Sol Stein - Other people

"I'd like to let you in on a little of my strategy."

"Lefkowitz's."

"Mine. Lefkowitz is going to be my Charlie McCarthy on this case."

"Good trick if you can do it. One step out of line and I'll have you removed from the courtroom for interference. By the judge, of course."

"I'm tutoring Lefkowitz."

"Sure."

He was wanting to hear but not to show it.

"I've got an expert witness."

"Look, Thomassy, I'm bored with all that psychiatrist shit. I'll tear him to pieces."

"I didn't have a psychiatrist in mind. I think the jury needs to understand the difference between seduction and rape, between normal sex and abnormal sex."

"And?"

"My expert is Anna Banana. The subpoena will read Anna Smith. You know this expert?"

Brady had the no-expression curtain on his face, but he couldn't immobilize the small, dancing tic near his upper lip. He picked up a paper clip and opened it into a single not very straight piece of wire. Finally, he said, "What's that to me?"

"I'm planning to have her files subpoenaed, too. There'll be a connection."

"You're bluffing. You'll never get her on the stand."

"Lefkowitz has a law school classmate in the Manhattan D.A.'s office. This friend has quite a file on Anna Banana, but Lefkowitz's friend has generously arranged for the lady to continue her eccentric livelihood. It seemed an important consideration to her, which is why we expect her to testify gladly. For a fee. I'm quite convinced her expertise in what is normal is based on more professional experience than most psychiatrists have. She's got quite a bit to say about men who, say, rape instead of paying for their special requirements."

"You finished, Thomassy?"

"There's a second and more expensive witness. However, my client is willing to foot the bill from Amsterdam."

I was certain Brady was thinking where he could get my arms and legs broken for a price.

"Oh," I said, "and of course Lefkowitz will be calling Dr. Koch."

"That son of a bitch!"

"Why'd you say that?"

"I heard he was a son of a bitch."

"Could it be you heard he managed to repel an intruder?"

Brady flinched when I touched my eye. He knew I knew.

"Thomassy, I don't know why you're rolling in all the heavy artillery. Some twat gets laid by someone she didn't pick and you're acting like there was a million-dollar construction contract at stake."

"I'd appreciate your characterizing my client differently."

"I forgot you had a piece of her."

"Anna Banana, Amsterdam, Koch. Could be an interesting array of experts."

"What's your suggestion, Thomassy?"

"Cop a plea for Koslak. No trial. You got your retainer. I might talk Lefkowitz into first degree assault."

Brady bent the wire into a circle.

"Trespass."

"You've got to be kidding, Brady. Her father's a lawyer. He sent her to me. I can't come up with a Mickey Mouse."

"I'll discuss second degree with my client."

"Thank you. Oh by the way, Brady, are you acting for the superientendent?"

"No."

"Know who is?"

"Nah. He said something about Legal Aid."

"I have a feeling, Brady, that the super didn't know what Koslak was letting him in for."

"You kidding? Koslak told me that guy bangs half the women in that block. It's better than being a milkman."

"If he gets all that ass without much hassle, what'd he want to rape the Widmer woman for? Or was he just going along for what he thought was another free ride?"

"What're you up to, Thomassy? You don't have to think of using him as a witness. I told you I'm talking to Koslak to cop a plea."

"That was the last thing on my mind, Brady. I had another idea."

Outside, I stretched my arms, pleased with myself. Francine wouldn't have to go through with the mess. And I wouldn't have to burn on the sidelines in court, watching Lefkowitz bumble. All I had to do was get Francine out of that apartment for good. The American system of justice is a lovely way to kill two birds with one stone.

X was right. Butterball had not been told that I was substituting for X until he arrived at the studio Tuesday night. For a minute there was some confusion because Butterball thought Thomassy was the substitute guest. The host, Colin Chapman, thought Butterball was going to walk. The instant panic proved unnecessary. Butterball could not resist any opportunity to talk to the public, especially when it couldn't talk back, and he settled down to the proffered coffee and to another dose of the American rudeness that had put him up against a mere girl. He didn't say any of those things, but it was as clear as if he had. And it stimulated me to the best twenty minutes I have ever had out of bed. With George ensconced behind the glass next to the engineer, Colin Chapman chatted us up, then got the signal, and we were on. He introduced the subject and deferred almost immediately to Butterball, who launched into a spiel about how just two days ago he had been home for a visit and with just an eight-hour flight (first class, of course!) he had been transported from emerging Africa to New York, and since then he had talked no fewer than six times by phone to this minister and that minister back home. Colin Chapman tried to butt in a couple of times to make it a dialogue, but the only thing that worked was when I said "Mr. Ambassador" in my best stentorian contralto and put my hand over the microphone. He had to let me talk.

In fact, that was when Butterball first took notice of me.

"Mr. Ambassador," I repeated, "I have a very different idea of the shrinking world. We have seen," I said, "in recent decades, a proliferation of countries in the continent the Ambassador calls home, and in each new country, we have witnessed a growth of government agencies, a burgeoning of offices and duties and jobs where none existed, an unchecked growth of one of the most insidious forces in the modern world."

I looked up at the glass booth to make sure George was wide awake and following.

"Which is?" asked Colin Chapman brightly.

"Bureaucracy," I said, stopping and gesturing with my palm toward Butterball.

"The lady," said Butterball, "chooses to use a pejorative term for administration, the necessary functions of government if it is to keep things running."

"The lady," I said, "has a name, Mr. Ambassador."

"Francine Widmer," Colin Chapman supplied.

"Africa," said Butterball, "has found itself."

"What does that mean, Mr. Ambassador? Does it mean Africa has been found dividing itself into smaller and smaller constituencies, each with its own administrative offices, to the point where we will soon see a return in that shrinking world to the tribalism of yesteryear, except each tribe will have its own postage stamps?"

Behind the glass, George was having a good time. Butterball was trying to check his anger.

"Mr. Chapman," he said to our host, "the great leaders of emerging Africa…"

"Amin?" I asked.

"What did you say?"

"Amin?"

"I heard you."

"Are you including General Amin among the great leaders of emerging Africa?"

Butterball was fumbling his debits and credits. Privately he was reputed to despise Amin, but I had him boxed in.

He decided to ignore me and addressed Chapman. "Mr. Chapman," he said, "the announced subject of this broadcast was the shrinking world, and I do not see the necessity—"

"Of evasion," I said.

Chapman was loving it. In his job he had to play host to a multitude of horses' asses during the course of a year, and he obviously relished this one's discomfort.

Within five minutes I got Butterball admitting that his government actually had more government agencies than did the preceding colonialist government, that the rolls of government employees had increased by more than three hundred percent in the last two years because three semicompetents were needed to do the work of one bureaucrat who had the wrong color skin, and best of all, that he fully expected to be the subject of a forthcoming postage stamp. Behind the glass, George looked like a kid at a baseball game.