Hostile Witness Part 16

"What were you doing at the DA's office this morning?" he demanded.

I pulled back from the table. Did everyone know where I had been that day, what I had done, whom I had seen, how many times I had hit the pot? "I was looking into the murder," I said. "Examining the physical evidence."

"Why didn't you clear it with Prescott?"

"I didn't know I had to clear all my trial preparations with Prescott."

"Tell him, Chet."

"You have to clear everything with Prescott," said Concannon.

Without taking his eyes off me, the councilman fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Holding it like a pencil, his lips tight and dangerous, he took a deep drag. "In war you have to pick your battlefields, son," said Moore, breathing out smoke with his words. "That's what Lee learned at Gettysburg." He jabbed his cigarette at me and the syllables of his words came with the precise staccato of gunshots. "Our battlefield is not going to be Bissonette's murder."

"The federal indictment," explained Prescott, with a surfeit of patience in his voice, "covers the crimes of racketeering and extortion. If the murder and the arson are not linked to the request for money, and if the request for money is legal, the federal case will fail."

"But if Eggert ties the murder into the request for money," I said, "any claim for legitimacy disappears."

"He won't," said Moore. "Eggert's so far down the wrong road he might as well be in Vancouver."

"But you've been looking into Bissonette's murder on your own, Victor," said Prescott, "conducting an investigation without our knowledge or consent, acting contrary to your client's express orders. Risking everything." He looked at me hard so that I knew exactly what he meant, and he meant everything. "So tell us, Victor, what exactly have you uncovered so far?"

"Nothing definite," I said. "But I have some ideas about who might have killed Bissonette, some theories."

Moore leaned back and stared at me. "So you have some ideas, do you, Victor?" he said slowly. "Some theories." There was a silence as he took another drag from the cigarette, all the while staring at me. He spread his arms wide. "Educate us all with your theories."

"Yes, Victor," said Prescott, smiling unpleasantly. "Please do."

I was being threatened and tested at the same time, I thought. They wanted to see what I had figured out, to determine whether I was ready for all they had to offer me. Well, I was ready. I had been so ready for so long.

"They are just theories," I started, leaning forward as I spoke. "But I wondered why Chuckie Lamb wasn't indicted. Chet said it was because only Bissonette had direct knowledge of his possible involvement. That would have given Chuckie a motive for getting rid of Bissonette." I didn't tell them about the phone call that evening, didn't want to run to Prescott and Moore like a little boy when the schoolyard bully threatened, but the call had convinced me that I might be on the right line about Chuckie's motive.

"So Chuckie did it, huh?" said Moore.

"Also, Bissonette was apparently a ladies' man," I continued. "Lots of women. Jealousy could have been a motive. I have in mind one man in particular who was being cheated on who is known to be violent."

"Tell us who?" asked Prescott while Moore continued to stare at me.

"I'd rather not say just yet," I said, but I, of course, was thinking of my ex-partner, Guthrie. There was no doubt now that it was Lauren Amber Guthrie in the photograph I had picked out at the DA's office, those bracelets, and somehow Guthrie must have found out about her and Bissonette too. She had said he could become violent with jealousy, but I knew it would have been more than jealousy, it would have been desperation. Lauren was as domestic as a bobcat, but a tidy package came with her, money, status, entree into a world that kept guys like Guthrie and me out just for the pleasure of the blackball. It was one thing to never have a shot at it, that just caused a slow tightening of the stomach, tying you gradually into knots until you resented everything, hated everybody, held malice and bitterness toward all. But to have it in your grasp, in your bed, to have it all and then to see it slip away as your wife threw herself at some broken-down ballplayer with pectorals, well, that was enough to drive a man to murder. It would have been enough to drive me to murder and Guthrie was no better.

"Any other theories?" demanded Moore.

"Not yet," I said. "But I'd like to keep looking."

"That's not permissible," said Prescott firmly, as he examined his water gla.s.s. "Besides, it would be a waste of time. We already know who killed Bissonette."

"You do?" I said, surprised.

"What, you think we are idiots here?" said Moore angrily. "You think it just slipped our minds the part about finding out who really beat the h.e.l.l out of that man?" I shriveled from his blast because that was precisely what I had thought. Suddenly I knew I had made a fool of myself. Whatever test there had been I had failed.

"You were right, Victor," said Chester with a rea.s.suring smile. "At least about Bissonette sleeping with the wrong woman. And the woman wasn't discreet about it at all."

"Mooning over him like a schoolgirl with a crush," said Moore.

"Linda Fontelli," said Chester. "Mrs. Councilman Fontelli."

"Fontelli?" I said. "Councilman Fontelli killed him?"

Moore snorted. "Fontelli doesn't have the stones for it. Besides, he's got his own little secrets. He didn't care."

"No, it wasn't her husband," said Prescott. "It was her father."

"Linda Marie Raffaello Fontelli," said Chet.

"Raffaello," I said slowly. "Jesus Christ." Enrico Raffaello was the head of the Philadelphia mob, a shadowy, legendary figure said to stand astride the city's underworld like a modern-day Pluto. "And the limousine at the scene, and the ID by Ruffing?"

"The wino saw a basic black limousine, that's all," said Prescott. "There are fleets in the city. And Ruffing is lying. With the lighting in the parking lot it was impossible for him to see what he says he saw. He identified Jimmy and Chester to keep Marshall Eggert happy because Eggert was keeping the IRS off his back."

"So how do we prove it was Raffaello?" I asked. "Is she in any of his photographs?"

"Yes," said Prescott. "But getting them before the jury will be tricky. I have two lawyers working on it. Gimbel won't let us get it in the front door, that's for sure."

"So how?"

"A trial like this trial," said Prescott, leaning back now, putting on the face of a law school lecturer, "a trial like this, where the government is trying to cram a huge array of facts into a neat and tidy package, is made up of contingencies more than anything else. Every defense has to have a backup and every backup defense has to be backed up itself. Now our main defense is that we were merely working within the system, doing what the system demands of every politician. If the trial starts centering on Bissonette then we use our backup, we'll bring in what we can about Linda Marie Raffaello Fontelli, and even if the judge upholds an objection the name will be floating out there for the jury to grasp."

"And if that doesn't work, are there other backups?"

"We're building them day by day," said Prescott. "If we need to go that route we'll let you know."

"Shouldn't I know now?"

"No," said Moore. "There are things only Prescott is to know."

"We're building a very complex piece of machinery to get both our clients off, Victor," continued the professorial Prescott. "And it's not enough to end with an acquittal. These men are politicians, they must end the trial smelling like virgins, do you understand? Jimmy Moore has to step out of that courtroom cleansed of any taint, risen in stature, ready for a run at the mayor. Now we can't have you going out half-c.o.c.ked, stirring up Eggert, getting in the way of the construction of our machine."

"Eggert didn't know I was there," I said. "I went through Sloc.u.m."

"Eggert knows," said Moore. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d knows everything. He's got more spies in the DA's office than I do."

"So now we're all on board," said Prescott. "Each ready to do our duty. Any further questions, Victor?"

"Just one," I said.

Prescott closed his eyes in exasperation and shook his head. Moore glared. Chet Concannon continued to avoid my gaze. What they all wanted just then, I knew, was for me to shut up and take whatever they were giving with grat.i.tude. But something wasn't right here. Chuckie Lamb's slip of the tongue had got me to thinking and what I was thinking about just then, like what I thought about most often in those days, was money.

"Ruffing says he turned over half a million dollars before he backed out," I said. "CUP's records showed they only received two hundred and fifty thou. What I was wondering is what happened to the rest."

"Your job here is not to wonder," snapped Jimmy Moore. "Your job is to just follow along. I thought Chet made that clear already."

"I told him," said Chester.

"Well, maybe you better tell him again."

"There's no need," I said.

"You are to do nothing, absolutely nothing," said Moore, dumping his ashes on top of the ravioli, his voice rising in anger. "You're getting paid a lot of money to do absolutely nothing and that's all you better do. I'm not going to have some skinny-a.s.sed geek with a hard-on for my girl sending me to jail because he gets in the way of my high-priced attorney. The only reason you're here is because Prescott told me you would stay out of his way."

"I told Jimmy and Chester," said Prescott, with the false conciliation of a State Department spokesman, "that I thought you were bright enough to grasp our defense and a sharp enough trial attorney to realize the importance of letting me try the entire case."

"Do you got it now, a.s.shole?" said Moore.

"That's enough, Jimmy," said Chester. "He understands."

"Oh my," said Moore with a laugh. "He's crying. I see a tear."

"Enough," said Chet sharply.

"I'm not crying," I said as I wiped my eyes with a napkin. "It's just an allergic reaction to the smoke. And I don't have a hard-on for your girl."

"You could have fooled me," said Moore. "Walking in here with a billy club inside your pants. You better choose here and now. Up or down, boy? It's your choice. You step out of line and you won't be able to find a client to save your life. You play ball and I can send a lot of business your way. A lot of business. It's already started, hasn't it?"

"Did you call the Bishops?" asked Prescott matter-of-factly.

"Yes," I said, understanding now exactly what the position of outside counsel for the Valley Hunt Estates deal entailed.

"It's a great opportunity for a young lawyer trying to make a name for himself," said Prescott.

"Not to mention the money," said Moore.

"We have to work as a team," said Prescott.

"If that's what my client wants," I said.

"That's what he wants," said Moore. "Isn't that right, Chet?"

"That's what I want," said Chet, now looking at me square in the face.

"All right," I said. "Whatever my client wants. But the jury's going to be asking the same question I just did."

"We'll tell them there wasn't any other money," said Prescott matter-of-factly as he folded a red napkin. "Ruffing simply exaggerated the amount in his testimony. His accountant advised him that money paid to an extortionist is a deductible expense, so like every other American he lied on his taxes and now he's stuck with it."

"You can prove that?" I asked.

"Just keep out of my way, Victor," said Prescott coldly.

"So, everything's settled then, right?" said Moore. "No more trips to the DA's office, right? No more questions. No more freelancing, right?"

"That's right," I said.

"That's d.a.m.n right," said Jimmy Moore. "Now, have some wine, Victor." He poured a blood-red Chianti into my gla.s.s. "There's plenty more where that came from. And finish your veal. I insist."

I had lost whatever appet.i.te I once held, and the sight of Moore's ashes sinking into the ravioli gravy made me positively nauseous, but still I was hacking into the meat with a steak knife when Veronica returned. She smiled as she walked in, glanced at me with a touch of concern, and sat down.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said.

"Not at all," said Moore. "Victor was just telling us how much he was enjoying his chop."

18.

"THIS ISN'T THE WAY," I said from the back seat of the limousine. I was alone in the car except for Henry, Moore's driver. With the part.i.tion down I could see the back of his head, nappy hair cut short, thick neck, a set of tiny ears. "I told you Twenty-second and Spruce."

"I be knowing where you live at, mon, believe me," said Henry in his lilting island accent. "But is some business I need first to do."

"Can't it wait until you take me home?"

"No, mon. Just you sit back and be resting yourself. We be done here quick."

I was too tired and nauseous to argue. From the restaurant we had gone to a bar and then to a place on the river and then to a private club above a storefront off South Street, where the booths had curtains and the lights were low. Through the whole of the evening, whenever Jimmy wasn't looking, Veronica rubbed her hand across my crotch. Prescott had left us in the restaurant, and I too had tried to leave, but Moore insisted and Veronica smiled and against all my judgment I tagged along. Because the thing was, I knew, somewhere in my weak-willed heart, I just knew that tagging along with Jimmy Moore was exactly what I wanted to do. Jimmy was probably crooked and Chester was most likely his accomplice and Veronica was definitely dangerous, but sitting in those clubs, drinking champagne, laughing my forced laugh, stealing cigarettes, sitting in those clubs, I again felt the knot in my stomach ease and the ice melt. I couldn't actually say I was enjoying myself after the browbeating I had been given at the restaurant, but for all his faults Jimmy knew something about living I had never learned, something I wanted desperately to learn.

"Have another drink," Jimmy had said as he filled my gla.s.s with champagne. There were others at the table with us now, young girls with bare legs who slurped their champagne loudly, two well-dressed black men, doctors in business with the city, I was told, and, of course, my buddy Chuckie Lamb, who glared at me the whole of our time together.

"I've had enough," I said even as the foam slipped over the top of my gla.s.s. "Really."

"Your lawyer's very stuffy," said Veronica to Chester.

"It's the profession," said Chet.

"Look over there," said Moore. A thin-shouldered bald man was leaning over a table, talking earnestly to a young woman with pretty, pouting lips. "Tom Bismark, managing partner of Blaine, c.o.x, Amber and c.o.x. Who's that he's with?"

"I think that's his wife," said Chester.

"How unusual," said Veronica.

"His third wife."

"I thought he moved out with his secretary," said Moore.

"He did," barked Chuckie Lamb. "He's here with his wife, cheating on his mistress."

"You have to admire a scoundrel who can't even be faithful to his unfaithfulness," said Moore. "What about you, Victor?"

"Not married," I said.