Rough Justice (24 page)

“But this news with the lawyers, it’s shocking.”

“Eye on the ball, Mo. The jury doesn’t know about that. Let’s keep our wits, shall we?”

“Okay, John. Eye on the ball.” The banker heaved a final, liquored sigh and hung up.

Elliot Steere sat in his cell with his eyes lightly closed, resting his head against the cinderblock wall. The pockmarked guard had told him about the dead security guards and about the associate, DiNunzio. The battle had been joined. His forces were prevailing, but there had been a problem. Steere had to assess the latest situation, then take action. He had many options. Room to move. He only looked like a man in prison.

Steere rested his hands beside him, relaxed his body, and let his thoughts run free. The first thing he did was consider his forces: a woman and a man. The woman had been instructed to destroy the file. She would do it because Steere had ordered her to and because it incriminated her. Steere assumed she was retrieving the file and destroying it, unless he heard to the contrary. So far he hadn’t, so all was well.

Steere considered the man, Bogosian. He had been instructed to stay with Marta, but something had evidently gone wrong. But Bogosian would still have her in his control. He wouldn’t let her go. He would stay with it until he finished the job or finished Marta.

Steere’s face remained a mask. His eyes moved under his closed lids. There was no alternative now but for Marta to die. She had outlived her usefulness. The case was already at the jury. If she vanished and turned up dead later, Bogosian could make it look like a suicide or robbery-murder. Bogosian would get the details right. He had done it before.

Steere breathed deeply, into a greater state of meditation. Bogosian had evidently gotten to DiNumzio at the railroad bridge. It was unexpected, but he had done it to salvage the operation. It was a smart tactic and it had shown initiative. Steere would reward Bogosian for it. It was as Sun-Tzu had said:
Never overindulge subordinates, because they will be like spoiled children; view them as infants and be able to lead them into battle
. Steere was feeling that way about Bobby now. Almost fatherly. Then it passed.

What action could Steere take now to achieve victory? He had to be flexible, stay relaxed. His enemies were in disarray. Scattered, wounded. Steere had the superior position and he had to stay fluid to capitalize on the circumstances.
Be like water in battle; water conforms to the terrain in determining its movement, and forces conform to the enemy to determine victory
.

Steere’s thoughts became clear as spring water and flowed like a stream. The damage he had done to his lawyers could provoke a mistrial. That was the last thing he wanted. He had ensured the jury’s verdict and he knew his juror would be successful. A mistrial would cost Steere his juror, keep him in jail, and disquiet his lenders. No. He wanted his case moving ahead, his verdict inevitable as the tides. Steere must be found not guilty, and soon. Nothing less would do.

Steere considered his business position. His lenders would need the verdict, too, as soon as possible. They’d be threatening to call the notes. He had instructed LeFort to play hardball and he knew they’d toe the line. The banks didn’t want to call on him. They loathed confrontation and conflict, even conflict as contained as litigation. Steere smiled inside. The bankers knew nothing of war, either. Once everybody had the bomb, nobody had the balls to use it.

Steere breathed deeply.
Be like water in battle
. Consider if one of the lenders called a note. An electrical fire in one of the buildings would raise the capital. Steere would assign the bank the right to collect the insurance, and it would allow him time on the other notes. In no event would Steere permit the mayor to get the properties. Steere had a strategy to ensure the mayor’s defeat, and the properties were integral to it.
Both sides stalk each other over several years to contend for victory in a single day
.

Suddenly there was a knock at the window of his cell, jarring Steere from his meditation. It was the guard, leaning near the thick plastic window. “Mr. Steere,” he said, “your lawyer is here to see you.”

B
ennie sat in front of her computer in the spare bedroom she only euphemistically called a home office. Books and papers stuck out of the bookshelves over her computer monitor. Old coffee cups and dirty spoons threatened to engulf the ergonomic keyboard. A reddish golden retriever named Bear rested at Bennie’s feet among wet Sorel boots, old faxes, and dog hair tumbleweeds. To Bennie, you could clean or you could enjoy life, and these things were mutually exclusive. Wasn’t it Justice Brandeis who said sunshine was the best disinfectant? Bennie took it as a housekeeping philosophy.

She clicked the computer mouse and stared at the enlarged picture of the black man on the screen. Eb Darning, a bank employee; clean-shaven and well-groomed. Bennie clicked again and displayed a photo of Heb Darnton she’d clipped from the online newspaper. It must have been a file photo. Heb had a thick beard, wild hair, and a deranged expression.

Bennie tilted the photos so they were side by side on the screen.
Eb Daming/Heb Darnton
. She had plugged in both names in every website about Philadelphia she could find, including the local newspapers’ sites. Bennie sat back in her chair and compared the two photos. It could have been before and after pictures of the same man.

Bennie was shocked. What had the associates stumbled onto? What was going on in her law firm? Was this what had gotten Mary shot? And how was Marta involved? There were too many questions, all of them threatening the existence of Rosato & Associates. Bennie couldn’t lose everything she had worked for, not again, and not without a fight.

She stared at the man’s picture. Eb Darning. He had the answers. The online article said he had lived on Green Street in the sixties. Bennie knew Green Street well, it was in the city’s Fairmount section. Bennie had a client on Spring Garden Street, a barber who cut everybody’s hair in the neighborhood. He would know Darning or he would know somebody who did.

Bennie reached for the phone.

BEAN
’
S PROCESS
read white letters painted in a crumbling arc on the tiny storefront. The barbershop hadn’t changed since the fifties. It was wedged flat as a jelly sandwich between a rib joint and a restored apartment building. Its fluorescent lights shone bright through the snowstorm.

Bean lived above the shop, but he met Bennie in it, standing next to her as she sat in one of the old-fashioned chairs, of white porcelain with cracked red leather cushions and headrests. Bean was most at home in his shop, which Bennie understood perfectly. “Sorry to get you out of bed,” she said.

“Don’t think nothin’ about it.” Bean waved her off with a dark hand that was surprisingly small for someone of his girth. At sixty-seven, Washington “Bean” Baker was still large, with chubby cheeks and brown, wide-set eyes, but the most remarkable aspect of his appearance was the unusual shape of his bald head. His forehead bulged where his hairline used to be, his chin protruded, and his skin color was brown tinged with red. Growing up his mother had decided her baby’s head looked just like a kidney bean, so she called him Bean. “I’d come down for you anytime, lady,” he said.

“Even though I lost your case?”

“I tol’ you nothin’ would come of it. Nobody gonna stand up agains’ the cops. They shake you down and get away with it.”

“Now they wouldn’t.”

“Why?” he asked, with a slow smile. Bean did everything slowly. He thought carefully before he spoke and moved only with deliberation. It was a comforting trait in a man with a straight razor at the carotid. “You learn a few tricks since you were young?”

“Just a few. So have the juries. Today those cops would have been convicted.”

“Should I be waitin’ on a refund?”

“Hey, I took you on contingency, remember? I didn’t stick you.”

Bean smiled. “I know. I jus’ said it to get you riled up.”

“I feel bad enough already,” Bennie grumbled. “I shoulda had ’em. They lied on the stand.”

“They sure did.” His voice was soft, his tone matter-of-fact. “They’re cops.”

“I owe you one.”

“Forget it. I jus’ like to see you get worked up.”

Bennie edged forward on the barber chair. “Do you know anyone named Eb Darning, Bean?”

“Eb?” Bean rubbed his bald head with his fingertips, kneading his red-brown scalp like soft clay. “Eb? Long time ago. Eb. I remember Eb.”

“What do you remember about him?”

“Only one thing to know about Eb. He drank too much. Had a problem with the bottle. Went to the state store every day. I used to see him. Eb was there soon as they opened. He’d be waitin’ on the sidewalk. Tol’ me he only bought one bottle a day. If he got more than one, he’d try to drink ’em both down.”

“Any drugs?”

“Just the bottle.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Ten years, maybe twelve.”

“Take a look at this.” Bennie pulled the computer photo of the clean-shaven Eb Darning from her coat pocket and handed to Bean. “Is this him?”

“Sure. That’s Eb.”

“Now I want to show you another photo.” She passed Bean the photo with the beard. “Take a look at it and tell me if you think it’s Eb, too.”

“This him?” he asked after a minute.

“You tell me.”

Bean walked with the photo to the cushioned benches against the shop wall and eased his bulk into one of them. The benches had been scavenged from various restaurant booths and were stuck together in mismatched banks of red, blue, and brown. They made a vinyl rainbow against the white porcelain tile on the wall. A black pay phone with a rotary dial was mounted next to the tile, and yellowed political posters were taped to the back wall, with faded pictures of black ward leaders. Bennie let her eyes linger on their bright, ambitious faces because Bean would be looking at the photo for the foreseeable future. “Well?” she said when she couldn’t wait any longer.

Bean looked up, blinking. “Doesn’t look like the Eb I knew, but it could be him. The eyes, it could be him. He didn’t have no beard when I knew him. That I know for sure. He came in for a shave, time to time.”

“If the beard were gone, would that be Eb?”

“Could be. Could be.” Bean handed back the photos. “Got old fast, he did. I wouldn’ta recognized him if you hadn’ta said somethin’.”

Bennie took it as a tentative yes and slipped the photos back in her pocket. “What kind of man was Eb, do you remember?”

“A drunk.”

“I mean his personality.”

“To me, he was a drunk. Thas’ all. All drunks the same.” Bean shrugged a heavy set of shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting blue barber smock with baggy pants even though the shop was closed. Bean always said he slept in his smock, but Bennie hadn’t believed him until now. “Eb was quiet in the chair, when he was sober. Rest of the time he jabbered.”

“Did he talk about work?”

“Work. Yeah.”

“He worked at the bank, right? PSFS.”

“Bank?”

“Yes. PSFS.”

Bean’s focus fell on a clean linoleum floor with black-and-white tiles. “That was only for a while. A year maybe. I know ’cause Eb started wearin’ a tie. Then he quit and he stopped wearin’ the tie. Wore that tie for about, say, a year.”

“Why did he quit, do you know?”

“The bottle. Eb never kept work for too long. Always lookin’ for the angles, you know? I offered him a job once, sweepin’. Eb said no thanks.” Bean frowned so deeply his forehead wrinkled like an old bulldog. “Said, ‘I don’t do that work.’ I didn’t like that, I sure didn’t.”

Bennie smiled. “Who wouldn’t work for you, Bean? I’d work for you in a minute.”

“You? You a slob. I seen your office.”

“We’re talking about Eb now, not me, so tell me about Eb. Everything you know.”

Bean settled deeper into the cushioned bench. “Eb. Eb. Let me see. Eb was the type of man, he didn’t want no real job. Wanted the easy money. Lookin’ for the angles. All the time, lookin’. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Eb liked the jobs at City Hall.”

“City Hall?”

“Thas’ what I remember.”

“What did he do there?”

“Jobs.”

“Who did he work for? What department?”

Bean smiled, this time without warmth. “Woman, what kind of jobs you think a man like that does for City Hall?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Educate me. What jobs?”

“L and I, for a while.”

“Licenses and Inspections?”

“What department don’t matter, call it what you like. Building permits, the fleet. Parking Authority, what have you. Eb worked for City Hall. Eb did what he had to do. He got paid in cash money.”

“Did he have any friends?”

“Not that I know.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

“No wife. Maybe a girl, for a while.”

“Anyone special?”

“No. Coupla girls.”

“Damn.”

“Wait.” Bean held up a hand. “You’re rushin’ me now. I said ‘no’ too fast. There mighta been a kid.”

“A
child
?” Bennie hadn’t read anything in the newspapers about a child. No one had come forward.

“Little girl.” Bean nodded. “I saw it, in a picture in his wallet. A school picture of a girl. Real cute.”

“What was her name?”

“Don’t know. Never talked about her. I axed when I saw the picture and Eb just shook his head. Didn’t say nothin’, just shook his head. He had a long look on his face, a bad look. I figured somethin’ bad happened to that little girl. Like she passed and Eb didn’t want to speak about it.”

Bennie paused, trusting Bean’s instincts. “Eb had no one else except the daughter?”

“No.”

“No friends from work?”

“No. Sat in the chair, didn’t say much ’cept to answer. Sometimes he got a shave, like I said. When he was goin’ for errands. For the city.”

“What errands?”

Bean cocked his head and frowned. “Now how do I know what errands?”

“Maybe he said. Give me a break here. I’m trying to figure this out. What did he say about the errands? Can you remember?”