“Or got in because the door was left open,” Maria suggested.
“Right. Still Wainwright’d be called an intruder according to the law. It wasn’t his apartment. Toni Wainwright could kill him and not be guilty of murder. And she wouldn’t know she didn’t really kill him, she was so drunk. She’d be acquitted, inherit the estate, and save Lord’s empire by not dumping the stock.”
“That sounds fine,” said Franco; “But what if he wasn’t there?”
“No difference,” said Marc. “If your theory holds water about his having a key and all the ways he could get into the apartment without anyone seeing him, then he could have heard the tape in his office, gone to Toni’s apartment, let himself in, waited for Wainwright, and everything else would be the same.”
“I guess that’s possible,” agreed Franco.
“The only difference then would be that he’d have to get from his apartment to the Wainwright apartment before the husband,” Maria suggested tentatively.
“It only takes five minutes for him to get to her apartment,” said Franco. “There’s no problem there. What now?”
“When Toni Wainwright gets back into town, I think I ought to ask her a few questions,” said Marc.
“Where is she?” asked Franco.
“Just out to East Hampton for the weekend. Marguarite put in a call to her for me today, and the servants told her,” Marc explained, seeing Maria watching him carefully. “When she gets back the beginning of next week I think it’d be a good idea to talk to her again.”
“Not without me, it won’t,” said Maria.
32
Monday, September 18, 1:30 P.M.
The detective at the front door of City Hall nodded to Marc as he entered and walked across the marble rotunda toward George Tishler’s office. Two more detectives stood at the railing and gate across an interior corridor.
“George Tishler,” Marc said to one of the detectives who stopped him.
“He’s okay,” said the other detective, recognizing Marc. “Go ahead in.” He pressed a button which released the locked gate.
Marc walked through a doorway on the right, past several secretaries, to Tishler’s cubicle, which was still awash in papers, folders, reports, graphs, and books. George, in his shirt sleeves, was seated at his desk, talking on the phone. He saw Marc, smiled, and waved him in.
Marc cleared the morning papers and Tishler’s jacket from a chair at the side of the desk and sat.
“All right, then, Sam,” George was saying, “see if you have an eighty-five-hundred-dollar line in your department meanwhile.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and looked at Marc, smiling again. “I’ll be right with you, buddy. How the hell are you?”
“Good, good,” Marc smiled.
George removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “No, she’s now on a sixty-five-hundred-dollar line with Marine and Aviation. I want to get her an eighty-five-hundred-dollar line somewhere, anywhere, for the time being. I looked at my sheets and I know you have a couple of open lines at the right salary.”
A line, thought Marc. What a ridiculous term for a sinecure. City government had its own jargon, and a line meant a job slot written into the budget of a particular city department or commission. Each job with each department is a line, with its own salary and duties prescribed. It didn’t mean, necessarily, that the person on the line had to show up for work, or perform that work, merely that he was supposed to and was compensated accordingly. “No show” jobs were usually held by people involved closely with the Mayor’s political team—a person working campaign liaison or public relations—and they were paid a salary on a line from a city department they’d never been to or seen.
“All right,” George went on, “so we can put her with you on one of your eighty-five-hundred-dollar lines meanwhile. This is a gal that’s done a great deal of advance work for the Mayor, and the Mayor wants to continue her on a line somewhere.” George listened. “No, of course she’s not going to show up for work at your Parks Department office. What the hell does she know about parks?” George paused again. “Okay, you can have the sixty-five-hundred-dollar line she comes off in Marine and Aviation. And I’ll trade you another eighty-rive-hundred-dollar line as soon as one comes available in another department. Okay?”
Marc smiled to himself as he thought about the absurdity of job lines. Trading these lines is a common practice in New York City government, even when people actually worked on City business. When an agency or department wanted to hire someone, but didn’t have an available line in their budget, or the only available lines provided too little pay, the person could be officially employed on another line, in another department. Thus, they worked in one office but got their pay from another department totally disconnected with their actual work. What a mass of confusion, thought Marc; just like the rest of the city. Some people say that New York is ungovernable. Not so. After all, there are many governmental jurisdictions far larger than New York City that are managed comfortably. No, it’s always the same story. The people who run the City are confused, not the City.
George was still talking. “Great,” he said. “I’ll have this gal come over and fill out the necessary information and whatever the hell else she has to do. I’ll have her call you. Okay? Remember her name, Rhoda Green.”
George hung up and turned to Marc. “Hi, Marc. How the hell are you?”
“Good.”
“What’s new?”
“Just came from the New York County Lawyers Judiciary Committee,” he replied.
“Oh, yeah. Your second interview,” said George. “Did you have any problems?”
“No, it went all right.”
“I’m glad. I didn’t think you’d have any difficulty with the interviews. You got past the Mayor’s Committee. Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
“Can’t figure out how I did that,” said Marc. “I figured they’d bomb me.”
“Not at all. They seem to like your approach once they meet you and see you in person. A little different, maybe a little unnerving for them at first, but they like it. Why shouldn’t they? You’re the kind of guy we need on the bench. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have recommended you.” George sat back in his chair. “I’ll tell you something else though, Marc. And this I tell you because you’re my friend and because I got you involved in these committees to begin with. You apparently have a lot of enemies out there.”
“Enemies?”
George nodded. He leaned forward. “We’ve been getting more flack about you probably than anyone else we’ve ever sent before the committees.”
“Flack about what?”
“All kinds of bullshit,” George replied softly. “You wouldn’t believe it. I guess mostly it’s people who don’t know you, haven’t met you. They don’t like the idea that you represent criminals, really important criminals sometimes, and perhaps you do it too well, with too much gusto.”
“Is this a joke?” Marc asked.
“No joke,” replied George. “That’s the bad part about it. We’ve gotten several calls asking if we’re really serious about putting Conte on the bench. And I answer them, sure, why not? And then they come back with all kinds of reasons, starting with your connections with organized crime to your lack of experience. I think someone’s doing a number on you. They’ve even got a couple of newspaper people interested.”
“Who the hell are they anyway?” Marc asked annoyedly.
“I can’t go into names, Marc. Just suffice it to say they are people in the judge-making world; that little world of a hundred or so people I told you about. Apparently they think it wouldn’t be a good idea to have a guy like you on the bench. I happen to disagree with them vehemently, but they’re there, and they’re making their presence known and heard.”
“George, I wasn’t too thrilled about this idea in the first place, but I’m not ashamed to representing the people I represent,” said Marc. “Defendants need the finest damn lawyers they can get to ou
tweigh the cards stacked against them every time they turn around in the criminal courts. I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize to anyone for representing people accused of crimes.”
“You don’t have to. Don’t get steamed, Marc.”
“I don’t like this crap, George. The problem seems to be that I’m not a company man, one of the guys who’s been sucking the government tit all along. Apparently, they don’t want anyone else horning in or upsetting their cozy little arrangement. Why don’t they tell me this stuff to my face, or at least bring it out into the open?”
“How the hell can anyone do that?” asked George. “There isn’t anything to bring out into the open, except that you’re not one of the old-line establishment.”
“The yellow bastards,” Marc said angrily. “The hell with it, George. I’m not interested in following this thing up any more. It’s a waste of time, and I don’t have the patience to listen to a lot of narrow-minded, sanctimonious baloney.”
“Take it easy, Marc. If every lawyer who had quality and intelligence felt that way, we’d end up with all old hacks on the bench.”
“I know, you gave me that story already.”
“Still goes,” said. George. “Come on, buddy, don’t get teed off. The bench, the Mayor, the law need new blood like yours.”
“Does the Mayor have enough balls to appoint someone over the complaints of the snipers and back-stabbers?”
“I hope so.”
“Christ, George, what the hell are you wasting my time for, if he doesn’t have the balls to appoint me.”
“Let’s put it this way,” said George. “If we take a shot, it’s against the odds, that’s true. But if we don’t take a shot at all—well, what chance do we have then?”
“Okay,” Marc agreed. “There’s only one more committee interview, day after tomorrow, anyway.”
“Don’t let this stuff bother you. You’re right, they’re yellow bastards, so why be upset by yellow bastards?”
“Why indeed? What’s new, George, beside the shooting over at the courthouse? Your telephone must have been burning since that happened.”
“Wasn’t that a son of a bitch,” said George. “Right in the courtroom, the crazy bastard. With a shotgun, yet. The cops are still looking for the girl. And Johnson’s lawyer, Katzenberg, has disappeared now. They got the other two lawyers, but Katzenberg must have slipped the guns to Johnson during lunch.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t kill anyone,” said Marc.
“He’s lucky? We’re lucky. I’m afraid if Al-Kobar had killed Crawford, it would have started anti-Black riots all over the city. It’s been bad enough as it is.”
“I know the girl,” said Marc.
“The girl with the shotgun?”
Marc nodded.
“I should have known. You don’t happen to be hiding her by any chance, do you, buddy?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. But if I knew where she was, until she decided to turn herself in, I couldn’t tell you anything anyway.”
“Of course, you’re absolutely right,” said George. “Just kidding.”
Marc rose. “I’ve got to get back to the office, George.”
“Give me a ring if you get finished early. We’ll have a drink.”
“Okay.” Marc made his way back to the main lobby and out to City Hall Plaza. He walked along the edge of the park surrounding City Hall toward his building. Franco was supposed to be waiting in front with the car.
“Hiya, Marc,” said the news dealer on the comer. He was bouncing over a bundle of newspapers.
“Hi, Champ. You okay?”
“Good shape, good shape,” the news dealer said as he folded an early edition and handed it to Marc.
As he was ready to cross the street, Marc saw Philly, The Crusher’s friend, standing at curbside in front of his office. He was talking to Franco. The car was parked next to them. Marc crossed.
“You waiting for me, Philly?” Marc saw anxiety on Franco’s face. “Anything wrong?” he asked, turning to Franco.
“It’ll wait,” Franco replied.
“Hello, Counselor,” said Philly, nodding, shaking Marc’s hand feebly.
Marc noted the limp handshake, wondering why men who are strong and gruff often seem to be embarrassed, or at least uncomfortable, with handshakes.
Philly looked over his shoulder cautiously. He motioned with his head that they should walk—a moving voice is harder to hit. Marc started walking slowly next to Philly. “You never know who’s bugged these days, or who’s following you,” Philly warned. “They been following me for days, now. If I don’t come out of the house by a certain hour in the morning, the rats come and knock on the door and bother my wife. Can you imagine! They want to make sure I don’t give them the slip over the back fence. They think who the fuck they are that I’m going to run from them, the slimy rats!” Philly looked over his shoulder again.
Marc was convinced that the love of adventure, the excitement of the challenge and intrigue of criminal life were as important to Philly and The Crusher as any ill-gotten profits. If they weren’t followed, they’d want to think they were; they’d want their peers to think they were. After all, if somebody wasn’t following you, looking to serve you with a subpoena, well, you probably weren’t too important.
“It’s about The Crusher,” said Philly.
“What’s the matter now?”
“He told me to tell you he’s being followed; and his phone is bugged. He figures there’ll be more trouble. He didn’t want to come over himself because they’re following him.” Philly looked at Marc for direction.
“I can’t do anything about it until it happens,” said Marc. “But you tell Patsy to call, day or night, if there’s trouble.”
“That’s what he wanted to know, Counselor. Thanks.” Philly stuck out his limp hand again.
“Okay,” said Marc, watching Philly walk across the street. He wished he was able to calm all his clients as easily.
Marc walked back to the car. “Now what’s the matter?” he asked Franco.
“Nothing the matter. You got a call in the office from Andy Roberts,” Franco replied excitedly. “That’s the girl wanted for giving the shotguns to the prisoners who tried to escape from the courtroom the other day.”
“Yes, I know. What did she say?” Marc asked quickly. “Did you talk to her?”
“No. Marguerite told me. She said this Andy Roberts said she wants to talk to you and she’ll call you again tomorrow or the next day for sure. She said she was moving around so you couldn’t call her.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Just that she needed some protection; she didn’t do what they’re accusing her of. Then she started in about fair trials and fascist systems. So Marguerite told her to talk to you.”
“Okay. We’ll be back shortly,” said Marc. “First, I want to go to Mrs. Wainwright’s apartment for a few minutes. While we’re there, you call Marguerite and tell her to call me at Mrs. Wainwright’s.”
“Okay.”
Marc got into the passenger seat of the car.
“Wainwright’s?”
“Yes,” said Marc. “Let’s ask her about those phone calls with her husband.”
“Didn’t your wife say she wanted to come along on this one to meet Mrs. Wainwright?” Franco was smiling. “Shouldn’t we call her?”
“Are you kidding? That’s exactly why I’m doing this now while she’s busy in school. This case is complicated enough without getting involved with jealous women.”
Franco laughed as he headed the car uptown.
“Of course Zack didn’t stay over the night Bob was killed,” Toni Wainwright insisted. She was dressed in slacks and a sweater, sitting on the couch in her library.
“Are you sure of that?” asked Marc. He and Franco were sitting in chairs opposite her. Franco had already called Marguerite with the message about Andy Roberts.
“Yes, I’m sure. Why are you asking that?”
&
nbsp; “Did you have any phone calls from your husband before he came over that night?” Marc pressed.
“No.” She looked at Marc, puzzled.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Why are you asking these questions?”
“Because we know that your husband did, in fact, call here three times before he came over.”
“He called? Here? That’s ridiculous,” said Toni Wainwright. “Why wouldn’t I have told you that if it had, in fact, happened?”
“It did happen,” Marc said flatly.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Franco, get the tape recorder,” Marc said.
Franco rose and walked out to the vestibule where he had left the portable tape recorder.
“What is this?” Toni asked. She looked from Marc to Franco who came back into the library carrying the recorder.
“I’m going to let you listen to the tapes of three conversations you had the night your husband was killed,” said Marc. “All of them were before he came over here.”
“You’re kidding.”
Marc motioned for Franco to begin.
Franco fitted a copy tape on the machine—the original was in Marc’s office safe—then pressed a button, starting the tape. Marc watched Toni Wainwright as she listened to herself and her late husband. She was absolutely stunned, listening, her eyes fixed on the tape as it turned.
“Incredible,” she said. “Where did you get those?”
“That is you and your husband speaking, isn’t it?” Marc asked.
“Of course it is. Where did you get them?”
“I’ll explain all of that in a little while,” said Marc.
“No, tell me now,” she insisted. “It’s incredible.”
“I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely sure about everything,” said Marc.
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