I spent the better part of Monday in the offices of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase listening to Jimmy Moore on the telephone. He wasn't on the telephone with me, of course, as I was not a name and thus not worth talking to. Instead he was on the phone with Michael Ruffing, a restaurateur whose flashy enterprises in the city had made him a local name among the city's well-cultured and whose phone at his nightclub, Bissonette's, named after his partner Zack Bissonette, the currently comatose former second baseman, happened to have been tapped by the FBI. I sat alone at the foot of a long marble table in a huge conference room. Fine antique prints of Old Philadelphia lined the walls: Independence Hall, Carpenters Hall, Christ Church, the Second Bank of the United States. The carpet was thick and blue. A tray of soft drinks lay on a credenza behind me and I didn't have to pay six bits to open one, they were just there, for me. I can't help but admit that sitting in that room like an invited guest, sitting there like a colleague, gave me a thrill. I was in the very heart of success, someone else's success maybe, but still the closest I had ever come to the real thing. And there was a dark joy in my heart the whole of my time there because I knew that if all went right this could be my success, too. So I couldn't help smiling every now and then as I sat in that conference room with earphones on and a yellow pad before me, listening to a score of cassettes holding Jimmy Moore's taped conversations with Michael Ruffing.
Moore: Your plan for the riverfront is brilliant. Prescient. But I see problems in council.
Ruffing: Uh, like, what kinds of…
Moore: Jesus, Mikey, you got problems.
Ruffing: I don't need no more problems.
Moore: Every damn councilman gets a take out of the water going a certain way. That's why it still looks like the Bronx down there. What you need is a champion. What you need is a Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: Okay. I see that. That's who I need then, what I'm looking for.
Moore: Take Fontelli. Part of the waterfront's in his district, so he thinks the whole damn river's his pisspot.
Ruffing: I don't want Fontelli, you know. I've heard things.
Moore: They're all true. What have you heard?
Ruffing: He's, you know. What I heard. Connected.
Moore: Of course he is, Mikey. You know who he's married to.
Ruffing: I don't want them.
Moore: Of course not. Of course not. In for an inch and they're screwing your sister. Now I like your place, you know that. I'm in there almost every week, you know that.
Ruffing: And you don't stint on the Dom, either.
[laughter]
Moore: Fuck no, you're either class or you're shit. Now I could help with this. We could help each other, Mikey.
Ruffing: Okay, yeah.
Moore: But the kind of influence you're talking about here, well, you know.
Ruffing: Of course. That's, uh, assumed.
Moore: But I'll be your Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: What exactly are we talking about here?
Moore: I'll send my man Concannon over to discuss arrangements.
Ruffing: Give me an idea.
Moore: He'll call you. You'll deal with him on everything.
Ruffing: Sure, then.
Moore: This is going to work out for everybody, Mikey. For everybody. Trust me. This project's going to take off like a rocket ship.
It was these tapes and certain subsequent events that were the basis for the government's case against Moore and Concannon. Ruffing's waterfront development plan was budgeted at $140 million, and Moore wanted a full 1 percent to propose and ensure passage of the enabling legislation in City Council. The government's theory was that Moore and Concannon were shaking down Ruffing for the million point four and that when Ruffing stopped paying after the first half mil they turned violent, first beating the hell out of Bissonette, the club's minority owner who had convinced Ruffing to stop the payments, and then burning down the club. Moore and Concannon had been indicted for violations of the Hobbs Act, RICO, the federal conspiracy laws, and there was plenty of evidence to back it all up. Ruffing would testify at the trial to an arrangement that had gone very bad, and there were reams of records, which I had not yet been able to examine, that purported to follow the trail of money from Ruffing to Concannon to Moore's political action committee, Citizens for a United Philadelphia, or CUP, as well as physical evidence relating to the assault. But most significant of all were Moore's own words, captured with startling clarity on the ferric oxide of the tapes.
Moore: I don't understand the problem.
Ruffing: We're going a different way is all.
Moore: But we had a deal. A deal, Mikey.
Ruffing: I'm not happy about it but I don't got no fucking choice. Bissonette found out about us.
Moore: And I should care about that. He hit two-twenty lifetime, Mikey, two-twenty. We can walk all over him.
Ruffing: There are things about him I didn't… I got a new investor with a new plan.
Moore: Don't do this, Mikey. You back out now, your project's dead. Dead.
Ruffing: My new investor don't think so.
Moore: It's that cookie baker, isn't it?
Ruffing: Shut up. You were taking too much anyway, you know? You were being greedy.
Moore: So that's it, is it, Mikey? I'm sending my man Concannon down.
Ruffing: I don't want Concannon.
Moore: You listen, you shit. You talk to Concannon, right? I ain't no hack from Hackensack, we had a deal. A deal. This isn't just politics. We're on a mission here, Mikey, and I won't let you back down from your responsibilities. You catch what I'm telling you here? You catch it, Mikey?
I worked through lunch, eating a tuna salad sandwich as I listened to the tapes. I had not even touched the six boxes full of documents when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled around and saw standing behind me Prescott, tall, stern faced, dressed in his severe navy blue pinstripes. I nearly jumped when I saw him. He looked like a mortician. I took off the headphones and was disoriented for a moment by the Dolby quiet of reality.
"What do you think?" asked Prescott.
"I haven't been able to look at everything yet," I said.
"But from what you saw. Be honest now, Victor."
"Well, sir, to be honest, the tapes make Jimmy Moore out to be the archetypal grasping politician."
"I knew you'd catch on," he said as his stern features eased into merriment. "That's exactly our defense. Come, Chester Concannon is waiting for us and Jimmy's on his way. Chester especially is anxious to meet you."
"Fine," I said, grabbing hold of my pad and following Prescott out the door. He led me through a maze of hallways and up a flight of steps.
"It's very important," he said as I followed, "that Chester agrees to your representation and to maintain our current strategy."
"I'll do what I can," I said, masking my apprehension. This, I knew, was the first crucial moment of my opportunity. I had never met Chester Concannon, had no idea what he looked like, what his manner was, but somehow I had to convince this stranger with his life on the line to hire me as his lawyer and to allow me to follow Prescott blindly.
Prescott brought me through another hallway and into a different conference room, just as elegant and imposing as the one in which I had spent the day, but this one filled with a pack of lawyer types. In the middle, sporting a ragged corduroy jacket, sat a rather ugly man who didn't fit. His brown hair fell scraggly to his shoulders and he scrunched fat fish lips between forefinger and thumb as he watched me walk into the room. I assumed he was Chester Concannon. You can always tell the client among his lawyers because he looks like the one who's been forced to pay for everyone else's worsted wool.
"I'd like you all to meet Victor Carl," said Prescott when we stood together before the table. Prescott's arm rested like a father's on my shoulder. "Victor is a terrific litigator and going to be a big help to us all."
I smiled the smile I was expected to smile.
"So you're the mannequin," said
the ugly man in corduroy, his voice loud and sharp, like the bark of a Pomeranian.
"Excuse me," I said.
"They said they needed a mannequin with a pulse and a clean tie to take over for McCrae," he said. "So I guess that's you, Vic. Except I see you don't have the clean tie. You got a pulse at least, Vic?"
I fought the impulse to check my tie and turned my head just enough so I could look at him sideways without letting him see the tears involuntarily welling. If this indeed was my client-to-be I was in deep trouble. "Last time I checked," I said.
"Good for you," he said. "Just take a shower in your wash-and-wear so you'll be presentable when you pose for the judge."
"Victor," said Prescott. "I'd like you to meet Chester Concannon."
I hesitantly reached out my hand toward the man in the corduroy but he remained seated, his thick lips back to being pinched by his forefinger and thumb. Next to him an African-American man in a tight fitting, expensive suit stood and took hold of my hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carl," he said in a strong voice. Chester Concannon was boyishly handsome, with thin shoulders and strong hands. While his smile was bright, his suit was subdued and his tie striped and simple. "I appreciate you joining our team."
"And this," said Prescott, gesturing to the man in the corduroy who had called me a mannequin, "is Chuckie Lamb, Councilman Moore's press secretary."
Chuckie Lamb gave me a sort of snorting nod and then leaned back in his chair until the chair's front legs tilted off the carpet.
"I've told both Chet and Jimmy all about you, Victor, and the tenacious job you did on the Saltz case," said Prescott. "They were both enthusiastic about your coming on board. This is the rest of our crew," he said and introduced me to the Talbott, Kittredge contingent seated around the table, whose names I forgot the instant they escaped from Prescott's lips. They were finely dressed, perfectly groomed men and women, showily multicultural, as if cast by a politically correct producer for a television series about litigators. There was an Asian-American man and an African-American woman, and there was a blond guy with a perpetual smirk on his face. And then at the end of the table was Madeline Burroughs, who eyed me suspiciously, arms crossed, the fist of her face closed. It was the very picture of the sharp legal team of which I had always dreamed of being a part and on which I had always suspected, somewhere deep down, I didn't belong.
"Now Victor has spent the day looking through Pete McCrae's files and the materials provided us by the U.S. Attorney's office," said Prescott, "and he assures me that he can be ready for trial in two weeks."
"What a stunning surprise," barked Chuckie Lamb. "The mannequin is ready to pose."
"That's enough," said Concannon softly, and Chuckie Lamb quieted immediately.
"Victor's readiness," said Prescott, "means we won't require the continuance the government so desperately wants us to have."
"I haven't looked at everything yet," I said, glancing at Chuckie Lamb for a moment. "But it shouldn't take me too long to get up to speed."
There were smiles from all the bright young successes and I smiled back. I was an actor playing the part of a competent and experienced lawyer and doing quite well, I thought. And if they all didn't believe in what I was presenting they were acting quite well themselves, all except for Chuckie.
"Terrific," said Prescott. "But maybe, before we proceed any further, Victor should spend a few minutes alone with Chester." He raised his eyebrows at me, giving me my cue.
"I guess we should see if you really want to hire me," I said to Concannon with my most ingratiating smile. Chuckie Lamb laughed in my face.
Concannon and I were escorted to an open office. On my way there, without letting anyone notice, I checked my tie. Chuckie had not been lying, a glob of tuna had crusted on the edge. I rubbed it off, leaving a dark oily patch, streaked larger by my thumb.
I closed the door behind us and gestured for Concannon to sit in one of the chairs arrayed expectantly before some Talbott partner's desk. I sat on the tabletop. Behind the desk was a collection of swords and sabers and battle-axes, the metal edges gleaming. Another litigator's office.
"Mr. Concannon," I started, "I thought we should talk a bit before you agreed to hire me or I agreed to represent you."
"That's fine, Mr. Carl."
"Call me Victor," I said.
"Victor or Vic?"
"Victor. I never liked Vic. It makes me sound too disposable, like a throwaway lighter or a ballpoint pen."
He laughed at my old joke, which was good. He seemed a charming enough man, Chet Concannon, quiet and very polite. I told him I was sorry about what happened to Pete McCrae. I told him a little about myself, my experience, the highlights of my career, just a little about myself because there was only a little to tell. Then it was time for the defense attorney's lecture, so I paused, took a breath, and began. I gave him the talk about lawyer-client confidentiality, about how my job was not to find the truth but to defend him, and how if I learned the truth I was duty-bound to stop him from saying anything other than the truth on the stand.
"You mean stop me from lying," he said, obviously amused.
"I know you might want to confess, the urge is understandable," I said. "And whatever you say remains with me, but you have to be aware that any such confession could have consequences as to our defense."
There was more to it than that, of course. I could have gone on speaking for a good ten minutes, but after talking about his undoubted need to confess and seeing him sitting there, calm, composed, his face lacking the slightest indicia of an urgency to tell me anything, I stopped.
"I guess you've heard all this before," I said.
"I guess," he replied.
"Good," I said, though I started to sweat a little. There was something about his composure that was unnerving. "Now just a few questions. Have you ever been arrested before?"
"Yes," he said without a wince. "Before I met Jimmy I was involved with drugs and drug sellers. I was arrested often."
"Were you convicted of anything?"
"Once of possession with intent to distribute a banned substance, to wit, cocaine, and twice of forgery. I supported my habit by check," he said with a smile. "Except the checks weren't always mine. None of this is a secret. I'm one of Jimmy's success stories, one of his saved souls. He likes to be able to point at us to show what is possible with drug rehabilitation."
"Still, you probably won't be testifying," I said. "Forgery is just the kind of prior conviction that a prosecutor would use to show your lack of honesty or trustworthiness."
"That's what Mr. McCrae said too."
"Did you know Zack Bissonette?"
"Sure," he said. "Nice guy, lousy ballplayer."
"Assuming you didn't do it, any idea who would have beaten that nice guy into a coma?"
"I heard it was the mob."
"Is that what you heard?"
"That's what I heard."
"Is that what he's going to say when he wakes up?"
"What I also heard, Victor," he said, his hands laying still, one atop the other on his lap, "is that he's on the edge of never waking up."
"And then you'd only be up for murder."
There was a crack in the calm facade at that moment, a lowering of the guard, and what I saw was not the confident insider but a child, scared and lonely, the kid at the edge of the playground, the kid never passed to in the basketball games, who only received two valentines while his classmates took home sacks full. The peek inside didn't last long, quick as a politician's lie the facade was back, but I had a glimpse of what he was feeling and how much he was hiding and it all touched me in a strangely personal way. And suddenly my playacting the role of a hard-boiled criminal defense attorney didn't seem quite so clever.
"Are you sure you don't want someone more experienced?" I asked.
"You'll do fine," he said. "Jimmy said you'll do fine."
I thought about it for a moment. "If we both agree that I will represent you,"
I said, "we also are going to have to agree on a strategy. What line of defense was Mr. McCrae going to follow?"
"He was going to follow Prescott completely," he said.
I tried to smile reassuringly. "From what I've seen, that looks like your best bet," I said. "But that decision is up to you."
"I know," he said. "And that's the way Jimmy still wants it to go."
"You know, Chester," I said, speaking very slowly, very carefully, wanting to phrase what I was required to say just right. "With co-defendants there is always a potential conflict between defenses. One defendant could always point the finger at the other and say I didn't do it, he did it."
"There is no conflict here," he said quickly, without hesitation.
"Do you trust the councilman with your life?"
"Absolutely."
"Rushing to trial like we are, I might not be able to help you if things go wrong."
"I appreciate you wanting to be in a position to help me, Victor," he said, without putting even a touch of patronization in his voice, which was pretty impressive. "I really do. But there's always been someone reaching out to help me, someone with a clipboard from the city or the state or the federal government, and all they've ever done is dig my hole a little deeper. Only one man ever reached out a hand and really, truly helped."
"And who was that?"
"Jimmy Moore," he said. "Jimmy's been called a lot of things by a lot of people and he's everything they say. But he's been the best friend I ever had. He told me to hire you, so you're hired. He told me to follow Mr. Prescott's lead, so that's what we're going to do."
"Then your explicit instructions are not to interfere with Prescott."
Hostile witness vc-1 Page 5
