Hostile Witness (11 page)

BY THE TIME I GOT
to the Great Hall, the five uniformed officers and the man in the tan raincoat were already there, surrounded by a mob of tuxedos and gowns. The man in the raincoat was an African-American. He wore thick round glasses, a navy suit, a red tie, and his shoes were black and clunky. I recognized the uniform, if not the man. He stepped right through the crowd until he reached Jimmy Moore at its center.

“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Moore.

Two officers immediately moved to either side of Jimmy. The man in the raincoat waved a document and said in a weary but precise voice, “James Douglas Moore and Chester Concannon, I am here on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania with warrants for your arrests.”

That brought a shocked little babble from the crowd.

One of the officers, a broad-shouldered woman, said to Moore, “Put your hands behind your back, sir.” She had the voice of a gym teacher urging her girls up the hanging ropes.

“This is a travesty,” shouted Moore. “I am being persecuted.”

“Hands behind your back, sir,” said the woman.

Concannon, who was standing at the rear of the crowd with Veronica, tried to back away but a young blond officer grabbed his arm and another officer, older, with a serious
face, put a hand on Chet’s shoulder. “Hands behind your back, please, Mr. Concannon,” said the older officer. His serious face squeezed itself in embarrassment as he brought out his handcuffs. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to cuff you. I have orders.”

“I’m Mr. Concannon’s lawyer,” I said after I had made my way to my client through the crowd. “By whose orders is he being cuffed?”

The officer nodded at the African-American man in the raincoat. “Assistant District Attorney K. Lawrence Slocum.”

Prescott cut through the crowd and took hold of Slocum’s arm. “What is this about, Larry?” he said, his voice sharpened to a fine edge.

Slocum looked down at his arm until Prescott let go. “We’re making an arrest.”

“I’m acting as Councilman Moore’s attorney. You tell me what is happening, immediately, or I’ll slap a civil suit against the state and city before you leave the Parkway.”

“Stay out of our way, Bill,” said Slocum calmly, “until the suspects are taken into custody.”

“Hands behind your back,” said the woman officer as she took hold of Moore’s arm, turned him to the side, and leaned him forward.

“James Moore and Chester Concannon,” said Slocum as soon as the men were cuffed. “You are both under arrest for the murder of Zachariah Bissonette.”

I looked at Concannon, whose head was down and whose arms were pinned behind his back. His eyes darted to and fro like minnows as the young blond officer frisked him.

“Bissonette?” I said to Concannon. “I thought he was in a coma.”

“Not anymore, sir,” said the officer with the embarrassed, serious face. “He died at eight-o-two this evening at Pennsylvania Hospital. Too bad, too. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“But a butcher in the field,” said the young officer.

“I didn’t do anything,” said an angry Concannon. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”

“Shut up, Chester,” I said sharply. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Give your name, your address, your Social Security number, and nothing else. We will get you out of jail and we will take it from there, but you keep your mouth shut.”

His lips twitched, but he managed to calm himself. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you understand what I told you?”

“Yes.”

“You just hang on,” I said. “We’ll get you out.”

Flashes popped as the society photographers clicked away, thrilled at something more exciting than a spilled glass of Pinot Chardonnay to photograph on their beat. “Look this way Councilman,” one shouted as Moore and Concannon were led to the museum doors, “and be sure to give us a smile.” Old habits, I guess, die hard.

“Enjoy yourselves,” shouted Moore to the throng of gawking swells. “Continue the festivities. My lawyer will clear up this little misunderstanding.” He started to say something else, but before he could get it out he and Concannon were whisked out the doors and down the front steps to the waiting police cars. They were barely out the door when the band started up and the whirl of conversation turned gay again. No reason to let a silly little thing like a murder arrest get in the way of a party.

I followed Slocum out the doors to learn what exactly would be happening to my client. Assistant District Attorney K. Lawrence Slocum stopped between two columns right outside the entrance and watched with Prescott as the suspects were led down the steps and around the fountain to the cars. He was bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“I’m surprised at you, Larry,” said Prescott as we
watched the woman officer put her hand on Moore’s head and press it down so it wouldn’t hit the roof as she placed him into the back seat of one of the cars. “I would have expected you to find a more public place for the arrest.”

“You know how it is, Bill. The Eagles were out of town this week.”

“I’m Victor Carl,” I said. “I’m representing Chester Concannon.”

“What can I do for you, Carl?”

“Tell us when we can bail out our clients.”

“We’ll arraign them at the Roundhouse right away.”

“Who’s the judge there this evening?” asked Prescott.

“Does it matter?” said Slocum. “We’ll ask to hold them without bail but whatever judge we get probably owes his seat to Moore and will set a half a million at ten percent. For Concannon too.”

“And where do you think they are going?” asked Prescott.

“This is a homicide here,” said Slocum in all his weary righteousness, the jaw muscles beneath his smooth dark skin working. “A death penalty case. They shouldn’t walk with just fifty thousand down.”

“Do you have anything more on them than the U.S. Attorney?” I asked.

“They got everything but the tapes from us in the first place,” said Slocum. He turned his head and spat onto the step below Prescott. “But Eggert’s not one to wait his turn.”

“I assume you notified the press at the Roundhouse,” said Prescott.

“They’ll be waiting.”

“You’ve always been a hound, Larry,” said Prescott.

“A city councilman being arraigned in night court. Front page of the
Daily News,
don’t you think?” said Slocum. “That’s why I had them cuffed. Looks better on page one.”

“You missed your calling,” said Prescott.

“Maybe so,” said Slocum, taking off his thick glasses to wipe the lenses with his tie. “But I’d rather make news than report it.”

The cop with the serious face climbed up the steps to Slocum. “We’re all set.”

“You read them their rights?”

“Word for word.”

“Well, gentlemen, it was a pleasure,” said Slocum. “Want a ride to the Roundhouse?”

“We’ll take the limo,” said Prescott. “Better scotch in the back seat.”

“Oh man,” said Slocum, shaking his head as he walked slowly down the steps to the police cars waiting for him, their engines running, their lights still flashing. “I can’t wait for private practice.”

“Is he any good?” I asked Prescott as Slocum ducked into one of the cars and all three pulled back around the museum.

“The best they have,” he said. “Let’s get our clients out of jail. Chuckie will prepare a statement for the press.”

“Concannon was a little unraveled,” I said.

“He’ll get over it. I’ll tell you what’s really unraveling. The federal case. Eggert had always hoped that Bissonette would revive and finger Jimmy. That’s one of the reasons he wanted to delay everything. Now there’s one less witness to worry about.”

“So who do you think actually did kill Bissonette?” I asked offhandedly.

He looked at me with his cold blue eyes squinted sternly for a moment and then eased his face into a paternal smile. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said.

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE
was in a narrow, dirty building sandwiched between two glass skyscrapers. Lawyers with offices in the skyscrapers bustled in and out of the revolving doors, the tassels on their loafers swishing, their Rolexes flashing as they hailed the cabs lined up on the street, the drivers all hoping for that apocryphal fare to the airport. Lawyers from the DA’s office passed out of their filthy lobby in weary navy blue waves, pushing shopping carts full of their day’s files, girded for battle in the city’s grimed and undermanned courtrooms. There was about this throng of city attorneys the air of a soon-to-be-defeated army pushing forward only because any avenue of retreat had been cut off.

“ADA Slocum,” I said to the receptionist in the lobby, a flabby-faced woman with wrinkles around her eyes and the tan stains of a smoker between the first two fingers of her right hand. She was ensconced behind a thick wall of Plexiglas with only a circle of airholes for her to speak through. “He’s expecting me. Victor Carl.”

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a dirty row of ruined plastic chairs out of some high school auditorium. I chose to stand. With the lobby’s dim light and its general filthiness, I felt like I was in a subway station. That receptionist, that lobby, it was all quite a leap down from Talbott, Kittredge and Chase.

A few minutes later the elevator opened and a thin young woman stepped out while still holding the door.

“Mr. Carl?” she said.

We stopped at the fifth floor. On the way to Slocum’s office the woman led me past a maze of secretarial desks and cubicles, through the frenzied sounds of drastically overworked assistant district attorneys. What could have possessed them to take such a job, I wondered. They started at less than thirty grand, they worked killer hours pleading with cops and yelling at witnesses on the phone late into the evening, sending out subpoenas that were ignored, glancing at piles of files the night before the day they had to try them. And when it was time to leave the office for private practice it was tough to find a job other than hustling for cases in the city’s criminal courts. With my spirits buoyed by the grand possibilities that Prescott was promising, I could only feel pity.

Slocum was in his shirtsleeves, leaning back in his chair, his feet resting on his desk as he talked on the phone. His shirt cuffs were rolled up, revealing dark and powerful forearms. Behind his desk were two flags on posts, one the Stars and Stripes, one sky blue and mustard with gold markings, which was the city’s flag. Slocum’s office was cramped with boxes and file cabinets and large posterboard exhibits leaning against the walls, a map of one of the city’s parks, a diagram of an apartment with the outline of a sprawled body in the living room, a photograph of a woman with bruising around her face. The walls were covered with a cheap and fraying paneling. One of Slocum’s shoes had a hole in the sole. Slocum was talking to his car repair guy, arguing over what was required for his car to pass inspection.

“That’s got to be the biggest racket going,” said Slocum after hanging up the phone. “I bring in my car for a thirty-dollar inspection and end up paying five hundred dollars for a new exhaust system in order to pass. Isn’t there a law?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You’re the expert.”

“I told my mechanic once I was going to put an undercover unit on his tail. He laughed at me. Said it didn’t matter how many plainclothes cops came into his shop, it was still going to cost me three-fifty for a brake job. He told me what I really needed was a new car. That was four years ago.”

“Maybe your mechanic’s right,” I said. “Judging by the sole of your shoe you do too much walking.”

He laughed. “The real trick is sitting at the counsel table so the jury can see the bottom of my shoes. Jurors like their public prosecutors a little ragged around the edges. It adds to our sincerity. And they don’t want to think they’re paying us too much. If I hadn’t worn it through naturally I’d have filed a hole in there by now. So what do you need, Carl?”

“You know I represent Chester Concannon.”

“Sure,” he said, webbing his hands behind his head. “You took Pete McCrae’s spot. Too bad about him, huh?” A broad smile hid his evident grief.

“On Concannon’s behalf,” I said, “I’m looking into the Bissonette murder.” Prescott had said it didn’t really matter who killed Zack Bissonette, but I couldn’t agree. My client had been accused of killing that man and it was my job to do what I could to defend him. Investigating Bissonette’s murder might not have been in strict accordance with my client’s orders, sure, but I didn’t figure I was risking much by snooping around. If it turned up nothing, no one would ever need to know, and if it turned up something, well, maybe I’d be a hero. So the night before, standing in my tuxedo in the Roundhouse courtroom, with derelicts staring down at me from the glass-enclosed bleachers up above, I had pulled Slocum aside for a few seconds while the defendants were in the lockup and Prescott was out raising bail and I had set up this meeting.

“Your federal trial starts in a week and a half,” said
Slocum. “My advice, Carl? Go back to your office and finish preparing for that trial. This will keep.”

“My team’s working on the federal case,” I said.

“How many people in your office?”

“Two.”

“I thought so,” he said with a scornful laugh. “Make a discovery request and I’ll consider it in due time.”

“I don’t have due time. I was hoping I could get something right now.”

He dropped his feet from the desk and leaned forward, his hands now clasped angelically before him. He smiled a broad smile and his eyes, even through his thick round glasses, were glistening. “It’s a sad thing how often in this life our hopes go unfulfilled.”

My eyes started watering as he continued to flash that broad, dashing smile and for an instant I didn’t know what to do so I did what I sometimes do when I don’t know what to do, I laughed, and he laughed with me and we both laughed together, laughed loud and long, laughed hysterically at how he had all the power over me at this meeting and could send me home with nothing if he chose and it looked like he was choosing exactly that. We laughed so hard that he had to take off his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes and I pressed the palms of my hands into my own eyes as if I could squeeze back the water and we laughed some more at how wildly we were laughing. We let our laughter gear down into guffaws and into chuckles until finally we were only shaking our heads in amazement at how hard we had laughed before. And then I stopped even chuckling when I realized there was nothing funny about it.

“So,” I said. “What about it? Am I going to get some help?”

“File your motions,” he said. “The discovery judge should get to them maybe sometime next month.” He started laughing again, but this time I didn’t join in. Polite
requests obviously weren’t going to work. I could think of only one gambit, weak though it was, that might.

“If I have to file the motions,” I said, “I’ll file the motions, but that will take a lot of time.”

“Which you don’t have. You agreed to the trial date, didn’t you?”

“I agreed, but I’ll tell the judge I’m not getting the cooperation I expected and I need more time. He’ll chew the hell out of me.”

“That he will.”

“But then he’ll give it to me.”

“Prescott will love that,” said Slocum.

“No, Prescott won’t be happy,” I said with a shrug. “But you know who will be thrilled?”

“Who?”

“Your buddy Marshall Eggert, who’s anxious as hell for some sort of delay because he needs more time to prepare for the biggest trial of his career as a federal prosecutor and he’s terrified of blowing it.”

As soon as I said Eggert’s name any remnant of Slocum’s smile fled from his face. “That skinny little bastard,” said Slocum. “I was good to go on the attempted murder charges when he got the Attorney General herself to convince the DA to let the feds try Moore first on his racketeering crap. Except for that your clients are scumballs, I’d like nothing better than to see him shoot a blank.” He stopped talking for a moment and gave me a strange look. It was a strange look coming from him because I sensed it was almost a look of respect. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“I suspected,” I said. “He seems to be concerned that there’s a lot of money he can’t account for, money that seems to have disappeared.”

“Only a quarter million,” said Slocum. “But Eggert’s concerned about more than just that. The murder evidence is pretty tight but there are other holes that he hasn’t yet
filled and he knows it. They overreached in their indictment.” He rubbed his mouth for a moment and then said, “I assume, Carl, that you are now making a formal discovery request.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“And in view of extenuating circumstances you are seeking to receive the information immediately or the prosecution of a major racketeering case will be delayed, inconveniencing the court and all parties, including the Assistant United States Attorney, and delaying the swift and sure execution of justice.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“And these extenuating circumstances will be detailed in a letter that will be hand-delivered to this office first thing tomorrow morning along with a formal petition.”

“My secretary is typing it up this very instant,” I said.

“I’ll check upstairs and let you know by early tomorrow if I can free up a detective to sign out the evidence.” He rubbed his palm across his mouth again. “You know, Carl, my guess is you’re in way over your head.”

“Most likely,” I said.

“We are not lifeguards in this office,” he said. “Whatever trouble you get into, don’t be looking to us for help. My only goal here is to make sure that Jimmy Moore and Chet Concannon pay the steepest possible price for killing that man.”

“I understand,” I said.

“That’s good, Carl. You see, if I have to use you for a stepping stone as you flail about in the water, I don’t want you thinking you’ll get anything more from me than the bottom of my shoe on your face.”