Lawrence Block: In the Midst of Death

"But you took some women there."

"Now and then. Meet a married woman in a bar, that sort of thing. Most of the time they'd never know my name."

"Who else did you take there that might know your name? Portia Carr?"

He hesitated, which was as good as an answer. "She had a place of her own."

"But you also took her to the place on Barrow Street."

"Just once or twice. But she wouldn't get me out of there and then sneak in and knock herself off, would she?"

I let it go. He tried to think of anybody else who might know about the apartment and he didn't come up with anything. And as far as he knew, only Fuhrmann and I knew that he was hiding out in the apartment.

"But anybody who knew about the apartment could have guessed, Matt. All they had to do was pick up the phone and take a shot at it. And anybody could just find out about the apartment talking to some broad in a bar that I might not even remember. ‘Oh, I'll bet that bastard's hiding out in that apartment of his' — and then somebody else knows about the place."

"Did Prejanian's office know about the apartment?"

"Why the hell should they know?"

"Did you speak to them after Carr brought charges against you?"

He shook his head."What for? The minute her story hit the papers I ceased to exist for the son of a bitch. No point looking to him for help. All Mr. Clean wants is to be the first Armenian elected governor of the state of New York. He's had his eye on Albany all along. He wouldn't be the first guy to make a trip up the Hudson on the strength of a reputation as a crime fighter."

"I could probably think of one myself."

"I'm not surprised. No, if I got Portia to change her story, Prejanian would be glad enough to see me. Now she'll never change her story and he'll never try to do me any good. Maybe I'da been better off with Hardesty."

"Hardesty?"

"Knox Hardesty. U. S. District Attorney. At least he's federal. He's an ambitious son of a bitch himself, but he might do me more good than Prejanian."

"How does Hardesty come into the picture?"

"He doesn't." He walked over to the narrow bed, sat down on it. He lit another cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. "They let me bring a carton of cigarettes," he said. "I guess if you gotta be in jail it could be worse."

"Why did you mention Hardesty?"

"I thought about going to him. As a matter of fact I sounded him out but he wasn't interested. He's into municipal corruption but only in a political way. Police corruption doesn't interest him."

"So he sent you to Prejanian."

"Are you kidding?" He seemed amazed that I would suggest anything of the sort. "Prejanian's a Republican," he said. "Hardesty's a Democrat. They'd both like to be governor and they might wind up running against each other in a couple of years. You think Hardesty would send anything to Prejanian?

Hardesty more or less told me to go home and soak my head. Going to Abner was my idea."

"And you went because you just couldn't stand the corruption another minute."

He looked at me. "That's as good a reason as any," he said levelly.

"If you say so."

"I say so." His nostrils flared. "What difference does it make why I went to Prejanian? He's done with me now. Whoever framed me got just what he wanted. Unless you can find a way to turn it inside out." He was on his feet now, gesturing with the cigarettes. "You have to find out who set me up and how it was done because nothing else really gets me off the hook. I could beat this thing in court, but there would always be a cloud over me. People would just figure I got lucky in court. How many people can you think of who went up on charges for capital crimes that got a lot of heat? And when they got off, you and everybody else takes it for granted they were guilty? They say you don't get away with murder, Matt, but how many names do you know of people you'd swear got away with murder?"

I thought about it. "I could name a dozen names," I said. "And that's off the top of my head."

"Right. And if you included ones where you think they're probably guilty, you could name six dozen. All those guys that Lee Bailey defends and gets off, everybody is always positive the bastards are guilty. More than once I heard cops say So-and-so must be guilty or why would he need Bailey to defend him?"

"I've heard the same line."

"Of course. My lawyer's supposed to be good, but I need more than a lawyer. Because I want more than acquittal. And I can't get anything out of the cops. The ones who caught this case love it just the way it is. Nothing makes them happier than seeing me with my head on the block. So why should they look any further? All they'll look for is more ways to nail me to the wall. And if they find anything that hurts their case, you can guess what they'll do with it. They'll bury it so deep it'd be easier to reach if you started digging in China."

We went over a few more things and I wrote down various items in my notebook. I got his home address in Forest Hills, his wife's name, the name of his lawyer, and other bits and pieces. He took a blank sheet of paper from my notebook, borrowed my pen, and wrote out an authorization for his wife to give me twenty-five hundred dollars. "In cash, Matt. And there's more money if that's not enough. Spend what you have to. I'll back you all the way. Just fix it so I can put that tie on and get the hell out of here."

"Where does all the money come from?"

He looked at me. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know."

"What the fuck am I supposed to say? That I saved it out of my salary? You know better than that. I already told you I was never a Boy Scout."

"Uh-huh."

"Does it matter where the money came from?"

I thought about it. "No," I said. "No, I don't guess it does."

On our way back through the corridors the guard said, "You were a cop yourself, right?"

"For a while."

"And now you're working for him."

"That's right."

"Well," he said judiciously, "we don't always get to choose who we're gonna work for. And a man's got to make hisself a living."

"That's the truth."

He whistled softly. He was in his late fifties, jowly and round-shouldered, with liver spots on the backs of his hands. His voice had been roughened by years of whiskey and tobacco.

"Figure to get him off?"

"I'm no lawyer. If I can turn up some evidence, maybe his lawyer can get him off. Why?"

"Just thinking. If he don't get off, he's apt to wish they still had capital punishment."

"Why's that?"

"He's a cop, ain't he?"

"So?"

"Well, you just think on it. The present time, we got him in a cell by his lonesome. Awaiting trial and all of that, wearin 'his own clothes,keep in ' to hisself. But let's just say he's convicted and he's sent up to, say, Attica. And there he is in a prison full to overflowing with criminals who got no use at all for the police, and better'n half of 'em coons who was born hating the police. Now there is all kinds of ways to do time, but do you know any harder time than that poor bastard is going to serve?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

The guard clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Why, he'll never have a minute when he won't have to be worryin' about some black bastard comin' at him with a homemade knife. They steal spoons from the mess hall and grind 'em down in the machine shop, you know. I worked Attica some years ago, I know how they do things there. You recall the big riot? When they seized the hostages and all? I was long out of there by that time, but I knew two of the guards who was taken as hostages and killed. That's a hell of a place, that Attica. Your buddy Broadfield gets hisself sent there, I'd say he's lucky if he's alive after two years."

We walked the rest of the way in silence. As he was about to leave me he said, "Hardest kind of time in the world is the time a cop serves in a prison. But I got to say the bastard deserves it if anybody does."