“I like to keep the focus on the client and the facts.”
“Pretty hard to do. You’re so … flamboyant.”
“Flamboyant?”
She seemed a bit embarrassed when he questioned her use of the word. “Well, the article makes you appear that way.”
“I better be something. Everybody in the city not only assumes Aaron’s guilty, they want to see him fry. Other than that…”
“You think that will happen?” she asked. “I mean, that they’ll execute him?”
“Sure. What we want is justice, what the public wants is revenge. When a person is accused of a crime, particularly a capital offense, and you look across to the other side of the courtroom—where the prosecutor sits?—there’s always the victim’s wife, girlfriend, mother, father, sister, brother, right behind him, demanding that old biblical eye for an eye. A courtroom is a Roman lion pit. Our job is to keep the defendant out of the pit.”
“That’s how you see your clients, as human sacrifices?”
“Molly, I know the law very well. I’m damn good at this, but I’m also pragmatic as hell.”
“And aggressive …”
“Absolutely.”
“Single-minded …”
“I call it focused.”
“Cynical…”
“That’s absolutely essential. Don’t believe anyone, don’t believe anything. Don’t believe what you see, what you hear, what you read. And for God’s sake, don’t trust a soul.”
“It all sounds … I don’t know, so—”
“‘Tawdry’s a good word,” Vail interrupted her. His tone was very matter-of-fact, almost casual. “The law is tawdry. Murder is tawdry. Robbery, rape, assault, embezzlement, divorce, all tawdry business. Get used to it. Don’t try to make a science of it. Don’t look for ethics, just be grateful when you find them. Don’t look for justice, just pray you get a little.” He poured a shot of bourbon into his coffee. “What it is, you’re fighting for a man’s life when half the jurors are nodding out and the judge is daydreaming about shooting two under par at the end of the day and the only person listening to you is your client. It’s a gutter fight. Don’t elevate it to something noble. Let the writers do that.”
“I guess I do have a lot to learn,” she said.
“You worry about Aaron,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Let me worry about the judge and jury. In the eyes of the court, crimes are divided into two categories, malum in se and malum prohibitum. The most serious is malum in se, which means ‘wrong in itself.’ Inherently evil. Homicide. Rape. Mayhem. Malum prohibitum is just about everything else, from burglary to embezzlement.” He walked in front of the board of photographs. “What we’ve got here, Doctor, is malum in se to the max.” He pointed to the photographs. “The state will ask for the punishment to fit the crime.”
“Electrocution,” she said.
Vail nodded. “No prisoners, as they say. Unless we can prove he’s innocent—or was mad as a hatter when he did it—the people will have their big payoff.”
“Is there a possibility he’s innocent?”
“He says so.”
“He says he didn’t kill the bishop?”
“Why don’t we let him tell you,” Vail said, slipping the videotape in the machine. “This a short interview. They were getting ready to move him up to Daisyland. Incidentally, I videotape every interview and I want you to do the same. You’ll be surprised what you can learn from watching the tapes.”
“I have some experience with videotape,” she said. “We use it to a limited degree.”
“That’s good. The equipment is light, easy to operate. This was recorded at the city prison about noon today. Isn’t much to it, but at least it’ll introduce you to your patient.”
He pressed the play button. It was a shot of Aaron from the waist up, sitting on a cot in a prison cell. He was leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees. Vail was not in the picture; only his voice could be heard.
VAIL: State your full name, Aaron.
STAMPLER: Aaron Luke Stampler.
VAIL: Where are you from?
STAMPLER: Crikside, Kentucky.
VAIL: How long have you lived in the city?
STAMPLER: Fer two yairs. Come hair in March in 1981.
VAIL: Where did you go to school?
STAMPLER: Crikside school till high school. Then I went to high school in Lordsville, which air twenty miles or so from Crikside.
VAIL: Are your parents still living?
STAMPLER: No suh. Paw died of the black lung ’bout four yairs ago. M’ maw died last yair. M’ brother, Samuel, died in a car accident.
VAIL: Any other immediate family?
STAMPLER: No suh.
VAIL: Did you graduate from high school?
STAMPLER: Yes suh.
VAIL: What kind of grades did you make?
STAMPLER: (Proudly) I was an A student ’cept for math. Never did take a likin’ t’ math but I paissed okay.
VAIL: When did you first meet Bishop Rushman?
STAMPLER: When I first caim to the city. Met a fella named Billy Jordan and he brought me t’ the Savior House. That’s where I met Bishop Rushman.
VAIL: And you were friends? I mean, Bishop Rushman was kind to you?
STAMPLER: Y’suh. He took me into the house, let me do odd jobs round the church t’ earn some money. Also he helped me t’ get into the college extension.
VAIL: Extension courses?
STAMPLER: Y’suh, I were studying by mail.
VAIL: What were you studying?
STAMPLER: Y’know, startin’ courses.
VAIL: Like freshman courses. English, things like that?
STAMPLER: (Nods)
VAIL: When did you start taking these courses?
STAMPLER: Last fall. Th’ bishop said it were a waste not fer me to go on with m’ studies.
VAIL: Do you like school?
STAMPLER: Y’suh. L’arnin’ is my favorite thaing. ’Course m’ accent always has made folks laugh.
VAIL: Is that why you were in extension?
STAMPLER: N’suh … cheaper. ’N’ I always had some kinda job t’ do. So I couldn’t rightly go t’ reg’lar college.
VAIL: What kind of jobs?
STAMPLER: Right now I’m workin’ at the libury, cleanin’ up ’n’ all. Leastways I was, till this happened.
VAIL: Aaron, did you and Bishop Rushman have any problems, personal or otherwise?
STAMPLER: N’suh. He wanted me to join the Church and I were studyin’ about it. Watchin’ tapes of th’ services, ’n’ th’ altar boys, like that.
VAIL: Aren’t you a little old to be an altar boy?
STAMPLER: Were a good way t’ learn. ’Bout the Church, I main.
VAIL: Did you discuss it with the bishop?
STAMPLER: Y’suh. And I read books. Bishop lets me bona books from his libury whenever I want.
VAIL: What books?
STAMPLER: All of ’em. Any I wanted t’ borra. Read ever’thing.
VAIL: But these discussions with the bishop, they weren’t angry talks, right? I mean, they were friendly discussions?
STAMPLER: (Nods) Y’suh. We talked ’bout different ways people believe.
VAIL: So you weren’t brought up a Catholic?
STAMPLER: N’suh.
VAIL: Did you go to church?
STAMPLER: (Hesitates and looks away) Y’suh. Went t’ th’ Church of Jaisus Christ and Everlastin’ Penance.
VAIL: That was the name of the church? I don’t think I’ve heard of that before.
STAMPLER: Was jest a local preacherman, Mr. Vail.
VAIL: So, to sum it up, Bishop Rushman helped you get into the college extension, helped you get into Savior House, helped you find a job, and talked with you about becoming a Catholic and maybe even an altar boy. Is that pretty much the way it was?
STAMPLER: (Nods) Y’suh.
VAIL: And you two never had a fight or serious disagreement?
STAMPLER: N’su
h.
VAIL: Even when you left savior house?
STAMPLER: N’suh. He understood it were time.
VAIL: Aaron, do you understand why you’re here?
STAMPLER: Y’suh, they say I killed Bishop Richard.
VAIL: Do you know what’s going to happen now?
STAMPLER: Y’suh. Goin t’ Daisyland and they’re gonna decide if I’m crazy ’r not afore they gimme a trial.
VAIL: And you understand the seriousness of all this?
STAMPLER: O’ course. They main to execute me.
VAIL: Tell me about the night the bishop was killed. You were in his apartment, right?
STAMPLER: Y’suh. The altar boys went up thair. We looked at the tape. Then we had some refreshments—Cokes and cookies—and talked about, y’know, bein’ a Catholic, ’n’ all.
VAIL: What time was that?
STAMPLER: Well, I cain’t be positive ’cause I don’t have a watch. Sseems t’ me we went up thair ’bout… eight ’r so. We were thair about an hour and a half. So I reckon we left som’airs ’bout nine-thirty.
VAIL: And who all was there, Aaron?
STAMPLER: Peter, John, Billy, Sid and me. And the bishop.
VAIL: Do they all live at Savior House?
STAMPLER: ’Cept fer Billy and me.
VAIL: What are their last names?
STAMPLER: Don’t use last names at th’ house, Mr. Vail.
VAIL: You don’t know their last names?
STAMPLER: (Shakes his head) ’Cept fer Billy Jordan.
VAIL: Where does he live?
STAMPLER: Has a stander down in the Hollers, jes’ like me.
VAIL: All right, so you left the bishop’s place about nine-thirty. Why did you go back?
STAMPLER: I din’t. Went downstairs to the office to borra a book.
VAIL: How long were you there?
STAMPLER: (Hesitating) I’m … uh, not rail sure.
VAIL: Why aren’t you sure?
STAMPLER: (Becoming uncomfortable, restless) ’Cause … I jest don’t remember, not havin’ a watch. I were reading—it were Poor Richard’s Almanac by Benjamin Franklin. And I haird som’thin’ upstairs so I went out to the stairs and I called up but there were nary answer. I went up the stairs, callin’ out t’ th’ bishop. When I got t’ his door I could hear his stereo playin’ real loud. So I knocked on th’ door and cracked it open and … and …
VAIL: And what?
STAMPLER: I don’t remember.
VAIL: You don’t remember what happened next?
STAMPLER: Next thing I know, I was standin’ thair and I had that knife in m’ hand and the ring … and … and the bishop were … they was blood all over the place and on me and the bishop were on … the floor … ’n’ he was bleedin’ in the worst way.
VAIL: Then what did you do?
STAMPLER: I guess … I guess I kinda panicked and I started t’ run out only there was somebody downstairs and so I run out through the kitchen and thair was a police car comin’ down the alley so I ducked back into the church and … uh…
VAIL: That’s when you hid in the confessional?
STAMPLER: (Nods)
VAIL: And that’s all you remember.
STAMPLER: I swear t’ you, Mr. Vail, that’s all I remember.
VAIL: Why didn’t you throw down the knife and call the police?
STAMPLER: Because I were scairt, reckon. I were scairt so. And th’ bishop were all cut up … I don’t know why. Jes’ ran.
VAIL: Aaron, who else was there in the room, when you went back upstairs?
STAMPLER: (Looks down and shakes his head) Don’t know.
VAIL: You told me last time we talked that you were afraid of that person.
STAMPLER: Y’suh.
VAIL: But you won’t tell me who it is?
STAMPLER: Don’t know.
VAIL: You don’t know who it was?
STAMPLER: (Shakes his head)
VAIL: But you’re afraid of him?
STAMPLER: (Looking up) Wouldn’t you be, Mr. Vail?
Vail snapped off the machine.
“There you have it, Doctor. That’s the young man they claim did that.” He pointed to the pictures. Molly shifted slightly in her seat. She put the empty bourbon glass on the comer of Vail’s desk but said nothing.
“One question,” Vail said. “Is it possible his story is true? I mean, could it have happened that way?”
She stared at the pictures for a moment longer and nodded.
“Yes. He could have gone into a fugue state for three or four minutes.”
“What’s a fugue state?”
“It’s like temporary amnesia. An epileptic who has a seizure goes into a fugue state. A drunk who can’t remember what he did the night before was in what we call chemically induced fugue. In this case, Aaron could have been so shocked by what he saw that he withdrew into a fugue.”
“How long does it usually last?”
“Usually fairly short term. Five minutes would be average, I’d say. But I know of cases where subjects have gone into fugue for as long as six months.”
“Six months!”
“Yes. It’s a manifestation of certain types of personality disorders. I could go on for hours about this.”
“In time. The point is, you’re saying Aaron Stampler could be telling the truth?”
“Absolutely.”
FOURTEEN
Goodman stopped the car at the top of the hill, got out and looked around. Ahead of him, the road dropped sharply down between pine-laden walls that defined a narrow valley. Cramped into its confined floor was a single street half a mile long bordered on one side by a dark, thundering stream and a narrow-gauge railroad track and on the other by the natural wall of the steep ravine. Houses and stores lined the bleak roadway. Company stores and company shanties—sixty or seventy aged frame houses, Goodman estimated, before the valley curved and the settlement followed along. Years of black dust had obliterated paint and trim, and yet there was about the small settlement a look of neatness, a reflection of pride.
And something else. At first he could not put his finger on it. Then he realized the place seemed somehow out of place in time. Yeah, that was it. No television aerials. No neon, no billboards. It was if he had driven over the crest of the hill into another century.
There was a kind of sad yet serene beauty here. It was hard to imagine that under these green rolling hills and deep ravines coal mines dipped deep into the earth, manufacturing deadly gasses and black-lung dust. Truly heaven and hell, thought Goodman, and he was abruptly swept back in time for a moment. To Gary, Indiana, twenty-five years ago, a place different from this place in size and accent, and yet strangely like it. Dominated by smokestacks instead of hills, its colors black and gray instead of green, Gary nevertheless had the same grim, redundant sense about it. In Gary, they boiled steel in giant furnaces; here they dug coal from pits in the earth. In both places, danger was a persistent partner. Goodman’s father had died under a scalding cauldron of molten steel. Broken, body and spirit, by years of physical punishment, he just couldn’t move fast enough. When his father died, Goodman, then nine, and his mother moved to the city. They had never owned anything. Everything belonged to the company. What pride they had they left behind, for it was an emotion manufactured by the company and manifested by bowling teams and football games, high school bands and Fourth of July picnics.
So Goodman knew what to expect. Gaunt, suspicious of strangers, the people would be leather-hard from a lifetime of fighting weather, poverty and geography. They would be simple people, their vision confined by mountains, fog and fear of the outside; their dreams trapped in airless, lightless, anthracite tombs; their tenuous job security in itself a death sentence. Caveins, explosions, disease and climate were the Four Horsemen of their existence. And yet he knew they would be ferociously patriotic, God-fearing, loyal people, their faith nurtured in the fundamentalist church, their fervor in the flag, their loyalty to a company that would exploit them
to their graves. Salt of the earth.
He also knew there would be one talker down there. There’s a talker even in the smallest town.
CRIKSIDE, KENTUCKY, POPULATION 212, the small white sign said, the number painted over and reduced several times. Sign of the times—kids leaving to find a better life outside. Aaron Stampler had been one of them.
This is what Stampler had escaped. One oddball kid, probably. Smart, frustrated, driven by a vision born in his imagination until he finally crossed the mountain into the real world. Maybe it was too much for him. Had something unleashed repressed rage inside him? Sometime, somewhere—between this forlorn valley and Archbishop Rushman’s blood-drenched bedroom—had something terrifying and obscene exploded inside Aaron Stampler?
The answer would start here.
He drove slowly into the hollow. The road ran between the railroad and Morgan’s Creek for a hundred yards or so, then curved over the tracks and back to become the main street of Crikside.
The hardware store was a long, squat building with a tin roof and a dim interior, and pickaxes, oil lamps and harnesses displayed on a sagging porch that ran the length of the building. There followed Walenski’s Drugstore, the city hall—a narrow, two-story wooden structure with a spire that made it look more like a church than the political center of Crikside. There was a rambling grocery store, a dry goods shop called Miranda’s Emporium and three old buildings that leaned on each other for support—a small restaurant in the center with a bar on one side and a liquor store on the other, and a sign that read EARLY SIMPSON’S CAFE AND BAR. There was also a frame house with a sign in front that said AVERY DAGGETT LEGAL ADVICE AND OFFICE SUPPLIES, although Goodman wondered what a lawyer would do in this tiny hamlet. Draw up wills for folks who had nothing? Divorces? Unlikely. Suits against the company? Hell, the company probably owned Daggett and everything else in sight.
A town where a game of checkers could cause gossip.
He decided to start at the drugstore but it was empty, and the proprietor, a severe woman who did not look at him, had nothing to say when he tried to start a conversation. A small brass plaque beside the front door said simply LEASED FROM KC&M. The same thing happened at Miranda’s Emporium. There were two women in plain wool dresses who stood in the rear of the place and stared at him from between the shelves. The owner, a large woman with her hair in rollers, was pleasant but turned to ice when he mentioned Aaron’s name. She shook her head and walked back to her customers. He left, stared for a moment at a similar brass plaque and stood with his shoulders hunched against a chill wind that whined through the sluice. He walked across the street to the grocer. Same brass plaque. KC&M owned the town all right. Everything was leased. Nobody owned anything. Anybody causes trouble, they are banished forthwith and empty-handed.