The Good Lawyer: A Novel (20 page)

He was not sorry Dorothy died a virgin. She was his Dorothy. Her end, however it happened, secured that for all eternity. They would have their time together. Some day. Somewhere.

He walked in the dirt that met the street. As he approached the area under the bridge the street turned to cobblestone. The ground between the two concrete buttresses where he last saw Leskey, looked different, slightly illuminated. The moon was full. He expected to see homeless men scatter as he got closer to the river. No one did. No one was there.

Pages of newspapers were strewn in the dirt. He could see a copy of
The Daily Mirror
folded and crunched against the bottom of a rusted dumpster. He crouched down and held the cover page to the moonlight to decipher the date: July 15, 1955, the day after Dorothy’s murder. The newspaper was double folded and had apparently been that way for some time. A small indentation had formed in the middle. Some bum must have used it for a pillow.

A swift kick hit the side of Rocco’s face, and he tumbled onto his belly. He tasted dirt and the blood in his mouth, and could hear coarse laughter.

The shadow of a raised boot was cast over Rocco’s head. Rocco rolled as the heel crashed down in the dirt, skimming his left ear. He gripped an ankle and took the body down to the ground. In an instant he was pummeling a head with left and right hooks. Blood burst from the nose and mouth, spraying the dirt around him. Rocco did not stop until his attacker lay limp and lifeless.

He stood up and looked down. It was Leskey, the brown wig now hanging off his head. Rocco reached into his shoulder-holster. It was empty.

Leskey, his face a pulpy mess, looked up, and smiled. In his raised hand, cocked and pointed, was Rocco’s gun.

Leskey slowly got to his feet and walked backward toward the water. Though he was unsteady, the gun’s aim never appreciably wavered.

At the edge of the river he smiled mockingly, and like an executioner in a firing squad, aimed the gun with renewed composure. Rocco, a dead-on target, spread his arms wide and prepared to die.

Leskey then fired, emptying the gun into the side of the dumpster. Cackling like a madman, he threw the gun at Rocco then turned and dove into the river.

Under the train-bridge the swirling whirlpool currents spun dark rings in the water. Rocco picked up the gun, packed a fully loaded clip in its handle, and ran to the water’s edge. He fired in and around the ripples, but saved one last round for when Leskey surfaced.

After repeatedly patrolling the shoreline of jagged rocks and debris, Rocco walked back to the construction site then to his car parked nearby.

He would press the search for Leskey no more. Rocco had killed dozens of men, and even beaten a few to death. He knew what to expect, and it wasn’t the guffaws of a madman. Leskey could not be found unless he wanted to be found. He was a beast for sure.

Rocco drove to Brooklyn, putting Leskey out of his mind the only way possible—he fantasized about a life with Dorothy. Three kids. Teaching his two boys to play baseball, mommy’s little girl playing shortstop. Green grass. Morning kisses. Sunday Mass as a family. Leaving the life of crime he’d grown so accustomed to behind. It was a recurring fantasy, he confessed, one that would sustain him for the balance of his life.

Sometimes though, without warning, and for no apparent reason, he would hear Leskey’s sardonic laughs, and the name of that train-bridge stretching from Astoria through Randall’s Island and into the Bronx, that loomed over the whirlpool waters of the East River, would echo like a haunting whisper in his head—
Hell Gate…The Hell Gate Bridge.

Rocco never married, never had children.

By the summer of 1965 the number of soldiers under Rocco’s command exceeded all other factions of the Family combined. It was a tribute to Rocco’s even-handed leadership and unselfish style. When Don Genafrio, the head of the five families, was deported after a ten-year federal investigation and conviction for income-tax evasion, Capezzi feared Rocco would ally with one of the other families for a bigger cut of the action and depose him as heir apparent. But Rocco remained loyal.

When Capezzi became reigning head of the entire New York metropolitan operation of
La Cosa Nostra
and leader-apparent of all the Mafia families in the United States, Rocco was made Capezzi’s underboss with full reign over Brooklyn, Queens and Long Island.

Except to Mom, and once to me, Rocco never talked about Dorothy or the details of her murder, and never spoke of Ernest Leskey’s disappearance to anyone.

What Sallie saw in that apartment that Friday night, in July 1955, he promised he would never tell, and out of respect for his close friend and underboss, he swore to himself back then, he would keep secret, forever.

As I sat there in the dining room of the Carroll Avenue Hunt and Fish Club, and Rocco’s life of violence and tragedy passed through my consciousness like the sweet yet painful memory of a child lost and stolen, I knew then, I loved this man.

I asked myself how different we were, how different would he have been. I looked at our hands. They had identical flesh tones. I remembered why I came.

“Oscar Jefferson’s death,” I blurted.

My uncle sat back in his chair, and gripped the edge of the table, which creaked as he applied pressure. “This is that Spiderman client of yours I heard about.”

I nodded.

“Is it true what I read, that he passed a lie detector the same day?”

“Yes.”

“So he got whacked in jail,” Sallie said brashly. My uncle patted his arm—a signal not to sound so callous.

“That’s right,” I said.

“So what do you want us to do?” Sallie spoke more slowly than before, and just barely loud enough for me to hear.

Rocco’s eyes never left me.

“This man was innocent.” I said. “I want to know who murdered him.”

Sallie pulled his heavy shoulders back.

“Then what?” Rocco asked.

“I don’t know then what. I just have to know, that’s all.”

“And then…what?” Rocco was demanding an answer.

“Maybe I’ll go to the D.A., maybe the press. I just can’t leave it unresolved. It’s eating me up. I feel I owe it to the guy.”

Rocco and Sallie looked at each other. I wasn’t sure whether I had gained or lost their respect by coming to them and letting on how much this mattered to me. Until two days ago Oscar Jefferson had been a perfect stranger. Why would they waste their time, energy and resources finding
his
killer? It never occurred to me that favors, valuable ones, might have to be used up, or money spent, and lots of it. I was positive that all legitimate channels would only turn up proof confirming the reported suicide. I knew that Rocco, particularly with Sallie’s help, would get the truth. And I also knew I could trust them, with my life if necessary.

My uncle winced slightly. “I’ll help you. But you promise me something. Whatever information I give you, you will do nothing without my permission.”

“Fine,” I said, much too quickly.

“You can live with that?”

“If I have to.”

“I don’t want you ending up like your client.”

Chapter 39

F
or a Saturday morning at Kennedy Airport the Pan Am departure terminal was practically deserted. Eleanor had her bags checked with an hour to spare before her flight left for Atlanta. She was flying first class.

It was one full month before her brother’s wedding and her parents insisted she show up for rehearsal. As we sat in a coffee shop overlooking the airfield I wondered, with her being a bridesmaid, who would be her partner. I was hoping for a bucktoothed cousin, twice removed, with pimples.

“It’s only a week or so. I’ll miss you.” Eleanor sounded like a little girl. I suppose thoughts of returning to the bosom of her family’s estate made this come easy.

“And what makes you think I’ll miss you? Joey, me, and his Olds ‘98 will be hitting all the clubs along Hempstead Turnpike. Just like the old days.”

Eleanor was looking at me with pretend piercing eyes. “You know my family has enough money to have you killed.” She popped another bite of coffee cake in her mouth, still grinning. “You’re worried about my going home. Aren’t you?”

I hated that she saw right through me. “No,” I said emphatically.

She pulled her hands away and slapped them down on her lap. “You’ll survive Atlanta. Trust me. I wasn’t left on a doorstep, you know. My family is nice. They’ll like you.”

But it wasn’t her family I was thinking about. I was starting to sweat. I needed to change the subject.

“Where will I sleep when I go down for the wedding?”

“The house has eight bedrooms. When I get there I’ll lay claim to the guest bedroom next to mine.” Her eyes widened over a Cheshire grin.

“I take two showers a day you know, one when I get up, and another when I go to bed.”

“I’m sure my parents will appreciate your cleanliness. And Nick, while I’m away, get some sleep for God’s sake.”

We walked over to the boarding area. When the last call came we kissed, long and hard, like two leads in an old movie, letting go of each other slowly. I watched as she drifted down the accordion tunnel, and disappeared from sight.

Chapter 40

“I
have Carlos Rodriguez with me!” It was Peter Guevara. He was on a pay phone and shouting over the morning’s rush hour traffic.

“What did you say?” My grip tightened on the receiver until my fingers ached, and I imagined Guevara being led into the Criminal Courthouse in handcuffs and shackles. “You’re not supposed to be anywhere near him. You could get charged with tampering with a witness if the D.A. finds out.”

“
He
came over to me.”

“Why isn’t he in school?”

“You’ll have to ask him. But listen. He says everything he told the grand jury is a lie. He admits I never touched him. He says Jose’s mother put him up to it.”

“Put him on the phone,” I demanded.

A cute voice said: “Hello?”

“Is this Carlos Rodriguez?” I was lamely attempting to sound friendly.

“Yeah.”

I introduced myself and told him I was Peter’s attorney. “Carlos, would you mind taking a drive over to my office?”

“I don’t drive.”

“I’ll send someone to pick you up. His name is Mr. Raines.”

“What kind of car does he have?” I was being repeatedly reminded I was talking to a ten-year old.

“I think it’s a green Ford. But you can sit in the front. OK?”

“OK.”

“He’s going to bring Peter and you to see me.”

A voice recording interrupted our conversation.
“Five cents for two more minutes please.”
I heard a coin drop into the telephone. Guevara was back on the line.

I got their location—a public phone booth on the corner of a
Gaseteria
one block east of P.S. 92. I ran down to investigations and gave the directions to Gene Raines. I made a point of telling him to let Carlos sit up front and to put Guevara in the back.

Twenty minutes later Raines phoned me from the third floor. Guevara and Carlos were with him.

Chapter 41

G
uevara was sitting outside Investigations in a pass-through office occupied by Martha Fox, the secretary-receptionist for over a dozen Legal Aid investigators. This was Raines’ doing.

Raines sat behind his desk, facing me. He appeared to be making comforting small talk with Carlos, who was sitting in a chair beside the desk, his little feet dangling inches above the floor. He was wearing what looked like a new pair of Pro-Keds.

Guevara’s eyes were fixed on Raines and Carlos. He seemed to be straining to listen. Martha Fox, in her mid-sixties and hard of hearing, smiled sweetly. She was reading a Danielle Steele novel and appeared oblivious to the goings on around her. Guevara rose from his chair when he saw me. I shook his hand.

“Peter, I want you to go.” An irritated expression shot my way which quickly morphed into a look of confusion. “I don’t want you anywhere near this boy when I take his statement. Not even in the building. It’s bad enough he came here with you. The D.A. will probably claim you coerced the boy somehow. Could this be even remotely true?”

“No way. He ran over to me, hugged me and said he was sorry he lied to the police.”

“And you haven’t seen or spoken to the boy since before your arrest?” I was cross-examining him, and felt perfectly justified in doing so.

“Correct. Nick, I’m telling you, the boy is speaking out now from a guilty conscience. I was good to this boy. He knows I didn’t abuse him.”

“OK then, go home, go wherever you have to go, and let me speak to the him alone. Maybe I can get his brother in too.”

“Thanks, Nick. Really.” Guevara shook my hand, gave me a nod of understanding, and left down a nearby stairwell. I walked over to the little boy waiting for me.