To Save a Son

by Brian Freemantle

  “So it’s safe?” persisted Franks.

  “My objection wasn’t so much at your being traced through any such system after the trial. It was at their discovering your going there now—going anywhere—and their removing you as a prosecution witness,” said the district attorney bluntly.

  “Have they any indication that there is going to be a prosecution?” said Franks.

  “No, I suppose not,” conceded Ronan. “But they had no indication when they hit Scargo, did they?” Ronan permitted a small gap, and then added, “Although I gather from the preliminary meeting you had with Mr. Waldo, you told them about an incriminating file. If they felt the details of that file were sufficiently important to take Scargo out, then wouldn’t they be sufficiently important to justify an attempt upon you, as well?”

  “Aren’t we being introverted about this?” said Franks. “I’m not attempting for a moment to diminish the importance of any case you try to make; I’ve already made it clear what I intend to do and how seriously I regard it. But are you seriously suggesting—really seriously suggesting—that their influence and power extend as far as that?”

  “I only suggest it as a possibility of which you should be aware,” said Ronan.

  “I want to go to Europe,” said Franks insistently. “I’ve agreed to cooperate fully with you. I’m asking you to cooperate with me.”

  “After the trial?” suggested Ronan.

  “No.”

  “After the grand jury hearings, then?”

  “No.”

  Ronan looked to Waldo and then to the tax inspector and then down at his desk. Finally he looked up and said, “Don’t you think you’re being a little too confident, Mr. Franks? You sure you can impose such conditions?”

  “You tell me,” Franks said at once. “You approached me.…” He looked at Rosenberg. “Us,” he qualified. “We didn’t approach you. So you tell me. Do you want to prosecute me and let Pascara and Flamini and Dukes get away again? Or is there going to be the sort of cooperation you’ve been talking about, ever since these discussions began?”

  “You’re telling me that our working together is dependent upon my agreeing to your going to Europe?”

  “Yes,” said Franks shortly.

  “Do you think I am completely stupid, Mr. Franks?”

  “I don’t understand that question.”

  “The moment you leave America you leave my jurisdiction,” said Ronan. “At the moment—with you here—I’ve got a cast iron case against you with the possibility—remote, I agree, but nevertheless a possibility—of proceeding in some way against the others. Do you seriously imagine that I’m going to let you fly away somewhere where I’d never be able to touch you?” The D.A. looked sadly at Rosenberg. “Please!” he said.

  In turn Rosenberg looked to Waldo, and said, “I’ve already made it clear, as far as movement restrictions are concerned, that I am accepting full responsibility for my client. That pledge remains for what Mr. Franks is suggesting.”

  Franks looked appreciatively at the other man, realizing for the first time just how completely Rosenberg believed him.

  “No,” said Ronan. “You can’t expect me to accept that.”

  “I’m prepared for that to be a financial pledge,” said Rosenberg.

  “Still no,” said Ronan. “You’re a lawyer, for God’s sake! You know the impossibility of what you’re asking.”

  “What about being escorted?” said Rosenberg.

  “No,” insisted Ronan. “Your client’s misfortune—and appreciate I’m being generous—is of his own making. His problem. I’m prepared to go so far, but not as far as this. You know I can’t.”

  Rosenberg looked toward the door leading into the smaller office, and said, “I’d like the opportunity to talk privately to my client again.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Franks, ahead of Ronan. He stood, moving toward the opposite door leading into the outer offices. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to reach any agreement,” he said. “I was prepared to, on my part.”

  Rosenberg was standing now, shifting uncertainly. As he moved to follow Franks, the district attorney said, “Wait!”

  Both men stopped at the door.

  “Escorted at all times?” said Ronan.

  “I’ve already suggested that,” said Rosenberg.

  The district attorney made to speak and then stopped, rearranging the words. “And Mrs. Franks and the children remain here, in America.”

  Franks realized, discomforted, that the idea of taking Tina and the children had never occurred to him.

  “That’s taking hostages,” said Rosenberg contemptuously.

  “Yes,” admitted Ronan. “That’s exactly what it is.”

  Would Tina be expecting to go with him? Probably, thought Franks. But she’d readily enough accept the alternative. He was doing it for the benefit of her and the children, after all. Wasn’t he? The question presented itself abruptly. Was it for Tina and the children, to ensure their future financial well-being? Or was it for him, unable as he’d always been to face the thought of not having any money? It was a fear—deep-rooted like all the other secret feelings—although he’d never known what it was like not to have money. Or access to it. He couldn’t conceive—had never been able to conceive—how his father had been able to survive, journeying across Europe with no money. Or the ability to get it. He said, “I have no intention of running away; I’ve nothing to run from. I’m quite prepared for my wife and children to remain here, as surety for my return. Although I think the insistence upon it—the thought of it being necessary—is obscene.”

  “I’m not in the morality business, Mr. Franks,” said Ronan. “I’m in the immorality business. It sours you.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m not in it,” said Franks.

  “Shall we go on?” invited Ronan, gesturing them back toward their chairs. Franks led the way, as he had led the walkout.

  As the two men resumed their seats, Ronan went on, “We’ve got an agreement, but I’m not sure exactly what we’ve agreed upon. Isn’t it about time you showed how closely you’re prepared to cooperate by making available whatever you recovered from the safe-deposit?”

  Rosenberg looked to Franks, who nodded permission. The lawyer took the folder from his briefcase and offered it across the table. Ronan practically snatched at it in his eagerness, beckoning Waldo and Knap to join him at the desk so that they could examine it at the same time. Franks and Rosenberg sat watching them, momentarily forgotten. It was Knap who reacted, stabbing his finger at something. Ronan went immediately to the file that the FBI had created, hurrying from it the photostat that he’d produced the previous day, when he’d talked about Snarsbrook. Waldo said, “It’s the same branch.”

  “And the same account code,” identified Knap more expertly, pointing again.

  Ronan smiled across at Franks. “This is identified as being the bank account in Nassau from which Pascara transferred his original investment capital?”

  “Yes,” said Franks.

  “You’re prepared to testify to that effect?”

  “Of course,” said Franks, surprised at the question.

  “And we can positively link it with a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bribe paid to a Bahamian government minister,” said the district attorney, talking more to himself than to anyone else.

  Knap was away from the desk, fumbling excitedly through the briefcase that he’d left beside his chair. He pulled out a sheaf of paper, stapled together, and then Franks realized it wasn’t paper but checks. “I’ve got it!” said Knap, exultantly. “I thought so! I’ve got it!”

  “What?” demanded Ronan.

  “Some of the money drawn from the casino was in bearer checks, no identity, you understand. Just bearer checks. But after payment and clearance they were returned to the casino account for audit cancellation. It’s the customary procedure. Look,” he said. “Here … here … and again here. And here.” The tax inspector looked up, his face suffused wit
h a smile of satisfaction. “There’ll be more. I know there’ll be more because I’m going to run every check that’s ever been issued from the casino through a computer and stand over it myself, to make sure it doesn’t make any mistake. But here already we’ve got four checks, totaling some 850 thousand dollars, endorsed into the account that we now know to be Pascara’s. We’ve got him! We’ve got him on income tax evasion.…” The man giggled. “That’s the mistake they always make. It’s classic.”

  Ronan looked seriously across the table at Franks, refusing to be affected by Knap’s euphoria. “The Bahamian authorities made available to me a note that they discovered during their investigation of Snarsbrook.”

  “You showed it to me yesterday,” said Franks.

  “So now I’m going to ask you a question. You’ve produced documentation linking Pascara into the account. Is it his? Or is it a joint holding?”

  “I have no interest or control whatsoever in that account. Or access to it,” said Franks. “The bank will authenticate that.”

  “They’re going to have to,” said Ronan. He looked sideways to Knap, and said, “You’re right. I think we’ve got him. I wanted something criminal but tax is good enough for me.”

  “Doesn’t this prove something?” suggested Rosenberg.

  Ronan frowned toward him. “What?”

  “The innocence of my client? An always proclaimed innocence?”

  “It’s a point,” conceded Ronan reluctantly.

  “One I would expect to be brought out in court,” said Rosenberg.

  “If it checks out, upon inquiries, then of course.”

  Knap was back at the district attorney’s elbow, hurrying through the new material and snatching up the second set of bank records, those of Dukes. “I can do it again,” said Knap, another man in private conversation with himself. “There’s no declaration in any Dukes return of any offshore account in the Netherlands Antilles.”

  Ronan spoke to Franks across the desk. “I told you this prosecution wouldn’t fail,” he said. “And it isn’t going to. We’ve got them; I’m sure we’ve got them.”

  The meeting continued for another hour, with the district attorney’s positive agreement that Franks would be allowed to travel to Europe under the conditions already decided upon—Waldo actually being deputed as the escort—and promises for further contact when Ronan and the rest of the investigatory unit had been fully able to study the material that Franks and Rosenberg had provided.

  On the way back to Rosenberg’s office, the lawyer said, “You worried the hell out of me back there.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Were you really prepared to walk out? Upset everything and go for trial, instead?”

  “Yes,” said Franks. It was a lie. In the office he hadn’t thought it through, but he’d won the bluff, and so now he could afford to make it seem intentional.

  “Why?”

  “I’m fed up with being told what to do and how to do it; being pushed around,” said Franks. He put his hand up against his chin. “Fed up to here.”

  “I want to come,” Tina insisted when he told her about going to Europe.

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Franks told her, and she sat staring at him, disbelievingly. “You agreed to that?”

  “I didn’t have any choice.”

  “Bastard!” she erupted. “Who do you think I am?”

  “Someone I’m trying to look after. You and the kids.” Why couldn’t she understand?

  “You’d better be,” she said. “Christ, you’d better be!”

  Tina and Maria walked on either side of Mamma Scargo, holding her arms supportively, but from the upright way she held herself, Franks didn’t think the old lady needed any assistance. All three women were heavily veiled, so it wasn’t possible to see if any of them were crying. He didn’t think they were. Tina was quite controlled. Maria as well. They all wore black and Enrico, too, keeping close behind his wife.

  Enrico had acknowledged their arrival at the church with nothing more than a curt head movement, not attempting any conversation. Franks and Tina had stood, without any conversation of their own, and Franks hoped the old man imagined the silence between himself and his wife was because of the ceremony. All the relations whom Franks saw at weddings and christenings but at no other time appeared to be there, but there was a division between them and the intimate family, an actual distancing. Franks was unsure if it was out of respect or out of fear that there might be more violence here today.

  The FBI and the police remained outside on the steps. Franks saw two men using cameras, movie as well as still; he supposed Schultz and Waldo were around somewhere, but he couldn’t see them; Tomkiss seemed to be their permanent guard of the moment.

  The priest delivered the customary eulogy, praising Nicky for his uprightness and public spirit and for being a credit to one of the county’s foremost families. Franks stood beside his rigid wife and remembered Nicky planning perjury. Did priests ever feel hypocritical? Why should they? Usually they didn’t know; certainly this man wouldn’t. After the oration the cortege filed out to the graveyard behind the draped coffin, between banks of elaborate wreaths and flower arrangements. Tina was responsible for their floral tribute, and Franks was disinterested in seeing it. He was conscious of other people looking intently as they passed along the avenue; seeking their own to decide if they’d won the contest for the most ostentatious, he thought. The priest continued the service from the grave side. At last Mamma Scargo’s shoulders began to move and Maria and Tina put their arms around her. Enrico stared into the open grave at the coffin, but didn’t break down.

  The last funeral he’d known had been that of his father, Franks remembered. Six years ago. Or was it seven? He could date it from David’s birth, because Tina had been pregnant. Almost ten, then. He was embarrassed at having forgotten. He should have a better idea when his father died. A lot had happened in that time; toward the end, too much.

  The trowel was offered and the immediate family began the ritual of casting earth in upon the coffin. Franks took the tool when it was offered to him, made his token gesture, and thought, who’s being hypocritical now? The priest escorted them to the waiting cars and there was the delay of farewell, and then the line crocodiled out of the cemetery and back to the main highway. The FBI photographers kept shooting right up to the moment of departure, and, looking more closely, Franks realized that there were some newspeople with cameras, as well.

  At the house Franks formed part of the family receiving line, touching hands with people he didn’t know and accepting mumbled commiserations he didn’t hear. People assembled in family ghettos: tight, unmixing groups—protection again? he wondered. He followed Tina’s lead, moving with her among them, parroting the words and wishing it would end. Franks had never been able to understand the need for a gathering after a burial: tears and tea, crying and cake.

  Extra caterers had in fact been brought in, and waitresses moved among them; there were drinks as well as tea and coffee, and during the tour Franks took two gins. As he reached for the third, when they’d almost completed the circuit, Tina said, “Is that really necessary?”

  “We’re not here to fight.”

  “Or to get drunk.”

  Franks didn’t bother to reply, but took the drink anyway. Booze had never been a problem for him and it wouldn’t become one now. He’d taken too much after the first meeting with the district attorney, but he didn’t mink he had any reason to feel guilt about that; most people would have drunk far more, and he’d sobered up quickly enough to initiate the changes he wanted in Europe. So maybe he did average three at night; sometimes more since the crisis had arisen. It was well within his capability. A lot of people drank a damned sight more than that. Tina wasn’t concerned at his drinking; she couldn’t forgive him for making the arrangement he had to get to Europe. Which was stupid and something he hadn’t expected from her. The tension; that’s what it had to be. Europe
had just become the object, something she could focus on, for all the other feelings and fears.

  “You should say something to Mamma and Poppa,” said Tina.

  “They didn’t seem keen on any conversation when we arrived.”

  “Haven’t you got any feelings, for anything?”

  “What shall I say?”

  Tina had thrown the veil back, so he could see the abrupt tightening of her face. “Just something. I don’t care what it is. Just something to show you’re human.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It isn’t supposed to mean anything,” she sighed.

  The Scargos were by the door of the main room. Maria was with them, protective still, standing behind the chair in which the old lady was sitting. All three watched him as he crossed the room, still unsure what sympathy to offer. He wondered if he should kiss the two women but decided against it. He didn’t think they would want the gesture and it seemed too late anyway; he should have done it when he arrived. Instead, he indicated the roomful of mourners and said, “He was very much loved,” hating the words. They sounded like something out of a television soap opera.

  “Yes,” said Enrico, seeming to make a point. “He was.”

  “I know the investigation is going on,” said Franks, trying to recover.

  Enrico snorted a laugh. “Taking photographs of those who come to pay their last respects!”

  “Other things,” said Franks.

  “They know who did it!” demanded Maria. She looked quite composed and dry-eyed.

  “I don’t know the details,” avoided Franks. “Just that they’re hopeful.” Would they be grateful for what he was going to do; the risks he was going to run? He wasn’t doing it for their gratitude. He was doing it for what Pascara and Dukes and Flamini did to him. Until this moment he hadn’t so clearly defined it in his mind as personal revenge. He was going to enjoy it, Franks decided. He was going to enjoy being in court and seeing those unemotional, supercilious bastards who’d sneered at him behind his back have their crooked little worlds crumble around them, like they’d been prepared to see his world crumble about him. That moment was going to justify a lot of worry and a lot of irritation and a lot of inconvenience. Even the widening gap between him and Tina. That was only temporary, he determined.