Other people

by Sol Stein

  I was silent for a moment. I could hear him breathing on the line. Then I said, "Is he in the picture, too?"

  "You bet."

  It was as if someone had announced that I was in the picture of Francine that I had secreted away. George Thomassy was closer to my age than to hers.

  "Mr. Brady, is the object of your call to sell that photograph?"

  "Oh no, no. I want to give it to you. After we discuss one or two things."

  "Do I get the negative also?"

  "There is no negative, Mr. Widmer. It's a Polaroid. Avoids questions from whoever's doing the developing. Can you come up to my office at four this afternoon?"

  He gave me his address. It was out of the way.

  "I'd feel safer in my office, if you don't mind, Mr. Brady."

  "Oh Mr. Widmer, I'm a lawyer."

  "Yes, well, could you make it here at four?"

  "Of course," said Brady. "Anything to oblige a colleague."

  He knew I would be offended by a word suggesting that he and I had anything in common. Time passed as slowly as an inchworm till four o'clock.

  Mr. Brady turned out to be a very short man. On my couch, he had to sit far forward so that his feet could touch the floor. In person, he seemed far less menacing than on the phone.

  He held up the snapshot by the top corners, close enough for me to see that Thomassy was fully dressed. I thought Francine looked as graceful as an odalisque. The photo was anything but pornographic. I guess I had expected to see them copulating.

  Brady put the snapshot in his pocket. "I want you to have that," he said, "as soon as we agree on a course of action concerning the case."

  "What case?" I wasn't going to help.

  "The Grand Jury has handed down an indictment charging that my client, Harry Koslak, forced his attentions on your daughter. I have a good deal of information that it may well have been otherwise. Hold on, Mr. Widmer, maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. The point is that Koslak is married, has two kids, and if he goes to jail because of your daughter's complaint, you're not going to feed those kids, and I'm not going to feed those kids. I don't want to see an injustice done here to either party. You know how rough a rape trial can get. And believe me, for the sake of those kids, this one's going to be plenty rough. I don't think the judge will be able to bar the press. Through a friend I've already arranged for coverage from the Daily News. Broadcast media won't be hard to get for a sensational trial involving the daughter of a prominent attorney."

  "What do you want, Mr. Brady?"

  "I wish you'd give me a ring by the close of business tomorrow and tell me that the charges have been dropped. Cunham'd be relieved not to prosecute. We'd all feel better, wouldn't we? I'd give you the picture now. I trust you. But just in case you can't persuade your daughter, I'll need it along with the others for the trial. I'm sure you understand."

  I must explain something about my temperament lest you think that my hesitation about the next step was a personal failing; it was a failing of my heritage. I made no attempt to avoid active service during the war, and though I spent a good deal of it behind a desk, I had no fear of seeing action. In boarding school I was in brawls repeatedly. When Priscilla's cat was the merest kitten it once got itself out onto the overhang of the roof from which it could not retreat, nor did it yet dare spring. I don't know whether it was my neck or my limbs I was risking, but I did crawl out there without anything solid to hang on to, to rescue the damned cat. You can see I am not a coward about ordinary hazards to life and limb. It is the embarrassments that I usually seek to avoid, the phone call to someone who may hang up on me, the near stranger to whom I should volunteer an apology, above all, the confrontation on the kind of subject matter I would choose to be sheltered from. In some respects life has prepared Priscilla better than it has me for such encounters; perhaps it is the leavening power of Gristede's that has accustomed her to the occasional necessity of overriding her heritage. Yet I cannot ask her to speak to Francine in my stead while I hide in the closet. And suppose it is not only Francine but Thomassy as well who has to be confronted?

  It took forever tracking her down at her office. With staff available from all of the bloody United Nations, I had to connect with an American black who pronounced the name "Wimmer" and kept asking me to call back when I explained as tactfully as possible that I was Miss Widmer's father and that I had to reach her now. Finally, her familiar voice, a bit breathless, was on the phone.

  I should have rehearsed what I was going to say because my head was a sudden jumble of questions which I reduced to a simple appeal to see her at once.

  "Oh I can't, Dad, I really can't," she said. "I've got hours to go before I can get out of here tonight."

  On my desk I have one of those baseball-sized glass balls with a country scene in it. If you shake the ball, as I did now with one hand, you have a snowstorm in the ball, hundreds of minute white flecks whirling about, falling on the house and barn and miniature farm animals. I like to watch the artificial snow settling when I think.

  "Dad, I really can't hang on long now."

  "That photo that was taken of you recently…"

  A second's delay, then "Yes?"

  "It was just offered to me."

  "Blackmailer?"

  "The lawyer who's representing Koslak. Will I see you?"

  "Can I pick you up right after work?"

  "Of course."

  "If George can come down, shall he join us?"

  "George?"

  "Thomassy."

  "Shouldn't we have our chat first?"

  "I don't have any secrets."

  "We have confidences, Francine. But do as you wish."

  She would always do as she wished in any event. I was curious to see if she would bring Thomassy or not.

  Thirty-two

  Thomassy

  I'm sure everyone gets a queasy feeling when you're about to meet with someone for the first time after they and you know you've been fucking a relative of theirs. I could have done without that trip to Widmer's office, but better office than home.

  I got there after Francine arrived. The secretary showed me in. Widmer was behind his desk. Francine was slouched on the couch across the room. I don't know what the hell was said before I got there, but the twenty feet between was jumping with family electricity.

  "Hi, Ned," I said.

  He reached across the desk to shake hands. Christ, I bet he usually comes around the side of the desk to greet a visitor. He's keeping that big piece of furniture between us.

  "Hello, Francine."

  She kind of opened the fingers of one hand at me, like a kid being taught to say bye-bye. I wish I knew what had transpired before I came.

  I decided to sit on a chair down Francine's end of the room, to pull Ned away from the desk. Maybe he'd sit next to Francine on the couch.

  I was waiting for Widmer to take the initiative. It was his meeting. He said, "You must have found traffic heavy coming down this time of day."

  Jesus! If not the weather, it's traffic. "Not too bad," I said. "It was worse for the people coming up out of the city."

  "Of course."

  Francine, I thought, maybe you could bake a cake during the silence.

  "Okay," I said. "We're here to talk about Brady."

  "The photograph…" Widmer began.

  "Is incidental," I said. "It's like a burglar's tool, one of several. The question is what to do about the burglar."

  "One moment, George."

  I looked at Widmer, and he looked slightly away as he continued.

  "This isn't just a photograph Brady showed me. It's a picture of you and my daughter."

  "Ned, we're past the point where you ask a father for his daughter's hand or any other part of her anatomy."

  "I understand that." He pronounced it I hate that.

  "We're here to talk about a legal situation," I said, "and it would be best for us to consider the subjects in that photograph as two consenting adults, and get on with the real p
roblem, which is that it's being used to attempt to blackmail Francine into dropping the case. Ned, let's deal with Brady. If we win, we'll discuss the other matter. If we lose, I think perhaps none of us will be talking to each other."

  I can't say it was a sigh that Ned emitted. I wished he would move from behind that damn desk.

  "All right," he said. "Brady."

  "First, Ned," I said. "I want to take the blame for Brady's interest."

  "How's that?"

  "I guess," I said, "I'm the only one present who's dealt with Brady before. He's in this because I'm in this. He's got money coming out of his ears in retainers. He has to be on call for all his regulars, and they keep real funny hours sometimes. The last thing he needs is a one-shot like Koslak. But he'd love to crack my head, in or out of the courtroom, and he's smart. Rape is a good subject for someone who works his way."

  "What way is that, George?" Widmer asked.

  "He starts by figuring out who his opponent really is. It's not always the accuser or the accuser's lawyer. Then he figures what's his opponent's most vulnerable point. What could he use to jab that point? How does he get the jabber? Then he does it, a, b, c. It won't do any good for me to drop off the case, now — don't worry, Francine, I wasn't intending to suggest that — once started he'd stick with it. Even if you put another lawyer onto it, he'd keep thinking of it as Thomassy's case. I'd be the losing pitcher even if I was taken out of the game."

  At last old man Widmer came around the desk and sat down on the couch three feet away from Francine. It's a good thing we're not drinking coffee. We'd have to get up to pass the sugar and the cream.

  "George, you said rape is a good subject."

  "Terrific. For the defense. Murder, you've got a body. Dead is dead. Rape you've got a body that says it was violated against its will. You've got to prove the violation and the will. With murder, if a stranger does it, the question is was it planned or did the opportunity come up in the middle of something else? Even if it's in the middle of a robbery, it's murder one. If it's in an ongoing fight between relatives or good friends, it's obviously murder two. We've always got the possibility of murder in our hearts for beloved friends and kin. But that's the ball park. The uncertainties have to do with degree, not did it happen. With rape, you're back to the beginning of the hard questions. Was there an element of seduction? Was the rapee a temptress? Then there's a whole set of other kinds of questions: Did penetration take place? Penetration of what? How do you prove it? You see what I mean?"

  "All too graphically," said Widmer without smiling.

  "Look," I said, "I'm sorry, but that happens to be the subject matter. Let me go on to something else. You've seen Brady, Ned, so you know how short he is. I knew a kid like that in high school. Everybody else was still growing and he stopped. They called him 'midget,' something sweet like that. I remember things like 'Midget, while you're down there, why don't you kiss my ass?' Short kids grow up riding the one universal human emotion nobody much talks about, vengeance. Except they want to revenge themselves against nearly everybody because nearly everybody is taller. That's Napoleon. I could name four or five classy lawyers you know, Ned, who fit that category. And there's Brady. No class. His connections are garbage people, junk dealers. Shy-locks, mob people. In some ways, the Shylocks are Brady's favorites. They charge something like ten percent a week. There's no way you can pay back. Soon you're paying interest on the interest. It's a room without doors. You're trapped. And they love it. You make money for them until you can't do anything any more. Then they beat you to death, or dump you somewhere. I know one case where they left the guy alone, because he was committed to an institution. They'd driven him nuts. These Shylocks are lovely people. They need a good lawyer to represent them because they are in an activity that happens to be illegal. A good lawyer for them is one who specializes in winning outside the courtroom, because they don't like courtrooms. Most of all, a good lawyer for them is one who is animated by a desire to beat up on the legitimate, taller-than-five-feet world. Brady's their man. Now let's talk about him and our problem. Francine, you haven't said a word."

  Francine looked straight at me and said, "I love you."

  I could see the pulse in Ned's temple. I said to her, "If you think that's helpful under these circumstances, you're crazy."

  "That, too," she said, smiling.

  I wouldn't have liked to be inside Widmer's skin.

  Finally, he spoke. "The photograph, from what you've said, I suppose you both know what's in it?"

  "Approximately. But Brady's already lost its biggest asset. You've seen it. Francine knows you've seen it. I know you've seen it. Nobody got hit with lightning. We're all sitting in one room peaceably together discussing it. We've disarmed that photograph, just as I'd like to see Brady kept from slipping in any kind of sexual innuendoes about Francine in front of the jury before the judge can shut him up. I think the D.A. in his direct examination of Francine should make it clear she is not Queen Victoria, just that she wants to choose what she does and a rapist doesn't give her a choice."

  I looked at Widmer. He seemed lost in his own office, with his own daughter.

  "Is there a room nearby from which I could make a private phone call?" I asked.

  "Of course," said Widmer. "My secretary will show you the way."

  At the door I turned and said, "Francine, you might want to chat with your father a bit. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

  When I was alone, I dialed Fat Tarbell's number. Busy. I doodled on the scratch pad, then dialed again.

  "Yes," said Fats.

  "George Thomassy," I said. "I've got a heavy one."

  "Shoot."

  It was a risk asking Fats. The other fellow was also undoubtedly a client of his. "Brady," I said. "What have you got on his sex life, if he has one?"

  Fat Tarbell laughed. "Oh he's got one. You're looking to get me into trouble. He gives me more business than you do."

  "On his sex life?"

  "No."

  "Then we're not competing."

  He laughed. "You got a sense of humor, Thomassy. This'll be expensive."

  "How expensive?"

  "Who's your client?"

  I would have liked time to reflect on that one. "I guess," I said, "that I'm the client."

  "Well. Didn't know you get yourself in trouble, George. Thought you kept your nose clean. Oh well, thousand sound too much?"

  "Five hundred sounds better. And it better be something quick and good."

  "Well, let's see. Amsterdam or New York?"

  "New York'd be a lot easier."

  "Right. Affidavit from a lady he visits about once a month."

  "Straight lady?"

  Fat Tarbell laughed. "Prostitute. Own brownstone. No other women. Privacy. Expensive."

  "How'd you get the affidavit?"

  "Listen, George, you thinking of getting disbarred and going into competition with me?"

  "Not on your life."

  "She got into a bad hassle with someone on the Mayor's staff. I fixed it in exchange for the affidavit. Sixteen people covered, but you're the first to put it to use. Now that I'm looking at it, George, I think five hundred's too cheap, even if it's for you."

  "Five hundred to see. Seven fifty if I get to use it."

  "How'll I know?"

  "I'll see that you know."

  "I trust you, George. You got a deal."

  "Thanks. The Gristede parking lot?"

  "Not this late. Come up to my place."

  "I'll have a girl with me."

  "Leave her in the car."

  "As you say."

  "How long will it take you to get here?"

  "I'm still in the city. About an hour."

  "Bring cash will you? I could use it tomorrow."

  "Make it an hour and a half then."

  "Take your time. I ain't going nowhere tonight. Bye, George."

  When I went back into Widmer's office, he had his arm around Francine, and she looked like she mi
ght have been crying.

  "Everything all right?" I asked.

  Neither of them answered me. God, you leave a father and daughter alone together for a few minutes and what happens?

  "I have to get up to Westchester fairly fast. Ned, you don't keep cash in your vault by any chance, do you? The banks are closed."

  "How much?"

  "Could you cash a check for five hundred?"

  He nodded, disappeared for a few minutes, returned with an envelope. In my circles, he'd have handed me the money, counting it as he did so.

  "It's in there," he said.

  I gave him the check.

  "Can I give either of you a lift to Westchester?"

  Widmer shook his head.

  Francine nodded at the same time.

  As we left I said to Widmer, "I think I may be buying us some good news."

  He had a puzzled expression on his face. I felt sorry for him. What I did for a living was sometimes fun.

  "I think we're going to be able to do some interesting pretrial plea bargaining with Mr. Brady."

  "Oh?" was all he said. I had a feeling that somewhere inside his vest was a little boy wanting to come along for the ride.

  Thirty-three

  Koch

  I am walking home from the Thalia Theater, lost in thought, imperiled by traffic, agitated not by what I have seen in the movie house, but what is going on inside my head. I think: in this neighborhood if a man walking on a block empty of people suddenly feels the clutch of a heart attack does he cry out? To whom, there is no one in the street, and the people in their apartments have immunized themselves against cries from the world outside. He slumps to the ground and dies in silence, his throat filled with the anguish of having no one to call to. However, if the same man sees one other person on the street, he calls loudly for help, hoping that one other person will come quickly. And if the same victim feels the thump of an attack in the middle of a crowded street, does he cry out for help? He knows he will be noticed by the crowd, and despite a sudden fear of immediate death, he doesn't want his reputation besmirched by being thought a coward or a crybaby. He crumbles in stoic silence. It is his environment, the circumstance of other people, that governs whether a man speaks and, to an even greater degree, what he says.