Authors: William Lashner
“We have both learned again what it is to love.”
“They’re going to empty that sack into his arm,” I said, “and his muscles will freeze and his brain will slow from the drugs and Chester Concannon will fall into unconsciousness and die from barbiturates just like Nadine fell into unconsciousness and died from barbiturates.”
“Stop it, stop it now,” she said and then, still without looking at me, in a whisper, “You don’t understand. We have renewed our vows to each other, we have reaffirmed our commitments. He will no longer cheat on me, he has promised, and I will love him again, as I had loved him before I stopped loving him. We are together again, I can’t turn against him now.”
“You mean you won’t.”
Her head lifted and she stared squarely at me. “That’s right, Mr. Carl, I won’t. I can’t be forced to testify against my husband, is that right, Mr. Slocum?”
“That is correct, Mrs. Moore,” said Slocum. “We cannot force you to testify against your husband. But what we
are talking about here is testifying in favor of Mr. Concannon.”
“And you would want me to testify?”
“I don’t want to kill an innocent man,” said Slocum.
“Then let him go.”
“I can’t, Mrs. Moore, without evidence. Right now, as it stands, I believe I’m going to convict him of first degree murder.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carl. I am so sorry.”
“So am I,” I said, reaching for my briefcase. “Sorrier than you can know.”
I placed the briefcase on my lap, bullet hole side up. It was a brown leather number, with thick strips binding the edges, a Hartmann, one of the finest cases made. It was a gift, from my uncle Sammy, a message of his faith in my future. It was a solid briefcase, the briefcase of a successful lawyer. I used to like heaving it around, as if the accoutrements could define the man. Now it embarrassed me. All the more for what it contained. I freed the leather straps guarding the latches and opened the case. From inside I pulled out a manila envelope. Carefully I closed the case and placed it on the rug beside the couch and unfastened the metal clasp holding the envelope shut. Then I brought out the photographs.
Morris had had them taken for me. He had complained about the assignment. “I don’t do such stuff, prowling with a camera in the dead of night,” he said. “I am an investigator, not a piece of dreck.” But when I told him what it was all about and how a man’s life might depend on those photographs, and how I was out of town in Corpus Christi and couldn’t do it myself, he relented. “There might be nothing, you know that, Victor, nothing at all.” I told him I knew that, but that I had a hunch. “You and your hunches, where have your hunches gotten you, mine
freint.
Take my advice, and keep your hunches away from the racetrack and maybe you won’t die a beggar.” Of
course he had not taken the photographs himself, as he might have been recognized, but he gave the assignment to Sheldon. “All the stuff he has,” said Morris. “These fancy-schmancy cameras, lenses like telescopes, special meters like from NASA, special filters, special film, a regular Eisenstadt. So tell me, Victor, why when it’s time for a picture of me and mine wife, the heads he cuts off like an executioner.” But in these photographs, Sheldon had not cut off the heads.
I placed the first on the coffee table, facing Leslie.
It was a high-resolution black-and-white photograph from inside one of the terminals still under renovation at the Philadelphia International Airport. Gate D5, a United Airlines gate, where two attendants were taking tickets at the counter and handing out seat assignments. On the board was listed Flight 595 to Chicago, leaving 4:55
P.M.
In front of the counter, posing for the photographer, was a man holding up a copy of the
Daily News.
The headline running the entire length of the page read, “
EAGLES SACK PACK
,” touting the Eagles’ great surge to .500 on the preceding Sunday.
“This was taken Monday at the airport,” I said.
“And?” asked Leslie.
Slocum too was looking at me, wondering what I was doing.
The next picture was of the same counter, with the same attendants. To the side of the counter was a barrel-chested man in a belted raincoat, a garment bag hanging by a long strap from his shoulder. The man was Jimmy Moore.
“This is the flight he took Monday,” I said, “to get him to Chicago for the first day of the conference.”
“That’s right,” said Leslie. “He called me from the airport to say good-bye. To say he loved me and missed me already.”
“Yes, I’m not surprised,” I said, showing her the next photograph.
It was a wide-angle shot of the same terminal, the
counter now on the right and Jimmy sitting on a chair in the waiting lounge, talking on his cellular phone.
“I don’t understand your point, Mr. Carl,” she said.
“I want you to look at the counter, Mrs. Moore. Do you see the woman there, in the heavy overcoat, with her back to us, getting ticketed?”
“And?”
I showed her the next picture. An announcement had been made and the first-class passengers had been asked to board. Jimmy was handing his ticket to an attendant at the mouth of the ramp. The woman in the overcoat was still getting ticketed at the counter.
Without saying anything I placed the next photograph before her. The corners of the prior photographs peeked out from the edges of the latest. Jimmy Moore had boarded, he was no longer in the photograph. The woman at the counter had received her seat assignment and boarding pass and had turned to leave the counter. Just as she was leaving the counter she had taken a glance behind her, looking left over her shoulder and the moment of that glance was when Sheldon had snapped the shutter. Her face was clearly visible in the photograph. It was Veronica Ashland.
I couldn’t bear to look at Mrs. Moore as she examined that photograph. I heard her breathing, soft and steady, and the scrape of teeth.
I took out the last photograph and placed it atop the picture with Veronica’s face. In this final photograph Veronica, her back again turned to us, was handing her boarding pass to the attendant at the mouth of the gate.
“It could be a coincidence,” said Leslie, her voice as weak as a whisper.
“Yes, it could,” I said.
I reached for the photographs to place them back in the envelope, but she tapped my wrist and I let my hand drop. She pulled out the next to last photograph and stared at it, stared at the beautiful face glancing over her left shoulder,
soft hair, rounded, gentle nose, limpid eyes wide and scared, as if their owner could feel the camera capturing her image.
“You are despicable, Mr. Carl,” said Leslie Moore, and she was absolutely right.
When I had pulled this selfsame trick on Winston Osbourne at that deposition of his wife I had thought myself a very clever young man. In those heady days of my still aspiring youth I viewed myself incapable of the fatal folly and thus felt morally justified to present the bill to others. But I could feel no such justification now. How could I accuse Jimmy Moore of moral failure in continuing on with Veronica Ashland when I had hung my coat and my ethics on a post outside that very same door? And how could I blithely ever sit across the table and inflict the pain I was inflicting when I now knew exactly what that pain felt like? To see that photograph of Veronica, with whom, in my seemingly infinite capacity for self-delusion, I had still hoped for some future, to see Veronica checking onto that plane to continue her affair with the murderous Jimmy Moore was almost more than I could bear. And finally, how could I ever again muster the self-righteousness needed to present the fruits of another’s folly when I had been guilty of a folly so grand as to send a man to prison and possibly to death? I was despicable and the photographs I had brought would have stained my hands with their sordidness if I hadn’t felt so sordid already.
But there was a difference between my exposure of Tiffany LeGrand to Mrs. Osbourne and the exposure of the continuing relationship between Jimmy and Veronica to Mrs. Moore. I had exposed the exotic existence of Ms. LeGrand, destroyed a marriage, destroyed a man, spread pain and disillusionment, for money. I wouldn’t do that again, I swore, not for mere riches, I swore, though all the time I was swearing I knew that mammon has its power over all of us. The photographs I had brought to Mrs.
Moore were not about money, they were about a man’s life, an innocent man in jail facing death, a man whom I had failed, and so, though I knew I was stooping, I would stoop as low as I was able. I had no more pride left, no more false notions of self-importance. I would crawl on my belly like a reptile if it would save Chester Concannon, and crawling I was.
By the time Renee had returned Leslie had fled the room, her thin writhing hands clutched around her neck.
“Where’s Leslie gone off to now?” said a slurring Renee, with a half-empty highball glass in her hand.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “She told us to wait.”
Renee looked at me and then at Slocum and then she spied the photographs still piled on the coffee table. She stepped over and sat down and went through them one by one, in reverse order, like watching a horror movie backwards.
“You bastards,” she said. “You goddamn bastards.” She stood up. “I won’t let you get away with it.”
As she was leaving the room Slocum said in his calm voice, “You know what obstruction of justice is, ma’am?”
She stopped and turned to stare at him.
“About five years is what it is,” he said.
Before she could respond Leslie had come back into the room, clutching a crumpled brown paper bag. Her eyes were red, her face puffy from her tears so that her sharp cheekbones had softened. She threw the bag into my chest.
“Take it and go,” she said.
I looked inside. It was a white shirt, crusted and torn, splattered with the dark maroon of dried blood. On the sleeve was embroidered JDM.
We took it and went.
“We’ll send the shirt over to the lab,” said Slocum as he let me out of the car outside my apartment. “Check out the
blood. I’ll let you know in a few days whether there’s a match with Bissonette.”
“It will match,” I said. “Down to the last guanine rung of the DNA ladder.”
“Even so, Concannon will still end up serving most of his federal time.”
“I know,” I said. “And between you and me, his fund-raising was more extortion than anything else, so it’s not totally undeserved. But he shouldn’t die for killing a man he didn’t kill.”
We looked at each other for a moment. “You did good tonight, Carl,” said Slocum.
“Then how come I don’t feel good?”
“You didn’t tell that lady anything she didn’t already know.”
I shrugged sadly and headed up the steps to my building. Slocum was waiting for me to go inside, as if he were dropping off a baby-sitter. I opened the door to my vestibule and waved him away. The Chevette ground its gears and pulled off into the night.
When I turned to enter the vestibule Winston Osbourne was standing there before me, like the ghost of all my past transgressions.
“Victor. I’ve been waiting so long for you.”
He was shaking with a ferocious chill, his hands jammed into his raincoat, his sallow, hollowed face staring at me, cocked at a crazed angle.
“Victor,” he said in his shaky, lockjawed Brahmin voice. “I’ve come for my car. Give me back my car.”
“Mr. Osbourne, Winston,” I said once my nerves had settled from the surprise. “I’m glad to see you, actually. I have good news for you.”
“Give me back my car.”
I closed my eyes in sadness. “I’m sorry, Mr. Osbourne. It’s been sold already. But the good news is that I’ve talked everything over with Mr. Sussman and he’s willing
to forgive the rest of your debt. I have to sign a few papers and satisfy the judgments on you, but then you’ll be perfectly free to start over again.”
“But where am I to go, Victor? How can I get from point A to point B without my father’s car? It is a straight line, yes, a direct route, but I need my car to get there. What would you have me do, Victor?”
“There’s always the subway.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Osbourne. I truly am, more than you know. You look cold, not well. Come on upstairs and I’ll make you some tea if you want. But with regard to your finances, there is nothing more I can do for you.”
“You can give me back my car.”
“I can’t do that, it’s been sold already and the new owners have good title under the law.”
“Then you can waltz with me, Victor,” he said and he pulled out a small, shiny automatic pistol from the pocket of his raincoat.
I stared at the pistol for a moment, the gun shaking wildly in his palsied hand, his opaque, striated fingernails grown even longer than I remembered. I was transfixed by the pistol until all the fear seemed to bleed out of me. I raised my head and looked into his eyes. They were sallow, shot through with lightning streaks of blood. They darted back and forth, as uncontrolled as his hand. Then I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing.
While I had been feeling sorry for him he had been shooting at me. No wonder he missed, his hand shaking like that, uncontrollable, wild. It was too pathetic for me to even have considered before. But at the same time I realized there was a purer justice at work here than I could have fathomed. I should have realized long before that if I were to be killed it would not be the Jimmy Moores or the Enrico Raffaellos or even the Norvel Goodwins who would do the killing. It would be the scion of the
Osbournes, the grandly Protestant, socially registered Osbournes, who would do me in. With a silver bullet, no doubt, for how else do you kill a Jew? And I deserved it, too, for the temerity to even consider joining their club. Here was Winston Osbourne, with his little pistol and his silver bullet, out to finish that dream forever, as if it could have survived my failures, as if I even wanted it anymore, as if it ever had worth. So I laughed, hard and loud. I threw my head back and laughed at everything I had ever wished for, ever wanted, all my deepest, shallowest desires. I stepped back and leaned against the wall of mailboxes and laughed.