“I got it from Harry McElroy that he did. But then he didn’t act like it when he sent for me.”
“OK. How’s this for a scenario? Czernich ran to the Mayor with Lowenstein’s retirement memorandum. The Mayor hadn’t wanted to go that far with Chief Lowenstein. Christ, they’ve been friends for years. He didn’t want him to quit. So they struck a deal. Lowenstein would stay on the job if certain conditions were met. They apparently were. And since they almost certainly involve you and me, we’ll probably hear about them sometime next month.”
Weisbach considered what Wohl had said, then nodded his head, accepting the scenario.
“So what do I do this month? Peter, you can’t be happy with me—the Ethical Affairs Unit—being suddenly dumped on you.”
“I don’t have any problems with it,” Wohl said. “First of all, it, and/or you, haven’t been dumped on me. All I have to do is support you, and I have no problem with that. I think the EAU is a good idea, that you are just the guy to run it, and I think your work is already cut out for you.”
“You really think it’s a good idea?” Weisbach asked, surprised. Wohl nodded. “And what do you mean my work is already cut out for me?”
“The Widow Kellog showed up at Jason Washington’s apartment the night her husband was killed with the announcement that everybody in Five Squad in Narcotics—you know about Five Squad?”
“Not much. I’ve heard they’re very effective.” He chuckled, and added: “Sort of an unshaven Highway Patrol, in dirty clothes, beards, and T-shirts—concealing unauthorized weapons—reading ‘Legalize Marijuana,’ who cast fear into the drug culture by making middle-of-the-night raids.”
“Everybody in Five Squad, according to the Widow Kellog, is dirty, and she implied that they did her husband.”
“My God!”
“Washington believes her, at least about the whole Five Squad being dirty. Before all this crap happened, I was going to bring you in on it.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Practically speaking, our priorities are the Mayor’s priorities. I don’t think he wants to be surprised again by dirty Narcotics people the way he was with Cazerra and company. Internal Affairs dropped the ball on that one, and I don’t think we can give them the benefit of the doubt on this one. Yeah, it looks to me that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“What kind of help can I have?”
“Anything you want. Washington and Harris, after getting their hands dirty on the Cazerra job, would love to work on a nice clean Homicide, especially of a police officer. And if there is a tie to Narcotics…Jesus!”
“What?”
“I forgot about the Mayor ordering Payne into Homicide,” Wohl said. He reached for his telephone, pushed a button, and a moment later ordered, “Paul, would you get Chief Lowenstein for me, please?”
He put the telephone down.
“Drink your coffee, Mike,” he said. “The first thing you’re going to have to do is face the fact that your innocent, happy days as a staff inspector are over. You have just moved into the world of police politics, and you’re probably not going to like it at all.”
“That thought had already run through my mind,” Weisbach said. He picked up his mug and, shaking his head, put it to his mouth.
The telephone rang. Wohl picked it up.
“Good morning, Chief,” he said. “I wanted to check with you about sending Detective Payne to Homicide. Is that still on?”
He took the headset from his ear so that Weisbach could hear the Chief’s reply.
“Denny Coughlin just told me what happened to the Detweiler girl,” Lowenstein said. “I presume you’re giving Matt some time off?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, when he comes back, send him over whenever you can spare him. I’ve spoken to Captain Quaire. They’re waiting for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And please tell him I’m sorry about what happened. That’s really a goddamn shame.”
“I’ll tell him that, sir. Thank you.”
“Nice talking to you, Peter,” Chief Lowenstein said, and hung up.
“He didn’t sound like someone about to retire, did he?” Weisbach said.
“No, he didn’t.”
One of the telephones on Wohl’s desk rang.
“This is what happens when I forget to tell Paul to hold my calls,” he said as he reached for it. “Inspector Wohl.”
“Ah, Peter,” Weisbach overheard. “How is the Beau Brummell of Philadelphia law enforcement this morning?”
“Why is it, Armando, that whenever I hear your voice, I think of King Henry the Sixth?”
“Peter, you are, as you well know, quoting that infamous Shakespearean ‘kill all the lawyers’ line out of context.”
“Well, he had the right idea, anyhow. What can I do for you, Armando?”
“Actually, I was led to believe that Inspector Weisbach could be reached at your office.”
“I’d love to know who told you that,” Wohl said, and then handed the telephone to Weisbach. “Armando C. Giacomo, Esquire, for you, Inspector.”
Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, was one of the best criminal lawyers in Philadelphia.
Wohl got up from his desk and walked to his window and looked out. He could therefore hear only Weisbach’s side of the brief conversation.
“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” Weisbach concluded, and hung up.
Wohl walked back to his desk.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Giacomo has been asked to represent Mr. Paulo Cassandro.”
“I’ll bet that he has,” Weisbach said. “But he didn’t say so. What he said was that it would give him great pleasure if I would have lunch with him today at the Rittenhouse Club, during which he would like to discuss something which would be to our mutual benefit.”
“I’d go, if I were you,” Wohl said. “They set a very nice table at the Rittenhouse Club.”
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“I’m not in the mood for lunch, really, even at the Rittenhouse Club.”
“He’s looking for something, which means he’s desperate. I’d like to have you there.”
“Yeah,” Wohl said, thoughtfully. “If he’s looking for a deal, he would have gone to the District Attorney. It might be interesting.”
He pushed the button for Paul O’Mara.
“Paul, call Armando C. Giacomo. Tell him that Inspector Weisbach accepts his kind invitation to lunch at the Rittenhouse Club at one, and that he’s bringing me with him.”
THIRTEEN
Peter Wohl pushed open the heavy door of the Rittenhouse Club and motioned for Mike Weisbach to go in ahead of him. They climbed a wide, shallow flight of carpeted marble stairs to the lobby, where they were intercepted by the club porter, a dignified black man in his sixties.
“May I help you, gentlemen?”“Mr. Weisbach and myself as the guests of Mr. Giacomo,” Peter said.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Wohl,” the porter said, and glanced at what Peter thought of as the Who’s Here Board behind his polished mahogany stand. “I believe Mr. Giacomo is in the club. Would you please have a seat?”
He gestured toward a row of chairs against the wall, then walked into the club.
The Who’s Here Board behind the porter’s stand listed, alphabetically, the names of the three-hundred-odd members of the Rittenhouse Club. Beside each name was an inch-long piece of brass, which could be slid back and forth in a track. When the marker was next to the member’s name, this indicated he was on the premises; when away from it that he was not.
Peter saw Weisbach looking at the board with interest. The list of names represented the power structure, social and business, of Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s upper crust belonged to either the Rittenhouse Club or the Union League, or both.
Peter saw that Carlucci, J., an ex officio member, was not in the club. Giacomo,
A., was. So was Mawson, J., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, who competed with Giacomo, A., for being the best (which translated to mean most expensive) criminal lawyer in the city. Payne, B., Mawson, J.’s, law partner, was not.
And neither, Wohl noticed with interest, was Payne, M.
I didn’t know Matt was a member. That’s new.
Possibly, he thought, Detweiler, H., had suggested to Payne, B., that they have a word with the Membership Committee. Since their offspring were about to be married, it was time that Payne, M., should be put up for membership. Young Nesbitt, C. IV, had become a member shortly before his marriage to the daughter of Browne, S.
Wohl had heard that the Rittenhouse Club initiation fee was something like the old saw about how much a yacht cost: If you had to ask what it cost, you couldn’t afford it.
The porter returned.
“Mr. Giacomo is in the bar, Mr. Wohl. You know the way?”
“Yes, thank you,” Peter said, and led Weisbach into the club bar, a quiet, deeply carpeted, wood-paneled room, furnished with twenty or so small tables, at each of which were rather small leather-upholstered armchairs. The tables were spaced so that a soft conversation could not be heard at the tables adjacent to it.
Armando C. Giacomo rose, smiling, from one of the chairs when he saw Wohl and Weisbach, and waved them over.
Wohl thought Giacomo was an interesting man. His family had been in Philadelphia from the time of the Revolution. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the Yale School of Law. He had flown Corsairs as a Naval Aviator in the Korean War. He could have had a law practice much like Brewster Cortland Payne’s, with clientele drawn from banks and insurance companies and familial connections.
He had elected, instead, to become a criminal lawyer, and was known (somewhat unfairly, Wohl thought) as the Mob’s Lawyer, which suggested that he himself was involved in criminal activity. So far as Wohl knew, Giacomo’s personal ethics were impeccable. He represented those criminals who could afford his services when they were hauled before the bar of justice, and more often than not defended them successfully.
Wohl had come to believe that Giacomo held the mob in just about as much contempt as he did, and that he represented them both because they had the financial resources to pay him, and also because he really believed that an accused was entitled to good legal representation, not so much for himself personally, but as a reinforcement of the Constitution.
Giacomo was also held in high regard by most police officers, primarily because he represented, pro bono publico, police officers charged with police brutality and other infractions of the law. He would not, in other words, represent Captain Vito Cazerra, because Cazerra could not afford him. But he would represent an ordinary police officer charged with the use of excessive force or otherwise violating the civil rights of a citizen, and do so without charge.
“Peter,” Giacomo said. “I’m delighted that you could join us.”
“I didn’t want Mike to walk out of here barefoot, Armando, but thank you for your hospitality.”
“I only talk other people out of their shoes, Peter, not my friends.”
“And the check is in the mail, right?” Weisbach said, laughing as they shook hands.
A waiter appeared.
“I’m drinking a very nice California cabernet sauvignon,” Giacomo said. “But don’t let that influence you.”
“A little wine would be very nice,” Wohl said.
“Me, too, thank you,” Weisbach said.
“The word has reached these hallowed precincts of the tragic event in Chestnut Hill this morning,” Giacomo said. “What a pity.”
“Yes, it was,” Wohl agreed.
“If I don’t have the opportunity before you see him, Peter, would you extend my sympathies to young Payne?”
“Yes, of course.”
“He must be devastated.”
“He is,” Wohl said.
“And her mother and father…” Giacomo said, shaking his head sadly.
A waiter in a gray cotton jacket served the wine.
“I think we’ll need another bottle of that over lunch, please,” Giacomo said. He waited for the waiter to leave, and then said, “I hope you like that. What shall we drink to?”
Wohl shrugged.
“How about good friends?” Giacomo suggested.
“All right,” Peter said, raising his glass. “Good friends.”
“Better yet, Mike’s new job.”
“Better yet, Mike’s new job,” Wohl parroted. He sipped the wine. “Very nice.”
“I’d send you a case, if I didn’t know you would think I was trying to bribe you,” Giacomo said.
“All gifts between friends are not bribes,” Wohl said. “Send me a case, and I’ll give Mike half. You can’t bribe him, either.”
“I’ll send the both of you a case,” Giacomo said, and then added: “Would you prefer to hear what I’d like to say now, or over lunch?”
“Now, please, Armando,” Wohl said. “I would really hate to have my lunch in these hallowed precincts ruined.”
“I suspected you’d feel that way. They do a very nice mixed grill here, did you know that?”
“Yes, I do. And also a very nice rack of lamb.”
“I represent a gentleman named Paulo Cassandro.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Weisbach asked.
“Because you are both astute and perceptive, Michael. May I go on?”
“By all means.”
“Mr. Cassandro was arrested this morning. I have assured Mr. Cassandro that once I bring the circumstances surrounding his arrest…Constitutionally illegal wiretaps head a long list of irregularities…”
“Come on, Armando,” Weisbach said, laughing.
“…to the attention of the proper judicial authorities,” Giacomo went on, undaunted, “it is highly unlikely that he will ever be brought to trial. And I have further assured him that, in the highly unlikely event he is brought to trial, I have little doubt in my mind that no fair-minded jury would ever convict him.”
“He’s going away, Armando,” Wohl said. “You know that and I know that.”
“You tend to underestimate me, Peter. I don’t hold it against you; most people do.”
“I never underestimate you, Counselor. But that clanging noise you hear in the background is the sound of a jail door slamming,” Peter said. “The choir you hear is singing, ‘Bye, Bye, Paulo.’”
“If I may continue?”
“Certainly.”
“However, this unfortunate business, this travesty of justice, comes at a very awkward time for Mr. Cassandro. It will force him to devote a certain amount of time to it, time he feels he must devote to his business interests.”
“Freely translated, Peter,” Weisbach said, “what Armando is telling us is that Paulo doesn’t want to go to jail.”
“I wondered what he was trying to say,” Wohl said.
“What he wants to do is get this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible.”
“Tell him probably ten to fifteen years, depending on the judge. If he gets Hanging Harriet, probably fifteen to twenty,” Weisbach said.
The Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based on a civil service whose honesty was above question, was famous for her severe sentences.
“You’re not listening to me, Michael,” Giacomo said. “I am quite confident that, upon hearing how the police department has so outrageously violated the rights of Mr. Cassandro, Judge McCandless, or any other judge, will throw this case out of court.”
“God, you’re wonderful,” Peter said.
“As I was saying, with an eye to putting this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible, my client would be…”
“Armando,” Weisbach said, “even if I wanted to, we couldn’t deal on this. You want to deal, try the District Attorney. But I’ll bet you he’ll tell you Cassandro has nothing to deal with.
We have him cold and he’s going to jail.”
“I will, of course, discuss this matter with Mr. Callis. But frankly, it will be a good deal easier for me, when I do speak with him, if I could tell him that I had spoken to you and Peter, and that you share my belief that what I propose would serve the ends of justice.”
“Armando,” Wohl said, laughing, “not only do I like you, but you are about to not only send me a case of wine, but also buy me a very expensive lunch. What that entitles you to is this: If you will tell me what you want, and how Paulo Cassandro wishes to pay for it, I will give you my honest opinion of how hard Mr. Callis is going to laugh at you before he throws you out of his office.”
“Mr. Cassandro, as a public-spirited citizen, is willing to testify against Captain Cazerra, Lieutenant Meyer, and the two police officers. All he asks in exchange is immunity from prosecution.”
“Loudly,” Weisbach said. “Mr. Callis is going to laugh very loudly when you go to him with that.”
“He may even become hysterical,” Wohl said.
“And against the lady,” Giacomo went on. “The madam, what the hell is her name?”
I will be damned, Wohl thought. He’s flustered. Have we really gotten through to Armando C. Giacomo, shattered his famous rocklike confidence?
“Her name is Osadchy, Armando,” Wohl said. “If you have trouble remembering her last name, why don’t you associate it with Hanging Harriet? Same Christian name.”
“Very funny, Peter.”
“By now, Armando, with the egg they have on their face about Mrs. Osadchy,” Weisbach said, “I’ll bet Vice is paying her a lot of attention. They’ll find something, I’m sure, that they can take to the DA.”
“Let’s talk about that,” Giacomo said. “The egg on the face.”
“OK,” Peter said. “The egg on whose face?”
“The Police Department’s.”
“Because we had a couple of dirty cops? There might be some egg on our face because of that, but I think we wiped off most of it this morning,” Weisbach said.
“Not in a public relations sense, maybe. Let me put that another way. The egg you wiped off this morning is going to reappear when you try Captain Cazerra. The trial will last at least two weeks, and there will be a story in every newspaper in Philadelphia every day of the trial. People will forget that he was arrested by good cops; what they’ll remember is that the Department had a dirty captain. And when his trial is over, we will have the trial of Lieutenant Meyer.”
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