The Witness

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Death to the Zionist oppressors of our people and the murderers who call themselves police!” she read aloud. “My God!”

  Under the headline was a photograph of Matt and Mayor Jerry Carlucci, with the caption “Officer M. M. Payne, of Special Operations, apparently the target of the ILA threat, shown with Mayor Jerome Carlucci three months ago, shortly after Payne shot to death Germantown resident Warren K. Fletcher, allegedly the ‘North Philadelphia serial rapist.’”

  Looking at Matt’s face, she had a sudden very clear mental image of his gun, and the slick, menacing cartridges for it, which was then replaced by the memory of his naked body next to hers, and of him and the eruption, the explosion, in her, which had followed.

  “Christ!” she said softly, and reached for the cognac snifter on the marble.

  There was the clunking noise the garage door always made the moment the mechanism was triggered. When she looked out the glass wall at the end of the sun room, she saw Farny’s Lincoln coupe waiting for the garage door to open fully.

  I didn’t see him come up the drive, she thought, and then: I wonder what he’s doing home so early.

  Helene went behind the bar, intending to give the cognac snifter a quick rinse and to put the bottle away. But then she changed her mind, splashed more Rémy Martin in the glass and drank it all down at a gulp. Then she rinsed the glass and put the Rémy Martin bottle back on the shelf beneath the bar.

  Before Farny came into the house, there was time for her to fish in her purse for a spray bottle of breath sweetener, to use it, replace it, and then move purse and newspaper to the glass-topped coffee table. She had seated herself on the couch and found and lit a cigarette by the time she heard the kitchen door open and then slam.

  He always slams that goddamn door!

  “I’m in here,” she called.

  He didn’t respond. She heard the sound of his opening the cloak closet under the stairs, the rattling of hangers, and then the clunk of the door closing.

  He appeared in the entrance to the sun room.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” Helene said. “I didn’t expect you until later.”

  “I’ve got to go way the hell across town to the Detention Center,” he said. “I thought it made more sense to get dressed now. I may have to call you and ask you to meet me at the Thompsons’. All right?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about having a drink. Specifically, a straight cognac. Does that sound appealing?”

  “Very tempting, but I’d better not. I don’t want someone sniffing my breath over there.”

  “You don’t mind if I do? I think I’m fighting a cold.”

  “Don’t fight too hard. You heard what I said about you maybe having to drive yourself to the Thompsons’?”

  “Why don’t I just skip the Thompsons’?”

  “We’ve been over this before. Thompson is important in the party.”

  “You make him, you make the both of you sound like apparatchiks in the Supreme Soviet,” Helene said.

  “That’s the second, maybe the third, time you made that little joke. I don’t find it funny this time, either.”

  “You’re certainly in a lousy mood. Has it to do with—what did you say? ‘The Detention Center’? What is that, anyway?”

  She got up and walked to the bar, retrieved her glass and the bottle of Rémy Martin, and poured a half inch into the snifter.

  “The Detention Center is where they lock people up before they’re indicted, or if they can’t make bail. Essentially, it’s a prison in everything but name.”

  “What are you going to be doing there?”

  “The one witness we have to the robbery and murder at Goldblatt’s is going to try to pick the guilty parties out in lineups. Washington—that great big Negro detective?—has scheduled it for half past six. Christ only knows how long it will take.”

  “I think you’re supposed to say ‘black,’ not ‘Negro,’” Helene said.

  “Whatever.”

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  “I wasn’t in it, my secretary said.”

  “I meant about the Islamic Liberation Army threatening reprisal, revenge, whatever.”

  “I heard about it,” he said, and then followed her pointing finger and went and picked up the Ledger.

  She waited until he had read the newspaper story, and then asked, “Do they mean it?”

  “Who the hell knows?” he said, and then had a thought. “Going over to see that kid was a good idea. I don’t know if I knew or not, but I didn’t make the connection. You do know who his father is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Brewster Cortland Payne, of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester.”

  “He’s important in the party too, I suppose?”

  “Helene, you’re being a bitch, and I’m really not in the mood for it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But to answer your question, yes. He is important in the party. And if this political thing doesn’t work out, Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester is the sort of firm with which I would like to be associated.”

  “Then maybe we should have gotten him a box of candy or something.”

  He looked at her and took a moment to consider whether she was being sarcastic again.

  “It’s not too late, I suppose,” Helene said.

  He considered that a moment.

  “I think that’s a lost opportunity,” he said.

  Damn, it would have given me an excuse to go see him.

  “Well, maybe we could have him for drinks or dinner or something,” Helen said. “If it’s important.”

  “We’ll see,” Farnsworth Stillwell said. “I’m going to get dressed.”

  He had just started up the stairs when the telephone rang. Helene answered it.

  “Mr. Farnsworth Stillwell, please,” a female voice said. “Mr. Armando Giacomo is calling.”

  “Just a moment, please,” Helene said, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

  “Are you home for a Mr. Giacomo?” she called.

  “Armando Giacomo?” Stillwell asked, already coming back into the room.

  She nodded. “His secretary, I think.”

  Stillwell took the phone from her.

  “This is Farnsworth Stillwell,” he said, and then, a moment later, “How are you, Armando? What can I do for you?”

  The charm is on, Helene thought, Armando Whatsisname must be somebody else important in the party.

  “Well, I must say I’m surprised,” Stillwell said to the telephone. “If I may say so, Armando, hiring you is tantamount to saying ‘I’m guilty as sin and need a genius to get me off.’”

  There was a reply that Helene could not hear.

  He’s wearing one of his patently insincere smiles. Whatever this was about, he doesn’t like it.

  “Well, I’ll see you there, then, Armando,” Stillwell said. “I’m going to change my clothes and go over there. Helene and I are having dinner with Jack Thompson, and I have no idea how long the business at the Detention Center will take. I appreciate your courtesy in calling me.”

  He absentmindedly handed her the handset.

  “What was that all about?” Helene asked.

  “That was Armando C. Giacomo,” he said.

  “So the girl said. Who is Armando C. Giawhatever?”

  A look of annoyance crossed his face, but he almost visibly made the decision to answer her.

  “The top two criminal lawyers in Philadelphia, in my judgment, and practically everyone else’s, are Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson of the aforementioned Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester and Armando C. Giacomo. Giacomo telephoned to tell me he has been retained to represent the people the police arrested this morning.”

  “That’s bad news, I gather.”

  “Frankly, I would rather face some public defender six months out of law school, or one of the less expensive members of the criminal bar,” Stillwell said. “I don’t want to walk out of
the courtroom with egg all over my face. I’ll have to give this development some thought.”

  He turned and left the room and went to their bedroom on the second floor.

  Farnsworth Stillwell had several disturbing thoughts. Armando C. Giacomo was very good, and consequently very expensive. Like Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, he had a well-earned reputation for defending, most often successfully and invariably with great skill, people charged with violation of the whole gamut of criminal offenses.

  But, like Mawson, Giacomo seldom represented ordinary criminals, for, in Stillwell’s mind, the very good reason that ordinary criminals seldom had any money. They both drew their clientele from the well heeled, excluding only members of the Mob.

  If he was representing the Islamic Liberation Army, he certainly wasn’t doing it pro bono publico; he was being paid, well paid. By whom? Certainly not by the accused themselves. If there was money around to hire Armando C. Giacomo, it challenged Matt Lowenstein’s (and Peter Wohl’s) theory that the Islamic Liberation Army was nothing more than a group of thugs with a bizarre imagination.

  Farnsworth Stillwell had a good deal of respect for Armando C. Giacomo, not all of it based on his professional reputation. On a personal basis, he regarded Giacomo as a brother in the fraternity of naval aviators. They hadn’t flown together—Giacomo had flown in the Korean War, Stillwell in Vietnam—but they shared the common experience of Pensacola training, landing high-performance aircraft on the decks of aircraft carriers, flying in Harm’s Way, and the proud self-assurance that comes with golden wings pinned to a blue Navy uniform.

  Stillwell did not really understand why a man who had been a naval aviator would choose to become a criminal lawyer, except for the obvious reason that, at the upper echelons of the speciality, it paid very well indeed.

  He was forced now to consider the unpleasant possibilities, starting with the least pleasant to consider, that Armando C. Giacomo was a better, more experienced lawyer than he was.

  I will have absolutely no room for error in the courtroom.

  Or, for that matter, in all the administrative garbage that has to be plowed through before we get into court.

  Christ, why didn’t I keep my mouth shut when Tony Callis brought this up? When am I going to learn that whenever something looks as if the gods are smiling on me, the exact opposite is true?

  Farnsworth Stillwell had been told by Sergeant Jason Washington that the lineups were going to start at the Detention Center at half past six.

  Stillwell often joked that his only virtue was punctuality. The truth was that he believed punctuality to be not only good manners, but good business practice. He made a genuine effort to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. He expected reciprocity on the part of people with whom he was professionally associated, and demanded it from both his subordinates and those who ranked lower in the government hierarchy than he did.

  He had never been to the Detention Center before, so in order to be on time, he had taken the trouble to locate it precisely on a map, and to leave his house in sufficient time to arrive on time.

  When he pulled into one of the Official Visitor parking spots at the Detention Center, it was 6:28.

  He entered the building, and went to the uniformed corrections officer sitting behind a plate-glass window.

  “Assistant District Attorney Stillwell,” he announced. “To meet Sergeant Washington.”

  “He’s not here yet,” the corrections officer, a small black woman, said. “You can take a seat and wait, if you like.”

  He smiled at her and said, “Thank you.”

  He sat down on a battered bench against the wall, more than a little annoyed.

  He and Helene were due at Jack Thompson’s at eight, and he intensively disliked the idea of arriving there late. He had told Helene that if he wasn’t back, or hadn’t called, by half past seven, she was to drive to the Thompsons’.

  He now regretted that decision. The way she was throwing the cognac down, the possibility existed that the headlines in tomorrow’s Bulletin and Ledger and Daily News would not concern the ILA, but rather something they knew their readers would really like to read, “Assistant District Attorney Stillwell’s Wife Charged in Drunken Driving Episode.”

  If the lineups were to begin at half past six, Stillwell fumed, obviously some preparatory steps had to be taken, and therefore Washington should have arrived, with the witness in tow, at whatever time before half past six was necessary in order for him to do what he had to do so that they could begin on schedule.

  Stillwell was aware that one of his faults was a tendency to become angry over circumstances over which he had no control. This seemed to be one of them. He told himself that Washington was not late on purpose, that things, for example delays in traffic because of the snow, sometimes happened.

  Washington will be along any moment, with an explanation, and probably an apology, for being tardy, Stillwell thought, taking just a little satisfaction in knowing that he was being reasonable.

  At quarter to seven, however, when Sergeant Washington had still not shown up, or even had the simple courtesy to send word that he would be delayed, Farnsworth Stillwell decided that he had been patient enough.

  While he thought it was highly unlikely that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl would know where Sergeant Washington was and/or why he wasn’t at the Detention Center when he was supposed to be, calling Wohl would at least serve to tell him (a) that his super detective was unreliable, time-wise, and (b) that Farnsworth Stillwell did not like to be kept waiting.

  He asked the female corrections officer behind the plate-glass window if he could use the telephone.

  “It’s for official business only, sir.”

  Farnsworth Stillwell had a fresh, unpleasant thought. There was no one else here. Armando C. Giacomo was supposed to be here, and certainly there would be others besides Washington and the witness.

  Had the whole damned thing been called off for some reason, and he had not been told?

  “Are you sure Sergeant Washington isn’t here? Could he be here and you not be aware of it?”

  “Everybody has to come past me,” she said. “If he were here, I’d know it.”

  “May I have the telephone, please?”

  “It’s for official business only, like I told you before.”

  “I’m Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. This is official business.”

  She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him, but gave in.

  “I’ll have the operator get the number for you, sir.”

  “I don’t know the number. I want to talk to Inspector Wohl of Special Operations.”

  The corrections officer obligingly searched for the number on her list of official telephones. It was not listed, and she so informed Farnsworth Stillwell.

  “Check with information.”

  Information had the number.

  “Special Operations, may I help you?”

  “This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. Inspector Wohl, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Inspector Wohl has gone for the day.”

  “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “Just one moment, sir.”

  “This is Lieutenant Kelsey. May I help you, sir?”

  “This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. It’s important that I get in touch with Inspector Wohl.”

  “I’m sorry, the inspector’s gone for the day. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stillwell?”

  “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You mean you have no idea where he is?”

  “The inspector is on his way to Frankford Hospital, sir. But until he calls in, I won’t have a number there for him.”

  “What about Sergeant Washington?”

  “Are you referring to Detective Washington, sir?”

  “I understood he was promoted.”

  “Well, what do you know?
I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s at the Detention Center, sir. I can give you that number.”

  “I’m at the Detention Center. He’s not here. That’s what I’m calling about.”

  “Hold one, sir,” Lieutenant Kelsey said.

  The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.

  “They’re at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you very much,” Farnsworth Stillwell said.

  He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.

  Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant’s car. A second Highway Patrol RFC with two Highway cops followed him. The third car was Jason Washington’s nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington’s Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RFC.

  The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington’s car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington’s car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the building and held it open.

  Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stillwell,” he said.

  “You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It’s now”—He checked his watch—“four past seven.”

  “We were delayed,” Washington said.

  “Were you, indeed?”

  “We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened,” the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.