Hostile Witness Part 57

I turned to walk out of his office, but just before I reached the door he said with a bravado as pale as the coloring of his face, "Victor, wait. Maybe we should talk some more."

58.

THE FADED BLUE CHEVETTE, liberally sprinkled with rust, was parked on Chestnut Street, waiting for me as I came out of One Liberty Place after my meeting with Prescott. Chestnut Street was closed to normal street traffic at that point and a uniformed policeman was leaning in the window of the car.

"You going to ticket this wreck?" I asked the cop.

The officer leaned back and grinned at me. "There's not enough solid metal left to pin the citation to."

"You pull back one of those windshield wipers," I said, "and the rear b.u.mper falls off."

"Oh man," said Sloc.u.m from inside. "You guys should be in vaudeville. Get in, Carl, you're twenty minutes late."

I ducked in the pa.s.senger door and the Chevette groaned forward. At 15th Street it turned right and then took another right onto Walnut, going west. "How did your meeting with Prescott go?"

"Just fine," I said. "Six hundred thousand to settle a case that wasn't worth a dime two days ago."

"You going to take it?"

"Nope. I'm going to see him and raise him," I said. "I appreciate you coming."

"We'll see what she has to tell us. I have my doubts."

"Frankly, I was surprised to see you waiting for me."

"Yeah, well, I'm surprised I came. By the way, don't try to roll down your window. The thingamajig is broken and it collapses if you try."

We drove past the University of Pennsylvania and then into West Philly, sagging old row houses with decaying porches, small grocery stores, a mattress outlet, seafood stores, a pool hall on the second floor of a crumbling tenement. We were in the middle of a stream of fine automobiles flowing through the synchronized lights on the one-way roadway, heading out of the city to the suburbs, where the taxes were low and the schools safe and the gra.s.s in the public parks cut biweekly.

"There are guys in the office," volunteered Sloc.u.m, his voice soft and surprisingly serious, "who say that anyone can convict the guilty, but only a real prosecutor can convict the innocent. I'm not one of them. Last thing I ever want to do is fry someone who didn't do it. If something smells I won't cover it up and hope n.o.body notices as some poor fool rots in jail; it is up to me to find out what exactly is smelling and what I need to do about it."

"What smells in your murder case against Concannon?"

"I had no choice but to drop the indictment against Councilman Moore," said Sloc.u.m. "After the testimony of your brilliant witness the DA herself ordered the case dismissed. But I heard your little friend testify and if you ask me she was lying. The DA wants me to put her on the stand to hammer the last nail in your boy's coffin. The thought of it makes me sick."

"You should go into private practice," I said with a bitter laugh, "where anything goes and there's nothing to trouble your conscience except where to cash your checks. Maybe then you could buy yourself a car with a window that actually goes up and down."

"Wouldn't know how to handle all that luxury. Besides, the knife you gave me seems actually to have been the one that sliced Chuckie Lamb's throat. There was blood on the spring. What tests we could do showed it matched his type. We're holding Wayman right now. Someone sure did a number on him before we got there."

"So you're maybe starting to believe the stories I've been spinning?"

"I'm starting to listen. That's as much as you're going to get."

"That's all I want," I said.

When Walnut Street ended he turned right onto 63rd Street, dipped under the tracks of the Market Street elevated, and headed north, alongside trolley tracks, past dark decrepit houses into the dark fall night.

"So what I'm saying," he went on, "is that I'm willing to go this far with you because I think it's my job to find the truth. But no further. I'm going to catch h.e.l.l for this as it is when word gets out, which it will, and it might even cost me my job. My boss was an obscure common pleas judge before Moore put her up for DA. Now she thinks she's going to be a senator."

"I appreciate it," I said.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm not even doing it for Concannon. But I'm not going in front of a jury to ask for death if I'm not sure."

We were in Wynnefield now, still the city but there were no longer row houses along the dark wide streets, instead large stone homes with wide porches and peaked roofs. There were lawns and nice cars and, though it was all just a little shabby from age, even the shabbiness was a nice touch. Sloc.u.m pulled up in front of a large stone colonial with stained-gla.s.s windows across the front door. There were bright lights gleaming from the top of the house, illuminating the broad front lawn, and the windows were lit as if a party was roaring inside.

"You been here before?" I asked.

"Fund-raisers," he said. "It's better to sh.e.l.l out now and then to the boys in power than to be ringing up head-hunters."

He slipped out of his car and I followed, carrying my briefcase with the bullet hole in one flank. At the door with the stained-gla.s.s windows Sloc.u.m stepped aside so that I could do the knocking. "It's your show," he said.

I lifted the large bra.s.s knocker with the head of a lion and let it drop.

There was nothing for a few minutes and I dropped the knocker twice more before the door opened slowly. It was Renee, Leslie Moore's sister, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her face heavy with liquor. No late night on the town for her tonight. "Well, lookee here, it's that thief Chester Concannon's lawyer," she said, swinging slightly as she leaned on the door. "Sorry, Mr. Carl, but Jimmy's not here right now. Maybe you should come back in your next life."

"I'm not here to see Jimmy, Renee. I'm here to see Leslie."

"She's not here either," she said in thickened syllables, but her glance back and to the left gave her away.

"Why don't you ask her if she'll talk to me," I said.

"No, I won't," said Renee, but even as she said it the slight figure of Leslie Moore, in print dress and low heels, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, appeared behind her.

"I thought you'd come," said Leslie softly. "I just didn't know when."

I looked up at Renee and she shrugged in resignation and swung with the door as it opened, letting Sloc.u.m and me inside.

Leslie took our coats and led us to a formal living room with red walls and fancy couches. The fabrics were striped and elegant, with maroons and hunter greens and golds, and underneath everything was a rich oriental carpet in a deep navy blue. Everything was in place in this room, the prints of hummingbirds in the gold-leaf frames, the formal photographs on the end tables. There were no bottles or half-drunken gla.s.ses or any signs of recent habitation. This was the room where Jimmy hit up the wealthy for contributions, where the show was put on. There was another room somewhere in that large stone house, I was sure, where Renee and Leslie did their drinking when the councilman was out on the town without them, and that room was undoubtedly not so tidy.

Sloc.u.m and I sat side by side on a couch. Leslie sat across from us on a thin upholstered chair, Louis the Something I figured. Renee stood alongside the now cold fireplace like the lord of the manor. There was a long moment of silence.

"Can I get you something to drink?" asked Leslie finally.

"No, thank you," said Sloc.u.m.

"Coffee would be great," I said. I was in no hurry to leave.

Leslie looked up at Renee, who widened her eyes and then gave her a little snort.

"Excuse me," said Leslie, and she left to make the coffee.

"The councilman's in Chicago," said Renee.

"I know," I said.

"Of course you know. You wouldn't have the guts to show up here if he was in town."

I shrugged.

"He's at the National Urban Conference. He's a featured speaker. He's going to be on the dais with the President."

"Imagine that," I said. "The same President whose administration indicted him for extortion and racketeering just six months ago."

"Well, now that that little misunderstanding is cleared up, thanks to you," said Renee with a drunken sneer, "I guess the President is starting to think about the twenty-three electoral votes that might just hinge on the half-million voters that CUP can deliver."

"I didn't know you were so politically keen, Renee."

"Someone has to watch his back from the vipers out to bring him down. That's why you're here, isn't it? But you're too late. They're together again, like lovebirds. She's moved back into his room, so your little scheme's not going to work."

"We're just here to ask some questions," said Sloc.u.m.

"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. District Attorney. You should be ashamed, all that Jimmy's done for your people and now you plotting with this shyster."

Sloc.u.m slowly took off his gla.s.ses and lifted the end of his tie to wipe off the lenses. Very carefully he cleaned, first one side, then the other, then the first again. He put his gla.s.ses back on. In the time it took to clean his gla.s.ses the jumble of quivering muscle at the edge of his jaw subsided. With his gla.s.ses back on he said calmly, "I don't plot. And the only shameful thing in this room, ma'am, is you."

"I made some for you, too, Mr. Sloc.u.m," said Leslie, bringing in a tray with a porcelain teapot and four matching cups.

"Thank you," he said.

She poured three cups. We both leaned forward to pick up a cup and saucer and then leaned back into the couch. Renee stayed by the fireplace, now seeming to inspect the mantelshelf for cracks with her fingertips.

"I'm here to take you up on your promise, Mrs. Moore," I said before taking a sip of the coffee.

"She didn't make any promise to you," said Renee sharply.

"No, Renee," I said. "I'm sorry but you're mistaken. I know you saw us talking in the courtroom hallway, and I a.s.sume you spread the word to the councilman, which may explain certain things, but you did not hear what we said to each other. Only Leslie and I know what was said and what she promised."

"Would you like some sugar with that, Mr. Sloc.u.m?" asked Leslie.

"No, thank you," he said.

"I must admit," I continued, "I was confused for a while. It was Chuckie's murder and my being shot at that confused me. You see, when you told me that you had heard the voices on the wind and that you wouldn't let them kill Chester, I had a.s.sumed you were referring to the same people who had killed Chuckie and were maybe trying to kill me too. At that time I had thought that maybe your husband was in some way responsible for Chuckie's death and for the attempts on my life and that somehow you had stumbled on that information. I have since learned that I was mistaken. Chuckie was killed by a drug dealer whose operation is being financed by your husband."

"Lies," hissed Renee. "All lies."

"He joined with the devil," I said, "to build his monument to Nadine."

Mrs. Moore didn't seem fl.u.s.tered in the least by the accusation. "Some cream, Mr. Sloc.u.m?" she said. "Or would you prefer tea?"

"No, thank you," said Sloc.u.m. "This is fine."

"And at the trial," I continued, "to my chagrin, I learned I was being set up as a dupe by your husband and his lawyer. No one ever tries to kill their dupe. Dead I was of no use to them, alive I could set him free, which I eventually did. So, while I was on a recent trip down South I began to wonder who it was you were promising to protect Chester from."

"What kind of nonsense are you talking to us about, Mr. Carl?" asked Renee.

"Oh, Leslie understands exactly what I'm saying, Renee."

"How about some cookies, Mr. Sloc.u.m?" said Leslie. "I have some fine cookies in the pantry. Let me get them for you."

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Sloc.u.m. "Really, I'm fine."

"Chet's in jail now," I said. "His bail has been revoked. He is awaiting sentencing on the federal charges, preparing for his trial in state court on the murder charge. I visited him just yesterday. He is not adjusting well. He is a little too thin, a little too handsome, which is a very bad combination in prison. During our conversation he almost broke down into tears. You know Chet, you know his self-control. He is cracking. He is of no consequence anymore in the larger scheme of things, a threat to no one. There is only one man who is trying to kill him now."

I took another sip of my coffee, staring at Leslie even as I tilted my head down to the cup. Her eyes were moist, cast downward, and her hands nervously clutched one the other.

"In another month," I said, "Chet is going to stand trial for murder. Mr. Sloc.u.m is going to prosecute the case. He is going to ask the jury to sentence Chet to death. And I believe, Mrs. Moore, you can stop Mr. Sloc.u.m from killing Chet Concannon, just like you promised."

After a long pause, Leslie said, "Renee, please, why don't you get yourself another drink."

"I think I should stay right here," she said, "and keep my eye on Mr. Carl, make sure he doesn't steal the ashtrays."

"Get the drink, Renee," Leslie said, her voice suddenly filled with an authority I didn't know she could muster.

Renee shrugged and headed out to that other, less tidy room.

When she had left Leslie said, "I can't tell you what you want to know, Mr. Carl."

"You mean you won't."

"We have had difficult times in our marriage, I won't deny that. And after Nadine's death, for the longest time there was nothing left for either of us. I can understand now how he could seek comfort with that girl. But the ordeal of this trial has resurrected our commitment to each other. We have gone to counseling, we have opened our hearts to one another. It has changed both our lives, I am sure. It is as it was when we were first starting out together. In fact, it is better."

"Chester Concannon is going to be put to death with a lethal injection, Mrs. Moore," I said.

"We have both learned again what it means to give, to cherish one another, to trust."

"They're going to strap him to a gurney, tightly binding his arms and legs with leather straps," I said, "and stick a needle in his arm. And attached to that needle will be an intravenous sack filled with a deadly barbiturate, the fluid laced with a chemical paralytic agent to make sure he doesn't jerk the needle out of his arm as they kill him."

"We have both learned again what it is to love."

"They're going to empty that sack into his arm," I said, "and his muscles will freeze and his brain will slow from the drugs and Chester Concannon will fall into unconsciousness and die from barbiturates just like Nadine fell into unconsciousness and died from barbiturates."

"Stop it, stop it now," she said and then, still without looking at me, in a whisper, "You don't understand. We have renewed our vows to each other, we have reaffirmed our commitments. He will no longer cheat on me, he has promised, and I will love him again, as I had loved him before I stopped loving him. We are together again, I can't turn against him now."

"You mean you won't."

Her head lifted and she stared squarely at me. "That's right, Mr. Carl, I won't. I can't be forced to testify against my husband, is that right, Mr. Sloc.u.m?"

"That is correct, Mrs. Moore," said Sloc.u.m. "We cannot force you to testify against your husband. But what we are talking about here is testifying in favor of Mr. Concannon."

"And you would want me to testify?"

"I don't want to kill an innocent man," said Sloc.u.m.