“Chet, do you want to go to prison?”
“I’ve been there already and let me tell you, I’d rather sit in prison than on that stoop. You do whatever Prescott tells you to do. I’ll take my chances with the councilman.”
Another lawyer might have decided to withdraw, might have told the judge that despite his client’s wishes he could not be ready, forcing a continuance so that new counsel would have sufficient time to prepare. Another lawyer might have walked away knowing he was acting in the best interests of his client. That is what another lawyer might have done. But it wasn’t another lawyer standing there before prune-faced Judge Gimbel, it was me, with a $15,000 retainer check in my inside jacket pocket and my name on a guest list to a black-tie fund-raiser where I would meet the important people it was so very important for me to know. And somewhere in the uncertain future were newspapers with my picture featured prominently on the front page, adorning articles about this case, and deals in which Prescott had promised to include me, and cases he had promised to refer to me, and gobs of money he had all but guaranteed would be mine. And, yes, somewhere out there in that gray and ugly city was the mysterious Veronica, on whose dress strap I had pinned a single rose and who now had my number on a bent and spindled card.
“We’ll be ready,” I told the judge when Concannon and I had returned from the back of the courtroom.
“Now, Mr. Concannon,” said the judge. “I’m willing to give you a continuance if you ask, but your counsel tells me you don’t want one. Is that correct?”
Concannon stood. “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“So I don’t want to hear from you that your counsel didn’t have enough time to prepare if the verdict goes against you,” said the judge. “You are waiving your right to that claim in any future proceedings, and your right to any other insufficiency of counsel claim. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, sir,” said Concannon.
“Explain it to him anyway, Mr. Carl,” said the judge.
I leaned over and explained it to him as if English was indeed his second language.
“That’s fine with me,” said Concannon.
“You satisfied with that, Mr. Eggert?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Eggert.
“Do us all a favor, Mr. Carl,” said Judge Gimbel, “and stay away from Chinatown until this case is over. October sixth, ten o’clock. Come prepared to pick a jury.”
9
THE PHILADELPHIA MUSEUM OF ART sits aristocratic and brown atop a rise at a bend in the Schuylkill River, spreading its wings to embrace the whole of the city before it. Long flights of stairs rise from a great statue of Washington on horseback to a courtyard fountain, surrounded by columns supporting colorful Greek pediments. It is a grand entrance, made famous by the movies, and the courtyard affords a spectacular view of Philadelphia. At night, with a full moon and the city lights twinkling, if you squint you can imagine yourself someplace exquisite and full of hope, someplace elegant and magical. For me that had always meant someplace else until that evening. That evening the city truly did seem to sparkle like a jewel of promise in the night, a jewel ready to be plucked.
I didn’t have an invitation and so, while gay, formally dressed men and women with haircuts and gleaming teeth flashed their invitations and breezed on by, laughing, I had to wait as the guard at the rear lobby checked for my name on the list.
“Oh, yeah, here you are, Mr. Carl,” said the guard. “But it only says one.”
“There must have been a mistake,” I said in my best Winston Osbourne impression.
“I guess so, Mr. Carl. Go on in and enjoy yourself. You too, ma’am.”
“I suppose men in tuxedos do get more respect,” I said once we got inside.
“Unless they’re mistaken for busboys,” said Beth.
I had brought Beth because I needed company as I brushed shoulders with a crowd two or three classes above me. She would rather have spent the night at Chaucer’s Pub, where the draft beer is Rolling Rock and T-shirts are acceptable, but as a favor to me she had put on her red dress, the tight one, about which she was forever fretting as to whether or not it still fit. It fit tonight. Its smooth curves softened the normal sharpness of her face and she looked almost beautiful. I had always been a little bit in love with Beth. It was never a sexual attraction, really, but there was a power in Beth that I could sense, a sharp integrity. In some strange way I needed her to think I was worthy of her and, to my astonishment, she always had. Beth was my best friend, it was as simple as that. And that night I thought my best friend looked pretty damn good.
I looked pretty damn good myself. It was the first time I had ever worn my tuxedo. I bought it when I was still full of optimism and beneficence, six years before, in anticipation of my wedding. It is a long story, but suffice it to say that on the eve of the ceremony my bride-to-be took a long hard look at me and decided she was too young to be married. The tuxedo didn’t fit like it had when I bought it, but I guess that’s why they invented cummerbunds.
We handed our coats off to the coat check guy and climbed the stairs alongside the huge yellow Chagall mural of a sun and a field of wheat and a man stuck out alone in a boat. We passed statues of fat naked women, turgid bronze breasts thrust forward, and stepped into the Great Hall, where a huge formal staircase rose to a bronze of the naked Evelyn Nesbit as Venus. Underneath a soaring Calder mobile we snatched champagne glasses from a passing silver tray. The place was teeming with tuxedos and formal gowns; they leaned against the walls and huddled in cliques and glided like spirits in and out of the open galleries. A small jazz band played at the foot of the stairs. A tray of cheese sticks passed by and I swiped three.
“What’s this benefit for again?” asked Beth as she sipped her champagne and looked around.
“Drugs, I think, or maybe AIDS,” I said. “I’m not sure.”
“Misery is such a clever excuse for a party.”
“I’ve never been to one of these before,” I said. “Are those little shish kebabs over there?”
“It’s amazing how far you’ve come in just a few days, Victor. Our finances are on the edge of solvency, your face was on the television this evening, standing behind Moore as he gave his speech on the courtroom steps, and if you don’t watch out your name will be in bold print in the society column. ‘Who was that partying into the wee hours last night for AIDS? Why, our own Victor Carl, looking very chic in his black tie.’”
“I was beginning to wonder if I would ever wear this thing.”
“You look good in it.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. I did look good in it, and I felt good in it, too. For a moment as I stood among that crowd of the wealthy, the sophisticated, the elite, who had done all they could to keep me out, as I stood there and surveyed the scene something hard and cold in my gut began to ease and the bitterness seemed to melt away. I was finally where I was always meant to be. I looked around and sipped champagne and decided I would stay.
“I should wear my tuxedo more often,” I said.
“Julie doesn’t know what she missed.”
“Let’s find Prescott,” I said, suddenly scanning the crowd. “You should meet him.”
“Look at that face on you, my God. Oh, I’m sorry, Victor.”
“There he is, now,” I said and I led her to a stern looking Prescott and two sober-faced round men in the corner. Together they looked like mourners at a wake. They were standing before a Diego Rivera mural, three soldiers swathed in bandoliers cutting down a whipped and hogtied man and wrapping him in blankets. As we approached Prescott I slowed down, warned off by the demeanor of the men and the somberness of the mural, but then Prescott saw me and his face cracked into a smile that drew me to him.