Courthouse (17 page)

“No, it wasn't bad,” she replied. “It was horrible.” Toni leaned forward to reach the bar console built into the partition separating the passenger compartment from the driver's seat. She poured more vodka into the glass she had already drained. “Get me some ice, will you?” she directed Rutley.

Rutley turned quickly and began searching for the ice tongs.

“Oh, Christ, your hands will do, your feet will do, anything just give me some ice,” she said impatiently.

Rutley took two cubes in a bare hand and put them into her glass.

“Are all court arraignments as ugly as mine?” Toni Wainwright asked Marc.

“No. Most are vastly more ugly,” he replied. The limousine turned west on Sixty-third Street. “You didn't get to spend any time in the bull pen, the jail. Most defendants, men and women, spend at least a few hours there.”

“I would have gone mad, simply mad.” She sipped from her glass.

The black limousine slowed to a stop in front of the Hotel Louis Quinze. The doorman, recognizing Zack Lord's limousine, moved quickly to open the door, smiling broadly. Rutley was the first to get out. The doorman folded the jump seat, allowing Toni Wainwright to step out. Cahill was next, then Marc.

“Is this where Zack Lord has his office?” asked Marc.

“His New York office,” Cahill acknowledged. “He hap pens to own the hotel.”

“And, slowly but surely, it seems, the rest of New York?” Marc joked.

“Almost.” Cahill nodded reverently.

As the small group moved toward the entrance, Marc noticed a black Cadillac, coupe parked at the curb well forward in the
NO PARKING
area of the hotel entrance. A driver in civilian clothes sat behind the wheel reading a newspaper. The license plate was
J A L
—Joe Lacqua's car, thought Marc. Lacqua was the Democratic leader of New York County, one of the strongest political leaders in New York State.

The elevator doors opened at the twenty-ninth floor, revealing a private reception foyer decorated in ornate carved Louis Quinze furniture and lush, crimson Persian rugs. An attractive receptionist seated behind an ormolu-edged table-desk smiled and rose.

“Mister Lord is expecting you, Mrs. Wainwright, Mister Cahill,” she said in proper British tones. “He suggested you wait in the conference room.” The girl walked precisely and erectly ahead of them to a doorway at the left of the elevators. She opened the door for them, and stood to one side, still smiling pleasantly, nodding to each as they entered. The receptionist entered behind them, taking the lead again quickly, moving through an interior corridor, past several closed doors, to a door marked
CONFERENCE ROOM.
She opened the door and stood smartly as they entered. She looked around the room. “If there's anything you need, please just dial me on six-seven,” she said, pointing to the phone. She smiled and turned.

“I know she's just got to have a broomstick up her ass,” said Toni Wainwright as the door closed behind the receptionist. “I need a drink.” She walked toward a bar built into the wall.

Zack Lord's conference room was decorated in light blue, with a luxuriously thick, dark blue rug spread across the floor. In the center of the room, a long, darkly inlaid and carved table stretched precisely between twelve carved, dark, straight-back chairs upholstered in blue velvet. At the head of the table was a high-backed swivel arm chair covered with dark blue crushed leather. To the left of the high-backed chair was a console table into which was built an array of buttons and switches. Two telephones hung side by side at the rear of the console.

Against the side walls of the room there were matching couches covered in blue brocade. Above each couch was huge woven tapestry depicting vast armies winding through an ancient countryside peopled with soldiers, mounted officers, women, dogs, horses, and cannon-on-wheels coursing along in blue and golden threads.

The four people in the conference room remained silent. Toni Wainwright sipped her drink. Cahill sat on one of the couches. Rutley stood. Marc sat on a side chair at the conference table.

“What happens now?” asked Toni as the silence, underscored by the sound of ice cubes clinking in her glass, grew too heavy. All looked at Marc.

“We have to wait to see if they get an indictment,” said Marc. “It won't take O'Connor long to present a case like this to the grand jury. As a matter of fact, he'll make sure of that.”

“Is it my imagination or does he hate me?” asked Toni.

“He doesn't hate you,” replied Marc. “In fact, he's delighted with you and your case. It gives him a perfect opportunity to give full play to his normal, ordinary, politician's craving for attention. Show business and politics are very close to each other, not because they require the same talents, but because they are both havens for little, insecure people in search of applause. O'Connor's going to make sure that what he says about you publicly is really tough, and strong, and bold, all those other qualities that he feels the people of this great city would want to hear about in their District Attorney.”

“But Byrnes is the District Attorney,” said Toni. “O'Connor is just one of his assistants.”

“Not for long, not if O'Connor has anything to do about it,” said Marc. “Unfortunately, this case fell into his lap like manna from heaven. Byrnes is going after a judge-ship at the Democratic Judicial Convention. If the Democrats give it to him, O'Connor will be in position to get the Democratic nod for D.A.”

Silence prevailed again. Toni Wainwright rose and poured another drink for herself.

“As I understand it,” said Rutley, “we cannot be present at the grand jury hearing?”

“Mrs. Wainwright could testify, if she cared to,” said Marc, “but we cannot know what other witnesses testify to, or even who they are, or what other evidence is presented. It's a secret proceeding.”

“What are the chances of Mrs. Wainwright's not being indicted?” asked Cahill.

“Since the D.A. can get an indictment, almost at will from the grand jury—depending on how he presents the case—I'd say less than slim,” replied Marc.

A worried, distant look washed across Toni Wainwright's face.

“Don't worry,” Marc said. “You may be embarrassed by the initial publicity, Mrs. Wainwright. That I can't eliminate. But O'Connor needs real evidence when he brings you to trial. And he just doesn't have enough in this case. We'll take the wind out of his sails when it comes to the important things.”

“You're sure about that?” Toni Wainwright asked. “You're sure you can handle this case?”

“I'm sure.”

A door near where Marc was standing opened. Everyone in the conference room turned. The man who opened the door hesitated at the door, still talking and' laughing with people in the room beyond. Marc could only see the back of a man of medium height holding the door open. Beyond, Marc saw Joe Lacqua, the Chief, as he was called, the Democratic political boss, sitting on a couch, a cocktail glass in one hand, a cigarette in his other, laughing, saying something to the man at the door. There were other people in that room, all laughing now. Marc couldn't see the others.

Zack Lord is apparently already at work for Mrs. Wainwright
, thought Marc,
busy placing some contracts
.

A contract has all sorts of connotations: legal, criminal, even political. In politics a contract may be an assignment from the political leader to one of his men in the club-house to do something for one of the constituents: help them fill out a tax form; find them a job; call the housing department when the landlord doesn't provide heat. A political contract may also be a request by the political leader to an official—mayor, judge, D.A.—to make sure a decision is made, an outcome results, which favors the leader or one of his supporters.

Zack Lord entered the conference room, shutting the door behind him. He had a pale complexion, with almost colorless light blue eyes. His blond hair was slicked flat back. He wore a suit that was a medium, almost electric, blue, with a blue on blue herringbone weave. A pink shirt, and a tie with swirling abstract design on blue completed the outfit.

“Mister Conte,” said Lord, walking directly to Marc, smiling a thin smile. The others in the room, including Toni, watched Zack. Cahill wiped the palm of his right hand on his pants leg as he rose in anticipation of shaking Zack's hand.

“Hello, Mister Lord,” replied Marc. He felt Lord's hand close hard on his own, squeezing. Marc exerted slightly more hand pressure to equalize Lord's grip.

Lord studied Marc's face carefully as their hands squeezed, his eyes narrowing. His bottom lip curled outward as he nodded silently.

“Zack,” Cahill interrupted respectfully, “we've handled the first steps of the case. Mister Conte and I have four men in the office researching the law right now.” He walked over to Zack and Marc.

Lord nodded, without looking at Cahill. He turned abruptly toward Toni. “Are you all right, darling?” he asked.

“Fine,” Toni replied, cradling her precious glass. “It was pretty crappy in the police station. And the jail! That was even worse.”

“Of course it was. Of course,” Lord said blandly. “But we have it all under control now.” He smiled, actually sneering. “Everything that can be done, will be done. Everything,” Lord emphasized, turning to Marc.

“I noticed,” said Marc.

Zack studied Marc for a moment, puzzled. He looked to Cahill, then back to Marc. “What's that supposed to mean, Mister Conte?”

“That means I know you know some very influential people,” said Marc.

Lord nodded, that thin sneer of a smile creasing his face again. Lord's sense of affability was rather limited; his sense of timing was better, and he knew when to try to be pleasant, or when he should try to seem mysterious.

“I understand, Mister Conte, that you're a fine criminal lawyer,” said Zack. It was said almost as a challenge. “I've gotten that from several sources.”

“That was very kind of …”

“You'll be well paid for this case, well paid.” Lord plunged on directly. “This is a case of total mistake. That should make it all the easier, Mister Conte. But I don't want you to waste any time on this.”

“Mister Lord, I don't intend to waste time—yours, and especially mine.”

“And I don't tolerate failure,” Lord said flatly, his eyes fixed on Marc's face.

“I don't enjoy failure either, Mister Lord,” said Marc, returning Lord's stare. “But, if you want an absolute guarantee that I can walk Mrs. Wainwright out of the courtroom in this case, totally without blemish, absolutely without problem, you've got the wrong lawyer. I can't and I won't give it, regardless of the fee.”

“That mean you don't think you can handle this case? That it's too big for you?” demanded Lord.

“Not at all. It means that anyone who gives you a one hundred per cent guarantee on the outcome of this or any other case is a liar or a fool, Mister Lord. I'll go in and fight right down the line with every weapon at my disposal. And I fight very well, as some of your sources must have already told you. But, the only thing I can guarantee is that nobody will do a better or more thorough job. As well, perhaps, but not better.”

Lord was studying Marc, listening. “I'm an exacting man, Mister Conte.”

“One other thing, Mister Lord,” Marc continued. “I'm not a schoolboy, to be intimidated by you or anyone else. If you want me to handle the case, I will. If you don't, as you said, let's not waste time.” Marc was being a bit abrupt. But he had decided Lord needed, probably respected, boldness and strength.

Cahill and Rutley watched Lord apprehensively.

Lord sneered his thin smile again. “You'll have plenty of help, Mister Conte. All kinds of help. From inside and outside the courthouse, including Jim's entire law staff. No expense is too great.”

“I appreciate that, Mister Lord,” Marc said. “May I suggest, however, for right now at least, that it won't do to have too many cooks working on this stew.”

“Meaning?” asked Cahill tartly.

“Meaning,” Marc said to Lord, “I appreciate Mister Cahill's staff looking up the law on criminal cases, but they're only going to discover things I have already looked up and been studying for years. Moreover, this is not a case to be decided on the law, but on the facts, the circumstances of the shooting. If I need investigation done, I can handle that myself with my own people. In other words, Mister Lord, I'm saying I don't want to have to check in and get clearance on how to handle the case.”

“Just a minute, Mister Conte,” said Cahill. “You're being a bit presumptuous, aren't you?”

“I don't mean to be,” said Marc “But, I might as well get this straight right now. I really won't answer to other attorneys who aren't in a position to evaluate. I have no objection to having Mister Cahill or anyone else informed of progress. But I have to make the final decisions.”

Cahill became very red in the face. He turned to Lord. “This is preposterous. We've represented everything you've done for the last fifteen years.”

Marc said nothing.

“I like to be the captain of my ship,” said Lord, looking directly at Marc.

“This isn't exactly your ship,” said Marc. “In the first place, it's Mrs. Wainwright's. In the second place, I doubt you've ever handled a ship like this before.”

“Do I have anything to say about any of this?” Toni said, not too dryly.

Everyone turned to her. She sipped at her drink.

“Of course you do,” said Lord.

“If he's got the balls to stand up to you as he's doing right now,” she said to Lord—“if you'll pardon my French,” she said to the others—“he's got to have something going for him. He'll do just fine.”

“Mrs. Wainwright …” started Cahill.