Hostile Witness (39 page)

“What?” she shouted, “What are you doing here?” and from the tenor of the voice and its unrestrained hostility I recognized its bearer right off. It was Madeline Burroughs, Prescott’s drone, who held in her well-hidden breast a deep hatred of me. I kept my head down and froze, not turning around as she spoke.

“Cleaning crew, ma’am,” said Sheldon.

“Cleaning crew left three hours ago.”

“I’m a supervisor. We’ve been getting complaints about the work, so we’re checking up on the crew.”

“What are you doing at the desk?”

“Checking for vermin,” said Sheldon. “They got them like crazy on fifty-three.”

“I’ve never seen any insects up here,” said Madeline. “I don’t believe you. Stay right there, I’m calling Security.”

“That’s all right with us,” said Sheldon calmly. “But
they’re all throughout this desk. That’s why the guy left us the desk keys, to check.”

“Mr. Prescott left you his keys?”

“I don’t know who he is.” There was a rustle of papers from inside a desk drawer and then I heard Sheldon say, “Here’s one.”

“Oh, God,” said Madeline.

“Oops, sorry,” said Sheldon. “They’re slippery little things.”

I turned around slowly, my head down so that, from beneath my visor, I could see only the carpet. A huge roach was rushing right toward a sturdy pair of blue pumps.

“Let me get that,” said Sheldon.

The pumps took a step back and then, as the cockroach approached, the right pump lifted and squashed it. The bug’s shell crunched like a potato chip and the innards squished out.

“We’re going to have to come back and spray,” said Sheldon.

“I think so,” said Madeline.

“Anything you wanted to get?”

“It’ll wait,” she said as the pumps spun around and stepped out of the office, the door closing behind them.

Sheldon stepped over to pick up the summarily executed roach.

“Jesus,” I said. “Where did that come from?”

“My pocket,” said Sheldon. “Now hurry up and let’s get out of here before she figures out what I might have done and decides to call Security after all.”

I turned back to the credenza and rushed through the remaining files. Nothing. I went to the desk and rifled the papers in piles on top. Nothing. I went through the drawers, quickly, looking for anything. Nothing. I went back to the table and searched again through the stretched maroon files. I was going through them haphazardly now,
desperate from nearly getting caught by Madeline Burroughs, desperate to get out of there, but even more desperate to find my proof for Concannon.

“We have to go,” said Sheldon.

“Look through the desk once more,” I said. “We’re looking for anything by Bruce Pierpont.”

Sheldon once again went through the desk. I kept reviewing the files on the table. I pulled the sheaves of papers bound in those files to check them. There were transcripts from the trial, from the grand jury, accountants’ reports on CUP finances, but nothing by Pierpont.

“Well, here’s something interesting,” said Sheldon.

“The report?”

“No.”

“Forget it, then. Try the computer.”

“Not enough time,” said Sheldon. “We have to go.”

“One last look,” I said.

“No.”

He closed the desk drawers and fiddled with the locks. Then he stepped over to pull me away.

“Okay, all right. Just let me straighten up.” I rearranged the files on the table to approximate the way they were when we got there. As I followed him to the door I spied the small pile of papers on the coffee table by the couch. An old Edgar Allan Poe story somersaulted into my mind.

“Wait one second.”

“We can’t,” said Sheldon, but we did, as I leafed quickly through the pile. It was a mishmash of things, letters from other cases, advertisements for continuing legal education courses. And then near the bottom, covered with clear plastic, bound with a thin black fastener, about a quarter of an inch thick, was a report by Bruce J. Pierpont, Ph.D., entitled:
A Statistical Analysis by Demographic Sector of Community Views on Certain Specific Arguments to Be Presented in the Case of the United States v. Moore and Concannon.
Got you, you bastard.

I rolled up the report tightly and stuck it into the back pocket of my overalls. “Let’s get out of here,” I said unnecessarily, as Sheldon was already out the door.

As we walked quickly for the exit and the elevator we heard the sound of a group coming toward us. Sheldon grabbed my shoulder and we turned and ran, ducking into the custodian’s closet before anyone could see us. Sheldon locked the door. We waited there for almost an hour, terrified, waiting as Security came and went and Madeline told her story to an associate here and a secretary there and then, on a secretary’s phone, to Prescott. When Sheldon’s stethoscope told us the field was clear, we ducked out silently but with pace.

On the way down in the freight elevator I asked Sheldon what he had found in the desk that had interested him so.

“Just a phone bill.”

“So?”

“Well, there had been a series of collect calls from a number in area code 512.”

“Area code 512?”

“Right, which includes Corpus Christi, Texas.”

“Okay, calls from Corpus Christi.”

“Well, Morris told me that this Prescott was involved in your case with Stocker. We had tracked Stocker to somewhere on the Gulf of Mexico. Last time I checked the map, Corpus Christi was right there on the Gulf of Mexico.”

“You think he’s there?”

Sheldon shrugged. “Who knows? It doesn’t matter, though, since Morris told me the time limit had passed for the case.”

“Did you take the bill?”

“No, you told me to forget it.”

“Jesus, Sheldon. I wish you had taken the damn bill. If we could link Prescott to Stocker it could be worth millions.”

“So if I had taken the bill, you would have hired us again to check out if Stocker was the fellow Prescott was talking to in Corpus Christi.”

“In a heartbeat, yeah.”

“At special rates, of course, being that Corpus Christi is halfway across the country.”

“Sure, you could have charged your special rates.”

“That’s interesting,” he said, staring up at the descending numbers lighting atop the elevator doors. “Because although I didn’t take the bill, I just happen to have memorized the number.”

“Little Sheldon,” I said, shaking my head. “When I first met you I couldn’t imagine anyone looking more different than your father. But all of a sudden I see the resemblance.”

“GOOD MORNING, VICTOR,”
said Prescott to me the next day as I set my briefcase on the defense table.

“Good morning, Mr. Prescott,” I said.

Prescott had been presenting his case for a number of days now, witnesses testifying about the absolute need for money to run and win political campaigns, witnesses testifying as to the good works CUP was performing in the community, Mrs. Diaz testifying as to the crucial ministrations being given at the Nadine Moore Youth Center and the councilman’s ambition for a great bloom of healing. Today, I assumed, would be more of the same and I assumed right.

“Most of this session will be spent on character witnesses for the councilman,” said Prescott. “Political allies, community members whom he has helped. That sort of thing. Eggert was willing to stipulate to much of the testimony, but I thought the jury should be able to hear the full quantity of community support for Jimmy Moore.”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “I might have a few questions for some of the witnesses myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Victor,” said Prescott. “I think you won’t have any questions for these witnesses. And when the councilman testifies tomorrow you won’t have any questions either. Talk it over with your client.”

“You know I will, sir.”

“Splendid,” he said.

Prescott’s first witness of the morning was the Reverend James T. McHenry, pastor at the 57th Street Baptist Church of Divine Revelation. The reverend was a tall African-American with a narrow face accented by sharp cheekbones. He wore a flowered tie knotted thick as an ascot and he spoke in beautiful rhythms, as if he were up high on an altar, standing before a gospel choir, preaching. He had known Jimmy Moore for twenty years, he announced from the witness stand, and for much of that time they had been political opponents. But in the last five years, since the death of the councilman’s daughter, they had been marching together, ever forward in the struggle for dignity and human rights in this great city. Jimmy Moore had helped him get the funds to finish renovation of the church. Jimmy Moore had been a crusader in saving the children in his community, had been the scourge of drug dealers and healer of the drug dependent. He knew Jimmy Moore to be a fine man, a caring man, a family man who looked out for his God, his community, and his family before looking out for himself. Jimmy Moore, in the crucible of his personal tragedy, had become a great man, a fighter for righteousness who would never do anything to hurt his city or its people.

“What is your opinion, Reverend McHenry,” asked Prescott, in the archaic way required by the Federal Rules to elicit character testimony, “of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a truthful and honest citizen?”

“The Jimmy Moore I have worked with so closely lo these many years is as honest as Moses, as truthful as a saint, a God-fearing man who follows all the Lord’s commandments, including the prohibition against bearing false witness.”

“Objection,” said Eggert. “The reference to God is inappropriate.”

“God has no place in a court of law?” asked Prescott
with false incredulity. “Isn’t that a Bible we swear on before we testify?”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “Reverend, please just answer the questions.”

“Reverend McHenry,” continued Prescott, “what is your opinion of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a peaceful citizen?”

“I have worked side by side with Jimmy Moore to rid the streets of the scourge of drugs, I know all the good he is capable of, and I know in my heart that he is a peaceful man with the gentleness of an angel.”

“And what is your opinion, Reverend McHenry, of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a law-abiding citizen?”

“I’ll repeat it, sir. Jimmy Moore is a man, sir, a man above reproach. A man who can look his family, his community, and his God, sir, his God straight in the eye so that all will know he is a righteous, law-abiding man.”

Eggert threw up his hands at the last response but stayed quiet.

“No further questions,” said Prescott.

“Mr. Carl,” said Judge Gimbel without looking up from his daily paperwork, “I assume you have no questions for the Reverend.”

I stood up. “Just a few, Your Honor.” The judge raised his head and looked at me gravely and then nodded. I could feel Prescott’s eyes staring me down from the other side of the table. I buttoned my jacket and strolled to the podium, but before I could speak Prescott was objecting.

“Can we come to sidebar, Your Honor?” he asked.

“If you must,” said Judge Gimbel, and all the lawyers huddled with the judge out of earshot of the jury and the witness.

“Your Honor,” said Prescott. “I don’t believe Mr. Carl’s intended cross is in conformity with his client’s wishes. I
believe it is Mr. Concannon’s desire that he not cross-examine this witness and it is improper for Mr. Carl, therefore, to conduct this examination.”

“Mr. Carl?” asked the judge.

“Mr. Prescott represents Councilman Moore,” I said. “I don’t understand how he can presume to speak for my client.”

“Generally, Mr. Prescott,” said the judge, “I assume a lawyer’s strategy is in conformity with his client’s wishes. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t assume that here?”

“Yes, sir. I can guarantee that this is not the case here. Absolutely, and Mr. Carl’s disregard of his client’s wishes is going to be prejudicial to my client as well as to his own. I believe you should bring up Mr. Concannon and ask him.”

“That’s improper,” I said with as much indignation as I could raise.

“How good is your authority as to Mr. Concannon’s wishes, counselor?”

“Ironclad, Judge,” said Prescott. “He confirmed his desires to Councilman Moore just last night.”

“Last night?” asked the judge.

“Yes, sir, which means Mr. Carl is acting without authority.”

“That’s a pretty grave accusation, Mr. Prescott,” said the judge.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’re right, I’ll have to notify the bar association as to Mr. Carl’s conduct. If you’re wrong, that makes this objection an improper tactic and I’ll have to notify the bar association as to your conduct. Now do you want to pursue this further?”

“Yes, sir,” said Prescott, and he slipped a little smile at me.

“Mr. Concannon,” said the judge to the defense table. “Will you step up here, please?”

Concannon stood up from the defense table and walked
toward us. At the same time, Prescott motioned for Jimmy Moore to come up too, so the two men walked side by side to our little klatch. Chester was walking with his head high, his shoulders straight, seeming not to notice the way Jimmy was staring at him.

“Mr. Concannon,” said the judge when the two men had arrived. “The question has been raised as to whether or not you have agreed to your lawyer’s questioning of this witness and generally participating in this trial on a more than pro forma basis. Without getting into any conversation between your lawyer and yourself, I am going to ask you a question and I would like only a yes or no answer. Now, Mr. Concannon, yes or no, do you consent to your lawyer’s questioning of this witness?”

All eyes were on Chester, Jimmy especially was staring hard, leaning forward, his jaw thrust out, his head shaking back and forth just slightly, but enough to let Chester know exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Victor has my complete confidence,” said Chester in a clear voice. “He has my consent to ask any question he seeks fit to ask.”

Prescott twitched when Concannon gave his answer. It was only a slight twitch, a sudden contraction of the corner of his mouth, nothing more than that, but there it was. It brought a joy to my heart that is indescribable. A
mechaieh,
Morris would have called it.

“Fine,” said the judge. “Mr. Prescott, I will be sending a report to the bar association immediately after today’s session. Mr. Carl, you may continue.”

“You’re betraying me,” Jimmy growled at Chester.

“Quiet,” said the judge.

“After all I’ve done for you,” shouted Jimmy for all to hear, including the jury. “You were in the gutter when I found you.”

“Mr. Prescott,” said the judge. “Restrain your client or I’ll hold him in contempt.”

Prescott grabbed hold of Jimmy’s arm, but Jimmy was already in Chester’s face, their noses not five inches apart. “You’re stabbing me in the back, you ungrateful bastard,” said Jimmy Moore.

“Go to hell, Councilman,” said Chester. “And maybe we’ll room together there.”

I understood exactly where Concannon’s anger was coming from. Before dawn I had been at his apartment, delivering for his perusal
A Statistical Analysis by Demographic Sector of Community Views on Certain Specific Arguments to Be Presented in the Case of the United States v. Moore and Concannon.
The report was written in an obscure technojargon that could only have been invented by a group of Ph.D.s trying to give their bullshit profession the appearance of validity, but even all that jargon couldn’t obscure that Pierpont’s report was a blueprint for screwing Chester Concannon to the wall.

“It’s all there, Chet,” I had said, pacing back and forth as I spoke. “What jurors to pick, what voir dire to ask, how to present evidence, how to argue, it’s all there. The report gives a scientifically designed method for convincing the jury that Jimmy Moore was betrayed by a greedy subordinate who was interested only in taking as much as he could grab hold of, the politics be damned. He’s going to climb out of this mess on your back, Chet, leaving you struggling for breath in the deep shit. He is letting you take his fall.”

“He’s not going to do that to me,” he said wearily.

“Yes, he is. He’s been doing it all along. He told me so himself. And Chester?”

He looked up at me.

“You know it. You’ve known it from the first.”

Chester didn’t give me an answer right then. He needed to think about it, he said. He was in a silk robe. From the bedroom a sweet, drowsy voice had asked, “Is everything
all right, baby?” But everything wasn’t all right. I hadn’t even asked him his decision before I stood to examine the preacher, but I didn’t doubt what he would do. Chet’s greatest trait was his loyalty, and the one thing loyalty can never abide is betrayal.

“That’s enough from both of you,” said the judge, with steel in his grating voice. “Another word and you’ll both be in contempt. You may continue, Mr. Carl. And Mr. Carl.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“It’s good to see you back from the dead.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

When the warring parties had been seated and I was back at the podium, I stood very straight and stared directly into the witness’s eyes until he squirmed just a bit. Then I started.

“Now, Reverend, you testified that you believe Councilman Moore to be a righteous man, an adherent to the laws of God and man both.”

“That’s right, sir,” he answered.

“Now tell me, Reverend, you’ve met the councilman’s wife.”

“Yes, sir. Leslie Moore is a lovely woman.”

“What about his mistress, Reverend, have you met his mistress?”

Prescott leaped to his feet and bellowed his objection.

Judge Gimbel waved us to the bench, leaned forward, and said in a low rasping voice, “Explain yourself, Mr. Carl.”

“Last I heard, Your Honor,” I said calmly, “adultery was a violation of both God’s law and the penal code. Now the reverend has testified as to his opinion of the councilman’s law-abiding character as well as his adherence to God’s law. I am now entitled to ask questions about that opinion, as well as to inquire on specific instances of the councilman’s conduct. Rule 405(a)
of the Federal Rules of Evidence allows this precise question.”

“Rule 405(a)?” asked Judge Gimbel. He snapped at his clerk and a leatherbound volume was immediately brought to him. He licked his thumb and paged through the book. “Rule 405(a), Rule 405(a). Here it is, Rule 405(a). Hmmmmm.” He slammed the book shut. “Yes, all right, I’ll allow it. Objection overruled.”

“But Your Honor,” protested Prescott. “This is far beyond anything relevant to the crime charged.”

“That’s enough, Mr. Prescott. You opened the door, so now don’t be surprised when Mr. Carl marches through it. Read your rules before you call your next witness.”

“But Judge…”

“It’s Rule…What rule is it, Mr. Carl?”

“Rule 405(a), Your Honor.”

“Precisely. Now go back to your seat and sit down, Mr. Prescott. You can ask your question, Mr. Carl.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I stepped back to the podium and stared sweetly at the jurors as I said, “Now, Reverend, I’ll repeat the question. Have you ever met Councilman Moore’s mistress?”

The reverend hesitated just enough so that the whole courtroom knew he was lying and then said, “No.”

I turned my attention to him sharply. “You’re under oath now, sir,” I said. “You have sworn on the Bible to speak only the truth. Are you telling me you have never met Veronica Ashland?”

The reverend looked nervously at Jimmy, at the judge, and then said, “I have been introduced to Miss Ashland.”

“Pretty woman, isn’t she?”

“My my, yes.” He paused for a second and involuntarily licked his lips. “As are all God’s creatures,” he added.

“And you knew that Miss Ashland was Jimmy Moore’s mistress.”

“I had been told that, yes,” said the reverend.

“Objection, hearsay,” shouted Prescott.

“Sustained, answer is stricken.”

“How did Councilman Moore introduce her to you, Reverend?” I asked.

“As a dear friend.”

“But you knew that to mean mistress?”

“Well, sir, the councilman is a very passionate man.”

“That means you knew her to be his mistress.”

The reverend looked at Jimmy with pleading eyes and then said, “That’s what I assumed.”

“Now you’ve been with the councilman on one or two of his evenings out with his limousine and Miss Ashland, haven’t you?” I glanced over at Chet and the reverend followed my gaze and knew immediately all that I knew.

Staring at Chester, he said, “Yes, that’s right.”

“You drank champagne with the councilman and Miss Ashland.”

“That’s right.”

“Good champagne, right? The best.”

“I don’t remember the quality of the champagne.”