The Detroit Electric Scheme (16 page)

Anger flared in me. “Jesus Christ, Riordan. How many—”

He reached over the table and slapped me across the face, almost knocking me out of the chair. A stabbing pain shot through my nose. He sat back and smiled. “I don't like to hear the Lord's name taken in vain, Mr. Anderson.”

I wiped the blood off my mouth and glared at him. “I want to see my lawyer.”

“I don't care what you want. Tell you what. All you've got to do is confess, and I'll let you see your mommy and daddy.”

“I'm done talking to you.”

Looking disappointed, he sat back in his chair. “So that's the way it's going to be. All right. But I guess we've got some paperwork to do first. And I might as well get this out of the way.” He stood, towering over me, and said, “William C. Anderson, Jr., you are under arrest for the murder of John Cooper.” He walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

I sat there for another hour, hands trembling and legs twitching, before a cop opened the door. Without a word, he pulled me out of the chair and shoved me down the hallway to a wall-mounted telephone. I picked up the receiver and asked the operator for my father's office number. She connected me. The policeman slouched against the wall a few feet away.

Wilkinson answered. “Mr. Anderson's office.”

I could barely summon the courage to speak. “Mr. Wilkinson,” I muttered. “It's Will. I need to speak with my father.”

“He's in a meeting right now, Will. I'll ask him to call you later.”

“No! I need to speak with him now.”

“Will, he can't just drop everything for you. He's got business to—”

“I'm in jail.”

For at least three seconds the only sounds coming from the telephone were traces of ghostly voices, then Wilkinson said, “I'll get him.”

A few minutes later, my father was on the phone. “You're in jail?” he demanded in a whisper.

I was so close to tears I didn't trust my voice. “Father, I need a lawyer.”

“Where are you?”

I told him I was at the Bethune Street station.

“All right. We'll be there soon. And William?”

“Yes?”

“Don't tell them anything.”

 

Mr. Sutton paced around the interrogation room like a tornado—in front of me, behind me, in front of me, behind me. “Christ, Will, we'd better start working on an insanity plea.” His words shot from his mouth like bullets from a Gatling gun.

My father said Mr. Sutton was the best criminal attorney in Detroit, but he didn't look like anything special—average size, conservative gray suit, short brown hair parted in the center, thin lips, muttonchop whiskers. But if his mind operated as quickly as his mouth or his body, I might have a chance. He hadn't stopped moving since he entered the room.

I leaned forward and set my hands on the table. My handcuffs clanked against the wood. “I'm not insane, and I didn't kill him.”

He stopped, leaned over, and spread his palms flat against the table. “But you're not going to tell the police about the Doyles or Wesley McRae?” The inactivity seemed too much for him, and he jumped away from the table and resumed his hurried circles around the room.

I hadn't planned to talk about Wesley or the Doyles, but I'd ended up telling him everything that had happened since I found John at the factory. “If I told the police about them, would it get me out of here?”

“It won't be enough to get them to drop charges, but McRae's testimony might be the difference between conviction and acquittal. You have to tell the police now.” He stopped behind me, leaned in, and whispered, “And you have to tell them about everything, including the Doyles.”

“I've got to talk to Wesley first. I'm not even sure he'll testify.”

Sutton stopped pacing and shook his head in disbelief. “With his friend on trial for murder? He'll testify.”

“We're not really friends,” I said automatically, and regretted the words before they finished coming out of my mouth. I shook my head. “No, you're probably right. But I should talk with him first.”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “He's still at Grace Hospital?”

“I don't know. Probably.”

“All right, I'll go see him when we're done here.” I started to protest, but he waved me off. “I'll make it clear you're not saying anything about him until he gives his approval.”

“Okay. But until then I don't want you to mention him. Or the Doyles. Look, you've got to find Frank Van Dam. He'll know who would have wanted to kill John.” I explained to him who Frank was, and then said, “Oh, and I need a favor.”

He looked at me, eyebrows arched.

“I need you to find out if Elizabeth Hume—Judge Hume's daughter—has returned home.” He started to say something, but I cut him off. “It's personal.” He nodded, and I finally asked the question that had been worrying me. “Can you get me out on bail?”

He jumped into the chair across the table. Lips pursed, he looked at me for a long moment while his hands tapped staccato rhythms on the wood. “Unfortunately, the arraignment and bail hearing won't be until Monday.”

“It's . . . Friday today?”

He nodded.

“Shit.”

“Exactly. But they are going to keep you in a cell by yourself, so you shouldn't have too much to worry about.”

“Is this why they ran me around town for the past couple of days? So they could hold me without charging me?”

Sutton nodded. “It's called ‘running the circuit.' Not legal, but it gives the police time to build a case without defense lawyers getting involved. I'm sure they were very busy investigating while they drove you around town. Your father and I have already lodged a protest with the mayor, for all the good it will do us. The police will just claim administrative mistakes were made.” He shook his head. “But the good news is that, now that the story has broken, they're going to want the newspapermen out of here almost as much as we do. And you could be a political hot potato for the mayor, so I don't think they'll slow down the process any further.”

“Will you be able to get me out of here Monday?”

He cupped his chin in his hand. “I think we've got a chance. You'll be formally charged, and the judge will either set bail or deny it altogether. The district attorney has made it clear he wants to keep you here, but with your family's reputation, bail's not outside the realm of possibility. If the judge does grant you bail, it's going to be a substantial sum.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then you're here for however long it takes. Could be months.”

A lead weight dropped in the pit of my stomach. Even with Wesley's testimony, I had no illusions about my chances of being acquitted. If I didn't get bail, I would likely be spending the rest of my life behind bars.

The catcalls began as soon as the guard and I walked back into the jail. Though I tried to hide it, inside I was quaking. If these criminals were set loose on me, I would have no chance. An idea began to take shape, and I weighed it carefully. Death would be immensely preferable to life in prison, especially life with no chance of helping Elizabeth.

By the time the guard locked me in my cell, I had decided: If I was granted bail, I would use the time to try to resurrect Elizabeth's life. When that was done, or if I wasn't let out, I'd find a way to kill myself. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life in prison.

 

The interrogation room was beginning to feel like my home away from home. Detective Riordan sat across the table from me while Mr. Sutton wore a hole in the floor behind me. His shoes creaked every time he spun around. When Sutton told me Elizabeth had returned home the evening I'd been arrested and that the police weren't pressing charges against Ben Carr, I had thought things were looking up. I had also thought Wesley's agreement to testify would make a difference. Now, looking at Riordan, I wasn't so sure.

He couldn't have looked any more incredulous if he'd tried. “So Will Anderson and his merry men traipse across Detroit to catch a blackmailer. Three of them are brutally murdered, and one is beaten within an inch of his life. By one man.”

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I nodded.

“That is precisely what happened, Detective,” Mr. Sutton said. “The same man who killed John Cooper is also responsible for the murders of the Doyles and the attempted murder of Wesley McRae.” He threw the blackmail notes down on the table in front of me. “Here are the letters Will received from the killer. All you have to do is read these to know he's innocent.”

Riordan picked up the notes and glanced at each before tossing them aside. “I'll look at them.” He sat back in his chair. “Where were
we? Right. Will's compatriots were a convicted pervert and three common criminals.” He turned to me. “The pervert I believe. But come on now. The Doyles? Thieves and cutthroats with an arrest sheet as long as my arm? What would they be doing with you and your fairy friend?”

I ignored his comments about Wesley and stared at him coldly. “I employed the Doyles to help with the blackmailer. I had never met them until that day.” I certainly wasn't going to tell Riordan that they and Wesley had done “business” together. “Find the boy who took the money. He can lead you to the killer.”

Riordan looked at a sheet of paper in front of him. “Find a boy who is ‘approximately ten years old with brown hair and brown eyes, probably from the lower class, possibly Jewish.' ”

“With a recessed chin,” I added.

“Any needles in haystacks you'd like me to come up with while I'm at it? Anyway, you said you and McRae were near your apartment building, not down on Adelaide.”

“I lied.”

He looked up at Mr. Sutton. His eyes moved back and forth as they followed Sutton's pacing. “Mr. Sutton, I'm having a hard time keeping your client's story straight. He's not at the factory, then he is, he doesn't hate John Cooper and then he does. Now his buddy is beaten on one side of town and they know nothing of the three dead men, and then they're all best friends. Maybe we should have him write his testimony on a chalkboard so you can erase the parts you don't like. Then you wouldn't be tied down by little details like perjury.”

Sutton stopped behind me and gripped the back of my chair. “Detective, there's no reason for sarcasm. Mr. Anderson was afraid, just like any boy in his position would be. He's telling the truth, and Mr. McRae will back him to the letter.”

“No wonder, now that Will's got a crackerjack lawyer defending him.” Riordan's eyes twinkled. “Next, he'll be on a spy mission for President Taft. And no doubt the president will back him as well.”

The arraignment was short, but decidedly not sweet. I was charged with murder in the first degree, to which I pled not guilty, and the judge moved on to determine bail. He took his time, shuffling papers around in front of him, occasionally glaring over his reading glasses at me.

I'd finally gotten a shower and shave. It had been a shock seeing myself in the mirror. My nose was red and puffy, and bruises spread under both my eyes, deep maroon to blue and green. Still, I was generally clean and had even seen a little sunshine on my trip to the courthouse in the paddy wagon, though it was hard to enjoy with the sour reek absorbed into the padded walls.

The judge cleared his throat and looked at the prosecuting attorney, E. M. Higgins, a rotund man sweating his way through an ivory-colored summer suit. “What does the state recommend for bail?”

With a smug look at Sutton and me, Higgins said, “Your Honor, given the heinous nature of the act and the overwhelming evidence, the state would ask that you deny bail.”

The judge turned to my attorney. “Well, Mr. Sutton?”

After arranging his notes on the table, Sutton leaped from his chair. “We would ask, Your Honor, that Mr. Anderson be released on his own recognizance—”

“That's outrageous!” The prosecutor jumped from his seat. “Your Honor!”

Sutton raised his voice over the top of the prosecutor. “—being that he is from one of the most respected families in Detroit and clearly not a flight risk.”

“Mr. Sutton,” the judge said, “your client is accused of murder in the first degree.” He glanced at me, then looked back at Sutton. “But I don't believe Mr. Anderson is a flight risk, nor do I believe he is likely to perpetrate any violent crimes if he is released. I'm going to allow bail, but I'm setting it at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

The crowd behind me gasped and chattered among themselves. The judge pounded his gavel and spoke over the top of them. “Mr. Anderson, I am gambling on your character. Should you be able to raise two hundred and fifty thousand, you will be released until your trial. However,
if you violate the terms of this bond, you will spend that time in the city jail. Do you understand?”