The Good Lawyer: A Novel (33 page)

“She wanted me to leave Legal Aid.”

“Smart girl,” Rocco said, slowly looking around, as if returning from a far off dream. “There’s something I have to tell you about that other client of yours, the guy who was killed at Riker’s.”

I could barely see Rocco’s face in the glare of the parking lot lights above and behind him.

“Seems there’s another guy in the Bronx who likes boys too. Not little ones though. Teenage boys. Male prostitutes. He’s an older guy—fifty, sixty, who’s been paying ridiculous money to Aldo Leone for a steady flow. Leone’s the Bronx
capo
I told you about.”

I moved closer to him so I could see his face. We were both leaning on his Cadillac.

Rocco continued. “Aldo Leone does not traffic in young boys. He’s got about a dozen houses of prostitution and a half dozen call girl services—two in the Bronx and four in Manhattan. They have nothing but women there. But this guy, this homo in the Bronx, he’s willing to pay two thousand bucks a visit. So Leone makes a few calls, and through some Mexican friends of his, he gets this guy a steady diet of young fags.”

“What does this have to do with Oscar Jefferson?”

“
Ashpete
, I’m getting to that.”

“This rich guy, he gets that crazy fuckin’ disease the homos have been gettin’.”

“AIDS?”

“Yeah, that’s right. And when Leone finds out from his Mexican connection why the boys want to get paid double to keep seeing this guy, he panics and cuts the guy off. And it’s not because he gives a damn about his stable of tricks.”

“The guy’s all heart.”

“Business is business, kid. Anyway, Leone’s now pissed ‘cause this rich guy was a steady source of dough. Not that Leone’s wantin’ for anything. But it’s easy to get greedy in this business. So when this guy calls Leone to his house, asks him to whack your client and offers him twenty-five thousand, Leone can’t resist. Thought he was actually doing a public service. That your client was in prison, made it all the easier to pull off.”

“What’s the guy’s name?” I clenched my teeth. “The gay guy in the Bronx?”

Rocco pulled a small piece of paper from his pants pocket.

I took it, and held it up to the parking lot light. Scribbled in pencil along the margin of a torn page of newspaper was the name Norris Terkel.

Chapter 66

I
sped along the Meadowbrook Parkway headed south—to the ocean. Field Six was just beyond the Jones Beach Tower.

I left my car and walked beyond the boardwalk toward the shoreline and into a haze of blackness.

It was early May. The sand under my feet was as hard as asphalt and the beach had a misbegotten feel to it—a by-product of man and nature’s indifference and ultimate abandon. I made the mistake of looking too long and too hard and was confronted with irrepressible visions rising from the night’s black sand—dancing ghosts of burnt out apartment buildings.

As a warm wind tore through my hair and a half moon lit the shoreline, I could have been in another place and era; nothing around me had the mark of time on it.

I sat down, just inches from the spill of the ocean. Blown sand started to curl around the tips of my shoes and with the heartbeat of each rolling wave and gust of wind I felt myself shrinking.

My hands grew cold. I drew them to my mouth and exhaled long, hard breaths. I stood up and faced east…and ran as fast as I could, my shoes pounding the hard wet earth until the spray of sand rose in a fountain so high I was nearly blinded by it.

Chapter 67

I
waited for two hours outside Bronx Supreme Court for ADA Paul Ventura. He was on trial and was expected to be in court all day.

I was in Mom’s ‘79 Corolla again, not only to hide from Guevara but also not to be noticed period. I was supposed to be on vacation. As I stared aimlessly at the Supreme Court building I was reminded that one final appearance was necessary for three-gun Graham to close out the court file and get Guevara’s record sealed.

I hoped for the camouflage of rain while I waited. When the beautiful weather did not break, I tilted the seat back, pulled my black cap low over my eyes, and peered over the steering wheel while parked at a meter facing the 165th Street entrance to the court building.

I spied Paul Ventura. I waited until he crossed the Grand Concourse headed toward Criminal Court. I jogged until I was within ear shot then slowed to a walk and called his name. I was wearing a leather jacket and dungarees.

He turned and examined me from head to toe for several seconds before my identity registered and he smiled.

“Looking to make a new and different impression on the judges today?” he said.

I walked with him toward Sheridan Avenue. Having left my cap in the car I was worried about being recognized by someone from the office. “No,” I answered hoarsely. “No cases on, not today.”

“I should hope not. You look like shit, Nick.” He spoke offhandedly, as if at one time or another we all looked like shit, and now it was my turn.

I stroked two days of facial stubble with the back of my fingers. “I’m actually on vacation.”

Ventura was staring straight ahead and appeared lost in thought—natural for a lawyer “on trial.” I didn’t think he had heard a word I said, and since indifferent and unsuspecting is where I wanted him, it seemed the right moment to bring up Oscar Jefferson again.

“Hey Paul, since my boy Jefferson is long gone, and I’m both happy and sorry to say there have been no more Spiderman-type rapes, maybe you can tell me what it is you’ve been holding back from me.” I now had his full attention. “There was something that didn’t add up, something that troubled you. And I don’t mean when the first victim saw Jefferson on TV, and told you he wasn’t the one. Appearances get cockeyed on television, and she never did see Jefferson in person.”

“Him passing that lie detector bothered me, I’ll tell you that.” He was hedging and we both knew it.

We crossed 165
^th
and headed toward the Sheridan Avenue entrance to Criminal Court. I veered off to the right so we’d stay near the corner. The Farkas’ family law office was a few storefronts away. Now was not the time for another run-in with Charlie Jr., but Ventura wasn’t taking my lead. When traffic cleared I grabbed him by the elbow. Once across the narrow street he’d make a quick getaway through the revolving doors, leaving me with a smile, a sly remark, and no new information. I would have waited two hours for nothing.

“Paul, for cryin’ out loud, Jefferson’s dead. Talk to me. What have you got to lose?”

Behind him, just a few feet away, was the storefront entrance to the law office of Charlie Farkas. Junior had wasted no time putting up a new tin sign with just his name on it in big black letters. A wilted wreath sat inside the front window, leaning against the glass—a pathetic but fitting remembrance to the shyster king, Charles Farkas The Last.

“Why do you care, Nick?” Ventura asked. “ It’s over.”

“I was his lawyer. He had no family and no close friends. Somebody should know the truth.”

Ventura leaned toward me and spoke in a coarse whisper.

“The baby that was killed—” He pulled back. “She had a black substance under two of her fingernails. Since we know the killer wore gloves, we figured the black came from his face. Fact is, we were fairly certain of this, which means, considering this was a four month old baby, he got very close to the child’s face when he killed her.”

“OK. So where’s the puzzle?”

“The lab couldn’t place the substance right away so they began a process of elimination. They immediately determined it wasn’t food.”

“Black food,” I blurted in astonishment. Then thought again. “It could have been chocolate.”

“Chocolate is brown, and the baby was four months old, a little young for chocolate.”

I nodded in acknowledgment. He went on.

“Like I said, we never determined what it really was.”

“C’mon Paul, what else wasn’t it?”

He looked away and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “It wasn’t anything!” he snapped, then shook his head in disgust, and darted into the building.

A black substance found under the baby’s fingernails not positively identified eliminated Jefferson. Ventura remains a loyal son-of-a-bitch. Case closed. No embarrassment to the Bronx DA’s office for driving an innocent man to kill himself—who in actuality, didn’t kill himself at all.

Chapter 68

I
drove north, deeper into the Bronx.

Kingsbridge Road Realty was well lit even in the dim twilight. Guevara lived just around the corner. I circled the block and drove past his building. Shrunk down in my seat with my cap just above my eyebrows, I eyed the entrance and the dimly lit lobby as I coasted past. Then I made a right at Kingsbridge Road and University Avenue and parked on Grand Street, two blocks from the realty office.

I tugged my jacket sleeve down to cover my Rolex as I walked. When I left Long Island I had planned to track down Ventura and then pay a visit to my alleged broker friend, Vincent Tedeschi. His cryptic call notwithstanding, the Rolex was part of the plan.

Tedeschi was alone. He scrutinized me through the glass storefront. When I took off my cap he buzzed me in.

“Aren’t we dressed casually,” he said, as he limply shook my hand.

“Just working late,” I answered. “So I thought I’d change out of my monkey suit.”

“Change back,” he moaned with a smile.

Though the place was empty, I asked if we could talk privately anyway. The overhead fluorescent lights made the office bright as day. Concerned Guevara might pass by and spot us, I kept my back to the street as we stepped to the rear and into Tedeschi’s private office.

He flopped down in a chair behind his desk. I sat like a customer in front of it.

“Have you got the bail money Guevara stole from me? I’m considering pressing charges.” His shot me a wise guy grin.

“No, because you said forget it. Remember? But you can have this.” I placed my Rolex in the center of his desk. It sparkled like an expensive toy. “This will cover it, and much more.”

Tedeschi picked it up carefully. “Is it real?” His voice quivered as if he feared I’d snatch it back before he legitimized his claim to it.

“Of course it’s real, and it’s worth a hell of a lot more than what Guevara owes you.”

He placed it back on the desktop, a little farther away from him than where I’d first laid it. “What’s this all about?” he asked warily. “And how does a Legal Aid lawyer come to afford a Rolex?”

“It was a gift.” I paused. “From my fiancée—which brings me to the more of it.”

Tedeschi slouched back in his chair and with hands folded on his lap listened skeptically.

“Since you and Guevara are obviously on the outs, and I suspect will stay that way, I trust I can speak to you in confidence.” I paused for some reassuring word or look, but received only a blank stare. I realized then, offering him the Rolex was a mistake. Fences went up between us so high I needed a pole vault to scale them. I backpedaled. “The Rolex is a loaner, a showing of good faith until I return with every cent Guevara took from you, plus a two hundred fifty dollar bonus.”

Tedeschi sighed.

“Frankly,” I continued, “the police are a bit pissed off Guevara walked and may be trying to pin some burglaries on him.” I pulled a list of five addresses on folded loose-leaf out of my pants pocket. They were the locations of all five Spiderman rapes, right down to the apartment numbers. I unfolded the paper and flattened it on the desktop as best I could, face up, next to the watch. “If I could check your records for apartments he showed to prospective tenants, say in the last six months, I would know whether he’s got a problem here or not.”

“And this means so much to you,” Tedeschi uttered sarcastically, “that you come here in the dead of night?” He glanced at his own wristwatch, then at the Rolex. “And you offer me a Rolex to hold like I’m some pawn broker, claiming it’s a gift from your fiancée no less.” He pushed the Rolex away. “I don’t suppose your fiancée shops off the street vendors on Fordham Road.” He spoke with an air of nerdy pomposity that irritated the hell out of me. “So I give you the information you need and maybe, just maybe, these addresses match up with some or all of the apartments he showed.” Tedeschi studied the list in front of him, then looked up, wallowing in cynicism, with a trace of fear. “Then I get sued by each and every tenant for all kinds of bogus amounts that coincide with their inflated stolen property claims.”

I was quickly convinced that I had lost all sense of the order and balance of things; so much so, I was actually going to let Tedeschi keep the watch Eleanor had bought me.

I stood and screamed down at him. “Just look at the list! The Spiderman rapist struck at every one of these fucking places!” I slammed my hand on the desk and papers scattered everywhere.

Tedeschi rocked back in his chair. I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward.

He yelled for me to stop, but offered little resistance. I clutched the back of his neck and pushed his head down into the desk, his face flattening against the hard wood surface, his eyes shut. His right arm was pinned under his chest and his left hand was grasping at my wrist.