by Sol Stein
"What's an associate?"
"I work with Mr. Brady."
This associate ain't giving anything to anybody. You could hardly figure him for a human being. No sign of friendliness or anything. We're put in this tiny room alone and he asks me some stupid questions and then I put it to him, "How come you're so friendly?"
This young punk says to me, "I'm here to do a job."
"Mr. Brady know you're this friendly with the people who pay him'" I ask,
"If you have to know," he says, "I don't give a damn. I don't care if a guy bangs his wife, or his girl friend, or his mother for all I care, there's enough ass around you don't have to force it."
"Wait a minute, kid," I says. "You're working as my lawyer. You know the law. I'm innocent till somebody says I'm guilty."
"Sure."
I could break this kid's neck. I answer his goddamn questions, you know, where do I work, do I own the station, how do I know the woman, what did I do, what did she do, what was my alibi, that kind of thing, and then v.-e get taken b>' cop car to the courthouse, and there's this runt behind a desk who turns out to be a judge and he looks at me like he can tell from my face whether I'm to be trusted or not. I don't give him any crap, I talk respectful, and then this kid lawyer talks to him so no one can hear, whisper whisper, but whatever he says it works, and the judge says something about my roots in the community — what the fuck is that? — and names ten gees as the bail. Ten gees? But it turns out this kid's got a bail bondsman with him and he asks me all kinds of questions, how much I make, how come I don't own a house, what's the make of my car, things like that, and finally I sign some papers, and the kid is driving me to his office. He says something to Brady's secretary, she looks at me like she could spit. After I cool my heels for a while, wondering about Mary, what she's thinking about this, the secretary says okay for me to go in. I look around for the kid, but he's disappeared somewhere in the back, I guess into his own office, and I go in to see Brady.
Well, sure, I go in there expecting Brady to be six feet tall and he's a midget, I mean shorter than Abe Beame, and he's got these eyebrows that go all the way across the bridge of his nose, one straight black line. His chair and his desk are on a raised platform. I know guys wear boosters in their shoes, but he's got his whole setup up in the air. He says, "Sit down!" and that's what I do, down, looking up at him, and I tell him my story, and he sits there chewing on his cigar. I'm trying to figure what'll make him take the case himself, and I say, "Mr. Brady, I realize you're a busy man, but it's not like I'm a charity case, I can pay a retainer in cash."
"Five thousand?"
"That's okay."
"A check isn't cash," he says.
"I can pay cash."
"When?"
"Tomorrow okay?"
I swear I can't tell from his expression what he thinks, he just chews the cigar. Maybe he's thinking of pocketing some of the cash and turning the rest over to some other lawyer to handle me. What he does is buzz his secretary.
"Get Mr. Cunham for me," he says.
We wait. I start to say something but Brady holds a finger in front of his lips. His brain is on that phone call.
The intercom buzzes. Brady listens, looks mad, says, "Try Lefkowitz."
We wait again. Is he trying to pass me off?
The intercom buzzes again. This time Brady smiles. "Lefkowitz," he says, "good day to you, too. Question. How come the boss decided to put an alleged snatch invasion to the Grand Jury? Doesn't sound like him. That's right, Koslak. He's with me now. Who? Well, thank you very much."
That black line across Brady's forehead, it lifts up in two places, over each eye. He seems happy. He buzzes his secretary again, and says, "Get me George Thomassy."
To me he says, "Just have to confirm something. Take a minute."
I watch him. He watches out the window. The phone buzzes. He picks up, smiles, pushes one of the buttons, says, "Hello, George. How you doing?"
I can't hear what Thomassy is saying, but then Brady says, "You representing a woman named, let's see here," he looks at the yellow pad he's been scribbling on, "Francine Widmer?" Brady listens, says "That's all I want to know," hangs up, stands up, pumps my hand, and says "You're on. Bring the money tomorrow." He seemed so happy about his call you'd think Thomassy was a broad he wanted to fuck instead of another lawyer!
Brady buzzed for the associate. The kid comes in. "Find out who Francine Widmer sees outside her office. Boy friends. Doctors. Everybody."
Brady winks at me, tells me I can go.
When I leave I tell Brady's secretary I was sorry about what I said on the phone and she says she accepts my apology so that's okay. I'm so high that Brady's taking the case I could go right into that Widmer broad's apartment with a cup of sugar in my hand all over again. I know she's not there, and besides, I'm not stupid. I go home and I grab Mary by the right ass and shove her into the bedroom and without taking any of her or my clothes off, just ripping down her pants and opening my zipper, fuck her fast just for old times' sake! Whee!
Twenty-nine
Koch
Dr. Allanberg and his wife, bless them both, took me to Lincoln Center to hear Moussorgsky, and I come home in a cab, euphoric, a bit tired, happy, the music still in my ears. The doorman tells me a patient is waiting for me in the lobby. Who? I have no appointments this late at night, no new patients to see, and the doorman brings me over to a very short man sitting in a lobby chair and he shakes my hand and says, "My name is Brady, Dr. Koch."
This man, whose eyebrows go straight across his forehead in a most unusual way, glances at the doorman who has retreated out of earshot out of politeness, then says, "I must talk to you."
"Who are you?"
"I'm a lawyer," he says. "I've come to see you about a psychiatric patient of yours who you are treating for mental illness, and who is accusing a client of mine of an imaginary rape, and I am terribly concerned about the man's wife, his children, and I need your suggestions. Please, Dr. Koch."
"I'm afraid I cannot talk about a case to anyone except the patient." What has this tiny man to do with Francine?
"I think it's imperative that I see you now, Dr. Koch. You'll understand the moment I explain."
"Impossible," I say. Yet I am curious. "Perhaps we could make an appointment," I say. "When a patient cancels, I could call you…"
I can see the doorman staring at us. Shall I order the man away?
"Dr. Koch," says Brady, "this is a private matter."
Of course it is private, between Francine and myself and no one else.
"It is essential," says Brady.
I am a European idiot. Is it politeness to this stranger that makes me invite him up? Or my curiosity?
As we go into the living room I say, "I am really very tired." Why is he looking around the apartment that way?
"I'll be brief," says this Mr. Brady, sitting down. He puts each hand, fingers extended, on one knee, very symmetrical. "I am a lawyer. I represent Harry Koslak, who has been indicted for an alleged offense against a patient of yours, Francine Widmer. In the event that this case is not dismissed and we go to trial, I intend calling you as a witness for the defense."
I start to object and he says, "One moment. My client will of course pay at the usual specialist rates for your time when you testify and any preparatory time involved, or we can subpoena you, as you wish. I have studied the case and I believe your patient is a high-strung woman of easy morals who has a history of sexual relations with others in extralegal circumstances. Please let me continue. I know you have a confidential relationship to your patient, but at the same time you have the reputation, I have checked, of a kindly man, and I assume you would not want to see the father of two young children go to jail for accepting the favors of a young woman who has given those favors to others on repeated occasions. It is making too much of a minor thing. It is possible that Miss Widmer's testimony on the stand over several days would be too trying for her. Perhaps this whole matter can
be disposed of expeditiously, without unnecessary pain to anybody, but to do so I would need to review the record of her treatment. I could, of course, have another psychiatrist testify as to her psychological condition based on her testimony or any pretrial testimony that is admissible, and you might then be subpoenaed to support or contradict specific points in his testimony, but as you can see, that would make for a very long drawn-out procedure painful to all parties. If you cooperate now, it would speed things up immeasurably, and as a courtesy, for your cooperation, I would be pleased to arrange for a donation of a thousand dollars to your favorite charity, or if you would prefer the cash so that you could make the donation yourself, that could also be arranged, what do you say?
This is unbelievable. I have heard of such people. "One moment," I say. I go to my study and dial Thomassy's home number — thank heaven I have it — and apologize for waking him at that late hour. He says he was not asleep. In the background I can hear a woman's voice. Is it Francine? I tell Thomassy who I am being visited by and the essence of what he has said.
"Let me talk to him," says Thomassy.
I go to the living room where Brady is now pacing and I point to the extension phone and say, "Could you pick up please?" and then I hurry back to my study like a mischievous child to listen in.
"Brady," he says, "what the fuck are you doing there?"
It is a very short conversation, an exchange of expletives and tough legal phrases I do not grasp, and they hang up. I put the telephone on the cradle and go back to the living room, but Brady, glaring at me, says not so much as a good night, and leaves.
I feel a tightness like a pre-angina condition as I prepare for bed. I try to read. Hopeless. This man Brady will get what he wants if he has to disembowel me. Can one fight back against people like that? Or does one wait in bed, foredoomed, for the sounds of Kristallnacht?
Thirty
Francine
One successful fuck does not a summer make. The next time it could all collapse, and we'd be back where we started. Was I wrong to be nervous?
George didn't want to eat out, so we drove to his place and I extracted enough from his fridge to cook us a passable dinner. He pushed the food around on his plate as if it was pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Afterwards I put on some Mozart the Peacemaker. It almost always works for me. In his armchair, without looking up from his law book, Machiavelli says, "Could you turn that down?"
"I thought you liked Mozart?"
He didn't answer me.
Eventually I said, "This is just like being married, I suppose."
He put a place marker in the book, shut it, sighed, and said, "I'm sorry."
"What's the matter, George?" I went to turn off the phonograph.
"You don't have to turn it off. I just said turn it down."
"My generation hasn't learned to listen to music when it's barely audible. Can I read something to you?"
"I haven't been read to since ten years before you were bom."
He's feeling his age tonight.
"What did you want to read?"
I took the sheets out of my briefcase. " 'In Praise of Limestone.' Auden. Know it?"
"No."
"It's my cure-all."
"It's illegal to copy books," he said.
"It's my book. If I copied it by hand, would that be illegal? Jesus, the law is cockeyed. May I read?"
"Is it long?"
"It's the right length. Don't let me force it on you."
"Look, my head's full of something else. I won't be able to concentrate."
"Tell me what's the matter."
"Not right now."
"What've you been reading?"
"Cases."
"Is that all you're going to say?"
"Rape cases. Look, Brady's going to try to battle this out before we ever get to court. His strategy's to harass you into dropping the whole thing. The prosecution's nowhere without you."
"I know I won't quit. Let me read Auden to you."
"I've dealt with Brady. He's a certifiable sadist. When he wants his jollies, he gets them. He looks for situations where he can twist someone's balls."
"Then I'm safe."
"Brady's not after you. He's after me, don't you see? I'd love to push his face into the gravel, but this time I've got a handicap I'm not used to."
"Me?"
"My relationship with you. He's got to find out about it if you keep coming here."
"Want me to stay away?"
"As a lawyer? Yes."
I lay there on the couch, trying to let the music soak into me, thinking Josephine de Beauharnais wouldn't have just sat around listening to music, she'd have found something to distract him.
I sat up. He didn't look up.
I stood. If I stood on my head, would he notice? I went to the John, took off blouse, shoes, slacks, pantyhose. I rubbed my hand across the elastic marks. I was tempted to rub lower. Opening the door of the John a smidge, I could see him making notes demonically. I got all the way to the couch stark naked, stretched myself out. He didn't notice.
The record, thank heaven, stopped. I didn't go to turn it over. He noticed the absence of the music. That's when he looked up.
"Dear God," he said.
I turned part way to the wall. Thata girl. He thinks you're shy. You're showing him your fantastic ass. My ears, like rabbits' ears, listened for sound. He was putting the book down. He put the yellow pad aside. He was coming across the room. I turned toward him. He had dropped to his knees beside the couch.
"You look lovely," he said.
He put a hand on the flat of my belly and said, "You feel good, too."
The flash of light came from the window straight across the room.
"Jesus!" He was on his feet in a second, bolting across the room, opening the window, trying to grab at something, cursing. He ran to the hall and out the door like a maniac. I could hear footsteps racing down the gravel driveway.
I hurried my nakedness back to the John, got his bathrobe off the knob on the back of the door, and wrapped it around me.
When he got back, George's face was livid. "The son of a bitch got away."
"Someone took a photograph."
"You can bet everything you own to a nickel that that photograph is for Brady."
"We weren't doing anything,"
"Oh no, just you lying naked and me with my hand on you, how much do you think you need for a blackmail photograph?"
"That's ridiculous," I said. "Nothing I've done with you is embarrassing to me."
"I'm not thinking of you being embarrassed. I'm thinking of who he'll show that photograph to."
"In court?"
"Brady's not stupid. That's not the kind of thing you can show in a courtroom. If I know Brady, he's going to use it now."
"Who?"
"Put yourself into his head, think what he would do. Damn it, you should have pulled the curtain if you were going to take your clothes off!"
"I didn't think anyone could see here in the woods. I mean there're no windows across the way."
"That guy was no amateur."
"I was only trying to distract you. I thought you need some R and R."
"Oh I do, I do."
"How can lawyers do things like that?"
"Some do it more easily than others. Some don't."
"Do you?"
He looked at his fingers at first, not answering me, then he said, "Look, Brady doesn't take those pictures, he hires people. I got something from somebody, that's all."
"A picture?"
He nodded.
"Like that?"
"No, just a newspaper clip."
"But the effect is the same?"
"How do you mean?"
"Morally," I said. "Is that what all you guys are taught in law school, dirty tricks?"
"Not in law school."
"I think I'd better get my clothes back on." Halfway to the bathroom, I stopped and asked him, "Who's he going to show that picture to?"
"It's only a guess."
"Guess for me," I said.
His face looked very tired. "Your father," he said.
Thirty-one
Widmer
My secretary said that a Mr. Brady was telephoning. He wanted to speak to me, she said, about my daughter. Which daughter? When she got back on the Hne, she said it was Francine. I didn't know any Brady, but I wondered what had happened to Francine now.
"I'll speak to him," I said.
It is modulation rather than accent that conveys breeding in an American voice. Brady's rasp belonged to a man who had never given any thought to how he sounded.
"I have a photograph of your daughter I think you ought to see," he said.
"I have a great many photographs of my children, Mr. Brady, and I'm quite busy right now."
"I bet you'd have to go back to baby days to find a picture of Francine without anything on."
Oh how I would have loved to tell this Brady person about my treasured photograph and then hang up. "We don't take baby pictures in our family," I said.
"Mr. Widmer, this picture of your baby was taken this week."
I must keep him at a distance. "To what end?" I asked.
"You mean why did she take her clothes off?"
"No. I meant why did she have the picture taken."
"Oh," said Mr. Brady. "I don't think she wanted this picture taken. It was through a window. At some risk to the photographer. It's an expensive picture, Mr. Widmer, and I think you should see it."
I thought it best to ignore this kind of extortion ploy.
"I'm really not interested in seeing pictures of my daughter nude," I said. "Goodbye, Mr. Brady."
Before I could hang up, he said, "One moment, Mr. Widmer. There is one element in this photograph that may make it of special interest to you."
My "yes?" was hesitant.
"It was taken in a man's apartment."
"My daughter is twenty-seven years of age, Mr. Brady, and is free to do as she chooses. Goodbye, Mr. Brady."
"Don't hang up! This is George Thomassy's house the picture was taken in."