Hostile Witness (8 page)

JUDGE GIMBEL’S COURTROOM
was like all the courtrooms in the Federal Courthouse, two stories high, wood paneled, dark, designed with a ridged modern texture that was dated even as the workmen were slapping it onto the new building’s steel girders. Scattered in the benches were twenty-five lawyers waiting for Judge Gimbel’s status call, twenty-five lawyers at, let’s say, a total of $5,000 an hour, waiting for His Honor, who was already half an hour late. He had probably stopped off at the ACME to pick up a sack of potatoes on special, saving himself forty-nine cents and costing all the litigants together $2,500. Thus the efficient engine of the law. Seated with the lawyers racking up their billable hours were the print and television reporters covering the Jimmy Moore case. Some were clustered around Chuckie Lamb, who was releasing the councilman’s statement for the day. Moore, Concannon, and Prescott huddled together in the corner. I was sitting alone, merrily letting my meter run at my new and inflated rate of $250 an hour. Safely within my inside jacket pocket was a fifteen-thousand-dollar check drawn upon the account of “Citizens for a United Philadelphia,” or CUP, Moore’s political action committee. When I saw it was CUP that was paying my retainer for Concannon’s defense I balked a bit, but not too much.

“I’d rather it come from a different source,” I said to
Prescott after he had handed the check to me outside the courtroom. “Like from Concannon himself.”

“I don’t believe Chester could pay two hundred and fifty dollars an hour,” explained Prescott. “By the way, there is a CUP fund-raiser for the councilman’s new youth center tonight at the Art Museum. You should come. Definitely. I’ll put you on the list. You do have a tuxedo, don’t you?” asked Prescott, his voice suddenly as snide as Winston Osbourne’s in its prime.

“Yes,” I said, conscious of the insult.

“There will be some people there you should know,” he said, his tone once again avuncular. “It’s never too early to start meeting the right people.”

“But about the check.”

“Don’t worry, Victor. Concannon is on the board of directors of CUP and his indemnification is provided for by the committee’s bylaws. It is all perfectly legal, I assure you. Take it.”

So I took it, and stuffed it in my pocket, and sat with it in the courtroom, thinking of the black-tie affair to which I had just been invited, wondering at all the important people there to whom Prescott would introduce me. I was imagining the scene, sparkling with tuxedos and gowns in a pure black and white, like a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a tall, pale man.

“You Carl?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Let’s talk,” he said, giving a toss to his head in the general direction of the hallway.

He wore a blue suit, a red tie, black, heavy police shoes, the generic uniform of a prosecutor. There was a weariness in his eye, a sense of having seen it all before. Prosecutors have two primary expressions, one of weary cynicism when they think they are being lied to, which is often, and one of weary self-righteousness when they believe themselves
to be the last bastions of truth and justice in the world, which is always. These expressions are as much a part of the uniform as the red ties. When they hire on with the government they must be sent down to Washington to train with an army of mimes in a basement of the Justice Department building, mastering their weary expressions.

“I’m Marshall Eggert,” he said, perfunctorily holding out his hand when we reached the hallway. It was like grabbing hold of an eel. “I’m prosecuting the Moore case. I understand you’ll be representing Concannon.”

“That’s right.”

“We’re glad as hell that McCrae’s off the case,” he said. “If we had known that’s all it took we would have taken him out for some Peking duck months ago.”

“Your sympathy is heartwarming,” I said.

“We could never get McCrae to accept a deal for Concannon. Could never get him to even consider one.”

“What kind of deal?” I asked warily.

“We’ll drop everything down to one felony and recommend a minimal term. And we won’t object if the Bureau of Prisons gets soft and sends him to a Level 1 facility like Allenwood.”

“And what does he do?”

“Testify.”

“Against his boss.”

“Exactly.”

“And for that he gets jail time? It won’t happen, Marshall, can I call you Marshall? Chet Concannon’s a stand-up guy. He won’t flip.”

Eggert sniffed at me. “What would he want?”

Good question. Truthfully, I had no idea what Chester Concannon would want to testify against his boss, but I knew exactly what I wanted here. “Complete immunity,” I said.

“You know better than that, Carl. We would never give immunity in a case like this.”

I shrugged.

“Your boy’s in a tough spot,” said Eggert, who had dropped a hand into his navy blue pants pocket and was now jingling his loose change. “With his priors he’s looking at serious time. And he’s liable to be caught in the crossfire between the government and Moore. If I were you I’d be jumping out of my pants to make a deal. Look everything over, talk to Concannon. We’ll keep our offer open for a week, but then it disappears. Now how much time will you need to get ready for trial? We’re willing to be flexible.”

“Trial’s in a week and a half,” I said. “That should be enough.”

The jingling stopped suddenly and Eggert’s expression shifted to weary incredulity. He sniffed twice, cracked a weary smile, and the jingling began again. “Ever tried a racketeering case before, Carl?”

“No.”

“This is not your usual rear-ender. There are tapes, there are boxes of documents, there are reams of financial records, there are over a thousand pages of Jencks Act material from the grand jury. And there’s a half a million dollars flowing from the good guys to the bad guys, a half million we can’t all account for. This is complex stuff. There’s no way you can be ready in a week and a half.”

“I’ll work overtime,” I said.

“Listen, pal, if you don’t ask for more time I’m going to demand it, and make you look like a fool in the process. I’m not going to have my conviction overturned upstairs because of your incompetence.”

My eyes were watering, so I turned aside and looked down the hall. “You started the clock running when you indicted, Marshall. Time to step up to the line, ready or not.”

“Oh, we’ll be ready,” he said, the jingling of his change growing furious. “The government is always
ready. But you’d be well advised to be careful here, Carl. These people you’re palling around with now, they’re not boy scouts. Bissonette would tell you so if he could talk out a skull still as soft as a ripe guava. And fat Pete McCrae, whom you replaced, that piece of duck might have done him a favor. He was two weeks from getting indicted himself.”

“I can look out for myself,” I said.

“I don’t know how you fell into this case, Carl,” he said, “but trust me when I tell you that you didn’t fall in clover.”

Then Marshall Eggert, a knight in cheap navy blue wool and clunky black shoes, a weary prosecutor weighed down by all his grave and portentous righteousness, Marshall Eggert turned from me and stalked back into the courtroom. Well, I could never say I hadn’t been warned.

Judge Gimbel was a great prune of a man, his skull covered in a wrinkled bag of skin without even a pretense of hair, except for wiry sprouts erupting from his brows and ears. His mouth was dried and downturned. A set of reading glasses perched aggressively on the tip of his sharp nose, through which he peered with a marked disdain for those with the temerity to stand before him. He had been a federal judge longer than anyone could remember and acted as if he had been born to the job. His voice, turned grotesque by age and disease, was like a handsaw eating through a log.

“Did Mr. Concannon get new counsel?” the judge asked. There was a slight echo in the courtroom that gave the proceedings an air of grave importance.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Victor Carl on behalf of Chester Concannon. I filed an appearance of counsel this morning.”

There were four of us at the defense table. Prescott stood next to me, straight as a pole in his stock navy suit, his own pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, lending him the virtuous air of a scholar. Moore and Concannon sat on either side of us. Behind our table was the Talbott, Kittredge team, all in a row, waiting to hand off any document for which Prescott snapped his fingers. At the prosecution’s table stood only Eggert.

“Are you satisfied with Mr. Carl’s representation, Mr. Concannon?”

Concannon stood and said, “Yes, sir.”

“I can attest,” said Prescott, “that Mr. Carl is a highly qualified attorney.”

“We’ll see, won’t we,” said the judge. “When’s our trial date?”

“October sixth,” said the judge’s clerk, a young woman sitting at a table in front of the bench, ceaselessly working through piles of paper as she spoke.

“That’s thirteen days from now,” said the judge. “Are we going to be ready?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Prescott.

“The government will be ready, Your Honor,” said Eggert, “but in light of the fact that Mr. Carl filed his appearance only this morning, we believe a continuance is in order.”

“I’ve discussed the case with Mr. Carl,” said Prescott. “He’s had access to all our discovery and to Mr. McCrae’s files and he has informed me that no delay of the trial date will be necessary.”

“Your Honor,” said Eggert, “Mr. Prescott does not speak on behalf of Mr. Concannon and, with all respect due Mr. Carl,” he glanced at me and his face clearly indicated exactly how little he thought that amounted to, “we don’t want to go through the expense of a trial only to have a conviction overturned somewhere down the line for ineffectiveness of counsel.”

“That’s enough carping, both of you,” said Judge Gimbel. “Mr. Carl, can you be ready in thirteen days?”

“I think so,” I said.

“You only think so?” said the judge. “Mr. Concannon.” Concannon stood again. “Your counsel has just told me he only thinks he’ll be ready for trial in thirteen days but wants to go ahead anyway. What is your opinion of that?”

“We’ll be ready, Your Honor,” said Concannon.

“Why don’t you have a little talk with your attorney before you decide.” The judge waved us to the back of the courtroom. We sat next to each other on the last bench and spoke softly while everyone else waited.

“The judge wants me to explain to you what’s going on,” I said.

“I understand what’s going on,” he said. “They think because I’m black they have to say it twice, like English is my second language. Just do whatever Prescott says.”

“The truth is, Chet,” I said quietly, “Eggert’s right. There’s no way I can go over everything before the trial. There’s too much material.”

“Whatever Prescott says.”

I saw something move to our side and I turned my head quickly. One of the reporters was sneaking up the bench, trying to listen in on our conversation. “Do you mind?” I said loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. The judge stared hard at her as she smiled awkwardly and backed away from us.

“Vultures,” said Concannon, his head hanging low. He didn’t look so assured just then, he looked young and scared and sick of it all.

I looked away, scanned the courtroom, saw the gaggle of Talbott, Kittredge lawyers conversing easily. I swallowed once and said, “The government offered me a deal for you.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “They want me to testify.”

“That’s right. You’d end up with a minimal term. I could probably work out a recommendation for no jail time if I push.”

“They want me to testify against the councilman?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happens to me?”

“Maybe probation for a few years.”

“And then what?”

“And then nothing. You’re off the hook.”

“And then what?” he said. “Don’t you understand, Victor? There is no choice for me here. Before working for the councilman I was sitting on the stoop in my undershirt, buying malt liquor with my mother’s check. For the guys I grew up with that was the ultimate career goal. Occasionally, for a little extra beer money, I would cook up cheese steaks at a place my uncle owns, sweating into the chipped beef as I mixed it with the onions and Cheez Whiz. Two years of Temple University but that was still all the work I could find. I have a record, no worse than anyone else I grew up with, but enough to kill my future. Then comes the councilman, seeking guys with records who had cleaned up their acts, role models for his crusade. And so there I was looking for something and there he was looking for me. He saved me, absolutely. Now I drive around in his limousine and drink champagne every other night and make good money and do good work. And when he becomes mayor I’m going to be his chief of staff. Now what happens if I testify against him?”

“Chet, do you want to go to prison?”

“I’ve been there already and let me tell you, I’d rather sit in prison than on that stoop. You do whatever Prescott tells you to do. I’ll take my chances with the councilman.”

Another lawyer might have decided to withdraw, might have told the judge that despite his client’s wishes
he could not be ready, forcing a continuance so that new counsel would have sufficient time to prepare. Another lawyer might have walked away knowing he was acting in the best interests of his client. That is what another lawyer might have done. But it wasn’t another lawyer standing there before prune-faced Judge Gimbel, it was me, with a $15,000 retainer check in my inside jacket pocket and my name on a guest list to a black-tie fund-raiser where I would meet the important people it was so very important for me to know. And somewhere in the uncertain future were newspapers with my picture featured prominently on the front page, adorning articles about this case, and deals in which Prescott had promised to include me, and cases he had promised to refer to me, and gobs of money he had all but guaranteed would be mine. And, yes, somewhere out there in that gray and ugly city was the mysterious Veronica, on whose dress strap I had pinned a single rose and who now had my number on a bent and spindled card.

“We’ll be ready,” I told the judge when Concannon and I had returned from the back of the courtroom.