Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving Page B

does not!”
    The judge was grimly quiet for a few moments.
    “I have to tell you, I find this a reprehensible crime. And I’m going to override the jury’s recommendation of a life sentence. Darryl Morgan, I sentence you to death. I order that you be taken by the proper authorities to the Florida State Prison and there be kept in close confinement until the date your execution is set. That on such day you be put to death by electrical currents passed through your body in such amounts and frequency until you are rendered dead. And may God have mercy on your soul.”
    I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Connie Zide, her face gone white, looked at me. There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do.
    Twelve years would pass before I would see her again.
    I stared dully at Judge Bill Eglin, and then at the defendant, whose lips twisted in fury.
    The judge tapped his pen. The two deputy sheriffs standing behind Darryl Morgan swiftly clicked handcuffs on his wrists. “All rise!” the bailiff cried.
    The judge in his black robes swept from the courtroom.

Chapter 9

    MY COLLEGE FRIEND Kenny Buckram was a short, thickchested man with the curly hair and friendly appearance of a teddy bear. In 1990 his third and most recent ex-wife had a bumper sticker made, which she glued to the rear of his Lincoln Town Car. It said: HONK IF YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED TO KENNY BUCKRAM.
    Having taken a sabbatical now from marriage, Kenny told me that he had fewer affairs; instead, two or three times a year he flew to Rio or Bangkok, where he would hire a hotel suite for a long weekend and install a pair or even a trio of young hookers. “Simplifies my life,” he explained, “and in the long run it saves me money. As well as vital bodily fluids.”
    Vital bodily fluids. Straight out of Dr. Strangelove, our favorite film back in the days when we thought we could save the world. Or even change it.
    At forty-seven, Kenny Buckram was now the elected public defender for the Fourth Circuit of Florida. After Ruby had told me that Darryl Morgan was still alive and on death row, I asked her to put in a call to Kenny at his Jacksonville office.
    “You can’t stay in a hotel,” Kenny said. “That’s crazy, Ted. I haven’t seen you in years! I’ve got a house out by the beach, with plenty of room. I’m between wives.”
    I flew to Jacksonville on Wednesday. At half past six that evening, carrying cold bottles of Pilsner Urquell, Kenny and I walked past the surf shop and Silver’s Drugs and the Sun Dog, and onto Jacksonville
    Beach. Seagulls screeched in the cool evening air. I finally got around to telling Kenny what I had learned from Jerry Lee Elroy in Sarasota.
    “But you were a prosecutor,” Kenny said. “You’re not telling me you didn’t know there were people out there who’d sell their souls to get out of jail. Hey, put me behind bars, I might be one of them…
    We passed a sign: CITY OF ATLANTIC BEACH. Please no picnicking, no littering, no alcoholic beverages, no glass containers, no motorized vehicles, no surfboards without tether lines, no dogs unless leashed and having Atlantic Beach City tags. All animal droppings must be disposed of. Strictly enforced. Thank you.
    “Lucky they still allow you to fucking breathe,” Kenny muttered, taking a pull from the bottle of beer.
    “Tell me what you know about Floyd Nickerson.”
    “I don’t know anything. In Homicide they’re whores, they’ll sleep with anyone. You got some good ones, and some you have a hard time believing if they tell you, ‘I had tuna on rye for lunch.’ Nickerson’s supposed to have got a confession out of Morgan? Okay, assume that’s true. It’s a big case for the detective who’s on it. Years later they’ll say, ‘Floyd Nickerson? Oh, yeah! Dude who nailed down the Zide murder.’ So he thinks: I’ll hammer in an extra nail to make sure. No big deal to convince a scumbag like Elroy to lie. And it paid off, didn’t it?”
    “Why is it,” I asked