VC01 - Privileged Lives

by Edward Stewart

  “Mother, this could get very boring. Everyone in this room except you has heard this cross-examination nine hundred times before.”

  Babe couldn’t move. She needed something to point her feelings at and it wasn’t there.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. Truly I am. How did we get onto this subject anyway?”

  “It’s all because your mother doesn’t want to sign the divorce petition,” Lucia said.

  “Yours and Papa’s divorce petition,” Babe said.

  “Is Grandpère divorcing you, Grandmère? How adventurous for you both.”

  “Please, Cordelia,” Lucia said. “We’re discussing something serious.”

  “Why doesn’t everybody just lighten up,” Cordelia said. “This room is a morgue.”

  “If Beatrice would sign the petition,” Lucia said, “she’d certainly lighten up Bill’s workload—only Bill’s too much a gentleman to say so.”

  “I can’t sign something I don’t understand,” Babe said.

  “You understand perfectly well,” Lucia said. “You just don’t want to admit you made a mistake marrying that man.”

  “You’re right,” Babe said. “Because I don’t believe I did make a mistake. And I won’t believe it till I hear it from Scottie’s own lips.”

  “Babe,” Hadley said gently, “just what do you expect Scottie to tell you?”

  “He can tell me he tried to kill me.”

  “He’s not going to tell anyone that,” Lucia said. “Not now when he’s off scot-free.”

  “Then at least he can tell me face-to-face he wants a divorce. He can meet me in Bill’s office—and he can bring his attorney if he’s scared of incriminating himself. But unless you produce my husband, and unless he tells me this petition is his doing and his desire, I’ll …”

  The air in the room was suddenly a wall of ice.

  “You’ll what?” Lucia said.

  “I’ll contest this divorce.”

  24

  MONDAY EVENING CARDOZO DROVE OVER to Beaux Arts Tower. Hector Dominguez was lounging against a pillar in the lobby. His belly was getting big for his green jacket.

  Cardozo motioned him to the side of the lobby. Hector hesitated before stepping away from the door.

  “I can’t get your cat out of my mind, Hector. I hate to see an animal falsely accused.”

  “What was the cat’s name?” Cardozo asked.

  “Estrellita.”

  Cardozo took Hector’s arm, holding him back lightly. “We know about both your jobs. You’ve been dealing dope in this building. We know who your customers are and we know who your supplier is.”

  Hector’s soft red face flared into a hard red face. “Bullshit.”

  “Relax, Hector. We’re not interested in the dope. On Saturday the twenty-fourth you sold Debbi Hightower’s coke to someone else. Who was the other customer?”

  Hector’s blink rate began edging up. “What customer? I’m a doorman.”

  “Someone came into this building that you haven’t told us about and you sold them a gram.”

  Hector looked at him. A thick knotty artery pulsed in his temple. “You’re crazy.”

  “I need the name, Hector.”

  “I ain’t got no name.”

  “You withhold evidence, Hector, and I promise you, I will get angry about the coke.”

  “That Hightower, she’s a coked-up whore. She’d say anything to save her skin. I’m a family man, I’m not going to get dragged into this. You want to accuse, talk to my lawyer.”

  “I’m going to keep it one on one for the time being. Let’s take a walk. I’m parked by the hydrant down at the end of the block.”

  Hector took a sidelong glance at Cardozo. “Man, you gotta be kidding.”

  “No kidding, Hector. I need some answers from you and I can see this isn’t the right atmosphere.”

  “I’m working, man.”

  “So am I, man, and you call me Lieutenant, okay?”

  Cardozo motioned his guest to a straight-backed chair, keeping the swivel chair for himself. He started off nice-guy. Standard operating procedure.

  “Smoke if you want to,” he offered.

  Hector took a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt and lit one. Cardozo pushed the ashtray across the desk.

  “Truth time, Hector. Who bought the gram?”

  “You got the wrong guy.”

  Cardozo picked up a handful of paper from the desk. He began leafing through the latest interdepartmental memos. Ten minutes went by. He looked up.

  Hector was showing no agitation except for the way he stubbed out one cigarette before lighting the next.

  “Why are you shielding them, Hector? Who’d you sell Debbi Hightower’s gram to?”

  There was no ventilation in the cubicle. Hector’s brown eyes squinted against the smoke of his cigarette.

  Cardozo leaned forward and bent the neck of the desk lamp up. The reflector aimed the full glare of the hundred-watt bulb straight into Hector’s face.

  Hector didn’t wince or blink.

  “We have photos, Hector. Pictures of your distributor making the drop. Pictures of you dealing.”

  “This is bullshit. I want to talk to my lawyer.”

  “All I need is a name, Hector. And then you walk out of here.”

  “I don’t know any fucking name.” Hector’s voice was sliding up into a whine. “I didn’t sell any fucking gram, I don’t deal coke. Hightower’s lying.”

  Cardozo went back to his reading.

  In fifteen minutes Hector said, “Can you move the light? It’s in my eyes.”

  Cardozo slammed a fist down onto the desktop. The lamp jumped and Hector started two inches out of his chair.

  “Tell me the name!” Cardozo shouted. “Come on, you stupid Spic meathead! Stop wasting my time!”

  Cardozo yanked Hector’s right arm up behind his back and marched him out into the squad room.

  “Hey, man, you’re hurting me.”

  Cardozo pushed Hector over to the duty desk. Sergeant Goldberg looked up. “Need some help, Vince?”

  “Yeah—cuff this scum and put him in the cage.”

  This was pure police theater. The law said suspects could not be caged without being arrested, and most suspects knew this. But the press published so many horror stories of police brutality that suspects could never be sure the cops would go by the law. The press—by creating uncertainty—helped cops. The scenario was this: Cardozo would go back to his cubicle and Goldberg would say to Hector, “You look like a good guy to me, I’m not going to cuff you or cage you.” And Hector would sit there staring at that empty cage, believing it was only Sergeant Goldberg’s good heart that was keeping him out of it and knowing that a good heart, like patience, could wear out.

  Cardozo shut his door and spent the next hour reviewing van photos of the ins and outs at the Inferno.

  Details nudged his attention. This man’s hat, that woman’s bracelet. He was surprised by the number of limos with black windows, lined up outside the warehouse like a cortege heading for a burial in Queens.

  He compared Inferno and Beaux Arts photos, noting in the log that the comparison had been made and that the match was negative.

  A voice cut into his concentration.

  “I want to talk to my client.”

  Cardozo swiveled around, flicking on the desk lamp.

  Ray Kane was wearing a madras jacket and green trousers. He carried a tan raincoat over one arm.

  “Which client is that, Counselor?”

  “Hector Dominguez.”

  “Does Hector know he’s your client?”

  “I’m his attorney of record in a matter still pending before the third circuit.”

  “What matter is that?”

  “I don’t have to disclose that.”

  Cardozo drew himself together and stood. “Dominguez has no right to counsel till he’s charged. The law gives us eight hours to detain him.”

  “You’ve used up three of them.”


  “And I’ll use up another five.”

  “Lieutenant, you have no probable cause.”

  “I have plenty of probable cause.”

  “I’d like to hear what it is.”

  “The fact that a man of your distinction, an associate of Ted Morgenstern, is representing a lowly doorman.”

  They stared at one another, each holding the other in the icy challenge of his gaze.

  “You move Mr. Dominguez to arraignment in half an hour or I’m bringing habeas corpus.” Kane turned and with a waddling stride marched from the room.

  Cardozo found Assistant District Attorney Lucinda MacGill working night shift in the second-story squad room.

  “I’m holding a man called Dominguez,” he said. “I don’t want to charge him, but he has information in a murder. Is he entitled to counsel?”

  “Since this is a capital charge, it would be advisable.” She leaned forward to lift her coffee cup from the desk, and fluorescence from the overhead lights flashed in her hair. “If you deny him counsel but don’t charge him, you’re in a gray area.”

  “Gray I can live with.” Cardozo placed both hands on the desk edge. “An eager beaver from Ted Morgenstern’s firm is representing Dominguez in a case pending. Can we find out what the charge is?”

  MacGill set down her coffee and motioned Cardozo to come with her across the corridor. She went to a computer terminal and punched in data. A moment later the screen came up a field of glowing green type.

  “Is that Hector or Hernando Dominguez?” she asked.

  “Hector.”

  She punched in more data. “Raymond L. Kane the Third is representing Hector C. Dominguez, felony conviction possession of cocaine intent to sell, three-year sentence suspended, Dominguez cooperated with the D.A.”

  “Cooperated how?”

  “Doesn’t say. He’s released in Kane’s recognizance.”

  “So what’s my situation if I don’t let Kane talk to him?”

  “Nothing you get from Dominguez can be used to charge or detain him.”

  “I’m not interested in Dominguez. Can the information be used against another person?”

  “That depends. Does it incriminate Dominguez?”

  “Of dope dealing, yes.”

  “It’ll be thrown out, violation of Dominguez’s Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate himself.”

  “Hector sold a gram of coke to an unknown person in Beaux Arts Tower at two P.M. the day of the killing. I need the customer’s name.”

  “You feel this unknown person might be what—a witness to the killing?”

  “I feel anyone in that building at that time might be the killer. It has to be checked out.”

  “You’re in a bind, Lieutenant. If Dominguez gives you the name and it is the killer, you haven’t gotten that information legally and your investigation is tainted.”

  “Once I get that name, I can go for the suspect on other grounds.”

  “What grounds?”

  “I’ll be in a better position to know that when I have the name.”

  “Aren’t you going at this bass-ackwards, Lieutenant?”

  “Got a better way to suggest?”

  “You have no choice. At this point you have to charge Dominguez with withholding.”

  “Why? I can hold him eight hours. The threat of that cage could change his mind. It’s changed other people’s.”

  “You realize the odds are very strongly against you.”

  “I’ve been on the force twenty-two years. I’m immune to the odds by now.”

  He met her eyes. They were deep green and speculative, and he knew the thing they were speculating about was Vince Cardozo.

  “Maybe you don’t remember who’s on night court,” she said. “Judge Joseph Martinez.”

  Martinez, one of seven Hispanic judges in New York County, claimed that city police discriminated against Hispanics. Waging a one-man campaign to redress the wrong, he routinely dismissed all but the most heinous charges against Hispanics, and when he did not dismiss, he set ludicrously low bail. Cops had nicknamed him Let-’em-Go Joe; prosecutors had attempted through three city administrations to unseat him. He had the mayor’s protection because he delivered the Hispanic vote.

  “Unless you charge Dominguez,” MacGill said, “Martinez will grant habeas.”

  “If I charge Dominguez he has a right to talk to Kane and I’ll never get that name.”

  “If you don’t charge him, Kane teams up with Martinez and they get you on false arrest. We’re talking about your skin now, Lieutenant.”

  Cardozo stared at the green print on the screen. “Okay. Withholding evidence in a felony.”

  MacGill rose and approached the bench. Her untroubled gaze met the judge’s. “Your Honor, Hector Dominguez is withholding important evidence in a murder case.”

  Judge Martinez had a bored, square-jawed face, silver hair, and a sleepy Pancho Villa moustache. He folded his hands on his breast and closed his eyes.

  “I was not informed of my client’s detention,” Ray Kane said. His madras jacket flopped open, exposing a well-rounded swell of shirtfront. “I was denied visitation. Hector Dominguez was not even questioned, but was held incommunicado for four hours. The police are harassing, plainly and simply, and violating my client’s constitutional right to protection against unreasonable search and seizure.”

  Judge Martinez opened his eyes. “Counselor Kane, a dull roar will suffice. Is any of this true?” he asked MacGill.

  “Your Honor,” Lucinda MacGill said, “the people have probable cause to believe that Hector Dominguez—”

  “Your Honor,” Kane interrupted, “Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo had the audacity to call my client a Spic meathead.”

  Judge Martinez leaned back wearily in his chair, gazing down into the courtroom, at the benches rustling with handcuffed hookers and pushers, cops, defenders, A.D.A.’s. His eyes found Cardozo and black lightning went out from them.

  “I have two grounds for throwing this out. One, Lieutenant Cardozo’s behavior constitutes a prima facie case of police brutality. Two, Mr. Dominguez should have been charged before and not after four hours of detention.”

  Not even a ripple disturbed Counselor MacGill’s surface. She had perfect control of her face. “Your Honor, police interrogation would be impossible if every potential or unwilling witness had to be charged before questioning.”

  “Tell it to the Supreme Court, Counselor.” Judge Martinez brought his gavel slamming down. “The Spic meathead walks. Next case.”

  25

  THE SENIOR PARTNERS’ CONFERENCE room contained an enormous oval table and pictures of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty on one wall and a yellowed photograph of the Stock Exchange after the anarchist explosions of 1894 on the other.

  Davis Hobson and Michael Williams, seniors of the firm, were waiting, looking grayer and a good deal heavier than Babe remembered them, and in addition to Bill Frothingham there were three junior associates.

  “You’re looking well, Hadley,” Davis Hobson said. “How are you exercising?”

  “By mixing my own martinis,” Hadley said, and there was laughter.

  “And you, Babe,” Davis said. “You’re looking younger than ever. As are you, Lucia.”

  “There should be place cards at this table,” Lucia said. “Where are we supposed to sit?”

  “Our team’s on the north side,” Bill Frothingham said, “and Scottie’s is on the south.”

  Scottie, Babe realized with a sudden thickening in her throat. She looked at the man she had assumed to be an associate and she felt the shock of seeing someone she ought to have recognized and had not.

  He came toward her, tall, dark-haired, easy-striding, the man who had once been the most important force in her universe. His dark, wide-set eyes and high cheekbones still combined into a strikingly handsome face. Perhaps it was the fault of the ceiling light throwing shadows into his eye sockets, but Babe wasn’t prepared for the gauntness, the lines
.

  “It’s been a long time.” Scottie’s voice was soft, and his mouth widened the promise of a smile just a fraction.

  “Babe, have you met Ted Morgenstern?” Davis asked. “Ted’s representing Scottie and we thought he ought to be here too.”

  The man she had taken to be the third junior associate stepped forward. “A great pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, taking her hand. He had a deeply tanned face, and his glowing eyes seemed to probe into her, trying to read her intention.

  Babe forced a smile.

  “Shall we get on with it, then?” Davis Hobson said.

  Those who were standing sat, and E.J. positioned Babe’s wheelchair at the table next to Lucia.

  Davis Hobson suggested changes in various clauses of the divorce agreement “in view of the fact that Babe Devens is alive and well, thank God.”

  Ted Morgenstern agreed to the changes in a flat voice.

  Babe tried to follow the discussion. She saw the room as though from far away, through opera glasses that had accidentally been reversed.

  Scottie was looking across the table at her. She pushed her wheelchair back.

  “Beatrice,” her mother said, “you asked for this meeting, now don’t drift away. This concerns you.”

  “I’m listening,” Babe said.

  She wheeled to the window. She listened quietly for several minutes as Bill Frothingham suggested further changes in wording, and then she turned her chair around.

  “Scottie,” she said, “take me to lunch.”

  Scottie knew of a decent French restaurant two blocks away. E.J. steered Babe’s wheelchair through the midtown mob thronging the sidewalk. Only a few people bothered to recognize Babe and stare. At the restaurant door Babe asked E.J. to be a sweetie and vanish for an hour.

  E.J. hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Of course I’ll be all right. I’m with Scottie.” Babe reached back and touched his hand.

  E.J. cast a doubtful look at them both. “All right.”

  It was a wise choice of restaurant: there was a wide entrance hall, no stairs, a darkly gleaming bar on the left. The main room had a high ceiling and walls painted a soft orangey pink, like the inside of a perfectly ripened melon.

  The luncheon crowd was beginning to thin out. Scottie was able to get a nice table by the window; the maître d’ removed a chair and Scottie angled Babe and her wheelchair in its place.