Hostile Witness (22 page)

I had just left the front door of my apartment building the next morning, heading for the Market Street subway to take me to the courthouse, my body still suffused with the soft elation of relief, when the rear window of a parked car exploded in front of my face.

IT WAS A HATCHBACK,
Japanese I think, and I was just in front of it when the rear window shattered into a constellation of diamonds that hung in the air for a brilliant incandescent second before falling. It was such a startlingly pretty sight that I didn’t move, just stared at the now jagged opening yawning from the back of the car and the sparkles spinning on the pitted asphalt. Then I saw someone across the street pointing down an alley and a man in front of me dropping to the ground, like a soldier under ambush, and I realized that the window hadn’t spontaneously exploded of its own accord but had been shot out in front of me. That’s when I dropped to the ground too.

There were no more shots. There were the sounds of footfalls and a car stopping suddenly and more footfalls and people shouting, but no more shots. By the time I had picked myself off the sidewalk a crowd had formed and a policeman was coming over to look at the damage and to ask his questions. There was a group of us now, the man I had seen hit the ground, the man who had seen someone run away and had been pointing across the street, an old woman from my building, out for a morning walk with her purebred dachshund, the dachshund barking rabidly, the woman laughing wildly. I had seen nothing but the explosion of the window and so I wasn’t much help, but the officer took down my name and address just the same.

“What do you think it was?” asked the pointer.

“Probably just some random shooting,” said the cop, a peach-fuzzed kid with a holster and an attitude, trying to speak over the dachshund’s barks. “Happens all the time.”

“In Beirut maybe,” said a passerby.

The dachshund growled into my crotch.

“Quiet, Oscar,” said the dog woman, no longer laughing, giving her dog a tug on the leash. The dog sniffed my ankle and growled again.

“Maybe someone was trying to damage the car?” said another man in a tan raincoat.

“That’s possible,” said the officer, who for the first time took note of the car’s license plate. “Anyone know who owns this vehicle?”

No one knew, so he called in the license plate on the portable radio attached to his belt.

“All right now,” he said as he was waiting for a response. “I have your names. Let’s get on our way.”

I left, and took some comfort in the officer’s nonchalance, but not too much. I stepped quickly to the subway. I took a seat in the corner of the first car and hid myself behind a newspaper. Back on the street I was careful to stay within the bosom of the crowd on my way to the metal detectors in the lobby of the Federal Courthouse. And all the time I couldn’t help but carry with me, along with briefcase and raincoat, the suspicion that the shot had not been random or aimed at the car, but fired at me. Oh yes, I was not completely blind. I could feel the danger rising about me, from the threatening Chuckie Lamb, from the paranoid Norvel Goodwin, from my new and fervent relationship with Veronica, from Jimmy if he ever found out about the two of us, from Prescott and the power he could use to break me, from the poker playing gangsters with murder in their eyes and full houses in their hands, from the shadowy Raffaello.

This I knew about myself: I was not the most courageous of men. I was comfortable with that fact. I left the
heroics to those who were paid for it, policemen, Brinks guards, inside linebackers, paparazzi. That’s one of the reasons I was attracted to the law, I guess. By its very nature the law is a hedge, boom or bust, mergers or bankruptcies, there is always work. And so the shot had only confirmed for me the decision of the night before, confirmed it in a way that was more than intellectual, in a way that was visceral. And whether the bullet was aimed at me or not was no matter; I had learned the lesson of the lead. Whatever was to come, whatever humiliation, whatever ugliness, whatever betrayal, I would do nothing to stop it. My instructions were to follow along, and follow along I would. Whatever you want, Mr. Prescott, sir, you can count on me.

Outside the courtroom that morning I was talking to Beth about my opening statement when we were approached by one of the Talbott, Kittredge coterie working with Prescott. It was the blond bland man with the perfect nose who had sneered at Morris the day before. His name was Bert or Bart, something harsh and efficient. I knew nothing about him, really, didn’t know whether he had a family, a child, whether he read poetry or Proust, whether he felt deeply for the disadvantaged or whether the pains in the world had turned his viewpoint cynical and his humor wry. But what I did know was that he held a Harvard law degree and I didn’t, that he had the job I wanted, that he owned the future of which I had dreamed, and for all of that I hated him.

“Bill asked me to give you this,” he said, reaching into his shiny silver case and pulling out a sheet of paper with a few lines printed out in bold capital letters.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s your opening,” he said.

“We prepared an opening,” Beth told him, her voice showing incredulity at his nervy assumption that we weren’t ready.

After the poker game I had spent most of the night practicing my delivery of a lengthy and blistering attack on the government’s case against Concannon. It had been written primarily by Beth, so I knew it was quality. Beth’s opening highlighted the gaps in the case against Concannon: There were no tapes capturing Concannon’s voice, no pieces of physical evidence directly involving him in any of the transactions, no photographs showing him with Ruffing or Bissonette. The case against Concannon would depend solely on the testimony of Ruffing and certain financial records from CUP, and Beth had laid out a viciously effective argument against Ruffing’s credibility. I understood that I would be following Prescott’s lead in every sense, but I still expected that I would be saying at least something of my own to the jurors.

“We’re sure that it’s a fine argument,” said Bert or Bart. “But what we want you to do is to give the opening we have prepared for you.”

“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, grabbing the paper from my hand.

“I did,” he said, his chest puffing out slightly. “Bill looked it over, discussed it with the jury expert, made a few changes, and decided you should go with it.”

“Is that what he decided?” I said.

“That’s what we decided.”

“I think we’ll stay with what we worked up already,” said Beth.

“I was told you were with the program, Vic,” he said to me, ignoring Beth. “That you wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“What’s your name?” Beth asked.

“Brett Farber. Brett with two t’s.”

“Well, Brett with two t’s,” she said. “The only program we’re with is our client’s and as best I can tell, from a quick look through this little statement of yours, it’s a piece of shit.”

Brett didn’t pull back from the attack like I would have.
Instead he brought out his sneer and leaned into me until I could smell the coffee in his breath and he said, “Shit or not, Vic, your client approved it and it is what you are going to give.”

Before Beth could reply he had turned on his heels and was gone.

Fucking Brett with two t’s, I thought as I watched his back disappear into the courtroom. Maybe there was a reason other than luck that he was an up-and-comer with Talbott, Kittredge and I was not.

“Such a pleasant young boy,” said Beth. “His mother must be so proud. So tell me, Victor, how does it feel to have assholes like William Prescott and Brett with two t’s as your colleagues?”

“For two-fifty an hour I’d sleep with an orangutan,” I said. “This is only slightly worse.”

“What are you going to do?”

I took the piece of paper from her and read it quickly, eight sentences typed in bold capital letters so that I wouldn’t stumble as I read it to the jury. “What I’m going to do,” I said, “is discuss it with my client and then, Beth dear, I’m going to suck it up.”

“You suck it up any more, Victor, you’re going to start looking like a chipmunk.”

I hadn’t told her about the shattered hatchback window and didn’t intend to, nor about Veronica, nor about Chuckie’s call, nor about Norvel Goodwin, nor about my disastrous poker game. If there was danger to be ducked, it was mine and I would do the ducking. So all I did, as she looked at me with disappointment flashing in her sharp, pretty eyes, was shrug.

When I sat down at the defense table I showed the paper with the eight sentences to Concannon. “Is this what you want me to give as an opening?”

“Is that what Prescott showed me last night?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Is it a problem?”

“It’s a big fat zero,” I said. “It does nothing.”

“The way he explained it to me is that we should make my role in the deal, the arrangements, everything, seem as small as possible.”

“Eggert’s not going to let the jury forget you’re on trial.”

“If that’s what Prescott wants you to give, then give it.”

“You know I checked it out, about Bissonette and Raffaello’s daughter,” I said. “It appears to be on the up.”

“Victor, Victor,” he said, his voice slightly scolding. “You were supposed to stop your interfering.”

“Consider it stopped,” I said just as the door behind the judge’s bench opened and the court clerk stood to start the trial. “From here on in I’m Chuckie Lamb’s mannequin.”

“All rise,” said the clerk as the judge climbed the steps to the bench.

We all rose.

“ANY CRIME IS A
betrayal of the trust we have in each other, but when it is a public official who commits the crime, an official who asked for our vote and swore an oath to serve the public, the betrayal is particularly cruel.”

Eggert very slowly walked over to the defense table until he was directly opposite the defendants. He was giving his opening to the rapt jurors, his reedy voice rising in indignation. He pointed at Jimmy, his finger close enough to the councilman’s face that Jimmy could have bitten it off if he wanted to, and the moment it flashed there, like a white scimitar, that’s exactly what it looked like Jimmy would do. Then he recovered control and the look of deep sobriety returned. Through it all, his eyes never wavered from Eggert’s; if there was to be a staredown, it would be Eggert who blinked first. In the front row of the public benches, three different artists were furiously sketching the moment, Eggert’s straight back, his accusing finger, the bunched muscles in Jimmy Moore’s neck.

“James Douglas Moore is a city councilman, a public official placed into office by the people of this city who looked to him to promote the interests of all of Philadelphia, not just his own. The first requirement of his office was honesty, and that was the first thing he threw out the window. The evidence will show, ladies and gentlemen, that Jimmy Moore used his office to extort money, and when his extortion plan went awry he resorted to
threats, which you will hear on tapes legally obtained by the government, he resorted to arson, and he resorted to murder. Murder, ladies and gentlemen, the murder of Zachariah Bissonette, the former ballplayer, who stood up for what was right and refused to be blackmailed. Jimmy Moore took a baseball bat and battered Bissonette so badly he was in a coma for five months, never to open his eyes, to see the beauty of the day, to look into the faces of his loving family, never to recover before he died. That is how Jimmy Moore observed the public trust. And we’ll show you where the money went, how it was funneled through his political action committee, how a chunk of it never even got to the committee but was instead skimmed off for his own personal use, how Jimmy Moore used his office to grab enough money so he could ride around the city in a big black limousine and drink champagne and gamble in the casinos along the Boardwalk. That’s what the evidence will show.”

Eggert moved on to Concannon and again the finger of the prosecution pointed.

“Chester Concannon is Jimmy Moore’s chief aide, a public servant whose duty was to help the councilman achieve his legitimate goals as a public official. But instead of looking out for the interests of the people of Philadelphia, Concannon aided the councilman in each of his extortion schemes. Concannon was the go-between, the bagman, the fellow to see if you wanted the councilman on your side. Chester Concannon took his share of the lucre ripped out of the skin of the people of this city, and Concannon was with Jimmy Moore the night Bissonette was battered with that baseball bat into complete and unwavering unconsciousness.”

When he was finished accusing the defendants he detailed the elements of the crime of racketeering that he would prove, going over what each witness would say and how it would all come together to show so clear a pattern
of illegal conduct that the jury would be forced to convict. Then he leaned over the defense table and stared, first at Jimmy Moore, then at Chester Concannon. “At the end of this trial, I’m going to come back to you and ask for a guilty verdict on all the counts. And instead of the money or the political power or the black limousines and champagne nights and extravagant evenings in Atlantic City, I’m going to ask you to give this corrupt councilman and his corrupt aide all that they truly deserve.” With a final look at the defendants, a look filled with all the weary disgust he could muster, Eggert walked slowly to the prosecution table and sat down.

Prescott didn’t jump up to follow Eggert as most lawyers would. He remained seated, his head down dramatically. Judge Gimbel, still at work on whatever opinion he was drafting for some other case, didn’t seem to notice the delay and just kept writing. The crowd in the courtroom stirred, one of the jurors coughed, Prescott remained seated.

“It is at a time like this,” said Prescott finally, while still seated at the defense table, “it is in a trial like this that the genius of the jury system shines through.”

With a great sigh, Prescott stood, his shoulder slightly bent, his head shaking sadly. He looked down solemnly as he spoke and the whole effect was of a profound disappointment.

“My client Jimmy Moore is a politician who is gaining power in this city because he practices the politics of inclusion. His goal is to fight the scourge of drugs, a scourge that has taken the life of his daughter, his only child. The youth home he founded is a national leader in drug treatment for the young. And in pursuit of this noble goal he has brought together all the people of this city, no matter their race, no matter their religion, no matter their economic status, whether they are homeless or HIV infected or children subject to the worst abuses. His political action
committee, Citizens for a United Philadelphia, or CUP, has in the last two years spent over half a million dollars informing citizens of their rights and registering the unregistered. His committee has added two hundred thousand voters to the city’s polls. And as Jimmy Moore’s influence grows, so does the power of his opposition.”

Prescott turned to look at the jury and then slowly walked from behind the defense table to a position directly behind Eggert, who was leaning forward in his seat.

“There are powerful men in this city who feel threatened by the inclusive coalition being forged by Jimmy Moore. Fat cats and politicos who want to keep it all for themselves and are not willing to open the system to those they have been able to ignore. Men with enough power that they can use the United States Attorney’s Office as a tool for their political designs.

“Now the President of the United States can sweep into town and hold a fund-raiser and leave with a million dollars in his pocket and that is politics as usual. But when Jimmy Moore goes about raising money for his program of healing, it is extortion. Politics has become money, the need to register voters, the need to put up posters, the need to buy buttons and bumper stickers and, most important, the need to produce and put on television commercials. That’s why the President takes his cool million when he visits and it is why Jimmy Moore raises money from those like the businessmen who were seeking his help here. Politics is money, and it may not be pretty and it may not be right and it may not be what we would choose if we were starting over, but that’s what it is. And Jimmy Moore was doing nothing more here than any politician ever does as he tries to raise the money to run for office.

“So if Jimmy Moore was doing just what every other politician does, why is he on trial? As you listen to the evidence, as you analyze the government’s case, that’s the question you have to ask yourselves. If Jimmy Moore was
a business-as-usual politician, not ruffling the feathers of the powerful men who can control a United States Attorney’s Office, would he be on trial? The answer, at the end of this case, will be a resounding no. You examine the evidence, you figure out what was really going on here, you decide who actually committed the crimes alleged by the government. You decide if the government is seeking justice or is seeking to pull out a political thorn in the side of the status quo. You look it all over very carefully, and in the end you’ll decide to acquit Jimmy Moore and let him continue in his good work.”

It was my turn now, my chance to speak to the jury on behalf of my client. In front of me was a yellow legal pad with the lengthy and impassioned opening argument Beth had drafted and I had rehearsed the night before. But as I rose, I left it on the table. In my hand was a single white sheet. On it was written the following little speech:

I glanced at Prescott, who was jotting down notes upon his legal pad, purposefully avoiding my gaze. I glanced at
Concannon, who was staring at his hands clasped together on the table. I twisted to look at the audience. The courtroom was packed. Beth was frowning at me. Chuckie Lamb was pinching his lips together as he shook his head. In the aisle I saw Herm Finklebaum, the toy king of 44th Street, smiling at me with encouragement. I walked to a spot just in front of the jury box, surveyed the jurors one by one, and then read the anemic piece-of-shit opening that had been written for me by Brett with two t’s.

When I sat down I was actually embarrassed.

The first witness was Special Agent Stemkowski, the WWF reject sitting with Eggert at the prosecution table. For a bruiser Stemkowski was very well spoken, calm, and deliberate, able to keep a straight face as he used phrases like “I exited the vehicle” and “I effected implementation of the interception of Mr. Ruffing’s phone conversations.” He wore a camel-colored jacket, a white shirt, a calm blue tie. On his thick pinky he wore one of those flashy gold class rings, undoubtedly commemorating his graduation with honors from the FBI Academy. He had played football in high school, tight end, he said, and when Eggert drew out this insignificant piece of testimony, three of the men in the jury box nodded with approval. His demeanor on the stand was evidence that the country was in good hands, the soft competent hands of a receiver with biceps like great ragged chunks of pig iron.

Stemkowski explained how the FBI had been investigating a drug operation being run out of Bissonette’s by a bartender, an operation not in any way involving Bissonette or Ruffing, when it had begun wiretapping the club’s phones. It was through those wiretaps that the Bureau had discovered the extortion scheme. Special Agent Stemkowski authenticated the cassette tapes, identifying the marked date and time on each cassette as being in
his handwriting and accurately based on FBI logs maintained during the surveillance. Eggert then produced thick loose-leaf binders containing all the transcripts, which were first authenticated and then distributed to judge and jury.

An FBI audio man had set up a sophisticated tape playback device with microwave transmission to headphones placed at the counsel tables, on the judge’s bench, beside each seat in the jury box. I would have liked to hear Bruce Springsteen pour out of those headphones, the Grateful Dead, the Rolling Stones, I would have liked to hear Jimi Hendrix’s version of the national anthem strip away the wax from our ears, but that’s not what we heard through those government approved high-fidelity headphones. What we heard, playing clearly, numbingly, for the whole of two full days, were the taped conversations of Michael Ruffing and City Councilman Jimmy Moore.

I had heard the tapes before, knew every line now almost by heart. I knew what had been said, but the jury didn’t. When Moore threatened the hell out of Michael Ruffing on the tape the whole of the jury, headphones firmly on, reacted like I had reacted the first time I had heard it: their necks reared, their eyes fixed on both Moore and Concannon, and the squints in their eyes were like squints of a posse intent on a hanging. Not an encouraging sign after just one witness.