To Save a Son (25 page)

“Of course,” said Ronan, rising and leading the way to a small anteroom. Rosenberg went first, with Franks trailing behind him. There were more pennants on the wall and a small cot, covered with a blanket. There was no desk, but two easy chairs, and Rosenberg gestured Franks toward the one with its back to the window so that he sat looking into the room. Rosenberg remained standing, to see the other lawyer from the room. He securely closed the door behind the man and then came back to the other chair, moving it so that he was directly in front of Franks.

“Well?” he said.

“No!” refused Franks. “It's preposterous.”

“I know it seems that way,” said Rosenberg. “And I guess it is, but not to them. They can't really lose, either way.”

“But I can!”

“I'd already warned you about that.”

“No,” said Franks again, shaking his head, more to clear it than as a gesture of refusal. “They're expecting me to give up everything.”

“Except your freedom,” said Rosenberg. “If you want me to, then I shall refuse this offer and let the case proceed. But I've already told you what I think the chances are of getting an acquittal. And that was
before
I had any idea of the degree and extent of their investigation. We talked earlier about percentages, so let's go on talking about them. In my honest opinion, from what I've heard here today and from what I've heard from you earlier—and taking into account what I read in that safe-deposit vault—I wouldn't assess my chances of an acquittal higher than five percent.”

“Five percent!”

Rosenberg held up his hands, halting the outburst. “Let me finish,” said the lawyer. “I repeat, five percent. To try to achieve that acquittal I would, as I've already told you, call Flamini and Pascara and Dukes and do everything, in addition to whatever Ronan would attempt with his conspiracy charges, to convict them and save you.” The lawyer hesitated, to make his point. “Five percent,” he repeated. “And if I failed you'd go to jail—I guess on the charges that Ronan has let me see—for a minimum of eight years. Maybe five. To a jail where Pascara and Flamini and Dukes have more power and control than they have outside.”

“You telling me that I would be killed there?”

“Yes,” said Rosenberg. “I'm saying that you'd be subject to constant attack and assault and that the person who succeeded would probably have enough money to set himself up for life when he got out.”

“You recommending that I should do what Ronan wants? Cooperate and then run and change my name?”

“I think it's your only way out of an impossible situation. Certainly I don't imagine you could expect to go back to Europe and live safely there. Whether there was a successful conviction or not.”

The analogy came suddenly to Eddie Franks, so forcefully that momentarily it silenced him. It was the complete circle. Not identical, in every respect, but similar enough. His father had run to survive and had abandoned Isaac Frankovich, and now he was expected to run to survive and abandon Eddie Franks. But there
were
differences; important differences. Would his father have run from Liberec and Warsaw and Frankfurt and Berlin and Hamburg if he'd had successful and thriving businesses, businesses he had no reason nor cause to leave? And Franks couldn't convince himself that he did have cause; maybe here, in New York, or even beyond, in America, he had cause for fear, but surely not in safe, respectable London! The confidence grew, and then he remembered the blown-apart body of Nicky Scargo with his arm in its own plastic container lying where it should have been and the gaping head and chest.

“All this is only your opinion!” said Franks in sudden belligerence.

“Of course it is,” said Rosenberg, unoffended. “If you'd like to transfer the case then I shall do everything to help whatever new counsel you bring in. I'll even help you find someone else; someone I think would try as hard as I would.”

“Why?” demanded Franks, suddenly suspicious. “Why would you do that?”

Rosenberg smiled at the hostility. “For a number of reasons, actually, Mr. Franks. I've made a reputation out of taking on difficult—seemingly impossible—cases and winning. I don't believe I can win in this case. Not if we fight it. Which is not saying that I wouldn't try everything I know to get your acquittal, if we
do
fight. So, personally, I don't want to get involved in a case that is going to attract quite a lot of publicity and fail. It's not an attitude in which I feel any particular pride. In fact, I'm ashamed to admit it. I'd try to do my best to find you another equally good lawyer because I would owe it to you, because of my own attitude. Cowardice, if you like.” The man stopped, thinking. “And there's another reason. I'd do everything I could to get you the best man available and brief him as completely as possible because I feel desperately sorry for you. I
believe
that you're innocent; I told you during that first interview that I believed you. I think you're entirely innocent, but you're caught up in a situation from which you can't possibly escape. I feel as sorry as hell for you.”

“I'm not sure that I want you to be so honest.”

“That was the agreement we made when we started,” reminded Rosenberg.

“I can't make a decision right now,” protested Franks. “I need to talk it over with my wife. Have time to consider all the implications.”

“I think that's reasonable,” said Rosenberg.

“I want to go back to Scarsdale.”

“I'll be available at any time. Come up there to you, if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Franks. “Something else.”

“What?”

“I don't want another lawyer. Whatever I decide to do, I want to stay with you.”

“I meant what I said,” reminded Rosenberg. “I will work for you to the very best and absolute of my ability. All the time.”

“Which is why I want things to stay as they are,” said Franks.

Rosenberg led the way back into the larger room. Ronan had organized coffee in their absence and offered it to them. Rosenberg accepted, but Franks declined. Rosenberg explained that Franks wanted time to think; Ronan agreed, saying that of course he understood. They had no intention of risking such an in-depth investigation by haste, and Franks could have as long as he wanted. Rosenberg thanked him and said he thought two or three days would be sufficient; a week at the outside. A week was quite acceptable, Ronan agreed.

“We've also had the opportunity of talking while you were out of the room,” said the district attorney.

“About what?” said Rosenberg.

“We reached an understanding at the beginning of this meeting,” said Ronan. “I've no intention at this stage of trying to change that understanding.” He nodded toward Waldo. “But I've heard from the FBI of your visit to the safe-deposit vault. I thought it might indicate an advantage of our working together.”

“I've no intention whatsoever of entering into any sort of discussion about what might or might not form part of my client's defense, should this proceed to trial,” said Rosenberg, reverting to formality.

“I didn't expect you to, not for a moment,” assured Ronan smoothly. “I just considered it a point worth making.”

“I'm quite aware of all the points worth making,” said Rosenberg. “The full protection of my client remains?”

“Of course,” said Ronan.

Rosenberg rose to leave and Franks followed. As Franks stood, Ronan said to him, “Please think very deeply about everything I've said.”

“I'm hardly likely to forget,” said Franks.

They left the building with Tomkiss and his partner and the same sort of elaborate security precaution. Just before the car reached Rosenberg's office, the lawyer said, “Anything you're not sure about?”

“No,” said Franks.

Rosenberg handed him a card and said, “That's my home number; call me there if anything suddenly occurs to you.”

Franks took it and put it in his breast pocket. “I'll probably call you tomorrow.”

“Take your time.”

“And thanks.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” said the lawyer.

“Thanks anyway.”

The FBI men let Rosenberg leave the vehicle unescorted, spurting the car away from the curb as soon as the man slammed the door. The clogged Manhattan traffic, constantly stopping them, worried both the agents. Franks stayed hunched in the back, uncaring. He tried to consider everything that had been said that afternoon, to create the necessary balance in his mind and prepare himself for the discussion that would be necessary with Tina, because it was important that he talk everything through with her, but persistently one remark kept presenting itself.
You're caught up in a situation from which you can't possibly escape
. Only days before—or was it hours?—he'd been considering a defense against any charges, and now he was confronting the reality of there being no defense; just situations from which he couldn't escape. How much—dear God, how much—he wanted to imagine it was all a dream, a nightmare, something from which he was going to awaken and find his life as settled and safe and organized as it had been such a very short time ago. Franks strained against the temptation, like he'd strained against it before and for the same reason. But it was a recurring reflection, he recognized. Was a lawyer enough for him to face what he was going to have to face, whatever his decision? Shouldn't he seek the help of a doctor as well? Franks blinked against the thought, angry at another weakness. Definitely not a doctor. He wasn't going to become dependent on pills, and he wasn't going to become dependent on booze. Maybe he'd never known pressure like this—never conceived pressure like this was possible—but he was still strong enough to handle it without the need for any sort of artificial crutch.

The men in front relaxed when they reached the FDR Drive and more speed was possible. Tomkiss attempted conversation, but Franks only grunted, uninterested in small talk, and the FBI agent quickly abandoned the effort. It was still daylight when they reached Scarsdale, and Franks appreciated for the first time just how absolute the protection was around the house. There was actually a helicopter fluttering overhead when they approached, and there was a wedge-shaped formation of four vehicles in the immediate entrance, making any entry impossible. He counted six figures on the grounds on the way up to the main house, where there were three more cars that didn't belong to him or the staff, and a man he hadn't seen before opened the door at their arrival.

The children ran out, ahead of Tina, and David said triumphantly, “I saw one! I saw a gun. A man in a police car showed me. There was a shotgun in a rack in between the front seats, too. He says I can have a picture to take back to school.”

Franks picked up Gabriella, looking back painfully at Tomkiss. “I don't want that to happen.”

“Sure,” agreed the FBI man. “I'll fix it.”

“Why not, Daddy! Why not!” wailed the boy. “He promised.”

“Because,” said Franks.

“That's not fair!”

“There's a lot that's not fair,” said Franks.

“Can we see the treasure, Daddy? Can we please?” said the girl. She had her arm around his neck and tugged, at every question, so that Franks had to lean back against her.

“Stop it, Gabby,” he said. “Not yet. I'll tell you when.”

At the door Tina frowned at how he looked, and said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” said Franks. “Get someone to take the children, will you?”

Her frown deepened but she said nothing, turning back into the house and calling to the hovering Elizabeth.

“I want my picture taken with a gun!” insisted David defiantly.

“No,” said Franks.

“Yes!” said the boy.

Franks hit him, harder than he intended, although the rudeness justified the slap on the leg, irrespective of what it was about. David stared up at his father in shocked surprise and then burst into screaming tears. Franks saw that where he'd hit the child, just above the knee, he'd left a white imprint. Gabriella began crying too, in support. Franks looked angrily at the approaching nanny and said, “For God's sake, take them away!”

“Come in,” said Tina tightly, pulling him toward the door of the smaller sitting room, where the drinks were.

Franks looked awkwardly at the unspeaking and unknown FBI man and then at the accusing face of Elizabeth and followed his wife into the room. Tina pointedly closed the door behind him and said, “You need a drink.”

Franks thought about artificial crutches, and said, “Yes. Gin.”

He sat, staring directly ahead. He took the drink without looking at her or thanking her, drinking deeply at it. It
wasn't
an artificial crutch! Millions of people had a drink, like this. How many people had the choice of going to jail to be killed, or adopting a new identity to prevent being killed?

“You look awful.”

“I feel awful.”

“Shouldn't I know about it?”

“I want you to,” said Franks.

It took a long time for him to recount the day: several times he ran ahead of himself and had to backtrack, and then he forgot the point he'd reached and Tina had to remind him. Twice she got up, freshening his glass; not a crutch, he convinced himself. His glass was empty when he finished, and this time he got up to help himself. Behind him Tina said, “I don't believe what you've just told me!”

“I still can't.”

“It's … it's … not fair.”

Franks turned back toward his wife, thinking as he looked at her just how much he loved her and remembering, too, the promises he'd made always to keep her safe. That hadn't meant keeping her safe behind a protective ring of men who thought there was nothing wrong in letting children pose for school photographs holding guns. With his mind on the boy, Franks said, “That's what David said.”