Rodriguez was on the stand for two days. On the second day he began to fall apart as Vail, using some of the prosecution’s own tapes, implied that Rodriguez had manufactured evidence, perjured himself and used inside information to get rid of Castillo so he himself could assume leadership of the cocaine ring. It was a daring ploy but it worked. Castillo walked out of the courtroom and vanished into the jungles of Colombia. A month after the trial, Miko Rodriguez was found floating in the lake with six bullet holes in his back. It was Venable’s most excruciating defeat and it almost brought down Yancey’s regime. Luckily, it had come during the D.A.’s second term, and by election time Venable, Torres and Silverman had amassed such a string of convictions that the Castillo case was forgotten. Forgotten by everyone but Venable.
There remained only two mysteries from the Castillo event. Was Miko Rodriguez really using her to maneuver Castillo for a fall so he could take over? His murder gave credence to Vail’s scenario. Even more curious, Vail had spared Venable one final humiliation. He had never revealed, either in or out of court, that some of the inside information used by Rodriguez to set up Castillo had been gathered in Venable’s bed. Was that a sign of weakness? Something she could use against him? Or was it simply immaterial to him? Whatever, the Castillo case still haunted her, and she was unsure whether Yancey had given the Pinero case to Silverman because she was too busy to handle it or because Yancey wouldn’t chance pitting her against Vail again.
“How many times have you two gone at it?” Yancey asked innocently.
“You know damn well how many times. And I remind you, the first one was a draw.”
“Yeah, but that second time around, that almost sank the whole department.”
She leaned across the desk and showed her fangs.
“Jack,” she whispered, “you’ve been sinking this department since the day you were elected.”
His face squinched up in mock pain. “Aw, don’t get nasty. I’m just reminding you, you owe him.”
So Yancey needed her and she had one last shot at Vail, and this time his back was hard against the wall. It was an ambush, but it would make headlines.
“The press’ll have a field day,” she said. “The whole Castillo case will come up again. Grudge match. Battle of the sexes. They’ll eat it up with a spoon.”
“So … are you in?”
She said, “I feel like I’m cheating, playing against him with a stacked deck.”
“What’s the difference?” Yancey said. “You owe the son of a bitch one, right?”
She thought for a moment and nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I owe the son of a bitch one.”
NINE
Vail and the guard took the elevator to the bottom of the shaft, passed through a steel door and went down another flight of stone stairs. They had to be four stories underground. The cell block was carved out of rock, with one-inch-thick steel doors on each of its ten cells. Two screened overhead lights provided the only illumination. The floor and walls were damp and slimy and the place smelled of urine, feces and vomit.
“I’ve never been down here before,” Vail said with disgust “How come you’re not wearing a mask and leather tights and carrying a whip? Where’s the rack?”
“Very funny. You really gonna defend the Butcherboy?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“What, that you were defending him?”
“No, that Butcherboy routine?”
“That’s what everybody calls him.”
“You mean everybody in this cell block or everybody in the police or everybody in the world? Define ‘everybody’ for me.”
“Y’know—everybody. It was in the papers.”
“Well, that certainly makes it official, doesn’t it?”
“Here we are,” the guard said. He slid open a peephole and Vail peered in at a room no more than six by four feet. There was a canvas cot against one wall and a bucket in the comer. Vaguely Vail could make out a huddled shape on the end of the cot. The walls were the color of mud.
“There’s no light in there.”
“He don’t need no light.”
“What the fuck is this? This isn’t a jail, it’s a goddamn Dark Ages dungeon. I want my client out of there. Now! I want him in a cell with a toilet and lights and hopefully a sink so he can brush his teeth and I want him to have a shower.”
“You know what that little bastard did?”
“I don’t give a shit if he set the pope on fire and cooked marshmallows over him—”
“Who the fuck—”
“If you’re about to ask me who the fuck I am, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m Martin Vail, I’m his attorney. I’m also the guy who just took the city for seven-point-six fucking million dollars. Would you like me to try for ten? Would you like that? Because either he gets moved upstairs where you don’t have to pipe in the fucking air so he can breathe, or I’m going to sue you, the city, the county and every potbellied asshole that works around here. The key word here is now!”
Half an hour later, Stampler had been showered, given a gray prison jumpsuit, and was reassigned to a white cell that was clean, had a toilet and sink, and smelled of disinfectant. It did not have a window, but it did have lights. Vail was waiting in the cell when they brought him in. He could hear the familiar shuffling gait and the clack of chains as Stampler approached with the guard. They stopped in front of the cell.
Stampler was shackled at the ankles and his wrists were handcuffed to a heavy leather belt around his waist. Vail looked at him with a combination of shock and surprise. Aaron Stampler was five-eight or five-nine, average build, weighed maybe 120 pounds. There was nothing special about him except his face. He had soft, aesthetic features, high cheekbones, a straight nose, a small heart-shaped mouth, and his skin was cream-colored and flawless. He had soft blue eyes that were as gentle as those of a fawn. A shock of lemon-blond hair tumbled down over his forehead. The youth seemed more confused than scared.
My God, Vail thought. He’s absolutely angelic-looking.
“Take all that crap off him,” Vail said.
The guard removed the shackles from Stampler’s ankles, unlocked the handcuffs and, with a hand against his back, gently urged Stampler into the cell.
“Gonna have to lock this, Marty,” said the corrections officer, who was an old-timer and did not take crimes of any kind seriously. “Wanna come outside, talk to him through the bars?”
“Just lock it, Tim. I’ll yell when I’m through.”
The guard shrugged. Slid the steel door shut. The lock clanged. The guard walked down the long row of cells.
“Aaron, my name’s Martin Vail. You can call me Martin or Marty, I come to either one.”
The boy smiled.
“The court has appointed me your attorney. I am going to defend you against whatever charges are brought against you at the arraignment Friday. I will be doing this pro bono. That means it won’t cost you anything.”
“Gosh a’mighty,” the boy said. “Thank yuh, I be grateful to yuh. And thank yuh for gettin’ me moved up hair.”
He used the kind of biblical-early English patois that is peculiar to the Appalachians, and with a kind of simple directness for which mountain people are known. His voice was high alto, as if it had never changed all the way, and his innocent and almost childish response stunned Vail. Was this kid for real?
“I want you to understand that you can refuse to have me represent you,” Vail went on. “What I mean, you can turn me down for any reason whatever. If we don’t get along, if you don’t trust me, if you don’t think I can do the job—”
“I don’t even know yuh,” he said.
“That’s why I’m here, Aaron, so we can get to know each other.”
“ ’Kay.”
“You have to do me one favor.”
“Yes suh.”
“Always tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me. I have a lot better chance of saving you if I know what happened than if I think I know what hap
pened and I turn out to be wrong. Anything you tell me is privileged—that means I can’t repeat it or they’ll kick me out of the law business.”
The boy smiled and nodded.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
He nodded slowly and stared at Vail with his pale, saucerlike eyes. “Say I kilt Bishop Richard.”
“That’s what you called him, Bishop Richard?”
“Yes suh.”
“You don’t have to call me sir, I don’t work here.”
“Okay,” he said, and looked over Vail’s shoulder at the cell door. Vail turned and looked into Abel Stenner’s stony, wire-framed eyes. He got up and walked to the cell door.
“Do you mind?” Vail said.
“I’ve got rights here, too, Counselor.”
“The judge and I have a deal, Stenner,” Vail said. “No more cops until Friday morning at the arraignment. He’s all mine now.”
“Nobody told me that,” Stenner said flatly.
“Then you must not be in the loop, Lieutenant. Maybe you better go ask your boss, and if he doesn’t know about it yet, tell him to call Judge Shoat’s office. By the way, were you responsible for putting my client down in that cesspool?”
“I’m not the booking sergeant, Vail,” Stenner said softly. “I think the normal procedure in a case like this—”
“I’ll remind you, Lieutenant,” Vail cut him off, “that at this moment that’s an innocent man sitting over there. And he’s going to be treated the same as any other innocent man awaiting trial, regardless of what you might think.”
“—is to put them in maximum security,” Stenner completed his thought.
“And don’t dignify that shithole by calling it maximum security. Maximum security, my ass. Only a sadist would put somebody down there.”
“As I told you—”
Vail interrupted him again. “You’ve been interrogating him off and on for almost twenty-four hours. You could have let him take a goddamn shower, at least. He still had dried blood in his hair, for Christ sake.”
“I just told you, I’m not responsible for what goes on in here. I’m investigating a murder case. That’s my responsibility.”
“Well you’re not going to do it here or now.”
“Always have to play hardball, don’t you?”
“Is there any other way to play?”
Stenner turned abruptly and left the cell block.
Vail turned back toward the boy and sat down beside him on the cot.
“That’s Stenner. He’s the man who’s investigating your case. He’s one tough cop, Aaron. They call him the Icicle.”
“I kin understand thet,” Aaron said. “I doubt he’s got an ounce of blood in his whole body. Were playin’ games with me.”
“Who was playing games with you?”
“Mr. Stenner and his partner, uh … Turner. A black fella who was right friendly. That Stenner, he would look at me with his hard eyes and try to talk scary. Then he’d go out for coffee or go to the toilet; Mr. Turner would set t’ sweet-talkin’ me.”
“That’s very perceptive, Aaron,” Vail said.
“I finally told them both, ‘Look hair,’ I said, ‘I tole you all I know. I don’t know what else I kin do ’cept maybe start makin’ thaings up. Thet what y’want me t’ do?’ They left after thet and didn’t come back again.”
Vail stifled a chuckle. He could understand how Stenner and Turner would find it difficult to handle the bald truth.
“I do sumpin’ wrong?” Aaron asked.
“You did just fine,” Vail said. “I’m sure you remember my name.”
“O’ course. Mista Vail.”
“Good. Let’s start over. Give me your full name.”
“Aaron Luke Stampler.”
“Where you from, Aaron?”
“Kentuck.”
“Where in Kentucky?”
Aaron chuckled. “Yer gon’ laugh. Crikside.”
“Crikside? How do you spell that?”
“Just arey it sounds. Crik, c-r-i-k, side, s-i-d-e. Town’s about the size of yer hand, Mr. Vail. Sits aside Morgan’s Crik, that’s why they callin’ it Crikside.”
Vail chuckled. “And how many people live in Crikside, Aaron?”
“I dunno, two hundred, there’bouts.”
“How long you been in the city?”
“Two year next month.”
“Ever been arrested?”
“No suh.”
“Ever been charged with a crime?”
The boy shook his head.
“How far’d you go in school?”
“Finished high school. Took two quarters of college, y’know, by mail.”
“You’re pretty smart, are you?”
“Well, suh, I know enough to come inside when it be rainin’.”
Vail laughed heartily. “Least you still got your sense of humor. Let me ask you, were you a friend of Bishop Richard’s?”
“Yes suh.”
“For how long?”
“Met him ’bout a week after I come up. Billy Jordan taken me to Savior House and Bishop Richard were there. Told me I could move in and I were most grateful, not havin’ much money ’n’ all.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Until past December, a year and nine months. Yer suppose t’ move out when yer eighteen, but he let me stay on for almost a year. I helped ’round the church and such. Then in December me and Linda got us a place over on Region Street.”
“So he didn’t make you move?”
“Oh no suh. Fact is, I think he woulda preferred for us t’ stay on at the house but… ’twere time t’ move on.”
“Why?”
“We, Linda and me, we be sleepin’ together. Y’know, sneakin’ inta the dorm after lights-out and, uh …”
“Did you get caught?”
“No suh, but we sure would of.”
“So you didn’t exactly leave with his blessing?”
“Well, he tole us we always be welcome at the house. There weren’t no hard feelin’s ’bout it, if that what ye be askin’.”
“You didn’t have any kind of fight … or argument … with the archbishop.”
Aaron shook his head. “Never did.”
“How about Linda?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is she still living there? On Region Street?”
“No suh. She moved.”
“Where to?”
“Ohio. Went back home. Weren’t easy, y’know. I had this job at the libury, cleanin’ up. Three dollar an hour. But she couldn’t get a job. One mornin’ she just up and left. Wrote me a note g’bye.”
“Pretty tough.”
He shrugged. “Guess it were time. ’Twasn’t there was hard feelin’s, just hard times.”
“But you weren’t particularly bent out of shape over her leaving?”
“No suh. Y’know, I been missin’ her some.”
“Did you kill Bishop Richard, Aaron?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No suh.”
“Did you see it happen?”
Aaron looked at him with his wide, saucer eyes and said nothing.
“Were you there when it happened?”
Aaron slowly nodded.
“But you didn’t actually see it happen, is that what you’re saying?”
The young man looked down at the floor and picked at a fingernail.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Do you know who did it?”
Stampler still did not answer.
“All right, let’s try this. Are you afraid of the person who killed the archbishop?”
Aaron looked up and nodded.
“So you do know who did it?”
Aaron did not answer.
The cab inched down the street, its driver bitching every foot of the way, and stopped in front of the church. In the back seat, Vail finished reading the story in the afternoon paper for the third time.
“Shoulda never let you con me into this,?
?? the driver said. “Like drivin’ on fuckin’ ice, it is, man.”
“You are driving on ice,” Vail said. “And I didn’t con you into anything, I offered you a twenty-dollar tip.”
“Look, you gonna pray, pray we get home. Looks like it’s gonna start again.” The driver nervously scanned the dark clouds that swept over the city.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Vail said. “Wait.”
The Cathedral of Saint Catherine of the Lake was the oldest church in the city. Archbishop Rushman, a purist, had refused to allow any changes in its structure. It was still the same huge brick manse it had been when it was built 145 years before. The steeple towered above the trees on Lakeview Drive and was visible from far out on the lake, a reminder to the crews of the pigboats and barges as they lumbered into port that the Roman way was the best way.
Vail looked up at the spire and suddenly remembered his granny, doing the thing with her fingers entwined in a pyramid: “Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors”—and flipping her hands over and wiggling her fingers—“and here are the people.”
He walked cautiously across the ice-draped yard to the rectory, a stark, stem-looking addendum to the cathedral, and entered the rectory office. On one side of the large room was a staircase leading to the second floor, on the other was the doorway to the office. There was also a back door directly in front of him and a corridor in the comer that he assumed led to the church.
A nun sat at a desk in the center of the room.
“Hello, sister,” the lawyer said. “My name’s Martin Vail.”
“Mr. Vail.” She nodded. “I’m Sister Mary Alice.”
She was young, late twenties, and had a rather mischievous look in her eyes. There was that sense of innocence and compassion one sees in the faces of most nuns, but something else, a spin on the look, something a little devilish.