Falls the Shadow Page 2

  The bartender and I both rushed outside after him. We scanned the streets veering away from the corner, first Lombard, then Twentieth. Empty, vacant, Bobless.

  “Who the hell was that?” asked the bartender.

  “That,” I said, “was Bob.”

  Back inside, Donnie was still on the floor, sitting up now, one hand over his nose, his white shirt splattered with his own blood. Sandy was holding him, hugging him, straightening his hair.

  One of the old men leaned over. “Let me see it,” said the man.

  Donnie removed his hand. His nose was an amorphous blob.

  “It’s broke,” said the man, his voice high with delight. “Broke, broke, broke. No doubt about it. I seen enough of them. The hospital’s just down the street. You ought to get that thing fixed.”

  We helped him onto his feet, helped him out the door. He pushed us away when we tried to help him further, and he and his girl, both of her arms around him now in support, walked slowly toward the bright lights of the emergency room.

  I paid the bill, searched the area to no avail, shrugged, and went home. Bob was waiting in front of my building. He leaned against a wall, his arms were crossed, he seemed to be insufferably pleased with himself.

  “Are you insane?” I said to him.

  “I just did Donnie the biggest favor of his life.”

  “You weren’t interested in Sandy?”

  “Please,” said Bob. “I prefer a little more substance on the bone.”

  “So then it was all a setup.”

  “Their relationship was in dire straits, it needed some juice. Years from now, when the two of them are celebrating their wedding anniversary, with their children all around, they’ll think back on the most important day of their lives, the day they recommitted themselves to their future together. They day he fought for her, the day she rushed to his aid.”

  “You set him up and then you broke his nose.”

  “I try to help,” said Bob.

  “But you broke his nose.”

  “That, I’m afraid, wasn’t part of the plan. Accidents happen, Victor, remember that. Sometimes even the best of intentions go awry. But often the accidents work out for the best. Think of Donnie with his new nose. It will enhance his features, don’t you think? Lend his face the character it was sorely lacking.”

  “What gave you the right?”

  “We are all fellow travelers. We don’t have the right to turn away.”

  “So you step in whether they want you to or not?”

  “I do my part.”

  “You are insane,” I said.

  “Like a rabid fox,” said Bob. “But let me ask you this, Victor. Whom did you help today?”

  As I said, he had a hobby. And he was right, I hadn’t done a teacup’s worth of good that day. And he was probably right about Donnie and Sandy, too. They had seemed closer, with Donnie holding back the blood from his nose and Sandy wrapping her arms about him, much more the loving couple. And the broken nose probably would improve Donnie’s appearance and, after it was set, maybe improve his sinuses, too. Who knew, maybe Bob was just what they both had needed. But still, I saw the blood leaking between Donnie’s fingers, the blood splattered on his fine white shirt, dripping onto the floor. And I couldn’t help but wonder if the answer I was looking for, the answer to a killing I was still trying to solve, was there in the blood.

  I was just then in the middle of the François Dubé murder case, and I sensed that Bob was somehow in the middle of it, too—that was why I had taken him to the bar, why I had swiped his fingerprints. The Dubé case was the usual type that falls upon a lawyer’s desk, a case of murder, of protested innocence, of history and dentistry and the best of intentions gone all to hell. Not to mention the gratuitous sex and the gratuitous violence. Not to mention.

  Yet for me it was a case about more than a lone woman dying in a whirlwind of her own blood. It also started me to thinking about the benefits and costs of involving yourself in other people’s lives. When are we compelled to help? When does a helping hand turn meddlesome? And when does meddling turn murderous? The questions proved to be more than idle, they proved to be a matter of life and death.

  Mine, for instance.

  But it didn’t start with Bob, no. His role would be crucial, yes, but he would appear later in the story, he was not there at the beginning for me. No, for me it started with a cashier’s check in the amount of five hundred dollars from another self-centered son of a bitch, François Dubé.

  2

  “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Carl,” said François Dubé in his strong French accent. “Can I call you Victor?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Vic?”

  “Victor.”

  “I am so grateful that you came.”

  “You sent us a cashier’s check for five hundred dollars to pay for this meeting,” I said. “We’re not here as a favor.”

  “But still, Victor. I feel better already. It is as if hope has returned to my life.”

  “I’m just a lawyer, Mr. Dubé.”

  “But where I am now, I do not need a priest, I do not need a doctor. Where I am now, only a lawyer can help.”

  I’ll give him this, he was right about that.

  François Dubé looked like the scruffy college professor all the girls fall in love with their sophomore year. Maybe that’s why I was wary, because he was better-looking than me, but I don’t think so. Or maybe it was because he was French and had all those curlicues and accents attached to the letters of his name, like some baroque affectation, but that didn’t seem to be it either. No, I think it was a visceral reaction to his very persona. I could feel the danger in him, the violence. It was in his eyes, pale blue and unaccountable, with a bright golden flaw in his left iris that seemed to light demonically. It was in his scarred hands, clutching each other as if to keep them from lurching angrily about. Yes, true, it might also have been the prison jumpsuit, I am not immune to such subtle cues, but for the record let me state, something about him put me on guard. And did I mention he was French?

  “You need to know, Victor, that I did not do what they say I did. I loved my wife. I could never have done such a thing. You must believe me.”

  But I didn’t believe him, did I? And what I didn’t believe was not that he didn’t kill his wife, because that early in my involvement in his case, how could I know such a thing? Or that he loved her, because who was I to peer into another man’s heart? No, what I didn’t believe was that he could never have done such a thing—could never have slipped into his wife’s apartment and shot her through the neck and left her on the floor to die as the blood gushed and spattered—and I didn’t believe his earnest, pleading words because I felt the violence in him.

  We were in a small, windowless conference room at Graterford Prison, a bleak old complex that sits on a rise overlooking the Perkiomen Creek. The main walls at Graterford are thirty feet high, which is about as high as prison walls go, and considering who was inside, the worst of Philadelphia’s criminal population, every foot was welcome. François’s overalls were maroon, the conference room was slate gray, the air was stale. My partner, Beth Derringer, and I were seated across from François at a metal table, bolted onto the floor so it couldn’t be raised on high and used as a weapon. Just then I was glad for the precaution.

  “It doesn’t matter what you did or did not do, Mr. Dubé,” I said. “And it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m not here to pronounce judgment. That’s already been done by twelve of your peers.”

  “They were not my peers,” he said. “They were fools, and they were wrong.”

  “A jury is like an umpire at a baseball game. Even if the pitch is a foot outside, if he calls it a strike, it’s a strike. Do you understand?”

  “I do not know baseball,” said François Dubé. “All I know is the truth.”

  “The truth of the thing, whatever that is, doesn’t matter. The law said you were guilty. The l
aw sentenced you to spend the rest of your life in this prison. The law gave you the right to appeal, and you exercised that right, and your appeals were all denied. The law says you are screwed.”

  Maybe I was coming on too strong, maybe I should have shown him a little more sympathy. I mean, there he was, locked away in that hellhole with a life sentence shackled around his neck. He was about my age, he once had a life outside those thirty-foot walls that I would have envied: a restaurant of his own and a reputation as the city’s hot young chef, a pretty wife, a young daughter. His fall had been spectacular. I’m a lawyer, my instinct is to reach out to those in the deepest of troubles, and he certainly qualified. But there was something about François Dubé that was keeping my empathy at bay, or maybe it was just that I had enough problems of my own right then, including something seriously wrong with a tooth, to get all worked up about his.

  “I expected innocence to matter in America,” said François Dubé with undisguised bitterness. “But when the Supreme Court refused to hear my case and my lawyer said all my chances were finished, I wrote to you. There must be a way for you to help.” He searched my face and then Beth’s. “Is that not why you’ve come?”

  “We came because you paid us,” said Beth. “This meeting is exploratory only. We haven’t agreed to get any more involved in your case.”

  “You will not help?”

  “Based on what we could glean from the newspaper reports, we don’t see any immediate grounds for a new trial,” she said. “You need something on which to base the request. Are there new DNA results?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Has a new witness come forward?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a piece of previously undiscovered forensic evidence?”

  “Nothing like that,” said François.

  “Do you have something you want us to examine?”

  “Everything.”

  I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Which means nothing,” I said. “There has to be something new that will convince the trial judge to go through it all again. What should we tell him?”

  “That I did not do it,” said François Dubé.

  “Innocence is not a basis for a new trial, Mr. Dubé. You claimed innocence at your original trial and failed.”

  “I did not fail,” he said. “My lawyer failed. He was terrible.”

  “So you want us to claim ineffective assistance of counsel?” said Beth.

  “Will that get me free?” said François, his face suddenly lit with hope.

  I shook my head. “That and a quarter will get you fifteen minutes on a meter, not a new trial. Your lawyer was Whitney Robinson, right?”

  “A doddering old fool,” said François. “His idea of a strategy was no strategy.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Whitney Robinson, besides being a dear friend of mine, is a crackerjack trial attorney.”

  “Maybe at some point in his career, but not for me. For my case he was too old, too distracted. Almost senile. He retired right after the Supreme Court turned its back on my hope. It is his fault I am here.”

  I felt for my sore tooth with my tongue. Ouch. Yeah, sure, blame the lawyer, blame the jury, the judge, the D.A., blame everyone except the guy who shot his wife point-blank in the neck. I had seen her picture in the newspaper accounts. Leesa Dubé had been young and beautiful, with a marvelous set of teeth. And then she married François.

  “Let’s go over the facts,” I said. “From what I understand, the murder weapon was registered in your name.”

  “But I left it with my wife when I moved out. For her protection.”

  “It was found, wrapped within a shirt of yours, covered with your wife’s blood, on the floor of your closet.”

  “I do not know how it got there. The police, maybe. The detective was a lying bastard.”

  “Your fingerprints were found at the crime scene.”

  “It was my apartment, too, before I moved out. Of course they would be there.”

  “You had no alibi.”

  “I was alone, asleep. Is that a crime?”

  “And an eyewitness spotted you coming out of your wife’s building the night of the murder.”

  “He was mistaken. It was not me.”

  “Even the best lawyers, including Mr. Robinson, are limited by the evidence available to them. But the truth is, Mr. Dubé, no one cares about the reasons you lost, just that you did. To get another trial now, you need new evidence, new test results, a new witness. You need something fresh, something new and startling. The legal standard is very high.”

  “That is why I need your help. To find it. I read about you in the paper, that thing with the Supreme Court justice and the boat. And one of your clients works with me in the kitchen. He speaks most glowingly about you.”

  “But that he’s here should clue you in to the fact that I’m not a magician,” I said. “I can’t create evidence out of thin air. If you don’t have anything I can take to the judge, there is nothing I can do.”

  “Can you at least take a look at my case?” said François. “Can you at least see if you can come up with something?”

  “Mr. Dubé, that would be a waste of everyone’s time. To be honest, you have the time to waste, but unfortunately we do not. Unless you have a compelling piece of new evidence, there is nothing we can do.”

  “I need your help, Mr. Carl. I am desperate. I have a daughter. I have not seen her for three years. My wife’s parents won’t let her near me.”

  He glanced at Beth with glistening eyes. She stared back for a moment and then placed one of her hands encouragingly over one of his.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Dubé,” she said.

  “Call me François, please. And you are Beth?”

  “That’s right. How old is your daughter?”

  “She is four now. I have not seen her for three years, since my arrest. It is breaking my heart.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Beth.

  “I have not hugged my daughter for three years, Mr. Carl. I am asking you as a father. Can you help me, please?”

  It might have tugged at my heartstrings, his touching little plea, except I had no soft spot for the tiny bundles of snot that others went mushy for, and my own father had never been one for hugs.

  “No dice,” I said. I took hold of my briefcase. I stood at the table. “Good luck, Mr. Dubé. Really, I mean that. But there is nothing we can do.”

  “Maybe we can look,” said Beth.

  I stopped and gaped at my partner. She was still seated, still with her hand over his. This wasn’t unlike her. Beth Derringer was the patron saint of lost causes, which was one reason our finances were always on the precipice. And for some reason, which I couldn’t yet fathom, she seemed ready to take on another.

  “Beth, it won’t do any good.”

  “We can’t promise anything,” said Beth to François. “But maybe we can look. When Victor is on the trail of evidence, he’s like a bloodhound. If there’s something to be found, he’ll find it.”

  “I don’t think so, Beth,” I said.

  She looked up at me. “Victor. Please. We should help him. He hasn’t hugged his daughter in three years. He needs our help.”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “But can’t we try?” she said, her hand still over François’s hand, her face suddenly younger, like a little girl’s. “Please?”

  “No.”

  “What can I do to convince you?” said François.

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “How about if I arrange for you to be paid whatever money you require?” he said.

  “Up front?”

  “Of course.”

  “It might be a lot.”

  He shrugged.

  “Say, ten thousand dollars?”

  “Not a problem,” said François.

  I sat right down, gave him a grin. “Okay then, Mr. Dubé. I’m convinced.”

  See, sometimes it is just that easy to fall int
o a hole.

  3

  Outside Graterford Prison, as we walked to my car in the parking lot, I asked Beth what her little outburst in the interview room was all about.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Something just came over me. He seemed so lost, so helpless. He misses his daughter, and she misses him.”

  “Does she?”

  “Of course she does.”

  “You talk to her lately?”

  “I couldn’t stop thinking of her waiting for her daddy to come home. We couldn’t just do nothing.”

  “Yes we could.”

  “We had to do something.”

  “No we didn’t.”

  “He needs our help. Isn’t that enough?”

  “See, that’s the problem with you, Beth. You view the law as a helping profession. Me, if I want to help, I help myself. That is the capitalist way, and I am a freedom-loving capitalist of the first rank: All I lack is capital.”

  “Sometimes you’re a creep.”

  “That may be true,” I said, “but I’m never as creepy as that creep in there.”

  “Who? François?”

  “Yes, François. I didn’t like him from the get-go. Frankly, I have no great belief in his innocence, and I have no burning desire to reunite this convicted murderer with his young and innocent daughter.”

  “Then why did you take the case?”

  “You’re my partner, you wanted the job, and there was the promise of ten thousand dollars. The combination was enough for me. If lawyers only defended those they liked and admired, the species would be endangered. I figure we’ll cash the check and spend the retainer preparing the motion for a new trial. Then we’ll stand stoically in court as the judge denies it. We did what we could, we’ll tell François. We’re sorry it didn’t work out. Easy money.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “This,” I said.

  “You don’t think we have a chance?”

  “There is no way, no how a judge will give that guy a new trial. He’s got nothing, nothing but the money he’s going to pay us, and pretty soon he won’t have that either.”