Hostile Witness Part 21

"So what you're saying, Mrs. Simpson, is that most politicians can be bought."

"I guess I am."

"Anyone else? How many believe that politicians as a whole are generally unscrupulous and easily bought and paid for?"

Mrs. Simpson hesitantly raised her hand and looked around for support. The woman seated next to her, with thick features and a dignified cant to her head, smiled at Mrs. Simpson and raised her hand, and then a man in the front row, crew cut, thick neck, and then another hand, and soon the great majority of potential jurors had their hands raised.

I glanced at Eggert. He was nodding his head, as if Prescott was proving his case for him.

"And why is that?" Prescott looked back at his clipboard. "Mrs. Lanford?"

The dignified woman next to Mrs. Simpson said, "Yes, that's me."

"Why do you think politicians are so easily bought?" asked Prescott.

"Because they's greedy."

"And where do you think the money goes, Mrs. Lanford, this money that buys them?"

"In they's pockets," said Mrs. Lanford. "Right in they's own wallets."

"Those of you who said that politicians are often bought, is that what all of you think?"

"No," said a man in the back, his gray hair neat, wearing a polo s.h.i.+rt on his day off from the office.

Prescott scanned the names on his clipboard. "Mr. Roberts, is it? Where do you think it goes?"

"To their campaigns," he said. "They're always campaigning. It seems every other year there's a new election."

"Do you think it's the politicians' fault that they need to ask for money?" asked Prescott.

"I guess not," said Roberts. "I mean, we end up voting for the guy with the most television ads, so I guess it's our fault as much as anyone's."

"Does anyone here believe that politicians should not be allowed to ask for campaign contributions?"

No hands were raised.

"I'm going to hold you all to that now. What you all are telling me is that you each believe it is proper for politicians to ask for campaign contributions, that such requests are precisely what the system demands of politicians like my client."

Before anyone could reply Eggert stood and in his reedy voice said, "Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Prescott's voir dire has again devolved into a lecture."

"Civics 101," said Judge Gimbel. "We don't need citizens.h.i.+p cla.s.ses, Mr. Prescott. Just get on with it."

"I'm almost through, Your Honor," said Prescott.

"We're grateful," said the judge.

"Now, how many of you have your own businesses?"

A small number of the jurors raised their hands. Prescott referred again to his clipboard. "Mr. Thompkins, what kind of business do you own?"

"A printing shop," said a thin balding black man with extremely long fingers.

"Who's running it now?"

"My employees. I have an a.s.sistant manager."

"Now, Mr. Thompkins, if while you're away your a.s.sistant manager should do something wrong, would you be responsible?"

"If he messed up a job, sure I would. I stand by all the work coming out of my shop."

"Suppose he did something illegal while you were away. Suppose, without your knowing it, he started printing up counterfeit money. Would you still be responsible?"

"No way."

"Does anyone believe Mr. Thompkins should be criminally responsible if his a.s.sistant manager started printing up counterfeit money in his print shop?"

Prescott scanned the jurors and nodded approvingly when he saw no hands raised. "I don't think so either," said Prescott. "You're off the hook, Mr. Thompkins. Thank you very much for your time, I'm sure you all will be terrific jurors." Prescott sat down at the defense table and formed a huddle with Moore and his trial team and the bearded, snowy jury expert.

Judge Gimbel put down his pen and looked directly at me. "Mr. Carl," he said. "Do you have any voir dire?"

"Can I have a moment, Judge?" I asked.

With the jury venire still sitting in the courtroom I calmly broke into the Talbott, Kittredge huddle. "Mr. Prescott," I said. "May I speak to you, please?"

He pressed his lips together and said, "Let's go outside for a moment, shall we."

I followed him out of the courtroom, pa.s.sing the rows of potential jurors, the press, the court buffs, old men who hang around the courthouse whiling away their retirements with free entertainment. Once outside in the long cream hallway, Prescott lifted his chin and peered down at me, looking very straight and very stern.

"That last bit, Mr. Prescott, sir," I said. "The questions about the counterfeiter? I have to admit they caused me some concern."

"They did?" he said, his voice rising in confusion.

"Yes, sir. It appeared as if you may have been indicating, maybe, that a subordinate, not a princ.i.p.al, is the responsible party here."

Prescott looked down at me, his eyes wide with an injured innocence. "It was just voir dire, Victor."

"But still, sir, it caused me some concern."

"Walk with me to the men's room," he said. "Let's take advantage of the break."

The men's room was just down the hall and I found myself in the awkward position of standing next to Prescott at the urinals. He was a stern, formal man, not the type, I would have thought, to chatter while grasping tightly to his p.r.i.c.k, but I would have been wrong.

"I've tried more than fifty cases in these courtrooms, Victor," he said as he peed. "And in the course of those trials I've learned a little about how to win a case. I have spent hours with our jury expert working on the voir dire, on my arguments, on the presentation of our evidence. Everything I do in this trial has been reviewed beforehand by the best minds at Talbott, Kittredge, every question to the jury was scientifically designed to have the maximum beneficial effect for our clients. Now that question about counterfeiting sets up our entire defense. Unlike the counterfeiter, who is cheating the system, these men were not going outside the system's demands. They were only doing what the system required. The contrast is just what I was trying to put forward."

Through the whole of his speech I was restraining myself from checking out his equipment. There was something about Prescott that forced me to make comparisons, even though I always seemed to come out the lesser man. "I guess I see that now, sir," I said.

He gave himself a shake, pulled up his zipper, and moved to the sinks across the other wall. I did the same. Out of the mirror he stared at me and his eyes turned cold. "I'm in the middle of a fight with Eggert here, Victor. I can't afford to be explaining myself at every turn to you. When you gain a little more experience maybe you'll understand what I'm doing, but right now what you need is enough faith not to get in my way. You are clear about your instructions, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I said, like a schoolboy being reprimanded.

He turned on the faucet and began to wash. I followed suit. "Now, I don't want you to ask any questions of these jurors," he said. "I have them right where I want them and you can only move them in the wrong direction. And I don't want you to get involved in the selection process, I'll tell you how to use your peremptory challenges and I'll make all the challenges for cause. What I need from you, Victor, what I must have is your absolute confidence in me. Can you give me that, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep your eyes open, Victor," he said, grimacing into the mirror. He pressed the sides of his hair back with his palms. "There is no telling how much you can learn. By the way, the Bishops are delighted with your work so far."

"I haven't done much yet."

"Well, they've been raving. And there is more to come, I promise. Let's not keep the judge waiting. The old goose hates to wait."

Side by side, like comrades at arms, we left the bathroom, marched up the corridor, swung open the courtroom doors, and strode back to the defense table.

"Well, Mr. Carl," said Judge Gimbel. "Are we ready now?"

Something gave me pause. Maybe it was the look of injured innocence in Prescott's eyes. He was neither an innocent nor so easily injured. But I stared down at the yellow pad in front of me on which I had scrawled a few elementary questions for the jury venire and knew I would follow his directions. Most of my voir dire questions had been asked already by the judge, they were form questions taken right out of a trial manual I had been working with over the weekend. None of them had been scientifically designed for maximum effect on our defense. Besides, Prescott was right, I had my instructions.

I leaned over and spoke with Chet Concannon, just to be sure. When we were done whispering he smiled at me rea.s.suringly. I stood up straight again and said, "I have nothing, Your Honor."

22.

WE WERE IN THE PROCESS of actually picking the jury, or I should say Prescott and his expert were in the process, when I spotted Morris Kapustin entering the courtroom. He saw me notice him and he waved. I gave him the slightest of nods. Morris was dressed particularly shabbily that day, a suit jacket that didn't match his suit pants, his white s.h.i.+rt undone at the top, letting his faded silk unders.h.i.+rt show through. I hoped that maybe no one had seen the connection between us, but one of the bright young Talbott, Kittredge team, the blond bland-faced man with a name like Bert or Bart and a perfect little nose, had spotted him. I couldn't help notice the smirk as he leaned forward and said something to Prescott, who spun around immediately to get a good look. I turned away in embarra.s.sment. When I could, without being noticed, I motioned for Morris to wait for me. He sat down on the back bench and immediately began talking to one of the court buffs, an ancient man in plaid pants watching the proceedings.

Once the questioning was finished, jury selection was an almost mathematical procedure. All forty names were in order of selection on our jury sheets. The judge gave each of the defendants five peremptory challenges in which we could knock any potential juror off the jury for whatever reason we chose. The prosecution had six peremptory challenges of its own, and after the judge had taken seven jurors out of the group because he thought they were unduly prejudiced for one side or the other, including Mrs. Lanford, who had said she believed all politicians took money and put it in their pockets, we began the selection. First Eggert, then Prescott, then I, following Prescott's recommendations, excused jurors. One by one the excused jurors were crossed off our lists, and then we recalculated who would be in. We ended with a predominantly male jury, as Bruce Pierpont, the jury expert, had suggested, which included Mr. Thompkins, the printer, Mr. Roberts, the man who had believed the voters forced politicians to ask for money, Mrs. Simpson, who believed that buying public officials was a natural part of the political process, and a Mr. Rollings, who had been a security guard for ten years at a warehouse in North Philly. When the selection was completed Prescott looked over the jury, conferred with his jury expert, and nodded approvingly.

"Opening statements ten o'clock tomorrow," said Judge Gimbel. "And then prosecution's first witness. Court adjourned."

I waited until Prescott and Eggert left the courtroom with their respective teams before I packed up my trial bag and walked over to Morris, who was still talking to the older man next to whom he had sat.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Kapustin," I said a little sternly.

"Ah, Victor, I want that I should introduce you to Herm Finklebaum. Herm, this is mine lawyer friend Victor Carl. Herm used to sell toys over on Forty-fourth Street, now he spends his time watching in this very building."

"Pleased to meet you, buddy boy," said Herm. His face seemed to collapse upon itself where his front teeth had once been and there was a hole in his head, thinly covered with skin, through which I could see the faint pulsing of his blood. "You're representing that Concannon fellow, right?"

"That's right."

"Watch your baitsim, fellah. Eggert's a tiger."

"What did I tell you, Herm, you're not listening, no?" said Morris. "This Victor is no pantywaist, not like some of those other shmendricks staggering around. Your Mr. Egbert has his own little tiger on his hands."

"I never seen Eggert lose," said Herm. "I never seen him even sweat."

"He'll be shvitzing like an Ha.s.sid in Miami by the time Victor gets through with him. You tell me if it's not so, Herm. I'll bet you a pastrami."

"At Ben's?" asked Herm.

"Where else? McDonald's?"

"With Russian dressing?"

"No, with mayonnaise on white bread. How do you think I eat pastrami?"

"You're on, Morris."

"You tell Ben, Herm, you tell Ben the sandwich you are buying is for me and he'll stack it extra thick just as I like it. Now stop all this talk about food, it's driving me meshuggeh. Three weeks already since Yom Kippur and still I'm hungry. Come, Victor, we have to talk."

As I started following Morris out of the courtroom, Herm Finklebaum, the retired toy merchant of 44th Street, grabbed my arm and said, "I'll keep my eye on you, buddy boy. Yes I will."

When we were alone in the white linoleum hallway of the courthouse, Morris said, "The lady at your office, the one at the front desk, told me you'd be here."

"Rita."

"Yes. Such a haimisheh girl, very helpful."

"Rita?"

"She gave to me this for you." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pink message slip folded in half.

I opened it and read it and smiled.

"Something good, I hope," said Morris.

"For me at least," I said.

"It's okay, I hope, that I came to the courtroom," said Morris. "But I had news for you. Windward Enterprises was exactly right. Exactly. Your lady friend, what was her name?"

"Beth."

"Beth. Such a smart girl. Beth. She was exactly right. Maybe she should be helping you with this fancy trial in federal court?"

"She is."

"See, you have sechel too. Good. Maybe you might just win this fancy trial after all. Now, let's see." He put on his gla.s.ses, pulled out his grimed notebook, and started flipping through the pages. "Frederick Stocker had a second home down the sh.o.r.e, Ventnor, on the bayside. Such a home, all done up with columns and gla.s.s. His wife sold it when he disappeared. She had nothing, of course, just that sh.o.r.e house, and a mortgage on their place in Gladwyne. She told me she didn't know where he was, and I believe her for a very good reason."

"You spoke to her?"

"How else do you find someone? Talk to people, Victor, you might learn things. She was a very angry lady, this Mrs. Stocker, which you can understand of course, angry, angry. She had a tight little mouth, like a tochis, that tight, and her fingers were twisting around each other and after talking with her I suspect I know why this Frederick Stocker he disappeared."

"That bad?"

"You don't want to know how bad. A real kvetcherkeh. This woman could pickle cuc.u.mbers without the brine. He had a boat, she said. He called it The Debit. Such a clever name for an accountant who is also a thief, don't you think? A thirty-foot sloop. What's a sloop, I couldn't tell you if you klopt mein kop with an anchor, but that's what it was, a sloop. He cared more for the boat than he did for her, she said. I hate boats, wouldn't get on another for the life of me, but between you and me, I agree with him. Mine guess is that this thief Stocker he sold his boat and bought another and is sailing somewhere full of joy because he is on his boat and his wife is not."