The Good Lawyer: A Novel (15 page)
Read The Good Lawyer: A Novel Online
Authors: Thomas Benigno
I glared at Shefflin as Cantor let go, my heart still racing. Shefflin called a ten-minute recess and left the courtroom.
Ventura walked over to me. “You all right?”
I wasn’t surprised by his concern. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll be calling you,” he said quietly, then left as he came, through the corridor behind the courtroom, avoiding the press.
A court officer passed me a note. It was from Repolla:
Great work, Pacino. Don’t bug out on me now! Call you later.
I caught my breath as the courtroom emptied then went back into detention to see Jefferson. The sole occupant of one of the smaller cells, he sat against the wall, his head down, his thumb and index finger pressing the corners of his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Oscar,” I said gently.
He looked up at me, but made no move to rise. “I ain’t never been so scared in my whole life.”
“You should be scared.” My voice was hoarse and I sounded colder than I intended.
He stood and approached the bars. Our faces were inches apart. “When can you get me that lie detector test?”
“I’ll have the Administrative Judge sign the order this afternoon and try to set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
“OK.” He returned to the corner of the cell and sat down.
It was cold in detention. Jefferson held himself and shivered.
“Hang in there. If you’re innocent, I’ll get you out. I promise.”
“I
am
innocent. Don’t you believe me?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
I didn’t answer, but only half waved a goodbye as I walked down the cinder block corridor to the exit gate, the pain on Jefferson’s face etched in my mind.
I
skipped lunch and ran back to the office to prepare the polygraph order. Brenda was about to leave but offered to stay and type it. As I hovered over her I couldn’t help but notice how much weight she’d lost.
She was headed for the children’s ward at Lincoln Hospital to spend her lunch break with her daughter. She had been sleeping there too, so Jasmine, who had taken a turn for the worse, wouldn’t be alone. Massive doses of chemotherapy were being tried as a last ditch effort.
I watched Brenda type, and felt guilty as hell.
The back corridors of the Criminal Court Building provided the quickest route to Judge Krenwinkle’s chambers. When I saw Charlie Farkas, Jr. approaching in the opposite direction, I tucked the polygraph order under my jacket. The last time I’d seen Junior, his threatening grimace had been fixed on me as I exited his shyster father’s law office.
He had the broad build of a Peter Guevara and was about as tall. I hadn’t the slightest desire to tussle with him. I tried to side step him in the narrow hallway. He grabbed my arm.
“You made an ass of yourself in front of Shefflin this morning.” Saliva was pasted in the corner of his mouth. “The good judge should have thrown you in jail along with that scum you were representing.”
“Let go of my fucking arm.”
A buddy of Figueroa’s shouted, “Hey Nick!” It was the court officer who had worked the lobby the night of Guevara’s arraignment
“Next time,” Farkas said then walked off with a scowl on in his face.
I continued onto AP-6.
The polygraph order was
ex parte
and
in camera
. That meant it was one-sided and did not need the D.A.’s consent or response. A secret for the moment anyway, I asked Krenwinkle, the mench that he was, to keep it that way. When I got back to AR-1, I telephoned Jose Torres at the office and asked him to run the order over to Arthur Cantwell in Midtown Manhattan. I added a note requesting that Cantwell do the test himself, ASAP or by tomorrow 5 P.M. at the latest, and to call if he had a problem. I was tempted to ask if he had done the test on Guevara yet, but didn’t.
A few minutes later I thumbed through the morning’s messages Torres had brought me. Eleanor had called to confirm dinner at her place. The last message was from Paul Ventura. I called him from the clerk’s phone inside the courtroom.
Ventura was going to make a motion to have Jefferson produced in his office for blood and hair samples. Would I object? Thinking to myself that I should probably object to anything the D.A.’s office wanted to do in furtherance of Jefferson’s prosecution, I stalled by saying that I was still in arraignments and would have to check with my supervisors. I wanted the polygraph results first and feared Jefferson’s production for blood and hair samples—
good luck with the hair
—would jeopardize his immediate availability for Cantwell’s exam. Besides, if Jefferson flunked the lie detector, I didn’t want investigators from the D.A.’s office running into Cantwell and his polygraph machine over at Riker’s Island.
I
left arraignments at 4 P.M. sharp. I had done more than my fair share of cases by then and desperately needed to get back to the office. After the Jefferson arraignment Shefflin and I had kept each other at arm’s length, though that didn’t stop him from setting a higher bail than was justified for all the other defendants I represented that night.
A stack of phone messages that comprised a veritable Who’s Who of Network News were waiting for me at the office. ABC and NBC News had called, along with the Associated Press, United Press International and
The Today Show
. At the bottom of the pile was a note for me to call Repolla at
Newsday
. Since I had refused to leave the courtroom to be interviewed after Jefferson’s arraignment, I had no intention of returning phone calls from the media. There was no advantage in it. But I did return Repolla’s call.
“Nice show this morning, counselor.”
“Shefflin really pissed me off.”
“The D.A.’s going to put your boy in a line-up to see if the other victims can identify him, right?”
I wondered where Repolla got his energy. Every time we spoke he sounded like he was ready to sprint fifty laps.
“Vinny, I know you’ve got a job to do, but when I’m talking to you I want to know I’m talking to a friend first and a reporter second. So unless the terrain has changed, I’m assuming all our conversations are off the record.”
“Absolutely, buddy.”
“O.K. then. Ventura asked if I’d consent to have Jefferson produced for blood and hair samples.”
“I should have guessed. But no mention of any line-ups?”
“Not yet. And no reporting the blood and hair sample stuff. He didn’t call and ask my consent so I could blab it to the press. I’ve got a feeling his heart’s not in this one, but I’m not exactly sure why.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. I gave a detective buddy fifty-yard line seats to the Giants last season. He owes me. But I’ve got to protect my source, Nick, and I mean to the grave.”
“I live this job pretending I don’t know what I know and selectively forgetting where I got it from.”
Repolla laughed. “The people’s lawyer. Now if you could get me in to witness a line-up, they’d make me editor in chief.”
“I may have something better.” I paused just long enough to make Repolla antsy. “Give me a day or so to work it out.”
“You’re killing me, Nick.”
“Stop talking about killing and graves. My nightmares are bad enough.”
As I hung up, the red light started blinking on my phone. Brenda had still not returned from lunch. I answered the phone, angry with myself for forgetting to ask Repolla if his detective friend had come up with anything on the dead blonde.
It was Shula Hirsch. I hadn’t spoken to her since my visit to P.S. 92. The afternoon edition of
The Post
had come out and there was a story on the Jefferson arraignment. My name was mentioned. Mrs. Hirsch congratulated me on my notoriety. I told her to save her congratulations for when I won the case. Then she told me that she had received a notice from the District Office that Peter Guevara had been suspended without pay.
“The suspension was to be expected, Mrs. Hirsch. When he’s acquitted, the Board of Education will have to reinstate him at his current salary level, including reimbursement for back pay.” I had no idea why I was sounding so optimistic about Guevara’s prospects.
Hirsch asked if I had received any school and psychological records on the boys. I told her it sometimes took several weeks for a response to subpoenas, particularly from city agencies. She huffed in acknowledgment, saying something about the frustrations of “red tape”.
She asked me if I had spoken to Sandra Chavez. I told her since Mrs. Chavez was the mother of one of the three boys and an important witness for the prosecution and maybe even the defense, it was best if an investigator spoke to her so an independent record could be made of her statements. I expected to hear from Gene Raines in a day or two.
Just before we hung up she asked about the bail contributed by those from the school. She was concerned that it not fall into the wrong hands at the end of the case. I asked her if she knew who brought the money to the clerk’s office. She said she did, and that she gave her name with the school’s address to the Clerk of the Court. I assured her that if Guevara faithfully appeared in court, no matter what the result, the bail she posted would be refunded. She wished me luck with both Guevara and Jefferson, then added, “Inasmuch as they are both innocent.”
B
renda’s chair was still empty. Motion papers in a blueback cover were hanging half off her desk. Typing paper was scattered under a pen, a bottle of Wite-Out, and a stapler. Brenda’s work area was always meticulous. It was unusual to see her desk in even slight disarray.
I began to prepare a letter, at Sheila’s request, explaining how a defendant like Guevara could come up with fifteen thousand dollars bail and still be eligible for Legal Aid representation. Legal Aid policy required such. At the beginning of the letter, which had turned into a memo, I wrote that Guevara had been suspended from his job without pay. I omitted any mention of his moonlighting in the real estate office where his broker-boss posted two thousand five hundred dollars of his bail. I asked myself again why Guevara had not told me about the boss, or the job. It would only have enhanced his resume to the court. I then detailed the other sources of bail and when I came to the largest, the nine thousand dollars posted by a doctor friend, I remembered Guevara had asked me to give this altruistic M.D. a call. To make such a generous showing of faith and trust he must have believed in Guevara’s innocence also.
Dr. Norris Terkel, Daisy Place, Bronx, N.Y
. I checked the map. Daisy Place was in Throgs Neck, in the Country Club Estates section. And on the water. I dialed his number.
After one ring a man answered.
I introduced myself and told him I was Peter Guevara’s attorney.
“Oh yes, Mr. Mannino. I’ve been expecting your call. Peter speaks very highly of you. When I heard he had such an excellent lawyer, how could I refuse the chance to be a benefactor of his bail? What do you think his chances are?”
Terkel seemed more amused than concerned. But he had put up nine thousand dollars, so I couldn’t just brush him off.
“It’s a tough case with three children saying basically the same thing,” I answered, “though I don’t think it takes much to get a child to lie.” I thought of Sandra Chavez and her million-dollar lawsuit. “I believe a civil case with a large money judgment is the true motive.”
“Ah yes, a great deal of money.” I remained quiet, not wishing to feed a conversation I was hoping would soon come to a close. Terkel continued. “Money, Money, Money. It can buy you your freedom. And it can cost you your freedom. Am I right, Mr. Mannino?” He sounded jubilant, like he had just discovered some hidden cure for rheumatoid arthritis. The musing of an old eccentric I figured, but I didn’t want to risk offending him.
“Absolutely, Dr. Terkel.” I had no idea what I was confirming so emphatically and wondered how well he was reading me over the phone.
“You seem like a fine young man, Nicholas Mannino. I hope I get the opportunity to meet you.”
I asked if he would testify as a character witness. He apologized and declined, citing his ill health.
“Maybe by the trial date you’ll feel better,” I said.
“If you’re in my neighborhood anytime before, please stop in to see me. I’m home almost all the time.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” Perhaps I could convince him in person.
After we said our good-byes I realized I knew no more about this doctor and how he befriended Guevara, than before I had called.
One thing was for certain though: without Terkel’s money, Guevara still would have been in jail. So what did it matter how they’d become acquainted?
T
he work day was nearly over when Sheila called me into her office with an uncharacteristic bark of my name.
Peter Krackow was standing beside her desk, looking like a disheveled Che Guevara and, as always, like he was ready to kick the shit out of someone. And most of the time I was convinced that was exactly what he wanted to do.