Bressio signed in at the book downstairs, showed his permit to carry a weapon to the guard and took an elevator crowded with a group of elementary school students on tour.
The courtroom was the size of a medium supermarket, with fifteen wooden benches partially filled with people, leading to the high bench where the Honorable V. L. Gordon presided. It was a fairly full docket, and Bressio had noticed on the sheet at the door that the Fleish case was near the end. It did not list Dawson’s name as representing. Bressio saw Dawson’s white crown, three rows from the front. To the right in what would normally be a jury box, lawyers sat chatting.
There were scores of transactions going on in the courtroom, only one of which involved the Honorable V. L. Gordon sitting atop the head check-out line. Yet what was going on—the prosecutor, the lawyer, the client and the judge—was just as much the purity of the law as if the Supreme Court sat in majestic decorum.
“Al. Al Bressio,” called a woman. It was Becky Hawkins, in a smart tan suit that screamed Bonwit Teller or Bloomingdale’s or any of the good department stores that made women look so New York. This was the New York envied and feared outside of Manhattan by so many people, and the funny thing to someone like Bressio, who knew, was that this New York was made of the Becky Hawkins of the world.
The native New Yorkers lived in Queens or Brooklyn and the Bronx and felt just as envious of and hostile to Manhattan as might Des Moines, Iowa, or Troy, Ohio. New York’s major league was no more New York than the New York Yankees. It was where the money was made.
Becky motioned to the empty shellacked wood space next to her. “We won’t be up for a while,” she whispered.
Was that Bobo’s brand of perfume he smelled?
“You won’t be up at all. This is a pretrial,” said Bressio.
“Murray said I could watch. He’s so sexy, isn’t he?”
“He’s all right,” said Bressio. He felt Becky squeeze his arm.
“I’m so excited. You won’t believe it, but I know this is my city. I belong here. This is where I always belonged. It’s so alive.”
“I believe you. Yeah.”
“You think I belong, do you? Do you really?”
“You belong so much, Becky, you won’t even be asking that question by this afternoon.”
“That’s the same suit you wore yesterday, Al. You shouldn’t dress like that. I’m telling you this because I want you to be my very best friend. You’ve done so much bringing Murray and me together. I’ll never forget you for this.”
“Watch your ass, Becky. Bobo is no pushover.”
“I know. Exciting, isn’t it? Call me Bicky, it sounds better. Murray likes Becky, but I know Bicky is, well, distinctive.”
“Bobo has got the money, Bicky.”
“I know,” she said and Bressio saw her young mind calculating.
The court clerk called up a case and Bressio watched Judge Gordon assign a lawyer who would be paid by the state. Everyone had a right to counsel. Unfortunately, Bressio recognized the lawyer and thought that one whale of a constitutional case might be made as to whether that man really was counsel. He would plead the defendant guilty and collect his fee. In this case it was a young black girl accused of embezzlement, the official charge, against Chase Manhattan Bank, N.A. She was probably caught taking home samples.
She would do better if she held up a liquor store and bought herself a real lawyer. In time served, Bressio calculated it was a good risk. She was going to do five years with that counsel. Sure as bank interest. With only a chance of getting caught with a holdup, she could do better with a good counsel on two offenses than she could with just the embezzlement and the public defender.
Then again, how would she know how to find a good lawyer? Too many, especially in Harlem or Bedford Stuyvesant, would delay trial until they had their fee, then go in and make the same plea she was getting for nothing. Nothing for nothing as opposed to nothing for something.
A very good question intrigued Bressio. In reality, could she be expected to be represented well? Probably no more than most Americans outside the very wealthy or the law fraternity.
Then again, could he or possibly even Dawson be assured they were getting the best doctors other than following the highest prices and hoping? What went on in the hospitals, Bressio suspected, might be far worse than what went on in the courts.
“What are you thinking?” asked Bicky, née Becky.
“Shhh,” said Bressio.
“I can’t tell anything that’s going on up there. It’s confusing.”
“If anything happens, I’ll tell you.”
The court clerk made another announcement and Bressio leaned forward.
“Leland Fleish. Calvin P. Loring. Leland M. Fleish,” called out the clerk. So Leland was L. Marvin’s first name. Bressio suddenly noticed Fleish was sitting next to Dawson. He had his hair cut and was wearing a suit. That clipped blond head belonged to Fleish, Leland M. Dawson whispered something feverishly to Fleish and gave the back of his neck a little tap. Fleish nodded.
“That’s us,” said Bressio. “Over there is the U.S. Attorney, his name is Cartwright. He’s got a bunch of papers in his hand: one of them probably is a bill of particulars concerning the evidence, another is probably the records of the defendants.”
“You got the Arizona thing squared away so he won’t introduce it, right?” said Becky.
“Dawson told you a lot, I see. Well, what will happen, probably at the trial, is the prosecutor will try to introduce it and Dawson will try to keep it out because it’s not a conviction, a man being innocent until proven guilty. If Dawson were sleeping, Cartwright would try to get it established now so he could introduce it before a jury. But Dawson won’t let him, and I’m pretty sure he knows that so he probably won’t try. In a nutshell, don’t look for Arizona here. We got it, as you said, squared away. Here comes your boyfriend, Becky.”
Between guards came a gangling, nervous young man in a short-sleeved white shirt that hung like a flag over his scrawny shoulders. Bressio lowered his eyes. He knew what he had done to this young man. Well, he had done it and to hell with it. He noticed Becky. Her head was proudly erect and she was smiling. And he saw her give Loring one big fat wink. Loring’s dejection became a lighthearted bounce. He returned the wink and the guards had to turn him toward the bench.
“That’ll hold Cal for a month, that wink,” said Becky. “He’ll read reams of meanings into the slightest recognition.”
Judge Gordon noted Dawson’s substitution for another lawyer of his firm, noted the prosecution’s presence and asked Loring if he had an attorney.
“Uh, no, sir, your honor,” said Loring.
“That’s so typical Calvin,” said Becky.
“Are you going to live East Side or West Side, Becky?” asked Bressio.
“Bicky.”
“Then we will appoint one,” said Judge Gordon, who, as most men, looked dwarfed by the size of the bench over which he presided, and like many judges had black robes which made the disparity seem less glaring.
At this, the court clerk, sitting beneath and to the left of the judge, whispered something, and the judge called out the name of a lawyer who rose and went to Loring’s side, scarcely noticing Loring, but looking for some recognition from Murray Blay Dawson.
Dawson ignored him. Fleish also looked straight ahead. Loring’s lawyer was in his mid-fifties, and his hair was so heavily greased it glistened in the courtroom lights. He wore the kind of red and yellow jacket that gets left on racks for years. He was a “screwer,” known for accepting clients’ bodies as fees.
“Watch this,” said Bressio. “I think you’re going to see something.”
“Murray’s going to ask for a severance, I know that. It’s sort of usual in these cases, isn’t it? I mean, if you have someone tried for conspiracy without anyone present with whom he’s supposed to be conspiring, then that’s practically a won case, Murray says.”
“Except that every lawyer wor
th two cents would attempt to ask for a severance,” said Bressio. “You want to see it done right. Watch.”
Dawson haggled slightly over the reading of Fleish’s record of misdemeanors into the court record. Creating a public disturbance was one of them. Cartwright got it accepted, but only after a little hassle which he won easily.
“That was a feint,” whispered Bressio.
Dawson finally agreed in a friendly tone with the judge and with Cartwright, dropping a hand into his pocket, and then as if he were being detained, he casually mentioned a little problem he’d like the judge to square away.
“Your honor, I’d like to sever our case if it’s all right. My client doesn’t even know this guy.” Dawson’s left hand went out in a casual flick to Loring. There was just the slightest note of indignation in Dawson’s casualness, as though some legal mechanical mistake had been made, and the judge, being competent, would naturally straighten it out.
The U.S. Attorney was going through some papers, and just glanced up briefly, probably still riding on his little victory.
Bressio swallowed. “Shhhhhh,” he whispered to Becky.
“Yes, of course,” said Judge Gordon.
The clerk leaned back and whispered something over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” said Judge Gordon. “We can’t sever. It’s a conspiracy indicment.”
After the trial date had been set, September 22, nearly a month away, Dawson returned up the aisle with Fleish who was shorn even of mustache, and looked incredibly vulnerable.
They talked outside the courtroom with Dawson getting occasional glances. Dawson said he wanted Bicky in on this discussion.
“Nice job. Almost,” said Bressio.
“Yes, almost. A clerk makes a judge.”
“Keep your boy out of Pren Street,” said Bressio. “The place is loaded with smack. Loaded. Incredible.”
“I thought you said they don’t leave large amounts lying around.”
“They have. In the millions.”
“Maybe I can use it somehow. This means the FBNC is vulnerable.”
“Don’t touch it, Murray. There’s going to be a blood bath. Guaranteed. Everyone is jumpy. Unless, of course, you want L. Marvin dead, which would not overly depress me.”
“No. No. I wouldn’t want that. You look as though you could use some sleep.”
“I’m on the move.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
“How do you know?” said Becky.
“I saw it. I touched it. I felt it. Big.”
“Maybe it’s heavily cut with quinine. It could be cut with a number of things. Size doesn’t always indicate quality.”
“It’s pure,” said Bressio. “Uncut. Pure.”
“Have you run a lab test?” asked Becky.
“My lab test is out in the street. I can count the bodies.”
“Thanks for the warning, Al,” said Dawson.
“You’re talking about Marvin’s loft?” asked Becky.
“No. The one beneath it,” said Bressio angrily. “There’s a bathroom floor full of it. Pardon the expression.”
“Can I charge Cutler for Marvin’s defense?” asked Dawson.
“Charge away,” said Bressio. “But I’m first.”
“What happened.”
“He wasn’t what I wanted him to be.”
“So the goddess is a whore after all, huh, Al?”
“No. He just wasn’t it, Murray.”
“At what they do, they’re good at.”
“So was my father,” said Bressio. He shook hands with Dawson, nodded politely to Becky, and ignored Fleish.
“Goodbye, Al,” said Fleish. “Hey, Murray. I got a question. How come you didn’t want me to say hello to Cal Loring?”
XIX
Bressio wanted to sleep badly. He felt the stickiness of his clothes, the dryness of his mouth and he wanted to take a nice cool drink and slip into his own bed. He told himself that it would be over soon, and that to stop, to let people get set on him, even have time to make a major decision on him, would be a foolish mistake. He would have all the rest he would need very shortly, and best of all he would wake up from it.
He checked in with Clarissa, who said they had a bill from Dr. Finney.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Bressio. “Pay it.”
“I think we’ll hold until the end of the month,” said Clarissa. “We’re a little flat.”
“Okay, push the Cutler bill and add Finney’s to it.”
“You’re okay, Al?”
“Clarissa, I never felt better. Just a little bit bored, that’s all.”
“Sure. That’s all this is. Boring. I feel fine, too. You take care, now. Okay.”
What a sweet person, thought Bressio. Was it possible he loved her or even, dare he think it, that she loved him? No. No. Impossible. He had seen the mirror that morning in the terminal.
“Impossible,” said Bressio and realized the cabdriver was listening to him talk to himself. When had he gotten in the cab? He had just hailed one out of reflex. He had to get some sleep. He checked his watch.
“At twelve of three, two forty-eight, let me off at the corner of West End Avenue and Seventy-second Street. Drive up to Yonkers, then turn around. That should just about do it. Don’t stop anywhere too long.”
“I don’t want no trouble, buddy.”
Bressio put a ten-dollar bill in the money cup that was part of the wall that separated driver from passenger.
“I still don’t want no trouble. I got two violations on the hack bureau. I don’t need trouble.”
Bressio put in two fifty-dollar bills.
“We won’t have time to make it to Yonkers and back if you want to be at West End and Seventy-second at twelve of.”
“Whatever,” said Bressio and closed his eyes. He awoke four times when the driver stopped for traffic lights. By the time they circled back to West End Avenue Bressio had to be awakened, and this frightened him. Nobody who had not lived through something like this could realize the drain of energy.
“What about the fare? There’s eighteen seventy-five on the meter.”
Bressio gave the man two fives and a ten, and did not wait for change although he did not really want to give him a tip on top of the shmeer.
At ten of three he was at Dr. Finney’s office and ringing the bell.
With flagrant red beard and flashing blue eyes, Dr. J. P. Finney wanted to know what Bressio was doing there without an appointment.
“Got to talk to you.”
“How do you know I’m free?”
“It’s ten of, you’re always free at ten of.”
“I have things to do between patients. This is awfully inconsiderate of you. You could have phoned, couldn’t you?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know I was going to be here.”
“I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want any part of it.”
“You got part of it, so c’mon, J.P., get off my ass.”
“All right. Eight minutes, Al.”
When Dr. Finney heard that Bressio wanted to discuss the Cutler case, he was furious. Bressio didn’t have to come barging in. He could have made an appointment, and if the situation were so pressing for him, why did he have to deal with the Cutler case that minute?
“For one, I might as well get this thing cleared up because here and doing this is as good as anything else I can do, and for two I might as well just do it. So get off my back. What’s your diagnosis?”
Bressio sat on the edge of the couch. Finney sat in a soft chair, his legs crossed.
“You know what it is, Al.”
“She’s not completely paranoid. A lot of that stuff she babbles about is true.”
“So, what difference does that make? Mary Beth Cutler is incurable and you know that. There’s nothing we or anyone can do for her.”
“Yeah. I knew that after I spoke to her boyfriend when I saw him in jail. Five years she was on it.”
“Amphetamines.�
��
“And maybe some LSD.”
“Well, unless the human body has changed drastically since we had that long talk at Fordham, I would say you didn’t even have to send her to a therapist, unless of course she’s that one in a thousand or two thousand or five thousand.”
“Okay. Give me some fancy medical terms, put it on paper and mail it to my office.”
“I don’t do bullshit. Especially not when you send me one of those. Therapy is shooting craps enough without those kinds of odds. C’mon, Al, this is Johnny Finney you dumped that on.”
It was at Fordham, in his doctoral thesis, that Finney had discovered addicts were never cured, they only withdrew. And having too small a sampling for that proposition, he had come to Bressio, who had gotten him in touch with someone who made his living writing doctoral papers. At that time Finney had laughed and called the dissertation “bullshit.” It had given him a Ph.D. behind his name or a doctor before it.
“Okay,” Finney said, knowing what the reference to “bullshit” meant. Now, however, he refused any drug-addicted patients because, as he had told Bressio a long time ago at school, you couldn’t cure chemicals with talk. It was a standing rule of his. He hated failure.
“Today you don’t bullshit. Well, okay. Still, I’m sorry,” said Bressio softly. “I only found out after I spoke to her boyfriend. You can bill me for this.”
“Of course I will,” said Finney. “Well, I’m sorry. Your time’s up.”
Bressio had been walking ten minutes on Riverside Drive, glancing every now and then at the Hudson in the summer heat, when he saw he had again picked up a tail. He recognized neither of the men.
The tail stayed with him a few more blocks down Riverside Drive, and Bressio doubled back, cut up two blocks to Broadway and stopped at a Greek souvlaki place, where he ordered two of the pungent lamb and onion stuffed rolls. Now was no time to spend on a diet.
Bressio Page 18
