Pardon the Ravens

by Alan Hruska

  Alec says, “When is that thing coming off?”

  “Scary, huh? Couple of days, actually.”

  “When you getting back to work?”

  “Me? Maybe never. Which is too bad for you. You need all the help you can get.”

  “No doubt,” says Alec, taking the Windsor chair at the side of the bed.

  “Shilling called,” Mac says. “Full of good wishes. Tells me he’s offered you a partnership deal, which you turned down.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was that smart?”

  “I don’t know, Mac, was it?”

  Mac laughs. “You’ve been called up from the minors, kid. Win the case, you’re Rookie of the Year. Blow it, you’ll be dispensing jockstraps in the locker room. No one’s going to want you. Especially if your losing looks like it has something to do with that girl.”

  “So I should win, you’re saying,” says Alec, deadpan. “Funny, just got the same message from Braddock.”

  “I’m saying you should reconsider your priorities, Alec.”

  “I have my priorities straight.”

  “Really!” Mac says with a withering smile.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Macalister again shifts position. “Ben tells me you’re not even working this weekend.”

  “Mac, Jesus! She’s just out of rehab. She’s up there alone. She goes to meetings in Portland, but Portland’s a city. There are dealers all over—”

  “Tell me about it! Heroin. Alcohol. It’s the same fucking thing. And it’s not going to get any easier—I mean, for you—just ’cause she’s been clean for a while. Maybe even worse with the strain. But here’s the bright side. If you leave her now—and I emphasize now—most people would excuse it as a single youthful indiscretion.”

  “That your advice?”

  “Ha! Look at me! You think I’m qualified to give personal advice? I get out of here in ten days. Then I get to live like a cloistered monk. Outpatient treatment for the indefinite future. That’s my penance. You screw up this case, I’m sure they’ll figure out something for you.”

  “You got advice on that? How not to screw up?”

  “Yeah, I do, as it happens. That I understand.” He sinks back on the pillows. “You know what your biggest problem is? In the case?”

  “Of course. We’ve talked about it. It looks like I’m representing the bad guys.”

  “Exactly. You represent a corporation. You represent fat-cat directors. They lost money, who gives a shit?”

  “Whereas Si Rosenkranz appears as the lawyer for the stockholders.”

  “Good guys. Moms and pops.”

  “That’s not the real story,” says Alec.

  “You have the numbers yet?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And was I right? What I told Rand that day in Bayonne?”

  “After the news broke on the Martini story? Almost all the institutional stockholders bailed out, sold off their stock. Left the company in the hands of the individual investors.”

  “Yes,” Mac says. “Yes. I knew it.” He reflects for a moment. “So Si’s clients are mainly the banks, the insurance companies, and the hedge funds. They’re not getting much, but all the little guys in his group get totally screwed, especially if they hold on to all or part of their shares. Because if Rosenkranz wins, this company goes into bankruptcy. And after Si extracts his thirty percent of the judgment, after all the other bankruptcy claimants and lawyers stick in their beaks, the mom-and-pop shareholders—for their stock holdings—get bupkis. Zilch. Nada! Not even a viable business, ’cause that’s now down the drain. That’s reality. That’s what you’ve got to get across.”

  “Right. And I can hear Si now. ‘Whether plaintiff class members are companies or individuals is not relevant, your Honor.’ ”

  “You’ll get it in,” Mac says. “Si’ll slip. He’ll open it up. Just stay focused.”

  “You think my attention might drift?”

  “I think it already has, kiddo. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  SEVENTY

  To get from LaGuardia to Portland, one has basically two choices. Take a puddle-jumper with three stops in between, or fly a shuttle to Boston, and switch to a puddle-jumper with one stop in between. Alec books the no-change-of-planes commuter flight. With no sleep in two nights but the catnaps on Braddock’s sofa, he figures the three stops won’t wake him; he’ll sleep all the way.

  Carrie wraps herself around him at the gate. Nice greeting. He could sleep in her arms. She drives home, and Alec dozes in the car.

  Next morning, sun in the windows, great shower, Carrie makes pancakes, Alec thinks, fool’s gold. Only a fool would disregard what’s waiting for them on the other side of this paradise.

  He outlines a pre-trial brief to the trilling of birds. On the deck off the bedroom, in the sun, he still needs a heavy sweater. This is Maine. But the wildlife is stirring in the marsh.

  For lunch, they stroll into town. Off-season, the Acadia has plenty of booths. They order the house specialty, lobster rolls. On the shoreline of Maine, it would be stupid to eat anything else.

  On the town dock, the same white-haired guy in the vintage suit is sitting on a bench waiting for the boats to come in. Alec and Carrie greet the man as they stroll out on the dock, and he gives them a nod. With his red face, white cowlick and big ears, he appears to be a fisherman dressed up for church.

  “They’re late today?” Alec asks.

  “It’s Saturday,” says the man, as if that explained it.

  “They stay out later on Saturday,” Alec says, as if the man’s explanation makes sense.

  Which seems to amuse him. “You’re the couple who rented the Scanlon place.” At their look of surprise, he says, “This is not a very large town.”

  They introduce themselves, and the older man gets up to shake their hands. “Roscoe Harley’s the name. And what the men do on Saturday here is harvest their lobster boxes. They’ll be in any minute.”

  “You buy fish for a cannery, I understand,” Alec says.

  “Swordfish. The cannery’s mine.”

  “You do your own buying.”

  “I’m not exactly Del Monte.”

  Carrie says, “Canned swordfish? Kind of unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Unique,” says Roscoe. “I’ve got a monopoly. The market, however, is not what you’d call huge.”

  “A specialty item,” she says.

  “Swordfish in a can,” he says, “tends to get mushy. I’ve got a process that keeps it fresh and firm. Try it. You can buy plenty in the market here.”

  “Interesting,” Alec says. “Oh yes?” says Roscoe, as if: Interesting enough to me, all right, but why would you give a damn?

  “For one thing,” Alec says, “what do you do with the bones?”

  Harley gives him a sharp, suspicious look, then casts an eye up and down the dock, as if not wanting to be overheard. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Dunno. Just occurred to me. Might have a use for some.”

  “Swordfish bones?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s only the ones I buy from the sports fishermen that come in with bones intact.”

  “And those?”

  “Clean ’em, crush ’em—” Another furtive look. “Dump ’em. Want to take some off my hands?”

  “I’ve seen swordfish skeletons in museums. They’re quite large.”

  “Some of ’em, yeah. The sword can grow to three feet in length, sometimes more.”

  Walking back home later, Carrie says, “What was all that about, your sudden interest in fish bones?”

  “Just an idea.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “Still working on it. I’ll let you know when something not totally ridiculous occurs to me.”

  Homes are large here, mostly clad in fieldstone and weathered shingles, sitting on two or three acres of rugged tracts, masked by trees and high hedges. Streets are narrow, blanched by winter, and empty.

/>   They walk in silence until Carrie says, “I’m in prison again.”

  Alec says nothing, letting her finish her thought.

  “But this time without my daughter, who I can’t get.”

  “You will,” Alec says, but Carrie’s not following.

  “I’ve figured it out,” she says. “What I want to do is go back to New York, grab Sarah out of school again, and wait for Phil in your apartment every night, with my gun trained on the door. But I can’t. Totally unfair to you. I can’t let you sleepwalk through this big trial. And if I holed up in another apartment, Phil would probably go to yours first anyway. So I’m stuck up here. Whether the trial gives Phil reason to stay away or come after me—I can argue that both ways. So I wait for him here every night, and I’m the one sleepwalking through days. Kind of an existentialist nightmare, wouldn’t you say?”

  “We’ll get past it.”

  “Right.”

  “We will,” he insists.

  “I’m not disagreeing.”

  “So let’s enjoy what we have.”

  “You bet,” she says.

  He’s been thinking Phil is happier with Carrie far away from the courthouse, at least until the trial is over, and will leave her alone unless she returns. Whether his butchering of Little John, however, suggests Phil’s crazy enough to go after both of them now—that Alec can argue both ways too, and does. So they share the nightmare. Doesn’t leave much joy for the days.

  Sid Kline, in Phil’s study, moves worshipfully from painting to painting. Vito bird-dogs his steps as if waiting for Kline to try to walk off with one.

  “This is an amazing collection,” Kline says.

  “Yeah,” says Vito.

  “Are there paintings like this all over the house?”

  “Look, I don’t really want to talk to you, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Phil walks in. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says to Kline. Then, “I’ve got it, Vito.”

  Phil takes the desk chair, Sid sits in front, Vito leaves with a bulldog mouth, closing the door.

  Sid says, “Y’know this could have waited until tomorrow. Coming here on a Sunday night—”

  “Better this way. You live on the Island. I’m not planning on being in the city next week. You got something to tell me. Why wait?”

  “Indeed. And cutting through all the crap—I know you’re not interested in the crap.”

  “Never the crap. Just the point, Sid.”

  “We’ve built the case, is the point. On diesel. We’ve got you cold, Phil. You’re going to have to bargain a plea. In fact, we’re closing in on Morristown too.”

  “Morristown?”

  “Mass execution.”

  “Oh, yeah. Read about it. Isn’t that a state matter?”

  “Not if part of an interstate conspiracy, which this was.”

  “You’re saying, mob guys?”

  Sid smiles. “Yeah. Mob guys. Same mob guys who were in the diesel scam with you and Martini.”

  “Wow,” Phil says with a grin.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot.”

  “Well, it’s your claim. What we both know is, without evidence—some tangible manifestation of the fact you aren’t just blowing this out your ass—right now it sounds exactly like the crap we were supposed to cut through when we started this conversation.”

  “Obviously, we have the facts.”

  “Not obvious to me, Sid. And as I just said. Facts—alleged or real—are one thing. Evidence is quite another.”

  Sid laughs. “True. But in this case, we have the evidence, or I wouldn’t be here, Phil.”

  “Okay, in what form does this purported evidence come? I know you don’t have documents, unless you guys wrote them yourselves. You still do that, by the way?”

  “No, Phil. Never did. Not in my time.”

  “Then who’s your witness?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “What? He’s going to testify with a hood on?”

  “If we go to trial, you’ll of course know then.”

  “Exactly. So why not tell me now? Unless this whole thing is a bluff. You bluffing, Sid?”

  “No, Phil, I’m not. I’ll tell you this. We have your Swiss bank accounts, with the sudden surges after the diesel thing started. And we have… let me just say, someone in your organization.”

  “Do you really!”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman?” says Kline, caught off balance for a moment.

  “Yeah,” Phil says. “Witnesses come in two varieties. And unless you tell me it’s not a woman, I’m going to have to assume you’ve been talking to my estranged wife, who’s not exactly trustworthy right now. Nor qualified to testify against me.”

  Sid looks uncomfortable. “It’s not a woman,” he says.

  Phil glances upward for a moment as if with a sudden thought. “There’s something funny about this, right? If you were serious about a deal—”

  “We’re quite serious.”

  “Then what are you offering?”

  “Big on the money. Very big, to make a splash.”

  “My money?”

  “It’s not really yours, Phil. Or, again, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “And that’s it? Pay a fine, and proceed past go?”

  “We’d blink on Morristown, but there’d be some prison time.”

  “Like, say, what?”

  “It’s negotiable.”

  Phil barks out a laugh. “As I was saying, if you were really serious, you’d have a witness deeply sequestered and you’d be able to give me his name. Because without a name, I can’t take you seriously, Sid. You know that.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Unique deal. This off the record?”

  “Always.”

  “You sign a plea bargain which lays out the facts. Then I give you a copy of the witness’s sworn confession. If there’s any material difference in the story, the plea gets rescinded, and it’s never usable in evidence. By its terms.”

  “This, in your opinion, is a good deal?”

  “Best.”

  “Sid! What are you thinking? I’ve suddenly gotten stupid?”

  Kline looks offended. “Whatta you mean? There’s no downside to this deal. And it won’t be on the table for long. Train’s leaving the station.”

  “Oh, bullshit. Train’s leaving the station!” Phil mimics. He sits back, gives the matter some further thought. “You know what this sounds like to me? Sounds like you’re jumping the gun. You’re not ready. But something’s pushing you to act before you are. What is it, Sid?”

  “Wrong track, Phil. The offer’s a bit unusual, but—I won’t kid you—you’re a big fish.”

  “Wait a minute. I see it. The Senate vacancy. Your guy wants to announce. He wants to be senator on my back.” He gives Kline a face of mock expectancy. “That’s it, right?”

  Kline gets up. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

  “Hell no, you didn’t. It’s been great. Nothing on tonight nearly this entertaining. Not even Ed Sullivan. I checked. So anytime, Sid. Great fresh material, love it.”

  Kline’s house is a ten-minute drive. He’s divorced, lives alone in a five-room ranch, and has one phone which is in the bedroom. He dials an unlisted number.

  “Hello?”

  “Ray?”

  “Who the fuck else?”

  “It didn’t work,” Sid says.

  “No surprise.”

  “We may lose the witness now. We should’ve put him in the program.”

  “He wouldn’t go, you forget that?”

  “We could have pushed him harder on that.”

  “And lose him,” Ray says. “He would have flown.”

  “So what did we accomplish with this?”

  “Sid. How often I have to tell you? We shake the tree.”

  “And I’m saying, our witness may fall out of the tree. Break his fucking neck.”

  “So,” says Sancerre, as if he
finds the subject unendurably boring, “if that happens…”

  “What?”

  “Right after your meeting with Phil… pretty good inference.”

  “Jesus, Ray.”

  “What?” says Sancerre, now losing his patience.

  “The guy may be a creep….”

  “He’s a fucking flake. You think I’m going to risk my career on a lowlife like this coming through? Examined in the civil case first? I didn’t like the whole setup. Did you like the setup?”

  “I don’t really like setting him up.”

  “You didn’t hand over his name, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then stop worrying. How’s Phil going to identify him? There are too many possibilities. Besides, he’s not likely to move on the guy right away. For the reason I said. It’s too soon after his conversation with you. He’d be the obvious suspect.”

  “That right?” Sid says. “What about Morristown? A fucking blood bath. Who the hell’s a more obvious suspect than Phil? You see him nervous about that? And why the hell should he be? We know goddamn well it was Phil. But can we prove it? We don’t have shit.”

  “You getting upset, Sid? Over that… flake?”

  “It’s not about the flake.”

  “Oh?” Kindly tone, wanting to understand. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about the process, Ray. Our process.”

  “We live in the world, Sid. Our process is of that world. And it’s a tough world. No one should ever think otherwise. Least of all the flake.”

  “Who, after all, isn’t reliable enough from our standpoint.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we throw him out of the boat.”

  “Now who’s mixing metaphors?” Ray says. “We’re not throwing anybody.”

  “We’re not exactly protecting the man.”

  “That’s his fault.”

  “And he should know it?”

  “He does know it. I guarantee it.”

  Silence.

  “All right,” Ray says. “I’ll have someone call him. Re-offer protection.”

  “Who… will you have make the call?”

  “Why? Now you don’t trust people in our office?”

  Sid, ignoring this, asks, “We have anyone else even close? Another witness?”