Paul Madriani: The Jury Part 17

The fine and delicate lines of his face, high cheekbones, look as if they were carved using a sculptor's knife in earth-toned clay. He has a prominent chin that finds its strength below generous, sharply defined lips. These are closed in silence, causing you to guess at the tones that might issue from the voice that lies within. It is the kind of face that would prompt you to listen, the features of some ancient bronze mask. It would not be a reach to imagine that the blood of n.o.bility runs through William Epperson's veins, royalty of some timeless African tribe. He has the bearing and stature of a Tutsi warrior; perhaps the narrowing genetics of aristocracy that resulted in his stature, and left him with an inherited cardiac condition.

"Nice weather, huh?" Harry can't restrain himself. He breaks the silence, confident that Epperson hasn't made us.

The tall man looks down at him. There is nothing imperious or arrogant, only gentle eyes and a kind of confidence that comes with knowing you are probably the tallest man in this part of the state.

"It has been pretty nice, hasn't it?" His voice fits the image, a deep resonance with no wasted effort.

More silence, and Harry has to work at it. "A regular Indian summer," he says.

"I suppose." Epperson is smiling. Tight-lipped, he looks at Harry.

I'm getting worried that my partner might pull the red b.u.t.ton, jerk us to an emergency stop so he can give Epperson the third degree on the spot. Bad heart condition and all, the man could pound both of us through the floor like bent nails.

Harry now looks at him and engages the bigger man's eyes directly. "Have we met?"

Epperson studies Harry for a brief second. "I don't think so."

"You're Bill Epperson, aren't you?"

He doesn't answer him, but instead looks at Harry with an expression that says, Who wants to know?

"I saw you play a few years ago. High-school game back in Detroit. You scored forty points if I remember."

"Thirty-four," says Epperson.

Leave it to Harry. Master of the file trivia. He has combed all the doc.u.ments, including the press clippings that earned Epperson his scholarship to Stanford. He gets the figures wrong just enough to make it believable.

"You were there?" Epperson leans away from the wall. You can read the gleam in his eye. His feet may be on the floor, but his mind is somewhere in that ethereal moment of fame and lost glory.

"Never forget it," says Harry.

"You don't look like you'd be from Motown."

"Just visiting," says Harry. "I have a sister back there. Lives in Ann Arbor." Harry making it up as he goes. Now he has Epperson talking about the old days, his Detroit roots. "We ended up at the game. Lucky for us," says Harry.

"Really?"

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors begin to open.

Epperson is still smiling. He takes a step toward the opening. "Well, it was good meeting you." Epperson heads out the elevator door.

"You know, my son would kill for an autograph." Harry's not going to let the conversation die that easily.

Before Epperson can turn around, Harry is on his tail, pen in hand.

"Would you mind?"

They step outside the elevator into the building's lobby. Epperson is embarra.s.sed. The first graceless moment I have seen. He's not sure whether to take the pen, what to do. He holds his hands out, palms open as if warding off somebody wielding a knife, shaking his head, out of his depth.

"No. No. I really don't do that."

"Why not? You don't have to charge me for it," says Harry.

They both laugh.

"It's just, I'm never asked."

"Well, you are now."

Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to appear rude, Epperson looks at me, then takes Harry's big Mont Blanc.

Suddenly he's all thumbs. Can't get the cap off. Harry explains that it is a fountain pen, and shows him how to unscrew it. They're at a loss for something to sign. Finally Harry hands him one of the case files, a legal-sized manila folder. Fortunately he has the presence of mind to turn it over, so that the tab with the label is facing the other way, the one that reads PEOPLE V. DAVID CRONE.

"What's your boy's name?" Epperson is finally regaining some composure. He's willing to personalize it.

This catches Harry flat-footed.

"What would you like me to say?"

"Just a signature would be great." Let Harry think about it for a minute, and he'll drag Epperson to a stationery store for a clean sheet of paper and have him put his John Hanc.o.c.k on it so that we can type an alibi for Crone above it.

"My boy won't believe that I actually met you," says Harry.

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-six," says Harry.

With this, Epperson actually rocks on his heels. He lifts his gaze in mid-signature to check Harry out, to make sure all the gum b.a.l.l.s are still in the machine. Epperson may be flattered, but his ego doesn't match his stature. What in the h.e.l.l does a twenty-six-year-old man want with an autograph from a has-been high-school star, even if he does hold a state record?

"High-school heroes were his big thing. He's got a collection of autographs." I'm waiting for Harry to say, People who never made it big-a truly rare collection, but he bites his lip.

"He never forgot that game." Harry tries to patch it up. "He's even told his boy about it."

"Kids of his own. Really?"

"Oh, yeah. It's funny how some things just make an impression. Sports moments," says Harry. " You always remember them. Like the catch made by Clark in the end zone. The Forty Niner playoff game they beat Dallas. The one that sent 'em to their first Super Bowl. You always remember it, don't you?"

Epperson makes a face. Nods. He remembers.

"Well, that game where you scored forty points"-Harry's back to inflating the numbers-"that's the same kinda thing."

Epperson hands Harry the signed folder and his pen. "Good meeting you," he says. He shakes Harry's hand and heads for the door.

"You know, I wonder, cuz he's sure to ask me . . ."

"Hmm?" Epperson stops again and turns.

"Why didn't you play in college?" Anything to keep him talking.

"Injuries," says Epperson.

Suddenly Harry turns toward me. "I told you it had to be something like that."

Epperson's looking at me now, wondering who the h.e.l.l I am.

"We had a bet. I told him that you'd have been in the NBA unless you got hurt. He wouldn't believe me. Oh, excuse me. You guys haven't met."

The fact that Harry hasn't introduced himself doesn't seem to bother him.

"Paul Madriani. Bill Epperson."

Oh, s.h.i.t. I do the best I can to smile.

Epperson looks at me, thinking about the name, taking time for it to register. Then it does. He's not sure whether to hold out his hand.

"You're the . . ."

"The lawyer," I say.

"Yeah. Listen, I gotta run. I'm late. Really."

"I told Paul you'd have been a major star," says Harry. "That you must have gotten injured somewhere along the way. What was it, knees?"

"Heart," says Epperson. He's still looking at me.

"You know, it's a good thing we ran into you. We'd been meaning to call you anyway. The trial," says Harry. "You don't mind if we talk to you, do you? I mean, in fairness."

The vacant look on his face makes it clear he doesn't know what to say.

Harry doesn't even slow down to take a breath. "The D.A.'s people didn't tell you that you couldn't talk to us, did they? Cuz if they did, they're gonna be in big trouble with the judge," says Harry.

"No. No. Nothing like that," says Epperson. "They just said I didn't have to talk to you."

"Well, then, in the interests of fairness . . ." Harry gives him one of his better looks, arched eyebrows over the top of his half-lense cheaters, with just enough of a pause. "You do want to be fair?"

"Oh. Oh, sure."

"Great. Then why don't we go get a cup of coffee?"

"I can't right now. I've got a meeting."

Harry and I are thinking the same thing-Yeah, with a telephone booth or his cell phone. Hotline to the D.A.'s office.

"Well, we can talk for a couple of minutes right here," says Harry. He's not about to let Epperson out of his clutches.

Harry looks at the signature on the manila folder one more time. "You know, my boy really is going to be happy."

Epperson gives him a sick smile, wishing I'm sure that he'd taken the stairs.

Harry flips the folder open, finds a legal pad and has the cap off the pen again.

"You were a friend of Kalista Jordan's?"

Epperson looks at us shifty-eyed, not sure if he should answer, then says: "Yeah, sure."

"How long did you know her?"

Epperson thinks for a moment. "I don't know."

"You don't know how long you knew her?"

"Five years. Maybe six. We met in college."

"Good," says Harry. A little encouragement.

"Did you meet socially, or were you in the same cla.s.ses?"

"It was social."

"Did you date?"

"I don't know if I'd call it that. We went out a few times."

Harry with the pen in the file. "Dated," he says.

"I didn't say that. We had some mutual friends. We always went out with friends. I was a couple of years behind her."

"Yeah, I always liked the older women, too," says Harry. "Must be that maternal touch."

If a black man can suffer from rosacea, I would say Epperson has it now.

Harry is scratching out notes on the yellow legal pad. "Why don't we move over here?" He finds a ledge of polished granite that lines the wall of the foyer like a stone wainscot and lays the notepad on it for a harder surface.

"I really have to go," says Epperson. "I'll give you my card. You can call me at the office."

Harry gives me a look like sure, and ignores him. Epperson doesn't want to be rude. It is the only thing keeping him from walking on us.

"The night Kalista Jordan disappeared." I cut to the chase. "You do remember that night?"

"Hard to forget," he says. Epperson now looks down at me.

"You had dinner with her in the faculty dining room on the campus?"

"That's right."

"Did you overhear the conversation between Dr. Jordan and Dr. Crone that night?"

Epperson is now not sure if he should answer. "Listen, I don't think we should be talking about this."