by Sol Stein
I can tell Tarbell likes me. He follows the cases for which he supplies information, and keeps score. He knows what my score is, and it is through him that at least part of my reputation among lawyers in this county is built.
I doubt anybody'd go after Tarbell. Not any more. He knows too much.
I phoned him, asked about his Mrs. and his kid John — John's at Yale Law School and I can tell you he's one lawyer who's never going to get caught doing anything that'd get him disbarred. Then I got down to it.
"I'd like to talk Cunham into a criminal prosecution."
"Shame on you. Who do you want to get?"
"Somebody a client wants to get. How's Cunham fixed?"
"Up to his ass. He's shuffling troublemakers like you off on a kid named Lefkowitz. Know him?"
I didn't and asked Tarbell to fill me in.
"I'll tell you. He wears a key chain."
"Thanks a lot."
"How many guys you know today wear a key chain? He's Harvard summa, Columbia Law, listen, he's had the same girl friend since high school. He weekends in Amagansett where he breaks the law smoking grass with some other unmarried couples they share a rental with. Twenty-seven, an assistant D.A., he thinks he's riding shotgun for God. He's going to be Attorney General by the time he's forty."
"I'll bet."
"Well, there are two ways of dealing with a kid like Lefkowitz," Tarbell went on. "You can Stepin Fetchit, kiss young massa's ass, make him feel so big and so good he'll get his rocks off doing a favor for Big Shot Thomassy. However, George Thomassy no good as Stepin Fetchit. You better zap him. He's chicken shit if you come on strong. What's the complaint?"
"Rape," I said.
"Forget it. Not this year."
"Want to bet a case of wine?"
"I never gamble," said Tarbell. "You'd have to have Cunham's family jewels in your safe."
"You got anything useful?" I asked.
"Don't I always? Except this particular bit takes a very tough character to use."
I didn't say a thing.
"It'll cost you two hundred if you use it, four hundred if it works."
"Photograph?"
"Newspaper clip."
"I'll be over."
"Look, do me a favor," said Tarbell, "don't come to my place this time."
"You keeping an underage mistress?"
"Just meet me in the Gristede's parking lot in half an hour."
"I hope whoever's tapping your phone isn't listening."
"I pay real good to have it cleaned regulady."
"You think of everything."
"If I thought of everything, I wouldn't have lost my license. I'd be making a fortune like you guys."
I spotted Fat Tarbell in his Ford before he saw me. I walked over to the driver's window and said, "Don't move."
Tarbell laughed. "Come on, I saw you in the mirror. Here, put this in your wallet. I don't want you to lose it unless you lose your wallet."
"This is a Xerox."
"I've got the original if you ever need it. No extra charge."
"I wish there were easier ways."
"Fuck that. I'd be out of business."
As I watched him drive off, I thought if I ever got disbarred, what would I do to make a living?
When I phoned Lefkowitz I said I wanted to see him at 3:00 P.M. that day and I hoped it wouldn't be too inconvenient. He started to say something about a previous appointment, which I told him he could blame me for in canceling and I would be there at three sharp.
When I arrived I told the secretary not to bother I knew the way and went right past her, around the L, and into the office marked "Gerald R. Lefkowitz." He looked up from his newspaper, actually blushed folding it up like he had been caught masturbating, and I said, "Three o'clock on the button."
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Thomassy," said the boy lawyer, holding out a flustered hand.
"Lefkowitz," I said, "I'm not much for sitting around offices. Why don't we take a walk. Okay?"
He glanced over at the armchair he had been planning to seat me in as if to apologize to it for it missing this opportunity to have George Thomassy's celebrated ass sitting in it for half an hour.
"I hope you walk with a brisk stride," I said.
"I hope so," said Lefkowitz. In two minutes we were outside, and I set the pace at Thomassy's not-quite-marathon walking speed.
"Exercising the body stimulates the mind," I said. "Don't you agree?
He agreed.
I was going to get him to agree to a lot more before the walk was over. First I filled him in on the facts. Then I said, "Lefkowitz, we're not going to have trouble over the sexual aspects because you're a member of a smart new generation with no hang-ups, so we can talk frankly, right?"
When he said "right" he was already short of breath. Good.
"You didn't by any chance row at Harvard?"
He shook his head.
"Pity," I said. "Great sport. Now. What happened to Miss Widmer, you'll recall that's the name of the complainant, was a crime of violence, that's what we have to keep foremost in our minds. I'd wanted to be sure to brief you thoroughly before I see Gary."
His speech was beginning to crack up into breathy stretches. "There are… certain kinds of cases… rape is one of them… that Mr. Cunham is not fond of putting before mixed company."
"I've heard he uses that expression about the Grand Jury. You tired? You want to sit down on that bench?"
Lefkowitz declined the chance to rest. Foolish.
"When you've added to your experience," I said, "you'll find that the majority of so-called sex crimes have nothing to do with sex. I don't mean your peeping tom or your run-of-the-mill exhibitionist. I'm talking about forcing sex on someone."
"Rape," said Lefkowitz.
"Right. Maybe it'll be easier to judge my conclusion — and I want you to be the judge, Lefkowitz — if you consider a case of male-to-male rape, say in prison."
"Happens every day."
"Right. But is it sexually motivated? Look, if a convict deprived of normal company builds up a head of steam, he can always use his hand. It's convenient — I almost said it's handy — doesn't bother anybody, relief is quick, and nobody gets hurt. However—" I stopped walking and looked straight at Lefkowitz. "Your heart okay? You're puffing a bit."
"Don't do much walking. Should do more."
"Continue?"
"Why not?"
"Okay. We were talking about a prisoner. If he wants some variety, there's always someone else's hand around for fair exchange. No big deal. Why then, I ask you, doesn't a day go by in any sizable jail without one or more single or gang rapes? I mean it's trouble compared to jacking off. They take the trouble because it's a method of control, of putting someone down, or keeping someone in line. Got it? If the guy who leads a gang rape lets everyone else have a piece afterwards, it's he who's the permission-giver. Rape is a function of power. The sex is incidental. The violence or threat of violence isn't. Which is back where we started. Rape is a crime of violence having relatively little to do with sex urges that can be satisfied in different and lots less complicated ways."
"That's a very interesting point of view, Mr. Thomassy."
I stopped, giving Lefkowitz a chance to puff while stationary.
"I am not in the habit," I told him, "of espousing interesting points of view. That's what law school teachers do. They're exercising their students' minds. I have to deal with the practical realities of crime in this county, and I wouldn't hold the view I have about rape if it wasn't — based on my experience — true. Follow?"
I had turned around and could see the relief in his face at the prospect of heading back toward his office.
"I would like to reflect on what you have said, Mr. Thomassy."
"I wish there were more time. But it's imperative that we get the Widmer case to the Grand Jury as soon as possible, and while you—" I gave him eyeball-to-eyeball for two seconds— "undoubtedly have the authority to do so you
rself, I expect you will want to consult Gary since he has pronounced views on the matter. I could see him almost any time next week. Does that allow you enough time?"
Lefkowitz did not respond.
"I know what's troubling you," I said. "You don't like to have the boss say no. I want to assure you he won't."
"I don't mean to question your confidence, Mr. Thomassy, but on what basis do you think that Mr. Cunham would agree to put a difficult case on an unpopular subject before the jurors?"
"First, you will persuade him that we are talking about a crime of violence. Gary's very into violence, he uses it in all his speeches about how permissive Democrats in New York have reaped the whirlwind and how Cunham's Republican Westchester is a safe place to live because violence is not condoned, correct? Do you know a Mr. Morrell?"
"A who?"
"Charles Morrell?"
I could see his mind going like a pinball machine registering tilt.
"I used to see him in Amagansett," I said, "on my way out to East Hampton. Don't worry, he doesn't let me copy his customer list. The point is that smoking grass doesn't seem to harm people the way violence does, which is why you, and I, and Gary Cunham are concentrating on stopping violence, not victimless crimes that haven't been wiped off the statute books yet."
Mr. Gerald R. Lefkowitz, Amagansett weekend potsmoker, showed visible relief.
"Third, I know Gary will agree with your recommendation that the Widmer case go before the jury because of this."
I looked left and right as if I was about to slip Lefkowitz the Pentagon Papers. From my breast wallet I took the Xerox of the clipping from the Buffalo student newspaper. It was a mild little thing, really, Charles Cunham, identified as the son of Westchester's D.A., was lauded for his leadership role in two "controversial" student organizations, LEMAR and the Gay Activists Alliance. Lefkowitz looked at the clipping, at me, back at the clipping.
"Let me explain. I think it's fine that Gary's son is working for the legalization of marijuana, especially because of his background. It's not as if he's defying his father because he's working for legalization, right, of a harmless substance, right? I just think that Gary, and I really don't know him that well, I'm sure you've gotten to know him better working with him as closely as you do, I don't think he likes to advertise the fact that his son's sexual preference is what it is, perhaps he takes it as some kind of sign of personal failure on his part in raising the boy or setting an example. Who knows? Probably a very old-fashioned view. I know for a fact that one reporter in the Gannett chain is looking for a Gunham story. I don't know the background of that vendetta, whatever it is, but I don't think he ought to be prodded onto this one, don't you agree?"
I had to give Lefkowitz credit. He looked me straight in the eye when he said, "Mr. Thomassy, I believe you are trying to influence both my attitude toward this case and Mr. Gunham's attitude as well by an implicit threat."
"Did you think it was implicit? Mr. Lefkowitz, you're in the early part of what I am certain will be a marvelous career in the justice system. I can sum up by saying that above all, I don't believe in people getting hurt."
I slipped the clipping back in my wallet.
"I suppose you'll feel an obligation to alert Mr. Gunham to the fact that I don't believe in people getting hurt?"
"Goodbye, Mr. Thomassy." He held out his hand. I shook it.
"Goodbye, Mr. Lefkowitz. Please let my secretary know when I'm to see Mr. Gunham."
I watched young Lefkowitz trundle back to his office, a bit more knowledgeable about the facts of life than he had been before 3:00 P.M.
Eighteen
Francine
When it became obvious that the case was going to be taking me out of the office more than I could cover with ordinary excuses, I decided to tell X about the rape. I kept it to a minimum. I'd been attacked. Chances are that the man would be prosecuted. I was cooperating. I didn't tell him that it was me who was determined to get Koslak behind bars.
"I'm sorry it happened," X said. "I'm glad it didn't make the papers."
"The trial might," I told him.
"It could blow your security clearance."
"Is that all you're concerned about?"
"Don't get angry, Francine," he said. "No clearance, no job."
I couldn't allow myself to think about that. I immersed myself in my assignment, one I really liked. X was preparing a two-page insert on hypocrisy for a speech to be given by the American Ambassador to the U.N. It wasn't for a particular speech, but was to be kept on hand for any occasion that might prompt a speech in the Assembly. It was my boss's idea to round up ten or twelve quickly told examples of hypocritical conduct on the highest level. My job was to scour around for historical incidents in odd parts of the world so that it wouldn't look like we were picking on Western Europe or the Soviet Union. Every continent had to be included, except Australia. And the personages involved had to be immediately identifiable. The idea was that the insert would be used when the Ambassador addressed the Assembly as an adversary against a position taken by "the other side," which by this time included most of the world. It was assumed that whatever the Ambassador was speaking against could be attacked as hypocritical. I think the point of the exercise was to convey to the people who could still bear to listen to the U.N. on radio or watch snippets on TV that the Ambassador was a master of political history and irony, someone who could send up the enemy and therefore might be in line for high elective office. Of course the taxpayers' money was not supposed to be spent on promoting a domestic political candidate, so the exercise on hypocrisy was itself hypocritical, and I was having a good time ferreting out material for my boss to choose from.
I had left word with Margo, who fended my calls, to take messages except for dire emergencies. When she buzzed me in the middle of Hypocrisy Number Nine, she said, "This isn't a dire emergency, it's your lawyer. Later?"
"No," I said, "I'll take it."
Sometimes as I answer a phone call, I see myself as if I were a camera watching me.
"Hello, hello," I said, as though saying it twice made the announcement more personal.
"Hello yourself," Thomassy's voice said, "I've got good news." I pictured him sitting, then standing.
"Are you sitting or standing?" I asked.
"Running," he said. "Aren't you interested in the good news?"
"Of course."
"One D.A. down, one to go."
"You see," I said, "even members of the legal establishment can be reasonable."
"Don't be so sure. I had him by the short hairs."
"How affectionate."
"It wasn't affection. I had some information I didn't think the D.A. wanted to see circulated further. When can you come see me?"
"Today?"
"Preferably. I want to bring you up to date."
"I should be finished in an hour, but it's pretty late now."
"I'll wait for you."
Thomassy the Impregnable sounded human. He added, "Do you have a dinner date?"
"I was going to eat my parents'."
He laughed. "Why don't you call and tell them you won't be home."
"At all?"
"For dinner, I meant."
"They're at a worrying stage."
"Tell them you're with me."
"After hours? They'll worry more. Especially my father. He thinks all men think as he does about me."
By the time I arrived Thomassy's secretary had gone. The outer door wasn't locked. I went in quietly. The door to his office was open. I coughed to catch his attention. He looked up from his paperwork, came out bearing a smile I couldn't associate with the man I had first met. He plunked himself down on the couch in the reception area.
"Please don't stand," he said, gesturing at one of the armchairs. "You feeling better?"
"Got lost in work today," I said. "Helped."
"Good." Though I was ten feet away, I felt as if he were examining my face with his hands.
"This is a b
usiness meeting?" I asked.
"Yes."
"You're going to tell me what happened with the Assistant D.A."
He shifted his eyes from their examination of me.
"Yes," he said.
And so he told me about his meeting with Lefkowitz. He stood up to act out the part about sweeping past Lefkowitz's secretary, taking the young lawyer for a breathless walk. He had me laughing. Thomassy should have been an actor.
On the phone it sounded like blackmail. He's making light of it.
"I have a feeling," I said, "that you don't usually fill in your clients along the way."
"You're damn right."
"Why are you doing it now?"
He hesitated. We both knew why.
"You're pretty proud of the way you overwhelmed the poor kid," I said.
"He's about your age. He ought to be able to take care of himself. You can, can't you?"
"Yes I can. If I were up against a blackmailer like you, I'd call the cops."
Thomassy laughed, then immediately apologized. "I'm sorry," he said, "I keep forgetting how naive most people are about the police."
"And about life?"
"Right."
"Like they think the ends don't Justify the means."
He had picked up a magazine from the table. Now he put it down carefully as if he was restraining himself from slamming it. "All right, Miss Philosophy Major."
"Political science," I said.
"Life is not school. A lawyer's job is to manipulate the skeletons in other people's closets. If a woman has a starving child and steals food, those means justify the ends. I'll bet you're for euthanasia."
"Where warranted."
"Okay, you're justifying killing on grounds that it's merciful. You blink the means to secure the end. Think of yourself in a packed lifeboat at sea, filled to capacity, and there's that extra swimmer coming up, wanting to climb aboard. You know the boat won't hold him, do you smash his hands as he tries to hoist himself aboard? What right do you think you have to decide whether someone else is going to live?"
"Maybe one more wouldn't sink the boat."