“So,” she said, “I was a little scared, going out there, but it was a beautiful day and One-A is pretty and my car was fun and all, and I came up over this rise and there was a, some kind of town forest or something on the right and then down on the left in the valley, there it was. And I thought at first, you know: ‘Oh, good. There it is. Now where the hell’s the entrance?’ And then it sort of registered on me, the white concrete walls, and the paint peeling off them, and the towers at the corners, and I thought: ‘Oh my God. This is where he is. Jimmy’s in that place.’ It was like getting hit in the stomach with a hammer. It doesn’t look like anything else, does it?”
“Nope,” Gleason said. “It’s a penitentiary, and that’s what it looks like. They could put up signs out front that said ‘Holiday Inn’ and ‘Hilton Hotel,’ or anything else they liked, and nobody looking at it would be fooled at all.”
“I went numb,” she said. “I was just numbed. I found the parking lot and I went through the rigmarole of getting in there, and everyone was very nice, and then I was in this big sterile bleak room, sitting on a metal chair. And they told me, they said: ‘No touching.’ ‘No contact.’ And I thought afterwards — because they make you so conscious of that, when they tell you that it’s on your mind all the time you’re seeing the guy — I thought afterwards, how hard it must be for wives and lovers, you know? And children. And the mothers of the men. There were little children there, seeing their daddies in jail. Because Jimmy’s my brother, and we weren’t on good terms, I didn’t have a real strong urge to embrace him. But my God, someone’s husband? Someone’s daddy? Someone’s lover? Must be terrible.
“And we talked,” she said. “It wasn’t bad. Well, it wasn’t good, either — it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. Leave it at that. He looked good. He’d been lifting weights, and running, and he said he hadn’t used any stuff since he’d been in. And his eyes were clear and all of that. And I told him. I said: ‘The reason I am here,’ and I told him about Florence and Dad, and how he was not to tell them I’d told him they’re coming. And he got this sort of strange look in his eye, and he said: ‘Nothing changes.’ And I said: ‘Beg pardon?’ And he said: ‘Everything stays the same. I get thrown in here and it doesn’t have the slightest effect on Mother or Dad,’ — and I thought: ‘Well, unless you count Dad’s heart attack, that almost killed him,’ but I didn’t say that, of course — ‘and here you are, come up here and sit there and sling me the same old shit you always did, always pretending you don’t know what’s going on and asking me to help Florence pretend nothing’s going on.
“ ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. ‘I know you can’t help it, and she can’t help it either. But my God, what’ll it ever take to get the three of you to just face reality and deal with it, huh? Tell me that. What is it, is there anything that’s bad enough so when it finally happens, none of you’ll be able to pretend anymore that it didn’t? Is there such a thing? Would nuclear war do it?’ And then he said: ‘Look, it’s no day in the park, being inside. It’s dangerous and it’s boring and it really, really sucks. There’s over eight hundred of us in here, and we’re all in here alone. So I’d appreciate it, you know, if you want to stay in touch, and Florence wants to stay in touch, well then, fine — let’s do it. But just do that, all right? Just write me the letters and I’ll write to you, and that’ll be the end of it. If I think of something, if I think of anything that any one of you can do for me, that would actually help, I will let you know. Otherwise, leave me alone.’
“So it didn’t go too well,” she said. “I got the information Florence needed and I called her up and gave it, and then I said: ‘Mother, now let me tell you something. You can go there and you can see him, and Dad can see him, too. And he won’t make a scene or anything. He’ll come out when they tell him you’re there, and he’s not crazy anymore. But you’re not going to like it, and Dad’s not going to like it, and Jimmy’s not going to like it either. It’s going to be, it’s just going to be another ordeal. For everyone concerned. More pain and everything for you. And for Dad. And for Jimmy, too, I think, And if I were you and Dad, I would not do it.”
“And she said: ‘I was afraid you’d tell me that.’ And I said: ‘Well, I just did.’ And, I expected an argument from her. And she said: ‘All right, we won’t.’ And she hasn’t mentioned it again.”
“That’s too bad,” he said.
“I guess so,” she said. “But I’m really not that sure. I didn’t go back there for almost, well, I didn’t go back there until this spring. In April. When he asked me to, I was surprised. And I wrote back and said: ‘What happened? You told me to stay away.’ And he wrote back and said he hadn’t changed his mind, that he’d said he’d let me know if he thought of something I could do, and he had, and he wanted to see me. So I went up. And he told me. ‘Sam’s getting out,’ he said. ‘Sam’s getting out next month, I heard. I want to get out, too. I need you to help.’
“And, it sort of bowled me over,” she said, “what he was thinking of doing. Because he’d always been so adamant, you know? So ornery and fierce. And I said to him: ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how to do this, how to make arrangements like that. And I don’t know who does. And he said: ‘Your old boyfriend there does — Gleason. Gleason knows the ropes.’ And I said we, that we’d broken up, a long time ago. And he said: ‘He’ll see you again. Call him up and ask.’ And I said: ‘I don’t know if I can do that, either.’ And I didn’t. And that’s why I waited, why it was almost two months after that when I called you. I was getting up my nerve. But I did it.” She paused. “So, what do I do now?”
“You want me to ask around?” Gleason said. “See if they’ll cut a deal to grab Sam again?”
“Yeah,” she said. She nibbled her lower lip. “That’s what he wants, at least. And he is my brother, so I guess I ought to help. Worry later whether I’ve ended up creating a lot more grief for myself. He’s, Jimmy’s a very pissed-off guy these days, Sam’s out in the world and he’s still doing time. But by myself, I can’t, there’s no way I can find out whether this guy Consolo’s on the level, and can really make a deal. And also, if you can do it, I would like you to see Jimmy. Talk to him and make sure, you know, that I’ve got it right.”
“Ahh,” Gleason said, “I don’t know about that.”
“It’ll be all right,” she said. “He’s over that. He needs some help, and knows it. When I mentioned, when he said I should call you, he didn’t, you know, flinch. He was kind of nasty, but he didn’t flinch.”
“What’d he say?” Gleason said.
“I’m not telling you,” she said. “It was nasty to me. Not to you.”
“It’s the same thing,” he said.
She smiled. “Well, well,” she said, “that’s nice to hear. That was my third wish.”
Gleason took his paper napkin from his lap and crumpled it on the table. “Okay,” he said, “reciprocate. You see me tonight?”
“The motel?” she said.
“No,” he said. “Maybe afterwards. Meet me first ’round seven, the old Station Tap.”
34
Christina Walker arrived at the Station Tap on the northerly bank of the Fort Point Channel at 7:20 in the evening. The dwindling sunlight made the surface of the dirty water a misleading blue; the black mud of the banks was shiny; three soiled, watchful seagulls perched on the listing pilings of a demolished dock and scrutinized the shallows for offal. She found Gleason in the high-backed booth at the southwesterly end of the restaurant. He was sitting at a table with a checkered cloth on it. He had a large frosted mug of beer. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar; he needed a fresh shave. “You look worn out,” she said, sliding in opposite him. “You look like you’ve been out cutting timber or something. You didn’t used to look like this, when you were trying James. Is this something new?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled it loudly. “It’s a bad case,” he said. “It’s a very tough case to try. In the first pla
ce it’s one of those damned RICO productions — racketeering-influenced, corrupt organization — and there’s no damned shape to the fucking things. They basically amount to the prosecutor saying: ‘Here’s a whole bunch of bad guys, folks, and you can tell Guy Number One’s a hood because Guy Number Four and Guy Number Six broke some legs, under orders from Guy Number Three, directed by Guy Number Five, and Guy Number Five knows Guy Number Two, who once had coffee with One.’ Then they bring in the evidence in a front-end loader and dump it on all seven guys, and then they get convicted.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “You sit there and you’re absolutely helpless to protect your client. It’s like fighting a swarm of bees. Once they RICO the guy, the rules of evidence’re gone. There’s almost no rules left. ‘Is this piece of evidence material, or even relevant, against Mister Ianucci?’ ‘Well, yeah, because it’s material against Mister Dinapola, over there, and relevant against Mister Greco, over here, and Mister Ianucci’s Mister Greco’s former lawyer.’ So you can’t keep it out, get it ruled inadmissible, but at the same time you’ve got to object every time it happens, that they do that, because you’ve got to protect the record on appeal. Which means the seven of us’re jumping up and down all the time, like we’re the seven dwarfs and Snow White’s out of town, and that in turn means that a lot of time gets wasted. Which in turn makes the jurors hate us, and therefore our clients, because the jurors’re sequestered and they haven’t seen their families or reported to their jobs since the end of May, and they’re becoming quite resentful, quite annoyed with us.
“One of them,” Gleason said, “one of them when we were impaneling, he said he couldn’t serve because he retired from his job last year and this’s the first year he’s got season tickets, the Red Sox. And the estimable Judge Reese got this expression on his face that those of us who know him well’ve learned to dread to see — he’s got this evil little smile he uses when you’ve just asked him politely not to do something gratuitously nasty to you, that he doesn’t have to do. And he’s decided to do it. Not because he thinks he has to. Not because he thinks you’re trying to mislead him. Not because leaving you alone would cost him anything at all, but because you’ve quite politely asked him to leave you alone and he’s going to show you his power by doing the opposite.”
“Was he always like that?” she said. “Was he like that, before, when you were working for him?”
“Oh yeah,” Gleason said. “But he concealed it better. When he still thought he could be governor some day, before the voters finally convinced him that was never going to be, he tried to restrain himself. And he had buffers, then. Paul Green took the raps when Colin Reese stuck his dirk into some poor bastard’s back. Andy Boyd, when Andy Boyd called some young assistant into his office and told him he was pink-slipped, and good luck in his future career, Andy and the kid both knew it wasn’t because Paul Green’d decided to trim the fat off the criminal division staff — it was because the kid hadn’t been shrewd enough to see that a five-hundred-dollar, purely voluntary, contribution to the AG’s birthday party at the Park Plaza was in his own best interest, and Colin didn’t like that sort of thrift. But Andy was loyal; he always blamed Paul. And Paul was loyal — he accepted the blame. So Colin was insulated from any culpability. Just like a Mafia guy. ‘Strictly staff administration,’ he would say if you asked him. ‘Paul Green handles all administration, all administrative matters involving personnel. This is a professional law office. I’m a politician, because I have to be, and that’s why I stay away from that stuff: because the rest of you are not, and you shouldn’t be.’ ”
“And now he’s a federal judge,” she said.
“Well,” Gleason said. “They had to give him some reward. They couldn’t just pat him on the back after he took the poison cup and ran against Teddy Kennedy. Say: ‘Hey, thanks a lot, Colin. Nice kamikaze job you did there. We appreciate it.’ You want the truth, my guess is that he got the commitment they’d appoint him to the bench long before he made that run. Would not’ve done it otherwise. That was Colin’s price. Paul’d be satisfied with a parachute landing into a partnership at Baker, Gordon, Tye. And Andy got his tenure at the School of Law, where he can wow the students and use them for free labor, preparing the appellate briefs that bring those handsome fees. All of that publicity, and no overhead at all. But Colin, well, Colin likes the limelight too, but he likes authority more, and he likes being whimsical without doing too much work. So his price was the judgeship. But every man has one of those, and his was reasonable. Rather hard on working stiffs, and guys that paid eight hundred bucks for a Red Sox season ticket, the first year they retired, but still: not too much to ask.
“So, having asked it and received it, Colin got his little smile on and said to the helpless geezer: ‘If you’re a Red Sox fan, sir, you have learned of disappointment. You’re old enough, you were around, they lost in Seventy-eight. Maybe I’m sparing you. But in any event, I’m sorry but I can’t excuse you. You will have to serve.’
“So as a result,” Gleason said, “every time that I stand up, and John Morrissey stands up, along with all the others, juror number six glares at me and them, and blames us ’cause Hurst is starting and looks like he’s solved his problems, and the Blue Jays are in town. I know what the juror’s going to do to get even, and what his equally annoyed compatriots are going to help him do. He’s going to convict Phil Ianucci of being a gangster, among other things. And also all the other guys, sitting there with Phil. It’s really exhausting work, you know? Going in there every day, knowing what is going on, and what is going to happen, completely helpless to do a thing about it. All trials use up your capital, your energy, your brains, but trials you’ve got a chance of winning’re at least enjoyable. This one’s just fatiguing. Just exhausting work.”
“Well,” she said, “I mean, is this guy a gangster? Really? Is that what he does?”
Gleason shrugged. “Well,” he said, “Phil has a small law office on Prince Street. One secretary. Almost no law books. Which lack he doesn’t notice ’cause he’s very seldom there. Phil drives around in a green Rolls-Royce with right-hand drive, that he imported from England. His regular glasses’re pink wraparounds, and his suits’re very sharp. He has a Cigarette speedboat and a house in Nassau, and he goes to Vegas a lot.”
“He’s a gangster,” Christina said.
“Perhaps,” Gleason said. “But he’s also a lawyer, and an American citizen, and he pays all his taxes — many as he has to, at least. And he’s good to his family, and really likes dogs, and pays his attorney promptly. He gives me no lip, and does what I say, and you can’t ask for more than that. Not in my line of work, at least, and I selected it.”
A middle-aged waitress, chewing gum, approached with menus and put them on the table. She glanced at Gleason’s beer mug, two-thirds full, then turned to go away. “Excuse me,” Christina said, “but could I please have a drink?”
The waitress interrupted her chewing and gazed at Walker. “You sure you’re old enough?” she said. “We don’t serve minors here.”
“You want to card me?” Christina said, moving her straw bag closer to her.
The waitress resumed chewing. “Yeah,” she said, “I do.”
Christina stared at her. “You really think,” she said, “you really think I’m under twenty-one?”
“I don’t think anything,” the waitress said. “I’m not paid to think. Fetch and get: that’s what I do. Bring and clear away. I serve someone that I’m not sure of, then they get in trouble? I would lose my job.”
Christina brought out her wallet. She removed her license and handed it to the waitress. “I’m surprised you haven’t anyway,” she said. “Gin and tonic, please.”
The waitress arched her eyebrows at Christina before she inspected the license. She handed it back. “Some of the customers I get,” she said, “sometimes I wished I did.” She sauntered, leaving the table.
Christina replaced the license in her wallet an
d the wallet in her bag. “I assume,” she said to Gleason, putting the bag aside, “I assume there’s some particular reason why you come here.”
He snickered. “It’s the warm, homey atmosphere,” he said. “The cheery hospitality, the expertly prepared cocktails and the excellent cuisine. Besides, it’s two blocks from my office, open late, and cheap. You have trouble, finding it?”
“No,” she said. “I had trouble, getting here. The Red Line was running late.”
“You took the trolley?” he said. “Why’d you do that? The Red Line’s been running so late so long now it’s actually early. You take a train at six-forty today, that’s supposed to’ve been six-twenty, it’s not late at all — it’s actually the seven-forty-five from yesterday, and your actual six-twenty today won’t pull out until eight-ten tomorrow. Everybody knows that. How did you escape?”
“Well,” she said, “that’s why I did it, actually. To escape. I had a guy on my tail when I left my place tonight. He was in a car alone, just like he’d been all day. I figured, if I take the train, which I did in Braintree, this might not actually shake him, but it’ll inconvenience him. And that’s all I’m really after — make it difficult for them. It annoys me, having them following me like they do. Anything that makes their life a little harder? That I’m going to do.
“After I left you this morning,” she said, “I decided to go right to the school and practice for a couple of hours before my first student. And I was through at one o’clock. And they, there was a man waiting for me there when I came out to go to lunch. In the usual unmarked car. Wearing the usual Irish face, with the usual Irish scowl. He followed me down to the usual place. He watched me eat my usual lunch, egg salad and a Coke. Then he followed me back home and watched me go inside. I had a real temptation, you know, when I went in the apartment, to just sing out: ‘Hey, guys, I’m home. I’ll be going out this evening, though. You’d better stay alert.’ But I didn’t. Getting shy, I guess.”
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 31