Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Mr. Wilkes . . .?” the judge began.

  As if pricked by a needle the attorney blurted, “What are you saying? That Basehart wasn’t there at your house all night?”

  The silence weighed so heavily in the room, that Pelham slunk in his chair. “I . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was goin’ to take a piss.” Pelham looked up at the judge. “Can I say that in court? I mean . . . I got up in the middle a’ the night, about one, to go to the bathroom. You know, all that beer. Anyways, when I walked past Edison’s bed—I had to pass it on the way to the pisser . . . the bathroom—he wasn’t there.”

  “You’re sure? It was pitch-dark, wasn’t it?”

  “There’s a window, and the neon light from the cafe across the street shines right through. It didn’t light up on anythin’ but the blanket on his bed.” He shifted in the chair. “Somethin’ else I gotta say. There’s a night table by Edison’s bed, where the alarm clock is—that’s how I knew what time it was. There was also a gun on the table. Edison had been cleanin’ it ’n put it there before goin’ to bed. Well, when I walked by his bed at one, the gun was gone along with Edison.”

  “There weren’t no gun! That’s a damn lie!” Basehart shouted. His thin frame sprang from the chair, almost snapping over the table as his hand reached toward the witness stand. “I’d like ta rattle the truth outta ya!”

  The judge rapped loudly, as the court broke into a ripple of murmuring. “The defendant will be seated and remain quiet.” Several reporters ran down the aisle and out the door.

  “But that son-of-a-bitch’s lyin’ through his teeth. A man ain’t got no right to lie like that, not once he’s put his hand on the Bible.”

  Collinsby helped settle Basehart into his chair.

  “It just ain’t right,” the defendant repeated, banging his knuckles on the table and looking down at his lap.

  Judge Spencer rubbed his eyes. “Now let’s see, where were we?” His vision drifted up to the ceiling. “Oh, yes. Mr. Wilkes, do you have any more questions of the witness?”

  Wilkes knew he should have stopped; nothing more was necessary to establish a reasonable cause. Even without Pelham’s testimony, the gun was sufficient evidence. All he needed to do was say “no” and leave the witness to the defense attorneys. Perhaps it was too easy, perhaps because that was what everyone expected, but mostly because Wilkes didn’t care if he was the Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney. He thought Pelham was lying.

  “Just a few more questions, your honor.” He stepped to the witness stand, placed his hands on the railing, and smelled the liquor on Pelham’s breath. “This testimony of yours—the part about you waking in the middle of the night and about the gun—you’ve never mentioned it before when questioned by the police.”

  “Uh . . . guess I just forgot about it.”

  “That’s pretty important testimony to have forgotten, isn’t it?”

  “Well, maybe it was because I just didn’t wanna get Edison in more hot water.”

  “You sure that’s it?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Pelham stroked his chin nervously.

  “And you’re telling it now because . . .”

  “’Cause I took an oath, ’n it ain’t right to lie in court!”

  “You’re a liar . . . a goddamn liar!” Basehart shouted.

  “Hell if I am! You’re the one who’s gonna fry!” Pelham snarled.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  The judge banged his gavel sharply. “I’ve had enough of that. Mr. Collinsby, you better instruct your client that the next time he opens his mouth, he’ll be in contempt of court.”

  “Yes, your honor,” Collinsby apologized then whispered something to Basehart, who made a face and looked away.

  Wilkes said to Pelham, “You don’t seem to be such good friends, after all. Why’s that?”

  “Told you, I’m just sayin’ the truth.”

  “You’re sure this ‘truth’ wasn’t something you just conveniently invented—”

  “Huh?”

  “—to get Mr. Basehart out of the picture so that you could take over his business, or maybe become supreme commander of G.U.N., or perhaps there’s an even simpler explanation. Perhaps you wanted to remove suspicion of Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder from someone else and lay the blame on Basehart. After all you were roommates, you had the same access to the gun in question. . . .”

  “You’re crazy!” the witness retorted. “You’re a goddamn crazy man!” Looking at the judge he demanded, “Do I hafta answer that? What the hell’s he tryin’ ta prove anyway? I mean, whose side’s he on?”

  The judge scratched his head. “I was beginning to wonder about that myself. Mr. Wilkes, are you planning to leave anything for the defense’s cross-examination?”

  Blinking hard Wilkes took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “I only want to discover the truth,” he half whispered.

  “What’s that?” Judge Spencer cupped his ear.

  Behind Wilkes the press, the townspeople, and Commonwealth’s Attorney Edgar Simpson bore their weight upon his back. “No further questions.”

  “Very well.” Judge Spencer nodded at the defendant’s table. “You gentlemen have any questions of the witness?”

  Collinsby looked at Rosen, who leaned forward. “Just one, your honor. Mr. Pelham?”

  The witness nervously scratched his jaw. “Yeah.”

  “Do you know what your blood type is?”

  Pelham stared at the lawyer. “What?”

  “I asked, what’s your blood type?”

  Furrowing his brow the witness thought deeply. After a minute of silence, broken finally by a cough from somewhere in the back of the courtroom, Pelham shook his head. “It’s pure white man’s blood, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “No further questions,” Rosen said.

  Another pause, followed by Judge Spencer scratching his head and asking Rosen, “You don’t want to know what his favorite color is?”

  “We’re finished with the witness,” Rosen replied, curling back into his chair.

  “Very well, Mr. Pelham, you may step down.”

  The witness hesitated. “You mean, that’s it? I don’t hafta answer any more questions?”

  The judge shook his head. “Not unless you want to tell us who your tailor is.” Spencer smiled at the scattered laughter his comment produced. “You’re excused, Mr. Pelham.”

  Grinning, Pelham eased himself from the witness stand and swaggered down the aisle, stopping to admire one of the sketches a reporter was doing of him.

  Meanwhile Judge Spencer felt a few strands of hair out of place and reached for his comb. Checking his watch he said, “It’s about noon. Mr. Collinsby, Mr. Rosen, guess we can wait until after lunch for you to begin your defense. Court will recess until two o’clock.”

  A light tap of the gavel released a cacophony of scraping chairs, feet scuffling along the rows of the gallery and cameras clicking like the call of locusts just outside the courtroom door. Framed in the doorway and waving his hand as if the ticker tape was falling upon his shoulders, Pelham answered a barrage of questions from reporters. He stopped occasionally to smile for the cameras.

  On the other side of the room Basehart was being led away by a lone policeman, the prisoner so tired and thin that the handcuffs seemed about to slide from his wrists. Wilkes shook his head violently. Basehart was as bad as Pelham, yet why should he feel such compassion for the defendant as to jeopardize his case and act like a damn fool in front of the whole town? Why didn’t he just do his job?

  “Jimmy!”

  Wilkes turned to see Edgar Simpson making his way through the crowd toward him. The Commonwealth’s Attorney was beet-red from his vacation; only the circles around the eyes, where his sunglasses had been, remained white.

  “Great job,” Simpson said, shaking Wilkes’s hand.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you approve.”

  “This one’s a sure thing, especially with Pelh
am’s testimony. That and the gun, of course. Wouldn’t be surprised if Collinsby and that other lawyer won’t ask to make a deal. Why not? You got ’em by the balls; all you got to do is squeeze a little harder. Know what I mean?” He gave a sharp tug with his hands then laughed.

  Wilkes asked, “What do you think I should do . . . if the defense wants a deal?”

  “Like I promised, it’s your case. Either way you can’t lose. Cut a deal, and you save the taxpayers a lot of time and money. Nail Basehart to the wall and you make a helluva name for yourself. Like I been saying, with the election for Commonwealth’s Attorney coming up . . . well, you’re not your daddy’s son for nothing.”

  Wilkes looked to the table and gathered his papers into his briefcase.

  “I gotta get going now,” Simpson said. “Several appointments this afternoon. No need for me to see the rest of the hearing anyway. What’re Basehart’s lawyers gonna do, stand on their heads and spit wooden nickels? Just one thing, Jimmy.”

  He took a step closer. Wilkes had been waiting for this and was surprised Simpson had taken so long.

  “I know this case is in the bag, but there’s no need to feel sorry for the other side. What I mean is, you’re used to dealing with corporate cases . . . somebody loses and dips into the treasury to pay a few thousand dollars fine. But here if somebody loses, he gets hurt bad. Just remember, Basehart killed a woman, and in this state convicted murderers can get the death penalty. That’s the bottom line. I don’t want you to think I’m criticizing . . . not that there’s any way you could let this case get away from you.” He paused, shaking his head. “I better shut up.”

  Patting Wilkes on the shoulder, Simpson waved good-bye then joined the rest of the courtroom exiting down the main aisle and through the double doors.

  Wilkes saw sunlight push its way past the eager reporters onto the backs of the very last row of chairs and knew he couldn’t run the gauntlet of clicking cameras. Looking around the room he noticed an emergency exit near the judge’s chambers and hurried through the door. The exit led to a small parking lot behind the courthouse where deliveries were made. Weaving his way through the parked cars, he crossed the street that led away from the main avenue to a labyrinth of side streets.

  At the next intersection he saw, about a half block down, a large sign hand-lettered in red, “Giorgio’s Pizza,” and the picture of a fat mustachioed chef beckoning customers. The last place one would expect to find an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, so Wilkes turned to walk down the street, looking over his shoulder once before entering the restaurant.

  Lining the walls were a dozen booths, half-filled with working men smelling of garlic and breaking breadsticks over plastic checkered tablecloths. He took the last booth in the corner, just before the kitchen’s swishing double doors. Settling back in his seat, Wilkes wanted to forget the trial; he stared through his glass of cloudy water the waitress had brought along with the menu.

  She returned a few minutes later, snapping her gum before asking, “Anything wrong?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The water—you want another glass?”

  “Uh . . . no.” He gave a half-hearted glance at the menu. “I’m really not very hungry.”

  A voice behind him asked, “How about splitting a pizza?”

  He turned to see Rosen. The defense attorney sat across from him and studied the menu carefully. “I haven’t had pizza in a long time. What kind do you like?”

  Wilkes stared at the other man, then glanced at the entrance to see if anyone else had come with him. “How’d you get here?”

  “I walked, just like you.”

  “You followed me.”

  The waitress snapped her gum.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Rosen said. “We’d better order. How about mushrooms and onions?”

  “Uh . . . all right.”

  “And two beers—whatever’s on tap.”

  Simpson had said that Basehart’s lawyers would come running to make a deal. Wilkes didn’t believe Rosen would give in so easily, but he said, “You’re going to lose.”

  Rosen shrugged. “One less nut running around in the world. Funny, but I got the impression in court that you might be more upset with Basehart’s conviction than I.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The way you attacked Pelham on the witness stand. Basehart didn’t need me there with you looking out for his rights. You think my client’s innocent, don’t you?”

  Wilkes asked his own question. “What was that business about Pelham’s blood type?”

  “Last Wednesday when I was beat up, I spent the night recuperating in the murdered woman’s room. I checked her wastebasket, which was filled with soiled tissues. Nguyen Thi Trac said no one else had used the wastebasket since her sister’s death.”

  “Yes, I remember seeing it filled, when Lt. Canary and I first went over the room. The police found traces of cocaine.”

  “Did you have the tissues analyzed for anything else?”

  “Such as?”

  “You can tell a person’s blood type from his saliva. I sent one of the tissues to a private lab my organization has occasion to use. The results came back yesterday, showing Type O positive. From the autopsy we know that the victim’s blood was Type A positive. So is Basehart’s. I think whoever had a cold either may have been the killer or witnessed the murder.”

  “That’s quite a long shot.”

  “Not if Basehart didn’t do it.” Rosen leaned forward slightly. “Like you to do me a favor.”

  Rosen tore open a package of saltines and ate one of the crackers. Wilkes knew what the other man wanted.

  “I’d like you to find out Pelham’s blood type. Also Van, the victim’s brother. When I woke up in her room after my beating, I found some cigarette butts. Not Trac’s. Maybe her brother finally showed up for a visit. I’d like to find him. Would you do that?”

  Wilkes found himself nodding. He was about to say that was standard police procedure anyway, when the witness brought the pizza and beers.

  Rosen slid a slice onto his plate. “I have something else to ask—something more important—but it can wait until we finish lunch. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

  The two men spent the next fifteen minutes eating, Rosen absorbed in his meal, while Wilkes studied the other man, wondering what the second favor would be. Despite his liberalism, he felt a slight aversion toward Rosen. He hadn’t known many Northern lawyers, let alone Northern Jewish lawyers, although he had heard his fill of stereotypes. But it was something more personal about the other attorney. The way Rosen treated Basehart, as if he didn’t care whether his client was found innocent or guilty. Understandable for a Jew to hate an anti-Semitic bigot like Basehart, but his reaction seemed more indifference than hatred. What kind of a man was he?

  They finished the pizza, and Rosen ordered two more beers. “Wasn’t a bad meal. Better than the fast food junk I usually eat on the road. Hope you liked the mushrooms and onions. I don’t eat sausage; suppose we could’ve ordered half and half.”

  “The pizza was fine. It’s against your religion, isn’t it, to eat pork?”

  Rosen nodded. “Like they say, old habits die hard.”

  “Are you devout?”

  He looked down at his plate. “The Hand of God is on me always.”

  Wilkes sipped his beer, while Rosen took a long drink.

  “Basehart . . .” Wilkes began before pausing to find the right words. “How do you find him?”

  “Personally?”

  Wilkes nodded.

  “I think he’s someone the world would be better off without.”

  “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “You’re not exactly conducting a spirited defense in the courtroom. I was just wondering . . .” Wilkes left the sentence unfinished.

  The waitress brought the second round of beers. Rosen took a drink then asked, “What is it? You think I’m helpi
ng strap Basehart into the chair?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Look . . . how can I explain this?” He paused, swirling the beer gently in his glass. “There’s a story in the Talmud concerning why God began by creating only one man. This was to show that each man is an entire universe and by killing one person, you have in a sense destroyed the entire world. Therefore, to save a life is like saving the entire universe. Even Basehart’s life.”

  “That’s a beautiful sentiment, though I don’t suppose your client would subscribe to it.”

  “No,” Rosen agreed. “But if difficult for a layman like Basehart, think of the problem for a lawyer being forced to litigate a power exempt from the law.” Drinking deeply, Rosen lifted his hand to order another beer.

  Wilkes reached absently for a package of crackers. “I don’t quite follow you.”

  Rosen laughed sharply. “How could you? Your God is one of mercy, taking on the world’s suffering and offering forgiveness in return. You’re like that, Wilkes, the kind who takes the world on his shoulders. Why, you feel so sorry for Basehart, you’re doing my job and yours at the same time.”

  “I know,” Wilkes said softly, “no killer instinct.”

  “But my God comes out of the whirlwind demanding to know how His people could dare judge Him, Who flooded and burned the world when it pleased Him. You asked about my lackluster attitude. I guess it’s a carryover from childhood. Hard to fight when the odds are stacked against you.”

  “Yet you still fight.”

  “All the way. That’s another trait of my people. The worse things get, the harder we cling.” He stared at Wilkes. “Like my client is doing right now. Which leads me to my second favor.”

  “You’re sure I’ll do you more favors?”

  Rosen said, “Someone else wouldn’t. Most wouldn’t, not with the press coverage this case is getting. But I think you will. Your Jesus-Jeffersonian ideology compels you the same way my . . . adversary compels me. Besides, I’ve got my own theory about you, Mr. Wilkes.”

  “What’s that?”

  “All in good time. Now about that favor. When court reconvenes this afternoon, I’m going to ask that Basehart be released on bail, his five thousand dollar bank account as security. I’d like you to go along with my recommendation.”