Hostile Witness Part 46

"You knew. s.h.i.+t." I struggled to rise to a sitting position and felt my stomach fall like it was falling down a shaft. "What about the series of cash deposits made into your account?" I asked, trying to fight the nausea.

"Jimmy told me what to do. I only did what Jimmy told me."

"Where did the money end up?"

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I don't know."

My falling stomach hit bottom with a spasm. "Oh my G.o.d," I gasped. "I have to go." I stumbled to my feet and reached out to steady myself and missed the couch armrest and slammed my head into the side table and fell to my knees. It was already up, in my mouth, held there by clenched teeth and my right hand when I struggled again to my feet and ran, bent over, like a hunchback, to the stairs and up two half-flights to her bathroom.

It came out in a noisy, involuntary series of retches that left my sides cramping and my throat burning and saliva hanging from my mouth in long strands. With each retch it felt like it was coming from deeper inside me, until it hurt as much as if pieces of my lungs and guts were coming up along with the alcohol. The toilet was violet from the drinks, violent in color and smell, and my head hung just above the putridity as I waited for the next round. I was still wearing my raincoat, my suit was damp with a feverish sweat. In a brief moment of peace I turned my head and saw her there, leaning against the doorjamb just as I had imagined, except for her face, which was not smug but sad and concerned. I involuntarily lunged back for the bowl as the retches began again. The next time I turned around she was gone.

When it was finished I stood up and felt instantly relieved, light, spry. I was no longer sweating, the room was no longer spinning, but there was enough alcohol in me to still feel the recklessness of a mild buzz. I cleaned my face with cold water and soap and then opened her medicine cabinet. It was full of cosmetics arranged haphazardly, little red plastic medicine containers, Band-Aids, too many Band-Aids. I pulled out a thick plastic comb and ran it through my hair, I used her toothbrush to scrub my teeth, I rinsed my mouth with her Scope. When I came downstairs she was putting on an overcoat.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Away. It's ruined for me here."

"Because of what I did in court today?"

"No, but that was the signal to leave."

"Why don't you stay, get some help?"

"I don't need help," she said.

"You're a drug addict, Veronica. You need help. You need to check in someplace."

"I'm going home."

"Iowa?" I asked.

"Maybe."

"You need more than a veterinarian."

"Good-bye, Victor."

"He's going to let Chester take the rap for what he did."

"I know," she said. "That's too bad. Chet was always sweet to me. We slept together once, did I tell you? The night he said he had a crush on me I let him."

I tried not to think about it, to imagine it. "You could save him," I pressed on. "You could testify, tell them what happened."

"No, I can't, Victor. You know I can't do anything against Jimmy."

"He didn't save you, Veronica. Look at yourself."

"But what he did he did for me, don't you see? Of all of you, of Zack and you and Norvel and Chet, of all of you only Jimmy loved me. I won't betray that."

"I love you."

"You love it," she said sharply.

"More than that."

"Really, Victor? Consider it carefully. From the first I've lied to you. We've never spent a full night together, never shared breakfast, the first coffee of the morning, the first cigarette. You know nothing about me, Victor, so what about me could you possibly love other than our s.e.x?"

"It's not so easily calculable, it's not like a ledger."

"Oh, yes it is," she said. "Just like you told me the first night we met."

"You can't know what I feel."

"I don't think you know either."

There was a pause and I started thinking about what she was saying and then I stopped, because I didn't want to think about it, I didn't want to look into it.

"You're the only one who can stop Chester from losing his freedom," I said. "Stop him from losing his life for something he didn't do. You have the duty to save him."

"No, Victor. You're his lawyer. You save him." She looked up at me with moist eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. "Please."

I couldn't tell if she was asking me to save Chester or asking me to save her, but it didn't really matter. I leaned over and brushed one of her tears away with my lips and then kissed her and her lips opened and my lips opened and I felt her tongue once again and the electricity and the wanting and the unquenchable thirst. I reached a hand to her hair and grabbed and kissed her again and she kissed me back and I wished desperately that it could have been different. She sighed into my mouth. I rubbed my hand in her hair and kissed her again.

"You brushed your teeth, at least," she said.

I smiled at her and we kissed once more and my hand dropped from her hair to her back to the little hollow at the bottom of her spine and I pressed her to me there and her arms slung themselves around my neck and we squeezed ourselves together and the alcohol in my blood burned itself off with that kiss. And as she pulled me closer toward her, melting herself to the contours of my body, I knew what I had to do. With my free hand I reached into my raincoat and grappled around and pulled out the envelope.

"This is for you," I said.

She gave me a curious look and then ripped open the envelope with the excitement of a little girl opening a valentine. But it wasn't a valentine.

Inside was a piece of paper with great Gothic letters across the top spelling out "The United States District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania" and ordering the said Veronica Ashland of 225 Church Street in the City of Philadelphia, the County of Philadelphia, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, to appear in the United States District Court on the date specified, at 10:00 A.M., as a witness for defendant Chester Concannon in the trial of United States v. Moore and Concannon. The doc.u.ment was signed by the clerk of the court and accompanied by a check for thirty-six dollars, which included the witness fee and travel reimburs.e.m.e.nt for the four-block walk from her apartment to the courthouse.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said when she realized what it was. "You subpoenaed me."

"Yes, I did."

"How could you? How dare you?"

"You told me that I should save Chet's b.u.t.t. That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"I won't go. I'm not going."

"If you don't go, sweetheart, you're going to end up in jail."

"f.u.c.k you."

I leaned over again to kiss her on the cheek, but she backed away from me as if I were about to rip her flesh with my teeth. So instead I gave her a light chuck on the arm and left her apartment for good.

From the huge window in her elevator, as it dropped slowly, I could see the empty plaza and the cobbled street beyond. It was still raining, pouring. Across the city old men, dazed by too much alcohol and life, were snoring. I turned up the collar of my raincoat and dashed out into the plaza. When I reached the street I looked first right, then left. I saw the car, an old gray Honda Accord, a short way down the street, parked in front of a little coffee store. I ran to it. The door opened and I ducked inside.

"An umbrella, Victor," said Sheldon Kapustin. "It's a relatively new invention, but very handy on nights like tonight."

"Where's Morris?"

"My father hasn't spent all night on a stakeout since the Rosenbluth jewelry heist of 'seventy-eight. Did he ever tell you about that one?"

"No."

"He will. It's his favorite story."

"She's in there. Pretty, shoulder-length brown hair, about five six, thin. She's wearing a navy blue overcoat. She'll be carrying a black suitcase. She didn't pack much, and practically no cosmetics, so I don't expect she'll be going far."

"Is there a back entrance?"

"Only an emergency exit with an alarm. No, if she comes out she'll come out here. I just want to know where she is. If she's about to get on a train or a plane stop her and then let me know immediately. I'll get a U.S. marshal on her."

"Sure thing."

"What about Corpus Christi?"

"Just so happens, Victor, the number I spotted is a pay phone next to a marina. We sent a picture down to someone we trust to check it out."

"Let me know."

He nodded. "You want a ride home?"

"I'll find a cab," I said. "You just keep your eye on her."

"If she's as pretty as you say, Victor, that won't be a problem."

The rain was falling into my collar and down my back as I walked along Market Street looking for a cab. By the time I found one I was so wet it didn't matter. I sat in the rear, rainwater puddling on the vinyl seat, and leaned my head back. I wanted to sleep is what I wanted to do. I was tired, too tired to even lift my head. I thought about stripping off my soaking clothes and standing in a hot shower and collapsing onto my pillow and sleeping. But I didn't have the time. What I had to do was strip off my clothes and take a cold shower and spend the night with my trial notes and my law books and prepare myself to devastate the inevitably self-serving and perjured testimony of James Douglas Moore.

48.

I WAS WORKING AT MY red Formica dining table, preparing for Moore's examination, when my doorbell rang. The table was covered with doc.u.ments and yellow pads and books, Mauet's Fundamentals of Trial Technique, Wellman's The Art of Cross-Examination, Appleman's Successful Jury Trials, my copy of the Federal Criminal Code and Rules, but even with all that help I was getting nowhere. And then my doorbell rang. It was after 10:00 P.M. and no one should have been ringing my bell after 10:00 P.M. I remembered that the last time my bell had been rung late at night I had found Veronica on my doorstep. That would be serious trouble, I thought, but I couldn't help but also remember the feel of that last kiss and know that I still wanted more.

In a T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans I slipped cautiously down the steps and peered into the vestibule. Outside, it was still raining. I could see a woman in a raincoat standing in the vestibule, staring back out to the street. My throat closed down on me for a moment and then she turned around.

"Beth," I said as I ripped open the door. "G.o.d, come in, Beth."

She stepped into the hallway, her hair flat against her head, her raincoat dripping. She looked closely at my face as if in doubt as to what she would find there. "I heard about what happened in court today," she said. "How you went after that witness."

I nodded. "The good reverend. Well, my client seems to have discovered that he was being betrayed."

"How did he discover that?"

"Somehow, and I'm not saying how, but somehow I got hold of a doc.u.ment from Prescott's office that spelled it out."

"And you gave it to him?"

"He's my client."

She smiled cautiously. "So I a.s.sume then, Victor, your future will not be taken care of by William Prescott III. What about those horrible Bishop brothers?"

"I've been fired," I said. "And the Saltz settlement's been pulled."

Her smile widened. "My oh my. How are we ever going to make ends meet now?"

"We?"

"The news said that Moore would be on the stand tomorrow. I thought you might want help preparing your cross."

"What about Community Legal Services?" I asked. "What about aiding the poor and disadvantaged?"

She shook her head at me and then reached around my waist, giving a crus.h.i.+ng hug. The wet of her raincoat soaked cold through my T-s.h.i.+rt. "That's what I'm doing, Victor," she said. "And frankly, sweetheart, you can use all the aid you can get."

She disentangled herself from me and headed up the stairs. I looked after her for a moment. So it wasn't all bad, I thought as I watched her climb to my apartment. Even if everything else turned out wrong, it wasn't all bad.

We worked. Beth's mind was more a.n.a.lytical than mine and she helped me organize my disparate thoughts and far-flung tactics. Together we began to map out a strategy for going after the councilman, a thrust here, a trap there, questions emphasizing two facts that when brought together were blatantly inconsistent. We outlined generally the approaches I would take and then practiced on each other, framing our questions with great care to avoid the inevitable evasiveness of his answers. And where before Beth arrived I had been at a total loss, as we worked together the examination began to form itself into something more than a series of unconnected questions, to form itself into a coherent and effective a.s.sault on his credibility.

I was stretching from weariness, shaking my head at how much more we had to do, when the phone rang.

"So how do you think the old lady looked?" said Chuckie Lamb from the other end of the connection. His voice was subdued, not a bark anymore, but the sound of it still sent a s.h.i.+ver through me.

"I didn't mean to bother her," I said.

"How do you think she looked?" he said again, more insistent.

"Pretty good, Chuckie."

"Yeah, but you should have seen her when. She was a beauty when. A real beauty."

"I'm sorry if..."

"She was the queen of the neighborhood," he said, cutting me off before I could finish apologizing for my visit. "And cla.s.sy too. The windows in our house, they came from up and down the street to see her curtains, from blocks around. She was artistic, she loved the opera. That's what we listened to, after my father left, all the time. It was great after my father left because he was a f.u.c.k and after he left then it was just Mommy and me. She was a beauty, I'm telling you."

"I believe it," I lied. I couldn't imagine that toad-faced woman with her working gums as a bathing beauty. Beth was staring up at me, wondering what was going on. I shrugged like I had no idea, which I didn't.