Courthouse (18 page)

“Oh, come on, Jim. You're not going to lose your fat retainer. Why screw around with something you don't know from a hole in the wall? Especially when it's my hole that's against the wall?”

There was silence.

“That settles that very directly,” said Lord, turning to Cahill.

Cahill's jaw muscles twitched momentarily. He did not look at Marc. “As you wish, Zack.”

“There is one other preliminary item to be discussed,” said Marc. “Speaking of retainers. I don't know exactly with whom to discuss it, but it's matter of agreeing on a fee and who's going to pay it.”

“You don't think you have to worry about that,” said Cahill dismissingly.

“No, but I do think I have to discuss it and have agreed upon right now,” said Marc, looking to Toni Wainwright then Zack Lord. He had heard that
“Don't worry about it”
phrase too often from clients who would promise anything during their distress, only to forget or renege when extricated from the jaws of the cell. Besides, as in Vermont, good fences make for good neighbors.

“What is your fee?” asked Lord.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, not including expenses or any appeal,” replied Marc.

“Twenty-five thousand?” Toni Wainwright exclaimed. She looked to Zack Lord.

“That's a little steep, isn't it?” Cahill said for them.

“No. It's in line with the seriousness of the charges and the possible consequences,” replied Marc. “Don't you think saving twenty-five years of your life is worth twenty-five thousand dollars?” he said to Toni Wainwright. “If you do want a bargain-priced lawyer, I'm sure you can find one,” he added. “I'm not a businessman, I'm a lawyer, and I don't bargain.”

“No bargaining, just asking,” said Lord. “What if you're able to get rid of this case right away? Is the fee still the same?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Marc. “It isn't the amount of time involved, the hours in court, it's the lifetime of study, the years of developing skill that's going on the line to defend Mrs. Wainwright. If I dispose of it quicker, it's still disposed of.”

“Okay, done,” said Lord. “Jim, make the arrangements.”

Cahill nodded stiffly. “As you wish, Zack.”

“You'll have additional help all the way down the line,” Zack said to Marc. “I'll attend to that.” He was nodding slightly.

“O'Connor is out to make himself a name here,” Marc cautioned.

“We'll take care of that,” said Zack. “His boss needs the Democratic nomination for judge. Matter of fact, he wants it badly. I don't imagine he'd like anyone to mess that up for him. And O'Connor's going to need all the Democratic help he can get to be the D.A.”

Marc nodded acquiescence.

“What about publicity?” Toni asked Lord. “Mister Conte seems to think there'll be a lot of bad publicity. Especially with this O'Connor on the case.”

“We'll take care of that too,” said Lord. “A little oil takes care of most wheels.” He smiled at Marc.

“Mister Lord,” said Marc. “I'm just the trial man. Anything else, I don't want to know about. I'm not interested in politics or making contracts or contacts.”

Lord nodded. “You take care of the trial. I'll handle the rest.”

11

Wednesday, August 16, 1:15
P.M.

“How do you say we handle The Tombs prisoners who rioted?” Francis X. Byrnes, the District Attorney of New York County, asked his chief assistant, Liam O'Connor. They were seated in Byrnes's office having their daily conference concerning any new indictments handed down by the grand jury, the handling of pending cases, investigations, and the general running of the office.

Byrnes was short and small of build, with faded blue eyes peering from a bulldog face with a square jaw and thin mouth which seemed set in a scowl. He had joined the D.A.'s staff originally in 1934, when the salary was a token one dollar a year, and it was a privilege and a public service to be an assistant D.A. Besides that, serving an apprenticeship in the D.A.'s office gave one political muscle and a good springboard, if one wanted, into politics, onto the bench, or to some other government service. Byrnes actually had been too short for the Police Department, and, wanting to be in law enforcement, decided on a legal career and the D.A.'s staff. Somehow, sanctity and the protection of the innocent, the cold, calculated enforcement of the statutes were a sacred trust passed on from his father, who had been a police captain, to save the good people from the secular miscreants, the heathens, the wops, the sheenies, the polocks, the krauts, the spies, and the niggers.

“We're going to present the case to the grand jury today or tomorrow. Before the weekend, for sure,” replied O'Connor. “We'll have them indicted and arraigned before Wednesday this coming week.”

O'Connor had one leg crossed over the other, holding the ankle of the crossed leg so that it would not slide off the heft of the stationary leg. He wore short anklet socks which exposed his shin and part of his calf as he sat.

Byrnes's office was large and square, the walls painted a light, easy-on-the-eye, hospital green. The ceiling was white. His desk was plain and wooden. There was a large leather couch against one wall. Numerous certificates of election, a diploma, an admission to the Bar, and other awards hung on the wall over the couch. There were no other pictures, paintings, or evidence of human interest or endeavor to be seen in the office. This was a place of serious business, and wives and children were preserved for off the job.

“I want you to put every available assistant on the case,” Byrnes instructed. His face wrinkled at the forehead and top of the nose as he pressed his fingertips like two flexed spiders. The wrinkled nose was one of Byrnes's two facial expressions. The other was the scowl. “Interview the guards, other witnesses. Do whatever has to be done. We have to have fast action. And a speedy trial. The public feels outrage, and more than that, fright. They think these prisoners can do what they want and get away with it.”

“Don't worry about that, Chief,” assured O'Connor. “I'll pull out all the stops.”

Chief was the old Tammany Hall salutation for the top man. Under the old Tammany regime, all the Democratic clubs were named with Indian names: Tammawah, Anawanda, Iroquois, even Tammany itself was Indian. And, naturally, the top man of the tribe was always the Chief. Byrnes was a Tammany man of the old tradition. On the job for more than forty years; right up through the ranks, from lowly assistant to Bureau Chief to the District Attorney himself. O'Connor, on the other hand, had been just a fledgling Indian when Tammany fell into disrepute and disrepair. But he still retained the old ways, the old respect he and his father before him had cherished.

If the truth be known, Byrnes was the Chief in name only. He had grown tired of late, and O'Connor kept his hand on the helm, informing Byrnes of everything, so at least he was aware of what was happening. Byrnes now just wanted his judgeship, a few years on the bench, and then to retire with his pension and his wife, Margaret Mary.

“Why not have them arraigned right after you get the indictment this Friday afternoon?” asked Byrnes.

“No good for the newspaper boys, Chief,” replied O'Connor. “It'd be too late. And, besides, Saturday's not such a hot day for newspaper stories. Everyone's away. If we're going to go to town on this kind of thing, let the prisoners and the punks in the street know what they're up against if they attack a guard or a cop, then we need all the coverage we can get. I'll need time to arrange it, get extra copies made of our indictment papers. And the boys in the pressroom prefer stories early in the morning on Monday or Tuesday, so they catch all the editions.”

Byrnes nodded slowly. “How many defendants are there going to be?”

“I'm not sure yet, Chief. Maybe a dozen, two dozen. I haven't gone over all the evidence yet.”

“They all colored?”

“Mostly. Some Puertos too. And a couple of whites,” answered O'Connor.

Byrnes nodded his scowl again. “What charges?”

“Attempted murder, assault, inciting to riot. I've got the Appeals Bureau looking into kidnaping and some other statutes.”

Byrnes nodded, the wrinkle slowly creasing his forehead again. “Better have them check and double check that stuff,” he suggested. “You don't want some bleeding-heart lawyer coming around with some fancy motion papers dismissing counts because they don't hold legal water. We'll get picketed for persecuting poor innocents.”

“Poor innocents,” scoffed O'Connor. “They're about as poor and innocent as the devil himself.”

“Even so, I don't want any bad publicity right now, neither do you,” said Byrnes, a tone of shared secrecy in his voice.

“Don't worry, Chief,” said O'Connor. “The private citizens are howling about this riot. And the Mayor's talk about amnesty and all that other crap doesn't jibe too well with the voter. Davies still thinks that liberal crap is in vogue. He'll find out soon enough. The public'll be very sympathetic to the prosecution. You'll be the D.A. who puts the punks in their place, and I'll be the crusading prosecutor who'll get the daily trial publicity. That won't sit too badly with the voters when it comes to your Supreme Court seat.” He winked at Byrnes. “And it won't hurt me as your replacement. The political leaders read the papers too.”

“Those who can read.”

O'Connor chuckled. He took a short, stubby cigar out of his coat pocket and unwrapped it.

“Who are you going to have present this riot case to the grand jury?” asked Byrnes.

“I'll do it myself, Chief,” said O'Connor. He puffed on his cigar, a thick cloud of smoke enveloping his head momentarily.

The Chief nodded, satisfied. “Which judge you going to send the case to decide the motions and for trial?”

“Say no more, Chief,” assured O'Connor. “I figure we send it to Crawford.”

The Chief nodded again.

“He's been around long enough to know how to handle a case like this,” O'Connor continued, giving Byrnes another wink. “Even if he had a contract to deliver on that Wainwright bail. I'd rather give it to him than let the case get in front of one of those sob sister reformers. Christ, you see this guy Haroldson, and some of the decisions he makes. They're off the wall. He's so busy being fair to everybody, he steps on his own prick.”

Byrnes waved a disgusted hand through the air, shaking his head. The intercom buzzed. Byrnes picked it up and spoke softly into the receiver. “Okay. Put him on,” he said. Brynes waited, then listened. “When?” he asked, a grave look on his face. He nodded. “Liam's right here. He'll get back to you.”

“What's up, Chief?” O'Connor asked.

“That was Michael Scott, Captain over in the one-six precinct. He's at Roosevelt Hospital now. Compagna just died.”

O'Connor said nothing, puffing on his cigar momentarily. A grim, pensive look spread over his face. “Well, that's no great loss; one less of those greasy gunslingers,” he allowed. “I just hope it doesn't start a war where they'll leave their gumbas all over the sidewalks riddled with shotgun blasts.”

“Maybe we ought to pick the gunsels up just in case. We could start a grand jury investigation of the shooting as an excuse, and pick all the dangerous ones up on subpoenas.”

“Good idea, Chief. I'll call Dan Braverman in Queens—a lot of them live in Queens. Maybe he'll co-operate and have his staff get an investigation going too.”

“The sooner the better,” said Byrnes. He looked out at the weather again, then leaned back in his chair and glanced at the large wall clock through a spiral of O'Connor's smoke. He remembered a two o'clock appointment with his campaign fund raiser. Even though Byrnes was one of the candidates all the Democratic chiefs had backed for Supreme Court nomination, there was still need to raise substantial funds. Campaigns cost plenty these days.

“The FBI must not be too unhappy about Compagna,” reflected O'Connor. “He really raked them over the coals with his Council, his pickets, and all the rest.” O'Connor nodded as he savored the heavy smoke of his cigar. A smile played across his face at the FBI's discomfort.

“Compagna never did any of that against our office,” said Byrnes, obviously pleased. “But why should he have? We always treat people square. If we've got a case, we get them. If we don't have a case, we don't frame them, we don't manufacture that conspiracy stuff the U.S. Attorneys love to use.”

Byrnes relented for a moment, staring out the window. He allowed himself to think of the beach, and the surf down at Breezy Point, the waves rolling in, sliding across the surface in a sheet of foam; and his grandchildren running, leaving deep, moist footprints in the sand at the water's edge. It was too nice a day to be involved in all this gangbusters stuff. He was really ready for the Supreme Court bench. Let O'Connor get bloody hands on this job. He looked up at the clock again. It was close to 2
P.M.
He wouldn't even have time for a sandwich before meeting with the fund raiser.

“That reminds me,” Byrnes said abstractly, “this Wainwright case you mentioned. That's the one where the wife shot the husband. What does it look like?”

“It's okay, Chief, We only have circumstantial evidence to go on, but I'm sure it'll hang together enough for the grand jury.”

“Well, don't stretch too hard to hold it together,” Byrnes said. “I mean, if it's there, of course, by all means, you have to go after it. But, if it's a weak case …” He noticed O'Connor looking at him curiously. “If it's a weak case, it's a weak case.”

“There any problem, Chief?”

“No, no problem,” Byrnes replied. “Just there are a lot of big guns interested in the case—big money people who called county headquarters. So I don't want you to do anything to rock the boat unnecessarily.”