Death Penalty Read Online Free Page A

look like much, filled with ancient furniture that had been in place and inherited when I took over from a long-dead lawyer. But it has one stunning attribute that many modern, classy law offices lack.
    You can’t beat the view.
    I sat in my lopsided chair and swiveled around so I could look out the big picture window.
    The wide St. Clair River was calm. Canada, on the other side of the river, seemed a world away, although the distance was just over a half mile. The river is one of the main connectors between the Great Lakes. Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, even Toronto are easy ports of call for ships of many nations.
    I watched as a huge oceangoing boat approached and then glided past my window, so close it seemed as if I could open the window and touch its enormous gray hull. It was like watching a metal mountain majestically sliding by.
    From its markings, the ship was Swedish, and since it was heading north, I presumed it was on its way around Lake Huron, toward Lake Michigan and Chicago.
    There was something so final and invincible about its sure swift passage. Like fate, there didn’t seem any way it could possibly be stopped.
    I watched until it was out of sight, enjoying the sense of tranquillity passing ships seem to evoke in me, then I turned in the chair and attacked the mail.
    Mrs. Fenton had opened each letter, separating those that held checks, just a few, from those that contained bills, many more. The checks weren’t for large amounts, nor were the bills.
    I had a letter from a client who was in Jackson Prison, Michigan’s largest penal institution. It was a chatty letter. Things had been going well, it seemed. It apparently didn’t bother him that he would still have six or sevenmore years to spend behind the walls. His letters had become quite regular. I presumed he had no one else to write to except the lawyer who had gotten his murder charge knocked down to second degree with the prospect, at least, of eventual freedom. He was grateful, which is often unusual in those circumstances. He didn’t write to his wife because she was the reason he was in. He had killed her, chopped her up and buried her in various places around his farm. As always, it was a cheerful letter.
    My telephone rang. Mrs. Fenton had set the answering machine, so I didn’t pick it up. Most of the telephone messages she had left me were from media people looking for a new angle to write about Doctor Death. I thought it was another newsperson and I didn’t feel like rehashing the case again.
    After three rings, the machine buzzed, transmitted its recorded message. Then the caller responded, his words metallic in amplification, into the turning tape.
    I recognized the voice immediately. I had been listening to that voice for a week.
    â€œThis is Miles Stewart.” Even speaking into an answering machine, he sounded frostily arrogant. “I’m at my apartment but don’t call me here, since I’m not answering the phone. It’s been nothing but one damned reporter after another. I shall call you again in an hour. It is now—”
    I grabbed the phone at my desk.
    â€œI’m here,” I said. “What’s up?”
    â€œSo, you’re not answering the phone either.” He made it sound as if he had discovered me in something shameful, something on a par with dope dealing or sex with animals.
    â€œI just came in the door.”
    I was answered by a disbelieving chuckle. “Of course.”
    â€œWhat is it you want?” I snapped, regretting itinstantly. He liked getting that kind of response.
    The chuckle turned a trifle triumphant. “A bit touchy, are we? Well, I suppose that’s natural, seeing how you lost the case.”
    I wasn’t going to go for the bait a second time. “What is it you want, Doctor?” I tried to sound pleasantly cool.
    I could sense his disappointment. “Two things,” he said. “First, I’m on bond. Do I have