by Parnell Hall
"Why not?"
"Because when I don't come out, they'll grab you."
Alice looked at me in horror. "Jesus Christ!"
"Yeah."
"You're serious."
"There are only two possibilities here. They're out to get me or they're not. If they're out to get me, they'll stop at nothing."
Alice looked pale. I took her by the arni. "There is a saving grace. The cops want these guys. They want 'em bad. They're gonna watch nie very well."
"But why do you have to work?"
"I have to keep up appearances. If I seem to be going about my business, the guys will either forget about nie or make a move. Either way, it will wrap things up."
"But you don't have to go to work.You could pretend to work."
"What good would that do?"
"You could drive around to some nice neighborhoods. Safe buildings. Clean, new, well lit."
"The doorman will tell me to get lost."
"You can't talk your way past a doorman?"
"I have work for Richard"
"What work?"
"I have to be in court, for one thing. Testify in a case."
"Couldn't he put it off?"
"Alice."
"Let him get an adjournment. Or continuance. Or whatever the hell they call it. I mean, how important can it be?"
"The client's a quadriplegic."
"And if you put it off, Richard's afraid he might get better?" Alice said sarcastically.
My thoughts flashed to Richard's other client, Jerome Robinson, the man with the broken neck, miraculously improving every day. Could a quadriplegic get better? "Some things can't wait, Alice. I can't keep looking over my shoulder."
"Bad dialogue.You sound like a B-movie hero." Alice grabbed me, looked in my eyes. "Please. Be careful."
"I promise."
49
I DROVE OUT To EAST NEW YORK. Not the type of place Alice would have approved of, but I had business. And I felt a little guilty about it, because I hadn't mentioned this business. I'd given Richard's court case as the reason I had to work, instead. Whereas actually I could have cared less about his damn quadriplegic, and I'm sorry if that's insensitive, but a short postponement wouldn't have killed anyone, because quadriplegics don't improve, and in the end it's just money.
The real reason I didn't want to stop working, the reason I hadn't given Alice, the reason I felt guilty about, was the mother with the dead baby I'd bullied Richard into helping. And it wasn't just that she was gorgeous, though she was. It was that I'd accomplished something, that I'd gotten some justice for somebody, and I'd done it by bending the rules, like some crazy TV detective who won't let the downtrodden suffer, who somehow finds a way. I'd done it, and I'd done it proud, and if the woman that I'd done it for happened to look like a supermodel, well, that was just too damn bad. It's not often in this business that I get to be the hero, and I wanted to play the scene.
I rang ahead to make sure she was home. Told her I had to see her. Didn't say why. She didn't argue. She was used to being told what to do by men. I said I was coming up, and that was that.
My cop buddy picked me up at my door. A burly young guy with a crew cut and no neck. A guy who, I realized, would have seemed like an older man not that long ago. He told me the street was clear and I could accompany him to my car. That was good, because I didn't know where my car was parked. The cops had towed it away and recovered the bullet and replaced the windshield. They hadn't bought me a new car seat. The fabric was merely patched, and cheaply at that, but I wasn't about to complain. I hopped in, pulled on the seat belt, happy to be alive.
"Where you headed?" the cop asked.
"East New York."
"Is that a good idea?"
"It's on the agenda."
He shrugged and hopped into his cruiser, which was doubleparked right alongside. Handy being a cop. He backed up, and I pulled out.
I drove down Broadway to Ninety-sixth Street and got on the West Side Highway heading north. That must have confused him, since East NewYork is in Brooklyn. At the G.W. Bridge exit, I took the CrossBronx Expressway east, to 1-87 south, to the Triboro Bridge. I took the Grand Central Parkway out past LaGuardia and Shea Stadium. At the exit for the Van Wyck, I bore right onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. Under its old name, the Interboro Parkway, it would have given the cop a clue. The Interboro connects Brooklyn and Queens.
There was a method to my madness. My circuitous route had involved mainly highway driving, as opposed to picking my way though crowded city streets, where a sniper might be hiding.
I pulled up in front of Yolanda Smith's crack house. My cop wasn't keen on sending me in there, wanted to go along. I told him I was fine. It was an odd juxtaposition. In one of my scarier neighborhoods I actually felt safe.
Yolanda met me at the door. Showered, fresh, in a terry-cloth robe. Her hair was wet. She looked sensational.
"What is it?"
I smiled. "The lawyer's going to take your case."
"Yes!"
She clapped her hands, threw her arms around me, gave me a hug.
Did I do it just for that?
Absolutely not. Even if her bathrobe was slipping just a little.
I tried to keep it professional. After all, it was professional. Purely professional. I had no ulterior motive. Just to do the right thing. A white knight on a steed.
I sat her down, told her how it would be. She shouldn't get her hopes up. There might be problems. But the lawyer was willing to try.
She didn't understand. In her mind, if the lawyer was taking her case, that should be that. "I don't see what's so hard. I lost my baby. They were in the wrong."
"I told you. They'll lie. And we have no witnesses."
"What about Sean?"
"Who?"
"The director."
The porn director. "What about him?"
"Won't they believe him?"
I blinked. "I thought he was the one who told the doctor not to operate."
"That's right."
"So he's on the doctor's side."
"No, he's not. He out for hisself. Doctor did what he wants. Don't mean he'll do what the doctor wants. We could get some cash."
"We?"
"Enough for a video. Make me a star."
I blinked. "Wait a minute. You're saying the director will testify against the doctor, in return for which you'll split the settlement with him and he'll make a rap video with you?"
Her smile was enormous. "And everybody's happy."
Everybody except me.
What had I done? In my do-gooder, white-knight, Stanley-tothe-rescue mode, largely influenced by the fact that everything else had gone to hell, I had ignored Richard's better judgment, my own better judgment, and, had she known anything about it, Alice's better judgment, and committed myself to furthering the interests of a gold-digging wannabe porn star eager to feather her nest by winning a shaky medical malpractice case with the help of perjured testimony. Or, at least, paid testimony. And, while medical experts were paid for their time on the stand, porn directors weren't. When you paid for the testimony of a porn director, it wasn't something you could let the opposing counsel bring out in court, and say, so what, everybody does it. Everybody didn't do it, and if anybody found out you did it, your ass was grass.
My stomach felt hollow.Was it all for this that I had blackmailed my boss? Into a sleazy deal. Both for him and for me. A lose-lose situation. Him taking a case he didn't want. Me testifying to things that weren't true. Or, if not testifying to them, at least holding my tongue. Concealing evidence to bolster a client's case.
Well, wasn't that what lawyers do? Lawyers, yes. They present the facts they want and suppress the ones they don't. Argue that those presented by the opposition are meaningless. But I'm not a lawyer. I'm a private investigator. And that is not my job. My job is to tell what I know. Put on the stand, my job is to answer questions truthfully. Granted, I need answer no more than I'm asked. Even if I know what I will
be asked. And what I won't be asked. And what not to touch on cross-examination. I can do that without feeling sleazy, can't I?
But this?
To have bartered that for this.
And to have come here, today, with police escort, at my own peril, in spite of threats of death and Alice's pleading.
I wanted to tell her to go to hell. I didn't even have the guts to do that. I just smiled and got the hell out of there.
My cop buddy was waiting right outside.
"Where to?" he said.
I had no idea.
so
ALICE WAS NO HELP. Odd for Alice. Alice usually has the answer for everything. I wondered if it had to do with the comeliness of the client. Which I hadn't particularly emphasized. Unless it had to do with the fact I hadn't particularly emphasized the comeliness of the client. Alice is rather astute in these matters. Of course, she might have got a hint from the fact the girl did skin flicks. A detail I was not quite able to leave out of the narrative. Even though I started with rap videos. Which in Alice's view is bad enough. Alice is not a huge fan of the rap video. Or the rap song, for that matter. She is not even willing to concede that it is a song. While I find this hard to dispute, just as I find all things hard to dispute with Alice, I am somewhat reluctant to agree, as it seems to push us even further down the slippery slope toward old fogeyhood.
Anyway, Alice had little or no sympathy for my plight. She couldn't believe I even cared.
"Stanley, they're shooting at you. And you're worried about a client."
"I'm not worried about the client."
"Then why did you bring it up?"
"You asked what's bothering me"
"So you are worried about it."
"Give nie a break. Someone fired a shot at me. Meanwhile, life goes on. This happened today. After the shot. Perhaps not as important as the shot, but, hey, life goes on"
"Bra"
"Huh?"
"`Obladi, oblada, life goes on bra.' You know. The Beatles."
"I'm glad I didn't say that"
"Yeah. It's a Stanleyism."
"You're really scared, aren't you? Or you wouldn't be driving me nuts."
"That's not true."
"Right. You always drive me nuts. Look, suppose I take some time off."
"Because of this woman?"
"No! Because someone tried to shoot me"
"Oh, yeah? That happened, you couldn't care less. You went rushing right out there. Then this porn star pulls a number on you, you wanna climb back in your shell."
"She's not a porn star"
"So now you'd like to cut back on your cases?"
"Wouldn't you prefer if I did?"
"Yes, I'd prefer if you did. I'd prefer if you had today, before you went to see this girl, who's got you so confused you don't know what you're doing"
"I'll call Richard, I'll cut back on my cases"
"Don't cut back. Stop. Stay home. Let the cops sort this out.You got hitmen and mobsters involved, this is a little bit out of your league. No offense meant. But you're not going to solve this thing by walking around with a bull's-eye on your back."
You mean stay in?"
"You're very bright! That's why I married you"
"I have to walk the dog," I protested.
"I'll walk the dog"
"I don't want you to walk the dog."
"Don't worry. I'll take the cop."
"He won't go."
"He will if you're not going anywhere. Just call him in and tell him."
I sighed. "Alice, I can't stay holed up forever."
"Not forever. Just until they catch this jerk." Alice went to the door. "Zelda's gotta go out. I'll get the cop, you tell him take me to the park"
"I don't like your going"
"Okay, I'll get the cop, you tell him to take Zelda to the park."
I shook my head. "This won't work."
"Maybe not, but it's what we're doing. At least for now. And tomorrow you call Richard and tell him you can't work. At all. You're not just cutting back. You're off the clock until further notice.
I grimaced. "Oh"
"What's the matter?"
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I have to be in court."
51
I FELT LIKE CHARLES BRONSON in The Valacchi Papers, marching into court under armed guard to testify against the mob. After all, I had police protection. And there I was, going through the metal detectors up to Part 24. But here the resemblance endeth. I wasn't testifying against the mob, I was giving evidence in a negligence suit. No one would go to jail as a result of what I had to say. People would just lose money. Aside from that, it was pretty dramatic, and if I wanted to feel like Charlie Bronson, I certainly would.
It wasn't easy. For one thing, the courtroom wasn't jammed, the way it would have been in a Mafia hearing. The plaintiff wasn't even there. Richard had tried every trick in the book to get him into court, but the judge wasn't biting. A severe, needle-nosed lady in a black robe, who lacked only a black hat to pass for the Wicked Witch of the West, Judge Epstein was not easily swayed. For her money, a quadriplegic who could not breathe on his own, and who required elaborate medical apparatus just to keep him alive, did not have to be there. Still, I'd have laid you 8 to 5 on Richard's getting the sucker into that courtroom before the trial was over. In the meantime, he'd get a lot of mileage out of his client's absence.
Richard's loyal opposition consisted of three starchy-looking lawyers and one rather ratty-looking defendant whose age couldn't have been more than twenty-five and whose IQ might have been less. This unprepossessing young man was unlucky enough to own the building in which Richard's client had fallen, and would be on the hook for damages in the event that we won.
In the gallery, witnessing this historic battle, were three, count them, three spectators: a plump woman knitting a sweater, perhaps the defendant's mother; a young woman dressed as a prostitute, either the defendant's wife or a prostitute; and a drunk sleeping it off. Not the most menacing group imaginable; still, my bodyguard checked them out.
Richard hurried up to me. "Is this really necessary?" he said, indicating the cop.
"Speak to him."
"Could you give him a little room?"
No.
Richard raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"I'm doing my job. You got a problem with that?"
"Not now, I don't. But when the jury's brought in, he looks like he's in custody."
"Just explain that he's not."
"Oh, sure," Richard scoffed. "If I try to tell them he's involved in a murder case, the judge won't let the jury hear it. If the judge does let the jury hear it, the defense will object and ask for a mistrial. They may not get it, but they'll get a continuance."
"What's wrong with that?"
"I got a kid on a ventilator needs money. These guys are going to pay it. The defense is using every trick in the book to stall. I'm not going to give 'em one on a silver platter."
"That's too bad."
"Yes, it is. So could you cut me a little slack?"
"What do you want?"
"Do you have to sit next to him?"
"I could sit behind him."
"That's almost as bad."
"Do you want it or not?"
Richard sighed. "Look, could you wait out in the hall?"
"Huh?"
"There's no reason for him to be in here anyway. Until you're called to the stand. Why don't you guys wait outside? Any objection to that?"
The cop shrugged. "Works for me"
"When he is called, think you could avoid marching him in?"
"I'm coming in when he does."
Richard wasn't happy with the answer. "He's going on the stand. Where are you going?"
"I'll sit in the closest available seat."
"Fine. Instead of escorting him down the aisle, do you think you could poke your head in the door like maybe you're one of the next witnesses to be called? Or maybe you just wante
d to sit and read? I don't suppose you could carry a New York Post?"
"Give me a break."
"All right, but you get the picture.You think you can do that?"
The cop said, "Yeah, sure," but he muttered "Lawyers" under his breath as we headed up the aisle.
There was a bench right outside. We sat on it, my bodyguard next to me, defending me against the world, a small world consisting of a few cops, some extremely young prosecutors, and a few perpetrators, easily identified by their new suits, recent haircuts, and the handcuffs on their wrists.
I wished I had the New York Post. I could do the sudoku in it. Yeah, I'm hooked on 'em, too. Isn't everybody?
A few hours passed and nothing happened. Except once Richard came out to tell us nothing happened. We probably could have figured that out for ourselves. Except when he said nothing, he meant nothing. The jury wasn't even in yet. He and the defense counsels were still arguing about procedure.
Richard went back in and nothing continued to happen for quite some time.
I was just nodding off when I was roused from my slumber by the patter of feet. Not little feet. Big-girl feet. As in heels that go clack, clack, clack. I hadn't been hearing many of those. Female ADAs, though well-dressed in skirts and pantsuits, opted for more practical footwear, knowing they'd be on their feet most of the day. I glanced up to see what newbie hadn't gotten the message.
My mouth fell open.
It was her. My favorite teacher.What's-her-name. Sheila Blaine. Miss Perky Breasts. Boy, was she a knockout in a pale green sheath with a low-cut top. Hair up on her head. Just as if she was going to the senior prom.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. I was sitting on the bench with a cop. I must have looked like I was under arrest.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Just a witness. What are you doing here?"
She made a face. "I got jury duty."
"You're kidding. On this case?"
"What case?"
"This one. The one I'm testifying"
"You're testifying?" She sounded impressed.
"No big deal." My eyes twinkled. "There is no dress code, you know."
She looked puzzled, then smiled. "Oh.Yeah"