False Witness (31 page)

“This is what you’re showing me? A guy with a beard who looks like David Cohen underneath his beard? Who was photographed at the Jog-gon-Inn?”

Bobby wordlessly handed me his next item: a yellow sheet. The official record of arrests in the name of one Jim McDonald, also known as Donald McGuire a.k.a. Don Finn a.k.a. Donald Tomkins a.k.a. Jim Finn. Not known, at any time, as David Cohen. There was a list of arrests going back to the early sixties: rape; assault; attempted rape; attempted murder; assault; assault; weapons charge (unspecified); rape; assault with a deadly weapon. There were two convictions, bargained-for doubtlessly, for misdemeanors; two convictions for felonies. He had served a total of some six and a half years for his long list of crimes. He was currently on parole, for the last five months, for his latest major felony conviction. Underlined on the yellow sheet was the information that there was an arrest warrant out for him as a parole violator. He apparently hadn’t been keeping his required appointments with his parole officer. He could be picked up at any time under the warrant.

Next: mug shots. As Bobby showed them to me one at a time I could see the changes from callow youth to smug tough to streetwise punk. The photographs were dated from 1963 to the last one taken of him in 1977. The last few photographs could have been of David Cohen: alike as twins.

“Now,” Bobby cleared the table, glanced up at me as he arranged a series of photographs, one beside the other. “Bear with me, Lynne, for just a minute. Now, look. Eight photographs; four with beards, four without beards. I had an artist do the drawings, which were then photographed uniformly. Pick out who is who. Which are David Cohen, which are Jim McDonald?”

It was impossible. They were too much alike. I turned the photos over again and again, checking the name against the image.

“My God. What’s that word, German word ...
doppelgänger
? A double—an old folktale about each person having a reverse image or a ghostly twin somewhere on earth. Jesus.”

Bobby had other information for me: prison records; employment records; residence records; psychiatrists’ reports from prison; statements from all the various officials at all the various institutions through which a Jim McDonald eventually passes.

“Right at the very beginning, Lynne, when Sanderalee said she thought she knew the guy—that she thought she recognized him from the Jog-gon-Inn, I slipped a picture of David Cohen to Angel. Henry Angelowitz. He hadn’t seen this guy McDonald around for a while. When he showed up with the beard, a little more than a week ago, Angel called me. And ...” Bobby gestured to the stack of photographs. “And I’ve also got a videotape.” He set it up on my Betamax. There, indeed, was David Cohen’s bearded
doppelgänger,
sitting in the Jog-gon-Inn, drinking beer and eating a hamburger; all in living color.

“Who did the videotape and the artwork and the photos, Bobby? This wasn’t done by our people. They were done by an outside agency.”

Bobby shrugged. “It was all done on my own time. The rest of this stuff, the yellow sheet, the background, was done as a general information-gathering investigation. We’ve come up with the information that McDonald is wanted as a parole violator. We haven’t approached his parole supervisor yet. McDonald is just sitting around. Under surveillance; very close, total surveillance. We can put hands on him with one phone call. For parole violation. And then for face-to-face identification by Sanderalee.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Bobby. Who did these photographs? Who made the videotape?”

He didn’t answer; he just smiled and shrugged.

“They’re
media people,
for God’s sake, Bobby.
Media people.
Do you realize what could happen if this material is used in the wrong way? Have you any idea ...”

“It won’t be used in the wrong way. That’s what this is all about, Lynne. This is what I’ve come to set up with you.”

“To set up with me?”

That dazzling smile: football hero, class practical joker, gleeful “gotcha” grin.

“Bobby, I’m going to tell you that as of this moment, I can charge you with obstruction of justice. And if you’re about to ask me to join with you in some sort of scheme involving this case, I’ll further charge you with attempted collusion. At the very worst, you’ll face a trial and possibly jail. At the very least, you’ll be disbarred.”

“Lynne, come on and sit down and listen to me. This isn’t as terrible as it looks. This can be worked out.”

“Worked out? You deliberately withheld information from me, you let me go before the Grand Jury and get indictments against David Cohen when you knew Sanderalee had withdrawn her identification, when you had all this information about this ... this ...”

“Okay, Lynne. Here are some facts.
Facts:
not speculation. Jameson Whitney Hale is going to announce for the Senate on April sixth. That’s next week. He’s going to appoint you as his replacement and recommend you as the incumbent candidate and will back you totally for election.”

“Not when this gets out he won’t. I’ll be lucky if ...”

Bobby held his hand up. “Lynne, wait. Just let me continue. Now, I’ve given my own career a great deal of careful thought since you last informed me of my lack of ability, et cetera, et cetera. My inability to go for the jugular, something like that, wasn’t it? And I wasn’t as good an investigator as Lucy Capella. Or as good a prosecutor as you.” He smiled. “Well, I’ve got the real culprit tied up and waiting to be delivered.
How
he gets delivered,
under what circumstances
and conditions and with
what public information—
that’s what you and I are going to work out.”

“Bobby. Don’t say anything more. Not another word. Didn’t your pretty little Miss America media-lady tell you what happens to violators of the public trust? Or doesn’t she know anything about law?”

“She knows
the law of survival,
Lynne. She’s been giving me a few lessons.” His feet came off the table, flat on the floor. He leaned forward and stared hard at me. “Our careers are linked together, Lynne. You and I are going to work together, right at the top of the heap.”

“I told you before, Bobby, my career has nothing whatever to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me, Lynne. We’re tied together because of this case. It can work for you or against you. It’s all up to you. It depends on what you decide here, tonight, between just the two of us.”

“Where does Glori Nichols fit into all of this, Bobby? First, explain that to me. Before you explain anything else, because I don’t know from point one what the hell you have in mind.”

“Lynne, Glori Nichols means as much to me as ... as Jameson Whitney Hale ever meant to you. You don’t have to worry about her any more than I’ve ever worried about him. We’d still be together, you and I. We’ll both get what we want.”

That stunned me; it really took me a few seconds to absorb the shock. It had been a long time since anyone had considered me as a bedroom achiever. It was not only grotesque, it was pretty funny, coming from Bobby Jones.

“My God, Nebraska. I’m not sure I can quite see this. You’d be using ... both of us. Glori Nichols and me. In exactly the same way you think that Jameson and I ... and oh my God, this is too much. Too bizarre. Glori and Jameson; and Glori and you; and me and Jameson. You’ve come a long way from the rolling waves of grain in Nebraska.”

He had the calculated smug grin of a clever child. “You and I would be the team, Lynne. It’s not as complicated, really, as it sounds.” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I’m a real New Yorker now.”

“An unemployed New Yorker!
I want your resignation on my desk by nine o’clock Monday morning. You can spend Sunday with your TV lady preparing a nice believable story for your resignation.” He watched me, expressionless, as I moved around the room; had to keep moving; moving, because what I really wanted to do was something violent. To him.

“As of Monday morning, 9
A.M.
, we are adversaries, Bobby. I should fire you as of right now, this minute, right now, but I’m giving you the grace period. That’s because I really cared about you. I didn’t mind your career-building in my bed just as long as your ambition didn’t exceed your ability. Tonight, you’ve crossed the line by a ... by a country mile. Either you’ve overestimated yourself or underestimated me.”

“You haven’t heard what I have to say, Lynne. You haven’t even asked about ...”

I took a deep breath, felt it stick in the back of my throat, felt a sense of suffocation. “Don’t tell me anything, not a word. Whatever scheme, plan, whatever you’ve come to suggest to me ...”

“You’d better listen to me, Lynne, and go along with me, or you’ll be throwing away
your career.
And I don’t believe you want to do that. You’ve worked and planned too long and too hard.”

He had perfect control of his face except for one quick little twitch in the left corner of his lip; he knew I’d seen it. He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment; stood up, moved his shoulders around, loosening up; turned to me. Courtroom voice, courtroom presentation: a summing-up whether I wanted to hear it or not.

“It’s really very simple, Lynne. You’ll stand to lose nothing. We both stand to gain what we want. We sit on this information for one more week, until Jameson announces. You’re appointed as interim D.A. You appoint me as Bureau Chief.
Then,
I make a quick call to Jim McDonald’s parole officer. Sanderalee has seen all these photographs. Yes, she’s identified McDonald. And yes, she’s
sure it was him.
She remembers him now from having been with him before. She hasn’t made a face-to-face ID yet. That will come
after
I’m Bureau Chief; you’re D.A. It will move very quickly, very smoothly. Grand Jury drops the indictments against David Cohen. I give the presentation against McDonald for assault, for attempted murder, for what he did to her. Then,
we”—
he opened his arms to include me, part of the team—“make a public announcement. Let the public know the District Attorney’s office is just as interested in the
innocence
of a person as in the
guilt
of a person.”

“That’s terrific, Bobby. Lucy said something along those very lines. Only not in quite the same context. Go on. You’re into it now, go all the way. And then what happens?”

“And then, with all of the publicity you’ll get—guaranteed, Lynne,
I
can
guarantee
it ... she’s got a hook like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And where do you fit in, Bobby?”

“You’ll appoint me as your Chief Assistant District Attorney. The good old team, right up there at the top. You didn’t think I wanted
your
job, did you, Lynne?”

“Tell me what it is you do want, Bobby? Where will all this lead to—for you?”

He had a dreamy look now: small-town boy telling his plans for a wonderful future. Only in America.

“I’ll have four years to pick my elective spot, Lynne. You’re right about one thing: being a prosecutor is not really my life’s ambition. And entertainment law—forget it. A dead end; an alley. But with four years of being right up there at the top, being in the public eye during crucial times, and with the right coverage ... in four years’ time, Lynne, I’ll make my move. That will give me plenty of time to figure out my direction. And no harm done to anyone. If we just wait a week or so, and then proceed on the information I’ve come up with. You get what you want; and Jameson Whitney Hale gets what he wants; and I get what I want.”

“And Glori Nichols?”

He grinned. “No one will ever have to worry about her. Glori knows how to get what she wants; she’s a power collector, Lynne. She’ll be behind a president one day.”

“Maybe even you?”

He shrugged modestly. “I’m not quite that ambitious.”

“Let’s say that I go to see the D.A. Monday morning and tell him that you’ve suppressed evidence; that you knowingly let me make an erroneous presentation to the Grand Jury. And that you came here tonight with this offer to me. This plan, this deal. What then?”

“Then I would have to respond to your accusations. ‘Lynne, what are you talking about?’ I told you everything Monday night, as soon as I left Alan Greco. I told you almost verbatim what he told me of his conversation with Sanderalee. As soon as he gave me a typed version of the conversation, I gave you a copy—that was ... sometime Tuesday. But you told me to forget it; to sit on it. You told me that you had the man you wanted; that you were going to get the indictment you wanted; that you
needed David Cohen
specifically for the headline indictment. That it was essential to your career to show that you weren’t giving special privilege to anyone. You needed David Cohen to cool the black leaders down as quickly as possible.”

“Why didn’t you go to Jameson as soon as I got the indictment against Cohen? What stopped you, Bobby?”

“I didn’t have the proof. I was in the process of gathering my information. Getting the background work on McDonald; the pictures; the face-to-face identification from Sanderalee. Which I will get as soon as McDonald is arraigned for parole violation.
When
that happens depends on you, Lynne. How about ... you got a calendar handy? ... how about a week from next Friday?” He looked at a small shiny card calendar he had taken from his wallet. “Hey, that would make it Friday the thirteenth. Good luck for us, tough for Jim McDonald.”

I went to the dining room table and tried to steady my hands, so that he wouldn’t see the trembling. I collected all of the pictures, the yellow sheet, the background reports that had been done by the men in my Squad without my knowledge. I put everything into the folder and held it tightly against my body.

“I’ll keep this. I’ll bring it into the office Monday morning.” My voice was flat and noncommittal. I spoke softly to control the tremor.

“Okay, Lynne. Fine.”

“I’m very tired now, Bobby. It’s been a long week and I’m very tired. Go home. Or wherever you want to go; just go.”

We stood in the hallway of my apartment. His face in the dim light was shadowed and uncertain, waiting for some clue, something definite. His lips were tight against his perfect teeth and there was just a glint of golden stubble along his chin. His hair had fallen over his forehead and my hand reached out, automatic and familiar gesture, and brushed it back into place. At my touch, his face relaxed, a quick grin, almost a reflex action, pulled at his lips. Very gently, I touched his face, traced along his full lower lip and then I reached up and kissed him and tasted again the familiar taste of Bobby Jones. For what I thought was the very last time. I pulled back when he reached for me and the tension was back in his face, there was a nervous darting movement in his eyes.