Backward-Facing Man

by Don Silver

  A regular Lieutenant Columbo, Chuck thought. “This is a family business,” Chuck said. “You don’t apply. You don’t get elected. You wind up here when you’re the only member of the lucky sperm club who can think straight.” Chuck felt a tingle and then a wave of heat rise up the back of his neck. For a moment, his face regained its color. For the first time since the accident, he felt like his old self. He intended to find Artie and tell him that he’d better keep his mouth shut, that he was going to have to stand up to some pretty intense questioning.

  At Broad and Sansom, there is a magisterial stone building whose hallways are lined with bronze plaques and portraits of Philadelphians who fought in the Civil War. The Union League is a meeting and dining club—oddly anachronistic, with a barber in the men’s room and austere bedrooms upstairs for guests and inebriated members—a home away from home for the stiff and corpulent, the haves and the enfranchised, the status seekers and the protectors of the status quo. There are a few blacks and women and a mix of upwardly mobile Asians, Italians, and Jews, but overall, it is not a place people go to admit their mistakes.

  Just before five o’clock Tuesday night, Chuck Puckman appeared at the front desk in his soiled trench coat, sneakers, and four-day-old beard, identifying himself as a guest of Edward Palmieri. In the locker room, he wet and combed his hair, shaved, and then spent a few minutes with the Wall Street Journal before going up to the bar, where an attendant lent him a black suit jacket and a red tie with little roosters on it. He ordered a scotch and soda, which he drank quickly. At a quarter to six, Fat Eddie put his hand on Chuck’s shoulder. Eddie looked shorter and rounder than Chuck remembered. They took a small table off to one side. “It was empty, Eddie,” Chuck said, as soon as the maître d’ disappeared.

  “What?”

  “The safe. There was nothing in it but some old envelopes.” Chuck put his napkin up to his face. He watched his father’s friend closely. “No money. No nothing.”

  “Impossible. Your father had his stock certificates in there, all his cash, some gold coins.”

  “You sure he didn’t give it to somebody for safekeeping?” Chuck said, narrowing his gaze.

  “Jesus Christ, Chuckie, you can put that out of your head right now, all right?” Eddie took a big gulp of his drink and wiped his brow. “I talked to him before his stroke. There’s no way he would have taken anything out.” They were quiet for a moment. “Where’s your brother, anyway?”

  “Missing,” Chuck said flatly.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie said nervously. Around them, glasses clinked and people’s mouths moved. A buzzing sound started up in Chuck’s head. The rooster tie was tight around his neck. Chuck’s eyes focused on Eddie’s bouncing eyebrows. Entertaining the possibility that Artie had access to Charlie’s fortune, Chuck retreated into himself, sinking lower and lower until that very thing began to make sense. Chuck touched his forehead. He was nauseous and hungry at the same time.

  Fat Eddie balled up his napkin and laid it on the table. “You all right?” he said.

  Chuck nodded. The more he thought about it, the worse things looked. The business was finished, which meant the work Chuck had done his entire adult life—all the clunky knowledge he’d accumulated, all the time he’d spent and the random ass-kissing he’d done—was useless. He had no way to support himself, finish paying off Eileen, or keep his father at Elysian Fields. On top of this, it looked as if he was going to have to fund his own defense against government bureaucrats like Keaton and Cyril Deacon.

  Under the table, Chuck spilled another Valium into his palm and knocked it back with his scotch. “I’m sure we’ll hear from him,” Fat Eddie was saying. “Artie never makes it on his own for long.”

  “I gotta go,” Chuck said, stumbling past tables full of boisterous businessmen onto Broad Street.

  Back home, unable to sleep, Chuck paced the living room, swigging vodka and popping lorazapam and Valium. At one point, he got the idea to call Eileen and explain his predicament, but he couldn’t find the phone. Later, he decided to confront his father about the safe, but he couldn’t find the keys to his Suburban. As the white vans arrived for the third morning in a row, Chuck poured himself another drink, falling into a deep sleep, the first since Gutierrez went down almost four days ago.

  When he woke, it was late afternoon. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofin and stood in the shower until the water turned cold. He called the hospital to check on Gutierrez, who was still in intensive care. Then he listened to his messages—the electric company, a credit card company, and Rahim, who said that a couple of Puckman employees had been offered immunity if they talked to the EPA. The last call was from Fat Eddie, who read off the name and number of another lawyer. Chuck toweled himself off and put on a sweatsuit. He poured himself a glass of water, unlocked the red door, and peered through the opening in the bricks. Keaton’s white Ford was gone, and there was no sign of the night guard. To be safe, Chuck took the inside elevator downstairs.

  A lot had changed since yesterday. For one thing, the factory was a lot neater. The sub-assemblies and wooden crates that had lined the entrance before had either been removed or piled off to one side so that a trench could be cut near the dip tanks. Tank four was turned on its side like a beached whale, revealing a patchwork of repairs. Chuck stared at the bottom. It appeared that years ago, the drain plug had been removed and replaced with a pipe that disappeared into a trench that extended to the back of the shop. There was a white stain along the trench into the yard, which is where whatever was in tank four disappeared into the ground.

  Considering the implications of dumping chemicals nasty enough to almost kill a man into the public water supply, Chuck bent down and let his head drop. His torso felt like a metal shell with corrugated walls that flexed and shook each time he inhaled. All the years he’d buried his disdain for his family’s business but didn’t stand up and resist no longer mattered. Chuck was the last guy standing and, as such, was going to have to answer for all their actions. For thirty years, he’d wished for the demise of this wretched business. He was getting his wish.

  On Thursday, a team of geologists gathered in the parking lot and circled the factory, while another van full of white-jacketed EPA men wearing rubber gloves moved through the plant with little beakers. On Friday, a letter was hand-delivered to each domicile in a four-block radius. “The EPA is investigating reports that trace elements of metals and unsafe amounts of certain chemicals have been released into the water supply. It is recommended that residents evacuate until further notice. Those who choose to stay should use only bottled water rather than drink what remains in the pipes.” Over the next two weeks, Chuck walked around the property in a daze, usually fucked-up on booze or pills, watching the Geoprobe, a bony-looking pneumatic drill mounted on the back of a conversion van, boring a series of one-inch-diameter holes thirty feet into the earth.

  He drew down his remaining cash slowly, paying the utility bills to keep the building open. He bought snacks, coffee, and booze to stoke his metabolism and to keep himself from spinning completely out of control. He slept fitfully and awoke in a panic. He lost weight and developed a hacking cough from smoking too much. Poor now, and facing the wrath of the law, even days he began clear and determined ended with him in a losing battle with medication. It was pharmaceuticals—Xanax, Klonopin, Ativan, Valium, and booze—that kept him going.

  Over the next weekend, Fat Eddie called, his voice pinched. “The U.S. attorney convened a grand jury to decide whether to charge you with violating the Clean Water Act, and OSHA’s investigating you for workplace safety violations.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It isn’t good.”

  “Worst case?”

  “Bad.”

  Chuck was pacing, “What do you mean bad?” His voice got higher in pitch. He became frantic. “We were loose with some regulations, Eddie! It was a paperwork thing. A mistake.”

  Eddie paused. “There’s mo
re.”

  “What?”

  “It seems that before he disappeared,” Fat Eddie said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “Artie wiped his boot heels on your doorstep.”

  Silence.

  “The prosecutor says Artie talked to the police. He pretty much said it was all your fault….”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. As long as he’s missing, Artie’s statement can’t be admitted in court…and if they find him, he’ll be easy to discredit. Nobody’s going to believe your brother on the stand—”

  “Listen to me, Eddie. You gotta help me make this thing go away. I can’t deal with this!”

  “You listen to me, Chuckie. You got yourself in a real mess, ya hear? You need another kind of guy. You gotta call that lawyer, Harry Hammond. From what I hear, he’s got pull. What you need now is a heavy hitter.”

  Chuck hung up the phone and collapsed on the couch. For a long time, he held his breath, waiting…waiting…for what, he didn’t know.

  The reception area was huge but empty, except for several small Art Deco chairs arranged along the perimeter and a kidney-shaped coffee table. When Chuck arrived, in the middle of the afternoon, there were no employees visible and no sounds, save the switchboard trill that preceded a little greeting uttered by a tiny gray-haired woman wearing a headset, each time with exactly the same inflection. “Thank you for calling Spitz, Crandall, Wilson, Haroldson, and Hammond, this is Jean speaking, how may I direct your call?” Chuck picked up the only piece of reading material in the room, a stiff-stocked, glossy, four-color brochure that extolled the virtues of the law firm.

  Based on the photographs, Spitz Crandall could easily have been a talent or modeling agency. Chuck thumbed to the section on “Partner Profiles” and looked up C. Harris Hammond. He found a youthful-looking frat boy with bushy eyebrows, pudgy cheeks, and a full head of brown hair. Mr. Hammond, it said in a hard-edged font, had graduated from Princeton and Case Western Universities with honors, made law review, and was leading the firm’s growing practice in “the vigorous defense of the expression of corporate environmental rights.”

  Twenty minutes later, a man in a herringbone suit appeared from behind a partition, his right arm outstretched. “Charles Puckman?” There was a clipped quality to his voice, a certainty or determination not to waste time that both reassured and intimidated Chuck. He selected one of four halls that emanated from reception and started walking. “I spoke to Mr. Palmieri yesterday, m’k, and I had an associate do a little research. I’m already more than a little familiar with your case.”

  Mr. Hammond’s office was at the very end of a wide, well-lit corridor that also was devoid of people, desks, or office sounds. The lawyer took off his jacket and directed Chuck to a low, plush chair. On each of the four walls were very large framed degrees, each one inscribed in Latin, gilded, and pressed smartly under glass. Off to one side was a long table with stacks of papers, easily a foot high. Out the window, Chuck could see a section of City Hall surrounded by scaffolding. Harry Hammond stood with his backside against his desk and his hands folded over his crotch. “Can I get you something to drink?” Chuck noticed his monogrammed shirtsleeves and the gold chain that dangled from his vest pocket.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, then, let’s get down to business. I spoke with Mike Merrill, the assistant U.S. prosecutor, who’s a good friend of mine, m’k.” He held up a manicured finger. “Not to worry, I spoke in strictly hypothetical terms, as I haven’t yet been retained by you. Anyhow, based on his reaction and what one of our environmental specialists confirmed, the essence of what I believe the charges will be, and I tell you this in confidence…” Hammond spoke as though he believed that most people understood only a small percentage of what he said, and therefore tried to put as much out there as possible. The only indication that he was the slightest bit self-conscious of his dominating conversational style was his verbal tic, m’k, which seemed to be a variation of the expression okay. “If he hasn’t already, which I would be surprised to hear, I believe Mr. Merrill intends to convene a grand jury.” Hammond paused to catch his breath. “He has to,” he said, and then waited for Chuck to ask why. “You’ve got a life-threatening injury, coma, perhaps death; you’ve got the media and, hence, voter awareness. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we heard from all the workers’ rights people and the environmentalists.” Hammond clicked his pen in time with the points he was trying to emphasize. “Right or wrong,” he continued, “publicity drives these environmental cases, Charles, that’s a fact, m’k? And this one here,” he said, driving his finger in a yellow legal pad, “this one’s a doozy. We were talking about it this morning—my associates and I. First, you’ve got the class tension, m’k—a wealthy business owner against a poor blue-collar worker. Then you’ve got racial and ethnic overtones. Plus, you’ve got the brother-against-brother thing going—something I know a little bit about from personal experience,” he said, winking. Outside, it had begun to rain and the little droplets beaded up on the window, catching streetlights that were starting to come on. “I don’t know what Merrill will do if the grand jury decides to indict, but I have some ideas, which is, after all, why you pay me the big money.” He smiled broadly.

  “Let me try to paint a picture for you here, Charles.” Chuck sank down in his upholstered chair. “If I was Merrill, I’d be looking for someone besides your brother who was willing to talk. It could be anybody—a current or former employee, a supplier, you tell me, Charles—who’s got something on you to trade to the government?” Chuck looked up at the ceiling. Was this rhetorical? Did the lawyer expect him to answer? “Look it, Charles,” Harry Hammond said, putting his hands in front of him. “Your business is shut down. Your records, seized. Your shop has been videotaped and sampled, the computers confiscated, the chemicals taken for testing. They’re going to find violations. How could they not, m’k?” Chuck was slumped in his seat, huge circles of sweat forming under his trench coat. The lawyer with the pink face and the helmet hairdo droned on while Chuck tried to fathom the depth of his dilemma. “The way I see it,” Hammond said, leaning back, “we have three battles to win, m’k? First, the Feds are going to try to nail you under the Clean Water Act. Second, the attorney general has asked a grand jury to determine if you’re responsible for creating a situation that led to a man being seriously injured….”

  “What do I do?” Chuck croaked.

  Hammond lifted a bottle of spring water to his lips. “Excuse me?” he said, as if surprised there was someone else in the room.

  “What…do…I…do?” Chuck said, much louder than he’d intended.

  “You guys all want to know the same thing,” Hammond said tersely. “Am I going to jail and, if so, for how long?”

  “I didn’t ask that,” Chuck said. “I want to know what you would do if I hired you.”

  “Believe me, Charles, I understand. You’re concerned about your family; you’re wondering how much this is going to involve them; you want to know when you can have your business back.” Harry Hammond grinned, opening and closing his hands. “The first thing I do, m’k, is meet with your employees. I tell them that I represent the company—not them, not the government”—he looked at his papers again—“Puckman Security. I tell them to go home, watch some television, play with their kids, run some errands. There isn’t going to be any work today, probably not tomorrow, maybe not all week. You probably don’t want them quitting, but your legal team doesn’t want them hanging around. Then I explain—”

  “This happened three weeks ago,” Chuck said. “My guys have already been contacted. I’ve already been questioned by the EPA and OSHA….”

  “That’s not good,” Hammond said, pacing. “I’m surprised Palmieri would let that happen….” The lawyer paused and put his wrist under his chin. He wore a large gold ring with a ruby on it, indicating he’d once been associated with a fraternity or a football squad.

  “Ho
w much?” Chuck asked. “How much would you charge? I have limited funds right now….”

  “Sometimes you fight, and sometimes you cooperate, you know, cut your losses.”

  “How much?”

  “You want an expert to advise when to come out shooting,” he said, making his hands into pistols and dipping his shoulder, “and when to hunker down.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  “It depends on the case,” he said finally. “You’ve got investigations, interviews, company records to examine, other cases to study, and, of course, negotiations with the prosecutor. If it goes to indictment, there’ll be motions and then trial prep, which means experts, investigators, and that’s before you even try it.”

  Chuck focused on the rain, which was coming down in sheets.

  “For example, if we go to trial, m’k, we’ve got prep, two lawyers in court every day with a few in the office doing research and writing memos as issues arise. That’s five people working twelve, fifteen, sixteen hours a day for six, maybe eight weeks.” He scribbled something on a yellow pad beside him. “I can get a team of junior lawyers for one seventy-five an hour each.” There was another long silence. He looked up and blinked. “Something like this could cost as much as two hundred fifty, maybe three hundred grand.” Chuck tried to stand, but he felt wobbly. “I’ll need a retainer, of course,” Hammond said, craning his neck. “Say, fifty thousand, which you could work down…”

  The lawyer didn’t finish his sentence. His prospective client stumbled through the doorway and dry-heaved in front of a watercooler across the hall. Other than Hammond, who stood watching with disgust from his doorway, there was not a soul around to help Chuck Puckman stand up, brush himself off, or find the elevators.

  Spring 1999

  In early spring, when the EPA finally announced that the plume of trichloroethylene around Puckman Security extended no farther than the property lines, and the yellow police tape came down, Chuck’s neighbors, who were encouraged to return to their homes, were jubilant. The U.S. prosecutor told the media that while the Puckmans might still be cited for violations of the federal Clean Water Act, their manufacturing operations appeared not to have introduced any more toxins into the groundwater than what was already there. It was the first piece of good news in over a month, and it caught Chuck off guard.