Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller (23 page)

So fucking absurd too, because all I was doing was battling and scheming so that people could wring money out of other people or keep others from wringing it out of them, while at the same time piling up my hourly fee. What did that have to do with something so rare as justice?

I hurried downtown one afternoon to meet Elroy at Buddy Capra’s office on the fourth floor of the Criminal Justice Building. While Charlie Waldorf sat on the couch in the corner of the room, filing his fingernails with an emery board that looked as if he’d used it since he got out of law school, Capra laid out the state’s deal. It hinged on Elroy testifying against his suppliers, Alfonso Ramos and Marty Palomino.

Elroy asked where this would take place.

“The grand jury is sitting now in Miami. They’d like to indict this spring. Your presence is requested,” Capra said, making a graceful gesture with his hand. “After you testify, we’ll drop the cocaine possession charge here. You’ll walk away, Mr. Elroy, under the federal witness protection program.”

“To where?”

“I’m told your preference is California.”

“But not up in the mountains,” Elroy snarled, “with a fucking grizzly bear for company.”

“California has held a lottery,” Capra said, “and you’ve been won by the city of San Diego. They’re thrilled that you’re coming.”

“What do I live on?”

Finished with his nails, Charlie Waldorf said gruffly, “The government will provide you with a new identity and pay six months rent on an apartment. We give you walking-around money for ninety days. After that, Mr. Elroy, you’re on your own.”

We rode down in the elevator, which piped a Vivaldi flute concerto to its passengers. You got to listen to it on the telephone too, when you were put on hold. That was Charlie Waldorf’s style; he was a Sarasotan.

Elroy and I walked west on Main Street in the afternoon heat. “You couldn’t have made a better deal,” I said. “And there’s the other part of it, which I hope you didn’t forget.”

“What was that exactly, Counselor?”

“Jacksonville. Testifying about that fake confession in the Morgan case. You recall?”

Elroy scratched the stubble on his chin. “Capra and the other guy didn’t mention that.”

I said firmly, “They didn’t mention it because they didn’t need to. But you have to do it. We start with a sworn affidavit. Now. Up at my office.”

“Can we get it done by seven? I got some nice pussy waiting at the motel.” He smiled, showing the gap in his teeth. I didn’t know whether he believed me completely; but he wasn’t about to test me, not with San Diego in the offing instead of Raiford.

When I surfaced from the pool that evening, Toba frowned and said, “I have to tell you, trivial as it may seem to you, a man came to the door today and served me with a notice of deposition.”

I shook water out of my ears. “For what?”

“That crazy woman who called me in the middle of the night from her bed with the
thing
sitting on her tits. The wolf spider.”

“Some lawyer actually wants to take your deposition about a bug?”

“Yes!”

I broke into laughter, then saw the look on my wife’s face and said, “Well, words fail me. And that’s probably for the best.”

After dinner I asked Alan into the den. I sat in an easy chair, wearing a black sweatshirt, old jeans, running shoes without socks —my I’m-mature-but-still-young look. Alan sprawled on one of the sofas, allowing himself room to twist his legs, stretch his muscular arms, and generally keep in constant wriggly motion. A thatch of black hair curled out of the throat of his sport shirt. Adjusting my horn-rimmed glasses, I felt old.

“I won’t smoke, Dad, I know it annoys you and I know all about the smell in the air-conditioning ducts. But can I keep an unlit cigarette in my hand?”

I leaned across from the easy chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. I was trying to communicate my concern, which was deep. “Alan, you talked to your mother about suicide. I have to take that seriously, and it frightens me. I’m sure it’s hard to elaborate, but can you tell me what depresses you? I need to know.”

“I just feel useless. You said it—I’m a fuck-up. A failure.”

I’d never called him a failure, and the worst I might have said on other occasions was: “I think you’re fucking up your life.” But I didn’t contradict. This wasn’t court.

“I’d like you to go into therapy. Do you have anything against that idea?”

“No,” Alan said.

There was more, and I had to get through it; I remembered Elston’s mother in Newtown. “You can stay in the drug program or not,” I said to Alan. “That’s up to you. But I won’t house a practicing addict. If I find out that you’re doing any drugs at all, it’ll be like a fucking hurricane around here without a hurricane warning. You can get down on your knees and beg and weep—I’ll still kick your druggie ass right out of here.”

Toba hunted down a recommended therapist in the high school system who took patients on a private basis for sixty-five dollars an hour. Her name was Dorothy Buford.

We went one evening to see her in her office at home; it was full of porcelain and ivory knickknacks and reminded me of my grandmother’s house. Dorothy Buford was in her early thirties. “I don’t really want to talk to you two,” she said. “I’d rather not have preconceived ideas. Have your son call me.”

“We’d like to tell you what the problem is,” I said.

“What you’ll tell me, Mr. Jaffe, will be what
your
problem is. Tell that to your own therapist. Have your son call me. He’ll tell me what
his
problem is.”

In the car on the way home, I laughed. “You know, she’s absolutely right. I like her.”

“I don’t,” Toba said. “I thought that was smartass.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, unhooking her bra under her blouse and not looking at me, she said, “Ted, I wish you weren’t going on Monday.”

“I’ll try to be back for the weekend.”

“Have you got a girlfriend up there in Jacksonville?”

“For God’s sake, no.” Nevertheless, a picture of Muriel Suarez flashed into my mind unbidden. Well, what the hell. You can’t be indicted for your fantasies, which is why they’re so much fun.

“If you do,” Toba said, “I’ll break your knees with a sledgehammer and cut off an inch of your cock while you’re asleep in bed.”

“You and the Mafia could do business,” I said.

“Just how long are you going to keep this up? This running off to Jacksonville?”

“As long as I need to, Toba.”

“Our son told us he was suicidal. What if
he
dies,” she said, “while you’re off trying to save some murderer’s lousy life?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. There was no answer. She walked across the room, and I realized she had brought up a bottle of Chablis, which now stood on her makeup table. She poured some of the wine into a bell-shaped glass.

“It helps me to sleep.”

“Let’s fool around,” I said brightly. “That used to do the job pretty well.”

“After I’ve had some wine. Don’t worry, I’ll brush my teeth.”

“You’ve had enough this evening to knock out a moose.”

She glared at me. “Up yours, Ted. You do what you want to do. I’ll do the same, thank you very much.”

Sheets of rain swept down on Longboat Key. On such nights Toba and I—often without knowing it—took comfort from the boats that bobbed at anchor in the bay, blinking friendly signal lights into our bedroom, our sanctuary. Tonight the waves crashed on the beach with force enough so that the land seemed to shudder.

We didn’t fool around. A few minutes after turning out her light, Toba began to snore lightly. Funny, I thought. At the beginning of a marriage, if you were told your wife was going to become a serious snorer, you might think twice about taking the marriage vows. But once it became a fait accompli, it was endearing. It was proof of her vulnerability. It was
her.
You almost loved her for it—not in spite of it but for it. And of course it gave you the freedom to practice your own antisocial habits, which in turn were
you.

Soon I drifted toward sleep.

That time in the Gambrel murder, the snitch I had was for real… .

I sat up in bed in the semidarkness. Thunder growled from far away in the night, like a vicious dog giving fair warning. I was awake, focused on a name, hearing it in the reedy voice of Carmen Tanagra.

I remembered that name from twelve years ago. And the man himself: Victor Gambrel. In his early forties, reminding everyone of Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. A former Jacksonville cop, and at that time chief of security for Zide Industries. Nickerson’s police report had quoted Gambrel as stating that following Neil Zide’s telephone call, he’d arrived at the estate a scant few minutes before the Homicide team. Gambrel had seen nothing. I had interviewed him at the state attorney’s office then but decided not to use him as a witness.

Five years ago, according to the casual recounting by Kenny Buckram and Carmen Tanagra, Gambrel had been murdered. But why? And by whom? Organized crime, they thought. And what else had Tanagra said? I hunted in the debris of memory and found it:

…
Bongiorno had real good friends in Tallahassee. Money and political clout is what it came down to. The snitch changed his story, and I got shitcanned… .

Even a blind dog finds a bone once in a while. I had a new vision, one that staggered me. I slipped out of bed and padded swiftly down the stairs to the living room. The sky crackled with lightning. From my briefcase I fished out a legal pad and a ballpoint pen.

Hours later, when I slept again, I dreamed of a woman who resembled Connie Zide. She held a knife to the throat of Darryl Morgan.

Chapter 18

CONNIE ZIDE ONCE said to me, “Solly can’t stand me. He thinks I’m deceitful, neurotic, self-centered, lazy, vain, demanding, greedy—if you wonder why I have that list down pat, like the Boy Scout oath in reverse, it’s because I hear it all the time when he’s around. If he can’t control someone who’s close to him, he has to destroy them. Lately he’s mixing alcohol with cocaine, so he gets really nasty. A couple of weeks ago, when we were arguing about Neil, he hit me.”

We were having a drink that evening at Ruffing’s, which was halfway between the courthouse and home. Connie would call, tell me she was in the neighborhood. Just a drink, she would say. She just wanted to hold my hand, look into my eyes. And usually she meant it.

My fists clenched in anger—how
dare
the son of a bitch hit her? —and I knew I had to be careful. Her life with Solly and Neil wasn’t my business. But it’s someone you care for, another of my voices said. You can’t pick and choose what will move you.

“You remember when I didn’t see you for a whole week? That was because I had a big bruise here.” Connie touched her cheek. I saw a faint blue tinge that I’d noticed before but ignored out of politeness; you didn’t comment on the changes in the face of a woman of forty-seven.

“Neil saw it next morning,” she went on. “I told him the truth, and he went straight to the office. Apparently he called Solly a few names that even Solly had never heard.”

If it was true, it was the best thing I’d ever heard about the light of her life.

“Since Neil turned thirteen,” Connie said, “and started writing poetry and taking photographs of flowers, Solly’s let him know that he thinks he’s a sissy. And when Neil began to realize how his father abused me, he began to despise him.”

“They work together, don’t they?”

“Neil’s a glorified gofer on starvation wages. Why do you think he lives at home?”

That made no sense to me. There was a missing element to the equation.

“Why don’t you stake Neil to a place of his own?”

“He won’t take anything from me. He thinks I should leave Solly, and if I did, he says, I’d need every penny I’ve managed to save. I signed a prenuptial agreement—Solly was way ahead of his time when it came to protecting his financial ass. I can live well, but only if I’m in residence.”

“You said that Neil was a good photographer.”

“He’s brilliant. But he lacks the confidence. It will come—with time.”

I concluded that Connie had less than a realistic view of her son. I had met Neil at one of the charity luncheons. The young man had Connie’s full-mouthed sensuality, but there was a cold, appraising look in his eyes that may have been a paternal legacy. He was soft around the jawline, nervous, and arrogant. He knew what I did for a living, and at one point in our conversation said, “Well, what good luck to meet you. If I ever get caught speeding or holding a bag of coke, I’ll give you a ring.”

“There better be a five-carat diamond in it,” I said, “or you’ll get short shrift.”

“Oh? Are you bribable? What a revelation! My mother always talks of you as the essence of probity.”

“Piss off, Neil,” I said quietly.

Neil was wearing Gucci shoes and an Ermenegildo Zegna black silk sport jacket draped over his shoulders like a bullfighter’s cape. When he left, he kissed his mother hard on the lips, then waved to a few people and cried out, “Ciao!” He drove off in a Lamborghini with silver wheels.

During the seven months of what I came to think of as my period of primal madness, I took care not to fall in love with Connie Zide. Like an immune system that battles against infection, my defenses battled against emotional involvement. I knew it could lead to the destruction of my marriage, my family, maybe even my career. And I didn’t want that.