Ms. Alvarez inquired, “Who are those men?”
“Those are my law clerks.’’ Well, the best way to cover myself, of course, was to make it clear to Lenny and Vinnie that my intentions in speaking to Ms. Alvarez were sexual and not traitorous. How’s that for a rationalization? So, I put my arm around her and led her to the elevators. I said, “Let’s have a drink in my room.”
“All right.”
Lenny and Vinnie got on the elevator with us. As we rode up, I said to my pals, “This is Jenny Alvarez. She’s a famous TV reporter.”
They glanced at each other. Vinnie asked, “The don want to see her?”
“No, I want to see her. Alone, and I don’t want to be bothered.”
They both smirked, leered, and drooled. Class acts.
We got out on the eighth floor. Lenny unlocked the door to the suite, and we all entered. Bellarosa was lying on the couch, watching TV with his shoes off.
Jenny Alvarez went right up to him and introduced herself as he stood. Bellarosa said, “Oh, yeah. You’re the lady who gave this guy here a hard time. You friends now?”
She smiled. “Yes, we are.”
Well, the next thing, of course, was that she was going to start hammering poor Frank for an interview. Right? Wrong. She turned out to be the class act of the evening. She said, “John invited me in for a drink. I hope I’m not intruding on business.”
Bellarosa replied, “Nah. We’re on vacation.”
I said to Ms. Alvarez, “Let’s go to my room.’’ I snagged a bottle of scotch and a bucket of ice from the bar, and she took two glasses and a bottle of soda.
I showed her to my room, but as I began to follow her in, Bellarosa tapped me on the shoulder. He closed the door to my room and said to me, “You couldn’t get yourself a house whore? You have to bring this TV broad up here?”
I replied tersely, “It’s my business who I spend my free time with. But to set the record straight, my relationship with that woman is and will remain platonic.”
Bellarosa glanced at the scotch and ice bucket in my hands and smiled. I guess that did seem like a pretty idiotic statement from one man of the world to another. However, I added, “And it’s not a business relationship either.”
“Yeah? So no pillow talk. Okay? Watch what you say to her. Understand?”
I stepped toward the door, but he didn’t move aside. Instead, he said, “What’s on your mind, Counselor? What’s bugging you?”
“If you spoke to my wife tonight, and I assume you did, then you know.”
He stayed silent a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I spoke to her. But you got that all wrong. That’s a bad thing to be thinking about. That’s a very dangerous thing, when a guy gets something like that in his head. I’ve seen that kind of thing get people hurt and killed. So you just put that out of your head.’’ He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. “Okay?”
So I guess I was outvoted, two to one, on the question of a sexual triangle. I said, “All right, Frank. Subject closed. Open the door for me.”
He opened my bedroom door, and carrying the ice bucket and scotch, I went inside and kicked the door shut, then put the scotch and bucket on a cocktail table.
Jenny Alvarez said, “Are you sure I’m not interrupting business?”
“I’m sure. Make yourself comfortable. Have a seat.”
We sat in the two facing club chairs in the corner with the drinks on the cocktail table between us.
As I put ice in our glasses, I noticed that my hand was a little unsteady. Confronting one’s wife with an accusation of adultery was a little tense, but confronting the other man, especially when the guy was a killer, was not one of life’s better moments. But I felt strangely at peace, as if I’d gotten rid of a great burden and put it on the people who’d stuck me with it in the first place. I mean, if you analyzed it with cold logic, it really wasn’t my problem unless I chose to make it so. Still, I knew that the cold logic would eventually give way to more basic feelings such as heartache, pain, betrayal, jealousy, and other standard marital miseries. But tonight, I felt on top of things, and I had a drinking companion.
Jenny Alvarez said, “Nice suite. Crime pays.”
I replied, “Thanks for laying off Bellarosa.”
“I came up here to have a drink with you.”
“Right.’’ Cynic though I am, I believed her, and it felt good to believe what someone said for a change. I mixed us scotch and sodas, and we touched glasses and drank. I have to be honest with you; I was nervous. I said, “Don’t you have to be on the air or something?”
“You’re my only assignment tonight. But since you’re not going on the air, neither am I. But I’ll call in later.’’ She added, “Late enough so they can’t get me on something else before airtime. So I’m free tonight. Feels good.”
Well, I mean, she rearranged her whole schedule, you know, so she could have a drink with me. So what was I supposed to do? Kick her out after one drink? Get room service to deliver a Monopoly game? I cleared my throat. “I’m very flattered.”
She smiled. Oh, those lips. I have to tell you, I’m not usually into Latin beauties, but this woman was absolutely gorgeous. She had a soft brown complexion, dark eyes that sparkled, and thick black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. When she smiled, she had dimpled cheeks that I wanted to pinch.
She said, “You’re separated, I understand.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Well, I did.”
“From whom?”
“People out where you live.”
“Is that a fact? I didn’t even know that.”
She smiled. “Most men would just say yes to that question under these circumstances.”
“I’m not most men. I’m into truth. Are you married?”
“I was. I had a baby on TV. Remember? Two years ago.”
I seemed to recall some mawkish and tasteless coverage of the progress of her pregnancy and final delivery. But I don’t watch much TV news, and until now I didn’t even realize that this was the same woman. I replied, “I do remember that. TV cameras in the delivery room. Sort of vulgar.”
She shrugged. “Not for television.”
“I also seem to recall a proud father.”
“I’m divorced now.”
“So no more babies on television.”
She smiled. “Not for a while.”
We chatted a bit, but I watched my consumption of scotch, in the event I had to rise to the occasion. I can’t do it when I’m loaded, which is frustrating because that’s usually when I want to do it the most. Alcohol is a cruel drug.
I said, “Look, I asked you up here to cover myself with those two goons. Understand?”
“I think so. Do you want me to fake orgasmic noises, then leave?”
“Well . . . no. I enjoy your company. But . . . I just wanted you to know why I invited you here.”
“So now I know. Do you know why I accepted the invitation?”
“You find me interesting.”
“That’s right. Very interesting. Intriguing. You intrigue me.”
“Well, that’s good news. You may not believe this, but I used to be dull.”
“That’s not possible.’’ She smiled. “When was that?”
“Oh, back in March, April. I was really dull. That’s why my wife left me.”
“You said you didn’t know anything about that.”
“Well, I haven’t been home in a few days. Maybe I should call my answering service.”
But I didn’t. We talked about this and that, bantered and teased, but we never talked about Frank Bellarosa. However, it occurred to me that there was more than one way to put a knife into his heart. I mean, I could use this woman as a conduit to the news media. I could remain anonymous, and she would vouch for the reliability of her source. I could feed the media all sorts of things that could put Frank Bellarosa into jail or into the grave. And that would take me off the hook for the perjured alibi, and Bellarosa would be
out of my life. I mention this because it did cross my mind. I guess I had been hanging around Bellarosa too long. But I was determined not to let my life become obsessed with vendetta the way his was. Whatever he had done to me, he had to live with it, and perhaps one day, he would answer for it. Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord. So I dismissed my thoughts of revenge (for the moment) and got back to the business at hand. I said to Jenny Alvarez, “There’s no payoff, you know. I mean, even if you spend the night, I’m not telling you anything.”
“I told you I’m here because I want to be with you. I don’t really give sex for stories and you don’t really proposition women who need something from you. That was a game downstairs.”
“And it’s another game up here. And I’m out of practice.”
“You’re doing fine. I’m still interested. By the way, did you see yourself on TV?”
“Sure did.”
“Your hair was messy.”
“I know. And my tie looked the wrong color, but it wasn’t. I can show you the tie.”
“Oh, I believe you. That happens on TV sometimes.”
The phone rang, but I didn’t answer it. Jenny made a call to her studio and told them she was through for the night. I had a club soda, and she had another scotch. We both kicked our shoes off at some point. There was a TV in the bedroom and we watched her news show at eleven. The Bellarosa story got a minute, mostly reports about the published stories in the newspapers, including my press statements. Ferragamo, who was good at the ten-second sound bite, said, “We are investigating Mr. Bellarosa’s alibi for the day in question, and if we find evidence that contradicts that alibi, we will ask that bail be rescinded, and we will take Mr. Bellarosa into custody again, and we will consider action against the individual who supplied the alibi.”
Ten seconds on the head. The man was a pro.
Ms. Alvarez inquired, “He means you, doesn’t he?”
I replied, “I think so.”
“What sort of action? What can they do to you?”
“Nothing. I was telling the truth.”
“So the five other witnesses were lying? No, don’t answer. No business. It’s a habit. Sorry.’’ She seemed lost in thought, then blurted out, “But it just doesn’t make sense, John.”
“Does it make sense that Frank Bellarosa would commit murder in broad daylight?”
“No, but . . . you’re sure you saw him?”
“Is this on the record?”
“No, off the record.”
“Okay . . . I’m positive it was him.”
She smiled. “If you’re going to keep talking business, I’m leaving.”
“My apologies.”
The sports came on, and I was delighted to discover that the Mets trounced Montreal again, nine to three. “They’re going all the way,’’ I said.
“Maybe. But the Yankees will take the first four of the Series.”
“The Yankees? They’re lucky if they finish the season.”
“Baloney,’’ she said. “Have you seen the Yankees this year?”
“There’s nothing to see.”
We discussed this for a few minutes, and though I could tell she was knowledgeable, it was obvious that she was very biased. I explained, “They don’t have one long-ball hitter on the team.”
“Pitching is the name of the game today, buddy, and the Yankees have real depth in the bullpen.”
This was very frustrating. I tried to explain the facts of baseball life to her, but she said, “Look, I can get us into the press box at Yankee Stadium. You come and see the Yankees play, then we can discuss this intelligently.”
“I wouldn’t go to the Bronx if you paid me. But I’ll watch a Yankee game with you on TV.”
“Good. I want you to watch them against Detroit next week.”
Well, anyway, it was a good night, and we had fun, and the next morning I felt a little better than I had the morning before. Capisce?
Thirty-two
We spent a few more days at the Plaza, but neither Frank nor I ever mentioned or alluded to the subject of my wife’s being his mistress. But I could tell he was still burdened by the subject, and he could tell I was not. I don’t mean to suggest I was playing with him; he was not a man to be played with. But apparently he had some human feelings like the rest of us mortals, and I sensed he felt he’d gone beyond the bounds of even Machiavellian behavior and crossed into actual sin. Well, Father what’s-his-name could issue him a quick absolution over the phone. “Say two Hail Mary’s, Frank, when you get a chance. See you at Communion.”
Anyway, on one of those days at the Plaza, I had lunch with Jack Weinstein, whom I took a liking to. On another day, I called Alphonse Ferragamo, whom I had taken a disliking to. But I was nice to Alphonse, as per my client’s orders, and Mr. Ferragamo and I agreed to fight fair and clean, but we were both lying.
Alphonse—not me—brought up the subject of my client’s cooperating in other matters of interest to the Justice Department in exchange for Justice dropping the charge of murder. I replied, “He’s not guilty of murder.”
Mr. Ferragamo informed me, “Well, we think he is. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to Washington about a blanket immunity for Bellarosa if he wants to talk.”
“How about absolution?”
Ferragamo chuckled. “That’s between him and his priest. I’m talking immunity from prosecution for good information.”
Good information? What kind of information did the stupid son of a bitch think the don of dons had—the location of a bookie joint in Staten Island? Bellarosa had plenty of good information; he just wasn’t going to give it to the Justice Department.
“Immunity on anything he testifies about under oath,’’ said Alphonse, which is not quite the same as blanket immunity in exchange for unsworn information. This guy played it slick. I thought a moment. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa squealed, the Mafia in New York would be crippled for years, maybe forever. And perhaps for that reason alone, his paesanos wanted him dead. He simply had too much information and he had a good memory.
I said to Alphonse, “Mr. Ferragamo, my client knows nothing about organized crime. But if he did, I think he’d rather speak to the State Attorney General than to you.”
This got Alphonse a little worked up. The nice thing about a federal form of government is that you can play off one level of government against another. They taught me that in civics class. Well, they didn’t, but they should have. Alphonse said, “That’s not a good idea, Mr. Sutter. That won’t get your client off the hook with the United States government.”
“And cooperating with you won’t get my client off the hook with the New York State government.”
“Well . . . let me work on a joint immunity sort of thing. Would that be what you’re looking for?”
“Maybe. And we have six parking violations in the city. We want those fixed, too.”
When I heard him force a laugh, I knew I had him by the short hairs. He said, “So you present this possibility to your client, Mr. Sutter. You seem a bright and reasonable man. Maybe a man like you could convince your client to make a really smart move.”
“I’ll tell him what we discussed.’’ You have to understand that every prosecutor in America would like to get just one break like that in a lifetime; a top-level bad guy who was willing to sing for a year into a tape recorder and rat out a thousand other bad guys. To tell you the truth, it was a good deal for Frank. Ferragamo, in effect, was offering Frank Bellarosa his life. But very few of these paesanos made deals, and Frank Bellarosa was the last man in America you would approach with a government offer. But Alphonse was asking, and I had to make sure he was offering the real thing, and it was my duty to pass it on. I said to the U.S. Attorney, “Meanwhile, we really want a quick trial date, Mr. Ferragamo, or I have to start complaining to the press.”
“My case is ready, Mr. Sutter. My office is working on a date.”
Bullshit. “Fine. When can I speak to the government witnesses?”
>
“Soon.”
Horseshit. “Thank you.”
Understand that U.S. Attorneys don’t often speak directly to defense lawyers, and when they do, they’re a bit arrogant and bullying. But Mr. Ferragamo had probably been reading about John Whitman Sutter in the newspapers, and he must have gotten the impression that I was someone with power, and he was being nice to me at least until he had me checked out. Also, of course, he wanted me to get Frank to sell out. But there was the matter of my perjury, which must have perplexed him. I said to Alphonse, “I saw you on TV the other night, Mr. Ferragamo, and I didn’t appreciate the inference you made that I was lying about my client’s whereabouts.”
“I didn’t actually say you were lying, nor did I use your name. I said we are investigating the alibi.”
“Meaning you’re sending Justice Department investigators around to my community and my offices to see if anyone can tell you where I was on January fourteenth of this year. I don’t like that.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Sutter, that is how I must proceed.’’ He added, “It may have simply been a case of mistaken identity on your part. Correct?”
“I know whom I saw.”
“Well, if you’re willing to say that, and ten years in jail for perjury doesn’t frighten you, then I suppose you know where you were on January fourteenth. That was the day before you flew to Florida for vacation, wasn’t it?”
Mamma mia, first the IRS, then this guy. Why was everyone so intent on getting me into a federal prison? It must be my attitude. I replied, “You’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ money, Mr. Ferragamo. But I respect your thoroughness and diligence.”
“Thank you. Please think about what I’ve said. Whatever we can work out for your client, we can also work out for you.”
I bit my lip, my tongue, and a pencil, and replied, “Thank you for your time.”
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