“There are discrepancies.”
His chair came forward with a sharp report. He stared at me, bugging his eyes. “Discrepancies? Did I hear you say there were discrepancies?” His thick eyebrows bounced up and down. “After a police investigation? A trial? A conviction? Six years of appeals? You found discrepancies? What did it take you, half an hour?”
“Come on. You know the appeals system. His first lawyer was probably some twelve-year-old Legal Aid guy and if he didn’t object to something at the trial, the replacements couldn’t use it later for the appeal. You can’t even argue proof of innocence anymore.”
“Ev …”
“Alan, for Christ’s sake, they’re gonna kill the guy.”
“Ev …”
“I’m telling you.”
He cocked his big head at me. “Oh, oh, Mr. Everett.”
“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ve got a hunch.”
He sat back again. “Ha.”
I pointed my cigarette at him. “But you know my hunches, Alan. They’re based on …”
“A desperate attempt to cover the shabbiness of your personal behavior with a show of professional skill.”
“Right. And this is a strong one. Something stinks about this case.”
“That’s me. I had one of those veal heros for lunch.”
“Goddammit.” I stepped over to the wastebasket. I bent down and crushed my cigarette out against its rim. “Damn it, damn it,” I said again.
There was a chair in front of his desk. I went over and sank down into it. I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands. After a long moment, I guess Alan took pity on me. I heard him shift in his chair with a low groan.
“All right,” he said. “Let me get it straight what we’re dealing with here. If you can turn this routine execution into some kind of big fight-for-justice story, maybe-and I do mean maybe, my friend-maybe I can stand up for you a little when Bob tries to fire you.”
I nodded even before I had lifted my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess that’s the idea.”
He regarded me with what, in Alan, passed for compassion. “You’ll still lose the wife and kid, you know. She’s gonna find out.”
“I know, I know.”
“And you’ll be shit on the floor out there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the city room. “They love Bob on the floor, man. They’d walk through fire for him. They’ll wipe you off the soles of their shoes.”
“I know. Believe me.”
He lifted his broad shoulders. “But hey, what the hell. I’m not your father. I don’t think I’m your father. Am I your father?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. Because no son of mine is going to use this newspaper for his own sleazy personal motives.”
“No, no, I’ll play it straight.”
Alan snorted. “Don’t pretend to have integrity with me, young man.”
“Sorry.”
“Who knows?” he said, raising his hands philosophically. “There’s always something in a criminal case that didn’t go right. You might work it up into some kind of crusading journalism type thing. Then, when Bob comes in here and asks me to transfer you to the toilet, I’ll be able to say, ‘But, Bob, look at that great Beachum story Steve made up out of practically nothing.’ He won’t give a shit, but I’ll be able to say it.”
“I really think there might be something to this,” I said with as much conviction as I could.
Alan gave a deep chuckle. I avoided meeting his eyes. I was still hunched over in my chair, my elbows on my thighs.
“So what do I do?” I said.
He shrugged again. “Beats me. Just make it sound good, pal. I’ll run it for you, but only if it sounds good.”
“Yeah, but I mean what if I really find something?”
He reared back in his seat. “What, you mean like evidence? Today? You got nine hours before they juice the guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, but what if I do? We can’t just wait for it to run tomorrow.”
Alan made a face as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess you could go to Mr. Lowenstein.”
“You think?”
“Why not? He’s the governor’s pal. If he calls the state-house and says it’s important, the gov’ll pick up, no question.”
“Okay. Except Mr. Lowenstein hates me.”
Alan gave a deep belch. It lifted him in his chair, bloated his cheeks. “Everyone hates you, Everett,” he said. “Even I hate you, and I’m your pal. But I will say this: You go to Mr. Lowenstein and it better be awfully good. It better be solid down to the ground or he not only won’t call the governor, he’ll eat your heart and throw your body to the dogs. You don’t have to sleep with his wife, friend, he’ll fire you for free.”
I let out a breath, pushed off my knees and stood up. “Okay. Thanks,” I said.
“Hey, don’t thank me. I think you’re a scumbag. Bob loves that girl, and no matter what we think about him, he doesn’t deserve this. And Barbara gave up her job and her fucking home and everything so you could come here and make good after you pronged the owner’s daughter in New York. She doesn’t deserve this either. And what about me? I’m a wonderful person, and now you’re gonna use my newspaper to save what’s left of your smarmy little existence? Let me tell you: I’ve lost what little respect for you I may have had. So she was really pretty good, huh?”
I laughed. “Fuck you,” I said.
“Lucky bastard.”
He was whistling to himself as I stepped back into the city room.
3
I did not look at Bob but made a beeline for the supply room. I didn’t even glance in the direction of the city desk. The last thing I wanted now was a run-in with the aggrieved husband. Among other things, it was already two-fifty, and I had to be on the road in ten minutes if I wanted to get to the prison on time. Luther Plunkitt had gone out of his way to accommodate us on this interview, but if I was late, things being what they were, there was every chance he would have me turned away.
So the plan was to grab a few extra pads and get the hell out of there as fast as I could. I hurried back across the room, hugging the wall. Mark Donaldson, another news side hack, looked up from his paper as I passed and tried to flag me down for some gossip about Michelle. I gave him a nervous wave and walked right on. I could see Donaldson watching me, running his tongue around under his lip, wondering what was up. I suspected it would not be long now before he knew, before everyone in the whole place knew.
A few seconds later, I pushed through the supply room door and stepped in. The room wasn’t much more than a closet really. A narrow space with metal shelves on every side. The shelves ran up to the ceiling stacked with pads and boxes of pens, printer ribbons and printer paper and so on. I didn’t think they’d let me bring a tape recorder into the Death House, so I wanted enough fresh pads to last me the day. I grabbed two from a pile and shoved them into my back pocket. I also picked a couple of Bics out of a box and clipped them to the pocket of my shirt.
Then I turned around and found myself facing Bob Findley.
Uh-oh, I thought.
He had entered the little room silently. He was standing just within the threshold, silent, still. His round pink face was set and expressionless and I was dead in his eyes; I could see it. His hand was on the edge of the supply room door. He swung it shut in back of him. There were about three feet between us, and no room to pass on either side.
In fact, for a moment or two, I thought Bob might just launch himself at me. It made a funny picture: two grownup, college-educated men wrestling with each other in the supply room as pens fell off the shelves and papers flew. But I realized quickly there was not much chance of that. Bob was civilized; he was modern; he was caring. He wasn’t just going to slug me. Not when he could torture me slowly to death.
His cheeks reddened, but he smiled. It was a mirthless smile of disbelief, of moral amazement. He shook his head. He spoke in that soft, controlled tone of his.