To Save a Son (23 page)

“I suppose so,” Franks agreed. “Ask them.”

“Drinks, too? Booze, I mean?”

“It's hardly a party,” said Franks. “Let's cut out the booze.”

“I feel self-conscious,” said Tina. “It's like doing something in front of an audience.”

“Try not to let the kids get too close.”

“How the hell am I suppose to stop that!” demanded Tina, her control fragile. “If I send them out for the day on a trip they'll have to have a guard, won't they?”

“Yes,” agreed Franks. It was like some strange form of imprisonment, he thought.

“Try not to be too late.”

“I'll come back as quickly as I can.”

“Do you know what I've got to stop myself thinking?”

“What?”

“That it isn't your fault. That it was Nicky's and Poppa's. Isn't that strange? Last night, before you got back with Maria, I actually found myself blaming you.” She smiled, embarrassed. “I'm sorry, I wanted you to know. And to know that I'm sorry. And that I realize it wasn't your fault.”

“Thanks,” said Franks. There was movement in the vestibule and Franks recognized one of the two men who had escorted him home the previous night. “Time to go,” he said.

“Be careful.”

“I'm well protected,” he said needlessly.

She held on to him when they kissed, and he almost had to force himself away from her. The FBI man didn't attempt to move and Franks thought back to Tina's remark: doing things in front of an audience. He followed the agent out into the driveway, conscious of the children far away, using the tennis court for their own form of softball. He supposed he should go over to them before he left, but he hesitated, unwilling to repeat the bedroom scene. To Tina, who followed him to the doorway, Franks said, “Tell them I said good-bye and I'll try to be back early, so we can spend some time together.”

“Okay,” said Tina. “Be careful,” she repeated.

“I will be.”

“And don't forget what I said.”

Franks sat behind the driver, as he had the previous night. The agent who escorted him from the house smiled back from the passenger seat. “Tomkiss. Mike Tomkiss. My partner is Roger Sheridan.”

“Hello,” said Franks.

“Nice morning,” said Tomkiss chattily.

“It's difficult to think so,” said Franks.

“Guess it would be for you,” said Tomkiss, undeterred.

The curve of the drive took the vehicle near to the tennis courts and Franks hoped the children didn't look up to see him. Tomkiss said, “They're nice kids.”

“It's difficult for them to understand, too,” said Franks.

“It always is, for kids,” said Tomkiss.

“You been involved in this sort of thing before?” asked Franks.

Tomkiss was looking out through the front window. He twisted in his seat, so that it was more comfortable for him to look into the back of the car. “Couple of times,” he admitted.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Franks?—‘what happened?'”

“How long did it last? All this protection? Everything?”

“It's still covered by restrictions,” said the FBI man. “Quite a while. Everything worked out okay.”

“What do you mean?” asked Franks. “‘Everything worked out okay'?”

“No one got killed,” Tomkiss said succinctly. “We didn't lose a defendant or a witness.”

Franks turned away from the conversation, glad they were on the end of the Bruckner Expressway and would soon be getting into the city. As they crossed the bridge Franks gazed intently to his left, to the smog-veiled skyscraper fingers, and wondered why the hell it had been so important for him to involve himself in America. Why hadn't he been content with what he had and stayed in Europe? Which he shouldn't forget, whatever the pressures, he thought suddenly. Nicky's murder would have been reported by now; probably reached the British newspapers. It was important he call the London managers to put them into the picture as fully as possible; he didn't want any uncertainty.

The FBI driver ignored all the parking restrictions and pulled up directly outside Rosenberg's office. But as Franks reached for the door handle Tomkiss stopped him, saying, “Don't!” Tomkiss got out, actually shielding the door immediately adjacent to the pavement with his own body. The driver got out, too. It was several minutes before they appeared satisfied. Tomkiss quickly jerked the door open and said, “Okay.” Franks hurried across the sidewalk, tight between the two men, feeling self-conscious. They were dissatisfied with the crowding in the first elevator, gesturing it on, and in the second backed him into the wedge of the corner and positioned themselves solidly in front. Franks stood staring at their joined shoulders only inches from his nose, his embarrassment increasing.

In Rosenberg's office, Tomkiss said, “We'll be waiting, when you're through.”

Franks was still hot with discomfort when he went into the lawyer's room. He explained how he'd journeyed in from Scarsdale and said, “It's like being under arrest, for Christ's sake!”

“That's probably how they regard it,” said Rosenberg.

“What's that mean?”

“I've spoken to Ronan. Had a long talk. It doesn't look good.”

“I still don't understand,” protested Franks.

“I told you yesterday how your explanation for everything could be regarded by a prosecutor. It looks as if that's how Ronan
is
regarding it.”

“You mean he's going to prosecute me?”

“I think so.”

“I'm innocent!” said Franks, uncaring that the protest groaned out of him like a plea.

“With Nicky dead, it isn't going to be easy for us to prove it.”

“Is that why they killed him?”

The lawyer shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows? They knew about the file?”

“I said so, yesterday.”

“Maybe it was a warning not to use it.”

“How good is it, without Nicky to testify to its authenticity?”

“I won't know that until I've seen it,” said Rosenberg. “Nicky's murder still diminishes it.”

“I want to know something,” said Franks urgently. “Could I go to jail? Although I haven't done anything wrong and I'm absolutely innocent, could I still go to jail?”

“From what I know so far—and you must realize that I know virtually nothing of the prosecution case—I'd say it was a strong possibility. A very strong possibility.”

“That can't happen,” said Franks, incredulous.

“It can,” said Rosenberg. “You must believe me that it can.”

“Help me,” said Franks, still pleading and knowing it. “Help me so that it doesn't.” How long ago had it been that he'd despised Nicky for weakly showing his fear?

“We're meeting Ronan this afternoon. The fact that we are seeing him together—at all—is curious. I don't understand that yet. Before then I want to examine what's in the safe-deposit.”

“You going to tell Ronan about it? Or the FBI?”

“Why?”

“I had an FBI escort in from Scarsdale today. One of them—Tomkiss—is waiting outside, like I said.”

Rosenberg sat considering the difficulty. “Is there anything else in the box, apart from the file?”

“No,” said Franks.

“People keep all sorts of things in safe-deposit boxes,” said Rosenberg. “We can refuse them access to the actual vaults. They can think and suspect what they like, but I don't see it's a problem, at the moment. The problem is avoiding any sort of prosecution in the first place.”

The lawyer called Tomkiss into his office and announced where they were going, adding the client-lawyer relationship precluded the man's admission to the safe-deposit section. Tomkiss accepted the announcement without the argument that Franks expected and actually suggested that the two of them travel to the bank in the FBI car, to make his job easier. Rosenberg said it seemed like a good idea. The agents showed the same care getting him from the building as they had entering; Rosenberg was part of it this time and appeared quite unembarrassed. They rode uptown unspeaking and Tomkiss escorted them into the bank building, only leaving them a few yards from the safe-deposit section. Rosenberg produced identification, and Franks signed an entry permission, attesting that the lawyer was examining his box with his full permission, and then they filed behind the bank official to the air-conditioned, muted vault. The official produced his key and Franks his, releasing the box, and then Franks stood waiting while the official withdrew. Franks took the box completely from its recess and offered it to Rosenberg. Although he'd read everything before, Franks studied the notes and the bank details again, taking each sheet as Rosenberg finished with it. Rosenberg read more slowly than Franks, with a lawyer's precision, and Franks tried to concentrate upon what he was reading with growing impatience, anxious for the man to finish and give an opinion. It was an hour before Rosenberg looked up. He smiled, bleakly, and with precision replaced everything in the box.

“Well?” demanded Franks.

“Interesting,” said Rosenberg.

“Is that all? Interesting?”

“I would have liked more,” said the lawyer. “And like I said, it would have been better with Nicky alive, to support it.”

“You're telling me we've got a weak case?”

Rosenberg looked down into the box as if seeking something he had overlooked. Then he looked up and said, “I told you when we met yesterday that everything would be on the basis of complete honesty.” He ruffled his fingers through the safe-deposit box. “There could be a contest about the admissibility of this. Could be I won't be allowed to produce it at all in front of a jury.
With
it I've got a defensible case. Just. But only just. Without it we're on weak ground. Weaker ground than I like and that's not yet knowing the prosecution case. I can subpoena Pascara and Flamini and Dukes, and I can try to discredit them with details of their criminal records. But if I get a tough trial judge, I won't get away with much of that. And don't forget that Pascara hasn't got convictions; he's beaten every accusation. And there's something else. Just how much good will it do our case to prove they're the worst gangsters since Al Capone with the apparent proof that the prosecution has against you that you were acting for them? That just makes it worse for you.”

Franks felt a wash of helplessness, another of the dizzy sensations, so that momentarily the metal-lined, barred room misted and he had to blink to concentrate again. “Surely Nicky's murder proves something?”

“Sure it does,” said Rosenberg. “It proves involvement and association with mobsters. It doesn't prove your innocence.”

“You think a jury would believe that I was involved with the murder of someone I was brought up to regard as my brother?”

“You're asking a jury to believe that someone you were brought up to regard as your brother knowingly and without any compunction tricked, cheated, and trapped you into involvement with mobsters,” reminded Rosenberg.

Franks shook his head, bewilderment growing. “You know something?” he said to the lawyer. “I always believed in the law. I always believed in the law and in justice.”

“So do I, Mr. Franks,” said Rosenberg. “If I didn't, I wouldn't be trying to do the job I do. Ninety percent of the time, it works like it's supposed to.”

“And about the other ten percent?”

“That's where we are now,” said Rosenberg. He offered the box to Franks, who stood, ringing the bell for the official. The official completed his part of the operation and led them back into the main hall of the bank, where Tomkiss was patiently waiting.

“What now?” asked the FBI man.

“I don't suppose you feel like lunching at the club?” the lawyer said to Franks.

“I don't feel like lunching at all,” said Franks. “Certainly not there.”

“We'd better eat something,” said Rosenberg practically.

They went to a pseudo-Italian restaurant near Rosenberg's office, where Franks ordered automatically and forgot what he ate the moment the plates were cleared. Tomkiss and Sheridan ate two tables away, from where they could watch both the entrance and the kitchen swing doors. In anticipation of that afternoon's encounter with the district attorney Rosenberg went again through everything that Franks had told him at the first interview, elaborating upon points where he was uncertain. He did so entirely without notes and Franks was impressed by the man's recall of detail; not once did he have to correct the man on any fact. Although he had been totally disinterested in the food Franks agreed to a second cup of coffee, recognizing the reason as he did so. He was reluctant to move; to get up from the table and into the waiting car and go to see the district attorney to hear what the man intended, just like Nicky had been reluctant to make contact with the three men to summon the dissolution meeting.

“It's time,” urged Rosenberg.

“Yes.”

“Ready?”

“I suppose so.”

“Remember,” warned the lawyer as he settled the check, “everything goes through me. I do the talking.”

“You say this sort of meeting is unusual?”

“Very,” said Rosenberg, rising from the table.

“Maybe it's something in our favor,” said Franks anxiously. “Maybe the case isn't so strong, after all.”

Rosenberg looked down sympathetically at the other man, waiting for him to stand. “From what I know already it's strong enough,” he said. “Let's actually see the straws before we start to clutch at them, shall we?”

There was no delay when they reached the justice building. Tomkiss traveled up with them from the reception area, and when they emerged on the district attorney's floor Franks saw that Waldo was already there. Waldo nodded a greeting and Franks nodded back. Tomkiss went at once to the FBI man, who cupped an arm around Tomkiss and propelled him out of the waiting area and back along the corridor so that they could talk without being overheard. It meant that the man had to hurry back and arrived in the district attorney's office after Rosenberg and Franks had already been admitted and offered seats by the prosecutor.