“Did he make any comments to you as to what actually must have happened?” asked Delaney.
“Yes, sir,” said Simson eagerly, “he made comments and...”
“And suggestions as to what should go into the affidavit?”
“Need I remind the witness that he is under oath?” asked Tranquillini off-handedly, “and that the witnesses to this conversation are still alive and able to testify?”
Simson cleared his throat. “Mr. Kearny... um... made no suggestions per se, no, sir.”
“Mr. Hearing Officer, I have a great deal of difficulty in examining the witness on this document because I don’t understand in what way it impeaches his sworn testimony.” Delaney’s voice was angry and baffled, as if he were just realizing the mistake he had made in emphasizing the prior antagonist relationship between Kearny and Simson due to Simson’s dismissal from DKA in February.
Tranquillini was on his feet. “I believe I can explain to counsel how this document impeaches his witness if I could have permission, from time to time, to go slightly beyond the docu—”
“Objection,” said Delaney.
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
The Hearing Officer said, “I will rule on the admissibility of counsel’s statements as they occur.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. After the witness stated that he tried to call my office and got no answer on November fifth, I had my answering service’s records searched. No call, none at all, was logged in during the hour and date in question.”
“I would point out,” said Delaney hurriedly, “that answering service records are not kept according to the rules of evidence.”
“Noted. Please proceed, Mr. Tranquillini.”
“In his affidavit the witness stated that only he and Miss Onoda were in the office that evening, with Ms. Rose Kelly on the front office switchboard. We now have located Ms. Kelly, who is willing to testify that she was not on the switchboard that day and hour in question.”
Delaney had started to rise to object, but he hesitated, then sank back down while staring thoughtfully at Simson on the stand.
“Faulty recollection on the witness’s part?” asked Tranquillini. “Perhaps. His memory seems very convenient. But his affidavit also states that the Pivarski transaction was ‘just a normal collection’ — his own words.”
He raked Simson with scorn-filled eyes. “Four days ago, when he wrote this statement, that was all he could remember, Your Honor. Yet now he remembers, under oath, the letter Pivarski is supposed to have gotten Kathy Onoda’s signature on. This, even though the State cannot produce this signed letter. He remembers a call to me of which there is no record. He remembers Miss Onoda fraudulently writing and destroying a normal DKA receipt for the Pivarski payment. Yet he cannot remember the address where he lived six months ago. Only with difficulty can he remember the address where he lived for two years. He cannot remember the name of one other of the two thousand accounts he serviced as a DKA collector...”
Tranquillini waved a hand as if too disgusted to continue. “Your Honor, I have no desire to go any further at this time. The document speaks for itself. The Hearing Officer will review this witness’s testimony in relation to the document, to determine if it does impeach.” He turned cold eyes on Simson. “You are excused.”
Delaney began, “Mr. Hearing Officer—”
The Hearing Officer cut him off curtly. “At the end of yesterday’s hearing, I directed Complainant to present Mr. Pivarski to this hearing. We are now ready to have Mr. Pivarski sworn in.”
“I... cannot produce him at this time, Your Honor,” said Delaney in an uncomfortable voice. “I have been assured by his attorneys that we can have him here Monday morning, but...”
After a long pause the Hearing Officer looked over at Tranquillini. “Counselor?”
“Monday morning is acceptable to the Respondent, Your Honor.”
Or never, even, thought Tranquillini. It looked as if he had been successful in showing Simson’s testimony was tainted and thus, in keeping the letter out of evidence. Temporarily. But on Monday he had to start all over again with Pivarski. Pivarski’s direct testimony would get the letter in for sure, unless he was also able to discredit him. He’d gambled that by pushing a subpoena for Pivarski, Heslip would get enough time to find Verna Rounds, so they’d have direct testimony on their side. It looked like he’d lost the gamble. And cost Kearny his license in the process.
“Very well,” said the Hearing Officer. “These proceedings are adjourned until ten o’clock on Monday morning.”
Twenty-Five
It was eight at night before Cliff Brown appeared at the three-decker in Roxbury; a slight, black man with big feet he pointed out as he walked. His receding poll and horn-rim glasses gave him a spuriously intellectual look.
“Johnny Mack?” He shook his head. He smelled companionably of beer and cigars. Down the hall, a TV blared. “California.”
Heslip had a foot in the door. He was wearing shades to get the slightly menacing effect of a hooded falcon. “I heard different.”
“You heard wrong.” He gestured with his cigar. His voice was high-pitched and breathless, like a jackleg preacher shouting after parishioners on the street. “And if you don’t move that foot outta my door you gonna need a surgeon to sew it back on the ankle.”
“We heard Johnny Mack was livin’ with you.”
Brown came out on the porch a couple of feet, and Heslip stepped back. “Okay, that was four-five months back. But he lef, said he was goin back to California.”
“What about his woman? Verna take her dollar-a-day habit back to California, too?”
“Never heard of her.”
And Brown stepped nimbly back and slammed the door in Heslip’s face. Through the frosted glass panel, which was decorated with scrolls and fountains, he could hear Brown’s high-pitched sneering laughter. Chagrined, Heslip grunted, and went up the exterior stairway to the third-floor porch outside sister Ethel’s place. He had seen her going off somewhere an hour before; maybe her man knew something she didn’t.
He turned the knob and pulled the door back hard toward the hinges, then put his shoulder to the shellacked wood framing the glass panel, just where it met the door frame, and shoved violently. The door flew open and Heslip was in a hallway that ran back to the head of interior stairs leading down through the building. Opposite the head of the stairs was a varnished oak door leading into Ethel’s apartment.
Heslip knocked. After about forty-five seconds, a heavy-set black man wearing a striped shirt and maroon slacks and slippers opened the door. “How’d you git inside this buil—”
Heslip crowded against him and was inside. With a heel he hooked the door shut behind him. He didn’t know what degree of crime he was committing, since he knew nothing of Massachusetts statues; but he knew it was some sort of breaking and entering — at night, a dwelling, unarmed. The heavyset man gave before Heslip’s shove, then stood against the far side of the hall and let out a long, sad breath.
“After cash, there ain’t any. Movables, there’s the TV set and me.”
Heslip had his hands thrust deep in his topcoat pockets because he had no gloves and didn’t want to leave fingerprints. But he realized that with the shades and his bulky muscularity and those hands which could be holding guns in the pockets, he would pass as muscle.
“No rip-off,” he said. He let his head swivel theatrically to check down the hall toward the unlighted kitchen, up the hall toward the living room where a TV murmured, “You sittin’ the kids?”
The heavyset man stiffened slightly. His eyes went to the rear bedroom adjacent to the doorway where they stood. “Now you leave them kids outta whatever—”