Damaged Goods

by Stephen Solomita

  Josie didn’t bother to respond, didn’t look up even when the three blind mice broke into uproarious laughter. She continued on her way across the room, set the warming tray on the buffet and plugged in the extension cord, thereby activating the microcassette recorder in the tray’s false bottom.

  THREE

  BETTY ARRIVED JUST BEFORE breakfast, striding into Moodrow’s room as if she’d been taking lessons from Nurse Rashad. A soft-sided green overnight bag dangled from her left hand.

  “Clothing,” she announced. “Just in case they decide to let you go this afternoon.”

  “Or in case I decide to walk out?”

  “You think you can do that?”

  “Not unless they take the tube out of my dick.”

  Nurse Rashad chose that moment to walk through the open door. “That’s just what I’m here to do,” she announced. “My final act of mercy before I go home and collapse.” She pulled the privacy curtain around Moodrow’s bed, then yanked down the sheets. “You might wanna close your eyes here. If the tube’s attached to something, it could get real ugly.”

  Moodrow, who’d been through it earlier in the year, knew the joke was supposed to relax him. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, held his breath until she was finished.

  “From now on, you pee in the bottle.” She held up a clear, flat-sided, plastic jug. “We have to measure output.”

  “What about that?” Moodrow pointed to the dripping IV.

  “Another twenty-four hours, at least. Doctor Chen’s orders. If you decide to take a walk, it rolls along with you. Believe me, if it wasn’t for that bottle, you probably wouldn’t be here.”

  Twenty minutes later, after a breakfast of cold scrambled eggs, pureed peaches, and cranberry juice, Moodrow asked Betty to let the bed rails down.

  “I’m gonna take that walk now, see what I got.”

  It took him nearly ten minutes to make it once around the ward, his legs always a beat behind, as if they were following him. Betty walked alongside, pushing the IV stand, not saying much of anything until he stopped to lean against the wall.

  “I could get a wheelchair.” She was holding his arm with one hand, as if she could actually support his 265 pounds if he started to fall.

  Moodrow shook his head, continued on until he was back to his room. Despite its being too small by five or six inches, he couldn’t think of anything but his bed. He wanted to crawl in, to fall asleep, to forget.

  A strange nurse woke him up an hour later to announce that he was being transferred out of the ICU. Betty was standing beside the bed, the overnight bag in her hand. In the hallway, just outside the door, an orderly lounged behind an empty wheelchair.

  “Your limo awaits you,” he announced. “Curb-to-curb service, no tipping allowed.”

  The trip took less than ten minutes, but Moodrow’s bed, in Room 511, was still occupied when they arrived. A harried nurse explained that a discharged patient’s wife had failed to arrive with his clothing. A phone call had found her still asleep, but she was definitely on her way. Meanwhile, with the IV bag now hanging from a pole attached to the chair, Moodrow would have to remain seated in the hallway.

  Betty started to protest, the medical profession and its decidedly user-unfriendly attitude being one of her pet peeves, but Moodrow tapped her on the hand.

  “I don’t have the energy for a beef,” he explained.

  Betty nodded reluctant agreement. “I saw some chairs by the elevators,” she said. “We can wait out there and get some privacy at the same time. I need to talk to you.”

  When they were alone, sitting across from each other, Betty said, “I called your partner in crime, Ginny Gadd, last night. I called her from your apartment, told her to come by this morning.”

  “Ginny? You two are friends now?”

  He was hoping for a smile, hoping to see Betty’s wide mouth expand into a quick, slashing grin. No such luck. Her lips remained slightly pursed, her jaw tight, though not clenched. Moodrow recognized the look. Betty was in her problem-solving mode.

  “What you did the other night to Carlo Sappone? That’s called kidnapping.” She waved her hand in front of his face. “No, don’t say anything. Just listen while your lawyer explains the facts of life. Gadd told me that when the Suffolk cops asked how you found Jilly Sappone, you told them you’d gotten an anonymous tip, that you put the word out and somebody dropped a dime. I don’t know, maybe it’ll hold up, maybe it won’t. What we have to do is be prepared for the ‘won’t.’ Just in case.”

  “Betty,” Moodrow finally got word in, “Carlo Sappone’s a coke dealer. He’s not gonna go to the cops. Right now, with Carmine and Jilly both looking to catch up with him, I’d be surprised if he’s still in town.”

  “I’m not worried about him going to the cops, Stanley.” She was frowning now, her eyes slightly narrowed. “I’m worried about the cops going to him. Like, for instance, if the lease for Jilly’s house is in Carlo’s name, the Suffolk cops, not to mention the New York cops and the feds, might want to ask him where he was on the night in question. In fact, they might use his being a drug dealer to squeeze the truth out of him. Or offer to protect him from those two entities you just mentioned.”

  Moodrow shrugged. “Maybe I’m just too tired to focus, but I don’t get the point.”

  The elevator doors opened before Betty could reply, disgorging a brown-uniformed orderly pushing an empty gurney. Guinevere Gadd followed, looking around until she spotted Moodrow and Betty sitting off to one side.

  “What’s the deal, Moodrow, you couldn’t afford a bed?” Gadd’s voice was chipper, cheerful, though her eyes were rimmed by dark circles. She was wearing a navy jacket over a white blouse. The jacket, a blazer, was rumpled, the blouse pulled nearly out of her skirt on one side.

  “Think it’s the insurance? Or should I take it personally?” Moodrow kept his voice soft. Remembering that she’d seen it all, been right there with him, had gotten out of the car and run over to …

  Christ, he thought, this is the last thing I need right now.

  “I asked Ginny to come by this morning.” Betty stood up, shook Gadd’s hand, the gesture quick and formal. “Because I didn’t want someone from law enforcement showing up first. There are so many jurisdictions involved in this case, somebody’s bound to arrive on our doorstep. Sooner or later.”

  Betty sat back down, waited for Gadd to follow before speaking. She leaned forward, drawing them into a tight circle, keeping her voice low. It was a technique perfected in courtroom hallways and tested on thousands of clients.

  “The first thing,” she said to Gadd, “you have to understand is that I can’t represent you if I’m representing Stanley.”

  Represent? Somehow the prospect cheered Moodrow. What would they charge him with? First-degree Fucking Up? How about Reckless Endangerment? Murder by Depraved Indifference? That one had the ring of truth.

  “Nobody’s after me, as far as I know.” Gadd’s palms were on the seat of the chair, taking enough weight to push her shoulders up around her ears. She looked like she was trying to hide. “A fed came around yesterday, Special Agent Holtzmann with two ns. I stuck to the story Moodrow told: We used a list of names provided by our client, got the word out to various lowlife types, somebody decided to take advantage.” She paused as the elevator doors opened, waited for the young couple who got off to disappear through the swinging doors leading to the ward. “I told him that after the call, we drove straight out to Sappone’s house, made a pass, then …” She smiled, ran the fingers of her right hand through her short hair. “Then everything happened just the way it happened.”

  “The agent, Holtzmann, do you think he believed you?” Betty tossed Moodrow a sidelong glance. “Because I sure as hell wouldn’t. Cops use that ‘anonymous informants’ bullshit all the time.”

  “I got the feeling,” Gadd said, “that he was going through the motions. The reporters are being more persistent. My office phone’s ringing off the
hook. I’ve been giving them a straight ‘no comment,’ claiming client confidentiality, the cops want me to keep my mouth shut. Like that.”

  Both women turned to Moodrow, as if expecting him to contribute, but he was too tired. The only thing he really wanted was the bed.

  “Why don’t you just go on, Betty? Say what you have to say. I don’t have the energy for a debate.”

  “All right.” Betty straightened up momentarily, crossed her legs, then leaned back into the circle. “The cops might ask for a list of names, everyone you spoke to about Sappone’s whereabouts. What you do is tell them to go to your client, if they haven’t done so already. Do what Ginny did, cite client confidentiality. If the cops want to take it further, let them get a court order.” She paused, looked from Gadd to Moodrow, her voice a notch harder when she resumed speaking. “On the other hand, if they even mention Carlo Sappone’s name, you ask for a lawyer. I mean it. Don’t give them a statement of any kind, not even a denial. Right now, this particular murder, this particular investigation, is the hottest story in town. Everyone here knows what that means. If the cops find Jilly Sappone right away, they’ll forget about you. But two weeks from now, if Sappone’s still out there and the cops are getting their collective asses nailed to the wall by the media, the boys are gonna look for a scapegoat. Remember: You did kidnap Carlo Sappone; you are guilty.”

  “Enough,” Moodrow said. “You’re into overkill.”

  “Not enough.” Betty waved him off. “Remember, you left Carlo handcuffed to a tree. The fact of the kidnapping is undeniable. Now, suppose Carlo Sappone testified against you. Suppose the cops found somebody at that gas station where you set up surveillance, somebody who remembers you. Do you want to pin the next five years of your life on convincing one or two jurors that Carlo is such an evil bastard it doesn’t matter what you did to him?”

  “Well, it worked for Lorena Bobbitt,” Moodrow said.

  Gadd flashed a quick smile. “Hey, Moodrow, Carlo was intact when I left him.” She got up, took off her jacket, then sat back down. “I’ve got a friend, a semiboyfriend, actually, who does some criminal law. That’s when he’s not writing wills. What I’ll do, I’ll talk it over with him, make sure he’s available if worse comes to absolute disaster.”

  Her voice trailed off, the silence holding for a moment until Betty finally stood up. “I think I’ll go see what’s happening with your bed, Stanley. Give the two of you a chance to talk.” She took a couple of steps, then turned. “What could I do? I’m a criminal lawyer. I’m paid to be paranoid. Most likely, it won’t come to anything.”

  When they were alone, Gadd tossed her jacket onto Betty’s chair, then folded her hands, squeezing tightly. “You gonna be all right?” she asked.

  “Someday.”

  “When your dreams all come true?” Her hand dropped onto her thighs. “No kidding, you look like hell. This bug knocked the crap out of you.”

  “Is that a question?” Moodrow knew where she was going. And knew there was no way to head it off short of outright fainting.

  Gadd leaned forward, laid her right hand on Moodrow’s forearm. “Sappone used one of the credit cards, rented a car on the Upper West Side, and bought himself breakfast the morning after it happened. I braced the rental agent and he described Sappone just the way we saw him.”

  “You didn’t show the agent a photo?”

  “I didn’t wanna go that far, actually show him Sappone’s picture. If he put the photo together with Jilly’s face on TV, he might call the cops in.”

  Moodrow took a deep breath, held it for a moment. It was much to early to be thinking (much less actually talking) about Jilly Sappone’s escape. Moodrow wasn’t sure he still gave a shit about the man anyway. They’d gone out to rescue a child, not capture Sappone and his partner. Why should the focus change because the rescue had failed? Maybe Gadd wanted to pretend they’d been after Sappone all along, that losing the child had been a temporary setback, that the good guys would eventually triumph.

  “I don’t think I’ve got the energy for long explanations,” Moodrow finally said. He looked at her for a moment, realized that she was in no way prepared for what he was going to tell her. Gadd’s eyelids were dark and swollen, as if she hadn’t slept in days, but her eyes, themselves, were glittery with excitement. “Why don’t you just let the cops handle it, give them a chance. I could pass the car-rental info to Jim Tilley and he could pass it to the suits running the case, say it came by way of an anonymous informant. It’ll be all over in a few days. No matter what we do.”

  Moodrow had done his level best to make his words plain, but he might as well have spoken in Swahili, a fact that became clear to him when Gadd ignored everything he said.

  “I’m gonna take a ride tomorrow, up to Binghamton. After a dozen calls, I finally got an appointment with someone on the parole board. Name’s Arnold Dumont. What I’m gonna do is ask him how Jilly got out, why the board turned him down, then reversed itself. Maybe you’ll be feeling better by the time I get back. The Upper West Side’s a big place and I could use some help.”

  Moodrow glanced at the doors leading to the ward, hoping Betty would come riding to the rescue. When the doors remained stubbornly closed, he turned back to meet Ginny Gadd’s stare.

  “I’m gonna make this as plain as I can, Gadd. I fucked up out there. Not once, but twice. Five years ago, I don’t think it would’ve happened. It’s not like being a clerk in the post office, you make a mistake and a package gets lost. The way I see it right now, I shouldn’t be putting myself in situations where human lives are at risk. That’s why, in the future, I’m gonna specialize in dognappings.”

  The joke seemed to suck out the last of his remaining energy and he slumped visibly.

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened to …” Gadd’s tongue swept across her lower lip. “I can’t say her name,” she admitted. “I can’t even think it.”

  “There’s no blame.” Moodrow said, his voice just above a whisper. “Look, I have to take responsibility. I know that’s un-American; if I could find some way to get out of it, I would. But I’ve been over the whole deal, everything that happened in that intersection, and I can’t find any explanation except pure fucking-up. I made choices, and they were bad choices.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “And there was a time in my life when I wouldn’t have made them.”

  Gadd moved to the edge of her chair. “You’re sayin’ you just wanna give it up? You won’t help me?”

  “Look …”

  “You have to.”

  Moodrow, surprised by her tone, jerked his head up. Gadd’s mouth was curled into an angry, petulant circle, her eyes narrowed down to slits.

  “You have to,” she repeated. “If you don’t …”

  Without any warning, she drew back her fist and punched him square in the face, the force of the blow jerking the wheelchair back several inches despite his weight. After a moment, Moodrow raised his hand to his cheek.

  “You wanna talk about responsibility?” Gadd’s mouth was screwed into a tight, contemptuous frown; her hands lay, unclenched, on the arms of the chair. “What about your responsibility to me?” She crossed her legs, gathered her thoughts. “You wanna believe you were fucking Superman five years ago, that’s your business. You wanna believe you fucked up, that’s okay, too. But I need some help out there and you owe me. Don’t forget, I saw it, too. I saw it and I can’t get her out of my mind. Awake or asleep. I can’t get her out.” Gadd began to cry, the tears running in nearly unbroken streaks along the sides of her nose. “It was so small, Moodrow. The coffin was so fucking small.”

  FOUR

  IT WASN’T FAIR, ABNER Kirkwood decided. No way a guy makes two mistakes in his whole adult life and that’s all she wrote, the whole ball game, finito and good-bye. A major-league baseball player could have a bad year, collect his two million, still put it together with a good season. A surgeon could slip, butcher some old guy, let his insurance company pick up th
e tab. Hell, a US Senator, guy like Arlen Specter, could make every goddamned woman in Pennsylvania hate his guts and still get reelected.

  But not Abner Kirkwood, right? Not United States Attorney Abner Kirkwood, now, after twenty-five years in the Department of Justice, finally head of the whole goddamned Southern District and looking to go higher yet.

  The funny thing was he hadn’t seen the first one coming, the first mistake when he joined the Democratic Party, started hanging around the clubhouses. That was because it happened while he was still in college, in 1967, when it looked like the dems would stay in power forever. Like the New Deal was part of the Constitution.

  Kirkwood leaned forward in his chair, picked up the framed 5x7 on his desk, and stared at the two smiling men in the color photograph. He and Rudolph Giuliani shaking hands at an office party ten years ago.

  You’d think, Kirkwood thought, between the lisp and the haircut, the schmuck wouldn’t have the balls to show his face in public, but there he was, Mayor of New York City and looking for a shot at the Senate. Waiting for Al D’Amato to finally make the big mistake (Christ, the guy had more lives than Al Sharpton), or Moynihan to drink his way into a stroke.

  The bitter truth—the part that made him want to spit—was that Rudolph Giuliani became a Republican right about the time Abner Kirkwood became a Democrat, that Giuliani leapfrogged from the DOJ under Nixon, to private practice, then back into the DOJ under Reagan. Working his way up to Assistant Attorney General, Chief of the Narcotics Section, Chief Special Prosecutor, his face on the news more often than the goddamned Attorney General.

  Kirkwood put the photo down, thought, me and Giuliani, we’re not that different. Both grew up tough in those lily-white New York neighborhoods, the ones everybody left when the first black family moved onto the block. (Only they didn’t say “black,” his parents, the neighbors, the kids in the schoolyards, they said “nigger,” grinding the word beneath their heels.)