William Lashner - Hostile witness

"Club Purgatory," said Jimmy.

"Yaboss," said Henry through the partition and we were on our way.

"Prescott says you do real estate law," said Moore.

"Just this fraud case we've settled," I said.

"We might need a real estate lawyer," said Moore.

"I don't really do too much."

"Ronnie's having trouble with her landlord," said Moore.

"He is being quite unreasonable," said Veronica.

"Give me your card, Victor," said Moore.

I nervously patted my jacket. In the inside pocket I found a card, corners bent, the old, still optimistic name of our firm listed, but my name front and center in solid black printing. I handed it to him.

"Guthrie, Derringer and Carl," said Moore.

"Guthrie left," I said.

"Here, Ronnie," said Moore. "If that Greek bastard hands you any more trouble you give Victor here a call."

"I will," she said, and she tossed me that smile and then and there I hoped that the Greek bastard, whoever he was, gave her a peck of trouble soon.

"You'll do a fine job, Victor," said Jimmy Moore. "I know it. I wouldn't leave Chester with anyone but the best."

"I appreciate your confidence," I said. Concannon was looking out the window as we spoke.

"Be sure you do," said Jimmy. "I have a feeling you're going places, Victor. And I'll help you get there. Just be sure where you're going is where you want to be."

"I don't understand."

"Up or down, boy?" said Jimmy. "It's your choice. Choose up."

"He wants to make sure you stick with the program," said Chuckie.

"Up or down, boy?"

"Victor will stay out of trouble," said Chester softly.

"Keep your eye on this one, Ronnie," said Jimmy with a loud and dangerous laugh as he wagged a finger at me. "He is going places."

That's what I remembered as I dressed for court, hurrying out of the shower and putting on my shirt while my skin was still wet, so that the cotton stuck to my back, and tying my tie frantically and sloppily. And I remembered also that as the limousine had dropped me off in front of my building and slid away into the night, leaving me alone on the deserted street, facing nothing but the emptiness of my apartment and the loneliness of my bed, and with the bud of nausea starting its gorgeous blossom in the pit of my champagne-sloshed stomach, I couldn't help but laugh, long and out loud, a laugh that had echoed like the howl of a hyena through the dark, empty street and had announced to the whole of the world that finally, dammit, I was on my way.

JUDGE GIMBEL'S COURTROOM was like all the courtrooms in the Federal Courthouse, two stories high, wood paneled, dark, designed with a ridged modern texture that was dated even as the workmen were slapping it onto the new building's steel girders. Scattered in the benches were twenty-five lawyers waiting for Judge Gimbel's status call, twenty-five lawyers at, let's say, a total of $5,000 an hour, waiting for His Honor, who was already half an hour late. He had probably stopped off at the ACME to pick up a sack of potatoes on special, saving himself forty-nine cents and costing all the litigants together $2,500. Thus the efficient engine of the law. Seated with the lawyers racking up their billable hours were the print and television reporters covering the Jimmy Moore case. Some were clustered around Chuckie Lamb, who was releasing the councilman's statement for the day. Moore, Concannon, and Prescott huddled together in the corner. I was sitting alone, merrily letting my meter run at my new and inflated rate of $250 an hour. Safely within my inside jacket pocket was a fifteen-thousand-dollar check drawn upon the account of "Citizens for a United Philadelphia," or CUP, Moore's political action committee. When I saw it was CUP that was paying my retainer for Concannon's defense I balked a bit, but not too much.

"I'd rather it come from a different source," I said to Prescott after he had handed the check to me outside the courtroom. "Like from Concannon himself."

"I don't believe Chester could pay two hundred and fifty dollars an hour," explained Prescott. "By the way, there is a CUP fund-raiser for the councilman's new youth center tonight at the Art Museum. You should come. Definitely. I'll put you on the list. You do have a tuxedo, don't you?" asked Prescott, his voice suddenly as snide as Winston Osbourne's in its prime.

"Yes," I said, conscious of the insult.

"There will be some people there you should know," he said, his tone once again avuncular. "It's never too early to start meeting the right people."

"But about the check."

"Don't worry, Victor. Concannon is on the board of directors of CUP and his indemnification is provided for by the committee's bylaws. It is all perfectly legal, I assure you. Take it."

So I took it, and stuffed it in my pocket, and sat with it in the courtroom, thinking of the black-tie affair to which I had just been invited, wondering at all the important people there to whom Prescott would introduce me. I was imagining the scene, sparkling with tuxedos and gowns in a pure black and white, like a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a tall, pale man.

"You Carl?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Let's talk," he said, giving a toss to his head in the general direction of the hallway.

He wore a blue suit, a red tie, black, heavy police shoes, the generic uniform of a prosecutor. There was a weariness in his eye, a sense of having seen it all before. Prosecutors have two primary expressions, one of weary cynicism when they think they are being lied to, which is often, and one of weary self-righteousness when they believe themselves to be the last bastions of truth and justice in the world, which is always. These expressions are as much a part of the uniform as the red ties. When they hire on with the government they must be sent down to Washington to train with an army of mimes in a basement of the Justice Department building, mastering their weary expressions.

"I'm Marshall Eggert," he said, perfunctorily holding out his hand when we reached the hallway. It was like grabbing hold of an eel. "I'm prosecuting the Moore case. I understand you'll be representing Concannon."

"That's right."

"We're glad as hell that McCrae's off the case," he said. "If we had known that's all it took we would have taken him out for some Peking duck months ago."

"Your sympathy is heartwarming," I said.

"We could never get McCrae to accept a deal for Concannon. Could never get him to even consider one."

"What kind of deal?" I asked warily.

"We'll drop everything down to one felony and recommend a minimal term. And we won't object if the Bureau of Prisons gets soft and sends him to a Level 1 facility like Allenwood."

"And what does he do?"

"Testify."

"Against his boss."

"Exactly."

"And for that he gets jail time? It won't happen, Marshall, can I call you Marshall? Chet Concannon's a stand-up guy. He won't flip."

Eggert sniffed at me. "What would he want?"

Good question. Truthfully, I had no idea what Chester Concannon would want to testify against his boss, but I knew exactly what I wanted here. "Complete immunity," I said.

"You know better than that, Carl. We would never give immunity in a case like this."

I shrugged.

"Your boy's in a tough spot," said Eggert, who had dropped a hand into his navy blue pants pocket and was now jingling his loose change. "With his priors he's looking at serious time. And he's liable to be caught in the crossfire between the government and Moore. If I were you I'd be jumping out of my pants to make a deal. Look everything over, talk to Concannon. We'll keep our offer open for a week, but then it disappears. Now how much time will you need to get ready for trial? We're willing to be flexible."