The Witness boh-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  But, like Mawson, Giacomo seldom represented ordinary criminals, for, in Stillwell's mind, the very good reason that ordinary criminals seldom had any money. They both drew their clientele from the well heeled, excluding only members of the Mob.

  If he was representing the Islamic Liberation Army, he certainly wasn't doing itpro bono publico; he was being paid, well paid. By whom? Certainly not by the accused themselves. If there was money around to hire Armando C. Giacomo, it challenged Matt Lowenstein's (and Peter Wohl's) theory that the Islamic Liberation Army was nothing more than a group of thugs with a bizarre imagination.

  Farnsworth Stillwell had a good deal of respect for Armando C. Giacomo, not all of it based on his professional reputation. On a personal basis, he regarded Giacomo as a brother in the fraternity of naval aviators. They hadn't flown together- Giacomo had flown in the Korean War, Stillwell in Vietnam- but they shared the common experience of Pensacola training, landing high-performance aircraft on the decks of aircraft carriers, flying in Harm's Way, and the proud self-assurance that comes with golden wings pinned to a blue Navy uniform.

  Stillwell did not really understand why a man who had been a naval aviator would choose to become a criminal lawyer, except for the obvious reason that, at the upper echelons of the specialty, it paid very well indeed.

  He was forced now to consider the unpleasant possibilities, starting with the least pleasant to consider, that Armando C. Giacomo was a better, more experienced lawyer than he was.

  I will have absolutely no room for error in the courtroom.

  Or, for that matter, in all the administrative garbage that has to be plowed through before we get into court.

  Christ, why didn't I keep my mouth shut when Tony Callis brought this up? When am I going to learn that whenever something looks as if the gods are smiling on me, the exact opposite is true?

  ****

  Farnsworth Stillwell had been told by Sergeant Jason Washington that the lineups were going to start at the Detention Center at half past six.

  Stillwell often joked that his only virtue was punctuality. The truth was that he believed punctuality to be not only good manners, but good business practice. He made a genuine effort to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. He expected reciprocity on the part of people with whom he was professionally associated, and demanded it from both his subordinates and those who ranked lower in the government hierarchy than he did.

  He had never been to the Detention Center before, so in order to be on time, he had taken the trouble to locate it precisely on a map, and to leave his house in sufficient time to arrive on time.

  When he pulled into one of the Official Visitor parking spots at the Detention Center, it was 6:28.

  He entered the building, and went to the uniformed corrections officer sitting behind a plate-glass window.

  "Assistant District Attorney Stillwell," he announced. "To meet Sergeant Washington."

  "He's not here yet," the corrections officer, a small black woman, said. "You can take a seat and wait, if you like."

  He smiled at her and said, "Thank you."

  He sat down on a battered bench against the wall, more than a little annoyed.

  He and Helene were due at Jack Thompson's at eight, and he intensively disliked the idea of arriving there late. He had told Helene that if he wasn't back, or hadn't called, by half past seven, she was to drive to the Thompson's.

  He now regretted that decision. The way she was throwing the cognac down, the possibility existed that the headlines in tomorrow'sBulletin andLedger andDaily News would not concern the ILA, but rather something they knew their readers would really like to read, " Assistant District Attorney Stillwell's Wife Charged in Drunken Driving Episode."

  If the lineups were to begin at half past six, Stillwell fumed, obviously some preparatory steps had to be taken, and therefore Washington should have arrived, with the witness in tow, at whatever time before half past six was necessary in order for him to do what he had to do so that they could begin on schedule.

  Stillwell was aware that one of his faults was a tendency to become angry over circumstances over which he had no control. This seemed to be one of them. He told himself that Washington was not late on purpose, that things, for example delays in traffic because of the snow, sometimes happened.

  Washington will be along any moment, with an explanation, and probably an apology, for being tardy, Stillwell thought, taking just a little satisfaction in knowing that he was being reasonable.

  At quarter to seven, however, when Sergeant Washington had still not shown up, or even had the simple courtesy to send word that he would be delayed, Farnsworth Stillwell decided that he had been patient enough.

  While he thought it was highly unlikely that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl would know where Sergeant Washington was and/or why he wasn't at the Detention Center when he was supposed to be, calling Wohl would at least serve to tell him (a) that his super detective was unreliable, time-wise, and (b) that Farnsworth Stillwell did not like to be kept waiting.

  He asked the female corrections officer behind the plate-glass window if he could use the telephone.

  "It's for official business only, sir."

  Farnsworth Stillwell had a fresh, unpleasant thought. There was no one else here. Armando C. Giacomo was supposed to be here, and certainly there would be others besides Washington and the witness.

  Had the whole damned thing been called off for some reason, and he had not been told?

  "Are you sure Sergeant Washington isn't here? Could he be here and you not be aware of it?"

  "Everybody has to come past me," she said. "If he were here, I'd know it."

  "May I have the telephone, please?"

  "It's for official business only, like I told you before."

  "I'm Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. This is official business."

  She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him, but gave in.

  "I'll have the operator get the number for you, sir."

  "I don't know the number. I want to talk to Inspector Wohl of Special Operations."

  The corrections officer obligingly searched for the number on her list of official telephones. It was not listed, and she so informed Farnsworth Stillwell.

  "Check with information."

  Information had the number.

  "Special Operations, may I help you?"

  "This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. Inspector Wohl, please."

  "I'm sorry, sir. Inspector Wohl has gone for the day."

  "Do you have a number where he can be reached?" -

  "Just one moment, sir."

  "This is Lieutenant Kelsey. May I help you, sir?"

  "This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. It's important that I get in touch with Inspector Wohl."

  "I'm sorry, the inspector's gone for the day. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stillwell?"

  "Do you have a number where he can be reached?"

  "No, sir."

  "You mean you have no idea where he is?"

  "The inspector is on his way to Frankford Hospital, sir. But until he calls in, I won't have a number there for him."

  "What about Sergeant Washington?"

  "Are you referring to Detective Washington, sir?"

  "I understood he was promoted."

  "Well, what do you know? I hadn't heard that."

  "Do you know where he is?"

  "He's at the Detention Center, sir. I can give you that number. "

  "I'm at the Detention Center. He's not here. That's what I'm calling about."

  "Hold one, sir," Lieutenant Kelsey said.

  The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.

  "They're at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now."

  "Thank you."

  "Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?"

  "That won't be neces
sary, thank you very much," Farnsworth Stillwell said.

  He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.

  Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant's car. A second Highway Patrol RPC with two Highway cops followed him. The third car was Jason Washington's nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington's Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RPC.

  The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington's car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington's car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the building and held it open.

  Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.

  "Good evening, Mr. Stillwell," he said.

  "You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It's now"-He checked his watch-"four past seven."

  "We were delayed," Washington said.

  "Were you, indeed?"

  "We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Mr. Stillwell," Washington said, "this is Mr. Albert J. Monahan."

  Stillwell smiled at Monahan and offered his hand.

  "I'm Farnsworth Stillwell, Mr. Monahan. I'm very pleased to meet you."

  "Can you believe that?" Monahan said. "A Molotov cocktail? Right on South Street? What the hell is the world coming to?"

  What is this man babbling about? A Molotov cocktail is what the Russians used against German tanks, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming wick.

  "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Stillwell said.

  "As we drove away from Goldblatt's," Washington explained, "party or parties unknown threw a bottle filled with gasoline down-more than likely from the roof-onto a Highway car that was escorting us here."

  "I will bedamned!" Farnsworth Stillwell said.

  My God, wait until the newspapers get hold of that!

  "The bottle bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire," Washington went on.

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "I understand a car parked on South Street caught fire," Washington said. "But no one was hurt. We went to the Roundhouse. I knew Central Detectives and the laboratory people would want a look at the Highway car."

  "You could have called," Stillwell said, and immediately regretted it.

  Washington looked at him coldly, but did not directly respond.

  "I'm going to explain to Mr. Monahan how we run the lineup, lineups," Washington said. "And show him the layout. Perhaps you'd like to come along?"

  "Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I'd appreciate that," Stillwell said. He smiled at Washington. Washington did not return it.

  "The way this works, Mr. Monahan," he said, "is that the defense counsel will try to question your identification. One of the ways they'll try to do that is to attempt to prove that we rigged the lineup, set it up so that you would have an idea who we think the individual is. Lead you, so to speak. You follow me?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "So we will lean over backward to make sure that the lineups are absolutely fair."

  "Where do you get the other people?" Monahan said, "the innocent ones?"

  "They're all volunteers."

  "Off the street? People in jail?"

  "Neither. People being held here. This is the Detention Center. Nobody being held here has been found guilty of anything. They're awaiting trial. The other people in the lineup will be chosen from them, from those that have volunteered."

  "Why do they volunteer?"

  "Well, I suppose I could stick my tongue in my cheek and say they're all public spirited citizens, anxious to make whatever small contribution they can to the criminal justice system, but the truth is I don't know. If they had me in here for something, I don't think I'd be running around looking for some way I could help, particularly if all I got out of it was an extra ice cream chit or movie pass. And, of course, most of the people being held here don't volunteer. As for the ones that do, I can only guess they do it because they're bored, or figure they can screw the system up."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Let's say there's a guy here who has a perfect alibi for the Goldblatt job; he was in here. So he figures if he can get in the lineup, and somehow look nervous or guilty and have you point him out, the guy who did the Goldblatt job walks away, and so does he; he has a perfect alibi."

  "I'll be goddamned," Monahan said.

  "So it's very important to the good guys, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "that before you pick somebody out you be absolutely sure it's the guy. It would be much better for you not to be able to recognize somebody in the lineup than for you to make a mistake. If you did that, it would come out in court and put in serious question every other identification you made. You understand, of course."

  "Yeah," Monahan said thoughtfully, then added: "I'll be damned."

  Washington pushed open a door and held it open as Monahan and Stillwell walked through it.

  Stillwell found himself in a windowless, harshly lit room forty feet long and twenty-five wide. Against one of the long walls was a narrow platform, two feet off the floor and about six feet wide. Behind it the wall had been painted. The numbers 1 through 8 were painted near the ceiling, marking where the men in the lineup were to stand. Horizontal lines marked off in feet and inches ran under the numbers. Mounted on the ceiling were half a dozen floodlights aimed at the platform. There was a step down from the platform to the floor at the right.

  Facing the platform were a row of folding metal chairs and two tables. A microphone was on one table and a telephone on the other.

  There were a dozen people in the room, four of them in corrections officer's uniforms. A lieutenant from Major Crimes Division had a 35mm camera with a flash attachment hanging around his neck. There were two women, both holding stenographer's notebooks.

  I wonder how it is that 1 was left sitting outside on that bench when everyone else with a connection with this was in here?

  Stillwell recognized Detectives D'Amata and Pelosi and then a familiar face. "The proceedings can now begin," Armando C. Giacomo announced sonorously, "the Right Honorable Assistant District Attorney having finally made an appearance."

  Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, walked quickly to Stillwell and offered his hand.

  "Armando, how are you?" Stillwell said.

  "Armando C. Giacomo is, as always, ready to defend the rights of the unjustly accused against all the abusive powers of the state."

  "Presuming they can write a nonrubber check, of course," Jason Washington said. "How are you, Manny?"

  "Ah, my favorite gumshoe. How are you, Jason?"

  Giacomo enthusiastically pumped Washington's hand.

  They were friends, Stillwell saw, the proof being not only their smiles, but that Washington had called him "Manny." He remembered hearing that Giacomo was well thought of by the cops because he devoted thepro bono publico side of his practice to defending cops charged with violating the civil rights of individuals.

  "Aside from almost getting myself fried on the way over here, I'm fine. How about you?"

  "Whatever are you talking about, Detective Washington?" Giacomo asked.

  "Detective Washington is now Sergeant Washington," Stillwell said.

  "And you stopped to celebrate? Shame on you!"

  "We was Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," Albert J. Monahan explained.

  "You mus
t be Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm Armando C. Giacomo. I'm very happy to meet you."

  "Likewise," Monahan said.

  "What was that you were saying about a Molotov cocktail?"

  "They threw one at us. Off a roof by Goldblatt's."

  Giacomo looked at Washington for confirmation. Washington nodded.

  "Well, I'm very glad to see that you came through that all right," Giacomo said.

  "I came through it pissed, is the way I came through it. That's fucking outrageous."

  "I absolutely agree with you. Terrible. Outrageous. Did the police manage to apprehend the culprits?"

  "Not yet," Washington said.

  "Mr. Giacomo, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "is here to represent the people we think were at Goldblatt's."

  "And you're friends with him?"

  "Yes, we're friends," Giacomo said solemnly. "We have the same basic interest. Justice."

  Jason Washington laughed deep in his stomach.

  "Manny, you're really something," he said.

  "It is not nice to mock small Italian gentlemen," Giacomo said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  Washington laughed louder, then turned to Joe D'Amata: "Are we about ready to do this?"

  "Yeah. We have seven different groups of people." He pointed toward the door at the end of the platform.

  Washington turned to Monahan: "If you'll just have a chair, Mr. Monahan-"

  Detective Pelosi smiled at Monahan and put his hands on the back of one of the folding chairs. Monahan walked to it and sat down.

  Washington waved Giacomo ahead of him and headed for the door. Stillwell followed them.

  There were two corrections officers and eight other people in a small room. The eight people were all Hispanic, all of about the same age and height and weight. One of them was Hector Carlos Estivez.

  "Okay with you, Manny?" Washington asked.

  Armando C. Giacomo looked at the eight men very carefully before he finally nodded his head.

  "That should be all right, Jason," he said, and turned and walked out of the room. Washington and Stillwell followed him.

  Giacomo sat down in a folding chair next to Monahan. Washington sat on the other side of him, and Stillwell sat next to Washington.