Hostile Witness (50 page)

I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope, which I tossed onto his desk. “I wanted to personally serve our motion for a new trial that we’re filing today with Judge Gimbel. In it I lay out in detail everything that happened from the moment I was hired to defend Chester Concannon.”

“I see,” said Prescott as he opened the envelope and scanned the lengthy motion inside. “I expected as much. And frankly, Victor, I wish you luck. Jimmy’s been acquitted in the federal trial and the murder charges against him have been dropped. Nothing would please me more than for Chester to get off also.”

“I don’t think the judge will see it so benignly.”

He shrugged his shoulders as he continued leafing through the motion.

“You set me up,” I said.

“Yes,” said Prescott. “It wasn’t so hard to do.”

“You figured the only way to really clear Jimmy of the charges was to put them off on Chet, and the surest way to get the jury to believe it all was to get Chet’s lawyer to do the dirty work for you. If you had called Veronica to lie on the stand it would have looked obvious and no one would have bought it. But for Chet’s lawyer to put her on and to have her bury him, well, that clinched it.”

“Effective, wouldn’t you say?”

“And totally improper.”

“No, Victor, that is where you’re wrong. We were doing everything in our power to defend our client. The Sixth Amendment requires no less. Were you following the same high standard, hmmm?”

“It’s patently improper to have a witness perjure herself, even if you don’t call her.”

“But who’s to say it was perjury?”

“She told me the truth when I subpoenaed her.”

“Maybe that was the lie.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What you think and what you can prove are two very different things. I must say, Victor, you surprised me. The whole Veronica thing was very risky. I thought all our inducements for you to cooperate would stop you from going after Jimmy. I assumed that was our surest way to win, to just have Chester sit there and eat whatever we handed him. I hired you because I thought you’d come cheap, but Jimmy suspected you’d turn into a crusader. I guess he’s a better judge of character than I. So to be safe he dangled Veronica before you just in case you decided to play it noble. It worked out better than we could have hoped. You snapped at her like a trout at a perfectly tied fly. We actually expected that she’d have to tell you everything, but your investigation was amazingly thorough. The more you found out, the easier it was for us. But then when you put her on the stand, that was the riskiest part of all. You see, Victor, you seemed to have a great influence on that poor girl, greater than you know. We weren’t sure what she was going to say until she said it. Her actual testimony was a great relief to all of us.”

“You planned it all from the day you hired me.”

“From the day Pete McCrae died, yes. Pete we knew we could trust but with his inconvenient death, well, then we needed you, or someone like you. It was too big a case to count on luck. We had all kinds of strategies and contingency plans but in the end we needed something dramatic to win it, and you certainly gave us that, Victor.”

“In fact, you had been setting up Concannon even
before the indictment. It was you who told Jimmy to open the bank account with Chester’s name on it.”

“Now you’re guessing,” said Prescott.

“It was the amount of the deposits and withdrawals that clued me. Federal regulations require cash transactions of over ten grand to be reported to the Treasury Department. Which means you knew all along that Jimmy was giving the money to Goodwin, capitalizing a drug dealer to set up a steady stream of funds for his rehabilitation projects. That’s why Goodwin killed Chuckie, to keep him from telling me about it, and why Goodwin tried to stop Veronica from testifying. It must have been Henry who told Goodwin where Veronica was hiding. Goodwin sent his henchmen after her, fearing she would disclose the arrangement, not knowing all the time that she was in your pocket.”

“I’m certainly not going to confirm such scurrilous accusations,” said Prescott. “One never knows who is taping what, hmmm? But if it all were true, think of the beauty of it. Drug consumers are going to buy drugs no matter what. It is an inelastic demand. But with just a little venture capital, effectively applied, a piece of the profits of the sales would go to helping victims and to drying up the market. The more successful the marketing venture, the more active it would be in sowing the seeds of its own destruction. Pure pragmatism, Victor, a free-market solution to a previously intractable problem.”

“And the kids dying from stray bullets as Goodwin battles to expand his turf?”

“Collateral damage,” said Prescott. “Unavoidable.”

“Jimmy is preying on the weak, profiting from murder to salve the wound of his daughter’s death,” I said. “It’s immoral.”

“Morality is a mere luxury in this world, Victor,” said Prescott. “It is the enemy of achievement, the last bastion of the failed. Learn that and someday you might learn what it is to be a lawyer.”

“If that’s what it takes I’d sooner cut lawns.”

“As you wish. But I’m actually glad you’re here, Victor. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been out of town.”

“I can understand. The embarrassment. I’ve talked it over with CUP and, with the trial finished, they’ve decided that they won’t sue you for the retainer so long as you give up your claim to any additional fees.”

“That doesn’t even cover half of what I’m owed.”

“Some is better than none, Victor, any day of the week.”

“I think I’ll hold out for it all.”

“That’s fine. I understand Sam Guthrie has already drafted the complaint.”

“So I’ll counterclaim, then. Save me the filing fees.”

“You shouldn’t take it all so personally, Victor. It was only business. Actually, you were better in court than I expected. It’s too bad it had to conclude like it did. I’m sure we could have worked very profitably together.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “By the way, I’ll be shortly filing a motion to amend the complaint in
Saltz v. Metropolitan Investors.
”

“A little late, Victor. Trial’s in less than two weeks.”

“Oh, I think the judge will let me amend the complaint to add two new defendants.”

“New defendants?” he asked, the crow’s-feet around his eyes deepening. “Who?”

“Well, Billy, I told you I was out of town. Where I was, actually, was in Corpus Christi, Texas, with my partner, visiting the Downtown Marina. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

By the frozen expression on his face I could tell that he had.

“Well, it seems that our mutual accountant friend Frederick Stocker was docking his pretty new sailboat at that very marina. We showed up there just yesterday, Billy,
and, in an amazing coincidence, we arrived at the marina pretty much at the same time as the FBI. And somehow in all the fuss of his arrest and my dropping a subpoena in his lap Mr. Stocker seemed to think that you were somehow mixed up in the Feds finding out where he was, though I haven’t a clue, really, as to how he got that idea, unless it was something I said. Do you think that might have been it?”

His whole face seemed to harden and contract, every muscle tensing one against the other. His blue eyes turned cold and steely but still he didn’t move.

“Well, anyway,” I continued, “he told a strange story about how the lawyer for the general partners in the
Saltz
partnership had an undisclosed interest in the deal and how, with the market turning against the project, he convinced the accountant to doctor up the numbers in the prospectus, promising him that no one would ever know. It was this lawyer who he says induced him to defraud my clients and then helped him hide away after he ran off with stolen money. And the funny thing, Billy, is he says that this lawyer fellow is you. Imagine that. Which is why, Billy, we’re adding you and your partners as defendants. Now I’m a realist and I figure a smart fellow like you will have shielded most of his assets, so you’re probably judgment-proof. I figure the best we can do with you is to pull your ticket to practice, send you to that lucrative hell for ex-lawyers where you’ll become a lobbyist or some other lowlife scavenger. But Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, why I’m betting that’s a damn deep pocket.”

His face had turned a whitish gray. “It’s too late to amend,” he said. “The statute of limitations has run.”

“Not technically. It stops running if information is denied to a party due to fraud, which your hiding of Stocker would constitute.”

“I’ll beat you in court. Any day of the week.”

I stood up. “Maybe so, but this Stocker is a very articulate man. I’m certain he’ll make a fine witness.”

I turned to walk out of his office, but just before I reached the door he said with a bravado as pale as the coloring of his face, “Victor, wait. Maybe we should talk some more.”

THE FADED BLUE CHEVETTE,
liberally sprinkled with rust, was parked on Chestnut Street, waiting for me as I came out of One Liberty Place after my meeting with Prescott. Chestnut Street was closed to normal street traffic at that point and a uniformed policeman was leaning in the window of the car.

“You going to ticket this wreck?” I asked the cop.

The officer leaned back and grinned at me. “There’s not enough solid metal left to pin the citation to.”

“You pull back one of those windshield wipers,” I said, “and the rear bumper falls off.”

“Oh man,” said Slocum from inside. “You guys should be in vaudeville. Get in, Carl, you’re twenty minutes late.”

I ducked in the passenger door and the Chevette groaned forward. At 15th Street it turned right and then took another right onto Walnut, going west. “How did your meeting with Prescott go?”

“Just fine,” I said. “Six hundred thousand to settle a case that wasn’t worth a dime two days ago.”

“You going to take it?”

“Nope. I’m going to see him and raise him,” I said. “I appreciate you coming.”

“We’ll see what she has to tell us. I have my doubts.”

“Frankly, I was surprised to see you waiting for me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised I came. By the way, don’t
try to roll down your window. The thingamajig is broken and it collapses if you try.”

We drove past the University of Pennsylvania and then into West Philly, sagging old row houses with decaying porches, small grocery stores, a mattress outlet, seafood stores, a pool hall on the second floor of a crumbling tenement. We were in the middle of a stream of fine automobiles flowing through the synchronized lights on the one-way roadway, heading out of the city to the suburbs, where the taxes were low and the schools safe and the grass in the public parks cut biweekly.

“There are guys in the office,” volunteered Slocum, his voice soft and surprisingly serious, “who say that anyone can convict the guilty, but only a real prosecutor can convict the innocent. I’m not one of them. Last thing I ever want to do is fry someone who didn’t do it. If something smells I won’t cover it up and hope nobody notices as some poor fool rots in jail; it is up to me to find out what exactly is smelling and what I need to do about it.”

“What smells in your murder case against Concannon?”

“I had no choice but to drop the indictment against Councilman Moore,” said Slocum. “After the testimony of your brilliant witness the DA herself ordered the case dismissed. But I heard your little friend testify and if you ask me she was lying. The DA wants me to put her on the stand to hammer the last nail in your boy’s coffin. The thought of it makes me sick.”

“You should go into private practice,” I said with a bitter laugh, “where anything goes and there’s nothing to trouble your conscience except where to cash your checks. Maybe then you could buy yourself a car with a window that actually goes up and down.”

“Wouldn’t know how to handle all that luxury. Besides, the knife you gave me seems actually to have been the one that sliced Chuckie Lamb’s throat. There was blood on the spring. What tests we could do showed it matched his type.
We’re holding Wayman right now. Someone sure did a number on him before we got there.”

“So you’re maybe starting to believe the stories I’ve been spinning?”

“I’m starting to listen. That’s as much as you’re going to get.”

“That’s all I want,” I said.

When Walnut Street ended he turned right onto 63rd Street, dipped under the tracks of the Market Street elevated, and headed north, alongside trolley tracks, past dark decrepit houses into the dark fall night.

“So what I’m saying,” he went on, “is that I’m willing to go this far with you because I think it’s my job to find the truth. But no further. I’m going to catch hell for this as it is when word gets out, which it will, and it might even cost me my job. My boss was an obscure common pleas judge before Moore put her up for DA. Now she thinks she’s going to be a senator.”

“I appreciate it,” I said.

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m not even doing it for Concannon. But I’m not going in front of a jury to ask for death if I’m not sure.”

We were in Wynnefield now, still the city but there were no longer row houses along the dark wide streets, instead large stone homes with wide porches and peaked roofs. There were lawns and nice cars and, though it was all just a little shabby from age, even the shabbiness was a nice touch. Slocum pulled up in front of a large stone colonial with stained-glass windows across the front door. There were bright lights gleaming from the top of the house, illuminating the broad front lawn, and the windows were lit as if a party was roaring inside.

“You been here before?” I asked.

“Fund-raisers,” he said. “It’s better to shell out now and then to the boys in power than to be ringing up head-hunters.”

He slipped out of his car and I followed, carrying my briefcase with the bullet hole in one flank. At the door with the stained-glass windows Slocum stepped aside so that I could do the knocking. “It’s your show,” he said.

I lifted the large brass knocker with the head of a lion and let it drop.

There was nothing for a few minutes and I dropped the knocker twice more before the door opened slowly. It was Renee, Leslie Moore’s sister, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her face heavy with liquor. No late night on the town for her tonight. “Well, lookee here, it’s that thief Chester Concannon’s lawyer,” she said, swinging slightly as she leaned on the door. “Sorry, Mr. Carl, but Jimmy’s not here right now. Maybe you should come back in your next life.”

“I’m not here to see Jimmy, Renee. I’m here to see Leslie.”

“She’s not here either,” she said in thickened syllables, but her glance back and to the left gave her away.

“Why don’t you ask her if she’ll talk to me,” I said.

“No, I won’t,” said Renee, but even as she said it the slight figure of Leslie Moore, in print dress and low heels, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, appeared behind her.

“I thought you’d come,” said Leslie softly. “I just didn’t know when.”

I looked up at Renee and she shrugged in resignation and swung with the door as it opened, letting Slocum and me inside.

Leslie took our coats and led us to a formal living room with red walls and fancy couches. The fabrics were striped and elegant, with maroons and hunter greens and golds, and underneath everything was a rich oriental carpet in a deep navy blue. Everything was in place in this room, the prints of hummingbirds in the gold-leaf frames, the formal photographs on the end tables. There were no bottles or half-drunken glasses or any signs of recent habitation. This
was the room where Jimmy hit up the wealthy for contributions, where the show was put on. There was another room somewhere in that large stone house, I was sure, where Renee and Leslie did their drinking when the councilman was out on the town without them, and that room was undoubtedly not so tidy.

Slocum and I sat side by side on a couch. Leslie sat across from us on a thin upholstered chair, Louis the Something I figured. Renee stood alongside the now cold fireplace like the lord of the manor. There was a long moment of silence.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Leslie finally.

“No, thank you,” said Slocum.

“Coffee would be great,” I said. I was in no hurry to leave.

Leslie looked up at Renee, who widened her eyes and then gave her a little snort.

“Excuse me,” said Leslie, and she left to make the coffee.

“The councilman’s in Chicago,” said Renee.

“I know,” I said.

“Of course you know. You wouldn’t have the guts to show up here if he was in town.”

I shrugged.

“He’s at the National Urban Conference. He’s a featured speaker. He’s going to be on the dais with the President.”

“Imagine that,” I said. “The same President whose administration indicted him for extortion and racketeering just six months ago.”

“Well, now that that little misunderstanding is cleared up, thanks to you,” said Renee with a drunken sneer, “I guess the President is starting to think about the twenty-three electoral votes that might just hinge on the half-million voters that CUP can deliver.”

“I didn’t know you were so politically keen, Renee.”

“Someone has to watch his back from the vipers out to bring him down. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? But you’re too late. They’re together again, like lovebirds. She’s moved back into his room, so your little scheme’s not going to work.”

“We’re just here to ask some questions,” said Slocum.

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. District Attorney. You should be ashamed, all that Jimmy’s done for your people and now you plotting with this shyster.”

Slocum slowly took off his glasses and lifted the end of his tie to wipe off the lenses. Very carefully he cleaned, first one side, then the other, then the first again. He put his glasses back on. In the time it took to clean his glasses the jumble of quivering muscle at the edge of his jaw subsided. With his glasses back on he said calmly, “I don’t plot. And the only shameful thing in this room, ma’am, is you.”

“I made some for you, too, Mr. Slocum,” said Leslie, bringing in a tray with a porcelain teapot and four matching cups.

“Thank you,” he said.

She poured three cups. We both leaned forward to pick up a cup and saucer and then leaned back into the couch. Renee stayed by the fireplace, now seeming to inspect the mantelshelf for cracks with her fingertips.

“I’m here to take you up on your promise, Mrs. Moore,” I said before taking a sip of the coffee.

“She didn’t make any promise to you,” said Renee sharply.

“No, Renee,” I said. “I’m sorry but you’re mistaken. I know you saw us talking in the courtroom hallway, and I assume you spread the word to the councilman, which may explain certain things, but you did not hear what we said to each other. Only Leslie and I know what was said and what she promised.”

“Would you like some sugar with that, Mr. Slocum?” asked Leslie.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“I must admit,” I continued, “I was confused for a while. It was Chuckie’s murder and my being shot at that confused me. You see, when you told me that you had heard the voices on the wind and that you wouldn’t let them kill Chester, I had assumed you were referring to the same people who had killed Chuckie and were maybe trying to kill me too. At that time I had thought that maybe your husband was in some way responsible for Chuckie’s death and for the attempts on my life and that somehow you had stumbled on that information. I have since learned that I was mistaken. Chuckie was killed by a drug dealer whose operation is being financed by your husband.”

“Lies,” hissed Renee. “All lies.”

“He joined with the devil,” I said, “to build his monument to Nadine.”

Mrs. Moore didn’t seem flustered in the least by the accusation. “Some cream, Mr. Slocum?” she said. “Or would you prefer tea?”

“No, thank you,” said Slocum. “This is fine.”

“And at the trial,” I continued, “to my chagrin, I learned I was being set up as a dupe by your husband and his lawyer. No one ever tries to kill their dupe. Dead I was of no use to them, alive I could set him free, which I eventually did. So, while I was on a recent trip down South I began to wonder who it was you were promising to protect Chester from.”

“What kind of nonsense are you talking to us about, Mr. Carl?” asked Renee.

“Oh, Leslie understands exactly what I’m saying, Renee.”

“How about some cookies, Mr. Slocum?” said Leslie. “I have some fine cookies in the pantry. Let me get them for you.”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Slocum. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Chet’s in jail now,” I said. “His bail has been revoked. He is awaiting sentencing on the federal charges, preparing for his trial in state court on the murder charge. I visited him just yesterday. He is not adjusting well. He is a little too thin, a little too handsome, which is a very bad combination in prison. During our conversation he almost broke down into tears. You know Chet, you know his self-control. He is cracking. He is of no consequence anymore in the larger scheme of things, a threat to no one. There is only one man who is trying to kill him now.”

I took another sip of my coffee, staring at Leslie even as I tilted my head down to the cup. Her eyes were moist, cast downward, and her hands nervously clutched one the other.

“In another month,” I said, “Chet is going to stand trial for murder. Mr. Slocum is going to prosecute the case. He is going to ask the jury to sentence Chet to death. And I believe, Mrs. Moore, you can stop Mr. Slocum from killing Chet Concannon, just like you promised.”

After a long pause, Leslie said, “Renee, please, why don’t you get yourself another drink.”

“I think I should stay right here,” she said, “and keep my eye on Mr. Carl, make sure he doesn’t steal the ashtrays.”

“Get the drink, Renee,” Leslie said, her voice suddenly filled with an authority I didn’t know she could muster.

Renee shrugged and headed out to that other, less tidy room.

When she had left Leslie said, “I can’t tell you what you want to know, Mr. Carl.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“We have had difficult times in our marriage, I won’t deny that. And after Nadine’s death, for the longest time there was nothing left for either of us. I can understand
now how he could seek comfort with that girl. But the ordeal of this trial has resurrected our commitment to each other. We have gone to counseling, we have opened our hearts to one another. It has changed both our lives, I am sure. It is as it was when we were first starting out together. In fact, it is better.”

“Chester Concannon is going to be put to death with a lethal injection, Mrs. Moore,” I said.

“We have both learned again what it means to give, to cherish one another, to trust.”

“They’re going to strap him to a gurney, tightly binding his arms and legs with leather straps,” I said, “and stick a needle in his arm. And attached to that needle will be an intravenous sack filled with a deadly barbiturate, the fluid laced with a chemical paralytic agent to make sure he doesn’t jerk the needle out of his arm as they kill him.”