to face the ordeal of their confinement.”
“Very interesting, Parn,” I said, nodding. Only Parnell could have doped it out this way.
Parnell shook his head. “In any case, Polly, I've watched this dreary business for many years, too damned many years, and it seems to me that most people in trouble tend to equate clamor and noise with astute criminal defense. It's a sad thing. But the Lord save us, it's
not only confined to the law. There is a kind of intellectual smog abroad in the land. In nearly all walks of life we betray our insatiable lust for the mediocre, our terrible hunger for the third rate.”
not only confined to the law. There is a kind of intellectual smog abroad in the land. In nearly all walks of life we betray our insatiable lust for the mediocre, our terrible hunger for the third rate.”
“You don't suggest I try to imitate old Crocker?” I said. “Tears and all? I can stick a bean in my ear, of course, but I doubt if I could ever find another red wig to match his. Anyway, I'm rather afraid the only person a wig deceives is the wearer himself.” I felt my receding hair line. “I know, Parn,” I said, “because lately I've been faced with the problem myself.”
“Imitate that old fraud!” Parnell snorted. “Hell no, Pollyl You shouldn't have said that, boy. You asked me an honest question and I've tried to give you an honest answer. Or did you prefer me to rub your back with this here horse liniment we're after drinkin'?”
“I'm sorry, Parn. I didn't mean it that way. Talking about liniment, let's have a drink. Here's mud in your eye.” I filled his empty jigger.
Parnell stood up and leaned over and clinked my glass. “Perhaps the surest way for you to break in, boy, is to get a big case, somehow, someway, and then win it. Show the bastards how a criminal case should really be defendedâwith the head and the heart instead of the arms and lungs. But you got to get and win that first one. Ah, there's the rub. Everybody understands successâespecially when it's shouted from the front page of the papers. In the meantime it's going to be tough, boy. But keep your chin up, Polly. And your sights, too.”
Parnell gulped his drink and his water, one, twoâI shuddered involuntarilyâand walked resolutely to the door. “I'd like to stay and condole with you, Polly,” he said, shaking my hand. He pulled on a pair of dark cotton gloves, the kind that workmen buy at corner groceries. “You know I'd like to stay and heist a few more with you and keep the vigil. But IâI've got to get home and take me a little nap. I'm attendin' church late tonightâmy annual visit, you know âand perhaps it's only fittin' that such a poor communicant as I should turn up at least halfway sober. Good night, boy. Happy New Year and good luck.”
I stood in my open doorway and watched him walk with dignity to the head of the stairs. He did not look back. I heard him creaking down the wooden stairs and I stood there until I heard the street door squeal shut on its frosty hinges. Then I went back and sat at
my desk and poured the remainder of the bottle into a tumbler. “To Parnell Emmett Joseph McCarthyâone of the world's obscure great men,” I whispered, downing my drink.
my desk and poured the remainder of the bottle into a tumbler. “To Parnell Emmett Joseph McCarthyâone of the world's obscure great men,” I whispered, downing my drink.
Â
Parnell had been right. After the first of the year when Mitch Lodwick had taken over as D.A. and the county road commission trucks had transferred the last load of accumulated loot from my office to Mitch's, things turned out pretty much as he had predicted. All the important (and lucrative) criminal defenses still went to weeping, bull-roaring old Amos Crocker. There was this important difference, and one which only made matters worseâworse for me, that is: old Crocker began rather regularly to beat Mitch in his criminal cases. Not in all of them, of course, but in most. The net result, naturally, was that the old man became even more firmly entrenched as the county's leading criminal defense lawyer.
Since in the meantime I had occasionally to eat and pay Maida, I finally found myself messing around with divorces and padding discreetly into probate court to assist in whacking up decedent estates between the various taxing authorities and the surviving loved ones. Now there is nothing professionally wrong with a lawyer pursuing a divorce or probate practice, and several things that are right, but there was little or nothing in this practice that drew in the slightest upon my long training in criminal law. I found that the work was placid, moderately lucrative, and safe. But after the drama and conflict of being D.A. I also found it to be boring and dull, infinitely and wildly dull. During that time the only circuit court criminal defense that came my way I got by court appointment for an impecunious defendant, a young camp breaker with a record as longâwell as long as his face and mine following his conviction. I'm afraid my defense of this case was somewhat less than brilliant. My heart wasn't in it. In fact I think I saw several more reasons why he should have been convicted than even Mitch or the jury did.
Â
I stirred in my seat by the open office window. A cool breeze had risenâthe first touch of approaching autumnâand I closed the window and groped my way to the bedroom. So bored and restless had I lately become that I had announced that I would run for Congress that fall. Things had become
that
bad. But boredom seemed as good a reason as many I had heard for anyone wanting to go to Washington, that Grand Central Station of American politicians, about which, as Woodrow Wilson had once wryly observed,
“In Washington some men grow; others merely swell.” I had few illusions about the job, and none about my statesmanship, but at least in Washington, if I got there, I could occasionally shout and wave my arms and perhaps, who knew, chase the daughter of some foreign ambassador âround and 'round the mulberry root. Or would it be those conveniently chameleon Japanese-Korean-Japanese cherry trees? Then Mitch Lodwick had announced that he would oppose me for Congress on his party ticket. But now it looked like we might first meet in the trial of a bang-up murder case. The chips were down; once again the young veteran and the aging 4F were to collide head on.
that
bad. But boredom seemed as good a reason as many I had heard for anyone wanting to go to Washington, that Grand Central Station of American politicians, about which, as Woodrow Wilson had once wryly observed,
“In Washington some men grow; others merely swell.” I had few illusions about the job, and none about my statesmanship, but at least in Washington, if I got there, I could occasionally shout and wave my arms and perhaps, who knew, chase the daughter of some foreign ambassador âround and 'round the mulberry root. Or would it be those conveniently chameleon Japanese-Korean-Japanese cherry trees? Then Mitch Lodwick had announced that he would oppose me for Congress on his party ticket. But now it looked like we might first meet in the trial of a bang-up murder case. The chips were down; once again the young veteran and the aging 4F were to collide head on.
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