McMansion (12 page)

“Sherman, I don't understand what you're talking about.”

“Jeff always rotated left.”

Was I hearing the best news I had since Ira Roth called me? “Explain,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Jeff stomped the left brake every time, locking the left tread, so the right tread, which keeps turning, spins her left.”

“Every time?”

“I tried to break him of the habit. I told him, ‘You're going to get hurt one day when you have to go the other way all of a sudden and don't have time to stop and think about it and then it will be too late and you'll end up under the machine when it rolls over on your fucking head.' But he wouldn't change. Or he couldn't. I mean everybody's got some dumb thing they hang on to, don't they, Ben?”

Chapter Thirteen

When I ran into Ira's office saying, “You have got to hear this,” the lawyer was explaining the world to someone on the other end of his telephone headset. He waved me to a chair, continuing affably, “You raise an excellent point sir and indeed I too often marvel at that fine line between the expense of documentation, the cost of due diligence, the price of disclosure versus the danger, shall we say, of standing less than fully prepared before the court.”

Ira was not a fat man, despite the vest, but in his arsenal of effects he kept a fat man's laugh, which he loosed, when his client stopped talking, in an eruption of merry wit and world-weary worldliness. “Quite right, sir. It is the client's money. Not to mention the client's liberty.”

He motioned, again, for me to sit down—I was pacing—ran the poor devil through his goodbyes, and hung up with a satisfied sigh.

“So Ben, where are we?”

“The man who taught Jeff how to run a bulldozer told me that Jeff could not have killed Billy Tiller because the murderer rotated the machine on top of him in a right-hand pivot and Jeff always rotated left.”

“Why did Jeff always rotate left?”

“Kind of a mental tic. Always left. Billy's murderer pivoted right.”

Ira thought on it for a moment. “Interesting.”

“Interesting in one way—I mean it's good for us to know he could not have killed Billy, but—”

“My client killed no one,” Ira interrupted.

“But I am not convinced that the gentleman who told me will be an asset on the witness stand.”

“Why not? Teachers make excellent witnesses. Forthright, articulate, accustomed to speaking in public, thereby commanding both court's and jury's respect.”

“It's my cousin Sherman.”

“Ah,” said Ira. He looked out his office window, seemed to wish it was the window that overlooked his racehorses instead of the clapboard side of Newbury Savings and Loan, and observed, “You bring me a convicted felon to strengthen our case.”

“At least strengthen our resolve.”

“I understand Sherman won parole,” Ira mused, hopefully. He shook his head. “Cancel that thought. By the time Jeff's trial starts Sherman will likely be locked up for something else. Well, looking at, or at least for, a bright side, you are right about resolve. Your resolve. You can believe even more surely that Jeff is innocent. Despite appearances. Perhaps this knowledge will inspire you to more heroic efforts. Perhaps locate a witness less likely to be served with an arrest warrant as he mounts the stand.”

“I'll keep looking. By the way, Total Landscape's lawyer tried to lean on me last night. Told me to back off. Stop besmirching the reputation of the company's revered founder.”

“You're kidding.” Ira looked as surprised as I had felt. “Really?”

“I came close to punching him out.”

“That would have secured your reputation. Did he say why?”

“Bad for business.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Nothing I could file a complaint for.”

“Of course not. He's an attorney. So how did he lean on you?”

“First he suggested that we could work hand in hand to preserve open space if I, quote, let the trial take its course. Then he threatened to report me to various agencies in Hartford.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Then he said they would drive me crazy with lawsuits, clearly implying that they could afford lawyers I couldn't.”

“I wish I had that in an e-mail,” Ira said grimly. “Did anyone hear?”

“No. He was careful.”

“Was Eddie Edwards there?”

“Not in earshot.”

“Strange—Well, I'll tell you, Ben. It's very corporate, actually. You get these guys who convince themselves that the company is sacred. Occasionally they get so over excited they'll say something really stupid. What's his name?”

“Woodward. Owen Woodward.”

“I saw him at the Lions. Up from Stamford, I think. I'll check him out. You've made me curious. Okay, what else?”

“Fred Gleason is selling Billy's house. It wasn't owned by Billy. It's owned by the company.”

“Not when I was his attorney.”

“Why would he put the house in the company's name?”

“God knows. Tax scam. Or to keep it from the next wife. People do remarkably silly things to dodge Uncle Sam. Not to mention creditors.”

“Would you telephone Plainfield jail? Tell them you're sending me over first thing in the morning to interview your client and you don't want to hear any nonsense about time limits.”

Ira started to touch his speed dial. He paused. “One rationale behind this ‘doubt' strategy you were questioning?”

“Yes?”

“Best-worst case—if we have to plea down—we get Jeff second-degree murder and out in fifteen years. Which could be a pretty good deal.”

“Great deal. Unless he didn't do it.”

Ira's gaze drifted to the clapboard wall. “I did not say Jeff did it. But if the state's attorney gets past us and has his way, a jury will say he did do it. So, in the best-worst case, we will influence the jury's take on the nature of what they say he did—the degree of murder, as it were. And the nature of the sentence.”

“Fifteen years is a very long time, Ira.”

“The heart and soul of a young man's life,” Ira agreed. “Yet not as long as worst-worst case.”

Chapter Fourteen

I ran home to catch up on messages.

Alison was waiting in my office curled up in the cracked-leather armchair that, in concert with faded wallpaper and musty damp, is supposed to appeal to house hunters seeking authenticity. She had brought in the mail and put it on my desk.

“Have you been expelled from school?”

“It's June, silly. I had a final this morning. I came home to study.” She curled up tighter, stared at her book, and said, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I think Mom met somebody.”

“That's nice,” I said, fully aware that Alison's mother, who had run away from a drunken father to marry a drunk, could not be expected to possess a clear eye for Mr. Right. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don't know. I mean I hate that she's lonely, but…”

“But what?”

“I wouldn't want to leave here.”

I felt my stomach drop.

“Well, that's sort of getting ahead of things, if she's just started seeing someone.”

“But she's so excited.”

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“Well, we'll see what happens.”

She returned a worried glance. I asked, “Are you going to ride Redman when you finish studying?”

“I finished.”

“So are you going to ride?”

“Maybe later.”

We locked eyes, miserably. I said, “Listen, I've got to drive out to meet somebody at the Richardson place. I'll only be there a minute. Want to come along?”

“Okay.”

***

“Walk me through Sunday afternoon, Jeff.”

He looked hangdog this morning, scared, lonely, and thoroughly miserable. He was scratching his cheeks and tugging his chin. His left eye was swelling like he'd caught a punch. “Starting when?”

“Wherever you think is the place to start, ending with Trooper Moody finding you on the bulldozer.”

“I told all this to the cops. And I told it to Mr. Roth.”

“Please tell me.”

“Are you trying to trap me into some kind of mistake? 'Cause you're wasting your time.”

“Jeff, I don't want to shake your story. I want to believe it.”

“It's not a story. It's what happened.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“What's the point?”

If Jeff was innocent, he could give me a picture of the crime scene before the murder. In that picture I might see some clue as to who else might have been driving that machine. If he was guilty, he could give me a picture that would serve him.

He proceeded to tell me, verbatim, what I had read in Ira's transcript of their first conversation. Verbatim. As in word for word. “It was raining, drizzling, and when I heard the machine, I hid inside the cellar of the second house, the one that had the first floor built. I was scared. I had thought I was alone. But I didn't hear any workmen. Didn't see any trucks. I had been about to start spraying the front of the second house and I thought the machine meant I'd get caught. But it didn't come my way, the sound faded when it headed up the road they had cut through the woods. But I knew I couldn't keep spraying if people were around. So stashed my paint in my pack and headed back over the hill. I was just into the woods when I heard a scream.”

“A woman?”

“No. It was man, but he screamed. Not a yell. A scream. Like total pain. I stopped and listened. But nothing happened. I could still hear the machine working. Then after a while it stopped. So I edged over that way, along the woods, to look down on the lots. I could hear it idling. Then I saw it, just sitting there. Nobody on it. Then I saw the arm. I thought it was somebody's coat. But something didn't seem right. I kind of snuck lower down the slope. Then I see it really was a person. I ran up and jumped on to get it off the guy. Then I thought, Oh God, which way? Then I knew I needed help. I got my phone out of my pack and I was just turning it on when all of sudden Trooper Moody was coming up the slope, with his gun in his hand.”

He stopped talking. I asked, “What did you think?”

“I was scared.”

“Because the gun was pointed at you?”

“No. He didn't point it. It was hanging at his side. None of that aiming and pointing stuff with two hands. Like you see on TV? Just swinging from his side.”

I nodded. As a resident state trooper, Oliver Moody patrolled alone, ruling the many square miles of his Connecticut turf by instilling fear in the fearsome. He was a powerful man who regarded a firearm primarily as a club—when a fist or his five-cell Maglite wouldn't do.

“Where did the bulldozer start from?”

“I don't know. I didn't see it down where I was. Must have been parked farther up the road.”

“Did you hear it start?”

“Yeah.”

“But the man's scream came later?”

“Sure, after the machine was running,” he mumbled. “Why do you think he screamed?”

“Jeff,” I said with a lot of exasperation, “I'm beginning to suspect you've been sniffing your spray paint.”

“I don't get high that way.”

Somehow I had to wake him up. I dropped my head to the table and swept my arm underneath.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Feeling under this table for a microphone.”

“Are they allowed to listen?”

Ah, paranoia. Suddenly—finally—I had his full attention.

“Come here!” I leaned across the table, beckoned him very close, and whispered, “I don't know if they're listening or not, but I gotta ask you something. I've got immunity because I'm working for your lawyer. Whatever you say is between us. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Whisper.”

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Now answer me. I want a picture of that scene before the murder. I want to know what you saw and didn't see. So I want to know when you got there, and how.”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you there the night before?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Goddammit, someone tried to torch a house. Before the rain. Were you there the night before? Just nod or shake your head.”

Jeff nodded.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Paint me a picture. Do you see a truck?”

“No.”

“Do you see a car?”

“No car. No truck.”

“Motorcycle. Off-road four by.”

“No. I didn't hear one, either.”

“Did you see the bulldozer?”

“I didn't go that far up the road. I assume it was up there the night before, but I didn't see it 'cause I didn't go past the second house.”

“Paint me a picture. Where is your car?”

“I didn't drive. I hiked.”

“Up the road?”

“Over the hill.”

“That how you got in the next day?”

“Sure.”

“So the next day, you came back. ”

Jeff nodded.

“What did you see?”

“The house didn't burn.” He looked around the interview room and whispered so softly I could barely hear. “I did a gas and candle fuse? I guess the gas evaporated or the rain doused it. Anyhow, it just got scorched. I felt like a complete asshole.”

“Who taught you the gas and candle stunt?”

Jeff gave me that I-don't-trust-anyone look. “I read it on the Internet.”

Before the Internet, the Devil visited late at night in the form of a wolf or snake or a goat. I whispered, “What will you say if I discover that the person who drove that bulldozer over Billy Tiller was an Earth Liberation Front operative?”

“That's crazy. No Elfer would kill.”

“How about the ‘Elfer' who turned you on to the candle trick?”

“No way. I learned that years ago. On the West Coast. Besides, I never said it was an Elfer.”

“You hiked in the next day, too? Or did someone give you a ride?”

“I hiked in.”

With two hikes down the hill, two hikes out, plus the killer hiking out, I was amazed that I had not seen a single print. “Same trail over the hill? A deer path?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Never use the same trail twice.”

“Did you learn that on the West Coast, too?”

“No. I learned that in Michigan.”

“Jeff? How committed are you to ELF?”

“Totally. Americans are killing the world. We don't need to drive SUVs that burn three times as much fuel as a vehicle needs. We don't need to build huge houses that waste energy and resources. We're destroying the planet just so we can have crap we don't even need. ELF is fighting to stop that waste. How could I not be totally committed to ELF? My only question is, how can I best serve ELF? What can I do to help the movement? How can I really make a difference?”

I was astonished and appalled. Jeff seemed to have no concept of the trouble he was in. This “serving” statement sounded as if he thought his current problem would just melt away and he'd soon be out on the street saving the environment.

I said, “Keeping in mind that it will be very difficult to make a difference from behind bars, let me ask you this: If Attorney Roth were to put you on the witness stand—I have no idea if he would, that's his decision—but if, how would you portray your total commitment to ELF? Knowing that the prosecutor would use it against you.”

“Why am I committed to ELF? I just told you.”

“Imagine the prosecutor asking. Imagine how you would answer on the witness stand.” I wasn't sure why I had gone down this route; it wasn't my job, here, but anything to get him to volunteer more information would help, including making him aware of the danger he was in.

But all he did was dig himself in deeper. “ELF gets its point across. Do you know how unbelievably frustrating it is when something that is so important, something I believe in, is totally ignored? The environment is important. It's the source of all life. It's the only one we've got. If burning something down is the only way to get the point across, then I have no problem torching SUVs and McMansions. Greedy idiots like Billy Tiller don't even realize the fragility of what they're bulldozing to build an ugly, wasteful subdivision. I refuse to lie back and let that happen and I—”

“Okay. Okay. I believe you. Actually, I doubt Attorney Roth will put you on the stand if it comes to trial. More to the point—”

“You didn't listen,” he shouted.

“Relax. I'm right here. No need to yell.”

“I said that I have no problem torching SUVs or fucking McMansions. I didn't say I would kill anyone. I never could do that. Never.”

“I believe you. I really do, Jeff. As bad as it looks, I believe you. Now, more to the point right now—did you hear a car or truck drive away when you went down to the bulldozer?”

He took a deep breath. “Do you really believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Roth doesn't.”

“I'm sure he does,” I lied. I actually had no clue what the hell Ira was really thinking. “But Mr. Roth has to stay detached to serve you best. Now, did you hear a car or truck drive away when you went down to the bulldozer?”

“No.”

“Could you have heard it over the noise of the bulldozer?”

“Yeah, by then it was just idling. What is all this?”

“I'm trying to figure out where the guy who killed Billy went.”

“Into the woods.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. I'm assuming. Or maybe he just hid in one of the cellars, and ran away later. I mean Trooper Moody didn't go looking when he had me.”

I took comfort in the thought that if Jeff Kimball was guilty, it would have been easy to say that he had heard a car drive away.

“And neither time,” I asked, “either the night before or the day Billy was killed, did you see a car or a truck?”

“I told you. No vehicle.”

“Not even Billy's red diesel?”

“Yeah, I saw Billy's truck. How do you think Billy got there?”

Good question. And it spurred another. Did the killer come with Billy in his truck? Someone Billy knew? I felt a little “wow” tingle and the whole case got about ten times more interesting: someone he knew rode along with him, a friend, employee, a subcontractor.

But how'd he get away? To run over the hill, didn't he have to know the lay of the land? Had to be a local? Or, had methodically scouted out the terrain ahead of time. I had climbed the old wood lot hill to get a phone signal. It was dense and tangled and steep and the way down the other side toward Fred Franklin's flooded hayfield was steeper. Only an outdoor type would have chosen it for an escape route.

Like my young friend here.

I had not noticed human footprints, but I hadn't been looking as I concentrated on the cell phone. And I had to admit, my prints must have disturbed any that had been there. So much for the first rule of preserving evidence. Brilliant.

Jeff's eyes were drifting. I was losing him, again. Reliable narrator? Unreliable narrator? Passionate eco-warrior-slash-murderer? Or innocent fool? I had told him I believed he was innocent. I wanted to believe him. I hoped, but did not know if Jeff's information, such as it was, was coming from a guy who was making it up, or if he was just a frightened kid zoning out.

“Sherman Chevalley told me you had a problem turning the machine.”

That caught his attention. “What do you mean?”

“That you always rotated left.”

Jeff made a face. “Sherman is totally last century.”

“How so?” I asked, recalling that in the previous century, Sherman had also been last century.

“He taught me on an old D4. Like Billy's. With levers and pedals and all that shit. I knew it would be the last one I ever drove. The new ones on the Federal job had joysticks. So I knew that his problem wasn't my problem.”

“Sherman said you were a natural.”

His whole face brightened. “Really?”