"One hundred pages?" Cullitan asked, sitting, placing the report before him. The prosecutor was a large man, fifty-six years of age, his gray hair streaked by stubborn dark strands, his quiet manner belying the power that could erupt from him in a courtroom.
"Eighty-five pages," Ness said, shrugging, sitting across from the prosecutor. "But when you start taking the witness depositions, you'll need a bigger office to hold the transcripts."
"You got witnesses to come forward?"
"Over one hundred." Ness pointed at the black-jacketed report. "We've substantiated forty-five acts of vandalism, bribery, and extortion. The Marketer's Co-op has already been disbanded, and we've made twenty-one arrests."
Cullitan's smile was gently mocking. "That stunt of yours, at the food terminal last month, would seem to have paid off."
Ness smiled back, somewhat sheepishly. "Well, Frank-I don't like to think of it as a stunt exactly…"
Cullitan's smile settled in one cheek. "Even if your reporter friend Sam Wild did happen to be on the scene, along with half the photographers in town."
Ness could only shrug.
Cullitan shrugged, too, his smile fading. "You took a chance, even so. This criticism you've been getting from both the AFL and CIO-you fueled it by following up your Republic Steel stint so quickly with this performance at the terminal."
Rather stiffly, Ness said, "I've taken chances before. If I only did my job when it was politically advantageous, then-"
Cullitan cut in: "I know you've taken chances. And I know your attitude toward politics. If I haven't made it clear, let me say that, uh, I'm grateful for what… well, I am grateful."
Both men lapsed into an embarrassed silence. What the prosecutor was referring to was this: the safety director, an appointee of a Republican mayor, had supported and campaigned for the reelection of a certain Democratic county prosecutor.
Ness shifted in the wooden chair. "This food terminal shakedown is only the iceberg's tip, Frank. Labor racketeering is just as widespread and entrenched in this town as police corruption was a year ago."
Cullitan smiled gently. "That just goes to show what can be accomplished in a year." He patted the report again, almost affectionately. "These witnesses wouldn't be coming forward unless they felt they could talk to the police without it getting back to the bad guys."
"I think we've built some trust," Ness said. "Particularly when my own staff is doing the questioning."
"You've assembled some good people. So… what's our next target? Caldwell and McFate?"
Ness nodded. "Caldwell and McFate."
"I take it you weren't able to tie them to the market shakedowns."
"No. Gibson is their man, but Gibson is not among those we've arrested."
"Why in hell not?"
"He-and his attorney-are taking the position that he is the bargaining agent for the union and was not aware that some of his members were 'overstepping their bounds.'"
"And his goons are backing him up, I suppose?"
"Yes. They're all taking his fall."
"That's an AFL union, isn't it?"
"Yes. And they're backing him… nominally. He has resigned from his post, and I understand a CIO union is attempting to organize the market."
"The Teamsters?"
"Yes."
"That's a rough bunch."
Ness shrugged. "Not for me to judge, unless they break the law. They're truckers, not interior decorators."
Cullitan's fleshy face was creased in a frown. "But that Teamster Whitehall, he's been a problem…"
"He's a roughneck. We'll keep an eye on him. But in the meantime, Harry Gibson is out of work, anyway, if not in jail."
"Wasn't there anyone to testify against him?"
"No. Apparently his men did all the dirty work."
Cullitan's eyes narrowed. "Knowing Gibson's record, I find that difficult to believe."
"It's more likely the witnesses are simply afraid to finger him directly."
Cullitan rapped a fist on the report cover. "And he's the link to Caldwell and McFate."
"Yes. But I never held out hope this market investigation would lead us to them. We need to focus on the area where they are directly involved: building construction."
Cullitan raised his eyebrows. "Construction is hardly the word for it."
"Destruction is more like it," Ness agreed. He shook his head, smiled mirthlessly. "When I was studying criminology back at the University of Chicago, it never occurred to me I'd be chasing window smashers."
Cullitan laughed shortly. "Doesn't sound like a major crime, exactly, does it?"
"Not unless," Ness said, sighing, standing, “you're talking ten thousand windows. I'll look forward to your reaction to my report."
And he shook hands with Cullitan and headed back to City Hall.
As Ness was nearing the private entry to his office, Sam Wild stepped out of the press room, just across the way. Wild wore his usual white seersucker suit and today's bow tie was blue.
"You turned your report in to Cullitan, I take it," Wild said, cigarette dangling from the corner of a sardonic smirk.
"Yes, Sam."
"Get any pictures taken?"
"No, Sam."
"You're losing your touch. You ain't had your picture on the front page in, what? Two weeks?"
"What's your point, Sam?"
"No point. Just giving you the needle."
"What's on your mind, Sam?"
Wild lifted his shoulders with studied casualness, set them down the same way. "I don't want to see you back off on this labor stuff, just 'cause some people are giving you a little heat."
"Why, is this an issue you care about?"
"The only issue I care about is any Plain Dealer with my by-line under a big juicy headline. Why do you think I got myself permanently assigned to the Ness beat? You're the best story in town."
"Why, thank you, Sam."
"What other safety director would go undercover just to make a bust himself? Corny, but effective."
"Corny?"
"Hey, I'm not being critical-if you hadn't made that bust yourself, the terminal shakedown wouldn't have got near the play in the press. Gotta hand it to you."
"I appreciate the kudos, Sam. Now, if you don't mind, I have a meeting-"
"You're going after Caldwell and McFate, aren't you?"
Ness said nothing.
"Off the record, of course," Wild said impatiently.
Ness said nothing.
Then he nodded.
Wild's eyes lit up like a hollowed-out pumpkin's on Halloween. "I want in."
"You'll be in."
"I mean, let me sit in on the meeting."
"I don't want any press coverage."
"I won't write it up. I just want in, on the ground floor of this thing."
"I don't think so."
"Come on! I've been a help in the past, haven't I? I can go places, do things, that your boys can't."
"Like break and enter, you mean."
"You said that, I didn't. Didn't you tell that one magazine interviewer I was your 'top unofficial investigator'?"
"That was in a weak moment. Over drinks."
"Don't be a dope! You want in-depth coverage on this one, don't you? Let me sit in."
Ness studied Wild's somewhat satanic yet earnest countenance, then said, "Okay. But keep your mouth shut, and don't write anything up till I give the okay."
"It's a deal."
Ness opened the door and went in and Wild followed.
Chamberlin, Curry, and Captain Savage were seated at one of the conference tables in Ness's spacious office. Savage, a short, rugged man in his mid-forties, headed up the Vandal Squad, which investigated bombings, window smashings, and other vandalism.
Standing near the window, smoking a cigar, was Will Garner, a beefy six-foot-four detective who had recently signed on with the safety director's office as an investigator. Garner was dark, his hair starkly black, though he was in his mid-fifties; he was a full-blooded Sioux, and had been one of Ness's "untouchables" back in Chicago.