The Good Lawyer: A Novel (16 page)

At first I had thought our political and social differences would put me on the receiving end of his otherwise contained hostility. I was wrong. That I had working class roots and was moderately liberal by his socialist standards was good enough for him. And when he saw how amoral I was in advocacy of the poor criminals of the Bronx, I was his kind of lawyer.

“Nick, first Guevara, now the Spiderman,” Sheila said. “Cantor was in the courtroom at the time of the arraignment, but you took the case! Why?”

“It was a burglary, first arrest, and I can always give the case to Cantor if I have to. Arthur Cantwell is going to test Jefferson tomorrow. I’ll bet my paycheck he passes.”

“You’re supposed to get supervisory approval on all polygraph testing before Legal Aid eats another four hundred fifty dollars on one of your clients.”

Krackow chimed in. “Nick mentioned it to me in passing. I told him to just get the order signed, that it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Sheila smelled the bullshit but had no choice but to play along. “OK. But while you’re handling the case, you are to report to Peter and Peter only. He will be directly responsible as much as you are.”

“No problem,” I said, though Krackow seemed less than thrilled.

“And Nick, what’s with all these publicity cases? If you’re looking to pave your way into private practice, you’re going about it all wrong. Poor clients are only going to recommend more poor clients, and you’re only going to get negative publicity on the Jefferson case and others like it. And don’t expect to be praised for any brilliant defense work by the press. It doesn’t sell papers. Have lunch with your uncle. I’m sure he could recommend you a ton of clients.”

Even Krackow looked appalled at Sheila’s reference to Rocco. Until then I had assumed my secret was safe, though I was naïve to believe I could keep it forever. I thought of Eleanor, and took a long deep breath as embarrassment turned to resentment.

“Even my uncle and those he would recommend would want an experienced lawyer, which I haven’t the gray hair or the years under my belt to fake.” I took a breath and tried to reign in my anger. Sheila was only being honest; it was not like her to be intentionally antagonistic. Regardless, I wanted no more talk about mafia uncles, and I told her so. I gave her a no-harm-done smile as I left her office. She nodded back.

Krackow stopped me in the hallway.

“Listen, just clear any major moves on the Jefferson case with me or Sheila. We both know you’re in over your head, but I know plenty of lawyers with twenty years of experience who would be too with a case like this. All things considered, you might just do this Jefferson some good. Just know your limits, ok, and get help when you need it.”

I nodded.

“And that thing about your uncle…If who he was mattered to Sheila, she wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“How did you guys know?”

“She saw you hugging this very Italian, very dangerous looking older man on the courthouse steps a week or so ago. She reads the paper, looks at the pictures too, and your mom’s maiden name is in your bio with personnel. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“Eleanor…she doesn’t know a thing about Rocco.”

I had never gotten personal like this with Krackow before, but I knew he could keep a confidence. I was on my way to Eleanor’s and the truth about Rocco was eating at me worse than ever.

“You know, you ought to tell her. She’s an A.D.A. She’s going to find out sooner or later.”

I patted him on the back as we turned to walk in opposite directions.

“By the way,” Krackow blurted. “I thought you should know—old shyster Charlie Farkas dropped dead about an hour ago in the Criminal Court Building. A cool twenty was still in his hand when the paramedics threw a sheet over him.”

As I drove to Eleanor’s for dinner, I actually felt sorry for the crooked bastard. I shuddered to think how his son, the pugnacious Charlie Jr., felt about me now.

Chapter 32

E
leanor had prepared two sirloin steaks with baked potatoes and creamed spinach. I promised her I would do the dishes.

When dinner was over we moved over to the couch, she with a mug of tea and me with a cup of coffee. I sat quietly, mustering the courage to tell her about Rocco.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something,” I said.

She kissed me softly on the lips. “You know you can tell me anything, darling.”
Darling?
There was a trace of Georgia in her voice I had never heard before. “But first there’s something that I want to tell you. Promise me you won’t get mad.” She headed for the hall closet, looking and sounding like a teenager in her jeans and white t-shirt, her hair hanging long and straight down her back. She opened the closet door, and pulled out a black tuxedo.

“I bought this for you today on my lunch hour.”

“Eleanor, I can’t let you pay for this.”

“You can, and you will.” She tossed the suit over a chair and sat down next to me. “I love you Nick, and I’m very proud of you.”

On the coffee table next to us were copies of the local papers. The evening editions had write-ups on the Jefferson arraignment. My name was in every one of them.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the tuxedo, but I could never afford something like that.”

She put her arms around my neck. “In Atlanta, at my brother’s wedding, I want everyone to see you as the decent, special, wonderful man you are.” As she hugged me I sensed something I never had before—her awareness of the differences between us.

The wedding would be an elaborate reception on the back lawn of her parents’ estate. Eleanor was in the wedding party. I would sit with Carolyn, who had promised to be nice to me.

Finally Eleanor asked me what it was I had wanted to talk about. I lied and told her offhandedly that we’d already covered it.

She kissed my cheek and ran her fingertips up and down my arm. I pulled back, just enough to look into her complacent blue eyes, and thought:
No man will ever love her as much as I do.

Chapter 33

M
emo: To all Supervisors, Attorneys and Support Staff

Just a few minutes past midnight, this day, March 20, 1982, Brenda Harrison’s daughter, Jasmine passed away.

Services will be held at the Southern Baptist Church on 170th Street and Jerome Avenue, tomorrow at 10 a.m. All wishing to express their condolences may attend.

Arlene Panzarella

Support Staff Supervisor

I couldn’t stop imagining little Jasmine lying in a hospital bed, tubes running from her nose and arms, machines monitoring her heart, flashing green digital pulses, Brenda holding her hand or laying beside her during the final moments. Brenda, a single mother, now left alone.

I thought of calling her, but couldn’t imagine what to say over the phone. I would see her at the service the next day. Oddly, I was anxious to express my sorrow in person.

I called Mom. She was on her way to church and said she would light a candle and say a prayer for Jasmine.

* * *

I went down to the investigators’ unit on the third floor to see how Gene Raines was coming along with the Chavez interview.

I took a seat while he jotted some notes on a legal pad. After he stabbed down a period he said, “I’ve got some information for you, counselor. Gimme another twenty minutes to write it all up.”

“OK, but is there anything you have to tell me I may not want written down?”

“No,” he responded casually, “But I can give you an oral report now if you like.”

“Lay it on me.”

According to Raines, Sandra Chavez was unquestionably the one who had pushed for Guevara’s arrest. She made that quite clear to him. She seemed more concerned that Raines know who she was and the part she had played in the arrest, than in telling him about the crimes committed against her son.

Raines had interviewed Sandra Chavez in her apartment, though she seemed at first perfectly content to talk in the hallway, no matter who may be listening.

During the interview he had asked to use the bathroom, but what he really wanted was to check the medicine cabinet for evidence of drug use and on the way eyeball more of the apartment.

In the only bedroom he noticed two beds, one a full size, the other a single twin. They were in opposite corners and it was not a big room. Evidently both mother and son slept there, which left one question unanswered: where did Jose sleep when Sandra had one of her boyfriends over?

Raines found nothing illegal or unusual in the medicine cabinet or anywhere else in the tiny bathroom. When he came out Sandra was sipping orange soda from a Mickey Mouse cup at the kitchen table. She didn’t look much like the drug user Shula Hirsch and Guevara had described, at least not that day. She was thin though and chain-smoked Marlboros during the entire interview. She seemed jittery when
she
spoke, but relaxed when Raines spoke and she listened.

“If she was a drug user,” he explained, “it was behind her.”

“Any tracks on her arms?” I asked.

“Long sleeves. Got her date of birth though. You can run her NYSID. But I know what you’re going to find.” He took a slow breath. “Last week she got sentenced on a plea of guilty to attempted robbery in the second degree. She’s doing five years’ probation. She also has prior misdemeanor convictions for trespass and petit larceny.”

Jackpot!
The accuser with the biggest mouth was a predicate felon. I wondered if the D.A.’s Office had even run her criminal record.

But as I listened to Raines repeat Sandra Chavez’ version of the circumstances that led to Guevara’s arrest, I got an irrepressibly uneasy felling. Her story had that ring of truth I had so often heard prosecutors talk about in jury summations. Sandra Chavez told a good tale.

In the coarsest terms she described how Jose came running home screaming that Peter had touched him “with his dick”. Guevara, she said, had bound the boy’s hands with a belt and pushed his face into a pillow. While Jose continued to resist, Guevara pulled Jose’s pants down and rubbed his erect penis against the boy’s backside.

“Did he penetrate the boy? Did he say Guevara came?”

Raines’ expression soured as I shot questions at him. “She said your client touched the boy’s anus with his penis, but didn’t really penetrate it.”

“Touching it is enough for 1st degree sodomy,” I said to myself. “But did she say if Guevara came?”

Raines was probably the most hard boiled investigator at Legal Aid, but like everyone, there was a line he just wouldn’t cross. He had never worked on a child molestation case before and had refused this one as well, until Sheila coaxed him into taking it by emphasizing my belief, however shaky, that Guevara could very well be innocent.

“Nick…” Raines was starting to sound like the impatient father who had just been asked his last childish question. “Just listening to her made me sick. And the boy kept walking in and out of the apartment as we were talking. I couldn’t ask such a question. Besides, a defendant doesn’t have to climax for it to be a rape or sodomy.”

“I know. But if the boy says he did, I could argue that the police should have lab tested the boy’s pants, or the bed covers, or even Guevara’s clothes. Their failure to do so points to a sloppy investigation. And you don’t get convictions from sloppy investigations. Anyway, sounds like you did a terrific job. Did you get a chance to speak to Jose?”

“She wouldn’t let me.”

“Did she mention the million dollar lawsuit?”

“Her attorney told her not to talk about it, but she did say she expects to get paid.”

“Get paid? What does that mean?”

“Get a lot of money. ‘Get over’. It’s a street expression. You never heard it?”

“It’s not exactly one of the expressions we bandied about growing up on Long Island.”

“You’ve got to get out more.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. Did you speak to the Rodriguez boys?”

“To their mother. Nice woman, reserved, hard-working, a single mother. She was reluctant to speak to me. Said she works three jobs, was tired, and didn’t want to discuss the case. I think she’s embarrassed by the whole thing. Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t want her two sons testifying at trial.” Raines gazed out the window. “Damn if I would want mine to. I’d kill the bastard first. Anyway, while we’re chatting at the apartment door, little Carlos comes over and asks me how Peter is. Can you believe that?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. His mother nudged him away. When I asked again if I could speak to one of her sons, she said they don’t remember much about what happened. Those were her exact words.” Raines jabbed at a piece of loose-leaf with his pen. “I wrote them down.”

“Did she say whether she was suing the city also?”

“She said a hard-working woman doesn’t have time for such things. Then she closed the door.”

Back in my windowless office I made notes to subpoena Sandra Chavez’s criminal record and order the court transcript of her arraignment, plea and sentence on the robbery charge, as well as a copy of all the court papers on the case. I planned to grill her good on every aspect of it during cross-examination. In the end if I had done my job her own crimes would loom so large in the jury’s mind, they would overshadow the allegations of three confused and disturbed children.