Courthouse (49 page)

“Listen, you fresh bitch, I'm not going to take that kind of shit lying down,” slurred Wainwright angrily.

“Why not? I am,” said Toni Wainwright, laughing cruelly.

“Why you rotten bastard, I'm coming over. You hear? I'm coming over, and I'm going to knock the shit out of you and that son of a bitch Zack Lord.”

“Don't you dare. I'll call the police, you bum,” warned Toni Wainwright.

“I'm on my way. And when I get there, we'll see just how smart you two bastards are.” Wainwright hung up this time.

Maria and Franco looked to Marc.

“Well?” Maria asked.

“Well, if Lord was there, he had it made,” said Marc. “Wainwright was coming over and if he had a plan to kill Wainwright, it all fell right into his lap. Lord might have figured it'd be easier to deal with Toni Wainwright than with her husband. She seemed to have some emotional reaction to him, limited as it was. And here she was, so drunk she didn't know what she was doing. He could have figured, if Wainwright did break into the apartment …”

“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 outweigh 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.