Even before she was finished testifying I had asked the court for a recess and, along with Beth, ran to the clerk’s office for a fresh subpoena, filling it out on the ride down the courthouse elevator. There was one other person, I knew, who could contradict her story, the person who had been the liaison between Jimmy Moore and Norvel Goodwin, who had set up the deal for the quarter of a million and had told Goodwin where Veronica had been hiding out the day she was to testify. The same person who had been with Jimmy Moore the night of the murder, the man whose footprints had been encased in Bissonette’s vomit and Bissonette’s blood. I filled in Henry’s name hastily as I rode down to the ground floor and Beth fished in her pocketbook for a check for the witness fee. The murder had happened on Henry’s night off and he had flashed an alibi to the cops, who had been all too willing to believe the driver so as to put the blame on Concannon, but I was sure now that Henry’s alibi was a lie. In a desperate trot I ran to the Market Street exit of the courthouse, where I was sure the councilman’s limo would be waiting with Henry sitting calmly inside. He was my last chance. I spotted that black cat of a car at the corner of the building and rushed to it, tapping on the window, thrusting the papers inside as soon as there was a gap big enough to fit my arm. But the face underneath the chauffeur’s cap was white, not black, and he looked at me uncomprehendingly as the papers waved before him.
“Where’s Henry?” I asked.
“Kingston.”
“New York?”
“Jamaica. He went back to his family. Something about it being too damn cold up here, and I don’t blame him one bit.”
Six hours of deliberations and then the solemn tolling of the bell. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
Eggert proved willing to settle for a councilman’s aide if he couldn’t get a councilman. He saw that he had a sure conviction in Chester Concannon, and a now shaky chance against Jimmy, and so in his closing he went after Chester with a fury. In detail he listed his crimes, the extortion, the murder, the taking for his own purposes of the quarter of a million dollars in cash, proven incontrovertibly by the records of cash deposits into and withdrawals from the checking account with Chester Concannon’s name on it, all calmly put into evidence by Prescott when he took his turn with Veronica. In Eggert’s forty-minute closing he spent thirty minutes on Chet Concannon. He tried, of course, to link Councilman Moore to his aide, but even that attempt only further highlighted his argument that Chester was the real culprit here.
Prescott didn’t have to say much when his turn to close arrived. He gave his public servant speech, blamed Moore’s indictment on politics. Concannon was guilty, he told them, that was no longer in doubt. The only question remaining was what vile motives led the United States Attorney to indict the councilman too. “When you acquit Jimmy Moore,” he argued, “you are not only acquitting an innocent man. You are also sending a message to the powers in this city that you will not tolerate the persecution of a man who is fighting for the poor, the downtrodden, who is fighting the scourge of drugs on our streets, who is fighting for you. Ladies and gentlemen, politics has its time and place, during campaigns, during elections, even in the legislative process, but it has no place before the grand jury. Mr. Eggert forgot exactly who he works for when he indicted Councilman Moore. Before the grand jury and before this court he was working for the councilman’s political opponents, acting for their and his political gain. Tell him that he works not for the powerful, not for himself, but for you. Tell him the clearest way you can, tell him with an acquittal. Send Jimmy Moore back to his good work.”
I closed too, of course. I stood before that jury and spoke about Chester Concannon and reasonable doubt and how Jimmy Moore had conspired to have his aide take the fall. Oh, I let it rip, I did. But it was a lost cause and I knew it and the jury knew it and when the eyes started rolling and the yawns came, first from Mr. Thompkins, who ran his own printing business and who I knew would be a tough sell, and then from the cynical Mrs. Simpson, whom I was counting on if I had any chance, it was as good as over. I kept pounding away, repeating “reasonable doubt,” “reasonable doubt,” “reasonable doubt,” as if I were a hypnotist trying to induce some post-trial daze in the jurors. I gave it the college try for dear old Chet, yes I did, but it mattered not a whit. Six hours of deliberations and the groaning moan of the great iron bell of justice: guilty, guilty, guilty.
There was a gay tinkling ring as the elevator stopped at the fifty-fourth floor and the doors slid open. Talbott, Kittredge and Chase. That huge expanse of lobby, beautiful and sterile; that blonde receptionist, beautiful and cold. Maybe there was another reason my resentment had vanished. Maybe the brass ring had been tarnished for me. If deceit and betrayal were the price of admission, I’d just as soon sit it out. That was something I had learned about myself, something good. I had learned enough bad about myself, my incompetence, my capacity for self-delusion, my steep leanings toward venality, but I had learned good things, too. I looked around at the riches of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase and decided that maybe I just didn’t want it anymore. Well, the receptionist I wanted still, let’s be honest, she was something, sure, but the rest could all go to hell for all I cared. And maybe, just maybe, I would do my part to send it there.
“William Prescott, please,” I said to the receptionist.
“Who can I say is here?”
“You don’t remember me?”
She gave one of those patented tosses of her mousse-swept hair and said, “No. I don’t.”
“Victor Carl.”
Her eyes opened wide for just an instant, just long enough so I knew that the story had spread through the whole of the firm, from partners to associates to secretaries to the receptionist. Even the cleaning crew, I bet, had a good laugh at my expense.
“Take a seat please, Mr. Carl, and I’ll tell his secretary you’re here.”
“Don’t bother,” I said as I headed toward the stairs. “I know the way.”
She stood up. “You can’t go unescorted Mr. Carl. That’s policy.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said without stopping. “But it’s your policy and I don’t work here.”
By the time I reached the stairs on my way to Prescott’s office she was already barking about me on the phone.
Up the wide circling stairs with the burnished rail, along the lucratively noisy hallways with secretaries typing vigorously and lawyers bustling in and out of their offices as they hurried to fill up their time sheets with billable hours, around the corners and past the richly furnished conference rooms, generously outfitted with legal pads and embossed pens and soft drinks. I had just reached the custodian’s closet, where I had spent desperate hours with Sheldon waiting for the hall to empty, when a flustered Janice rushed to meet me. She wasn’t as efficiently pretty as I remembered her to be on our first meeting, though the difference might have been mine.
“Oh, Mr. Carl,” she said. “You can’t just wander around the office alone.”
I lifted my hands. “No staplers in my pockets, honest.”
“It’s policy,” she said. “Mr. Prescott is on a conference call. I’ll take you to a meeting room to wait for him if you’d like.”
“That’s all right, Janice,” I said as I started again toward Prescott’s office, brushing past her. “But I’ll just wait with Billy. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
She sort of chugged after me saying something or other, but I ignored her. Why I was being so obstreperous is clear to me now. One result of my experience at the trial was to loose some shackle from my neck. I had always felt that there was a right way to behave, a right way to dress, a right manner to affect, as if all these rights would add up to something tangible, and add up to something tangible they did. What they added up to was a slavery of the soul. I had so wanted to be them I pretended to be like them, which only made it easier for them to kick me in the groin and step on my face whenever they liked. I was playing a losing game because I was playing on their turf, by their rules, number one of which stated that they always won and I always lost. But I guess I had lost one too many times. My long bitter period of obeisance had passed. I was reveling in my freedom to be whatever I chose, even if what I chose to be was rude.