Compelling Evidence

by Steve Martini

  “I’ve asked Ron to join us here this afternoon. Please—have a seat.” Tony smiles and gives a broad gesture toward the two leather client chairs situated in front of the vast rock of ages. I settle into cushioned nothingness and wait for the revelation—the reason I’ve been summoned.

  “Some coffee, Paul?”

  “No, thanks.” The empty cup situated at the edge of the black desk in front of Brown indicates that whatever Skarpellos has to say will come as no surprise to Brown. The two have been at it for some time before my arrival.

  Brown opens his leather notebook and removes the screw cap from his fountain pen—three hundred dollars of black enamel and gold filigree with a twenty-four-carat writing nib the size of a spear. He sits poised with this baton on his fingers, as if he’s about to sign a treaty ending world poverty. When these pens first started appearing in the hands of young lawyers in court a year ago, Harry dubbed them “spear-chuckers.”

  Skarpellos opens a gold cigar box on the desk and tilts it in my direction.

  I shake my head.

  “You don’t mind if I do?”

  “It’s your office.”

  He offers one to Brown, who declines.

  These are not big stogies, but smaller and black, twisted and shapeless corkscrews, things that Skarpellos discovered on a trip through Italy two years earlier. By the old Italians who smoke them, men whose few remaining teeth are brown as the snow piled along the edge of highways, I am told, these cigars are known simply as toscanelli. Ben swore they were pieces of dog shit. Several seconds in, with thick clouds of dark smoke wafting about Tony’s head, I wonder whether Potter’s euphemism was grounded so much on their appearance as the odor they emit. It’s the latest affectation, like the ginseng tea following his whirlwind tour of China, and the array of bottled mineral waters on his return from Eastern European spas. As with the frog in The Wind in the Willows, in time each went the way of the Greek’s last fad. One can only hope that his fling with toscanelli will soon follow the same course.

  The accoutrements of wealth and tastelessness now in place, Skarpellos and Brown are ready to begin business.

  “We all appreciate your coming by today.” He turns his head to the side and spits out little bits of tobacco, stripping the end of his tongue with his teeth and lips to comb off the last few pieces. “The partners, that is. I know that Ben’s death affected you deeply, as it did all of us.” He’s still spitting in between syllables. “Whatever caused you to leave the firm, well, that’s all water under the bridge—as far as I’m concerned. I want you to know that.”

  Tony pauses. Like the village pastor, he’s giving me an opportunity to make a confession.

  “I appreciate that, Tony.”

  “Yeah, well.” He’s fingering a single piece of paper centered on the desk in front of him, lines printed in large type so Tony can read them without his glasses. He’s searching for his place on the script. In all of this smoke, his eyes are beginning to water.

  “There’s been a lot of confusion around here. I guess you can imagine.”

  I nod.

  He leans back, having mastered the subject once more. “The cops have really been working the place over. We hear rumors, stories, nothing specific.” He looks at me for signs of interest. And then with typical finesse: “Have you heard anything?”

  Skarpellos is not a man of small talk—or for that matter great thoughts—but for those in a hurry he possesses the virtue of directness.

  “About what?”

  “Ben’s death?”

  “Just what I’ve read.”

  “Thought you might have heard something from your pals over in the DA’s office. Your pipeline is probably better than ours on something like this.”

  “What are you hearing?” I ask.

  It’s clear that Tony’s not been left standing at the gate. He suffers under no illusion that his partner took his own life. For a moment I think that Skarpellos has called me here to pump me for information on Ben’s death.

  He swallows a little saliva, considering his response.

  “Things,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Just rumors. You know, the kind of stuff you probably always hear when somebody prominent takes his own life. Loose talk about foul play. Lotta speculation.”

  “I suppose. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Well, down to business.” Digging for dirt in Ben’s death has been only Tony’s hors d’oeuvre.

  “I guess we should get right to it. I’m sure there’s no need to say this, but so there’s no misunderstanding later, what I’m about to tell you must be treated in the strictest confidence. I assume I have your assurance on that?” Skarpellos looks directly at me. Brown knows his job serves as collateral for his discretion.

  I nod my assent.

  “There is a client who, for the moment, shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say this is a man of some prominence.” There’s a lot of posturing here. Skarpellos weighs what he’s about to say for a brief instant. The judicious hesitation is mostly for my benefit. It’s followed quickly by a show of candor: “The man is a public official.” That narrows it to half a thousand people in this town. “It seems he’s gotten himself caught up in what’s about to become a very embarrassing—and messy—criminal case.” A long, sobering pause follows as Skarpellos prepares me for the solemnity of the charges.

  “The guy’s accused of multiple counts of bribery.” His bushy eyebrows droop. He takes a slow draw on the cigar and emits an irregular smoke ring toward the ceiling. “With some sexual overtones.”

  I make a face—novel, but I’m not convinced that it represents a new low in the ethos of our public servants.

  Skarpellos gets the point and his dour expression turns light. He laughs. “Yeah—the guy’s a bit of an asshole. Problem is, as they say, he’s our asshole.”

  “The firm has taken the case?” I ask.

  “In a manner of speaking. Actually we’re only advising him at this point.” The firm is merely brokering the case. I wonder what prize is in it for P&S or, perhaps more to the point, for Tony Skarpellos. I begin to anticipate the drift of our conversation. Like a rug merchant, Tony studies my expression for signs of interest.

  At this point Skarpellos begins to run out of steam. I wonder why it is that he can’t get to the punch line. The rules of evidence may often elude him, but bullshit is Tony’s special gift.

  “As you know, this firm is not well schooled in criminal law, though Ben helped to navigate some of our business clients through those stormy waters from time to time.”

  “And that’s why you’ve come to me?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Yes.”

  They want me to take this piece of swill off their hands. Skarpellos sits staring at me as if, like a faith healer curing leprosy, I hold some magic formula, some legal potion that I can prescribe for his client that will cleanse him. A long pause follows as Tony struggles through several versions of a pained smile. It’s a common expression for Skarpellos. He’s on one of his verbal safaris searching for the right words.

  “I appreciate the firm’s confidence, Tony. Perhaps I might even share a little of it—if I knew precisely what it is you want from me.” If it’s my help, he will have to do better than this. Skarpellos will have to climb down from his throne. He may even have to crawl. For the right fee, I might take the case.

  “This is a very important man,” he explains—their client who is not really a client. “He has important friends. He’s made a mistake, but then who among us has not done that?” Tony spreads his arms over the shimmering stone surface of the desk and begins to talk with his hands, trailing highways of smoke in the air, part of the Greek lexicon.

  “Tony. What is it that you want?” There’s an edge of impatience to my words.

  Knowing glances are exchanged between Brown and Skarpellos. We’ve arrived at the marrow of our meeting. If we were engaged in plea negotiations, this is where the bullshit
would be shelved, where we would hear no more of society’s interests, or the requirements of justice.

  There’s an awkward pause as they go through the silent ritual of selecting a spokesman. Brown gets the nod. He comes on all polished charm and flashing teeth—the words emitted with the rapid-fire precision of a Gatling gun.

  “Well, we don’t really want you to take the case.”

  Now I’m angry. Ron Brown—the resident sycophant—is about to tell me that I’m not up to defending their man.

  “You represent a client, I believe—Susan Hawley?”

  I make no gesture to respond, but it’s clear that Brown needs none. Suddenly I remember my conversation with Skarpellos at the University Club and the pieces begin to fit.

  “Your client presents some real problems for our client.” There’s a slight pause as Brown looks to Skarpellos, and then: “What we want is your assurance that she won’t testify.”

  “What?” I’m more amused—dazed—than angry.

  Ron Brown suffers from the chronic corporate disease of my generation. He possesses the intellectual fortitude of jelly. An original thought entering his mind is doomed to die of loneliness. Observing every disagreement and battle from the sidelines, Brown is uncanny in his early recognition of a victor. When the dust has settled, it seems all anyone ever remembers is that Brown turned the first spade of earth to bury the vanquished, and then lead the team fight song. He exhibits all the dubious qualities of corporate and civic leadership in our times. In a word, Ron Brown has the natural inclinations of a good politician.

  He now moves quickly. “You have to understand. We’re not asking you to suborn perjury, or to obstruct justice. Your client has every right to refrain from testifying—to take the Fifth—to avoid incriminating herself. That’s all we want: her silence.”

  Brown is slick. Still, his knowledge of criminal law is just enough to get him in trouble.

  “And if they immunize her? If they agree that her testimony can’t be used against her in any criminal proceeding—what then?”

  He looks at me. A dour expression has now fallen like a veil over his face.

  “She doesn’t testify.” From the uncertainty in his voice, I can’t be sure if these words are a statement or a question.

  “You understand that she could be jailed for contempt—have her ass thrown in the bucket in perpetuity—until she agrees to testify?”

  Again there’s a long pause. The discomfort that afflicted Skarpellos appears to be contagious. Pimples of sweat begin to rise on Brown’s forehead. “There are people who would be willing to compensate her very handsomely for her continued silence. Let us just say that she would never have to ply her chosen profession again if she were to cooperate.”

  Now I am angry. This is surreal, as if I’ve entered a dream. Images of Jimmy Lama and his flash of temper flood my mind. Susan Hawley has been bedding a pricey political client of Potter, Skarpellos, and now they want her silence.

  “We aren’t having this conversation.” I rise and begin to move toward the door.

  “Paul—please.” Skarpellos is again taking the lead. He’s on his feet, palms spread on the cold rock slab. His eyes, reddened by cigar smoke, are now filled with supplication.

  For a moment at least, curiosity tempers my anger. “What’s the firm’s interest in this case?”

  Skarpellos looks at me soberly—the kind of soulful look that flashes in bright neon hues—“Bullshit to Follow.” “We’re concerned because this is a prominent client …”

  I laugh, not the polite titter or snicker of a subaltern, but a belly-wrencher, right from the gut. “Come on, Tony. This guy’s so greasy you don’t want your name on the same piece of paper with his. Do me a favor—save the prominent-citizen crap for the newspapers and the jury.”

  He abandons the civics lesson. He gives up a good-natured laugh. He is in shirtsleeves, and so the roll of flab just under his chest is free to jiggle. Brown is serious.

  “Ah, Ron, at least they won’t accuse us of coming to the dim-witted.” The severity begins to crack into an uncomfortable grin around the comers of Brown’s mouth. Fearful that he might miss his cue, he finally issues a grudging chuckle.

  “Please, sit down, Paul—please.” Tony gestures toward the chair. “I want to allay your fears of impropriety.” Skarpellos begins to speak in hushed tones. He now asserts control over the meeting. There’s more professionalism here than I would have credited.

  He compliments me for my shrewd perceptions in grasping the magnitude of the matter. He apologizes for the clumsy approach of Brown, who slithers uncomfortably against leather upholstery as his boss makes amends for him. Tony tells me there is little wonder that Ben thought so highly of me, and engages the art of self-deprecation conceding the obvious—that he’s not the world’s greatest gift to the trial bar, that his talents lie in what he calls “business.” There’s a warm paternal smile here. He couples his hands on the desk like some rural preacher about to counsel one of his flock.

  “This case, this client, is very important,” says Skarpellos. “I doubt if you will ever fully understand the significance of the matter.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Irrespective of anything you may think of me, I want you to understand that I—that this firm—would never ask you to engage in anything improper or unethical.” There’s a sober and stern pause as if to emphasize the genuine nature of this guarantee.

  “If your client is immunized and threatened with contempt, we understand that your counsel to her must advise the course that is in her best interest. There will be no offer of compensation for her silence—not from me, not from Potter, Skarpellos. Still, we want you and your client to know that should she choose not to testify, to assert her Fifth Amendment right, we will defray all legal expenses that might be occasioned by that decision. Our client has instructed me to offer to pay Ms. Hawley’s full defense fees, compensation that will be paid up to the limits of this firm’s usual fees—$250 per hour for preparation, $300 an hour for all time spent in court.”

  “Who’s your man?” I ask Skarpellos.

  “We can’t tell you that,” says Brown.

  “Confidences. You understand.” Skarpellos looks at me, another broad grin.

  “Well?” Brown is leaning forward in his chair. “What’s your answer?”

  For Ron Brown it’s an easy question, as is any other that weighs an ethical indiscretion against the offer of certain opportunity.

  “The question is not for me. It’s for my client. I’ll talk to her. Nothing more. I’m duty bound to convey your offer. You’ll have your answer in a few days. But you should understand. I will make no recommendation to her on this. It’s her decision and hers alone.”

  There’s an immediate smile, an expression of relief from Skarpellos. “I knew we could count on you. Ben always said you were one of the most promising finds in this town. A real diamond in the rough.”

  I know that these are not the words of Ben Potter. My eyes fix on the bank of windows behind Skarpellos and the rippled edges of earth that is the High Sierra a hundred miles to the east. And I remember one of Ben’s homilies. “You know,” he said, “the trouble most people have with resisting temptation is that they never really want to discourage it completely.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  I sit nursing a drink, the ice cubes melting slowly in the tea-colored slush at the bottom of my glass. Topper’s is filling up fast. The usual crowd of half-swacked lawyers and lobbyists exchanging war stories are working up calluses on the undersides of their bellies as they press against the bar. The din of voices builds to a climax and erupts in laughter as a group at the far end of the room competes for bragging rights.

  Two women in short, tight skirts and sequined tops struggle to look sedate, propped on bar stools as they spend the early shift waiting for legislators to finish up their afternoon session at the capitol a block away.

  I’d been introduced to Topper’s by Ben. It
was a hangout for the capitol crowd, a few lawyers, but mostly lobbyists, heavy drinkers with much time on their hands for professional socializing. I’ve selected Topper’s instead of the more familiar Cloakroom for this meeting, in hopes that we will not be interrupted.

  I watch as Leo Kerns makes his way around the tables, that red cherub’s face grinning at me as he approaches at full waddle. Leo is one of those small balls of energy who look like they’ve been poured into a wrinkled suit. The collar of his white dress shirt is open, the knot of his tie rests halfway down his chest, where the outward slope of his stomach starts.

  “Leo, I’m glad you could make it.”

  He sticks out a beefy hand, and I take it. Before he’s even seated, his eyes begin a frantic search for the cocktail waitress. In mid-gawk his gaze settles on one of the bimbos at the bar. “I’m in love,” he says. This is Leo Kerns, hopelessly out of date, tasteless. The only glad-handing cop I know. I’ve often mused over the idea that he missed his calling, for Leo is the best salesman I’ve ever met. In the office he’s constantly on call to perform that ritual of every jailhouse, cast in the role of good cop versus bad in interrogations. This disarming fat little man with the cherubic smile has done his part for prison overcrowding. He nourishes the natural desire of suspects to converse with a friendly face, to unburden themselves of gnawing secrets at a troubling time, on an understanding shoulder, to a sympathetic ear.

  Here Leo’s in all his glory. Topper’s is a cut above the Cloakroom, the bar across from the courthouse that’s become an institution for the legal fraternity and some of the cops. Here the hookers aren’t quite so brazen about showing their wares. And what they’re showing isn’t quite so worn.

  “So whadda you wanna talk about that it was so important we couldn’t discuss it on the phone?” He says it with distraction. Leo’s holding up two fingers in a loose victory sign hailing the waitress. He orders a double bourbon and water.

  I dodge his question with a few pleasantries in hopes that his drink will come quickly. Some liquid distraction to match the visual diversions while I pump him for information.