by Alan Hruska
“Yeah. I heard the newscast and ran to the phone. I’m sorry.”
“You had no choice,” he says. “A message like that to a mother! It’s the ultimate dirty trick.”
He leads her to the embrasure of the window, which he guesses is as far away as they can get from the likely placement of the bug. The room is a vacant office, in basic government drab—metal desk and chairs, dung-colored carpet—designed to suck the soul out of anyone required to work there. Its single window is on the back courtyard of the building.
“They want me to testify to a grand jury,” she whispers. “And they want me to testify in your case too. Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Should I?”
“The grand jury… they’re not going to give you an alternative. Not a good one, anyway.”
“Then I might as well also testify in your case. Phil can’t shoot me twice.”
Alec, not liking it, says nothing.
“I can nail his ass,” she says. “I can send him up. It’s what we’ve talked about.”
“Now you’re trusting the system?”
“Y’know… we’ve got nothing to lose here.”
Alec canvases all the possibilities he can think of, which is hard, not having slept in three nights.
Carrie says, “I’m going to do this. I want to do this.”
A sharp knock on the door, and Sancerre enters, with Sid Kline in his wake. “So that’s a deal?” Ray says. “Full witness protection. For both of you, if you like.” He twirls a chair around and plunks down on it, resting his arms on the back. “Complete immunity for Carrie.”
Carrie’s look to Alec says, yes.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Morning. Court has resumed. Si is examining Whitman Poole, who treats the experience with the superciliousness of a critic. Alec listens as he studies the man: the slicked-back golden-streaked hair, the asymmetrical eyes, the fleshy bulb of his nose, the pointed chin, his demeanor smug and sun-roasted against a gleaming white button-down shirt.
“When you retained Mr. Raffon,” Si intones, “to, as you say, ensure the integrity of your procedures, did you check his references?”
“Y’know,” says Poole, “I didn’t. Obviously, I should have. I really kick myself about that, and I have no real excuse. Just flat-out negligent.”
“Part of Raffon’s retainer was to keep a running check on the quantity of oil in the tanks?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you or your staff keep tabs on what he was doing?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Really!” Si says, as if surprised. “Why’s that?”
“Y’know, I’ve asked myself that a million times. Once more, there’s just no excuse.”
“Overworked, possibly?”
Poole laughs. “Wish I could claim that! But y’know,” he says, turning to the jury, “it did teach me a great lesson. In my new job, I’ll never be that careless.”
“No further questions, your Honor,” says Si with the air of a man who has now proven his case.
Alec feels the eyes of a packed courtroom as he rises. Then, one pair of eyes, especially. Turning, he sees Frank Macalister, balancing on crutches, slip into an aisle seat. Mac gives him a grin that rattles Alec for an instant, before he shifts his attention again to the witness. Poole smiles as if his conscience is clear.
“When you came in as manager of the warehousing facility, Mr. Poole, there was a routine, was there not, for checking on the oil in the storage tanks?”
“Of course.” Same ingenuous smile.
“And that routine involved more than just opening the flap door at the top of the tanks and looking in, did it not?”
“Yes,” says Poole.
Alec hefts the twenty-foot rod from the floor, drawing a gasp from the benches. “You used this pole, right, or one just like it?”
“The men did.”
“Foolproof, right? For catching false bottoms?”
“I should think, yes.”
“If there are false bottoms in tanks, stick this pole down, and you’ll find out, right?”
Sarcastically: “Right.”
“Yet, Mr. Poole,” Alec says, lowering the rod back down to the base of the rail, “there were in fact false bottoms in some of the tanks in all your facilities.”
Si’s on his feet. “Is that a question?”
Alec addresses the judge. “Of course, and the obvious answer makes the point, your Honor, that alleged gross negligence—or recklessness, which is the same thing—has nothing to do with this case. Someone had to order the men to stop checking these tanks with these poles.”
“Save it for your closing argument, counsel.”
“All right, your Honor.” Alec turns back to the witness.
“So, Mr. Poole, were there false bottoms in some of the tanks at Bayonne and all the other facilities you were employed to manage?”
“Yes,” Poole says, as if it meant nothing.
“And most of the tanks in those facilities were filled with saltwater where there was supposed to have been diesel oil, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And are you a defendant in this action, Mr. Poole?”
“No, I’m not.”
“U.S. Safety and its directors are being sued for what is alleged to have been your gross negligence. Do you have any idea why you’re not being sued for your alleged gross negligence?”
Poole pretends to consider the question. “Because I don’t have any money?”
“Really?” says Alec. “None at all?”
“Not a farthing.”
“Do you know what the statute of limitations is on an action for negligence?”
Poole glances uneasily at Si. “Three years?”
“In other words, you know you can still be sued by the stockholders for negligence?”
Poole slowly nods his head. “Yes.”
“Yet you are quick to admit negligence. Has someone—perhaps someone in this room—ever explained to you how useful it would be to his case if you made that admission, and promised you that you would not be sued if you did?”
Alec looks at Si, and so does Poole. Then so does the jury. Si sits there as if contemplating the stripes on the flag. Poole, now confused as to how to handle the question, finally mumbles something under his breath.
“Sorry,” Alec says. “Didn’t quite hear that.”
“I don’t remember,” says Poole, still sotto voce.
“You met with Mr. Rosenkranz, before this trial?”
“Yes.”
“And did he say something along those lines?”
“I don’t remember.”
“He might have said something along those lines? Promising you that you wouldn’t be sued, if you admitted being negligent?”
“Might have.” Poole looks sick.
“What is your present job, Mr. Poole?”
“I run an amusement park in Florida.”
“Who owns it, Mr. Poole?”
“It’s a limited partnership.”
“And who is the principal partner?”
“I’m not sure I know.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that his name is Angiapello?”
“No. But few things surprise me.”
“I’ll bet,” says Alec. “No further questions, your Honor.”
“Mr. Rosenkranz?” says the judge.
“No redirect, your Honor. And the plaintiffs rest their case.”
“You may step down, Mr. Poole.” Justice Kaye looks at Alec.
“Counsel?”
“May we take a brief recess, your Honor?”
In the counsel room, amid boxes of documents and small office machines, Braddock, leaning on the table, says to Alec, “Despite the brilliance of your cross-examination of that liar, you’ve got no fucking choice. You’ve got to call her. Now!”
“It wasn’t brilliant. It was standard, okay? But it’s all we need. You saw the jury. They hate that guy. They know he’s
lying. It’s obvious he’s lying.”
The door opens. It’s Macalister, swinging in on his crutches. “Whatta you think, this door’s made of steel? Everyone can hear you guys down the fucking hallway.”
Braddock pays him no attention. “She’s here, right? Ready to go on?”
Alec says, “The FBI people have brought her over.”
Macalister, looking from one to the other, says, “What? There’s some question about calling the girl?”
“We don’t need her,” Alec says. “There’s no point risking her life.”
“I thought she was the principal government witness in the criminal case against Phil Anwar,” Mac says. “That’s not going to risk her life?”
Braddock shrugs. “It’s academic. You don’t put her on? Shilling will. Creighton blesses this. And they’ve persuaded Rand. They cooked it up last night and called me. Shilling, I suspect, has been talking to his former partner, Sancerre.”
Alec looks at Braddock with anger. “And you accept this?”
“Frankly, Alec, I agree with it. It does not appear that we’re putting the young woman at any more risk than she’s already in. And if that’s true, you don’t bet an entire company on a single throw of the dice—i.e., your cross-examination of Poole—brilliant or otherwise.”
Alec looks at Macalister. “Ditto,” Mac says. “And Alec. You do not want her examined by Shilling. He’d fuck it up. We’d end up with a mess. She might even react to that pompous ass by changing her story, which would lead to a perjury indictment. If she’s going to testify anyway, which is certain—”
“I get the point,” Alec says.
“Defendants call Carrie Anne Madigan.” Alec, making the announcement, turns to the back of the courtroom, but Rosenkranz intercedes.
“May we approach?” says Si.
Convening at the bench, at the judge’s beckoning gesture, Si says, in lowered voice, “I heard about this witness for the first time last night. From Mr. Shilling.”
Marius, to Alec’s annoyance, joins the conference. “Yes, your Honor. I called him.”
“But I’ve had no chance,” Si says, “to depose this witness, to investigate her—I haven’t the slightest idea who she is, except for the limited information given to me by opposing counsel last night.”
Shilling says, “There are several witnesses Mr. Rosenkranz has already called whom we weren’t given the right to depose before trial. It should be a two-way street, your Honor. And Miss Madigan has just become available to us. Produced by the FBI, your Honor. She’s the key government witness in a criminal case about to be filed against racketeering in this state. And we could not have called her without a witness protection deal from the government that we got only last night.”
Justice Kaye looks down on all counsel. He frowns; he doesn’t like it; he feels boxed. “I’m going to allow this,” he finally says. “Si, you feel you need more time after she finishes on direct, I’ll consider giving you a recess for a couple of days.”
Rosenkranz looks sour. “And give the jury those days to let her direct testimony really sink in!”
“In the light of the history here, Si…. I am not—I repeat not—going to permit a mistrial over this. Or give the defendants a basis for appeal.”
Carrie’s already walking in as the conference breaks. Her trip to the witness box, with her eyes locked on Alec’s, causes a sufficient stir in the room to force the judge to gavel it quiet. She wears a long black skirt, a silk blouse, and a tweed jacket, none of which Alec has seen before.
She sits demurely for the administration of the oath.
Alec says, “Could you state your full name for the record, please?”
“Carrie Anne Madigan.”
Alec brings out her Irish birth, her educational background, her employment with Aaron Weinfeld, her marriage to, and estrangement from, Phil Anwar. Some jurors know who Phil is. The model knows. Two of the men. Alec can see them register it. He says, beginning to color, “There’s something else I think the jury should know. Could you tell them, please, of your relationship with me?”
Her smile is radiant. “We love each other. We plan to be married.”
Alec cannot control the blush. It spreads, deepens, turns purple. Finally, he just gives in to it, thinking it probably won’t do him any harm. Most of the jurors are grinning.
“You know what I’m about to ask you?”
“Yes,” she says. “We’ve been over it. Whether my testimony is influenced by our relationship. And the answer is, no. I told you everything before we had one. What happened, happened.”
“Have you ever met a man named Whitman Poole?”
“Oh, yes. Four times.”
“Can you identify him?”
She points right at Poole, whose face displays a succession of tics. “The guy in the first row, in the white button-down shirt.”
“Please describe the circumstances in which you first met him.”
“I delivered an envelope to him from Aaron Weinfeld. About two years ago.”
“Did you have any conversation with Mr. Poole at that time?”
“Sort of. When I handed him the envelope, he asked whether I knew what was inside of it.”
“And what did you tell him? In fact, why don’t you simply describe the rest of the conversation?”
“Okay. I said that of course I knew what was inside. I typed the damn thing. Then he said, ‘You’re Phil Anwar’s wife, aren’t you?’ I said I was, and he said, ‘You’ll be the eyes on this, then.’ I think he had some idea that Aaron might be trying to cheat him, and that I’d be available to tell Phil. Anyhow, he seemed extremely pleased that the amount was right, and said, ‘This baby’s going right into a Swiss bank account.’”
“What was the amount of the check?”
“Two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars,” she says.
There is a small, albeit collective, utterance in the courtroom.
“And later, you made further deliveries of checks to Mr. Poole?”
“Three more.”
“The four totaling?”
“One million dollars,” says Carrie.
“Before Aaron Weinfeld made out these checks to Mr. Poole, did he receive any funds to cover them?”
“Oh, yes.”
“From whom?”
“From companies owned by Phil Anwar.”
“Who is a member of the Angiapello family?”
“Yes. He’s the current boss.”
Alec pauses. Carrie’s words, utterly believable, have taken the air from the room. The case is won now, he thinks. The dead silence confirms it. It’s as if everyone is embarrassed to confront the man still squirming there; the one caught lying through his teeth.
“Did Mr. Weinfeld ever tell you why these checks were being given to Mr. Poole?”
Everything happens at once, in a sort of delayed, anticlimactic reaction.
Si Rosenkranz jumps to his feet. “Your Honor, I object!” Poole shoots up, bolting out of the courtroom. Harvey Grand lunges after him. Almost everyone in the courtroom is standing, jabbering at each other, and gesturing. Carrie, having rushed from the witness chair, grabs Alec’s hand. The judge adds to the pandemonium by barking into it, and pounding his gavel for quiet. Alec and Carrie follow Harvey out the door.
In the outer hall, Poole, half-pinioned by Harvey, tries to fight his way free. Three FBI men pounce, pinning Poole to the floor, then cuffing him.
Out of nowhere, seemingly, Ray Sancerre appears, trailed down the corridor by a dozen reporters, cameras blazing, TV crew in their wake.
“This,” says Ray to the TV lights and camera, “is the opening wedge in a major crime-busting onslaught that we’ve been planning for months. And we’ve just arrested Phil Anwar in his home.”
SEVENTY-NINE
When order is restored, Alec and Si are invited to a robing room conference. Rosenkranz requests a week’s continuance.
“You really think that’s necessary, Si?” Justice Kaye asks.
The old lawyer takes some time before answering, no doubt considering his next case before this jurist. “No,” he says finally. “You’re right. No point.”
The lawyers regroup in the courtroom. Mac and Braddock approach Alec. “It’s over,” he says.
“Good,” says Braddock abruptly, as if having lost patience with the whole affair. Mac smiles, sits, shakes his head a bit at Alec, as if to say, you lucky bastard.
There’s no cross-examination of Carrie; both sides close; summations are pro forma; and the jury watch takes less than an hour. It appears that the model has been elected forewoman, and she’s grinning, while the man in the sweatshirt looks glum.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge inquires.
The model stands, enjoying her role. “We have, your Honor. We find—unanimously—for the defendants on all counts. We also find—though we weren’t exactly asked—that Mr. Poole is a crook who should be punished.”
There’s an after-party at the client’s office at which Rand and Creighton make brief appearances, Braddock and Mac none, but Shilling and his entourage celebrate as if they were solely responsible for the victory. Alec, not even knowing how to reach Carrie, tries Harvey with no success.
Finally he goes home to an empty apartment and, without turning on lights, plunks down on his sofa, letting the day play out in his mind. Rand and Creighton had said all the right things. Braddock and Macalister had said little, but they were plainly relieved. For Alec, the elation is gone—routed by anticlimax, laced with loneliness, soured by worry and fear. Drowsiness wins out at four in the morning, and that victory is entirely welcome.
EIGHTY
The phone wakes Alec. It’s Harvey Grand.
“Congratulations!”
“Well, thanks,” Alec says, still half-asleep. “Congratulations to you, too. Although, once Poole ran, only an idiot could have lost that case.”
“Alec.”
“What?”
“Turn on the news. They’ve given Phil a deal. He gets three weeks of liberty before going up.”
Alec’s suddenly wide awake, and the doorbell’s ringing.
“Hold on, Harvey, will you?”
Alec goes to the door. Carrie, looking bedraggled in the same clothes she wore at trial, tears in. “Have you heard?”
