“Sure about what?”
“It won’t be more than one day before I’m able to tell you everything,” said Marc. “Please trust me and have patience.”
“I do. I do trust you, that is. I haven’t much patience. I want to know everything. That’s just wild,” Toni exclaimed. “I don’t even remember having those conversations. My God!”
“May I suggest, most respectfully,” Marc said lightly, “that the reason you don’t remember is that you were a little in your cups at the time?”
“Boy, you better believe I must have been,” she laughed. “So was Bob. We sound ridiculous. Where did you get those tapes?”
“Let me just keep that to myself for a little while longer. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“You’re fantastic,” she said to Marc. She smiled warmly.
“It was really Franco and my wife who brought all of this about,” Marc said.
Toni Wainwright turned to Franco, looking into his face. “You fooled me,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so rotten.”
“That’s okay,” said Franco, smiling, now embarrassed.
“You sure you don’t remember having those conversations?” asked Marc.
“Absolutely not.”
“I want you to realize, however, that these conversations could indicate quite a different situation as to your culpability, your guilt, in the death of your husband,” said Marc.
“What do you mean?” She was puzzled. “You mean … what do you mean?”
“It might be said that you knew he was coming over. It wasn’t a surprise, and you set up an ambush for him.”
“I don’t even remember those conversations,” she protested.
“Being intoxicated does not necessarily excuse homicide.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t know I had those conversations with Bob. I didn’t know he was coming here until he kicked in the door. You saw the door shattered. If I was going to ambush him, would I make him break down the door first?”
“I don’t think you ambushed him,” smiled Marc. “I think I know the answer. Let me ask you again. Are you sure now that Zack Lord didn’t stay over with you the night your husband was killed, leaving right after the shooting?”
“Right now, I’m not sure about anything.”
33
Wednesday, September 20, 2:40 P.M.
“How can you just sit there so calm?” asked Franco as he drove toward the Association of the Bar building.
Maria was seated quietly in the back seat.
“I mean with this whole Wainwright case coming to a head, and expecting a call from this Andy Roberts girl,” Franco continued, “how can you just sit there and have me drive you to this interview with the judges’ Committee?”
“You don’t even want to be a judge,” Maria chimed in from the rear.
“First of all, I told George Tishler I’d go to the meeting of the committee. It’s the last one,” replied Marc. “And in the second place, Zack Lord doesn’t know that we really suspect him, so he feels reasonably safe. He’s not going to run away at this point and create suspicion about himself. And, in the third place, we don’t even know if Andy Roberts will call. This Committee interview is only going to take half an hour anyway.”
“Then can we go to see that creep Zack Lord?” Maria asked anxiously.
“Right after this interview, okay?”
“Okay,” Maria agreed reluctantly. “But don’t talk too much in there. Make it a fast one.”
Franco nodded in agreement.
Marc laughed. “Okay.”
The Joint Judiciary and Criminal Courts Committees of the Association of the Bar of the City of New York were now in session. It was the usual committee setup—the large oval table with perhaps twenty-five people seated about it. All of them were looking toward Marc, who was seated next to the Committee Chairman at the head of the table.
“Mister Conte, we understand that you represent several clients who are connected with organized crime?” asked one young man with dark hair and gold wire-framed glasses seated near the far end of the table.
“Is that a question?” Marc asked. Suddenly his mind resolved to lay it right on the line, to hammer the questions and questioners as hard as they hoped to hammer him.
The young man glanced across the table at others on the Committee. “Yes. I’d like to know about your practice.”
“Without getting into a debate on the subject of organized crime,” said Marc, “I have and still do represent many people accused of crime. Most of them are not in any fashion connected with what is popularly categorized as organized crime. Many of the people I represent are indigent. I am assigned by the court to represent them, and paid by the court. Of all my clients, and I handle literally hundreds each year, I would say less than five per cent could in any fashion be said to be involved with what you refer to as organized crime.”
“Let me put it another way,” the man with the wire glasses said. “Have you represented people who are members of the Italian-American Freedom Council?”
Marc wondered why he had let George Tishler convince him to go through this sandbagging interview. They didn’t want answers, they already were briefed on his practice and his clients. They were just going through the motions to get this all on the table. It was a setup.
“Yes,” Marc answered.
“Are you a member of the Italian-American Council yourself?” asked another voice from the table.
“No,” Marc replied in the direction of the voice.
“Have you ever picketed with the Italian-American Council?” asked the same voice.
“No.”
“I hope you don’t think that there’s anything wrong with the Italian-American Freedom Council picketing,” said the questioner hurriedly. “I didn’t intend to imply that.”
“No,” assured the Chairman. “I don’t think, Mister Gorin, that your question in any fashion suggested that there was any impropriety in that organization—or any organization—picketing and expressing its opinions pursuant to the First Amendment.”
“Do you think that there’s anything wrong with the Italian-American Freedom Council picketing?” asked the same inquisitor.
“I think it’s perfectly proper, pursuant to the Constitution of the United States, for any person or organization to exercise his, or her or its, absolute right to freedom of expression. Even a lawyer.”
The Committee was silent momentarily.
“You mentioned before that you didn’t want to get into a discussion about organized crime. Why not?” asked a woman two seats away from Marc.
“Not that I don’t wish to discuss it, ma’am,” replied Marc. “I’d be please to, if you wish. Just that my view of organized crime, and the view often and popularly expressed in newspapers and other news media seems to be somewhat at odds.”
“How’s that?” asked the woman.
“It’s merely that I do not accept the very dramatic concept of a nationwide, monolithic, criminal semi-government engaged in a single, nationwide criminal enterprise. I suggest rather that there are gangs, perhaps, loosely known to each other, but almost invariably independent of, even in competition with, each other. I should add that many gangs are Italian, so you don’t think I’m trying to bend over backward to defend my position, because I’m Italian. There are also Jewish gangs, Irish gangs, Black gangs. Gangs of every nationality, just as there are criminals of every nationality.”
“How do you know all of this about organized crime?” asked an elderly man.
“Studying the findings and treatises of penologists and criminologists, professional intellectual investigators, professors in universities and the like,” replied Marc. “I do this to keep up with newer and more proper treatment of accused and convicted individuals. I have also seen and experienced many things through people I have represented. I might add that every penologist I have read agrees with my concept of organized crime. That the newspapers, which are also aware of the actual facts, print dramatic
but unfounded pap is almost a crime in itself.”
“You say you draw your knowledge in part from your own personal experience?” asked another voice down the table. Marc couldn’t see who asked the question.
“My experience as a defense counsel only,” said Marc carefully. “I have no other knowledge or experience on the subject.”
“You think, therefore, that this problem of organized crime is magnified out of proportion by the press?” asked another woman’s voice.
“Not only the press,” replied Marc. “The press is fed its information, in part, by the public relations departments of law enforcement agencies. And the real tragedy is that this misrepresentation detracts funds and attention from the real problems, the real causes of crime, the archaic penal system, the inepititude of judges, the medieval approach to criminal justice, the apathy of the public. I’d say the proportion of attention given organized crime via newspapers and the like is wasteful. Do you want to know what I believe the real problems are?” Marc inquired.
“I’d like to ask something before we change the subject,” asked the man called Gorin.
“Oh, I wasn’t changing the subject,” said Marc. “I thought you might be interested in what I know about the real problem of crime and criminals.”
“Supposing any of the people who you represent came before you as a judge,” asked Gorin. “Could you handle the case objectively?”
“I probably wouldn’t handle the case at all.”
“What does that mean?” Gorin pursued.
“I would disqualify myself, as I think any judge should in a case of a defendant known to the judge.”
“Supposing the newspapers started writing stories about the Mayor, especially during this time of such bad publicity about the courts and corruption. Supposing the newspapers said that the Mayor had appointed a man to the bench who had connections—no that’s not the right word—a man who had represented organized crime figures. Suppose such stories appeared, would you be able to withstand that kind of pressure and still function properly as a judge?”
“In the first instance, I don’t know what kind of pressure you refere to, sir. The fact that I have represented people in criminal proceedings doesn’t cause me any difficulty, pressure, or feelings of discomfort whatever. I am not ashamed of defending people charged with crime. I think of it as equally sacred a duty in the context of a democracy as the prosecution of criminals.” Marc thought he was getting a little hammy now. But why not? He believed in what he was saying.
“No one said you should be. Ashamed, that is,” said the Chairman.
“I’m not, Mister Chairman,” Marc replied forcefully. “I have represented all sorts of people, murderers, white-collar criminals, madmen, all sorts, and I have not become a criminal thereby, nor have I become a member of organized crime as a result of representing people who may or may not be so involved. The fact that the newspapers might mention that I am a defense counsel in private practice wouldn’t create pressure for me in the least.”
“That wouldn’t bother you?” asked a man.
“Not in the least,” repeated Marc. “I have no idea why it should. Can you, sir, tell me why it should?”
The man didn’t answer Marc. He was silent, gazing now at some notes on the table. The people around the table were silent.
“Anyone have any other questions?” asked the Chairman.
No one spoke.
“Well, thank you, Mister Conte,” said the Chairman, smiling.
Marc rose, shook hands with the Chairman, and made his way out to the marble corridor.
There were several more people sitting and waiting to be interviewed. They all turned and watched Marc come out of the committee room. He walked to the exit and made his way to the street.
“Well, Your Honor, how’d it go?” Franco asked. He was standing on the sidewalk near the car. Maria was seated in the rear of the car, reading.
Marc didn’t answer. He got into the car next to Maria and waited for Franco to get behind the driver’s wheel.
“Anything the matter?” asked Maria.
“Just a little annoying, that’s all,” replied Marc. “To hell with annoyance. Let’s go do something important. Let’s go see Zack Lord.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Franco, smiling. He started the motor.
“They give you a rough time?” Maria asked.
“No, not rough. Annoying,” repeated Marc.
Franco began driving toward the Hotel Louis Quinze. He glanced occasionally at Marc through the rear-view mirror.
“Just one or two of them ever set foot in a criminal court or were even within throwing distance or a criminal,” said Marc. “And they’re deciding who should or shouldn’t be a criminal judge. They don’t know what the courts are all about, or even what’s going on in court. And that’s one very real and one very big reason why the problems exist. They just go through the motions, while they pick out judicial candidates who fit the same old, stale, playball patterns. The D.A. might as well pick the judges out for them.”
“You think that’s maybe what they do?” asked Maria.
Franco turned off Park Avenue, heading toward Fifth Avenue.
“I don’t know. But I do know I’ve been thinking about being a judge, and I’ve decided I’m needed more in the street than I am on the bench. People in the street, the little people accused of crime, even big people accused of crime, need help to save them from being steamrollered by all the people who want to be on the right side, and who think that the only right side is the government side. When you’re indicted, you stand all alone out there, and nobody wants to know you. Only truth is important,” Marc said emphatically. “Sides don’t mean a damn. Lying and cheating to help the government win is still lying and cheating—and isn’t justice.”
“Justice? That’s just ice, and it’s all melted,” said Franco.
“Did you make that up?”
“Yeah, what do you think?”
Marc put his tongue between his lips and blew a raspberry.
Maria and Franco laughed.
“You want me to go up with you, don’t you?” Franco asked hopefully as he parked the car in the forward end of the NO PARKING ZONE in front of the Hotel Louis Quinze.
“Of course I do,” replied Marc. “You two started this whole thing, didn’t you?” Marc was feeling better. “So you better be in on the finish of it.”
“That’s what I want to see,” said Maria with delight. “I want to see this heel, Lord, take a dive as they say in the street. Right, Franco?”
“Right,” he Smiled.
Marc handed a dollar bill to the doorman who was on his way to say Franco couldn’t park where he had. Marc mentioned they were going to see Zack Lord. The doorman nodded, then stuffed the dollar in his pocket as he walked to the house phone to announce them.
“What can I do for you today?” Zack Lord asked Marc, smiling easily. He saw Maria and his smile dimmed slightly.
“Just wanted to discuss the Wainwright case a little more,” said Marc.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Zack. He sat back in the big chair behind his desk. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Maria sat in a chair in front of Lord’s desk. She shook her head as she put her leather handbag on the side of the desk. Marc sat in another chair.
“Not for me,” said Marc.
“Me either.” Franco was impatient.
“All right. Now what do you want to discuss?” asked Zack Lord. “Anything to help Toni.”
“I know this might sound foolish to you at this late date,” Marc began, “but we’re still investigating the case. And it seems to us that certain aspects of the case—including your involvement—just don’t make sense.”
“My involvement? You’re still not investigating the time I left the airport?” Zack laughed with that tight, toothy smile of his. He looked from Marc to Maria to Franco.
“Among other things, yes,” said Marc.
“I thought we w
ent all through that the last time,” Zack said, idly swiveling his chair to the left, then to the right again.
“We did. But some other things have come up.”
Maria was watching Lord’s every move.
“What other things?” Lord’s smile was slightly more strained now.
“There’s your pistol, the exact same as Toni’s,” said Marc. “And there’s the fact that you were down in the basement of Toni Wainwright’s building the night Bob Wainwright was killed.”
Lord had stopped swiveling now.
“That was quite early. I went down to get some wine,” Lord explained.
“We know,” replied Marc. “And there’s the fact that you had been so friendly with the elevator operator. That you used to feed him liquor. That’s curious, especially since he carries keys to the back entrance and stairway, which could give somebody access to the rear of all the apartments in the building.”
Marc glanced at Maria. Her hand was at the side of her chair, counting the items on her fingers.” The cook,” she suggested.
“Yes, and the fact that the cook in Toni Wainwright’s house heard Bob Wainwright calling out Zack, your name, as he lay dying. Then she heard a moving noise as if someone were walking out of the apartment.”
Zack listened silently, his eyes narrowed. “None of this seems to mean anything much,” he said finally. “You’re not accusing me of this crime, are you?”
“No,” answered Marc. “That’s not my job. We were just wondering about some things we didn’t clear up with you the last time. Oh, there’s one more thing. The tapes you recorded when you bugged Toni Wainwright’s phone contained conversations Bob Wainwright had with his wife the night he was killed.”
Zack’s eyes opened a bit, then returned to even narrower slits.
“Tapes? What tapes?” asked Lord.
“Not the ones recorded in your lower left-hand desk drawer,” said Marc. “The ones that you record with the tape machine in the credenza behind you. The tapes you keep in your safe.”
Maria wasn’t missing the slightest reaction on Lord’s part.
Lord was staring at Marc now. “You never stop working, do you?”
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