Killer

chapter 24

present

Sunday was just one of those days to get through like all those days during my fourteen-year prison stretch. It was still raining hard, and I was sick of the wet and cold, but was feeling too antsy to stay caged inside my studio apartment. By noon I had to get out, and I made my way to Moody Street and found a cheap bar to camp out in. From one o’clock to ten in the evening football was on the TV, and I nursed a half dozen beers, had a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and stared vacantly at the TV. It wasn’t quite the same watching football without having any action on the games, but at least it killed the day. At times I noticed people staring at me, but I didn’t care whether they recognized me. They gave me a wide berth, and that was all I cared about.

Later, miraculously, I slept through the night, and woke up only when the alarm went off at six o’clock Monday morning. I lay disoriented before remembering where I was and what I had to do later that morning. Reaching over, I turned off the buzzer and forced myself out of bed. My court appearance was scheduled for ten o’clock. The previous week I had worked out the connecting buses I needed to take to get to the courthouse in Chelsea, and it required me to leave my apartment by seven-thirty.

I made myself a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, along with toast, then took a shower, shaved, and changed into the cleanest clothes I had. A suit would’ve been desirable, but I didn’t have one.

Saturday morning I had gotten another call from unavailable, and instead of answering it I had turned off my cell phone. I turned my phone back on and saw that I had seven messages waiting for me. I didn’t bother checking them or the call log to see who they were from. Within minutes of turning the phone back on, it rang with the caller ID indicating again unavailable. This time I answered it, asking whoever it was what the fuck they wanted.

The same voice from the earlier calls chuckled lightly, said, “Answering your phone again, huh, March?” “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Not too much,” he said. “Only to let you know that I’ll be seeing you in court today. And afterwards too.”

“You’re such a tough guy,” I said, “how about showing some balls and giving me your name?”

Whoever it was must’ve found some humor in my request. He broke into a wheezing laugh before telling me he’d be seeing me soon enough and I’d know his name then, and hung up.

I thought about turning off my phone again, but decided if he wanted to call me some more, let him. I found the court documents that were sent to me while I was in prison, gave them a cursory look, then took all of the papers I had with me as I headed off to catch the first bus I needed to take to get to Chelsea.

The bus let me off three blocks from the courthouse. The rain had stopped sometime Sunday night, and it was a crisp late October day. I had forty minutes before my scheduled court appearance, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in a hall surrounded by an angry mob of my victims’ relatives, so instead I found a small diner a block in the opposite direction of the courthouse and took a seat at the counter. There were several blue-collar types already sitting at the counter, all big heavy men who showed the kind of work they did by their dirt-stained fingernails. One by one they looked over at me, and as they did, I could see a faint glint of recognition in their eyes. That was it, though. They didn’t show anything by their pokerfaced expressions, nor did they say anything. They drank their coffee, while a couple of them also ignored the state-wide smoking ban as they let cigs burn between their fingers. One of them got up and casually headed towards the door, his pace quickening only once he got near it.

Through the storefront window I saw him take out a cell phone, then watched as he walked out of view. Whoever he was going to be calling it didn’t much matter – I’d be heading back to court before they’d show up.

I nodded to the guy working the counter who from his demeanor probably also owned the place. He was a middle-aged man, barrel-chested, with a thick neck and a red face, and had on a stained tee shirt and an even more badly stained apron over a pair of khakis. A short buzz cut flattened out the top of his head. He stood to the side glowering at me, several blue-green tattoos expanding as he ominously flexed his arm muscles. He clearly didn’t want to wait on me, but I asked him for some coffee anyway.

“We don’t serve rats here,” he said, a deep frown creasing his face, and his mouth puckered up to show his disgust.

I couldn’t get over that. We don’t serve rats here. It didn’t matter that I had murdered all the people that I did, what he cared about was that I had ratted on Lombard. It just seemed so out of proportion, and I could feel my blood heating up and my steely old self coming to the fore, and I told him he’d better start learning how to. He wavered, not quite so sure of himself after that, and grudgingly poured me a cup of coffee. He didn’t even spit in it as he pushed it towards me. The other customers sitting at the counter had picked up on my tone, and I could sense their growing nervousness. I looked over my shoulder at them and could see the tightness around each of their mouths as they struggled to maintain their nonchalant act. If I yelled boo at least one of them probably would’ve passed out on the spot. I looked away from them.

I sat quietly for the next ten minutes and drank my coffee. The place had become a tomb. All conversation had died. The man working the counter avoided looking in my direction, almost as if he was scared he’d turn to stone if he caught a glimpse of me, while the other blue-collar types at the counter were afraid to make any movement outside of a few anxious glances. All because I had let my old self out for a brief moment. When I finished my coffee I dropped a couple of dollars on the counter and left.

It was a few minutes before ten by the time I had arrived at the courthouse. Standing outside were two wiseguys. They both had the same hardened look about them, both dressed casually in jeans and sneakers; one wearing a leather bomber jacket, the other a New England Patriots windbreaker. They had on dark shades so I couldn’t see their eyes, but there was no hiding that they were in the game, and my gut told me they worked for Lombard. I knew they were watching me as I entered the courthouse but they kept their distance. They could have just as well been carved out of granite by the way they stood unmoving and the cold deadness in their faces.

I was left alone as I walked through the courthouse, and it wasn’t until I reached the courtroom where my hearing was scheduled that I encountered an angry mob waiting for me. There were maybe thirty people there and they erupted at the sight me. They started yelling at me, mostly about what they hoped would happen to me in the near future. One big burly guy who looked like he could’ve been a bouncer at a club made a charge at me. Two of the other people in the crowd were able to get in his way and pull him back, but he kept trying to break free, red-faced and spittle flying off as he yelled at me. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t have broken his wrist if he had put a hand on me, but I guess the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

I stood for a moment trying to pick out their individual voices to see if I could recognize the joker who had been calling me on the cell phone, but there was too much noise coming from them for me to be able to do that. Faces in the crowd did seem familiar, and I realized how much some of them resembled the men that I’d taken out, in particular, the thick-bodied bouncer-type who had gone after me. I tried to remember who he had looked so much like, but couldn’t quite pull it out of my memory.

I gave up the effort of trying to match their faces with my past targets, and pushed my way through them so I could get into the courtroom. They followed me in, still shouting at me. The court clerk, a short gnome-like man with a stooped back, looked up, startled by the commotion, and warned them to be quiet or they would be arrested. They didn’t stop until the bailiff took a few menacing steps in their direction while shouting for them to shut up. After that they took their seats, but their faces showed their rage.

I took a seat in the front row. The clerk appeared visibly shaken as he looked over the courtroom. After a few minutes the judge entered the room from his chambers. He was tall and thin and with a pink face and a full head of wavy white hair. The clerk had us all rise as he announced him, and the judge took his time walking to the bench. After he was seated, the clerk approached him for a short conversation, and the judge quickly looked annoyed at what he heard. Clearing his throat, he addressed the court as the clerk had earlier, warning that outbursts would not be tolerated.

“I understand that emotions may be running high,” he said, his pale blue eyes scanning the room, “but if any of you make a disturbance you will be taken out in handcuffs and arrested. Do I make myself clear?”

He waited until a couple of members of the crowd nodded before he asked the clerk to call out the parties of Dunn vs March.

The wife and two sons of John Dunn were the plaintiffs in the suit. Dunn was one of the men with Douglas Behrle when I shot up the Datsun they were in. Dunn’s wife was about my age and looked gray and used up, as if there just wasn’t much left of her any more. The two sons were in their late thirties and neither of them seemed like they wanted to be there. My guess was they were being paid to file their suit against me.

The judge looked at me sitting alone at the defendant’s table and asked if I had legal representation.

“Your honor, I’m close to indigent. I don’t have any funds to hire a lawyer.”

Someone in the crowd snickered behind me and commented on how that was a shame. The bailiff took two angry steps forward, and the judge’s eyes shot up as he tried to pick out the guilty party. Only after the room had become deathly still again did he turn back to me.

“What do you mean close to indigent?” he asked.

“I was released from prison three weeks ago after serving fourteen years,” I said. “I have no savings, no bank accounts, and am still getting state assistance, and will continue to for the next five months.”

“Do you have any documentation regarding your state assistance?”

“Yes, your honor.”

The bailiff walked over to me for one of the papers I had taken out of my stack, and he brought it over to the judge who studied it carefully before asking me whether I had a job.

“Yes, your honor. I’m working as a janitor making eight dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. My rent is five hundred and sixty dollars a month, which doesn’t leave me much, if anything, left over.”

The judge turned to the plaintiff’s lawyer. “What’s the point of this action?” he asked. “Do you have any reason to believe that Mr March has assets that the state doesn’t know about?”

The lawyer stood up. He had small dark eyes and a piggish and disingenuous mouth, and I could smell Lombard all over him. “Not exactly, your honor,” he said. “But we do believe Mr March will be selling the book and movie rights to his atrocities.”

The judge accepted that and smiled at me apologetically. “Mr March,” he said, “regardless of your financial situation, you should’ve arranged for legal counsel to represent your interests. This is a civil proceeding, not criminal, and as such the state cannot provide you free legal help.”

A voice spoke out from behind me, “Your honor, Daniel Brest from Brest and Callow. If I could confer with Mr March, my firm may be interested in representing him pro bono.”

I turned to see a man standing three rows behind me. He was smiling pleasantly, but it didn’t quite mask the shrewdness in his eyes. From the way he was dressed he was clearly doing well – I could make out the same style of Cartier watch on his wrist that I had once taken off one of my targets, plus I’d been around enough cheap suits in my time to recognize an expensive number, and his cost some bucks.

The judge asked me if I’d like to take the attorney up on his offer, and I told him I would.

“Fifteen-minute recess then,” the judge said.

The plaintiff’s lawyer didn’t seem happy about this turn of events, nor did he seem surprised, and he kept his mouth shut. Dunn’s widow and two sons sat morosely. If anything they appeared disappointed that they had to be there longer than they hoped for. Daniel Brest came swiftly around the aisle to meet me and offer his hand, and then the bailiff led us to a private conference room. Once we were seated I asked him why he wanted to help me.

“I could feed you the standard boilerplate bullshit,” he said. “That we believe every party in a courtroom deserves legal representation, blah, blah, blah. The truth is we want the publicity this case will give us. Also, we’d like to represent you if you choose someday to sell the rights to your life story.”

“I don’t plan on ever doing that.”

He took a contract from his briefcase and handed it to me, as well as a pen. “In case you ever change your mind,” he said.

The contract was fully made out and gave Brest’s firm exclusive rights to act as my agent in a book, movie or any other media deal, in the event that they successfully represented me in any and all wrongful-death lawsuits filed against me.

“What would be considered successful?” I asked.

“That’s defined in a subclause on the last page. But basically, if we’re able to limit a judgment against you to an aggregate of fifty thousand dollars.”

I didn’t bother saying the obvious, that a fifty-thousand-dollar judgment against me didn’t sound all that successful. I knew what his answer would be – that that amount of money would be peanuts compared to what the rights to my story could bring in. I tried reading the clauses at the end of the contract, but the print was too small for my eyes, and I had to take him at his word. I went back over the section of the contract that spelled out how they would represent me, and tried to figure out if it would preclude my having Sophie as a co-author. From what I could tell, it wouldn’t. “Isn’t twenty-five percent high?” I asked, referring to the percentage that his firm would collect on any payment I received.

“That would be fair given the situation,” he told me, straight-faced, although I guess there was some truth to it. If you’re being extorted, twenty-five percent probably would be fair in most situations. “Besides,” he added, “it would only come into play if you decided to sell the rights, which you’re telling me you won’t.”

He looked on pleasantly while I signed and initialed the contract where he told me to. After I handed it back to him he asked for all the documents that I had. He read through them quickly and looked up at me, puzzled.

“Their attorney, Harwood, has filed five separate wrongful-death actions against you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t he join them into a single lawsuit?”

I shrugged. “They’re not doing this for money.”

Brest gave me an empty smile. “What’s their reason then?”

“Harwood’s probably acting for the Lombard family,” I said. “These lawsuits are being used to keep me in the Boston area, and maybe to be punitive. I’m sure the Lombard family also likes knowing the dates I’m required to be back in Chelsea.”

The way Brest’s eyes glazed while he continued smiling his empty smile, he clearly didn’t put much stock in my explanation for why the different lawsuits hadn’t been grouped into a single action. He noticed the way I was rubbing my temples, and with a knowing wink asked if I was having a migraine.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “More of a constant dull ache.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Migraines can be a bitch.”

There was a knock on the door, and the bailiff’s voice warning us that the fifteen-minute recess was over. Once we were back in the courtroom, Brest joined me at my table and informed the judge that he would be representing me, then requested that the case be dismissed since I had confessed to the police back in 1993 to murdering John Dunn and the three-year statute of limitations had long since expired. The plaintiff’s lawyer dryly argued that the contents of my confession had only been released to the public seven months earlier and it wasn’t until then that his clients learned I had murdered their respective loving husband and father.

The judge put up a hand to stop any further discussion on the matter. “I want written arguments delivered to me by Friday,” he said. He had a brief consultation with the clerk about the court calendar, then announced that the case would be continued a week from Tuesday. “I will make my decision then whether the statute of limitations has been reached. If I determine it hasn’t, the trial will start at that time.”

That was it for now. I stood up to see the white-hot anger burning in the faces of the thirty or so spectators seated behind me. I don’t know what they were expecting from the court that day – condemnation, punishment, blood – but whatever it was they didn’t get it, and they were near beside themselves with grief and rage. It was fucking ridiculous. I was just an instrument for Sal Lombard, and whatever retribution they wanted for me should’ve been directed at Lombard and his family, but I was an easier target. Lombard’s family wouldn’t lose sleep over putting them all in the ground next to their same loved ones that I’d already taken care of years earlier.

I almost yelled at them all to grow a fucking pair and face Lombard’s boys and deal with the ones truly responsible, but Brest spoke to me first, interrupting my thoughts. I guess he had noticed this mob also.

“Let me show you another way out of here,” he said.

I followed him towards the conference room we had gone to earlier, leaving a stunned mob behind us. By the time they realized what was happening we were already out a side door and in a parking lot behind the courthouse. Brest led me to a new BMW sedan, and asked me if he could give me a lift somewhere. I told him South Station, and he said that wouldn’t be a problem.

“That looked like it could’ve gotten ugly back there,” he said, referring to the mob we escaped from in the courtroom. “If I can’t get the case dismissed, I’ll have to try for a change of venue, at least get it out of Suffolk County. Failing that, make sure there’s enough police presence so you can get in and out of court safely.”

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” I said. “Deep down they’re gutless. Besides, there were others waiting outside the courthouse who were more worth worrying about.”

He gave me a curious look, but didn’t pursue the subject any further. Instead he told me how he was going to handle the case, that if he couldn’t get it dismissed, he’d make the case all about my near destitute situation and how the lawsuits should’ve been filed against the parties truly responsible, namely the people who had hired me to commit the murders. I only half paid attention to what he was saying. I had more important things on my mind. Like Lombard’s two men who were waiting outside the courthouse when I first showed up. They weren’t there for their health. I knew I’d be seeing them soon enough. My thoughts also drifted to Sophie. I couldn’t help feeling anxious about seeing her later that day.

When Brest pulled up to South Station, he hesitated, then commented on the book and movie rights to my life story. “It was gold before you put on a cape and tackled those two would-be robbers outside that liquor store, but that just put it over the top.” He licked his lips, added, “Leonard, last week I took it upon myself to contact several New York publishing houses. We could get seven figures for a book deal. We just have to put these lawsuits to bed first.”

He had earlier given me a business card with his contact information, just as I had given him my cell-phone number and address. As I was getting out of his car, I commented how for twenty-five percent of a seven-figure deal, he should’ve been giving me taxi service back to my apartment.

“Let’s beat these lawsuits first, okay, Leonard?” he said with a half-smile.

I watched him drive off, then walked over to wait for my bus back to Waltham.

Later when I met Sophie she was radiant as she described the scheme she had come up with. “What we’ll do is sign a book deal under my name,” she told me, beaming from ear to ear. “I’ll funnel your share of the money under the table. Fuck any lawsuit filed against you.”

It was so damn childish. Any good lawyer would find the money and take it from us. But watching her so happy and proud of herself, I felt a lightness in my heart. She was just so damn beautiful, and in her own way, so damn innocent. I didn’t tell her about the contract I had signed with Brest. It didn’t matter. If he got rid of the lawsuits without too much damage, I would insist that Sophie be my co-author in any book deal. It would be a tough fight since a publishing house laying out seven figures for a book would want me teamed up with a professional ghostwriter, but I wouldn’t back down on the demand, and if they wanted the book bad enough to pay a million plus for it, they’d eventually give in.

I told Sophie we’d do that, that we would write the book together, and then she could try selling it. I figured by the time we had a book completed the lawsuits would be finished with. At least it would give me more time to spend with her in the meantime.

As soon as I agreed to writing the book with her, Sophie put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth. There was no tongue involved, just lips, but there was also no disgust on her face when she pulled away. Only excitement.

“This is going to be so much fun,” she said with a throaty purr. “And Leonard, you’re not going to regret this, I promise.”

I nodded, already regretting this small deception with her, but unable to have done anything else. We agreed on where and when to meet next, and I sat mesmerized watching the swaying of her slender hips as she walked away. I was sitting on a park bench, and my stare stayed fixed on where she had walked off to. Even though she was long out of sight, it was minutes later before I could look away. A young woman pushing a baby carriage reacted with horror on walking past me. She didn’t recognize me – that wasn’t the reason for her horror. It was something about the way my face had hardened, a transformation that had come over my features while I had been staring after Sophie. After the woman with the baby carriage had nearly run off in a sprint, I got off the bench and headed back to my apartment. It was getting late and I still had a long night of work ahead of me.

When I got back to my apartment building I found a note that had been slipped into my mailbox. It was from Eric Slaine. His paper gave approval for paying me ten grand for an interview, and he wanted me to call him right away.

I took the note to my apartment and carefully read the contract I had signed with Brest. A week earlier I had bought a pair of magnifying eyeglasses, and used those so I could read all the small print. There was nothing in the contract concerning newspaper interviews.

I didn’t want Slaine having my cell-phone number, so I waited until later when I headed off to work and passed a payphone before calling him back. I told him I needed a week to think things over, but I’d call him again. He didn’t like it, especially, he claimed, after going to bat for me the way he did. I hung up on him in the middle of his objections.

At work, the same kid was back at the security desk, and like all the other times we didn’t say a word to each other when I checked out the keys, later when I checked them back in, or any time in between.