Judge Gimbel was a great prune of a man, his skull covered in a wrinkled bag of skin without even a pretense of hair, except for wiry sprouts erupting from his brows and ears. His mouth was dried and downturned. A set of reading glasses perched aggressively on the tip of his sharp nose, through which he peered with a marked disdain for those with the temerity to stand before him. He had been a federal judge longer than anyone could remember and acted as if he had been born to the job. His voice, turned grotesque by age and disease, was like a handsaw eating through a log.
"Did Mr. Concannon get new counsel?" the judge asked. There was a slight echo in the courtroom that gave the proceedings an air of grave importance.
"Yes, Your Honor," I said. "Victor Carl on behalf of Chester Concannon. I filed an appearance of counsel this morning."
There were four of us at the defense table. Prescott stood next to me, straight as a pole in his stock navy suit, his own pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, lending him the virtuous air of a scholar. Moore and Concannon sat on either side of us. Behind our table was the Talbott, Kittredge team, all in a row, waiting to hand off any document for which Prescott snapped his fingers. At the prosecution's table stood only Eggert.
"Are you satisfied with Mr. Carl's representation, Mr. Concannon?"
Concannon stood and said, "Yes, sir."
"I can attest," said Prescott, "that Mr. Carl is a highly qualified attorney."
"We'll see, won't we," said the judge. "When's our trial date?"
"October sixth," said the judge's clerk, a young woman sitting at a table in front of the bench, ceaselessly working through piles of paper as she spoke.
"That's thirteen days from now," said the judge. "Are we going to be ready?"
"Yes, Your Honor," said Prescott.
"The government will be ready, Your Honor," said Eggert, "but in light of the fact that Mr. Carl filed his appearance only this morning, we believe a continuance is in order."
"I've discussed the case with Mr. Carl," said Prescott. "He's had access to all our discovery and to Mr. McCrae's files and he has informed me that no delay of the trial date will be necessary."
"Your Honor," said Eggert, "Mr. Prescott does not speak on behalf of Mr. Concannon and, with all respect due Mr. Carl," he glanced at me and his face clearly indicated exactly how little he thought that amounted to, "we don't want to go through the expense of a trial only to have a conviction overturned somewhere down the line for ineffectiveness of counsel."
"That's enough carping, both of you," said Judge Gimbel. "Mr. Carl, can you be ready in thirteen days?"
"I think so," I said.
"You only think so?" said the judge. "Mr. Concannon." Concannon stood again. "Your counsel has just told me he only thinks he'll be ready for trial in thirteen days but wants to go ahead anyway. What is your opinion of that?"
"We'll be ready, Your Honor," said Concannon.
"Why don't you have a little talk with your attorney before you decide." The judge waved us to the back of the courtroom. We sat next to each other on the last bench and spoke softly while everyone else waited.
"The judge wants me to explain to you what's going on," I said.
"I understand what's going on," he said. "They think because I'm black they have to say it twice, like English is my second language. Just do whatever Prescott says."
"The truth is, Chet," I said quietly, "Eggert's right. There's no way I can go over everything before the trial. There's too much material."
"Whatever Prescott says."
I saw something move to our side and I turned my head quickly. One of the reporters was sneaking up the bench, trying to listen in on our conversation. "Do you mind?" I said loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. The judge stared hard at her as she smiled awkwardly and backed away from us.
"Vultures," said Concannon, his head hanging low. He didn't look so assured just then, he looked young and scared and sick of it all.
I looked away, scanned the courtroom, saw the gaggle of Talbott, Kittredge lawyers conversing easily. I swallowed once and said, "The government offered me a deal for you."
"Let me guess," he said. "They want me to testify."
"That's right. You'd end up with a minimal term. I could probably work out a recommendation for no jail time if I push."
"They want me to testify against the councilman?"
"Yes."
"And then what happens to me?"
"Maybe probation for a few years."
"And then what?"
"And then nothing. You're off the hook."
"And then what?" he said. "Don't you understand, Victor? There is no choice for me here. Before working for the councilman I was sitting on the stoop in my undershirt, buying malt liquor with my mother's check. For the guys I grew up with that was the ultimate career goal. Occasionally, for a little extra beer money, I would cook up cheese steaks at a place my uncle owns, sweating into the chipped beef as I mixed it with the onions and Cheez Whiz. Two years of Temple University but that was still all the work I could find. I have a record, no worse than anyone else I grew up with, but enough to kill my future. Then comes the councilman, seeking guys with records who had cleaned up their acts, role models for his crusade. And so there I was looking for something and there he was looking for me. He saved me, absolutely. Now I drive around in his limousine and drink champagne every other night and make good money and do good work. And when he becomes mayor I'm going to be his chief of staff. Now what happens if I testify against him?"
"Chet, do you want to go to prison?"
"I've been there already and let me tell you, I'd rather sit in prison than on that stoop. You do whatever Prescott tells you to do. I'll take my chances with the councilman."
Another lawyer might have decided to withdraw, might have told the judge that despite his client's wishes he could not be ready, forcing a continuance so that new counsel would have sufficient time to prepare. Another lawyer might have walked away knowing he was acting in the best interests of his client. That is what another lawyer might have done. But it wasn't another lawyer standing there before prune-faced Judge Gimbel, it was me, with a $15,000 retainer check in my inside jacket pocket and my name on a guest list to a black-tie fund-raiser where I would meet the important people it was so very important for me to know. And somewhere in the uncertain future were newspapers with my picture featured prominently on the front page, adorning articles about this case, and deals in which Prescott had promised to include me, and cases he had promised to refer to me, and gobs of money he had all but guaranteed would be mine. And, yes, somewhere out there in that gray and ugly city was the mysterious Veronica, on whose dress strap I had pinned a single rose and who now had my number on a bent and spindled card.
"We'll be ready," I told the judge when Concannon and I had returned from the back of the courtroom.
"Now, Mr. Concannon," said the judge. "I'm willing to give you a continuance if you ask, but your counsel tells me you don't want one. Is that correct?"
Concannon stood. "That's correct, Your Honor."
"So I don't want to hear from you that your counsel didn't have enough time to prepare if the verdict goes against you," said the judge. "You are waiving your right to that claim in any future proceedings, and your right to any other insufficiency of counsel claim. Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes, sir," said Concannon.
"Explain it to him anyway, Mr. Carl," said the judge.
I leaned over and explained it to him as if English was indeed his second language.
"That's fine with me," said Concannon.
"You satisfied with that, Mr. Eggert?"
"Yes, Your Honor," said Eggert.
"Do us all a favor, Mr. Carl," said Judge Gimbel, "and stay away from Chinatown until this case is over. October sixth, ten o'clock. Come prepared to pick a jury."
9
THE PHILADELPHIA MUSEUM OF ART sits aristocratic and brown atop a rise at a bend in the Schuylkill Ri
ver, spreading its wings to embrace the whole of the city before it. Long flights of stairs rise from a great statue of Washington on horseback to a courtyard fountain, surrounded by columns supporting colorful Greek pediments. It is a grand entrance, made famous by the movies, and the courtyard affords a spectacular view of Philadelphia. At night, with a full moon and the city lights twinkling, if you squint you can imagine yourself someplace exquisite and full of hope, someplace elegant and magical. For me that had always meant someplace else until that evening. That evening the city truly did seem to sparkle like a jewel of promise in the night, a jewel ready to be plucked.
I didn't have an invitation and so, while gay, formally dressed men and women with haircuts and gleaming teeth flashed their invitations and breezed on by, laughing, I had to wait as the guard at the rear lobby checked for my name on the list.
"Oh, yeah, here you are, Mr. Carl," said the guard. "But it only says one."
"There must have been a mistake," I said in my best Winston Osbourne impression.
"I guess so, Mr. Carl. Go on in and enjoy yourself. You too, ma'am."
"I suppose men in tuxedos do get more respect," I said once we got inside.
"Unless they're mistaken for busboys," said Beth.
I had brought Beth because I needed company as I brushed shoulders with a crowd two or three classes above me. She would rather have spent the night at Chaucer's Pub, where the draft beer is Rolling Rock and T-shirts are acceptable, but as a favor to me she had put on her red dress, the tight one, about which she was forever fretting as to whether or not it still fit. It fit tonight. Its smooth curves softened the normal sharpness of her face and she looked almost beautiful. I had always been a little bit in love with Beth. It was never a sexual attraction, really, but there was a power in Beth that I could sense, a sharp integrity. In some strange way I needed her to think I was worthy of her and, to my astonishment, she always had. Beth was my best friend, it was as simple as that. And that night I thought my best friend looked pretty damn good.
I looked pretty damn good myself. It was the first time I had ever worn my tuxedo. I bought it when I was still full of optimism and beneficence, six years before, in anticipation of my wedding. It is a long story, but suffice it to say that on the eve of the ceremony my bride-to-be took a long hard look at me and decided she was too young to be married. The tuxedo didn't fit like it had when I bought it, but I guess that's why they invented cummerbunds.
We handed our coats off to the coat check guy and climbed the stairs alongside the huge yellow Chagall mural of a sun and a field of wheat and a man stuck out alone in a boat. We passed statues of fat naked women, turgid bronze breasts thrust forward, and stepped into the Great Hall, where a huge formal staircase rose to a bronze of the naked Evelyn Nesbit as Venus. Underneath a soaring Calder mobile we snatched champagne glasses from a passing silver tray. The place was teeming with tuxedos and formal gowns; they leaned against the walls and huddled in cliques and glided like spirits in and out of the open galleries. A small jazz band played at the foot of the stairs. A tray of cheese sticks passed by and I swiped three.
"What's this benefit for again?" asked Beth as she sipped her champagne and looked around.
"Drugs, I think, or maybe AIDS," I said. "I'm not sure."
"Misery is such a clever excuse for a party."
"I've never been to one of these before," I said. "Are those little shish kebabs over there?"
"It's amazing how far you've come in just a few days, Victor. Our finances are on the edge of solvency, your face was on the television this evening, standing behind Moore as he gave his speech on the courtroom steps, and if you don't watch out your name will be in bold print in the society column. 'Who was that partying into the wee hours last night for AIDS? Why, our own Victor Carl, looking very chic in his black tie.'"
"I was beginning to wonder if I would ever wear this thing."
"You look good in it."
"Yes, I do," I said. I did look good in it, and I felt good in it, too. For a moment as I stood among that crowd of the wealthy, the sophisticated, the elite, who had done all they could to keep me out, as I stood there and surveyed the scene something hard and cold in my gut began to ease and the bitterness seemed to melt away. I was finally where I was always meant to be. I looked around and sipped champagne and decided I would stay.
"I should wear my tuxedo more often," I said.
"Julie doesn't know what she missed."
"Let's find Prescott," I said, suddenly scanning the crowd. "You should meet him."
"Look at that face on you, my God. Oh, I'm sorry, Victor."
"There he is, now," I said and I led her to a stern looking Prescott and two sober-faced round men in the corner. Together they looked like mourners at a wake. They were standing before a Diego Rivera mural, three soldiers swathed in bandoliers cutting down a whipped and hogtied man and wrapping him in blankets. As we approached Prescott I slowed down, warned off by the demeanor of the men and the somberness of the mural, but then Prescott saw me and his face cracked into a smile that drew me to him.
"Ah, Victor," he said over the band, shaking my hand. "Terrific that you could come."
"Thank you for having me, Mr. Prescott. This is Elizabeth Derringer, my partner."
"Pleased to meet you, Elizabeth. It's a shame my partners don't look so good in their evening wear."
"Richard DeLasko is one of your partners, isn't he?" asked Beth. DeLasko was the current Chancellor of the Philadelphia Bar Association.
"Yes, he is," said Prescott, proudly.
"Well, you know," said Beth in a confiding whisper, "I heard the Chancellor looks just marvelous in his black pumps and red sequined gown."
Prescott was taken aback for a moment and then he smiled tightly, saying, "Yes, well," before turning to me. "Victor, these are two men I'd like you to meet, Jack and Simon Bishop." I knew of them, they were names for sure, the most successful real estate developers in the area. Each month a new Bishop Brothers development was opening somewhere in the far suburbs.
"Good to see you, Victor," said one of them, Jack or Simon, I couldn't tell yet which. His accent was British, his voice smooth and melodious. "Bill has told us all about you. Said you might fancy working with us on a new project we're developing. He speaks quite highly of you."
"Valley Hunt Estates," said the other brother, with a harsher voice and a harsher accent. "We bought ourselves an old mansion not too far from the Schuylkill. Hit upon the notion of a neighborhood of manor homes around it. Huge front lawns, six bedrooms and whatnot. For those with upscale dreams, if you gather what we're proposing."
"Luxury throughout," said the first brother.
"But very traditional too, mind you," said the second. "And the options are gorgeous. Optional stable. Optional carriage house. Optional stained-glass window running up three stories, makes you think you're living in Westminster Abbey. Valley Hunt Estates. Simon's the genius came up with the name."
"Yes, well, but it does have a certain ring, doesn't it," said Simon Bishop.
"I'm taking a more active role in this limited partnership than I normally do," said Prescott. "Recently I've begun to take an interest in the business side of things and so we were talking about the need for outside counsel. For opinion letters and the like. Your name came up."
"Take my card, Victor," said Simon, reaching into his inside pocket. "Ring us up tomorrow."
"I will," I said.
"Have you received the documents?" asked Prescott.
"Yes, sir," I said. He had sent me over six boxes of documents released by the government and copied for me by Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, six boxes at twenty-five cents a page, all billed to CUP. I was overwhelmed by the quantity of it. "Thank you."
"If you need anything else, let me know. Anything at all."
"I will, sir."
"So that is how it's done," said Beth after we had swung away from the trio. The jazz band was playing "Begin the Beguine," an older couple sta
rted dancing in the open area in front of the stairs. They must have been names because, as if on cue, other couples crowded past us to start dancing alongside them. A tray of tiny egg roll squares swept through, but as I reached for them I was stymied by a broad tuxedo back and then the tray was gone.
"That's how what is done?" I asked.
"Networking. I had heard about it but I never saw the real thing until tonight. You're surprisingly good at it."
"Just trying to build up the practice. You see any more of those egg roll things?"
"Yes, sir, no, sir, anything you want, sir. But you shouldn't kiss Prescott's butt so intently, Victor. It can leave stains on your ears."
"It doesn't help," I said, "when you start accusing his partners of cross-dressing."
"Your friend Prescott's a snake. I wouldn't trust him for a second. I looked him up in Martindale-Hubbell. Did you know he worked for Nixon?"
"A lot of fine people worked for Nixon."
"Ehrlichman," she said. "Haldeman, Mitchell, Dean, Kissinger."
"Kissinger never went to jail. Oh, Nixon wasn't so bad. Take away Watergate and Vietnam and he was a pretty good president. Pretty damn good."
"Victor," she shouted loud enough to get the attention of a group nearby.
I tried to shush her quiet.
"Listen to yourself," she said. "Don't turn into a whore, Victor, just because some Republican gave you a case."
"At fifty bucks an hour you're a whore," I said. "At two-fifty an hour you're a success."
From out of one of the galleries and into the foyer came first a clatter of noise and shouts and then the surge of a crowd of tuxedos and gowns and sprayed hair. At the front, marching forward with his back arched and head high, was Jimmy Moore. Behind him was an entourage, grown larger by the event, a gaggle of followers following gladly. Jimmy's tuxedo was tight around his barrel chest and thick shoulders. He was laughing, eyes bright, shaking hands as he passed the partyers, talking a bit here, talking a bit there, shaking hands with the vigor of a politician on the campaign trail, which I guess is what he was.
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