The Past Never Ends, page 4
Morgan found the word "mandamus" and started reading story and resolution, what the Oklahoma Supreme Court had written about the remedy he would seek for Alan Kinman and for others, perhaps, stonewalled by police bureaucracy.
"Hey, Chest, so what's this about making the chief of police do his job anyway?" said Shawn. The tall, strong, do-everything receptionist-business manager leaned against the library doorframe.
"The Alan Kinman file you opened this morning --"
"'He the goofy looking guy in today as soon as you were?"
Morgan looked at the young woman -- unblemished, unscarred skin, the appearance and texture of magnolia in bloom; ruler-edged straight and white teeth paid for by parents with a yawn's effort and the excitement of paying a utility bill; a body muscled to perfection, some by labor, but most by devotion to itself. She would finish college and go to law school or get graduate business training without obstacles.
"He was in this morning," Morgan said. "The police won't turn over an incident report about the death of a friend of his."
Shawn shrugged. "Not to you either?"
Morgan shook his head and told her of the overweight recruit with the computer, and of Orin Hightower, his mason-strong fortress-building boss. As Chester finished, Marylin brought in for his signature the affidavit to be filed in the Delano probate. "Make three copies of that, please," he said as Marylin left the room.
"So, what do you do? Mandamus the police department? What is that -- Latin for some bizarre sex act? With the whole police department?"
"You seek your mandamus, and I'll seek mine," Morgan said. "Do you remember the case of Marbury versus Madison from any of your college classes?
"The U.S. Supreme Court is the ultimate arbiter of the law and of the Constitution," Shawn replied.
"The case stands for that principle, but this is actually what happened: President Adams appointed Marbury to be justice of the peace for District of Columbia, but Marbury received no formal commission, no badge. James Madison, a later-appointed Secretary of State, refused to give it to him. Marbury petitioned the Supreme Court to order Madison to deliver the commission. He technically sought a writ of mandamus, a written mandate, ordering Madison to do his job. The Supreme Court decided it had no constitutional authority to issue that writ."
"Great civics lesson, Chest," Shawn said.
"Just trying to give you a head start when, and if, you ever make it to law school," Morgan replied, looking again at his book.
Marylin returned with the Delano document and copies.
"Shawn," Morgan said, "file the original affidavit of mailing in the Court Clerk's office. Take a copy to Judge Powers' chambers. Bring the other copies back here and mail one to Mrs. Delano."
Shawn took the papers from Marylin, looked at the library table, and said: "I don't know if I'd mess around with that mandamus thing when there are more pressing, and more profitable, things to do."
Morgan touched the other pile of books and remembered the yellow legal pad at the other end of the table. "Yeah, I know. Always thinking of business, aren't you?"
"That and..." Shawn turned to leave. "Eighteen and a half minutes of silence."
"You're too young to remember that," Morgan said.
Shawn stuck her head back into the room. "They teach it in history class, Chest."
The receptionist disappeared, her energy left the office, and Morgan felt dated -- too young to feel old and too old to be young. Shawn, twenty-one or twenty-two, had learned of Richard Nixon and his ineptly erased tape in history class.
"She may be right," Morgan mumbled.
"What's that Boss?" Marylin asked.
"If we ask the court to order the report be made public, what would keep the police from simply saying it had been lost?" Morgan said.
"The truth?" Marylin replied.
"Maybe," Morgan said, sliding the book he had been reading across the table. "But the report's there and sealed, or it's not. Either way we've been lied to once."
Marylin sat at the table and folded her hands. She smiled. A dimple twitched. "Mister Morgan, I know what we should have done first. Call Jeff McNally. He'll get the low down and dirty."
"I had thought about it, but I'd hate to do anything that might get him in trouble," Morgan said.
As a young cop, Jeff McNally had been discharged from the Vivia Police Department for conduct unbecoming an officer. Morgan had represented him before the Civil Service Commission. McNally had gotten his job back, had since been promoted to a mid-level position, and, in truth, would do whatever Morgan asked.
"You worry too much about your clients, Chester," Marylin said. "He lives everyday by himself."
"You're right," Morgan said.
"Besides, it's easy. If McNally finds out it's really lost, you won't waste your time and your client's money, going to court. If it's sealed, immediately get a order prohibiting the report's alteration and then fax the order and petition for the writ of mandamus to The Daily Sentinel before there's even a hearing on it. You know how vigilant the paper is about open records. The cops wouldn't lift the cover of that file, much less destroy it, with The Sentinel watching and screaming."
"I don't try cases in the newspapers or on TV," Morgan replied. "Imagine what the press would do to Alan Kinman." Morgan paused. "McNally's grown up some. At least we could find out if the report exists. Maybe more."
Morgan called Jeff McNally. An annoyed bureaucratic voice told him to call back in thirty minutes. He was out. Morgan felt like asking for the number of the closest Coney Island joint but didn't. Morgan hung up the phone.
"Sorry about Mrs. Delano's affidavit," Marylin said. "I should have caught it."
"It's my responsibility," Morgan replied.
"It's our responsibility, Boss," she said. "Judge Powers might have understood if you had told him your dopey secretary forgot to prepare it and remind you to sign it."
"I doubt it. Besides I don't put my blame on secretaries. Try not to anyway. Don't always succeed," he said. Morgan thought about Judge Powers' probate docket that afternoon. Had thought about it, too. "Or make them do maybe what they shouldn't."
"Are you thinking about that attorney's legal assistant?" Marylin said, her voice quiet.
Morgan nodded. "I didn't know Massey, James & Peterson ever represented Harrison."
"She didn't act like she wanted to be there," Marylin said.
"When Powers was through with him, I'm not sure Haney wanted to be there either. You would have thought the firm would have sent someone who had been through Eldridge Powers' classroom-courtroom interrogation with an estate that big."
"Or that William Harrison had a trust," Marylin responded.
"That, too. No one was present in opposition, though."
The outer door whooshed open. "Sounds like your four o'clock appointment is here, Chester," Marylin said.
"Yeah."
Morgan met Fred Earl Handy in the attorney's private office. Handy owned Precision Harvest Unlimited, Ltd., a company, according to Handy, that manufactured computers that "told farmers the exact day to harvest their wheat." Precision Harvest had been sued in King County in western Oklahoma by a farmer who had lost his crop by waiting too long to cut. Handy looked like a fire engine with Brylcreamed black hair.
Morgan asked his questions and got his information. Then Handy volunteered, "There may have been a few little bugs in the computer. Hey, you cain't be in business without something like that happening ever once in a while. This guy's just trying to get rich off of us 'cause he had a bad wheat crop."
"A King County jury isn't going to look too favorably on some farmer who thinks he needs a computer to tell when to harvest his wheat and even less so on someone who sells one to him. Get me an eighty-five-hundred-dollar retainer and I'll do my best for you," Morgan said. "No promises. Just my best."
"Eighty-five hundred dollars? Can't you do it for five? This guy's whole crop ain't worth eighty-five hundred dollars."
"No. It may cost more than that. Eighty-five hundred will get us started and maybe finished. Maybe not."
"Hey, why don't you see what you can do to get it wrapped up and send us a bill for it. 'Betcha if you just let his attorney know we ain't goin' to trot at his turkey dance, he'd just drop it. Hey, we're talking to some folks in New York, got offices in that World Trade Center, looks just like that bank building over in Tulsa except there are two of 'em up there and both a hell of a lot bigger."
Morgan shook his head. "Get me the retainer and if showing you're fighting does it, I'll refund the retainer less the time I have in it. I don't get in half-way."
"Hey, we ain't nobody. We got a five-million-dollar contract with the Ukrainians. This guy needs to know he isn't messing around with any small-time operator."
"Then an eighty-five-hundred-dollar retainer won't be a problem."
Handy left without committing. Instead of whooshing, the outer door clicked.
Marylin spoke: "I don't want to sound like Shawn, Mister Morgan, but Alan Kinman has a lawn mowing business and he gets pay as you go, Precision Harvest, though, gets an eighty-five-hundred-dollar retainer."
"If Alan Kinman had told me he had a five-million-dollar contract with the Ukrainians and was talking to someone in New York, I would have asked him for an eighty-five hundred dollar retainer, too. Let's call McNally again."
An energetic voice spoke on the line. "God, Morgan, what kind of cheesy Ninth Avenue dive are you calling me from now?"
"The kind where I just bought your wife a drink," Morgan replied.
"Yeah, and served by your mother."
"Yes, McNally, but unlike your wife, my mother, at least, has clothes on. Hey, Jeff, I need you to check something for me. I've had some problems seeing this file over at The Corral. Tanya Everly's the victim. 90403918.DBAM.CD. See if it's lost, would you?"
"I'll call Hightower over in Police Records," McNally said.
"I don't suggest that. He says it's lost. Maroney, the counter man, says its closed but under seal by order of the chief."
"Shit, Hightower's going to retire and become a librarian. Won't shake his ass for anyone. God, Morgan, you're a lot of trouble. I ought to charge you."
"McNally, do you remember skinny dipping with a hooker at the city reservoir?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Sure."
"And, remember who convinced the Civil Service Commission you sincerely believed you were helping a college coed experience nature for an experimental psychology class?"
"Hey, that's what she said."
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. See what you can find out and don't get into any trouble." Morgan paused. "Hey, McNally, I stood by your story."
"I know. I'll get you truth about that file."
"Thanks."
Morgan hung up the phone. McNally -- a client first, then friend, now almost a brother -- a brother he wanted to protect; a brother he wanted to succeed; a brother, as many of his clients, now like family. Professional? Some would say not, but Morgan remembered the meanest playground fight he got into as a kid. A bully had tormented his sister and made her cry. Morgan had gone home black-eyed and bloodied but so had the bully. Or like family talking straight or listening for the truth. If not with and to family, then with and to whom? If professional meant without feeling or passion, then Morgan was not. If it meant only rules and objectivity, fire the lawyers and send in machines.
Shawn rushed into Morgan's office and showed Chester the file-stamped copy of the affidavit of mailing. "Got it done," she said.
"Thank you."
"And," she said, "I saw the honorable Eldridge himself. I personally gave him his copy. Do you know what he said after he looked at it?"
"No. What's that?"
"He said, 'I knew I would get this today.'"
Morgan had made it to day's end almost. Still a few calls to return and letters to dictate but somehow it still felt like trust.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next day, Shawn put the call through to Chester Morgan.
"Boss," the voice said. "I need to talk to you."
McNally.
"Jeff, put your clothes on and think of something besides helping a coed experience nature. You've already used that one."
"No. I'm serious." McNally whispered.
Rarely, Morgan thought. "What do you have?"
"It's here and it's sealed. Chief's orders. Locked up tighter than --"
"A Methodist's billfold," Morgan finished. "I've already heard that one."
"Not that one. Never mind." McNally still whispered. "You aren't going to get the file. I can't even get it."
"Tell me who investigated it. Who got the call?"
"Don't know and can't find out."
"How'd it occur? Where?"
"Dammit, Morgan. You aren't hearing me. It's like it never happened at all."
The attorney was silent. He remembered the high-pitched voice of Alan Kinman saying something about a whole situation that just didn't seem right.
"It's public record, McNally," Morgan said.
"Chester, listen to me. Something's going on here. I don't know what exactly. But stay away from that file. I know that much. Just stay away from it."
CHAPTER SIX
The woman's stained hands held a cigarette burnt to the filter. Silver-gray smoke floated into hazy air. At random, boxes sat half-empty, half-packed around the state-owned office. An oil color painting of a surly-faced clown leaned against a wall below where it once hung.
"How'd ya get in here?" the woman asked, her words slurring and rolling into two syllables or more.
"I didn't tell 'em who I was or what I wanted," Chester Morgan replied.
"Mister Morgan, I don't believe ya," she said. Her dirty-penny tinted hair had been backcombed, teased, and sprayed into a 1964 homecoming queen bouffant. She might have been ten years older than Morgan. Maybe more.
"Some people lie better than I do," Morgan said. "I gave my name to the receptionist and told her I needed to talk with you. She showed me back here as if you were expecting me.
"I wasn't, but I guess I am now," the woman said. She stared at Morgan through brown-framed glasses shaped like the oval television tubes of the 1950s. She smiled and smashed out her cigarette in an ashtray that spilled over with white butts ringed with bright pink lipstick. She ignored the signs Morgan had seen in the straight-lined institutional building. Morgan looked at the stains on her hands again.
"So what can I do for ya, counselor?" she asked.
Most Oklahomans voices carry – sometimes faintly and sometimes distinctly—a sound of origin. For many, it's a Walter Brennan western twang. For others, it's a country music drawl. For some, it is the echo of the Midwestern prairie. For the woman sitting behind the paper-stacked, file-strewn desk, it was none of these. Her voice sounded the way a smooth, rich bourbon tastes on a humid Southern night.
"Doctor," Morgan said, "you remember you testified in a wrongful death case I had several months ago. I represented the dead man's estate. The defense lawyers claimed the man died of a heart attack right before their client's semi ran head-on into the man's car. You did the autopsy."
"I remember the case and I remember you. How'd it come out?" asked Doctor Marcia Nelson, the Deputy Chief State Medical Examiner.
"We prevailed. We got a verdict. It's on appeal." Morgan stared at the woman and remembered McNally's call. He had never before heard alarm and retreat from the young police officer. To dismiss his words would be a mistake. To stop now, though, would be a breach of trust. Or, would it simply be prudent? Morgan hesitated then spoke: "I need some information about another autopsy I think you did."
"If it was in or around Vivia, I probably did it." She motioned at the half-packed boxes and the bare walls. "Ask me anything. My time here is almost through."
"I noticed," Morgan said, then waited. "I thought if you remember this autopsy, you might be willing to talk with me a bit."
Doctor Nelson relaxed back into her brown leather chair and fingered a single strand gold chain hanging around her neck. "I came to the state twenty years ago from the South, the gothic South. I've heard it called that, haven't you, Mister Morgan? 'Thought I was gettin' away from all that. You know, the Tennessee Williams' decadence, the Huey Long corruption, the brewin' and simmerin' violence. I actually found that I kind of missed it." The doctor's lips stretched into a rubbery smile. "Then, I found out it was all here, too, but without the charm. I'm goin' back home, Mister Morgan."
Morgan listened. By doing that, he always learned and sometimes understood. Doctor Nelson had been an enigmatic witness in the wrongful death case he had tried, yet she seemed honest. Of course, witnesses usually do when their testimony is favorable, even perhaps when they aren't.
"I'm goin' back to Mississippi," the medical examiner said. "'Goin' to get me a place not too far from the beach and not too far from the city and have me some fun. Twenty years ago, not much opportunity in the private sector for a lady doctor, that's what they called me – some still do. I don't play golf, and football bores me, so I became a dedicated civil servant, workin' nights and weekends even when I didn't have to because there wasn't anything else to do."
A clerk in a too-tight floral dress started through the door into Doctor Nelson's office. The young woman stopped when she saw Morgan. "I didn't realize you were with someone, Doctor," she said. "I'm really sorry. I really am." She scooted back across the threshold.
"Whadya want?" the doctor asked, her voice now brittle but her words still in extended syllables.
"I can come back later. I really can," the young woman said. "I just needed a signature. Nothing important."
"Well, you're here now. Let me see."
The clerk crossed to the medical examiner's desk and waited. Her weight shifted quickly from one heavy calf to the other, from one raised heel to the other, then back again and again. The young woman bowed her head and shifted her eyes side to side, trying not to look at Morgan but wanting to. With the signed paper in hand, she hurried to leave.
