Bad Lawyer (18 page)

Three hours later, Caleb and I were sitting with Priscilla in a Rikers interview room, trying to gauge her reaction to the story I told at great length. I noted confusion when I identified Gomez, a slight nod of recognition at Berto’s name, a minor tightening of her lips when I described her sainted mother’s role in the proceedings. Beyond that, there was, as usual, nothing; Priscilla’s face retained its ordinary composure. The only thing I saw in her eyes was my own tired reflection.

“And that’s it,” I concluded. “That’s where we stand right now. Gomez is gonna give me a call on Monday to arrange delivery. If there’s no money, he plans to hurt the only folks he can reach.”

Priscilla looked down at the table, ran her fingers through her hair. “Sid, if you think …”

“Forget about what I think. Let’s see if we can establish the facts. Do you know who these people are?”

She nodded, raised her eyes to meet mine. “The smooth one, his name is Elizado Guzman. The other one is Adelberto Garcia. Berto’s as crazy—and as stupid—as he looks. They’re both Dominicans.”

“Not Panamanians?” I made an attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, though I don’t believe I succeeded.

“They’re middlemen. They receive small shipments, maybe twenty kilos, split them up, and pass them on to people like Byron. There’s no trick to it. Everything’s done on credit. That’s why the shipments are relatively small.”

I looked over at Caleb. He was sitting quietly, his hands resting on his belly, looking at Priscilla. “What about the passport?” I finally said. “If Byron was just another mid-level dealer, what was he doing in Panama?”

That brought a quick, hard smile. “If you want the coke fronted, which Byron did, you have to go to Panama City for an interview. But the trip’s really not about you, because you’ve already been recommended. It’s so you can see for yourself how bad they are, how many killers and guns they have. They tell you stories about feeding you and your family to their pet crocodiles.”

“You told me that Byron was always behind in his payments. What was he planning to do, Priscilla, play Daniel in the crocodiles’ den?”

“You serious?” Priscilla’s brows arched in surprise. “Look, when Byron went to Panama, he was fresh out of jail and still basically clean. That’s why they set him up. Then he became an addict. It doesn’t call for a lot of explanation.”

“That’s true, Priscilla. And, of course, he was just a little behind. It’s not like he was planning to rip them off, right?”

The question caught her by surprise, as it was meant to do. Priscilla’s chin came up and she waggled a finger at me. “I have to stop forgetting that you’re a professional,” she said without revealing any of the things I needed to know.

“How about answering the question?”

She looked at Caleb who smiled brightly, said, “You know, Priscilla, they
are
threatening to grind our fingers up for
chorizo
.”

“I don’t know why my mother told them I gave you the money. If I wasn’t sure Elizado was too stupid to make it up, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“They don’t care whether or not your mother told the truth.” I shook my head, managed a brief smile. “With Thelma gone, the only way they can get to you is through us. Me and Caleb and Julie, we’re the only game in town.”

Priscilla didn’t respond immediately and I saw the pause as my chance to hit her with the one essential lie I could prove. “Any chance,” I asked, “that your mother will agree to come back to New York, tell the boys she made a slight mistake?”

“I’ll call her and …”

“Why don’t you give me the number, let me call her?”

The question was loaded. If Priscilla refused to give me the number, it would be a tacit admission that she knew exactly why her mother had taken off, that she’d known all along. On the other hand, if she did give me the number, who’s to say I wouldn’t pass it on to Elizado Guzman?

“Look,” Priscilla said after a slight hesitation, “the reason I took PC is because Guzman threatened me through another inmate. I lied to you and I’m admitting it. I also lied to you about my mother. She left to get away from them and she’s not coming back. Berto scared the crap out of her.” She leaned across the table, touched the back of my hand with a by now familiar forefinger. “But I did not know my mother told Guzman that she’d given his money to you. And I never expected, not for a fucking minute, that anybody would threaten you. Maybe I should have seen the move coming, but I swear that it never crossed my mind. Never.”

I took out a cigarette, offered her the pack. “They gonna follow through, Priscilla? Do they have heart?” I got up, sucked on the cigarette, began to pace. “Am I supposed to go about in fear of my life while I prepare your defense? Or am I supposed to resign, lose my access, hope Guzman doesn’t believe Thelma? Or that he won’t spank me for my impudence?” I stopped talking abruptly, but continued to pace. Waiting for a response that was a long time coming.

“I don’t have the money, Sid. What I said about muling the coke around the city was the truth. And when I told Guzman that the cops took the coke, I believed what I was saying. Maybe there’s a lockbox stuffed with cash in some bank, but I don’t know where it is.” Her face was composed again, her voice matter-of-fact, as if she was reminding herself that, after all, her basic position was still defensible.

Three hours later, I was sitting across from Benny Levine, pouring my heart out. We were in the Slipper, on opposite sides of a narrow booth set against the rear wall. The stench of booze was overwhelming, despite the cigarettes I lit, one after another. Each time I drank from my glass of ginger ale, I tasted a highball.

“What I’m looking for,” I concluded, “is somebody to run these guys a strong message. I don’t have their fucking money and I don’t know anything about their money. And neither does my client.”

Benny dug a finger into his ear, rooted for a moment, then withdrew the tip for inspection. “A big trial like this,” he finally declared, “you’re telling me it’s on the house?”

“You want to inspect my bank statements, I’m more than willing. But don’t think I’m in it to save my soul. Every time my face appears on the little screen, I get phone calls from new clients.” I took a deep breath. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s what brought
you
to my door.”

That produced a grunt of understanding. Benny liked to think of himself as a businessman, had told me on several occasions that the bottom line was as close as he got to God. Maybe that’s why he hastened to define it.

“Me, also,” he declared with a little shake of his head. “I also want a freebie.”

“In return for exactly what?”

He toyed with a wet swizzle stick for a moment, turning it in a little circle on the tabletop, finally said, “Gimme their names again, tell me where they hang out. I’ll see if they could be spoken to.”

“Well, that’s not quite good enough, Benny. But if it turns out they
can
be spoken to, if you take them off my back, then you can have your freebie. Just remember, it’s gonna be real hard to collect if I’m dead.”

The most obvious option, simply vanishing, was not a possibility for us. We had seven clients by then, each of whom needed attention. There were motions to prepare, a bail hearing to attend on Wednesday, four different A.D.A.’s to corner before the end of the week. That was why we decided, after a long discussion over a long dinner in the apartment on Sunday evening, not to dump Priscilla Sweet. At least not right away.

The only advantage to withdrawal was that Guzman couldn’t realistically hope to reach Priscilla through me. But I’d still have to convince Guzman that I didn’t have his money and if I could convince him of that, maybe I could convince him that either Priscilla didn’t have it or wouldn’t give it up, that there was no way her poor, abused lawyer could alter the facts.

Surprisingly, in retrospect, we gave almost no time to Priscilla that night, neither exonerating nor condemning her. Yeah, she’d lied to us, but unless she’d instructed Thelma to point Guzman in our direction, her lies were lies of omission. Seen from her point of view, until Guzman began to threaten us, the fate of his money was none of our business.

What I remember is wrangling with the practicalities, finally coming to a half-assed plan that was geared to response, not initiative. I would take Guzman’s call on Monday and record it just in case we finally decided to bring in the police. Beyond that, I’d try first to persuade him that I did not have and could not get his money. When that failed to appease him—as we were certain it would—I’d offer to put more heat on Priscilla, beg him to give me until Thursday or Friday.

While I stalled, Caleb would visit Guzman’s Washington Heights territory, see how close he could get. Benny Levine, presumably, would be working his own end of the equation, trying to play the mediator, the voice of reason. Meanwhile, Julie would explore the economics of hiring professional bodyguards in case we decided to hunker down, wait it out.

I
T WAS JULIE WHO
took Elizado Guzman’s first call on Monday morning. As per agreement, Julie informed Mr. Guzman that I was on my way out to Rikers and a visit with Priscilla Sweet. No, she wasn’t sure when I’d be back, but if he wanted to leave his number, she’d beep me.

Needless to say, Guzman, who’d identified himself as Mr. Gomez, did not want to leave his number. (Just as well, because I didn’t have a beeper.) But he didn’t make any threats, either, just said he’d call back later, which he did, at two, four, and six o’clock when he finally caught up with me.

Meanwhile, ever the diligent shyster, I spent the afternoon in pursuit of my clients’ various prosecutors, running down four A.D.A.’s, including Manuel Bergman’s. Her name was Lois Santana and she was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her mid-forties who nodded thoughtfully as I explained the need for delay.

“I’ll be tied up with Priscilla Sweet for the next six months. There’s no way I can start on Bergman’s case before then.” I shrugged my shoulders, willing myself to appear cooperative. “That’s assuming we go to trial, of course.”

Santana outlined her case, which verified Bergman’s account. Five hundred pounds of cocaine had arrived on a Liberian freighter, then, with the cops in hot pursuit, been delivered to a private home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Though Bergman owned the house, he was out of town when the cocaine arrived. His indictment was based solely on statements given by the five individuals arrested with the product.

I ran directly from Lois Santana’s office to a payphone in the hallway, dialed Bergman’s phone number. He picked up on the fourth ring, his husky voice making it clear that he’d been asleep.

“Wake up, Manny,” I said, “because I got some good news for you.” I went on to tell him that his basic goal, long-term delay, had been achieved. Lois Santana, perhaps not in love with her case, was in no rush to go to trial. “Plus,” I concluded, “you’ve got a decent shot at an outright acquittal. The state’s case, from what I can see of it, is very thin.”

I remember my client being pleased, but not what he actually said. That’s because I had something else on my mind. “Manny, you ever know a dealer named Elizado Guzman, works uptown near the bridge?”

“You’re saying that Guzman, the Weasel, is snitching on me? That right?”

For a moment, I was tempted to confirm his hasty conclusion, send him after an unsuspecting Elizado Guzman, unleash the kind of drug feud that shredded babies in their strollers.

“No,” I finally said, “Guzman has nothing to do with your case. What I’d like to get is a character report. For instance, would you recommend him to a prospective employer? Or to a bank that wanted to extend credit?”

Bergman took his time framing an answer. I heard him sip at something liquid, the clink of a cup dropping onto a saucer. Finally, he said, “The Weasel is a climber, looking to get up and out. What I heard, Sid, was that he was having trouble with his bank, that he climbed too fast, got himself spread out thin and now he can’t collect.” Another pause, then, “You can’t collect, you can’t pay, right? In the Weasel’s line of work, that’s a definite no-no.”

On my way out to Rikers early that afternoon, I stopped long enough to meet Caleb for a quick lunch at Georgie Petrarkis’s diner on 21st Street in Long Island City. Caleb was there when I arrived, hovering over a bowl of split pea soup in a rear booth. He waited until I was seated, then returned to his lunch while I detailed my conversation with Manny Bergman.

“I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, because I was,” I concluded. “But a drug war? See, the thing about it, Caleb, is that I trust someone like Benny Levine to handle Guzman quietly. Manny Bergman on the other hand …” I leaned back in the booth as Georgie dropped a cup of coffee and a bowl of soup in front me. When he was gone, I pushed the soup to one side and leaned across the table. “But the impression I got is that if we stall for a while, Guzman’s Panamanian handlers are gonna take care of our problem.”

Caleb nodded, continued to spoon soup into his mouth. When the bowl was empty, he carefully wiped his fingers before looking up to me. “I can take him out,” he said. “I’m talkin’ about Guzman. He hangs at a social club on the south side of 180th Street near St. Nicholas Avenue. There’s three abandoned buildings down the block on the north side. Be an easy shot with a rifle.”

“I thought Julie was the hawk and you were the dove?”

“What you said about Guzman being desperate?” Caleb ignored my remark. “That if he can’t pay his debts, somebody’s gonna kill him real soon? That’s bound to make him eager to collect, partner. More I think about it, the more pissed off I get.” He hesitated, looked down at his hands. “Seems like I worked real hard to get my life in shape. Be a shame to die just when I was startin’ to enjoy it.”

I carried that message to Priscilla, watched her eyes carefully, hoping for some proof that she’d actually received it. No such luck. After the shortest of pauses, she issued the expected denials: there was no money to return, the matter was beyond her control. So sorry.

For the first time, as I listened to her, I thought about how I might feel if she was lying to me. If she had the ability to take Elizado Guzman off our backs and was deliberately sacrificing us. If she had supplied her mother with the big lie.