Courthouse (50 page)

Marc was convinced that the love of adventure, the excitement of the challenge and intrigue of criminal life were as important to Philly and The Crusher as any ill-gotten profits. If they weren't followed, they'd want to think they were; they'd want their peers to think they were. After all, if somebody wasn't following you, looking to serve you with a subpoena, well, you probably weren't too important.

“It's about The Crusher,” said Philly.

“What's the matter now?”

“He told me to tell you he's being followed; and his phone is bugged. He figures there'll be more trouble. He didn't want to come over himself because they're following him.” Philly looked at Marc for direction.

“I can't do anything about it until it happens,” said Marc. “But you tell Patsy to call, day or night, if there's trouble.”

“That's what he wanted to know, Counselor. Thanks.” Philly stuck out his limp hand again.

“Okay,” said Marc, watching Philly walk across the street. He wished he was able to calm all his clients as easily.

Marc walked back to the car. “Now what's the matter?” he asked Franco.

“Nothing the matter. You got a call in the office from Andy Roberts,” Franco replied excitedly. “That's the girl wanted for giving the shotguns to the prisoners who tried to escape from the courtroom the other day.”

“Yes, I know. What did she say?” Marc asked quickly. “Did you talk to her?”

“No. Marguerite told me. She said this Andy Roberts said she wants to talk to you and she'll call you again tomorrow or the next day for sure. She said she was moving around so you couldn't call her.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Just that she needed some protection; she didn't do what they're accusing her of. Then she started in about fair trials and fascist systems. So Marguerite told her to talk to you.”

“Okay. We'll be back shortly,” said Marc. “First, I want to go to Mrs. Wainwright's apartment for a few minutes. While we're there, you call Marguerite and tell her to call me at Mrs. Wainwright's.”

“Okay.”

Marc got into the passenger seat of the car.

“Wainwright's?”

“Yes,” said Marc. “Let's ask her about those phone calls with her husband.”

“Didn't your wife say she wanted to come along on this one to meet Mrs. Wainwright?” Franco was smiling. “Shouldn't we call her?”

“Are you kidding? That's exactly why I'm doing this now while she's busy in school. This case is complicated enough without getting involved with jealous women.”

Franco laughed as he headed the car uptown.

“Of course Zack didn't stay over the night Bob was killed,” Toni Wainwright insisted. She was dressed in slacks and a sweater, sitting on the couch in her library.

“Are you sure of that?” asked Marc. He and Franco were sitting in chairs opposite her. Franco had already called Marguerite with the message about Andy Roberts.

“Yes, I'm sure. Why are you asking that?”

“Did you have any phone calls from your husband before he came over that night?” Marc pressed.

“No.” She looked at Marc, puzzled.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure. Why are you asking these questions?”

“Because we know that your husband did, in fact, call here three times before he came over.”

“He called? Here? That's ridiculous,” said Toni Wainwright. “Why wouldn't I have told you that if it had, in fact, happened?”

“It did happen,” Marc said flatly.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Franco, get the tape recorder,” Marc said.

Franco rose and walked out to the vestibule where he had left the portable tape recorder.

“What is this?” Toni asked. She looked from Marc to Franco who came back into the library carrying the recorder.

“I'm going to let you listen to the tapes of three conversations you had the night your husband was killed,” said Marc. “All of them were before he came over here.”

“You're kidding.”

Marc motioned for Franco to begin.

Franco fitted a copy tape on the machine—the original was in Marc's office safe—then pressed a button, starting the tape. Marc watched Toni Wainwright as she listened to herself and her late husband. She was absolutely stunned, listening, her eyes fixed on the tape as it turned.

“Incredible,” she said. “Where did you get those?”

“That is you and your husband speaking, isn't it?” Marc asked.

“Of course it is. Where did you get them?”

“I'll explain all of that in a little while,” said Marc.

“No, tell me now,” she insisted. “It's incredible.”

“I don't want to say anything until I'm absolutely sure about everything,” said Marc.

“Sure about what?”

“It won't be more than one day before I'm able to tell you everything,” said Marc. “Please trust me and have patience.”

“I do. I do trust you, that is. I haven't much patience. I want to know everything. That's just wild,” Toni exclaimed. “I don't even remember having those conversations. My God!”

“May I suggest, most respectfully,” Marc said lightly, “that the reason you don't remember is that you were a little in your cups at the time?”

“Boy, you better believe I must have been,” she laughed. “So was Bob. We sound ridiculous. Where did you get those tapes?”

“Let me just keep that to myself for a little while longer. I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“You're fantastic,” she said to Marc. She smiled warmly.

“It was really Franco and my wife who brought all of this about,” Marc said.

Toni Wainwright turned to Franco, looking into his face. “You fooled me,” she said. “I'm sorry I was so rotten.”

“That's okay,” said Franco, smiling, now embarrassed.

“You sure you don't remember having those conversations?” asked Marc.

“Absolutely not.”

“I want you to realize, however, that these conversations could indicate quite a different situation as to your culpability, your guilt, in the death of your husband,” said Marc.

“What do you mean?” She was puzzled. “You mean … what do you mean?”

“It might be said that you knew he was coming over. It wasn't a surprise, and you set up an ambush for him.”

“I don't even remember those conversations,” she protested.

“Being intoxicated does not necessarily excuse homicide.”

“I swear to you, I didn't know I had those conversations with Bob. I didn't know he was coming here until he kicked in the door. You saw the door shattered. If I was going to ambush him, would I make him break down the door first?”

“I don't think you ambushed him,” smiled Marc. “I think I know the answer. Let me ask you again. Are you sure now that Zack Lord didn't stay over with you the night your husband was killed, leaving right after the shooting?”

“Right now, I'm not sure about anything.”

33

Wednesday, September 20, 2:40
P.M.

“How can you just sit there so calm?” asked Franco as he drove toward the Association of the Bar building.

Maria was seated quietly in the back seat.

“I mean with this whole Wainwright case coming to a head, and expecting a call from this Andy Roberts girl,” Franco continued, “how can you just sit there and have me drive you to this interview with the judges' Committee?”

“You don't even want to be a judge,” Maria chimed in from the rear.

“First of all, I told George Tishler I'd go to the meeting of the committee. It's the last one,” replied Marc. “And in the second place, Zack Lord doesn't know that we really suspect him, so he feels reasonably safe. He's not going to run away at this point and create suspicion about himself. And, in the third place, we don't even know if Andy Roberts will call. This Committee interview is only going to take half an hour anyway.”

“Then can we go to see that creep Zack Lord?” Maria asked anxiously.

“Right after this interview, okay?”

“Okay,” Maria agreed reluctantly. “But don't talk too much in there. Make it a fast one.”

Franco nodded in agreement.

Marc laughed. “Okay.”

The Joint Judiciary and Criminal Courts Committees of the Association of the Bar of the City of New York were now in session. It was the usual committee setup—the large oval table with perhaps twenty-five people seated about it. All of them were looking toward Marc, who was seated next to the Committee Chairman at the head of the table.

“Mister Conte, we understand that you represent several clients who are connected with organized crime?” asked one young man with dark hair and gold wire-framed glasses seated near the far end of the table.

“Is that a question?” Marc asked. Suddenly his mind resolved to lay it right on the line, to hammer the questions and questioners as hard as they hoped to hammer him.

The young man glanced across the table at others on the Committee. “Yes. I'd like to know about your practice.”

“Without getting into a debate on the subject of organized crime,” said Marc, “I have and still do represent many people accused of crime. Most of them are not in any fashion connected with what is popularly categorized as organized crime. Many of the people I represent are indigent. I am assigned by the court to represent them, and paid by the court. Of all my clients, and I handle literally hundreds each year, I would say less than five per cent could in any fashion be said to be involved with what you refer to as organized crime.”

“Let me put it another way,” the man with the wire glasses said. “Have you represented people who are members of the Italian-American Freedom Council?”

Marc wondered why he had let George Tishler convince him to go through this sandbagging interview. They didn't want answers, they already were briefed on his practice and his clients. They were just going through the motions to get this all on the table. It was a setup.

“Yes,” Marc answered.

“Are you a member of the Italian-American Council yourself?” asked another voice from the table.

“No,” Marc replied in the direction of the voice.

“Have you ever picketed with the Italian-American Council?” asked the same voice.

“No.”

“I hope you don't think that there's anything wrong with the Italian-American Freedom Council picketing,” said the questioner hurriedly. “I didn't intend to imply that.”

“No,” assured the Chairman. “I don't think, Mister Gorin, that your question in any fashion suggested that there was any impropriety in that organization—or any organization—picketing and expressing its opinions pursuant to the First Amendment.”

“Do you think that there's anything wrong with the Italian-American Freedom Council picketing?” asked the same inquisitor.

“I think it's perfectly proper, pursuant to the Constitution of the United States, for any person or organization to exercise his, or her or its, absolute right to freedom of expression.
Even a lawyer
.”

The Committee was silent momentarily.

“You mentioned before that you didn't want to get into a discussion about organized crime. Why not?” asked a woman two seats away from Marc.

“Not that I don't wish to discuss it, ma'am,” replied Marc. “I'd be please to, if you wish. Just that my view of organized crime, and the view often and popularly expressed in newspapers and other news media seems to be somewhat at odds.”

“How's that?” asked the woman.

“It's merely that I do not accept the very dramatic concept of a nationwide, monolithic, criminal semi-government engaged in a single, nationwide criminal enterprise. I suggest rather that there are gangs, perhaps, loosely known to each other, but almost invariably independent of, even in competition with, each other. I should add that many gangs are Italian, so you don't think I'm trying to bend over backward to defend my position, because I'm Italian. There are also Jewish gangs, Irish gangs, Black gangs. Gangs of every nationality, just as there are criminals of every nationality.”

“How do you know all of this about organized crime?” asked an elderly man.

“Studying the findings and treatises of penologists and criminologists, professional intellectual investigators, professors in universities and the like,” replied Marc. “I do this to keep up with newer and more proper treatment of accused and convicted individuals. I have also seen and experienced many things through people I have represented. I might add that every penologist I have read agrees with my concept of organized crime. That the newspapers, which are also aware of the actual facts, print dramatic but unfounded pap is almost a crime in itself.”

“You say you draw your knowledge in part from your own personal experience?” asked another voice down the table. Marc couldn't see who asked the question.

“My experience as a defense counsel only,” said Marc carefully. “I have no other knowledge or experience on the subject.”

“You think, therefore, that this problem of organized crime is magnified out of proportion by the press?” asked another woman's voice.

“Not only the press,” replied Marc. “The press is fed its information, in part, by the public relations departments of law enforcement agencies. And the real tragedy is that this misrepresentation detracts funds and attention from the real problems, the real causes of crime, the archaic penal system, the inepititude of judges, the medieval approach to criminal justice, the apathy of the public. I'd say the proportion of attention given organized crime via newspapers and the like is wasteful. Do you want to know what I believe the real problems are?” Marc inquired.

“I'd like to ask something before we change the subject,” asked the man called Gorin.