“Illegal possession of firearms by a felon.”
“We just answered a charge here on the alleged possession of those pistols,” said Marc.
“I know, Counselor, but we have a warrant. We have to execute it.”
“I’ll execute you, you motherless bastard,” shouted The Crusher.
“Hold it, Patsy,” cautioned Marc. “May I talk to my client a moment?” he said to the Marshal.
“Sure, Counselor, just stay right here, though,” said the second Marshal. They stepped back, leaving Marc and The Crusher alone.
“These lousy son of a bitches,” railed The Crusher.
“Patsy, they have a warrant. There’s no sense arguing with them. Let’s argue with the Magistrate.”
“But I just got bailed out on a gun charge. That bastard, Malone, is trying to railroad me. It’s double jeopardy. It’s a frame. It’s got to be something. Do something.”
“I can’t do anything here in the corridor. Let’s take that argument to the federal Magistrate.”
“You want me to go with them?” asked The Crusher.
“I don’t think we have much choice,” said Marc. “I’ll go right over to court and talk to Malone. At least there won’t be a wait. He knows all about you.”
“Puttana,” cursed The Crusher. “Come on, come on, do your dirty work, you bastards,” he said to the Marshal.
“What kind of bail are you going to ask for?” Marc asked Mike Malone as they stood to the side of the Magistrate’s courtroom in the Eastern District Federal Courthouse.
“A hundred and fifty thousand,” said Malone with silent relish.
“Come on, Mike. He just had trouble enough posting twenty-five thousand over in the state court on the same weapons charge.”
“I tell you frankly, Marc, I’d prefer he didn’t post it at all. That’s why I’m asking such high bail.”
“How come?” asked Marc. “Despite your personal feelings about him, you don’t really think he’d skip out, do you?”
“No, actually I don’t,” replied Malone. “But I don’t want a war on my hands over the Compagna killing either. And the best way to cut that possibility, is to get all the gunmen off the street.”
“You mean, all this is because of that theory about Compagna being killed by people associated with Johnny Botz Santora?” asked Marc.
Malone nodded.
“If there was going to be a war, there would have been one already, wouldn’t there? It’s already a week since the shooting and nothing’s happened.”
“I know,” said Malone. “But Compagna’s only dead a couple of days.”
“Mike, do you really believe that Johnny Botz engineered getting that Black guy to shoot Compagna?”
“Frankly, I don’t, Marc. But Johnny Botz won’t admit it. He figures, I guess, if everybody thinks he did it, he might as well get as much mileage out of it among the boys as he can. Meanwhile, somebody’s liable to believe he really did and start getting gun happy.”
“How about a hearing on this gun charge? I don’t think it’ll stand up. To be a federal crime, the pistols would have to be used in interstate commerce. You have anything on interstate commerce that makes this case different from the one already pending in the state court?”
“We’ll have to see about that,” said Malone. “For the time being he’s here and I’m going to keep him here if I can.”
“He’s entitled to reasonable bail.”
“Under the circumstances, a hundred fifty … all right, a hundred thousand is reasonable,” replied Malone.
“And you people complain about the Supreme Court decisions being too lenient on defendants,” Marc scoffed. “Despite them, you still seem to be doing exactly as you please.”
“The decisions just need the proper interpretation.” Malone smiled.
“And by the time I get out a writ of habeas corpus and appeal this unreasonable bail, you’ll have accomplished what you want,” said Marc.
“Something like that,” Malone replied. “Look, Marc, today is Thursday. I’ll consent to a bail reduction on, say, Monday. We just want to keep things cool for a little while. How’s Monday?”
“Today is better than Monday,” said Marc.
“I understand. Listen, let me give you a little clue about this client of yours. His troubles are just beginning. I just advise you in advance.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No. I can’t.”
The Magistrate entered the courtroom and sat behind his bench. He nodded to Malone to begin. The Magistrate was bald, with glasses.
“If Your Honor please,” said Malone. “You have a fact sheet before you on this defendant. I can just say that he’s a man with an extensive criminal background, he’s a convicted felon, and he’s been found in flagrant violation of law, possessing two pistols in his car. I’m going to ask that a hundred thousand dollars bail be set.”
The Magistrate nodded to Marc. “Mister Conte. Let me suggest this in advance. I’ve already read the papers and it’s apparent that the United States Attorney’s application is based on solid ground. Go ahead, but let’s not take too long. It’s hot. See if you can turn that air conditioner up higher,” he said to an attendant seated to the side of the bench.
“Are you saying that no matter what argument I use, you’ll deny the bail application?” asked Marc.
“Certainly not. My mind is never made up in advance. But let’s move along with it, shall we?”
“Your Honor,” Marc began, “the United States Attorney is merely reciting words, giving lip service, as it were, to the language of the Supreme Court cases concerning bail applications. But I’m sure that there are absolutely no facts, nothing that actually indicates to the Government that Mister Pellegrino will in fact not appear on the return date for a hearing. I suggest that the United States Attorney’s request is so unconscionable as to deny this defendant bail, reasonable or otherwise.”
“I think you’re wrong, Counselor,” said the Magistrate. “I know what the bleeding hearts say. But I think that the purpose of bail is also to keep people off the street who deserve to be off the street.”
“Your Honor, the United States Supreme Court, most respectfully, universally disagreed with your stated position,” said Marc. “They indicate reasonable bail under all the circumstances should be set in all cases.”
“If I’m wrong, you have your right to appeal,” the Magistrate continued. “Meanwhile, the bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars.” The Magistrate supped his fingers into his collar and twisted his neck with heat annoyance. “It sure is hot in here.”
“It sure is,” Pellegrino said aloud, his face etched with anger. “Who can make a hundred thousand, Your Honor? I just made twenty-five in the state court.”
“May I have a moment, Your Honor?” asked Marc. He turned toward Pellegrino.
“Certainly,” the Magistrate said, taking, out a handkerchief and wiping his brow. “Is that air conditioner all the way up,” he asked the attendant.
“Patsy, do you want me to represent you or do you want to do it yourself?” Marc whispered to Pellegrino.
“Come on, Counselor, don’t get angry,” said The Crusher. “I just get pissed off, with a prick like that on the bench. He don’t even want to listen. Even if he’s wrong, he tells you nice, right to your face, fuck you, and if you don’t like it, up your ass. All in legal language, and everybody stands here and says, thank you.”
Marc turned back to the Magistrate. “Your Honor, I’d like to set the bail review and perhaps the hearing at the same time. Can we set it down for the coming Tuesday?”
“Whenever you wish, Counselor. Tuesday, that’s the twenty-second of August. Very well. August twenty-second.”
The Marshal came up beside Pellegrino to lead him to the detention facilities.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Pellegrino, putting his right hand over his genitalia and saluting the Magistrate.
“What is that?” boomed the Magi
strate. “What do you think you’re doing? Did you see that, Mister Malone?” he asked angrily.
“See what? I was looking at my notes, Your Honor,” replied Malone, looking around.
“What’s the matter, Your Honor?” asked Pellegrino.
“You animal,” said the Judge.
“Because I’m itchy, Judge. I was just a little, pardon the expression, itchy, and scratched.”
“The twenty-second,” the Magistrate thundered.
15
Thursday, August 17, 5:35 P.M.
Franco parked the car on Sixty-sixth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. From there, he and Marc walked toward Fifth Avenue and Toni Wainwright’s apartment.
“Today is cooler and still it’s sweltering,” said Marc. “Especially when you get out of an air-conditioned car.”
“Yeah,” agreed Franco. “Poor Crusher, he’s got to spend the night in the can. It must be really hot there. What a rotten deal.”
“We’ll make another bail application Tuesday,” said Marc. “I’m sure we can do a little better for him then. You know, it’s a real bitch, having to go along with the prosecutor’s whims, because he’s got the Judge’s ear.” He was silent again as they continued to walk. “What time is it now?”
“About five-thirty, five-forty,” replied Franco.
“When I called this afternoon to tell Mrs. Wainwright we were in court, she said to come over at six. I guess it’s all right if we’re a little early.”
“Rich girls look any different with their hair in curlers than poor girls?” asked Franco.
“How is it you get to meet the women in every case?” Marc asked lightly.
“I guess you bring me along because you want to make a good impression on them,” Franco replied. “Kind of a mature impression. Besides, you want me to get facts so the Mrs. and me can develop one of our super-duper theories.”
Both men laughed as they entered the lobby of the Wainwright apartment building. The doorman, in gray uniform and white winged collar, smiled and inquired who they wished to visit.
“Mrs. Wainwright,” replied Marc.
“Very good, sir. Just a moment,” said the doorman. He walked to a phone at the side of the lobby and picked up the receiver. “Who’s calling, sir?”
“Mister Conte and Mister Poveromo,” replied Marc
The doorman spoke into the phone.
“Don’t kid me about your theories,” Marc joked. “You just want to get a good look at Toni Wainwright.”
“That too.” Franco smiled. “Why should you have all the good times without me?”
“You may go up, sir,” said the doorman. “Eighteenth floor.”
“Thank you.”
A maid showed Marc and Franco into Toni Wainwright’s living room. It was very large, and white, decorated in modern straight lines of glass and chrome, with white geometric furniture. On the walls were many modern, non-objective paintings lit by small gallery spotlights hung from the ceiling. On the floor near a full grand piano was a life-size modern sculpture of a nude, seated man. A glass-topped cocktail table stretched in front of the entire length of the couch; lamps hung from the ceiling on either side.
The maid opened a double door in the wall, revealing the small, mirrored cocktail bar.
“Mrs. Wainwright will be with you shortly,” said the maid as she left the room. “She said to make yourselves a drink.”
Franco made a vodka and tonic for Marc and one for himself. He sat on a side chair, as Marc studied one of the paintings on the wall, twisting his head from the vertical to the horizontal. The painting was a mass of lines and color, seemingly without rhyme or purpose.
“This is like living in a museum,” said Franco. “You figure these pictures were expensive?”
“I’m sure they were. Very,” replied Marc.
“It’s bad enough they don’t make any sense, but if they cost a bundle too, it’s even worse.”
Twenty minutes later the two of them were still waiting for Mrs. Wainwright to appear. Franco fixed another drink for himself. Marc’s was still almost full. Finally, they heard footsteps.
“I’m very rushed. I’m sorry,” said Toni Wainwright breathlessly, sweeping into the room. Her face was heavily made up, almost as if she were wearing a mask. She wore a silk dressing gown, belted at the waist. It was long and green, embroidered with little gold figures. She wore nothing underneath, which was obvious from the view of her décolletage. “The hairdresser just finished me, and I still have to get dressed. Can we make this brief? I’m going, to the Children’s Relief Gala tonight. I bought a table and now I’m going to be late for my own guests.” She sat on the couch.
The way she spoke, Marc knew she had had a couple of drinks while she was being prepared by the hairdresser.
“I guess we can make it brief,” said Marc. “I wanted to talk about the case. Especially about the actual scene when your husband was shot.”
“I’m really not going to have much time to talk,” she said brusquely. Now she crossed her legs and the green gown opened over her bare legs to mid-thigh. She put a cigarette in her mouth, looking at Franco somewhat impatiently.
“I’ll get it,” said Marc, taking a lighter from the glass table.
“Thank you. Your friend seems too involved with my gin to light a lady’s cigarette,” she said.
“It’s vodka.”
Mrs. Wainwright looked ceilingward with impatient disdain.
Franco studied her, his jaw muscles starting to tighten. He glanced over at Marc. Their eyes met, and Marc shook his head.
“I’m really sorry for the hurry,” said Mrs. Wainwright “I forgot all about this benefit tonight. Old George Shaw is my escort.” She shrugged, almost to herself. “George is a pain in the ass. But he does have fifty million dollars and is so very social. Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know that,” she said, aware of Marc and Franco again. She puffed on her cigarette. “Can you fix me a drink?” she said over her shoulder toward Franco.
Franco, his pique still aroused from her last remark, did not move.
“Sure,” said Marc. “What would you like?” He nodded to Franco, winking to ease him up.
“A very dry martini. Do you always speak for your friend?” Toni Wainwright asked caustically.
“Sometimes.” Marc smiled patiently. “Since you’re in a hurry, let me ask you some quick questions.”
“I really can’t tell you anything more than I already have. I told you everything. Am I going to get that drink?”
“I’m making it.”
“Oh dear, I think your friend doesn’t like me,” she said, turning to Marc, a coy smile on her face.
“About Mister Wainwright,” Marc pressed.
“I was asleep, or drunk, or both. I don’t know anything about it. Thank you, dear boy.” She smiled, leaning forward purposely as she took the drink from Franco. Her décolletage opened fuller as she did, as she knew it would. “All I can tell you is that Bob was a shit and spoiled my dinner party that night.”
“When you say Bob, you mean Mister Wainwright, your husband?” asked Marc.
“What other shit are we talking about, dear boy,” she replied. “What time is it? Tell me what time it is,” she said to Marc.
“Six twenty-five.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she brought her drink down hard on the glass table. “I have to get going. I’m sorry, I can’t talk any more. You’ll have to call another time. Do call another time,” she repeated to Marc. “When just we two can have dinner or something.”
“All right, if you have to run,” said Marc. “Just let me ask you a couple of things quickly.”
“Come inside with me then,” she said, starting toward the door.
“No, I’d like to get the questioning over, and then you can get your dressing done by yourself,” he replied firmly now. He had had enough of her cuteness.
“Afraid of a little girl like me?” she asked.
“Hardly,” said Marc blankly. “Where did you get the
pistol? You said you have a license for it. How long had you had it?”
“Not afraid of me, hanh,” she said, looking at him saucily from the side of her eye.
“Mrs. Wainwright, let’s be serious. Where did you get the pistol, and how long had you had it?” Marc repeated.
“Zack Lord gave it to me. We went out to Colorado. We both have some cattle holdings in Colorado, you know, for tax deductions and all that?”
“Is that where you got the pistol?”
“Yes. Zack bought them, and had them shipped to a dealer here in New York,” she replied.
“Them?” Franco interjected from his chair to the side.
“Did he buy more than one pistol?” Marc picked up.
“There were two,” she replied. “Zack bought one for himself and gave one to me for a present.”
“Were they both the same?” Marc probed further.
“Exactly the same. Twenty-five automatic calibers, or something like that. They were made of solid silver, with scroll work and pearl handles. Now can I go? I have to pee.”
Franco stared at her.
“When did he buy the pistols?” Marc asked, ignoring her indelicacy.
“About six months ago,” she answered. “Look, I really have to get going. I don’t have any more time for this.”
“Mrs. Wainwright,” Marc said impatiently now. “If you don’t co-operate, you won’t have time for anything else. You’ll be behind bars for twenty-five years, and they’ll be running benefits for you.”
She stared at Marc, then nodded slightly. “Go ahead, what else?”
“You say you had the pistol about six months?” Marc repeated.
“That’s about how long Zack and I have been seeing each other. Oh, I knew him longer than that, of course. Saw each other for drinks occasionally. But Bob and I separated, say, about eight months ago. And Zack and I began to see each other more openly about six months ago.”
“And that’s when you went to Colorado?” asked Marc.
“Shortly after we began seeing each other regularly, we went out to Colorado, to a cattle ranch, for a weekend in the big country, you know. And Zack bought the pistols then.”
“Where is Zack tonight?” asked Marc. “Is he going to this benefit?”
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