Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Toby, he’s got a blank docket number.”

Toby said “Oh,” and sat back to think. I’d checked Flood’s lists and there was a complete run of docket numbers in sequence for the arraignment and indictment days when Wilson made his appearances, but one number was missing. Both Toby and I knew what that meant, and if the federales didn’t have this freak holed up in their so-called Witness Protection Program the Manhattan D.A. should know where to find him, or at least what he looked like. But it was a lot to ask, and Toby and I both knew it.

“Your people who want to find this guy… he steal money from them or something?”

“Something.”

“Why should I do this, Burke?”

“Lawrence.”

“Lawrence. Why should I do this?”

“Because this guy has a special racket. He works the daycare centers, the babysitting gigs, the foster-care scam, the runaway-youth hostels, the sheltered workshops, the group homes. You know the routine-he’s a disaffected Vietnam vet with a story to tell, and the liberals just fucking eat it up. Then he swallows their kids. And he walks off the charges for some reason. He has to be rolling over on someone to do that. And now he’s loose again and he will take out some more kids as sure as we’re all sitting here having this debate. He’s a dangerous, vicious degenerate who got a free pass from the government to do his filth. You want more?”

“You wouldn’t be working for the people this man allegedly rolled over on, would you, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. I thought you knew better, Toby.”

“I know you-at least I know something of you. And I know you walk pretty close to the line all the time.”

“There’s some lines I wouldn’t cross.”

“So you say.”

“My references are in the street, right?”

“Some of your references are doing time.”

“How many for baby-raping?”

“Okay, I get your point. Now let me think a bit.” He turned to Flood. “Are you uncomfortable like that? Would you like me to take your coat?” Flood the genius favored him with a dazzling smile and handed it to him. Toby approached to take the coat from her and the combination of Flood’s perfume and her dancing chest almost knocked him back into his chair. But you don’t get to be a top criminal trial lawyer without some degree of composure, so he just took the coat and turned to hang it on a wooden rack-only his reddened ears gave him away. We all sat in silence, Toby smoking his pipe, me smoking one cigarette after another, and Flood taking deep breaths every time she thought Toby or I looked bored.

Time passed. Nobody talked. Phones rang down the hall, sometimes fifteen or twenty times. They always stopped eventually. Maybe someone picked them up, maybe somebody gave up-who could tell? We all jumped when the phone on Toby’s desk rang. He snatched the receiver, barked “Ringer!” into it, and Flood and I listened to his half of the conversation, obviously with a new D.A. in the Complaint Room:

“What’s the cop say?” Pause. “What about the complaining witness?” Pause. “Guy have a record?” Pause. “Okay, don’t get worked up. It’s no big deal. It’ll never get past the grand jury. Write it up as Assault Third and put a note in the file, No ACD at Arraignment. At least we’ll make him sweat a bit. Tell the Arraignment Part A.D.A. to ask for five hundred bail. Yeah.” Pause. “That’s all.” And he hung up.

ACD just means Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal, a six-month walkaway for the defendant-if he doesn’t get busted during that time, the whole case against him is dismissed. All Toby meant was that the guy was going to get a play at some point, but they’d jerk his chain at the first appearance. Standard stuff.

Toby turned to face me. “You’ll answer for Mrs. Lawrence here?”

“No question.”

“She from here?”

“Related to someone from here.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Max the Silent.”

“She doesn’t look Chinese.”

“Doesn’t talk much either, have you noticed?”

“Is that the relationship?”

“No. And Max isn’t Chinese.”

“Okay. I’ll have to go and see if there’s a file. I’ll read through it if there is-then I’ll decide. No discussions, okay? If it looks right to me, maybe we can talk. If not, time for you to go.”

Toby excused himself and went down the hall. Because of our relationship I didn’t use the opportunity to add to my collection of official stationary. Toby knows Max. I had to bring him in once when the police were looking for him and Max had to testify in front of the grand jury. I got to go inside with him since I’m a registered interpreter for the deaf. It says so on the official letterhead of the appropriate city agency. Max wasn’t indicted.

As soon as Toby went out the door Flood opened her mouth to say something. I motioned her to be quiet. I believe Toby’s honest, but I don’t believe any city office isn’t bugged. If it was we hadn’t said anything that would get us in trouble, but with Flood’s mouth you could never be sure. I winked at her to show confidence I didn’t feel, and we sat there waiting.

Toby’s phone rang again. I ignored it. Flood was good at waiting-she just went into some kind of breathing exercise and made the time go away. Her eyes were focused, but she was meditating-in a resting phase, like a battery storing up energy.

Toby didn’t get back until it was almost nine-thirty, but when he walked in the door carrying a thick manila folder, I knew we’d won.

“I can’t show you what’s in here, but you’re right about your man. I’ll tell you some things. Don’t ask me any questions-just listen and then leave, okay?”

I nodded yes and Flood became as rigid as a setter on point.

“Martin Howard Wilson, d.o.b. August 10, 1944. Arrested and indicted as you already know. Agreed to provide specific evidence on the kiddie-porn operations of several individuals, including Elijah Slocum, Manny Grossman, and one Jonas Goldor, the last of which purportedly included the use of children in active prostitution and the sale of children across state lines. This Goldor, I’ve heard, is a very bad guy. He almost makes a religion out of pain, seems to believe in it somehow. I’m told he can be so persuasive that he actually talks people into trying it of their own free will, but that’s just hearsay. Lots of rumors that he’s killed some of his playmates, and Wilson claimed he even knew where the private graveyard was.

“There’s an old address for Wilson, but it’s strictly n.g. now. We checked. We’re looking for him too. We didn’t actually give him immunity. We promised him immunity when and if he made a case against Goldor and actually testified before the grand jury and at trial if necessary. His lawyer said he couldn’t be in protective custody and still make the case for us, and we bought it. Wilson seemed to really get into the whole undercover thing, like he always wanted to be a cop or something. He was going to set up a preliminary buy-a truckload of kiddie porn coming in from California. We were going to use those guys as rollovers too, make as strong a case as we could against Goldor. The buy never went down and Wilson disappeared. But he’s still out there. He calls in every once in a while and claims he’s working on the case for us.

“There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Murder Two. Sodomy First Degree. Kidnapping. The works. The A.D.A. running the case doesn’t know himself if Wilson’s really trying to make a case for us, but when Wilson gets popped he’s going down for the homicide. Period. The only other thing I can tell you is that Goldor’s listed in the Scarsdale phone book, he’s got no mob enemies and a lot, of powerful friends. Big political contributor, owns a lot of good real estate, even pays his taxes on time, I’m told. But there’s one funny thing… even though we don’t have real good intelligence operations in the Hispanic community we do know that Una Gente Libre-you know, that Puerto Rican terrorist group-has the word on the street that they’re going to whack this guy. Goldor, not Wilson. We don’t know why, or anything about them. And Goldor, we know for a fact, doesn’t believe it for a second.