One Good Deed

Chapter 47

Later that day Archer went back to his room at the Derby to do some serious thinking. He had taken the shipping label off the crate and stuck it between two pages of the Gideon Bible in his bureau drawer. He had just finished two cigarettes and a fifth of the bottle of Rebel when someone knocked on his door.

He muttered, “Who is it?”

“Front desk sir, you got a message.”

“What? Who from?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“She?”

Archer jumped up from the bed and hurried over to the door. As soon as he opened it, it flew inward, and Bart and Jeb plowed through the opening. They slammed him up against the wall.

“Well, good day to you, too,” Archer said breathlessly.

“Your ass is under arrest,” growled Bart.

“What for?”

“The attempted murder of Irving Shaw. And that’s added to what you’re already charged with, the murder of Lucas Tuttle. How the hell you made bail with that hanging over your head is beyond me.”

“That’s bullcrap. I had nothing to do with any of that. And I sure as hell didn’t do anything to Mr. Shaw.”

“So you say, Archer. We have it on good authority that you were seen with him last night right here at this hotel. Then he was found nearly bled to death early this morning three floors down from your ass.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“They moved him to the big hospital over in Garfield. He’s still unconscious, not that you give a damn.”

“We were working the case together.”

“What case?”

“These damn killings.”

“Again, so you say. We don’t know nothing about that.”

“But I’m out on bail.”

“Not anymore you’re not. Not after what happened to Lieutenant Shaw.”

They hauled him out of his room and led him out the front in handcuffs.

Shortly after that he was behind bars in a holding cell.

They had found Shaw’s spare gun on him, which did not help his cause in the least.

Indeed, when they had found the .38, Bart had eyed him triumphantly. “Shot the man and took his gun. Don’t get any lower than that in my book.”

“Well, maybe you should read some more books then, Bart.”

That had cost him a heavy fist in the face and a bloodletting from his nose.

He sat on the bench against the wall of his cell, wincing from his shiner and pinching his nose. His facial injuries from his encounter with Draper hadn’t even fully healed yet. Archer took a deep breath and contemplated his options. That didn’t take long, because he really had none.

But then a tall, portly man in his late forties with slicked-back hair and wearing a gray three-piece suit and a tightly knotted blue tie appeared on the other side of the bars. He looked like a preacher or a politician, and Archer didn’t really care to be jawing with either one right now.

“Mr. Archer?”

Archer looked up. “Who’s asking?”

“I am Herbert Brooks, the district attorney for Poca City.”

Herbert Brooks. Archer recognized the name from the letter that Archer had found inside Tuttle’s shotgun barrel.

“That means you’re no friend of mine.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Come again?” said Archer, rising to his feet and coming over to the bars.

“It appears that Lieutenant Shaw’s current condition was due, unfortunately, to a previous injury.”

Archer’s brows knitted together. “I’m not following.”

“He was wounded in an altercation at Miss Jackie Tuttle’s house.”

“I know that, I was there. I stopped the bleeding and got him to the hospital.”

“Yes, however, the doctors did not realize that that injury had nicked an artery. Either through some exertion or otherwise on Lieutenant Shaw’s part, the nick turned into a partial tear of the artery. He nearly died from blood loss. He’s still unconscious and still not out of danger. We’re speculating that he realized something was wrong and rushed out into the hall for help and collapsed.”

“I hope to hell he pulls through. But then why did they arrest me for shooting him?”

“The police didn’t know what had happened. He had blood all over him. They thought he had been freshly wounded.”

“So am I free to go?”

“You are, and I’m seeing to that. But please keep in mind that you are still charged with the murder of Lucas Tuttle. And I must tell you in all fairness that I’m also thinking of charging you with the murder of Hank Pittleman. I can’t imagine, after studying the evidence, that Lieutenant Shaw did not arrest you for that crime as well. But you are not to leave Poca City under any circumstances. I understand that you have made bail, which again strikes me as quite unbelievable. But Lieutenant Shaw did not go through me for that. He apparently talked one of my underlings into agreeing to it. And while I would like to revoke your bail, since you clearly did not attack Lieutenant Shaw, I have no grounds to go to court and seek that remedy. But because of the unusual conditions, I have ordered that you be kept under constant watch. If you attempt to leave town you will be immediately arrested.”

“When will my trial come up?”

“Probably in a few weeks or so. I am putting together my case now and lining up my witnesses. It’s a little more difficult, what with Lieutenant Shaw being incapacitated, but we must push on, and the notes he took during his investigation will be part of the trial record.” He looked keenly at Archer. “And I must say, the evidence against you is quite compelling.”

“Would one of those witnesses be Jackie Tuttle?”

“Yes.”

“She’s gone. Left town.”

“So I understand. And while her testimony is not critical to our case, we have put out notices in as many places as we can think of for her to return and testify. I like to cover all bases.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

Brooks gazed at him suspiciously. “You haven’t done any harm to her, have you?”

“Other way around, actually. And while you’re at it, try to find Ernestine Crabtree.”

“The parole officer?”

“Yeah, she’s skipped town, too. I wonder why?”

Brooks looked at him skeptically and shook his head.

“Hey, Mr. Brooks, one more thing.” From his pocket Archer drew out the onion skin copy of the letter he’d found in Tuttle’s shotgun. He passed it between the bars to Brooks.

Brooks looked at it and then glanced sharply up at Archer. “Where did you get this?”

“Mr. Tuttle gave it to me. But he sent the original to you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you intend on doing about it?”

“I represent the law, Mr. Archer. So I intend on following it up. Mr. Tuttle was a very important man hereabouts and his word carries great weight. And that’s the other reason I want her back here. And if she doesn’t come back, I have ways to track her down. One way or another, justice will be served.”

“Okay.” Archer put out his hand for the letter.

“I’m not sure I should give this back to you.”

“You already have the original of it, and I might need it for my defense.”

“How so?”

“I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

“Well, actually no.”

“Okay then.”

He reluctantly passed the copy back to Archer.

Archer slowly put the paper back in his pocket and said, “Hey, do I get a lawyer, or what?”

“Yes, if you can afford one. If not, well...” He shrugged.

“Yeah, that happened to me last time. I didn’t have a lawyer because I didn’t have any money. Doesn’t seem right that justice should depend on how much you have in your wallet.”

“The U.S. Supreme Court has actually agreed with you, Mr. Archer. Under the Sixth Amendment a criminal defendant is entitled to a lawyer provided by the government if he can’t afford one.”

“Well, then?”

“But, at the current time, that rule only applies in federal court criminal prosecutions, not state court, except in very special circumstances — none of which you meet, unfortunately.”

“Well, hell, I can be hanged if I’m convicted. What’s more special than that?”

In the face of this, Brooks seemed to take pity on Archer. “I can recommend someone who comes relatively cheap.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Mr. Archer. I’m going to do my best to see that you hang.”

He walked off. Archer sat back down and leaned against the concrete wall, desperately wanting a smoke. But they’d taken his Lucky Strikes and matches along with the gun.

An hour later a stringy, beady-eyed, bald-as-a-billiard-ball gent in a dark blue worsted suit with a porkpie hat in hand walked up to the cell and peered through the bars. He had a battered leather briefcase in his other hand.

“Hey, Archer?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Jervis Donnelly. Hear you need a lawyer.”

“Okay. What do you charge?”

“For you, my best rate, a hundred bucks.”

“And what do I get for the C-note?”

“Got some ideas.”

“I’m listening.”

“Gonna plead you guilty and see if we can get you life in prison. That way you avoid the noose. A damn good deal, considering. I’m filling out the paperwork now. I’ll take fifty bucks now and the other fifty when the court approves your life sentence.”

“What’s your next idea?”

“You being funny?”

“You see me laughing, mister?”

“Come on, Archer. You know you did it. Just take your medicine. This way you get three squares and a roof over your head till you croak. And they’ll teach you how to make license plates. Most folks would love to have that deal.”

“Well, I guess I’m not like most folks, then. I came back from the war looking for something more than three squares and making damn license plates.”

Donnelly shrugged. “You don’t listen to my advice, what can I do?”

“You can get lost is what you can do. Go on, beat it.”

Donnelly’s beady eyes became beadier. “You need a lawyer, Archer. Nobody else will take your case. Me, I’m a nice guy. I got empathy.”

“But you won’t even put up a fight?”

“Hell, son, I’m not a magician. I can’t change the damn facts. And you’re a dirty ex-con on top of it. Plus, to me, you got a shifty look. They’ll give you the noose sure as I’m standing here, or this ain’t Poca City.”

“Then I’ll just represent myself.”

“I would not advise that,” said Donnelly gravely. “A man representing himself, particularly in a murder case, has not only a fool for a client, but a damn fool.”

“The only damn fool around here is the one I’m looking at.”

“Suit yourself, bumpkin,” groused Donnelly, and he stalked off.

When Archer was released, he noted that two plainclothes men were trailing him as he headed back to his hotel before he changed direction and walked over to Ernestine’s bungalow. He let himself into her house using the key she’d given him, went over to her shelf, and took out the law books she had there.

He walked back out and nodded to the pair of plainclothes dicks.

“Hey,” said one. “You stealing?”

Archer held up one of the books. “I’m entitled to them for my legal defense. You read the Constitution? Says it right in there. Sixth Amendment. It’s a good one.”

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. One said, “It’s your funeral, brother.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to see about that, friend.”

He returned to his hotel room and put the books down on the bed. He went over to the chest of drawers, opened one of them, and looked at the Dictaphone case inside. Fortunately, they hadn’t tossed his room and found it. Brooks probably thought he had all of the evidence he needed to hang Archer. He opened the case and looked at the papers he’d stashed in there. They were the ones he’d found in the crate at the trucking warehouse.

Both the tape and the papers told him a lot. He hoped he could put both to good use in his upcoming trial.

He stretched out on the bed and opened one of the books. He commenced reading and taking notes using some stationery and a pen from the drawer next to the Gideon Bible. When his eyes grew tired and he couldn’t read anymore, he started whistling a tune, a sad one he would perform after every battle when they were stacking, counting, and burying their dead. He’d fought for something he didn’t entirely understand but had nonetheless believed to be the right thing to do. That had been followed by a stint in Carderock for something he didn’t do. And now he was probably going to be hanged for something else he didn’t do.

He drank some more of his bottle, and then took the Dictaphone out of the drawer, plugged it in, and turned it on. This time he just let the tape run. He lay back on the bed with his bottle and stared at the ceiling, whistled his tune, and wondered what death by hanging felt like.

He stopped his whistling when he heard something brand-new coming from the recorder. He had never let it run long enough to hear this part because there had been a long gap of silence, which made him think there was nothing else on it.

Archer sat up and his feet hit the floor. He looked down at the Dictaphone and listened to the sounds coming from there. And then he aimed his gaze out the window and to the sky.

After fighting a world war, he had no longer been a God-fearing man, because he firmly believed a loving, righteous god should have just stopped mankind from committing that egregious sin.

No, Aloysius Archer was not a God-fearing man.

Until right now.

“Thank you, Mister Jesus.”

He pulled the shipping label out of the Bible, snatched up a piece of blank paper, and took about a half hour to carefully compose a letter. He ran down to the front desk, got an envelope, wrote the address down on it, and carried it over to the post office to mail it. The plainclothes men followed him every step of the way. After that, he went back to his room, lay on his bed, and prayed that what he’d written in that letter worked its magic.

But Archer also had to smile. He had stopped believing the best in people because he so rarely saw it. Now? His faith had been renewed. Just in the nick of time.