Saving Grace (44 page)

“That’s when greed entered the picture. As Jonathan Fleishman ascended the social rungs of the city, he turned his eyes from the disadvantaged and fastened them on the wealthy, the entrepreneurs. He saw how they lived, with their penthouses and second homes, their trips abroad, their yachts and limousines; and he came to covet those things for himself and his family. Ever conscious of his public image, he didn’t drop the old, altruistic demands. He merely added new ones: a personal piece of the action, a lucrative consulting contract, a gift of stock.

“Now, there is nothing wrong with desiring wealth. Entrepreneurs are valued in our society, more so than politicians. We all live in a material world. Jonathan Fleishman could have chosen with perfect honor to leave public service for the private sector. Given his energy, intelligence, and talent, we cannot doubt that he would have succeeded. But wealth alone was not enough for this man. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Jonathan Fleishman wanted to live like a king, but he also wanted what he’d had before—the admiration of the masses, the esteem of the press, the aura of Robin Hood.”
 

“I mentioned a third element, and that is self-deception. For self-deception there must have been: how else can a man lead two lives, unless he finds a barrier to protect his right hand from knowledge of his left?
 

“Now, to those of us who work in the criminal system, self- deception is nothing new. Because of it, true remorse is a rare commodity in these halls. Not a criminal comes through this system but believes that he had good and sufficient cause for whatever he did. Thieves, rapists, murderers, even child molesters find ways to justify their crimes.

“Here, however, we have a defendant who is exceptionally intelligent, professionally persuasive, charming; a man, moreover, who has known tragedy in his personal life. Therefore I feel a need, ladies and gentlemen, to warn you most strongly not to buy into this man’s self-deception. Do not let him confuse, deceive, or distract you; for, I assure you, he and his lawyers will spare no effort to do just that. Nor must you allow pity to cloud your clear judgment. The question is not whether or not the defendant has suffered. Suffering is not expiation, nor does it bring absolution.

“His attorney will try to persuade you that Mr. Fleishman’s pattern of private arrangements with companies that depended on his goodwill in their dealings with the city was perfectly innocent. Failing that, the defense will undoubtedly contend that his extortion was simply business as usual, the way things are
really
done: as if the laws that apply to the rest of us don’t apply to the upper echelons of the business and political worlds.

“You will reject this unjust view. And as the trial unfolds and you learn the extent of this man’s corruption—not only the extent, but the state-of-the-art sophistication of it, the labyrinthine deceptions he employed to escape detection—you will also deduce the existence of a guilty mind. So much, you will say, for business as usual.

“The defense will bring a string of witnesses to attest to all the good Jonathan Fleishman accomplished for this city. I tell you now: we have no quarrel with these witnesses. The state does not claim that Fleishman was always a thief and a rogue; we say he became one. And we say further that not the least of his sins is the theft of his own valuable services, the good he did and the good he could have done for this city.

“But for that theft, Jonathan Fleishman must answer to a higher court. In this one, we will concern ourselves with his violation of those mundane laws that govern the lives of lesser mortals such as ourselves. We will prove to you that Jonathan Fleishman committed the grave crimes of extortion, solicitation of bribes, influence peddling, and conspiracy. Most of the criminal defendants we see in this court commit their crimes out of desperation; Jonathan Fleishman has not even that excuse. Before this trial is over, you will know that his motive was the lowest, the most contemptible of all: greed.

“Greed, arrogance, and self-deception reduced this man who had everything to the level of a common thief; and as such, ladies and gentlemen, he must be judged and punished.”

With one last sweeping look at the jurors, Jane Buscaglio returned to her seat. Christopher Leeds arose. His gray suit was slightly rumpled, his demeanor modest as he stood blinking through his glasses at the jury. Myopically he examined every face as if for the first time, though in fact he had come to know each one intimately through hours of
voir dire.
He saw a middle-class housewife. A bus driver. A waitress. A professor of economics. A supermarket manager. A retired dry cleaner. A part-time computer operator. A school custodian. A beautician. A retired special-ed teacher. A bank teller. An office-supply salesman. A motley crew: five whites, three Hispanics, four blacks; six men and six women. Leeds was well-pleased, Buscaglio less so. Christopher Leeds smiled at the jurors and turned toward the prosecutor.

“Very good, Ms. Buscaglio,” he said with the pleased wonderment of a teacher whose student has far exceeded his expectations. “Bravo—that was very fine indeed. Most persuasive,” he said, turning once again to the jury. “Indeed, if I were sitting in your place and heard such an opening, why, I’d vote to convict on the spot.

“Dramatic construction,” he counted on his fingers. “Vivid language. Fascinating characterizations. Ms. Buscaglio’s little narrative contained all the elements of good fiction. One suspects that my colleague has missed her true calling; though I wonder about the part about the right hand doing this and the left hand doing that, and the right not knowing what the left is doing because there’s some barrier in between... ” He glanced down at his own hands in perplexity. “This I found a bit confusing. One wonders, you see, how the poor man fed himself, or dressed in the morning.” Some jury members laughed. Others smiled.

“As fiction, there is much to admire in Ms. Buscaglio’s presentation. But in the guise of nonfiction,” Leeds said with quick- gathering anger, “it was unforgivable. She knows, you see, just as I know, that the pathetic, contemptible man she describes is not Jonathan Fleishman, is not like Jonathan Fleishman, indeed has nothing to do with Jonathan Fleishman!

“And, by God,” Leeds said quietly, “I ought to know. In the past few months, I have watched this man undergo the trials of Job—”

“Objection!” shouted Buscaglio, who’d been sitting on the edge of her chair, waiting.

“To what?” the judge said, irritated at the interruption.

“May I approach the bench?”

“Mr. Leeds, will you join us?”

Both attorneys stood before her.

“He’s about to bring up the wife,” Buscaglio said. “This is exactly why we moved for a change of venue. Mr. Leeds is obviously trying to sway this jury.”

“It was never our intention to mention my client’s tragic loss, your Honor. But once Ms. Buscaglio brought it up, we have no choice but to air it.”

“I brought it up?”

Leeds looked only at the judge. “She said that Mr. Fleishman recently suffered a personal tragedy.”

Judge Malina peered over the top of her glasses at Buscaglio. “So you did, Counselor.”

Buscaglio flushed. “I only said that to forearm them against just the sort of—”

Leeds said, “Irrelevant, Your Honor. She raised this issue, and unless I clarify it, the jury will be left with lingering doubts: What was this tragedy, and was it somehow my client’s fault?”

“You’re picking at straws,” said the prosecutor, who could see in the judge’s face which way the wind blew.

“If you hadn’t referred to Mr. Fleishman’s loss, Ms. Buscaglio, I might have ruled it prejudicial. But since you did, the question is moot. Objection overruled.”

Buscaglio scowled all the way back to her table. Leeds, turning back toward the jury, was arrested by Jonathan’s voice calling his name. He returned to the table and they put their heads together. At last Christopher Leeds shrugged and walked back to the jury with a pained look.

“My client instructs me that his tragic personal bereavement is not the business of this court. He tells me that he seeks, not sympathy, but justice. I can only respect his wishes.”

Jane Buscaglio smiled, but her triumph was short-lived. The jury was gazing at Fleishman with the very emotion he had eschewed. They knew, of course they knew. Even if they had somehow avoided learning the news from television or newspaper headlines, the presence of the two Fleishman children dressed in black was eloquent testimony. Fleishman ended up not only with the benefit of their knowing but also with the credit for not having told them; and Buscaglio seethed, convinced they’d set her up.

Christopher Leeds leaned on the jury box and spoke quietly. “Ms. Buscaglio has told you a fairy tale, a muddled and malicious fairy tale. Now I will tell you the truth. This man”—he pointed to Jonathan—”has dedicated his entire life to serving the underprivileged in our society. After graduating at the top of his class in Columbia Law School, he received offers from leading private law firms, offers that would certainly have led to a lucrative career. He turned them all down to follow his conscience down south, where he became one of the original Freedom Riders, a young disciple of Martin Luther King Jr. Unlike many of us, however, who were inspired by great causes in our youth, only to turn our mature energies toward our own betterment, Jonathan Fleishman never strayed from the path he had chosen.

“Ms. Buscaglio portrayed a greedy, venal man. Reluctantly, but wisely, she acknowledges Mr. Fleishman’s tremendous contributions to this city. Wisely, I say, because she could hardly hope to deny them. Instead, she has the audacity to claim they are irrelevant. A lifetime of selfless, principled service: irrelevant. A man’s character: irrelevant.

“Well,” Leeds said magnanimously, “she has to claim that, doesn’t she? And I think we must also forgive her for that rather bizarre left-hand, right-hand theory, because without it she cannot possibly bridge the unfathomable contradiction between Jonathan Fleishman’s lifetime of altruistic service and the crimes she claims he committed. During his life, Jonathan Fleishman had untold opportunities to go into business for himself, to get rich legally and honorably. He turned them all down. He had different priorities. Is this the behavior of a greedy man? The moment you look carefully at this man’s character, the prosecution’s case goes out the window.”

Leeds removed his glasses and wiped them with a crumpled white handkerchief. “The truth is, this case is not about money. They pretend that it is; but it’s not. It’s about power. Because power, unlike money, is something that did interest Jonathan Fleishman. Power interested him exceedingly, for power is the primary tool of his trade, without which a politician is totally ineffectual.

“Jonathan Fleishman learned some things from his years as a freedom fighter, from his lifetime of advocacy for migrant workers, battered women, abused children, the homeless. He learned that no one ever gives up power willingly. He learned that power is a finite quantity and there’s never quite enough to go round. He learned, in short, that to give power to the people it is necessary to take it from someone else; and this is a lesson that served his constituency well, though it cost him dearly. For in doing this, ladies and gentlemen, Jonathan Fleishman made enemies. Powerful enemies, including some disguised as friends.

“You will meet some of these so-called friends,” Leeds said, his lip curling with disgust, “as the prosecution attempts to make its case. I trust you will know how to judge them. And now, before the trial begins, allow me to leave you with one thought. If there ever was a man more sinned against than sinning, that man is Jonathan Fleishman.”

* * *

Coverage by the press was largely sympathetic. This was partially a matter of sportsmanship: going after Fleishman now presented all the sporting thrill of kicking a wounded bird. The man was grounded. He was out of the game. In addition, Lily’s sudden death had shaken even seasoned reporters, who through months of intense observation had achieved a kind of one-sided intimacy with the family. Jonathan and Lily were perceived as an exceptionally close couple; since her death, Fleishman had looked like hell. There was nervousness among the reporters, a fear unspoken but shared, that Fleishman would kill himself and that they would be blamed for hounding the man to death.

The exception, naturally, was Barnaby.

He was back at work on the
Probe,
but Hasselforth had not only kept Barnaby off the Fleishman case, he’d rubbed salt in the wound by assigning the trial to Ronnie Neidelman.

Barnaby stayed cool, kept busy, and acted like it didn’t bother him. The list of Fleishman’s contacts in city agencies had proved to be a gold mine, and he was riding the crest of two new scandals like a circus performer astride two horses. Once again, his rivals on the papers that had stupidly failed to hire him were eating their hearts out.

Doors that had been closed were reopening. Buscaglio still wasn’t taking his calls, but others in her office were. In return for a few helpful hints on other matters, Barnaby managed to keep a finger in the Fleishman pie. Hasselforth could take him off the story, but he couldn’t prevent Barnaby from writing whatever he pleased in his column. Nor could he stop Barnaby writing a book about the Fleishman scandal, a possibility to which he was giving serious consideration.

Several years ago, a couple of
Voice
reporters had made a bundle on a book Barnaby could have written, an expose of the last municipal-corruption scandal. It wasn’t the money alone that attracted Barnaby, though God knew he wouldn’t turn up his nose at a hundred grand or so. It was also the forum—a second shot at setting the record straight.