“I wonder what he meant by that?”
“Milt said Nathan and the old man were estranged for a long time. Nathan didn’t approve of his father’s politics, I guess.” So Flaherty knew, I thought. It still struck me as odd. I guess it would anyone of my generation. We, not our parents, were supposed to be the radicals.
The image stuck with me long after I’d hung up the phone. The old man standing beside his son’s grave, unwilling to leave lest that leaving become abandonment, forgetting.
THIRTEEN
“Mr. Parma will see you in a moment, Miss Jameson,” the receptionist said. “Please take a seat.”
I was on the fifty-seventh floor of the World Trade Center. Looking out the window, I felt distinctly queasy. There are 747s that fly lower than this.
I sat on the imitation leather couch and waited for Parma. I’d pushed hard to get this appointment on such short notice, calling the first thing Monday morning and then taking the day off work. I was glad I had. The Special Prosecutor could give me a lot of information if he wanted to. The trick would be to make him want to.
Maybe the whole concept of a Special Prosecutor is unique to New York City. And Watergate, of course. The thing was, after Serpico blew the lid off the Knapp Commission hearings, it was clear that there were judges and D.A.’s up to their asses in corruption. And how are you going to get those D.A.’s to prosecute and those judges to convict their own? Answer: you appoint an above-suspicion type guy to be Special Prosecutor, give him a hand-picked staff of incorruptibles, let him present all his cases to a Special Grand Jury to be heard by a Special Judge. And so Del Parma’s little hit squad came into being. They didn’t always get convictions, or even indictments, but the mere mention that they were investigating someone struck fear and terror into plenty of hearts. He got so good at tainting reputations without backing it up with evidence that he was under considerable criticism even from people who wanted to see corruption unmasked. You can imagine what the people who didn’t thought of him.
“Mr. Parma will see you now.” I looked up from the week-old People to see a fortyish woman with dyed red hair and a generous mouth. As I followed her down the corridor to the master office, I noticed that her straight black skirt and hot pink angora sweater were just a shade too tight. Fifteen, even ten years ago, she must have looked as perfectly ornamental as the girl at the reception desk, but now it was an uphill fight. There were fine lines around her eyes and the clothes that once would have been showy now looked a little cheap. She seemed an odd choice for private secretary to a man as concerned with appearances as Del Parma. I wondered why he hadn’t traded her in for a new model.
Parma’s office was spacious, carpeted in royal blue with a vast, white-topped, empty desk. It was a mark of his status that although there were two spectacular views—one of the harbor and the other of Lower Manhattan and the bridges—the desk faced away from the windows. The implication was that the views were purely for the tourists; the Great Man was too busy to take notice of their panoramic beauty.
The secretary announced my name and slipped away, leaving me alone with the Special Prosecutor. Parma paced the room like a cat, all sinuous movement and burning black eyes. Barely looking at me, he spoke to the room, and perhaps the world, at large.
“Why can’t you people leave me alone? I don’t know anything about Charlie Blackwell’s death. I’ve barely heard the man’s name in the last eight years. Doesn’t anyone understand that?” He gestured theatrically as he spoke. He still hadn’t faced me directly. “You finish a case, it’s over, you go on to the next one. You don’t brood about it. You don’t keep in touch with all the witnesses. Okay, Blackwell’s dead. I’m sorry to hear it. But it’s nothing to do with me. There’s nothing I can tell you or any other newspaper.”
Light dawned. I explained to Parma that I wasn’t a reporter. That stopped him pacing, but then he gave me a look of suspicion, as though I’d come under false pretenses.
“But I am interested in Blackwell’s death,” I added hastily. “And in the murder of Nathan Wasserstein. I think you knew him?” I made it a question, though I knew the answer.
Parma was still wary, but he answered. “Yes, I knew Nathan. We worked together in the D.A.’s office many years ago. I was sorry to read of his death.”
“I was a friend of Nathan’s. At the Legal Aid Society. He made an appointment to see you the day before he was killed.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. I wondered why he didn’t show up. Of course, now I know.”
“Did he tell you what it was he wanted to talk about?”
“I’m not sure that he did. We arranged to have lunch. I assumed he’d tell me then.”
“It was about Charlie Blackwell. He’d picked Blackwell up in arraignments, and Blackwell said he had information for you. And now Blackwell’s dead too.”
“And you think there’s a connection?” he demanded. I nodded. “But, Miss Jameson, are you sure that’s what Nathan wanted to see me about?”
“I’m sure,” I said grimly. That at least I could make him believe. The rest I wasn’t so sure of.
“He told you?” Parma persisted. I wasn’t sure who he meant by “he,” so I elaborated. “First Nathan told me he wanted to see you about Blackwell, and then Blackwell himself told me he’d told Nathan ‘everything,’ whatever that meant. So there’s no doubt in my mind that Blackwell had information for you and Nathan was the go-between.”
“And now they’re both dead. That’s what you’re thinking.” He began to pace again, his fine hands darting all over, now pointed at me, now gesturing in the air, now thrust into a pocket, now running through his curly black hair. His whole body emphasized his every word. I’d had a client like that once: he was deaf. “But my God, Miss Jameson, what you’re suggesting is impossible. Charlie Blackwell was a very unstable man. If you saw him, you saw that yourself. Nothing could be more natural than for him to kill himself. I’m sure that’s what the investigating committee will find—that he hanged himself. And as for Nathan—well, the newspapers said he must have been killed by someone he knew. Someone he let into his apartment. Granted, it’s a coincidence both of these things should happen so close together, but, take my word for it, that’s all it is. A coincidence. Probably Blackwell had nothing for me anyway. You know how people are—any little thing, they think the Special Prosecutor’s the right person to go to. I wouldn’t put much stock in this, Cassandra, really I wouldn’t.” He stopped to see what effect his words were having. They weren’t having much. I had my own reasons for believing Charlie Blackwell wanted to live, and I certainly didn’t believe he was the type to cry wolf. He had information the Special Prosecutor wanted. I decided to mention that.
“It’s a fact, though, that Charlie could have told you a few things you wanted to know, isn’t it? About the Stone trial?”
Parma didn’t like the question. “It’s true that I had a few questions about that trial I could have asked Charlie,” he admitted.
“In fact, you believed Charlie took a dive on that case. And you wanted to know who got to him.”
Parma smiled, his boyish face taking on a paternal look. “Cassandra, you must go to a lot of movies. It’s true I’ve always wondered if Charlie hadn’t been a less enthusiastic witness than I wanted him to be, but I certainly wouldn’t allege publicly that he ‘took a dive,’ as you put it.”
“Maybe not publicly. How about privately?”
“I think my private thoughts will stay private,” he said coldly. “And now if there’s nothing else.…”
“There is.” I was crisp and to the point. If he didn’t want to air his opinions, fine, but I still wanted the answers to some questions. “I’m interested in the type of security arrangements Blackwell was held under eight years ago.”
Parma sighed. “Cassandra, all this was a long time ago, and I frankly haven’t got the time to spend on it. However, I don’t wish to appear unhelpful, so I’ll let you talk to one of my assistants. Mr. Chessler
will be able to answer any questions.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late for an appointment, so if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up, called his secretary and walked me out of the room. We shook hands again, and I thanked him with as much graciousness as I could muster.
The red-haired secretary led me to another, smaller office down the hall. I wondered if the assistant would be programmed to give me a different version of the bum’s rush I’d just gotten from the boss.
This time there was only one window, facing the Hudson River and New Jersey. From here, even New Jersey looked good.
The man behind the desk was about thirty-two, with thinning blond hair and mild blue eyes behind slightly tinted aviator glasses. He’d taken off the jacket from his three-piece suit, leaving a gray, pin-striped vest and pants, a pink shirt, and a tie of light blue, silver, and pink paisley. Very preppy-looking. He probably had little alligators on his underwear.
He stood up, offered his hand, and said, “I’m Dave Chessler.” I shook his hand. They were big on shaking hands in this place. Maybe I should have worn white gloves. He motioned me to a guest chair in front of his desk, which was neither as large nor as tidy as Parma’s.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. I nodded. Coffee would be nice, and besides, he couldn’t throw me out as quickly as Parma had if I were drinking his coffee.
He called for a secretary to get us coffee. I’d expected the usual office instant with powdered creamer, so I was pleasantly surprised to taste a rich dark blend with a hint of French roast. Real half and half. In china mugs, not styrofoam. I decided I approved of Chessler.
When we’d both sipped our coffee, he set his mug on the desk, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. It’s a common enough gesture, but it brought Nathan back so sharply that tears came into my eyes. Angrily, I brushed them away, hoping Chessler hadn’t noticed.
He had. “What’s the matter?” he asked, in a voice that was light and pleasant. Altogether he wasn’t the kind of man I’d expected to find among Del Parma’s scalp-hunters.
“Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.” I quickly turned businesslike. “Mr. Parma said you might be able to help me. I need some information about the Burton Stone trial. Specifically about Charlie Blackwell. He was—”
“Oh, I know who Charlie is. Or was. Of course, that trial was before my time, but I’ve heard about it.”
“Well, I’m concerned about his death. They’re saying suicide, but it’s certainly possible that he was killed by people who didn’t want him to tell your office what really happened at Stone’s trial.”
“Could be,” Chessler said cheerfully. “Of course, it just happened, so all the facts aren’t in yet. There’s going to be an investigation, though. Maybe something will come out of that.”
“So that’s what Parma meant,” I said. “I didn’t know what he was talking about. Who’s investigating?”
“Department of Corrections, for one. They don’t like the idea that a man can get killed, by himself or by someone else, while he’s under their jurisdiction.”
“True,” I nodded. “It shouldn’t have happened either way. Plus,” I added, “Charlie should have been on suicide watch, and I read in the paper that he wasn’t. I’d like to know how that happened.”
“Meanwhile, how can I help?” Chessler leaned forward in his chair, his light blue eyes intent as he waited for me to answer. I was disconcerted by so much receptivity. So many others, even people Nathan had called friends, had been unwilling to hear me out.
“Charlie’s dead, and so is the Legal Aid lawyer he told his story to,” I said boldly. “I think there’s a connection.”
“Legal Aid lawyer? You mean the guy killed in his apartment in the—”
“That’s the one. Nathan Wasserstein.”
“But—I don’t know quite how to put this, but—”
“But the police think he was killed by a gay lover. Yes, that’s true. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe Nathan was gay, and I think it’s too much of a coincidence that Charlie died the next day.”
“In an apparent suicide.”
“Oh, come on. How difficult would it be to hang someone in his cell and make it look like suicide?”
“Not very. And I agree that the kind of people who would want to ice Charlie would find plenty of help. Even correction officers, if necessary.”
“That’s a charming thought.”
“That’s the way it is. If Riordan’s associates got him, they could count on officers at least turning their backs. For a price.”
“Why Riordan?” I asked.
“We’ve always known Blackwell was gotten to at the Stone trial,” Chessler answered. “And we knew who did it. Matt Riordan. He and Blackwell ran that crossexamination like it had been rehearsed for weeks.” The mild voice was bitter now. “Riordan broke Blackwell on the stand in a hundred different ways. And they were all based on the fact that he knew to the letter every word Blackwell was going to say. He knew because he told Blackwell what the questions would be and how to answer them. Riordan made us look like fools in that case. Lost us a conviction where we should have gotten one. I’d be a liar if I told you this office didn’t care what Blackwell had to say to us. If he was going to nail Riordan, we wanted to hear it.”
The thought crossed my mind that Chessler seemed to know a lot about a guy his boss claimed he hadn’t thought about in eight years. Not to mention being more angry and bitter over the defeat than the man who had been there taking the heat—Parma himself.
“Okay,” I said. “I can see you think Riordan fixed the Stone case. But would he kill somebody? Or have the clout to have it done for him?”
The once-pleasant voice grew harsh. “Riordan’s a slimy son-of-a-bitch who makes a fortune representing the worst scum in the city.”
“I thought I represented the worst scum in the city,” I said facetiously. It seemed oddly like betrayal to sit here with a prosecutor and malign a fellow defense lawyer, however unsavory his reputation.
Chessler forced a smile. “Seriously, Ms. Jameson, the man is an unscrupulous bastard who’ll do anything for his clients. Like use phony medical records to get a long adjournment and in the middle of that adjournment the chief prosecution witness gets fished out of the East River. Nice, ethical stuff like that.”
I was struck by the contrast between the well-tailored clothes, the modulated voice, and the street toughness. Maybe, like the little D.A. the night Nathan and I were in court together, Chessler was working overtime to put a hard shell of experience around an essentially soft nature. He went on. “Your clients may bop old ladies on the head for their purses, but Riordan’s clients will burn that lady’s house down with her in it and then contribute money to a law-and-order candidate for mayor. Only that candidate never quite gets around to doing anything about arson once he’s elected. So getting Blackwell to flip on the stand in order to get a scumbag like Stone off the hook is light stuff for Riordan. So is icing Blackwell if he has to. The man wouldn’t turn a hair.”
“I see,” I said. I wasn’t sure I accepted at face value Chessler’s assessment of Riordan, but Nathan himself had said the consensus was that Blackwell had been bought or threatened into falling apart on the stand. “But to get back to ancient history, how could Riordan have gotten to Blackwell? Didn’t you have him under pretty tight security?”
“Of course. He was in a hotel, under full-time guard. The only people allowed in were members of the Special Prosecutor’s staff and Charlie’s only relative, his sister.”
“So the sister could have been a leak?”
“She was pretty thoroughly interrogated when the fiasco was over.” I gathered he meant the trial. “But she’s the next thing to borderline retarded, so I doubt she’d have been much of a go-between for Riordan. No, unfortunately, we had to face the fact that it was probably one of the guards. We never got any of them to admit anything, but then Riordan wouldn’t pick somebody who couldn’t stand up t
o questioning.”
Suddenly he stood up, almost as abruptly as Parma had, and walked over to a bookshelf crammed with papers and transcripts. From a pile on the top shelf he picked up a hefty transcript and handed it to me. It was part of the Stone trial—direct, cross, and redirect of Charlie Blackwell.
“Take this home. Read it. Then get it back to me by, say, Friday. Copy what you want, but don’t tell anyone you got it from me. Understood?”
“Why are you letting me have it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a public record. You could get it at the courthouse. I’m just saving you a little time.”
“But why?”
Chessler leaned back easily against the corner of the desk, and looked down at me with a friendly grin. “Do you always look gift horses in the mouth, Ms. Jameson?”
This time I noticed the Ms. He was steadily rising in my estimation. He was the first person I’d talked to who hadn’t dismissed my theory out of hand. I looked forward to seeing him again when I returned the transcript.
FOURTEEN
Maybe it was just the weather, or maybe my mood was thawing along with the leftover snow, but I got up early the next morning and walked to work. Across Bleecker Street, down Broadway—stopping at a coffee shop where they make their own Danish—and onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
When I’d climbed the stairs to the elevated pedestrian walkway, I turned, looking once again at the skyline through the gleaming silver web. It was a picture I never tired of. I’d photographed it many times, in color and black and white, on cloudy days and sunny days, morning and evening.
Nathan had urged me to enter my picture in a photo contest run by the Phoenix, Brooklyn’s neighborhood paper. We’d had a big fight about it. I wasn’t ready, I told him, to have my work judged. Now I wondered, as I stood on the bridge, why I’d been so reluctant. Now waiting for anything, putting anything off, seemed an act of ultimate stupidity.
I walked the rest of the bridge with Nathan. His imaginary company was a comfort, bringing a smile instead of tears.
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