Book of Nathan (4 page)

Behind Twyla was a dark wisp of a man named Maurice Tyson,
followed by Doc Waters, an unkempt codger with a wild mop of white hair. I was
the rear guard until we fully penetrated the visitation hall, where I moved to
the front of the line.

“Need your I.D.s.” The guard at the registration desk spoke
without ever lifting his eyes from the sports section of the
Orlando Sentinel.
 

“I’m Rick Bullock. We have an eleven o’clock to see—”

“You got nothin’ until you show me your I.D.”

I pulled out my driver’s license while Doc and Maurice
miraculously found their New Jersey nondriver photo identification cards. The
guard gave me what I took to be a semilook of approval, but when it came to
Waters and Tyson, he turned suspicious. I could understand why.

Maurice Tyson is as unsightly looking as he is skinny. Born
thirty-nine years ago, he never had much going for him other than doling out
street drugs for pocket change. Finding a legitimate job isn’t easy when you
haven’t rebraided your dreadlocks for months and are so emaciated you disappear
when turned sideways. Although Maurice wasn’t what one would call a highly
educated man—he and the New Brunswick school system went their separate ways
when Tyson finished eighth grade—he had a unique ability to understand Zeus. To
me, Miklos Zeusenoerdorf’s bizarre muttering was Greek. To Tyson, it was E. B.
White.

The guard trained his beady eyes on Doc Waters. With his
out-of-control white hair and a badly bent posture, the one-time Rutgers
history professor came across as the archetypal mad scientist. Hard to imagine,
but at one time, Doc was a respected academic. That was before his gambling
habit sent him on a free fall that quite literally landed him in the gutter.
The local cops steered Doc to the Gateway and the move probably saved his
life. Like Maurice, there was more to Professor Waters than his shaggy
exterior. Doc was the Gateway’s resident genius—an incredibly bright man with a
personality that could be as engaging as it was caustic.

The guard glared at Waters. “Don’t I know you?”

Doc answered without hesitation. “Maybe. Were you at last
month’s Gay Pride meeting?”

“What are you, a wiseass?”

In fact, that’s exactly what the professor was. His super
intelligence made it easy for him to pop out a snappy comeback any time
circumstances warranted. Of course, his wit wasn’t worth much when he was
plummeting to the bottom. It was during his downward spiral that Doc piled up a
steep gambling debt that was ultimately handed over to a Philadelphia gangster
for collection. One-liners didn’t help much when the mob applied its
payment-past-due
tactics.
First to go were the tips of two fingers on the professor’s left hand. A month
later, three cracked ribs. Then things got serious. Round three ended up as a
cover story in
Philadelphia
magazine.
According to Doc, two thugs pulverized his left testicle and promised to do the
same to his remaining jewel unless he paid his principal plus interest within
two weeks. Instead, the professor told all to the FBI, who pounced on the Mafia
bill collector and his enforcers. Doc got fifteen minutes of fame and the mob
got furious. Even before
Philadelphia
magazine
popularized him as “One Nut Walters,”
Doc had made his way to the top of organized crime’s hit list.
 

“Wait a minute.” The guard studied Doc more closely. “I
think I remember who you are.”

Manny Maglio’s niece suddenly diverted the guard’s
attention. “My name’s Twyla,” she announced.

Twyla had been standing behind me, out of the guard’s line
of sight. When she stepped to the waist-high check-in counter, the guard lost
all interest in Professor Waters.

“You’re
who?”

“Twyla Tharp. I’m a dancer.” Twyla pushed a business card
toward the guard. A full-color, full-figure photo appeared above a few bold,
raised letters that spelled out:
Twyla Tharp—Dance Professional
.
 

“You don’t say.” The guard shifted his gaze from Twyla’s
business card to her half-buttoned blouse and then to her fake leather micro
skirt. “What kind of dancer?”

“A very
good
dancer.”
 

“Yeah?” The guard couldn’t rein in his grin. “Do any private
shows?”

Manny Maglio barreled into my brain. Just a mental picture,
no words. But I got the message. My job was to keep Twyla on a tight leash that
the guard was pulling in a different direction.

I nudged Twyla to the side. The guard’s smile vanished and
he glared at me as his fantasy evaporated. “Dr. Waters—” I paused to point at
my white-haired accomplice, “his uncle is chief of corrections.” I upped the
volume on chief of corrections
just
so it was clear that it was the top dog who was opening the door for us. “We’ve
got permission to see Miklos Zeusenoerdorf.”

The guard pulled out a computer printout from underneath his
newspaper. “You’re
the
people here to see that pervert? Tell you right now—he killed Benjamin Kurios.
Been here fifteen years and I can read any asshole who’s in here like a book.
’Course even if your pal happens to be innocent, he don’t have a chance with
the lawyer he’s got.”

“Lawyer? A public defender?”

“Hell, no. I mean he’s got what’s walkin’ in the door behind
ya.” The guard looked past me at a rumpled man wearing a discolored yarmulke
who darted through the main entrance with as much grace as a Mexican jumping
bean. “Yigal Rosenblatt, Esquire,” the guard said with obvious distain.

“Looking for Mr. Bullock.” The lawyer charged toward me, his
words coming out mainly through his nose.

“I’m Bullock.”
 

“Certainly glad to meet you,” the attorney replied, pumping
my hand. “Certainly glad to meet you.”

 
Yigal Rosenblatt
talked with extraordinary speed. But the machine-gun pace of his speech was
nothing compared to his herky-jerky mannerisms that had him constantly shifting
from one foot to another. Except for a white shirt and a patch of pale skin,
Yigal was black from his yarmulke to his scuffed wingtips. The lawyer’s beard
was dark and unkempt—so was his rumpled suit and unflattering two-toned black
tie.

“I didn’t know Zeus had a lawyer,” I said.

“Oh, we took him on two days ago.”

“We?” I asked.

“My firm. Gafstein and Rosenblatt.” Yigal lurched left, then
right.
 

“Zeusenoerdorf doesn’t have money for a lawyer. Why would a
private law firm want this case?”

“Oh, you know.” Yigal pointed his eyes to the floor.
 

“No. I don’t know.”

“Have to get your name out there,” Yigal said. “Chance for
exposure. High-profile case and all.”

“But if you lose the case—”

“Doesn’t matter. We don’t care if we win or lose so long as
the papers spell our names right.” Yigal snorted out what I think was supposed
to be a laugh.

“And Zeus wants you to represent him?” I couldn’t disguise
my astonishment that even a mentally challenged man facing the death penalty
would place his fate in the hands of someone like Yigal Rosenblatt.
 

“Oh, yes. Signed all the papers, which we filed yesterday.
Everything’s all in order.”

“But Zeus can’t write his name.”
 

“Had to make a mark. But it’s all legal, you know. He’s our
client right to the end.”

End gave me a chill.
 

“How did you know about me—about us, Mr. Rosenblatt?” I
glanced back at Doc, Maurice, and Twyla.

“Standard procedure. Legal counsel gets a notice about all
visitor appointments.”

The guard grunted his disapproval, but another look at Twyla
and his unhappiness with the legal system seemed to disappear.

“Did Zeus tell you what happened, Mr. Rosenblatt?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. We have a signed statement.”

“You mean a marked statement.”

“Right, right. Had him mark everything important. Even his
religious preference.”

I blinked. “Zeus has a religious preference?”

“He certainly does. Didn’t think he was a Jew, but that’s
what he is.”

“Zeus’s
Jewish?”

“Oh, yes. So he says. That made it very important for us to
take the case. You see, I’m Jewish too.”

Gosh, really?
“I
don’t think Zeus is Jewish, Mr. Rosenblatt,” I stated bluntly.

“Said so himself on a few occasions.”

“So you’ve talked to him?”

“I have.”

“And you could understand what Zeus was saying?”

Hesitation. It was the first time since Yigal had walked
into the foyer that he stopped moving. “Uh, not everything.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why we’re here.” I explained that
Maurice Tyson was maybe the only person who could understand Zeus. Anyone else
listening to the accused was probably not getting the right story.

“I see.” Yigal stroked his beard. “But you understand we
transcribed what my client said and then had him read it. After that, he signed
the statement with his signa—with his mark.”

“Mr. Rosenblatt, Zeus can’t read
.”

“That’s not my understanding.”

It struck me that Yigal Rosenblatt could easily be one of my
Gateway residents.

“What we’re going to do is have Maurice talk to Zeus and
find out exactly what happened,” I said.

Yigal used a stubby finger to scratch his head.
“Interesting. We can do that but I’m legal counsel, you know. So, I have to be
a party to everything that’s said.”

 
I could have argued
the right of privacy if there were such a thing in a jail. But I had a
full-blown headache. Trying to converse with someone who hopped like a frog on
acid would give anyone a migraine. “All right,” I agreed and turned to the
distracted guard. “We’re ready to go in.”

“Who’s we?”
the
guard asked.

I gestured to the peculiar group to my rear.

“See that?” the guard pointed to a sign to his left. “Read
rule number two.”

I got about a third of the way through rule two and wondered
why it wasn’t rule number one:
Each
inmate is permitted a maximum of (3) visitors per session. This total will not
exceed (2) adult visitors per session. Children (13) and older will be
considered an adult.

“Can only let two of you in,” said the guard.

Yigal started marching in place. “Sounds right. But when the
rule says visitors
,
that
doesn’t mean counsel. No, it doesn’t. We lawyers aren’t the same as visitors.”

No arguing that point.

“All right, I’ll let it go,” the guard consented. “So it
will be Rosenblatt and two others.” He turned to me. “Which two is it gonna
be?”

It was an easy decision that came with a potentially bad
consequence. Maurice Tyson and I had to be there for obvious reasons. But that
would leave Doc Waters and Twyla outside and unsupervised. Although the
professor was in his sixties, the way he was studying Manny Maglio’s niece, he
still had a reservoir of testosterone.

“Look, isn’t there some way all of us—”

“Nope,” said the guard.

“Well, there is a way,” Yigal said. “I have another client
here. Beuford Krup. Two of you can visit him. Of course, I’ll need to monitor,
you understand. So, I’ll just go back and forth from one client to another. It
can work. Done it before.”

“Beuford Krup’s yours, too?” the guard asked with an
expression that mixed astonishment with disgust.

“Oh, yes.”