"I heard about it," he said, and then followed her pointing finger and went and picked up the Ledger.
She waited until he had read the newspaper story, and then asked, "Do they mean it?"
"Who the hell knows?" he said, and then had a thought. "Going over to see that kid was a good idea. I don't know if I knew or not, but I didn't make the connection. You do know who his father is?"
"Tell me."
"Brewster Cortland Payne, of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester."
"He's important in the party too, I suppose?"
"Helene, you're being a bitch, and I'm really not in the mood for it."
"Sorry."
"But to answer your question, yes. He is important in the party. And if this political thing doesn't work out, Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester is the sort of firm with which I would like to be associated."
"Then maybe we should have gotten him a box of candy or something."
He looked at her and took a moment to consider whether she was being sarcastic again.
"It's not too late, I suppose," Helene said.
He considered that a moment.
"I think that's a lost opportunity," he said.
Damn, it would have given me an excuse to go see him.
"Well, maybe we could have him for drinks or dinner or something," Helen said. "If it's important."
"We'll see," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "I'm going to get dressed."
He had just started up the stairs when the telephone rang. Helene answered it.
"Mr. Farnsworth Stillwell, please," a female voice said. "Mr. Armando Giacomo is calling."
"Just a moment, please," Helene said, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
"Are you home for a Mr. Giacomo?" she called.
"Armando Giacomo?" Stillwell asked, already coming back into the room.
She nodded. "His secretary, I think."
Stillwell took the phone from her.
"This is Farnsworth Stillwell," he said, and then, a moment later, "How are you, Armando? What can I do for you?"
The charm is on, Helene thought, Armando Whatsisname must be somebody else important in the party.
"Well, I must say I'm surprised," Stillwell said to the telephone. "If I may say so, Armando, hiring you is tantamount to saying 'I'm guilty as sin and need a genius to get me off.'"
There was a reply that Helene could not hear.
He's wearing one of his patently insincere smiles. Whatever this was about, he doesn't like it.
"Well, I'll see you there, then, Armando," Stillwell said. "I'm going to change my clothes and go over there. Helene and I are having dinner with Jack Thompson, and I have no idea how long the business at the Detention Center will take. I appreciate your courtesy in calling me."
He absentmindedly handed her the handset.
"What was that all about?" Helene asked.
"That was Armando C. Giacomo," he said.
"So the girl said. Who is Armando C. Giawhatever?"
A look of annoyance crossed his face, but he almost visibly made the decision to answer her.
"The top two criminal lawyers in Philadelphia, in my judg-ment, and practically everyone else's, are Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson of the aforementioned Mawson, Payne, Stockton, Mc-Adoo & Lester and Armando C. Giacomo. Giacomo tele-phoned to tell me he has been retained to represent the people the police arrested this morning."
"That's bad news, I gather."
"Frankly, I would rather face some public defender six months out of law school, or one of the less expensive mem-bers of the criminal bar," Stillwell said. "I don't want to walk out of the courtroom with egg all over my face. I'll have to give this development some thought."
He turned and left the room and went to their bedroom on the second floor.
Farnsworth Stillwell had several disturbing thoughts. Ar-mando C. Giacomo was very good, and consequently very expensive. Like Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, he had a well-earned reputation for defending, most often successfully and invariably with great skill, people charged with violation of the whole gamut of criminal offenses.
But, like Mawson, Giacomo seldom represented ordinary criminals, for, in Stillwell's mind, the very good reason that ordinary criminals seldom had any money. They both drew their clientele from the well heeled, excluding only members of the Mob.
If he was representing the Islamic Liberation Army, he certainly wasn't doing it pro bono publico; he was being paid, well paid. By whom? Certainly not by the accused themselves. If there was money around to hire Armando C. Giacomo, it challenged Matt Lowenstein's (and Peter Wohl's) theory that the Islamic Liberation Army was nothing more than a group of thugs with a bizarre imagination.
Farnsworth Stillwell had a good deal of respect for Armando C. Giacomo, not all of it based on his professional reputation. On a personal basis, he regarded Giacomo as a brother in the fraternity of naval aviators. They hadn't flown together- Giacomo had flown in the Korean War, Stillwell in Vietnam- but they shared the common experience of Pensacola training, landing high-performance aircraft on the decks of aircraft car-riers, flying in Harm's Way, and the proud self-assurance that comes with golden wings pinned to a blue Navy uniform.
Stillwell did not really understand why a man who had been a naval aviator would choose to become a criminal lawyer, except for the obvious reason that, at the upper echelons of the specialty, it paid very well indeed.
He was forced now to consider the unpleasant possibilities, starting with the least pleasant to consider, that Armando C. Giacomo was a better, more experienced lawyer than he was.
I will have absolutely no room for error in the courtroom.
Or, for that matter, in all the administrative garbage that has to be plowed through before we get into court.
Christ, why didn't I keep my mouth shut when Tony Callis brought this up ? When am I going to learn that whenever some-thing looks as if the gods are smiling on me, the exact opposite is true?
***
Farnsworth Stillwell had been told by Sergeant Jason Washing-ton that the lineups were going to start at the Detention Center at half past six.
Stillwell often joked that his only virtue was punctuality. The truth was that he believed punctuality to be not only good manners, but good business practice. He made a genuine effort to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. He expected reciprocity on the part of people with whom he was professionally associated, and demanded it from both his subordinates and those who ranked lower in the gov-ernment hierarchy than he did.
He had never been to the Detention Center before, so in order to be on time, he had taken the trouble to locate it pre-cisely on a map, and to leave his house in sufficient time to arrive on time.
When he pulled into one of the Official Visitor parking spots at the Detention Center, it was 6:28.
He entered the building, and went to the uniformed correc-tions officer sitting behind a plate-glass window.
"Assistant District Attorney Stillwell," he announced. "To meet Sergeant Washington."
"He's not here yet," the corrections officer, a small black woman, said. "You can take a seat and wait, if you like."
He smiled at her and said, "Thank you."
He sat down on a battered bench against the wall, more than a little annoyed.
He and Helene were due at Jack Thompson's at eight, and he intensively disliked the idea of arriving there late. He had told Helene that if he wasn't back, or hadn't called, by half past seven, she was to drive to the Thompson's.
He now regretted that decision. The way she was throwing the cognac down, the possibility existed that the headlines in tomorrow's Bulletin and Ledger and Daily News would not concern the ILA, but rather something they knew their readers would really like to read, "Assistant District Attorney Stillwell's Wife Charged in Drunken Driving Episode."
If the lineups were to begin at half past six, Stillwell fumed, obviously some preparatory steps had to be taken, and there-
fore Washington should have arrived, with the witness in tow, at whatever time before half past six was necessary in order for him to do what he had to do so that they could begin on schedule.
Stillwell was aware that one of his faults was a tendency to become angry over circumstances over which he had no con-trol. This seemed to be one of them. He told himself that Washington was not late on purpose, that things, for example delays in traffic because of the snow, sometimes happened.
Washington will be along any moment, with an explanation, and probably an apology, for being tardy, Stillwell thought, taking just a little satisfaction in knowing that he was being reasonable.
At quarter to seven, however, when Sergeant Washington had still not shown up, or even had the simple courtesy to send word that he would be delayed, Farnsworth Stillwell decided that he had been patient enough.
While he thought it was highly unlikely that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl would know where Sergeant Washington was and/or why he wasn't at the Detention Center when he was supposed to be, calling Wohl would at least serve to tell him (a) that his super detective was unreliable, time-wise, and (b) that Farns-worth Stillwell did not like to be kept waiting.
He asked the female corrections officer behind the plate-glass window if he could use the telephone.
"It's for official business only, sir."
Farnsworth Stillwell had a fresh, unpleasant thought. There was no one else here. Armando C. Giacomo was supposed to be here, and certainly there would be others besides Washing-ton and the witness.
Had the whole damned thing been called off for some rea-son, and he had not been told?
"Are you sure Sergeant Washington isn't here? Could he be here and you not be aware of it?"
"Everybody has to come past me," she said. "If he were here, I'd know it."
"May I have the telephone, please?"
"It's for official business only, like I told you before."
"I'm Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. This is official business."
She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him, but gave in.
"I'll have the operator get the number for you, sir."
"I don't know the number. I want to talk to Inspector Wohl of Special Operations."
The corrections officer obligingly searched for the number on her list of official telephones. It was not listed, and she so informed Farnsworth Stillwell.
"Check with information."
Information had the number.
"Special Operations, may I help you?"
"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. Inspector Wohl, please."
"I'm sorry, sir. Inspector Wohl has gone for the day."
"Do you have a number where he can be reached?" -
"Just one moment, sir."
"This is Lieutenant Kelsey. May I help you, sir?"
"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. It's important that I get in touch with Inspector Wohl."
"I'm sorry, the inspector's gone for the day. Is there some-thing I can do for you, Mr. Stillwell?"
"Do you have a number where he can be reached?"
"No, sir."
"You mean you have no idea where he is?"
"The inspector is on his way to Frankford Hospital, sir. But until he calls in, I won't have a number there for him."
"What about Sergeant Washington?"
"Are you referring to Detective Washington, sir?"
"I understood he was promoted."
"Well, what do you know? I hadn't heard that."
"Do you know where he is?"
"He's at the Detention Center, sir. I can give you that num-ber. "
"I'm at the Detention Center. He's not here. That's what I'm calling about."
"Hold one, sir," Lieutenant Kelsey said.
The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.
"They're at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now."
"Thank you."
"Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?"
"That won't be necessary, thank you very much," Farns-worth Stillwell said.
He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.
Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant's car. A second Highway Patrol RPC with two Highway cops fol-lowed him. The third car was Jason Washington's nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington's Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RPC.
The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington's car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington's car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the build-ing and held it open.
Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.
"Good evening, Mr. Stillwell," he said.
"You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It's now"-He checked his watch-"four past seven."
"We were delayed," Washington said.
"Were you, indeed?"
"We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Mr. Stillwell," Washington said, "this is Mr. Albert J. Monahan."
Stillwell smiled at Monahan and offered his hand.
"I'm Farnsworth Stillwell, Mr. Monahan. I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Can you believe that?" Monahan said. "A Molotov cock-tail? Right on South Street? What the hell is the world coming to?"
What is this man babbling about? A Molotov cocktail is what the Russians used against German tanks, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming wick.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Stillwell said.
"As we drove away from Goldblatt's," Washington ex-plained, "party or parties unknown threw a bottle filled with gasoline down-more than likely from the roof-onto a Highway car that was escorting us here."
"I will be damned!" Farnsworth Stillwell said.
My God, wait until the newspapers get hold of that!
"The bottle bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire," Washington went on.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"I understand a car parked on South Street caught fire," Washington said. "But no one was hurt. We went to the Roundhouse. I knew Central Detectives and the laboratory people would want a look at the Highway car."
"You could have called," Stillwell said, and immediately regretted it.
Washington looked at him coldly, but did not directly re-spond.
"I'm going to explain to Mr. Monahan how we run the lineup, lineups," Washington said. "And show him the layout. Perhaps you'd like to come along?"
"Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I'd appreciate that," Stillwell said. He smiled at Washington. Washington did not return it.
"The way this works, Mr. Monahan," he said, "is that the defense counsel will try to question your identification. One of the ways they'll try to do that is to attempt to prove that we rigged the lineup, set it up so that you would have an idea who we think the individual is. Lead you, so to speak. You follow me?"
"Yeah, sure."
"So we will lean over backward to make sure that the line-ups are absolutely fair."
"Where do you get the other people?" Monahan said, "the innocent ones?"
"They're all volunteers."
"Off the street? People in jail?"
"Neither. People being held here. This is the Detention Center. Nobody being held here has been found g
uilty of any-thing. They're awaiting trial. The other people in the lineup will be chosen from them, from those that have volunteered."
"Why do they volunteer?"
"Well, I suppose I could stick my tongue in my cheek and say they're all public spirited citizens, anxious to make whatever small contribution they can to the criminal justice system, but the truth is I don't know. If they had me in here for some-thing, I don't think I'd be running around looking for some way I could help, particularly if all I got out of it was an extra ice cream chit or movie pass. And, of course, most of the people being held here don't volunteer. As for the ones that do, I can only guess they do it because they're bored, or figure they can screw the system up."
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