Hostile Witness (35 page)

“Excuse me,” I said to Lauren as she sadly separated the flakes of her trout with her fork and I rose to go to the men’s room. But once I reached the glass-enclosed bar, instead of turning right and heading into the hotel lobby, where the lounges were, I turned left, out the door, down the ramp, out and across the side street to the parking lot and into my car. I could see Lauren’s back through that bay window. So what if I stuck her with the check, she could afford it. I had someplace I had to be. Lancaster Avenue to City Line Avenue to the Schuylkill Expressway to I-676 to Race Street into Olde City and the converted sugar refinery and the loft bed where something golden awaited me and where, like a convict leaping the fence, I could escape from my life.

VERONICA IS WAITING FOR ME,
naked, languid in her bed, legs slung carelessly about a twisted sheet, arms resting on a pillow above her head, breasts leaning on either side of her narrow chest. Her hair is wild, tangled, the room smells of her, it smells of deer in suburban forests, of raccoons. She doesn’t turn her head to look at me as I stand over her bed, staring at her, overcome.

“You took so long to get here,” she says.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”

“How did you get in the building?”

“An old lady with grocery bags.”

“You took so long to get here I started without you.”

“It looks like you finished, too.”

“It is never finished.”

I undress hurriedly, like a schoolboy at the pool while others are already splashing. I yank off my shoes without untying them, my pants end in a pile. A sock lies limply against the leg of her bed. A button pops as I fumble with my shirt. With her I feel young and clumsy, competent only as long as she tells me what to do. I want her to watch me undress, but her head is turned away, she is lost somewhere. Wherever she is is where I want to be.

“Mr. Lee, what is your position?” asked Eggert from behind the courtroom podium.

“Executive Director of Citizens for a United Philadelphia.”

“And what exactly is Citizens for a United Philadelphia?”

“We are a political action committee. We collect funds and then support political candidates we feel have the best chance of ensuring that Philadelphia prospers and that this prosperity is shared by all members of the Philadelphia community, not just the privileged few. We also spend money organizing community groups and on voter registration drives, not to mention our prime charitable project, the Nadine Moore Youth Centers, providing full-time drug rehabilitation for troubled teens.”

“Is your organization connected with Councilman Moore?”

“The councilman is chairman of our board of directors.”

“And Mr. Concannon?”

“Mr. Concannon is also on our board.”

“And have you supported Councilman Moore in his previous elections?”

“The councilman is exactly the type of public servant we are looking for, a forward thinker who is determined not to let anyone get left behind.”

“Yes, I see,” said Eggert. “Are you aware of any plans of the councilman’s to run for mayor?”

“We have asked him to run.”

“We?”

“The board of the committee.”

“On which the councilman sits?”

“Yes, but he abstained from the formal vote. There is a lot to be done in this city and we believe he is the one to do it. The youth centers are just the start of his plans.”

“Has the committee been raising money for the councilman’s mayoral campaign?”

“Yes, and we have been surprisingly successful. The support out there is way beyond what we had expected. There is a great excitement citywide for the councilman.”

“How much have you raised so far?”

“Over two million dollars.”

“Was Mr. Ruffing a contributor?”

“Oh yes, a very generous contributor.”

“How much did he contribute?”

“That is confidential, sir.”

“I ask the court,” said Eggert, “to instruct the witness to answer the question.”

“Answer the question,” growled Judge Gimbel.

“But, sir, that is precisely the type of question I can’t answer and be faithful to my duty to our contributors.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Lee,” said the judge, “or you will go to jail.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Not five hundred thousand dollars?” asked Eggert.

“No, sir, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Did you ever receive any cash contributions?”

“Never. We made it a policy never to accept cash. In fact, the councilman insisted on that. Everything had to be by check, everything had to be on the straight and narrow.”

“How did you get Mr. Ruffing’s check each month?”

“Mr. Concannon brought it over.”

“You mean the defendant Concannon.”

“Yes, the man sitting right over there.”

“Did he ever bring you cash from Mr. Ruffing, too?”

“Never.”

When I slip beside her she turns from me, showing me her back, long and slender, the vertebrae marching with precision down the shallow valley. I reach over and take hold of her breast and bite the lobe of her ear. She stretches like a house cat and snuggles back until her buttocks are spooned against my groin. She twists to make herself comfortable and lets out a soft purr. Her arms are still above her head. I brush her hair away from her neck, it smells
wild, abandoned. It is a mustang’s mane. I kiss her there, on the wild-smelling neck, soft oyster kisses, wetting the down on the nape. It quivers beneath my tongue, turns febrile. I rub her nipple between my fingers, it swells slowly, like a bruise, as I rub. I squeeze harder. She shifts her position once again. Her nipple grows hard as a tack, my fingers hurt, I squeeze harder. Her neck rears and I begin to suck at its side. She reaches down between her legs and takes hold of me and squeezes. She is wearing a ring, the metal bites into my flesh. I suck harder at her neck, I play with her skin between my teeth. She yanks her neck away.

“You’ll leave a mark,” she says.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

I grab her hair and again pull it away from her neck and bite at her back. She locks her legs behind mine and squeezes harder. I take hold of her ankle. We are shackled together, like prisoners, chained together like lifers at a slag heap. I pull her leg back, she breathes in sharply and then squeezes hard. I can feel myself deflate.

“You let go and I’ll let go,” I mumble through teeth still in her neck.

“I don’t want you to let go,” she says.

So I immediately open my teeth, let go of her ankle, release her nipple from between my fingers.

“No,” she says with a disappointed shrug, even as she pulls her knee up to her chest, turns toward me, curls into a ball, and, without ever letting go, places me, bruised, deflated, lolling, places me into her mouth. As before a judge, I rise.

“Now, Mr. Petrocelli, what were you doing on Delaware Avenue the night of the fire at Bissonette’s?” asked Eggert.

“Sleeping in my cab.”

“Why were you sleeping in your cab on Delaware Avenue?”

“I was tired. It’s a long shift.”

“And when did you wake up?”

“About five in the morning, when I heard the sirens.”

“What were the sirens from, do you know?”

“The fire trucks.”

“Where were the fire trucks going?”

“To the fire.”

“Where was the fire, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“At that club.”

“Bissonette’s?”

“That’s it, yeah.”

“Now, when did you fall asleep, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“About an hour earlier.”

“That would be four in the morning?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“It’s not unusual for you to catch a nap on Delaware Avenue at four in the morning, is it, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“It’s a long shift.”

“Just before you went to sleep at four o’clock in the morning, tell the jurors what you saw that night, Mr. Petrocelli.”

“I saw the car.”

“Where did you see the car?”

“It was leaving from behind the club.”

“Bissonette’s?”

“Like I said, yeah. It flashed its brights at me as it came out.”

“What kind of car was it, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“I got a good look at it under the streetlights there.”

“What kind of car was it, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“I couldn’t help but notice it.”

“What kind of car was it, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“It was a black limousine.”

Her mouth is silk, her tongue, her soft lips thick with passion. I run my hands through the tangles in her hair, the strands are thick, greasy. I am on my back, she is on her knees, crouching over me, her hair spilling down, obscuring her face. She is working, like a squirrel over a nut she is working. Her legs, smooth as felt, rub against my legs. Her head bobs in her work. My hands in her hair, over her ears, I pull her off and up so that she is stretched over me. The smell of game is in the air, quail. As I kiss her I taste my own saltiness. We lay like that, her stretched out on top of me, kissing gently, sweetly, passing the saltiness back and forth, suspended as in a hanging prism, but even as our mouths lay upon each other just as gently, even as our tongues dance about each other just as sweetly, like waltzers floating arm in arm across a wooden floor, even as we try to hold on to the moment our bodies are picking up the tempo, her hands pressing into my side, my grip on the thick muscles of her thigh, her foot, toes splayed, pressing down on my own, my knee, her knee, my teeth, her hip. I grab her tight and spin around and she is beneath me now, reaching for me. I pull my hips away, away from her gropes, and drag my tongue down from her neck, between her breasts, down.

“And what did your investigation of the fire find, Inspector Flanagan?” asked Eggert.

“A hot spot in the basement, just underneath the bar area.”

“What exactly is a hot spot?”

“It’s a place where there is damage beyond that which we would expect to see from a normally spreading fire. The hot spot is where the fire started.”

“What kind of damage did you find to indicate this was a hot spot?”

“Well, in this basement, for example, there were pots and pans being stored, metal racks, cans of food, that sort of thing. A normal fire, there maybe would have been some damage, but since a normal fire rises, not as much as we found. There was an area down in the basement where certain metal objects had just melted, not charred at all, just melted, as if they were made of clay and someone had stepped on them. You wouldn’t see that as part of a normal fire. And the lower walls of the basement were singed. A regular fire goes up, a fire set with chemicals spreads out and down, which is what this looked like.”

“Did you perform a chemical analysis in the basement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you find?”

“There were trace elements consistent with a great deal of kerosene being burned in the basement. We checked with Mr. Ruffing and he stated that there was a small amount of kerosene kept in the basement, but not a sufficient amount to have left the quantity of trace elements we found.”

“Why would a fire in the basement burn the whole building, isn’t the basement floor cement?”

“Actually, yes, it was, but the walls were wooden and, more importantly, the joists in the basement were all wood. Once the joists catch the entire foundation is weakened and most likely the building will collapse.”

“Is that in fact what happened to Bissonette’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did you, in the course of your investigation, come to a conclusion as to when the fire started?”

“Based on the evidence, as we could best put it together, it started sometime between three and four-thirty in the morning. It wasn’t called in until ten to five.”

“Did you come to a conclusion as to how this fire was started, Inspector?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And what was that conclusion, sir?”

“Arson.”

She tastes of prairie dogs and coyotes, angry, taut and electric, oily, ancient, of something untamed and dangerous. Salt pork. Beneath me she quivers, she howls, soft, ominous, inhuman. I am biting into the flesh of a live snake. She digs her thumbs into my biceps, her heels kick at the small of my back. I fight to maintain control, first with my tongue, spelling out mysterious words in dead languages, then my arms, straining as they grab at her clavicles, her neck. My head leaps forward and like a wrestler I am on her, pinning her arms, my face pressing into hers. We breathe together in the struggle, hot wetness passing from her lungs to mine and back again. I slip an arm around her body and flip her over. Her legs tangle about themselves as she spins. With my arm I sweep her knees to her chest and then I am atop her, one arm across her breasts, the other hand grabbing tight at her elbow. I spin around her from one side to the other. I am in a classic riding position. Two points for the takedown. She tries to lift up with her arms and I break her down. She growls when I enter her. Our rhythms are in opposition. There is thickness there, resistance, despite my ferocity I drop into her slowly and a force in opposition rises as I pull back. She straightens her legs and suddenly I fly into the air, lost for an instant, then we are back to the slow insistent pounding. I fall on top of her and bite her shoulder. She takes my hand and starts to suck at my fingers. It accelerates, the pounding, the breaths. I am igniting atop her. She straightens her legs and I fly once more through the air, ungrounded, untethered, suspended, lost somewhere above the unceasing Colorado.

“And what did Chester Concannon say then, Mr. Grouse?” asked Eggert.

“He said some of the city’s finest citizens had already contributed to the committee, this CUP. I asked him who.”

“Did he give you names?”

“Yes, sir. He rattled off a whole list of prominent businesspersons. It was a very impressive list.”

“Did you agree then to make the contribution?”

“Well, no, not really. I’m a Republican, you see.”

“What did the defendant Mr. Concannon say then?”

“He mentioned a few other contributors, including Mr. Ruffing.”

“Did you know Mr. Ruffing?”

“Oh, yes. We worked on a development deal in Hatboro-Horsham once. His place had just burned down and I told him that it was a terrible shame what happened.”

“What did Mr. Concannon say then?”

“He told me that, yes, it was a great shame. And then he said, and I remember because it gave me chills, he said it was a great shame but that Mr. Ruffing had fallen behind in his contributions to the committee.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Grouse?”