Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

"This is how they do things in New York?" said Hawes grumpily.

"Yeah, it is, and, you know, people around here ask me that a lot, I notice. It seems to be polite code for 'Is that some kind of Jew trick?' Answer: yes, it is. So, when we go in on this, I'm going to ask you not to contribute anything. I want you just to sit there and look uncomfortable."

"Well, hell, that won't be hard," said Hawes sourly.

Milton Seward was known as the Sewer among the members of the West Virginia bar, both because of his frequent use of salty language and because one of his first major cases had been the successful defense of a group of speculating contractors and councilmen accused of rigging bids for the construction of the Wheeling waste-water treatment system. He was arguably the state's premier defense lawyer at the time, a status to which he frequently adverted.

When he arrived, with his client in tow, Karp again noted that of the two canonical premier defense-lawyer personae-(1) slick, pinstriped $2,500 suits, French cuffs, handmade shoes, $200 haircuts; (2) custommade, monogrammed cowboy boots, cattleman suits, funny Stetsons, sideburns, lots of heavy jewelry-the Sewer had chosen the latter. Waal, Ah'm jest a shit-kickin' good ole country boy who made good: that was the message. Karp thought that the people who chose (2) did so because they were generally short little fucks and the cowboy boots gave them as much as three inches.

"What the hell you tryin' to pull with this goddamn horseshit, Karp?" was the Sewer's opening gambit.

"What goddamn horseshit would you be referring to, Mr. Seward?" Karp inquired.

The Sewer flung a sheaf of bound paper on the table. "This. This Whelan so-called testimony. You can't use this."

"And why not?"

"Because the whole fucking thing is a tissue of lies coerced under pressure, plus declarant is a mental incompetent. Jordan Whelan has an eighty-six IQ."

"Making him smart enough to be a bagman for your client, but not so smart that he'd ask a lot of questions. His testimony, which was in no way coerced, a fact we can demonstrate without a peradventure of a doubt, is amply confirmed by the testimony of a number, fifteen to be precise, of union pensioners, each of whom received a thousand-dollar fee for so-called research, half of which fee was given back to Mr. Whelan, who then gave it to your client, who gave it to the three Cade boys, for which remuneration they murdered the Heeney family."

Seward chuckled, as if Karp had told an amusing joke. George tried to paste a smile on his face, but it came out like the grimace of a man who had just bitten down on a bad oyster. "Well, Lord fuck a duck, you New York boys sure can come up with the stories. You know as well as I do that there is no way on God's earth you can connect that union money with whatever money, if any, got passed to the alleged murderers. It's all fuckin' smoke, Karp."

"Not quite smoke, Mr. Seward. I wouldn't call DNA evidence smoke."

"What the fuck are you talking about, DNA?"

"Gosh, Stan, didn't we turn that over yet? Well, it just came in from Charleston last night." Karp handed a thin manila envelope across the desk. Seward made no move to pick it up.

"It turns out that little Bo Cade had five twenties left from that payoff when he was arrested. Did you know that your client has a habit of licking his thumb when he peels money off a roll? Well, he does. I observed him doing it myself. And when we took a close look at those twenties, we found some saliva traces on the bills. And there was enough cellular material in the saliva traces to give us DNA lines. It's amazing what they can do with tiny little bits of organic material today. I guess your client, being an honest fellow, hasn't kept up with the very latest in criminalistics. Now, we haven't matched that DNA with anyone yet, but since you look like a betting man, Mr. Seward, with that fancy outfit, I'd like to bet you, say, a thousand dollars that we get a match off your client there. What do you say?"

"Ah, that don't mean shit," Seward exclaimed. "Fifty different people could've touched one of those bills."

"All the bills," said Karp. "Same traces on all five bills." There was a brief, delicious silence.

Then Floyd leaned over and whispered something in his lawyer's ear. The lawyer whispered something back. Karp loved to see whispered consultations like this. It was so hard for even experienced rogues to get their lies straight on short notice.

"Not admitting anything at all at this time," said Seward, "but my client directs me to discuss the possibility that other individuals were involved in plotting these murders."

"For example?"

"Other individuals, an individual associated with the union. At the highest level. Suppose we were to say that this individual was the prime originator of the murder plot, who made the money available, who directed the murders, who used my client's good offices as an unwitting intermediary."

"You're talking about a plea in exchange for testimony, are you?"

"Well, what the fuck do you think I'm talking about? I'd like to know what your position would be on that?"

"My position on that would be that if your client pleads guilty to the top count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, and if he testifies to the material involvement of Lester Weames, we will place that fact into the cognizance of the sentencing judge."

"You're fucking joking." Seward had a face made up of semispherical units, not unlike that of W. C. Fields-little round nose, little round chin, full cheeks-and now all these turned rosy.

"I am deadly serious."

Seward looked at Hawes. "Stan, what the fuck… are you gonna sit there and let him get away with this? I mean, are you the goddamn state's attorney here, or what?"

Hawes said nothing. Seward turned on Karp again. "Okay, then listen to me, Mr. New York! You got a lot of horseshit, is what you got. I don't give a fuck what kind of DNA trickology, what kind of lying testimony from a bunch of no-account hillbillies, you bring into court, I will personally guarantee you that no Robbens County jury is gonna convict George C. Floyd for these murders." He stood up. "Let's go, George. We're done here."

"He might have a point," said Hawes. "Those citizens who don't think George Floyd is man of the year are scared silly of him."

"You're thinking change of venue?"

"It's worth a look."

"No, it's not. The whole point of this exercise is to bring justice to this county. Justice has to be done in this place, and seen to be done. If we have to run somewhere else, it's not the win we need."

"We could lose."

"Bite your tongue, and cheer the fuck up, Hawes. We are going to pull George C. Floyd's shorts down in open court and whip his heinie for him."

They walked out into the main suite. Harkness seemed to be the only one at a desk. The chair Marlene usually occupied was empty.

"Where's Marlene?" Karp asked.

"Oh, she's gone. She got a phone call and just dropped everything and ran off like her hair was on fire. She said to tell you she was going to the city, but she didn't say which one."

Karp knew which one. He learned the rest of the story early that afternoon, when Lucy showed up at the office.

"Mom called me," said Lucy. "Billy called her here and said that Jeb had got off the property and bit Mrs. Winchell next door. She got the truck out of the shop, drove herself to Charleston, and got a plane back to the City through Pittsburgh."

"Oh, Christ! There goes the college fund. Was the old lady badly hurt?"

"Oh, no. She wasn't like attacked. According to Billy, Jeb just likes to roam, and he roamed into Mrs. Winchell's backyard, and her Scottie dog went for him, which of course Jeb ignored, and then Mrs. Winchell came out and tried to shoo him off with her cane, and I guess that constituted assault with a weapon in his dog mind, and he gave her a nip on the hand. Really it wasn't his fault."