The Last Innocent Man

1

The visitor’s room at the state penitentiary was a large, open space filled with couches and chairs upholstered in red vinyl and outfitted with chrome armrests. Three vending machines stood against one wall. There was an occasional low wooden table with an ashtray on it.

Jenny had never been in a place like this before, and the visits depressed her. The other prisoners seemed strange and threatening and not like anyone she had ever met. Whenever she entered the prison, she felt like a visitor to a foreign country.

Larry did not understand her reluctance to touch him. All around them wives, lovers, and relatives embraced the other prisoners. She tried to explain how she felt to Larry, but he saw her reticence as another betrayal.

“I talked to Mr. Bloch,” Jenny said. “He says he’ll have your brief filed at the court of appeals this week. He sounded hopeful, Larry.”

Stafford shook his head. He had fired David as soon as Judge Rosenthal had imposed the mandatory life sentence on him. Jerry Bloch, an experienced appellate attorney, was representing him now. They had talked about the appeal last week.

“I’m not going to get out. That bastard Nash saw to that when he railroaded me at the trial.”

“But Mr. Bloch-”

“I talked to Bloch. Don’t forget, I’m a lawyer. There aren’t any errors Bloch can work with, because Nash never objected when they put that pimp on the stand. That son of a bitch socked me in here but good.”

Jenny said nothing. She had been through this before. Once Larry got started, he would stay in a rage during the entire visit.

“If he’d cross-examined Johnson or kept him off…Jenny, there were a thousand ways he could have kept that pimp off the stand.”

He could also have told the judge that you and I lied, she thought to herself, but he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. An image of the last day of Larry’s trial slipped unbidden into her consciousness. Once again she saw T.V. Johnson walk from the hushed courtroom. The jury filing out. The judge and prosecutor following. But David and Larry had not moved. And when the guard finally led Larry away, David still remained seated. She had waited for him in the back of the room, wanting to talk to him, to hold him.

When everyone else had left, David got to his feet slowly, as if he were climbing the last section of a steep mountain grade. When he turned, he looked exhausted and his eyes had lost their focus. He packed his papers away and walked toward the door, up the aisle in Jenny’s direction. When he reached her, he paused for barely a moment and looked down at her. Where she had expected hate, she saw only despair. The look of a man who had given up everything without a fight.

That evening, after short deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of guilty. She had not seen David since. He never answered her calls and never seemed to be at home. After a while she stopped trying.

“Bloch says if we lose the appeal in the supreme court, I can go into federal court and allege incompetence of counsel. But I have to wait and exhaust my state appeals first.”

“We can do that, if you want to.”

“You bet I want to.”

“Won’t it come out that…about my not being with you that night?”

“I don’t care, Jenny. That’s only perjury. I’m in here for life for a murder I didn’t commit.”

And what about me? she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. If she had to be punished in order for Larry to get out, she would be getting what she deserved. If she hadn’t betrayed David, he would never have collapsed the way he had. Larry was in prison because she had destroyed David with her lies.

David. How she loved him. More so now that he was lost to her forever. She remembered the night they had first met. It had taken all her control to refrain from calling him. And why hadn’t she? Guilt. It was always the same answer. Guilt had prevented her from asking Larry for a divorce long before Darlene Hersch was murdered. Guilt prevented her from telling David the truth. And guilt was keeping her shackled to a man who would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.

The upturned collar of Thomas Gault’s jacket blocked the icy wind and sent it skittering through the drunken sailors and carousing longshoremen who crowded the sidewalk. Gault pushed open the door of The Dutchman, a noisy workingmen’s bar that took its trade from the docks. A gust of wind chilled two men who were sitting at the bar, and they looked Gault’s way when he entered. The bar lined the wall to Gault’s right, and a row of booths occupied the wall on the left. Most of the room was filled with Formica-topped tables. Two pool tables stood in a cleared space near the gents’ room.

“Shut the door,” one of the men at the bar commanded. Gault smiled to himself. He didn’t come to the docks for the atmosphere. He came for the action. And it looked as if tonight the action might start sooner than he’d expected. He had planned on shutting the door, but now he let it stay open.

“Shut it yourself, asshole,” he said, and walked down the bar without another glance in the man’s direction. He heard an angry murmur behind him, and a few seconds later the door slammed shut.

Gault positioned himself with his back to the wall at an unoccupied table by the jukebox where he could view the room. A waitress brought him a beer and he took a sip, watching the man he had insulted over the rim of the glass. He was a little over six feet. A thick roll of fat slopped over his belt at the waistline, and his shirt was partially out of his pants, exposing a sweat-stained undershirt. His movements were slow and jerky. It was obvious that he had been drinking for some time.

The fat man’s companion was Gault’s size. His figure was trim and he seemed sober. The fat man seemed to have forgotten about the incident at the door and was back in his cups. Too bad, Gault thought. He let his eyes drift over the rest of the room. A sailor and a heavyset woman with teased blond hair were shooting pool against two boys in work shirts and jeans. The woman sank her shot. One of the boys swore. The sailor laughed and smacked the woman’s ass.

Three men a few tables from Gault were arguing about an upcoming heavyweight fight. When Gault’s eyes moved back to the bar, they met the fat man’s by accident and stayed there. The staring match was no contest. The fat man folded in less than a minute and gave Gault the finger to save face. Gault blew the fat man a kiss. The man got off his stool and started up the bar. His friend grabbed his elbow in an attempt to restrain him, but he lurched free, stumbling against the bar as he broke the shorter man’s grip. He staggered in Gault’s direction, and his friend followed after a moment’s hesitation.

“Were you lookin’ at me, dog turd?” the fat man demanded when he reached Gault’s table.

“Leave it be, Harvey,” the shorter man said.

“He blew a kiss at me, Al,” Harvey said without taking his eyes off Gault. “You seen that. Fags kiss boys. You a fag, skinhead?”

“You’re so cute, I’d let you find out,” Gault lisped effeminately.

“I think you’d better split, buddy,” Harvey’s friend said, suddenly angry at Gault.

“I thought you had more sense than your friend,” Gault said sharply, pushing his chair back and slowly getting to his feet.

“I don’t like a smart-mouth any better than Harv, so why don’t you leave while you still can.”

“Can’t I finish my drink?” Gault asked in a mocking tone. Harvey stared at Gault for a second, then swept the beer off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the noise in the bar stopped. Gault felt a rush of adrenaline. His whole body seemed in movement.

“It’s finished-” Harvey started, his wind suddenly cut off by the foot that Gault snapped into his groin. Gault’s left foot connected with the fat man’s temple. Harvey’s head snapped to one side and he sat down hard.

Gault pivoted, blocking Al’s first wild punch with his forearm. He aimed a side kick at his opponent’s kneecap. It was off, striking with only enough force to jostle him off balance. The follow-up left only grazed Al’s eye.

The advantage of surprise was lost and Al had good reflexes. He charged into Gault, wrestling him backward into the wall. Gault grunted from the impact, momentarily stunned.

Harvey was on one knee, struggling to get up. Gault brought his forehead down fast. Al’s nose cracked. Blood spattered across Gault’s shirt. He boosted his knee and felt it make hard contact with Al’s groin. There was a gasp and the grip on his arm relaxed. Gault drove a right to the solar plexus and shot his fingers into the man’s eyes. Al screamed and sagged. Gault snapped the side of his hand against the man’s neck, and he sank to the floor, his face covered with blood.

Glass shattered and Gault set himself as Harvey moved toward him, a broken bottle held tightly in his hand. Gault circled warily, keeping distance between them. Harvey feinted and Gault moved back. He felt the edge of the bar cut into his back. There was a flash of movement behind him and he shifted slightly, but not enough to avoid being hit across the back of the head by the sawed-off pool cue the bartender kept for just such occasions.

The phone was ringing. David opened his eyes slowly and struggled to bring his other senses into focus. He became aware of a sour, phlegmy taste in his mouth and a dull ache behind his eyes. The phone rang again and he flinched. It was still dark outside. According to the digital clock, it was two in the morning.

David picked up the receiver to stop the ringing.

“Dave,” a voice at the other end called out.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Tom. Tom Gault. I’m in jail, old buddy, and you gotta come down here and bail me out.”

“Who?” David asked. The words had not registered.

“Tom Gault. Bring your checkbook. I’ll pay you back when I get home.”

David sat up and tried to concentrate. “What did you do?”

“I was in a fight. These clowns have chargedme with assault. I’ll explain it all to you once I’m out.”

David didn’t want to go to the jail at two in the morning. He didn’t have any great urge to see Thomas Gault, either. But he was too tired to refuse Gault’s request.

“I’ll be down as soon as I can get dressed,” he said, turning on the lamp on his night table.

“I knew I could count on you,” Gault said. After a few more words, they hung up.

David’s head was ringing. He’d had too much to drink, but that was becoming routine. He took a deep breath and made his way to the bathroom. The glare from the lightbulbs hurt his eyes, and his image in the mirror caused a different type of pain. His complexion was pale and his flesh doughy. The features were beginning to run together. When he removed his pajamas, he saw the erosion of clear lines on the other parts of his body.

David had not exercised, or done much else that humans do, since Larry Stafford’s conviction three months before. The day after the trial he had backpacked into the wilderness to try to sort out the events of the preceding days, but the silence of the shadowy woods had trapped him alone with thoughts he did not want to encounter. He had scurried home.

Jenny had phoned while he was away, but he did not return the calls. He tried to work but could not concentrate. Once, in the solitude of his office, he broke into tears. In the course of representing Larry Stafford, he had betrayed the trust of the court, sold out his principles, and given up on himself. In the ruins of the case he saw the wreckage of his career and the destruction of the carefully constructed fictions concerning truth and justice he had erected to hide from view the emptiness of the profession he had so zealously followed. Life was intolerable. He moved through the days like an automaton, eating little and drinking a great deal.

Gregory Banks had sensed his friend’s despair and had ordered him to spend two weeks away. The bright Hawaiian sun and the gaiety of the tourists at the small resort hotel where he had stayed only heightened David’s anguish. He tried to take part in conversations but lost interest. His one attempt at an affair had ended with humiliating impotence. Only drinking helped, but the surcease from pain was temporary, and the horrors were twice as vivid once the effects of the alcohol wore off.

David returned to Portland early and without notice. He stayed home, unwashed and unshaven, letting himself become as gross and disgusting physically as he felt he had become spiritually. In the silent ruin of his home, it became clear to David that he was breaking down. He did nothing to stop the process. Instead, he lay about drunkenly, like a spectator at his own funeral.

In the end it was the smell of his body that saved him. One morning he awoke sober enough to whiff the odor of his sheets and the stench from his underarms and crotch. He was overpowered and driven to the shower. A shave and a decent breakfast followed. The crisis had passed, but David was far from well.

Back at the office David appeared to be in control. Except that he was more likely to miss appointments and appear late for court. The effort it took to put up a front was taking its toll in stomach pains and sleepless nights. And there was the frequent lunchtime martini or two. And Monday began to run into Wednesday and feel like Friday, while David, stabilized in a state of functioning disrepair, ceased to see the meaning in anything anymore.

“What were you doing down there, anyway?” David asked. He was driving Gault home from the county jail.

Gault smiled, then winced. He was a mess. Harvey had taken his revenge on the unconscious writer before any of the patrons of The Dutchman had thought to stop him. A cut that had taken several stitches to close ran across the top of his right eyebrow, and his nose and a rib had been broken.

“I was lookin’ for a fight, old buddy,” Gault answered in a tired voice.

“What!?”

“I like to fight, and bars are as good a place as any to find one.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Sometimes. But life’s crazy. Don’t you read my books?”

They drove in silence for a while, which Gault appreciated. He was exhausted, but pleased with the night’s outing, even if he’d taken a few lumps. As they drove along the empty highway, he thought back over the fight and savored its good moments.

“Do you do this often?” David asked after a while.

“Curious, aren’t you?” Gault laughed. “Yeah, Dave, I do it often, only I usually don’t get suckered like I did tonight.

“It’s a good feeling when you fight. Even when you get hit. The pain makes you feel alive, and the hitting…there’s nothing like a solid punch. The feeling moves up your arm and through your body like electricity. No, there’s nothing like it, except maybe a kill.”

David stared at Gault in disbelief.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Completely. I’m too tired and sore to joke, old buddy.”

“You actually enjoy hurting people?”

“It’s not the hurting, it’s the not knowing how it will turn out. The fear when you start and the satisfaction when you win.”

“But, my God, you could get killed in one of those places.”

“Sure. And that makes it better. There’s no Marquis of Queensberry rules in the jungle. You play for keeps. We did that in the bush, old buddy. Played for keeps. So did the niggers. Hand to hand with no referee. It makes you feel alive, because when you’re near death or when you end someone else’s life, you realize the value of your own and how fragile that gift is.”

David was shaken. He knew from his association with Gault how volatile the writer’s personality was. And, of course, he knew about Gault’s soldiering. But he had never thought about the writer as a professional killer. He remembered the time when Gault had strung him along about killing his wife. Was this another joke, or had his confession been the truth, after all?

“Life is experience, Dave. Without adventure we die. War makes you alive. Fear makes you alive. You must know that. Why else do you handle murder cases? Come on. Admit it. There’s a vicarious thrill being that close to death and the person who caused it. Doesn’t a little bit of secret admiration ever worm its way into your heart, old buddy, when you sit next to a man who has had the courage to take another human’s life?”

“No, Tom. I’ve never felt that way,” David said.

“Yeah?” Gault answered skeptically. “Well, different strokes for different folks. Right, old buddy?”

David didn’t answer and Gault closed his eyes. The darkened countryside swept by in a blur. Neither man spoke again until they arrived at the lake.

A stone wall with an iron gate marked the boundaries of Gault’s property. A half-mile driveway led from the gate, through the woods, to an isolated hilltop overlooking a small lake. Gault’s home, with its wood-gabled roof and porous-stone exterior, was modeled after a French country house. David stopped in front and nudged Gault awake.

“Sorry I fell asleep on you,” Gault said. He sat up and stretched. “Why don’t you come on in and I’ll fix you a drink?”

“It’s almost fourA.M., Tom. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“You can sack out here. It’ll save you the trip home.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Actually, there was a little legal matter I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Can’t it keep? I’m out on my feet.”

“I’ll get you some coffee. Besides, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

The house was dark inside and Gault turned on a few lights. He left David in a small study and went for the coffee. The oak woodwork and floors gave the room a Gothic quality that unsettled David. A grotesque mask, which Gault had collected in Africa, hung from the wall across from him, and a gray stone fireplace sat in the shadows to his rear.

“What’s new with Larry Stafford’s case?” Gault asked innocently the moment he entered the room. David felt his heart skip.

“I don’t know,” David answered. “Jerry Bloch is handling the appeal.”

“That was a tough break for you,” Gault said as he sat down across from David. “I thought you had that one, then that pimp testified.”

Gault paused; then a small smile turned up the corners of his lips.

“Just between us boys, Dave, did he do it?”

“I can’t talk about that, Tom,” David said, hoping Gault would change the subject. “That’s privileged information.”

“Sure, I forgot. Say, what would happen if someone popped up and confessed? You know, said he did it. Would that guy get off because Stafford’s been found guilty?”

“Not if the person who confessed was the killer. They’d let Stafford out and put the real murderer on trial.”

“That makes sense.”

For a moment Gault appeared to be deep in thought. David was very tired and he wanted to get on with Gault’s problem. He was about to speak when Gault said, “I’ve got one for you, old buddy. What if some guy came to you as a client and told you he did it, but he says he doesn’t want you to tell anyone. What happens then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t repeat anything a client tells you, right? I mean, there’s that privilege, right?”

“I see what you’re getting at. I’d have to do some research, but I guess I couldn’t tell anyone about the confession.”

A wry smile played on Gault’s lips.

“And an innocent man would stay in prison.”

There was a wistfulness in Gault’s tone that alarmed David.

“Yes,” he answered uneasily.

“That would put you in a tough position, wouldn’t it, old buddy?”

“Look, Tom, I really am tired. What’s this legal problem that’s so urgent?”

“Don’t want to discuss the murder of that police lady, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you want to know who did it?” Gault asked in a voice so low that David wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“Got your interest now, don’t I? But, hell, if you’re really tired, we can talk some other time.”

David didn’t move and he didn’t answer. He was suddenly very aware of how isolated Gault’s house was. The writer’s eyes twinkled, giving a devilish cast to his handsome features.

“You know, I really felt bad when Larry was convicted. I thought for sure you’d get him off. And there’s another thing. I don’t think it’s fair, his getting all the credit when I did all the work. It’s sort of like someone getting a Pulitzer for a book I ghosted.”

“Are you telling me that you killed Darlene Hersch?”

“That’s right, old buddy. I did it.”

“If this is another joke like that confession to Julie’s murder, it’s in bad taste.”

Gault’s smile widened.

“I killed Julie, too. I want you to know that. And there have been others.”

“Ortiz said the killer had curly blond hair,” David said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“He did.”

Gault stood up and walked over to a desk near the doorway. He pulled a blond wig from the bottom drawer and showed it to David.

“I was so damn famous after that trial, I had to disguise myself every time I wanted a little action.

“You know, Dave, there are some girls that like to get laid by the criminal element, but you’d be surprised at the number that are turned off by the prospect of winding up the evening dead. Actually, I don’t look half-bad as a blond.”

“Why did you kill Darlene Hersch?”

“I’m a little ashamed about that. The truth is, I panicked. I’d been out at a few bars and couldn’t score. Then, what do I behold, but a vision of loveliness standing on the corner.”

Gault shook his head sadly at the memory.

“I had terrific plans for Darlene, but she went ahead and spoiled everything by trying to arrest me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I panicked. Hit her quick. Then I realized I’d have to finish her. I’d had enough of the law after my murder trial, and I didn’t relish another trial for assaulting a police officer.”

“And the others you mentioned?”

A wistful expression replaced Gault’s smile.

“You know, you’d think I would have been happiest after I made all that money from the books and the movies, but the years as a mercenary were the best times. I felt alive then.

“Life is dull, Dave, deadly dull. One boring, repetitive act after another, until you die. But a creative person can create experiences. Being rich was an experience. And marrying that bitch movie star. It’s something most people only read about, but I made it happen. Only that gets boring, too, so you have to move on.

“All experiences become boring after a while, Dave, except one. Killing never gets boring.”

“Why are you telling me this?” David asked.

“I trust you, Dave. Especially after the way you worked so hard to defend me when, in your heart, you thought I was guilty. I still remember your closing argument. So forceful. So sincere. And all the time you thought I was guilty as sin. A man who can lie like that can be trusted.

“I’ve wanted to discuss, I guess you’d call it my philosophy, for a long time, but until I learned about this attorney-client privilege, I couldn’t take the risk. Now I feel a lot better, knowing that anything I tell you is confidential.”

David couldn’t move or speak. He felt wasted. Gault studied him, then burst out laughing. David half expected, hoped, that Gault would say this was all a joke.

“Puts you in a predicament, don’t it? Stafford rots in prison because you folded at trial…”

David’s head jerked up and he started to say something, but Gault raised his hand.

“Hey, old buddy, I’m not being critical. It’s just the word goin’ around. I do a little reporting, remember. That means interviewing. There are a lot of lawyers who figured that you could have kept Johnson off the stand if you wanted to. But you didn’t, did you? And we both know why, don’t we?”

Gault winked and David felt his heartbeat quicken.

“What do…?”

“It’s okay, old buddy. We all have our little secrets. And yours is safe with me. I got a tad suspicious when I ran into you and Stafford’s old lady in that cozy dinner spot, so, in the interests of good journalism, I decided to follow you. It turned out to be pretty easy, especially at night.

“Hey, don’t get uptight. I’m nonjudgmental. Shit, a guy who’s murdered a couple of people can’t go around throwing stones at someone for dickin’ a married woman, can he?”

“You son of a bitch,” David said hoarsely.

“Hell, I’m worse than that. But there’s no reason to take this personally, and as I said, your secret is safe with me, just like I know mine is safe with you.”

“You’d let an innocent man stay in prison for something you did?” David said, immediately feeling ridiculous for asking the question of a man like Gault.

“What choice have I got? To get him out, I’d have to put me in.”

Gault walked back to the desk and replaced the wig.

“Tom,” David said cautiously, “I think you need help. It’s a good sign that you’ve decided to talk to me and-”

Gault shook his head, amused.

“None of that psychiatric horseshit, please,” he said, wandering out of David’s line of vision. “I’m not crazy, old buddy. I’m a sociopath. Read your textbooks more carefully. See, I know what I’m doing, I just don’t give a shit, because I don’t have the same moral structure you have.” Gault was directly behind David and the writer’s voice was low, soft, and vaguely menacing. “In fact, Dave, I don’t have any moral structure at all.”

Gault stopped speaking. It was completely quiet in the house. David’s heart was racing with fear. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move.

“A sociopath operates on a pleasure-pain principle,” Gault continued. “If you and a sociopath were all alone in a dark house with no one around for miles, a sociopath is the type of person who could kill you, just for kicks, if he thought he could get away with it.”

David heard a click near his ear, and he remembered the jagged slash that seemed to divide Darlene Hersch’s neck in two. He dived forward, putting as much distance between himself and Gault as he could. There was a chair across from him and he crashed into it, twisting to face Gault and bringing his hands up to fend off an attack.

Gault watched motionless from the fireplace. He had a switchblade in his hand and he was smiling.

“Not a bad move for a fella who’s not in tip-top shape. Of course, you should never have let me get behind you in the first place.”

David stood up. He was looking around desperately for a weapon.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gault said, “but a weapon wouldn’t do you any good. If I wanted to, I could kill you anyway.”

Gault paused, and David knew it was true. He felt defeated and strangely calm, now that he knew he was going to die.

“But I don’t want to kill you, old buddy,” Gault said, his grin back in place. “Hell, you’re my friend and my lawyer. Why, you saved my life, and it would be plumb ungrateful of me to carve you up the way I did Darlene.”

Gault pocketed the knife and David started to shake all over.

“Being egotistical,” Gault continued, “I have great faith in my ability to judge people, and I made a little bet with myself. Tom, I said, Dave is your pal and an honorable man. If you tell him something in confidence, you can count on Dave’s sense of professional ethics and his friendship to keep your secret. You can trust a man like Dave to die rather than reveal a client’s confidence. Even if it means that an innocent man has to spend the rest of his life in prison. That’s what I said to myself. Now, am I right?”

David wanted to answer Gault, but he couldn’t speak.

“Am I right?” Gault asked again, his mouth a grim line and his eyes hard and cold.

“Why are you doing this to me?” David asked.

“Maybe I’m just a modern-day Diogenes, looking for an honest man. Or maybe I just want to see you squirm.”

“You bastard,” David said, his anger momentarily conquering his fear.

“Now, that’s the wrong attitude, Dave. Getting angry isn’t going to help you out of your predicament. Look at this as if it were a chess problem. White to move and win. Maybe there’s a mate, maybe there’s only a gain of material, or”-and Gault paused-“maybe the person who constructed the problem cheated and there’s no way white can win.

“Now, why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You look worse than I do.”