Sol Stein - Other people

"Hello, Francine."

She kind of opened the fingers of one hand at me, like a kid being taught to say bye-bye. I wish I knew what had transpired before I came.

I decided to sit on a chair down Francine's end of the room, to pull Ned away from the desk. Maybe he'd sit next to Francine on the couch.

I was waiting for Widmer to take the initiative. It was his meeting. He said, "You must have found traffic heavy coming down this time of day."

Jesus! If not the weather, it's traffic. "Not too bad," I said. "It was worse for the people coming up out of the city."

"Of course."

Francine, I thought, maybe you could bake a cake during the silence.

"Okay," I said. "We're here to talk about Brady."

"The photograph…" Widmer began.

"Is incidental," I said. "It's like a burglar's tool, one of several. The question is what to do about the burglar."

"One moment, George."

I looked at Widmer, and he looked slightly away as he continued.

"This isn't just a photograph Brady showed me. It's a picture of you and my daughter."

"Ned, we're past the point where you ask a father for his daughter's hand or any other part of her anatomy."

"I understand that." He pronounced it I hate that .

"We're here to talk about a legal situation," I said, "and it would be best for us to consider the subjects in that photograph as two consenting adults, and get on with the real problem, which is that it's being used to attempt to blackmail Francine into dropping the case. Ned, let's deal with Brady. If we win, we'll discuss the other matter. If we lose, I think perhaps none of us will be talking to each other."

I can't say it was a sigh that Ned emitted. I wished he would move from behind that damn desk.

"All right," he said. "Brady."

"First, Ned," I said. "I want to take the blame for Brady's interest."

"How's that?"

"I guess," I said, "I'm the only one present who's dealt with Brady before. He's in this because I'm in this. He's got money coming out of his ears in retainers. He has to be on call for all his regulars, and they keep real funny hours sometimes. The last thing he needs is a one-shot like Koslak. But he'd love to crack my head, in or out of the courtroom, and he's smart. Rape is a good subject for someone who works his way."

"What way is that, George?" Widmer asked.

"He starts by figuring out who his opponent really is. It's not always the accuser or the accuser's lawyer. Then he figures what's his opponent's most vulnerable point. What could he use to jab that point? How does he get the jabber? Then he does it, a, b, c. It won't do any good for me to drop off the case, now — don't worry, Francine, I wasn't intending to suggest that — once started he'd stick with it. Even if you put another lawyer onto it, he'd keep thinking of it as Thomassy's case. I'd be the losing pitcher even if I was taken out of the game."

At last old man Widmer came around the desk and sat down on the couch three feet away from Francine. It's a good thing we're not drinking coffee. We'd have to get up to pass the sugar and the cream.

"George, you said rape is a good subject."

"Terrific. For the defense. Murder, you've got a body. Dead is dead. Rape you've got a body that says it was violated against its will. You've got to prove the violation and the will. With murder, if a stranger does it, the question is was it planned or did the opportunity come up in the middle of something else? Even if it's in the middle of a robbery, it's murder one. If it's in an ongoing fight between relatives or good friends, it's obviously murder two. We've always got the possibility of murder in our hearts for beloved friends and kin. But that's the ball park. The uncertainties have to do with degree, not did it happen. With rape, you're back to the beginning of the hard questions. Was there an element of seduction? Was the rapee a temptress? Then there's a whole set of other kinds of questions: Did penetration take place? Penetration of what? How do you prove it? You see what I mean?"

"All too graphically," said Widmer without smiling.

"Look," I said, "I'm sorry, but that happens to be the subject matter. Let me go on to something else. You've seen Brady, Ned, so you know how short he is. I knew a kid like that in high school. Everybody else was still growing and he stopped. They called him 'midget,' something sweet like that. I remember things like 'Midget, while you're down there, why don't you kiss my ass?' Short kids grow up riding the one universal human emotion nobody much talks about, vengeance. Except they want to revenge themselves against nearly everybody because nearly everybody is taller. That's Napoleon. I could name four or five classy lawyers you know, Ned, who fit that category. And there's Brady. No class. His connections are garbage people, junk dealers. Shy-locks, mob people. In some ways, the Shylocks are Brady's favorites. They charge something like ten percent a week. There's no way you can pay back. Soon you're paying interest on the interest. It's a room without doors. You're trapped. And they love it. You make money for them until you can't do anything any more. Then they beat you to death, or dump you somewhere. I know one case where they left the guy alone, because he was committed to an institution. They'd driven him nuts. These Shylocks are lovely people. They need a good lawyer to represent them because they are in an activity that happens to be illegal. A good lawyer for them is one who specializes in winning outside the courtroom, because they don't like courtrooms. Most of all, a good lawyer for them is one who is animated by a desire to beat up on the legitimate, taller-than-five-feet world. Brady's their man. Now let's talk about him and our problem. Francine, you haven't said a word."

Francine looked straight at me and said, "I love you."

I could see the pulse in Ned's temple. I said to her, "If you think that's helpful under these circumstances, you're crazy."

"That, too," she said, smiling.

I wouldn't have liked to be inside Widmer's skin.

Finally, he spoke. "The photograph, from what you've said, I suppose you both know what's in it?"

"Approximately. But Brady's already lost its biggest asset. You've seen it. Francine knows you've seen it. I know you've seen it. Nobody got hit with lightning. We're all sitting in one room peaceably together discussing it. We've disarmed that photograph, just as I'd like to see Brady kept from slipping in any kind of sexual innuendoes about Francine in front of the jury before the judge can shut him up. I think the D.A. in his direct examination of Francine should make it clear she is not Queen Victoria, just that she wants to choose what she does and a rapist doesn't give her a choice."

I looked at Widmer. He seemed lost in his own office, with his own daughter.

"Is there a room nearby from which I could make a private phone call?" I asked.

"Of course," said Widmer. "My secretary will show you the way."

At the door I turned and said, "Francine, you might want to chat with your father a bit. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

When I was alone, I dialed Fat Tarbell's number. Busy. I doodled on the scratch pad, then dialed again.

"Yes," said Fats.

"George Thomassy," I said. "I've got a heavy one."

"Shoot."

It was a risk asking Fats. The other fellow was also undoubtedly a client of his. "Brady," I said. "What have you got on his sex life, if he has one?"

Fat Tarbell laughed. "Oh he's got one. You're looking to get me into trouble. He gives me more business than you do."

"On his sex life?"

"No."

"Then we're not competing."

He laughed. "You got a sense of humor, Thomassy. This'll be expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Who's your client?"