“It’s a very proper answer to your question,” said Franks. He detected the wince that crossed Ronan’s face and remembered the previous night’s injunction against responding too hastily; it hadn’t taken him long to forget.
“No, it’s not,” persisted Samuelson. “Tell the jury and tell the court, were you at any time threatened with prosecution?”
“I was told a case could be brought against me,” conceded Franks.
Samuelson allowed a long pause, conveying to the jury the impression of a major admission. “A case could be brought against you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why was that?”
Franks frowned, refusing to make any rushed response. “I don’t understand the question,” he said.
“Forgive me, for being so obtuse,” apologized the lawyer emptily. “Why could a case have been brought against you?”
“Because the district attorney considered one could have been made, I suppose.”
“So why wasn’t it?”
“Because, having heard my account of what happened, me district attorney decided I was innocent,” said Franks. He detected Ronan’s nod of approval and was relieved.
“That isn’t what happened at all, is it, Mr. Franks? You were confronted with a choice. Either you testified against my client or you’d be charged yourself. That’s how it was, wasn’t it, Mr. Franks?”
Franks hesitated, alert for any unseen traps. He said, “During the initial interview—the very first—the district attorney said he considered there was evidence proving my involvement. Having heard my account he revised that opinion.”
“He told you that, did he?” demanded Samuelson sharply.
Careful, thought Franks.
“Nothing is obvious until it is proven to be the truth in court, Mr. Franks. Did the district attorney tell you that he considered you innocent?”
Franks tried to find the danger but couldn’t, and so he said, “Yes.”
“Why?” said the lawyer.
Franks frowned again, at the apparent stupidity of the question. “He believed it.”
“Believed it!” pounced Samuelson. He swept out his arm in a flamboyant gesture to embrace the jury and said, “Or was it just to convince the jury here today, to make them think that you were a reliable witness, to be trusted, and not somebody who had escaped a prosecution which the evidence we’ve heard in the preceding days amply justifies. Somebody, in fact, deserving prosecution far more than ray client or anyone else arraigned in this court!”
Franks could feel perspiration making an irritating path down his back, and the palms of his hands were wet, too. He said, “I was tricked; the charges prove that.”
“Who tricked you?” demanded Samuelson, changing direction.
“Pascara, Flamini, and Dukes,” said Franks as forcefully as he could.
“How?” said Samuelson simply.
“How?” echoed Franks too quickly. “I’ve spent days sitting here telling you how.”
“No,” refused Samuelson. “You’ve spent days telling us what you’d like us to believe, and that’s altogether different. Tell the jury the circumstances of my client, Mr. Pascara, coming forward to make contact with you. Tell the jury how he set out the idea of the hotel and casino complexes and inveigled you unwittingly into criminal activities.”
Franks bridled at the sarcasm but tried to avoid overreacting to it. “That wasn’t how it happened,” he said badly.
“No!” seized Samuelson, quickly again. “That wasn’t how it happened at all, was it, Mr. Franks?”
“I’ve already explained how the arrangement was made. Through my brother-in-law, Mr. Scargo.”
“Now dead and unable to testify,” said Samuelson.
“Now murdered and unable to testify,” said Franks. “To the convenience of your client!”
“I move that remark struck from the record and the jury instructed to disregard it,” protested the lawyer at once. “There is nothing whatsoever to link my client with the assassination of Nicholas Scargo.”
“It will be struck from the record,” said the judge. He looked from the court recorder to the jury and said, “I also direct you to disregard that.” To Franks, the judge said, “You will not make any more improper remarks like that in this court.”
“In my opinion—considering the duress and pressure under which I’ve existed since the beginning of this affair—I do not consider them improper,” said Franks.
“Mr. Franks,” warned the judge. “You will not argue with me in this court. You will conduct yourself in the manner in which I direct.”
“I will tell the truth,” said Franks. Fuck the man, he thought; I’ll not play puppet to some legal stage direction.
The judge stared down at him, confronted with open insolence. “Be careful, Mr. Franks,” said the man. “Be very careful indeed.” He looked beyond, at the lawyer, and said, “Continue, Mr. Samuelson.”
Franks looked across the court to Ronan, seeking some reaction from the district attorney. The man gazed back blank-faced.
“Whose concept was a hotel chain in the Caribbean islands, Bermuda and the Bahamas?” picked up Samuelson.
Franks considered he’d emerged ahead in the exchange and felt sure that despite the judge’s instruction the jury would not be able to dismiss what he’d said from their minds. Overconfident, he said, “As accuracy is essential I think Bermuda is more correctly described as being in the Atlantic.”
“I greatly appreciate the correction,” said Samuelson with heavy sarcasm, and Franks regretted his own gesture; theatricality was infectious, he thought.
Quickly, not wanting to lose the advantage he considered he’d established, Franks said, “It was my idea to create the hotel group.”
“Not Mr. Pascara’s?” said Samuelson in apparent surprise.
“No,” said Franks tightly.
“Or Mr. Flamini’s?”
“No.”
“Or Mr. Dukes’?”
“No.”
Samuelson intruded another of his dramatic silences, looking back and forth along the assembled jury, inviting their surprise to match his. He said, “So neither Mr. Pascara nor Mr. Flamini nor Mr. Dukes approached you to establish a hotel chain in the Caribbean …” There was an aching, artificial pause. “Forgive me, Atlantic, islands of Bermuda or the Bahamas.”
“I’ve made that quite clear,” said Franks, wondering how much of his imagined advantage was left.
“You’re making a great deal clear, Mr. Franks,” said the lawyer. “More with every answer, in fact.”
“I’m delighted to be making the truth clearer,” fought back Franks.
“I’m delighted, too,” responded the experienced lawyer. Beyond the limping man Franks thought he saw Ronan move his head in a gesture of sadness.
Samuelson said, “Your idea. So having had the idea of creating a chain of hotels, what happened then?”
“I’ve already explained what happened,” said Franks. There was a band of wetness around his waist, where the sweat was gathering.
“Explain it again,” insisted the lawyer. He allowed a gap. “You’ve already advised the court of the importance of accuracy, even in the geographic location of islands. So explain it again so that there is complete and utter accuracy.”
“I told my brother-in-law what I planned to do. He asked me how I intended to arrange finance and said he would be able to get a better deal in America than I could in England. He mentioned banks and he also said that he knew of private investors, with whom he’d dealt before, who might be interested. I made some inquiries and it appeared that money would be cheaper here than in England. Because of certain international events the money market tightened and the borrowing would have been expensive. So I agreed with my brother-in-law that we should explore the possibility of private investors.” And had the chance to pull out, he remembered. Dear God, how much would have been different if he’d only done that!
“You decided to approach Mr. Pascara!”
<
br /> “I did not know the names; any of them,” said Franks. “The introduction came through my …” He hesitated, thinking. “Through my murdered brother-in-law,” he completed.
Samuelson paused, too, glancing toward the judge as if expecting a rebuke. When none came, the lawyer said, “What did you want, Mr. Franks?”
“Want?” queried Franks.
“Why did you have—if indeed this was the way the transaction went—why did you have your brother-in-law approach Mr. Pascara? And the other two accused?”
“As investors,” said Franks, his voice indicating the obviousness of the answer.
“For money?” said Samuelson.
“For investment,” quibbled Franks.
“Is money important to you, Mr. Franks?”
“It’s very difficult to establish businesses without it,” avoided Franks easily.
“You have a lot of businesses?”
“Some.”
“All profitable?”
Seeing another advantage, Franks said, “They were, until I agreed to testify against Pascara and Flamini and Dukes. Since which time—”
“—I would ask the court—” Samuelson interrupted, but Franks shouted over him.
“Since which time they have been subject to attack and disruption and every effort made financially to ruin me.”
To the judge the lawyer said, “The inference of those remarks is obvious to everyone in this court and completely unsubstantiated and I would ask once more that they be expunged from the record and the jury instructed to disregard them.”
“Mr. Samuelson,” said the judge, “I would agree with you that the innuendo is unfortunate, but you posed the question to invite such a response. It seemed to me that the witness was directly answering the question about the profitability of his other businesses.”
The lawyer’s sudden burst of color was accentuated by the whiteness of his hair. To Franks he said, “Profit is important to you?”
“Profit is the basis of all business,” lectured Franks, increasingly confident.
“Tell the court about the businesses other than those in Bermuda and the Bahamas,” invited Samuelson.
“All are concerned with the leisure industry,” said Franks.
“That wasn’t what I meant, Mr. Franks.”
“Perhaps I would be better able to understand the questions if they were posed more specifically.”
The other man’s color deepened. “Tell the court about the control of those companies.”
“In every enterprise—with the holding of my wife who has already given evidence before this court—I maintain individual control.”
“Help the court by further explaining what that means.”
“It means exactly what I’ve said,” insisted Franks. “I have control of my companies.”
“There are no outside shareholders? No public stock issue?”
“No,” said Franks, seeing the direction the questioning was taking and unworried by it.
“Why then, on the venture in the Bahamas and Bermuda, were you prepared to abandon the established practice of a lifetime and take in outside investors?”
“I’ve already made clear that borrowed money was dear. It was a better business arrangement to involve Pascara and Flamini and Dukes.”
“But you insisted upon retaining control, didn’t you?” demanded Samuelson.
Shit, thought Franks, fully realizing. “Yes,” he said.
“So the companies through which these alleged criminal activities were conducted were in no way controlled or administered by my client, Mr. Pascara. You controlled them?”
“I established them,” said Franks, attempting the qualification. “And the casino proposal came directly from them, not from me.”
“Really!” said Samuelson, in artificial surprise. “My recollection …” He stopped, hand against his head, and then limped the entire width of the court to his desk to retrieve a notepad, which he appeared to consult before looking up. “My recollection,” he repeated, “is that Mr. Snarsbrook, a minister under indictment for offenses in his own country, told this court that the approach for a casino was made personally by yourself, with no involvement of my client or any other of the accused. The same Mr. Snarsbrook who also told this court of receiving a sum of money with the personal thanks of someone called Eddie.” The pause was perfect. “Your name is Edmund and you’re more usually referred to as Eddie, isn’t that so, Mr. Franks?”
“I have no knowledge, interest or awareness of the bank account from which that payment was made to Snarsbrook,” insisted Franks doggedly. “I did not bribe Snarsbrook to set up the casino. The use of the word ‘Eddie’ is an obvious and blatant entrapment.”
“Would you describe yourself, hitherto, as a successful businessman, Mr. Franks?”
“I would like to think so.”
“An experienced businessman?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly not one to be tricked or cheated.”
Franks saw the pit yawning before him but didn’t know how to avoid it. “I have already explained, in my main evidence to this court, how for the first time I was tricked and cheated. It never happened before. Nor—believe me—will it ever happen again. I was gullible and I was stupid and I was used.”
“By Scargo?”
“Initially, yes.”
“The relationship between yourself and Scargo went beyond that of simple brothers-in-law, did it not?”
“Yes.”
“You spent a considerable time in the Scargo family; you were evacuated here to America during the European war?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard the description given in court that the relationship was, in fact, not that of brothers-in-law but as that of brothers?”
“Yes,” admitted Franks.
“The Scargo family took you in, when you were a refugee? Protected and cared for you?”
“I have also given evidence to that effect.”
“You’ve also given evidence that Nicholas Scargo, someone whom you knew as a brother, ensnared you into a criminal business activity.”
“Yes!”
“You’d fallen out; become bitter enemies?”
“No.”
“You mean you were friends?”
Never friends, thought Franks. “I thought so,” he said, lying knowingly.
“Mr. Franks,” said Samuelson, stressing the incredulity, “are you asking this court to accept as the truth that Nicholas Scargo, whom you regarded as a brother and who loved you as a brother in return, set out to deceive and trap you, for no reason that has ever been presented to this court? And that you, an experienced, sensible businessman, allowed that entrapment to take place!”
“That’s how it happened,” said Franks desperately.
“You’re English, are you not?” said Samuelson.
“Yes,” said Franks.
“Are you familiar with the writings of an English author called Lewis Carroll?”
Franks shook his head, looking inquiringly toward Ronan, who was also frowning.
“In a work called Through the Looking Glass, Carroll had one of his characters, Tweedledee, comment upon logic.” Samuelson went to his reminder pad, starting to quote, “‘If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t.’” The lawyer looked up, not bothering to leave his desk. “That, Mr. Franks, is the most apt description of your evidence I can imagine.”
Ronan was on his feet, objecting on the grounds of comment rather than questioning, but Samuelson had already sat down, rendering the protest meaningless.
Tripodi rose to continue, but the judge declared the midday adjournment. Franks ate with Ronan, apologizing at once for what had happened. The district attorney insisted that Franks’ showing had not been as bad as the man imagined it had been, but Franks was unconvinced. His own opinion was that he’d done extremely badly and nullified any impression he might have created while presenting the main part of his ev
idence.
“The mistakes you made were genuine ones,” said the state lawyer. “You looked like a man unaccustomed to courts; not like someone who was lying.”
“More or less confident than before?”
“About the same,” said the district attorney.
When the court resumed in the afternoon, Franks thought Tripodi looked like a greyhound impatient to be released from the trap; certainly he came forward with a set-free urgency. Samuelson had been hard, but there had been some leisurely buildup to his cross-examination, which wasn’t Tripodi’s style.
He thrust a document toward Franks, and said, “Tell the court what that is.”
Franks took it, recognized it at once. “Company records,” he said.
“Which company?”
“The island hotels.”
“What is recorded on page twenty?”
Franks knew, from the volume number, but turned to the page anyway. “The initial discussion about installing a casino at one of the hotels.”
“Initial?” snatched Tripodi.
“The first board discussion,” said Franks.
“But not the first discussion in which you’d been involved, was it, Mr. Franks?”
“I’ve explained the circumstances of that,” said Franks wearily.
“That there had been informal talks, in the absence of Nicky Scargo; that my client and Mr. Pascara and Mr. Dukes were aware of what was going on?”
“Yes!” insisted Franks, with growing exasperation.
“What would you say, Mr. Franks, if I were to tell you that my client has no recollection whatsoever of any talks with you or with anyone else about installing a casino either in Bermuda or on the Bahamas before the date set out in those company records? By which time you’d already been to Las Vegas and to the islands and engaged in detailed talks with a great number of people?”
“I would say that Flamini is a liar,” said Franks simply.
“Mr. Flamini contends that you’re the liar, Mr. Franks.”
“He doesn’t have any alternative, does he?”
“He has some interesting evidence, though,” said Tripodi, unruffled. “Let’s turn to page twenty-two. What’s set out there?”
Resigned, Franks went through the appearance of consulting the records and said, “It sets out the debate concerning the casino installation.”
To Save a Son Page 35
