Final judgment

FIVE

The homicide detectives went easy on Fish at first, as if he was a lesser victim of the crime and not a suspected killer. They commiserated with him about his grisly discovery, practically apologizing for their questions.

The two detectives, Kevin Griswold and Tom Cates, both white men in their late thirties, were lean, fit, and earnest-brothers under the skin with Pete Samuelson. Mason wasn’t fooled by their demeanor and trusted that Fish wasn’t either. Pious grandfather or old con man, Fish was their first and best suspect.

Fish stuck with the story he’d told Mason, which boosted Mason’s confidence that Fish was telling the truth. That he was afraid to call the police because he’d be late to his meeting with the U.S. attorney bordered on the improbable. Not because it wasn’t possible, but because it made Fish look so bad. Such confessions carried with them the ring of truth, especially when Fish could have easily claimed that the body in the trunk was news to him.

“So your lawyer here, Mr. Mason,” Detective Griswold said. “He told you not to be late for your meeting with the U.S. attorney. That’s why you didn’t call the police when you found the body.”

Fish nodded. “That’s right, Detective. You understand I’m not blaming my lawyer. When I saw the body, I didn’t know what else to do. All I could think was to come here and talk to Mr. Mason.”

“And you told your lawyer there was a dead man in the trunk of your car?” Griswold asked.

“With no head or hands,” Detective Cates added, shaking his head sympathetically. “And your lawyer says let’s take one crime at a time. Make a deal with the U.S. attorney and then clean up the mess in your car. Is that about it?”

Mason ground his teeth at the way the questioning had developed, uncertain whether to be angrier with his client or the cops. Fish had led the detectives away from him and directly at Mason, making Mason an accomplice in a cover-up just in case the cops didn’t buy Fish’s protest of innocence. He’d done it with disarming skill, making the cops think it was their idea, not his. Mason bet Fish could have sold both detectives time-shares in Florida.

Mason couldn’t let Fish answer the last series of questions without waiving the attorney-client privilege. The moment Mason instructed Fish not to answer, the impression Fish was leaving would be embossed in the cops’ minds. Yet Mason had no choice.

“Forget it,” Mason told the detectives. “You know better than to ask my client what he and I talked about. He told you what he knows. He found the body in the trunk this morning. His actions are understandable and not illegal.”

“The law says you’re supposed to report dead bodies, not hide them, Counselor,” Griswold said, ratcheting up the tempo for Mason.

“Within how many hours?” Mason asked. “He found the body after breakfast. It’s not even lunchtime. You want to charge him with failure to report, write it down. If you think you can prove that this fat old man killed whoever is in the trunk, then cut off the victim’s head and hands and drove around town with the leftovers, just say so. Otherwise, we’re leaving.”

Detective Griswold said, “We’ll have a warrant to search your client’s house in a couple of hours. Tell him not to go home and clean house before we get there.”

“You want to search my house?” Fish asked, standing and putting on his topcoat. “Be my guest. Search all you want. You don’t need a warrant. Just wipe your feet so you don’t track up. The last time the FBI searched my house, they left a mess. My housekeeper yelled at me for a week after that.”

Mason drove to Fish’s house. Fish rode with him, the detectives following behind. He had agreed with Fish’s offer of a voluntary search. It was another indication of Fish’s innocence. Or, from the cops’ perspective, it was proof that Fish committed the murder somewhere other than at his house. Either way, there was the risk that the cops would find something to incriminate Fish in the murder or in an unrelated offense.

“Don’t worry. My house is clean,” Fish said, reading Mason’s mind.

“A good housekeeper is hard to find,” Mason said.

Fish chuckled, a dry sound from deep in his throat. More regret than amusement. “I do have a good housekeeper and they are hard to find. But we both know that’s not what we’re talking about. I didn’t kill that man. I have no idea who he is or how he wound up in my trunk. It’s my bad mazel, my bad luck. That’s all. So don’t worry.”

Mason smiled. Fish had a way of comforting people, putting them at ease. He sprinkled Yiddish words into his conversations with Mason, a subtle reminder of their Jewish kinship, leaving the Yiddish out of his patter with gentiles.

Mason’s Jewish upbringing had been at the hands of his aunt, Claire Mason, who had raised him after his parents died in a car wreck when Mason was three. Claire had abandoned ritual and cultural Judaism, but faithfully practiced the commandment to heal the world with a law practice devoted to the underdog.

Avery Fish was the polar opposite of Mason’s aunt. He was devoted in his observance of ritual, attending daily services, keeping kosher and observing the Sabbath and the many holidays on the Jewish calendar. Yet he was a crook.

Mason had asked him about the obvious contradiction the first time they met. They were in Mason’s office, a one-room layout above a bar called Blues on Broadway in midtown Kansas City. Fish was candid about his guilt and worried about whether he would be able to keep kosher from a prison cell.

“I grew up in a very observant home,” Fish explained. “I studied Torah with my father every Shabbos. I learned to chant all the prayers and the different melodies of the service. The rituals became my rituals. It never occurred to me not to be an observant Jew.”

“That part I understand,” Mason said. “What I don’t understand is the government’s indictment of you for mail fraud and the arrest-dodging track record you’ve compiled when you’re not praying.”

Fish shrugged his shoulders, his chin disappearing into the folds of his neck. “It’s not a perfect world and I’m not a perfect man. But I know who and what I am. God knows too. One day, He and I will settle up.”

Mason shook his head, uncertain whether Fish was being honest about his imperfections or merely hypocritical about his faith. Mason’s own life was not without contradictions. He defended people accused of crimes, yet had sometimes crossed the line in their defense, leaving others dead or ruined. But his clients had been vindicated, the guilty caught. Who was he to judge Avery Fish? What would he do when it was his turn to settle up?