Hostile Witness Part 47

"Once in the fourth grade," said Chuckie, "there was some kid beating the h.e.l.l out of me. A Jewish kid, Levi, the school bully. Just whaling on me."

Good for Levi, I thought.

"When Mommy finds out she comes to the playground after school and lifts this Levi by his collar, this big kid hanging in the air, and she tells him he touches me again she'd bite his nose off. He p.i.s.sed himself, he was that scared. Levi never bothered me again. On her way out of the park she slugs me with the back of her hand, knocks me down, gives me a beautiful shiner. I never got razzed as a momma's boy because of the way she hit me. How could they after that, and she knew it, too. That was her way, always taking care of me. She's getting better every day, I can tell. She'll be home soon. Making me her shepherd's pie, putting Wagner or Berlioz on the record player. How do you think she looks?"

"She looks great," I said.

"She does, doesn't she. That was right of you to visit. Eight years with the councilman and never once did he visit."

"What's going on, Chuckie?" I asked.

"Not one f.u.c.king visit. He never cared, treated me like cat p.i.s.s the whole time. Chet visited, but he's like that. Brought flowers. She likes flowers."

"What's going on?"

"You surprised me today," he said. "I thought you'd keep bending over for them, I was certain of it, though when I found out you visited Mommy I began to wonder. Why would he do something like that? Except maybe if he's not going to stay bent over. But it was still a surprise. I saw you talking with Prescott."

"A friendly chat," I said.

"And you subpoenaed the girl."

"Yes, I did."

"What you did in court was bad enough," he said. "They are very upset at you, furious. But you shouldn't have subpoenaed the girl. It was a mistake. They have their plans. You are in far greater danger than you realize."

"Is this another threat? Is that what this is all about?"

"You're misunderstanding again, like you did before. All I wanted was to help Chet. I knew from the first that Jimmy would turn on him. I was certain you knew too and were going along with it. But then you surprised me. Listen, you can't realize the depths of the councilman's betrayal. It goes way beyond Chet, which is bad enough. It goes beyond anything imaginable."

Suddenly it dawned on me that Chuckie Lamb was trying to help. "What happened to the missing money?" I asked.

"I have a story for you."

"Like Jack and the beanstalk?"

"More like Faust," he said. "But not over the phone."

"Okay. Let's meet. Anywhere."

"I'm close to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, do you know it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Ten minutes."

"Sure," I said and then I thought for a moment and let a wave of paranoia float over me. "I can trust you, can't I, Chuckie? This isn't a setup, is it?"

"You'll understand when we talk," he said. "It will all be enough to make you sick. Ten minutes."

When I hung up Beth was still staring at me. "I have to go," I told her.

"Was that Chuckie Lamb?"

"I think so," I said. "But he was mellower than usual, like Chuckie Lamb on Quaaludes."

"What does he want?"

"He wants to tell me a story," I said. "I have to go. Don't wait up for me."

I found my sneakers, put on a white shirt over my T-shirt, grabbed my raincoat out of the closet. I had already opened the door when I turned around and asked her, "Do you know where the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is?"

"Arlington?" she said.

"No, here."

"Is there one?"

"Dammit," I said, realizing I had told Chuckie I'd be there without knowing where it was. "Who can I ask?" I said. "Is the tourist bureau open?"

"It's after midnight," she said. "How about the phone book?"

"What, under tombs?"

"The yellow pages have maps in the front," she said and she was right.

I searched through a map of Center City historical sights and there it was, in Washington Square, off Locust between 6th and 7th, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier of the American Revolution, a soldier so unknown I hadn't even known he had a tomb. As soon as I found it on the map I headed for the door, late already, hoping Chuckie wouldn't leave before I got there.

Through the heavy rain I ran to my car. I soaked the seat when I sat down. I drove east on Locust, past DiLullo's and the Academy of Music, over Broad Street, straight through the rain until the road detoured at 7th Street, routing around Washington Square. I spun around the park and snapped to a stop at an illegal spot on 7th and rushed out.

The park was larger than a city block in size, ringed with a low brick wall. I ran through a gate and toward the center. The square was black with shadow, trees hanging low, blocking out whatever light the sky was dropping down. A few of the colonial-style street lamps let out a thin, lethargic light, the majority were dark. At the fountain in the center, its spout dead on this wet night, I spun around. From there I could see, on the west side of the park, twin rows of flagpoles, like a guard of honor, leading to a large wall of stone fronted by a statue.

I walked through a well of darkness between the flagpoles and came upon the tomb, lighted by two thin beams of white halogen. On a raised stone platform, behind a chain held aloft by bronze bal.u.s.ters, was a sarcophagus and behind that, atop a granite pedestal, a bronze of Washington leaning on his sword. I looked around. Nothing. I read the inscription on the wall of stone behind Washington: FREEDOM IS A LIGHT FOR WHICH MANY MEN HAVE DIED IN DARKNESS. I looked around again. Nothing. I had missed him. "Dammit," I said out loud as the rain spilled from my bare head down the collar of my coat, drenching my shirt. "Dammit to h.e.l.l," I said.

Then I heard something from behind that great wall of stone.

"Chuckie?" I said.

No answer.

But then came the shadow. From behind the wall of stone. It staggered through the low bushes, stumbling around the wall, toward me. I stepped back. It still came at me, stumbling again, reeling, barely maintaining its balance. And then it lurched into that thin halogen beam and the weak white light fell on its face.

It was Chuckie.

He came closer, it looked like he was wearing a beard, a disguise, and then he stumbled again and fell into my arms and slid through them and fell upon the raised chain, his shoulders slipping down until his head rested beside the foot of the sarcophagus.

I bent over him. My G.o.d, it wasn't a beard.

He was making a sound, a soft gurgle of a sound, blood pouring onto the stone platform from his mouth, from his slit throat, blood mixing with the rain, pooling into a puddle, growing lighter, weaker, until it was washed clean. Another gurgle, soft, horrifying, and then no more gurgles. Just Chuckie Lamb and the blood falling from his throat being washed to clear by the rain and no sound but the drops falling onto the park, onto the great stone wall, onto Washington's sword, onto the sarcophagus, onto his lifeless body, onto an envelope peeking out from his jacket, onto his neck, onto his face, no sound but the cleansing voice of the rain.

I took the envelope and ran like h.e.l.l.

49.

IT WAS BIG NEWS the next morning. The police had been summoned by a mysterious 911 call and had found him lying in the rain, his throat slashed. The official statement was that Charles Lamb, 43, unmarried, of Northeast Philadelphia, press secretary to City Councilman Jimmy Moore, had been found murdered at Washington Square. No motive for the killing was yet known and there were no suspects. He was survived by only his mother, Connie Lamb, residing at the St. Vincent's Home for the Aged. The funeral was scheduled for Thursday afternoon at the Galzerano Funeral Home on Torresdale Avenue. That was the official statement, but there were rumors of late-night liaisons in public places with young boys and an editorial in the Daily News suggested that the police kiosk in the park be manned all night to ensure that Washington Square not turn into still another location for shadowy rendezvous as had turned so many of the public parks in the city.

Chester was mute with suffering, his pain marked only in a redness about his eyes, a tightness in his lips. I told him I was sorry and he shrugged me away, but I could see the hurt. I hadn't known before that they had been so close. Jimmy chose to vocalize his feelings, telling the press how valued a member of his team Chuckie had been. "This crime," he said on the steps of the courthouse, the start of his speech timed with precision so as to be captured live by the television cameras, "will only increase my determination to continue my crusade. I have experienced many tragedies in my life, and this is still one more. But whoever thinks they can deter me from my cause, whoever thinks they can halt my progress, whoever thinks they can threaten or bully or kill my good work is deeply mistaken. We go on, we keep fighting, the dealers of death will be beaten and we will be victorious, and those like Chuckie Lamb, who were martyred in the struggle, will for always be remembered as heroes."

Jimmy Moore, I figured, had wasted no time in grabbing himself another speechwriter.

Chuckie Lamb had neither been indicted nor intended to be called as a witness for either side, so his murder had no real impact on the trial. Judge Gimbel suggested, in light of the death of someone so close to the councilman, that we adjourn until tomorrow and Eggert readily agreed, but Jimmy Moore stood up in the courtroom and stated that he was ready to testify that very day.

"You want to testify today?" asked the judge.

"Yes, sir," said Jimmy Moore. "Mr. Lamb would have wanted the trial to continue so that I can get this shoddy affair over with as soon as possible and direct my full attention once again to the business of the people."

"That's fine, Councilman Moore," said the judge.

And so the jury was brought in and Prescott stood. "The defense," he said, "calls Councilman James Douglas Moore to the stand."

Jimmy Moore had not spent a career riling up const.i.tuents and making impromptu political speeches without learning a thing or two about how to work a crowd, whether it be a thousand supporters on an election-eve rally or twelve jurors and two alternates with his future under their thumbs. I knew what his story would be, that he was the unwitting victim of the fiendish Chester Concannon's extortion plans, and such was the story he told, but the way he told it was something else again. He wasn't the chagrined and sorry defendant, he wasn't the humble man pleading his innocence, he wasn't quiet and reserved, confident to leave his fate in the hands of a jury of his peers. What he was instead was an angry man who had been betrayed by his aide, victimized by his government, subjected to political vendetta, and forced to defend what needed no defending. I would have thought before his testimony that such a demeanor would inspire enemies and turn off the sympathy of the jurors, but I would have been wrong. It was clearly playing in the Peoria that was the jury box.

Under Prescott's gentle questioning Moore spelled out his defense in clear and angry sentences. No, he did not illegally extort money from Michael Ruffing. Yes, he had helped with Ruffing's development plan in City Council because it was a good plan, and yes, he expected campaign contributions for such help, but that was the way the world worked in politics. "It's the American system," said Jimmy Moore, "and G.o.d bless the American system. G.o.d bless America." No, he had not known of the $250,000 given to Concannon in cash and had he known he would have forbidden it. No, he had not talked about money with Ruffing, that was not his style, he would have accepted whatever support Ruffing chose to give and he had thought the five fifty-thousand-dollar checks actually received by CUP to be extremely generous. Yes, he was angry when Ruffing told him he would stop payments, it smacked of betrayal. "We were fighting for something side by side," he testified. "Ruffing knew I was counting on him to help with the agenda of healing. And then he had simply walked away." But no, of course he had not killed Zack Bissonette. He had already raised over two million dollars for a run at higher office, why would he risk everything over a few thousand here or there? No, he had not burned down Bissonette's, it had been one of his favorite clubs. Yes, he lived an extravagant lifestyle, and why not? His wife had money, he had money from outside investments, why not live high if he could afford it? "If the prosecutor wants to indict me for drinking champagne and having a limousine, then fine, indict me for that and let's try it on those grounds. But not on the fabricated charges they are leveling against me here. Not on the basis of nothing but political vendetta."

He told them about Veronica in a quiet voice, dripping with abashment. Yes, he'd had a mistress. Her name was Veronica Ashland. She had been a college student hooked on crack. He had pulled her out of a crack house he had been closing down in West Philadelphia and had personally brought her to a drug rehabilitation center. After saving her life he felt some responsibility to her and visited her in the treatment center. She was getting healthier, learning to live without drugs, and between them a friendship blossomed that turned into something more. He was sorry for the pain it had caused his wife, his family, it had happened and he was sorry and now it was over. "But I am truly bitter," he said, "toward my deceitful aide who has sought to use my painful relationship with this poor girl against me."

He saved his bitterest vitriol, of course, for Chet Concannon. A lying, ungrateful cur, he called him. Chet was a nothing when Jimmy found him, a steak slinger who dreamed of getting involved in politics. He had given Chet a job as an intern and promoted him through the ranks until he had become his chief aide. He had trusted Chet Concannon, he had loved Chet Concannon, and in the end, Chet Concannon had betrayed him. Chet was a thief, a liar, he had peddled Moore's good name for a quarter of a million dollars. For all Jimmy knew Chet was a murderer, an arsonist, he didn't know exactly what Chet had done to keep his scam going, but he had learned the painful lesson that Chet Concannon was capable of almost any heinousness to achieve his self-interested ends. "Just the other day, in this very courthouse," said Jimmy, "Concannon attacked me physically. He is seeking my ruin. He is my Brutus, plotting my fall. He is my Judas."

When his direct examination was finished, there was an emotional silence in the courtroom. Prescott stood at the podium, eyes down, letting the silence hang there and intensify. I looked at the jury and they were split. Half were looking at Jimmy with sympathy and affection and admiration. The other half were staring at Chet Concannon with a violent contempt. When the silence hung just long enough for maximum effect, Prescott smiled at Jimmy as one smiles to a friend and said, "We have no further questions."

"Mr. Carl," said the judge, "do you wish to cross?" He peered down at me over his half-gla.s.ses and waited for my response.

I had not yet recovered from the sight of Chuckie Lamb dying in my arms, I had not yet been able to erase the amazement of it, the sense of awe, the overwhelming rush of fear. This man who had been alive just a few moments ago was now dead, his life had flowed out the gash in his throat, past my shoes, into the sodden ground beneath the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier of the American Revolution. The sight of it was something I would haul along with me the rest of my days. I came home from the park after driving around for hours to find Beth asleep on the couch. What I did was strip off my clothes and dump them in the washer, raincoat and sneakers included, and I washed them with three cups of detergent while I stayed under the shower until the water turned cold. And then I slept, or tried to, shaking myself awake whenever I dreamed of Chuckie with the beard that wasn't a beard. I hadn't yet had the time I needed to deal with my first encounter with a dead man.

But this I knew. Chuckie Lamb wasn't killed by some young hustler out to rob his trick, like the papers made it seem, and Chuckie Lamb wasn't killed by a drug dealer out to scare off the councilman, like Jimmy Moore made it seem. No sir. He was killed because he was going to tell me all he knew about the councilman and the missing money. He was killed by Jimmy Moore, who had killed Bissonette before him and who would kill others if need be, Jimmy Moore, who had lied to Chester, to me, who had lied under oath on the stand, Jimmy Moore, with his cheap sanctimony and elephantine p.r.i.c.k, Jimmy Moore. He had done it, dammit, and I would make him pay, I would, I would hurt him, I would. If I achieved nothing else in this life what I would achieve was to hurt Jimmy Moore.

He sat there on the stand, his chest thrown out, his eyes hard with determination, he sat there waiting for me. Well, he would get me, all right.

"Mr. Carl," said Judge Gimbel. "Do you or do you not want to cross-examine this witness?"

"Oh, I want to, Your Honor," I said, rising and walking with great purpose to the podium. I stared at Jimmy Moore and he stared back and for a moment we were locked together in some violent rush of antagonism. And then I saw it, what I had been looking for, what I had been hoping to see: fear. He knew what he was facing, did Jimmy Moore. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d knew what I knew, knew what I felt, and he was right to be afraid.

I tapped the podium softly with my fist once, twice. And then I began.

50.

AFTER IT WAS OVER, after all the shouting, after all the sustained objections, after all the lies and the questions repeated with emphasis and the repeated lies, after all the pounding on the podium and the admonitions of the court and the requests for citations of contempt by Prescott and Eggert both, after all the sidebar conferences, after all the portentous questions asked and withdrawn before an answer could be given, after all the shouting, I was back in my apartment, hugging my chest as I lay curled on my couch, my shoes still on, my head in Beth's lap as she caressed my scalp and promised me it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't as bad as all that.

"Oh, yes it was," I said, and yes it had been.

I had charged at Jimmy Moore's story like a bull, my horns aimed straight at its heart, but when I picked up my head I realized I had charged past him and he was still sitting in that witness chair, calm, smooth, waiting to deflect my next pa.s.s with his cape of lies. He was the matador, controlling me with his pace, with his responses, and he made a fool of me more than once in the course of the interrogation.

"You did all you could do," said Beth.

"He ate me for lunch, and spit out the bones."

"Now you're feeling sorry for yourself," she said.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d was lying, Beth. All I wanted to do was to show him up to be a liar."

"That's not so easy a thing to do with a practiced liar. You didn't get everything you wanted out of him, but you got all that you needed."

"You think?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Well, maybe," I said, and maybe I had because I never for a moment thought I could win the case on Jimmy Moore's testimony alone. My idea was that the truth would save Chester Concannon, a quaint idea in this age where obfuscation and spin are the key to success in all realms, but there it was, and I could never have expected anything approaching the truth to come from Jimmy Moore's lips. No, the most I could have expected from Jimmy Moore was to create a pedestal on which the truth could later stand and that was maybe what I had done.

I had asked him about his daughter and he told again how she had died. I had asked about the rush of emotions that overcame him upon her death and, practiced as he was in exposing his inner feelings when they could do him the most good, he spoke of the pain, the agony, the anger. And out of it all, I had asked, had grown a hatred for those who sold drugs to children, hadn't it, Councilman?

"They are murderers, killers of children."

"And you hate them all, with all the power of your powerful pa.s.sion."

"That's right, Mr. Carl."

"You have rededicated your life to fighting the scourge."

"That is correct. They are murderers and they must be destroyed, each and every one."

"No matter the means, no matter the cost?"

"They must be beaten."

"Because they killed your daughter?"

"Yes, and thousands of others like her."