by Paul Batista
This is new.”
As they continued to talk Julie guided the conversation in another direction: Elena’s Russian boyfriend who lived in the immigrant community in Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. Elena carried a picture of him: starkly handsome, heavy eyebrows and intense eyes, thick sideburns, a brutal mouth. Elena was infatuated—she said he owned his own private car service; he spoke often of the rich executives and lawyers his drivers escorted around Manhattan in new black Lincolns. Julie was convinced—
although she never said so to Elena—that he was married, or in the Russian mob, or both.
P A U L B A T I S T A
As the afternoon evolved, Julie recognized that Elena wanted to leave early. Directness was a refreshing element of Elena’s style. “I would like to leave by three-thirty?”
And Julie said, “Of course.”
* * *
The rest of the afternoon and evening were long, lonely hours for Julie. She wanted to think, to place the events of her life in con-text: things were falling apart; suddenly she was surrounded by death, anxiety. She had never been a happy person: those early 106
years in Southern California, growing up with a brooding, petty father and a frustrated actress of a mother who, although not unkind toward her, had had an entirely separate life, divorced from raising her daughter. It was a drab upbringing in a flat, dusty land-scape. Now they were isolated, profoundly doomed alcoholics.
Her years with Tom had separated her from that. Now those years were over. Life had prepared her for a certain level of unhappiness, but not for all this. She had intended to write more in her notebook after Elena left. But Kim was cranky, sweaty, demanding attention. Julie’s private writing in her notebooks could be deferred to one or two in the morning; children’s needs were immediate.
In the past few months Julie could never fall asleep before one or two in the morning. She watched the eleven o’clock WNBC news. Klein’s death was the second story after news from Baghdad.
And then Julie was riveted. Gil Thomas, one of the black newscasters on the station, intoned over an opening sequence showing Klein’s body as it was raised into a brightly colored ambulance: “Authorities here in Manhattan spent the day exploring whether there’s a link between the killing last May of famed football-player-lawyer Tom Perini and the gangland-style rub-out, late last night in Queens, of Perini’s client, trucking magnate Selig Klein. Stay with us for more on the strange connection between the hero and the hoodlum.”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
The scene dissolved into a series of commercials about elegant young businesswomen using their American Express cards on trips to Europe; prestige money accounts at Citibank; graceful, expensive BMW sedans racing through the German Alps at James Bond speeds. And then, finally, Gil Thomas reappeared at a press conference taped earlier in the day. The first face on which Julie focused in the tableau of six or seven men standing in front of an American flag was McGlynn’s, the unmistakable, inscrutable Irish-cop features as he listened to a more elegant man, the new United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Brooks 107
Stoddard, fielding questions.
“All I will say,” Stoddard declared, “is that this is an ongoing investigation. We are developing leads that suggest there may be a shared responsibility for the two deaths. We are also exploring further links that have come to our attention in the last several days about other aspects of the relationship among Mr. Perini, Mr. Klein, and others.”
Alone in her living room, an emotional fever racing in her blood, Julie rose to her feet and walked closer to the screen. What the hell does that mean?
The scene then shifted to Gil Thomas poised on the edge of a desk in the newsroom. Fluent, serious, attractive, Gil spoke with easy elegance: “Sources inside and outside the prosecutor’s office have told NBC News that the legendary football star, in the months before he was killed, apparently was involved in unusual transactions, the shifting of large sums of money, meetings with Latin American organized-crime figures, and travel to places such as Miami and Mexico City. We’ll follow this and keep you posted.”
Gil turned to Tom Bryan, the anchorman. They exchanged that crisp, stylized nod with one another that Julie had come to despise, and Bryan, gazing straight into the camera on which the script was displayed, moved to another story.
* * *
P A U L B A T I S T A
The first call that Julie made was to Stan Wasserman. The digital clock over the television registered 11:11 and then 11:12 as she found and dialed Stan Wasserman’s telephone number. A taped message responded, the voice of Wasserman’s wife: “Neither Stan, Judith, John, nor I can come to the phone right now.
Leave a message after the tone and we will get back to you as promptly as possible.”
Julie heard the tone and said: “Stan, why didn’t you tell me this was coming? Why? Please call me.”
After that the time was 11:13 p.m. She thought of Vincent 108
Sorrentino. She retrieved his numbers from the memory bank of her cell phone. She felt an impulse to call him. She paused. What would she say to Vincent? Why not call and see where her words and his led? She pressed the send button for his cell phone number. It rang six times, then switched to a recording. She again paused. Then she spoke, “Vince, it’s Julie Perini. Can you call me?”
12.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Perini, we have to talk with you.” Instantly Julie recognized Agent McGlynn’s voice.
“And who is we?”
“Me, basically.”
“Then why say we?”
“I need to talk to you. Okay?”
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to?”
“I don’t want to.”
“But we need to.”
“I don’t see that anything you ever talked to anyone about has ever, ever made any difference. What about Nancy Lichtman?”
“What about her?”
“You talked to her.”
“So what, Julie?”
“Don’t call me Julie. Whoever said you could call me that?”
“Slow down, go easy.”
“I never gave you permission to call me that.”
“But Julie, you gave Sy Klein permission to call you that.
Why? And not me?”
Elena was in the bathroom with Kim, dressing her for the morning. They were singing to each other.
Julie said, “I don’t like the tone of your voice.”
P A U L B A T I S T A
“Don’t you Queen Victoria me, lady.”
“I don’t like talking to you, sir. Who do you work for? Who’s your supervisor?”
“Won’t help you. He wants to know the same things I do.”
“And what’s that?”
“What you were doing, why you were romancing Mr. Klein?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“In our experience, nice ladies don’t make plans to spend a summer day sailing with Sy Klein.”
“You are a goon.”
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“Call me what you want, Mrs. Perini. You know, sticks and stones.”
“I don’t want to call you anything. All I ever wanted was for you to do your job.”
“Which is?”
“Find the person who killed my husband.”
“People who do those things don’t come wandering into the precinct house.”
“I know that better than you do.”
“We want to know what was going on between you and Mr.
Klein.”
“I never liked you.”
“But why did you like Klein?”
Kim and Elena were about to emerge from the bathroom. Kim would be bright, fresh, vigorous, and eager, Elena her usual lovely self.
Julie said, in a low voice into the telephone, “You are a creep.”
And before she could pull the receiver away from her ear she heard his derisive laughi
ng voice, rushing for the last word, “We’ll be seeing more of you.”
* * *
Luis Madrigal de Souza, a handsome man with a full head of curly black hair, sat forward casually on a worn couch in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel. On the cigarette-burned coffee table D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
in front of him was a demitasse of espresso, his favorite drink.
Espresso, bottled water, and diet soda were the staples of his life.
He never drank alcohol. He never touched a drug even though he supervised hundreds of men who took instructions from him as to where to gather cocaine, opium, heroin, and, more recently, Ecstasy and crystal meth, and where, and by what boats, airplanes, pathways, and even body organs and cavities of men, women, and dogs to bring those drugs into the United States.
And Mr. Madrigal, who had never even fired a BB gun, also gave orders and directions to other men as to where in the United 111
States, Russia, South Africa, and Israel to buy and where in Syria, Lebanon, Rwanda, Sri Lanka, Iraq, Myanmar, and Indonesia to deliver M-16s, AK-47s, M-60s, and shoulder-held anti-tank and anti-aircraft missiles.
The lobby of the old hotel contained objects he loved. Purple curtains hung on the walls from ceiling to floor. They looked like the velvet wall curtains of the old theaters where, as a boy in Mexico City, he spent hours watching American movies dubbed into Spanish voices never coordinated with the lip movements of Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, Yul Brynner, and others. And the eclectic rugs on the floors of the Chelsea lobby were worn to the wood on the tracks people walked from the door of the hotel to the registration desk and from the desk to the single, jolting elevator. His parents’ apartment in Mexico City once had rugs like these.
Mr. Madrigal’s English was perfect. “I remember as a boy that the only toys we had were marbles and rocks. Somehow the marbles were oversized. Flat, dusty lots were easy to find. We’d flick at the marbles with our index fingers. The object of the game was to get the marbles as close as possible to a small rock. The rocks were easy to find. Mexico City has billions of nicely shaped rocks.”
Mr. Madrigal took a sip from the cup of espresso. As if that made him thirsty, he delicately drank from a bottle of Poland Spring water.
McGlynn, seated in a high-back chair to Madrigal’s left, his glass of mid-afternoon Scotch on the table near Madrigal’s unused P A U L B A T I S T A
pen, wore a white shirt and a windbreaker with the letters DKNY
sewn into the fabric over the left side of his chest. He had met Mr.
Madrigal often enough—this was the fourth time—to know it was not good to interrupt him. Besides, Mr. Madrigal’s voice was so mellifluous, so beguiling, that even a streetwise, impatient man like McGlynn had no problem listening. Although his fear of Madrigal was immense, he was also reassured because this beautifully mannered man never asked direct questions that would force McGlynn to give direct answers which might betray a frightened quaver in his voice.
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“Some marbles had the inherent quality of luck. They always ended rolling so close to the target rock without touching it.
Touching the rock disqualified you.
“Every once in a while a magic marble would just disappear.
Many boys played this silly game. We couldn’t even play for money. Most of us were fifteen or sixteen. It was a boyish game.
Some of the boys—I guess they were getting stronger and ready to join the ranks of muggers who stole from drivers stalled in traffic in the city—would just take the magic balls.
“Through God’s grace, I had more lucky marbles than anyone else. I always wanted my marbles back. Even though I could never be certain who exactly had stolen my magic marbles—the thief would always continue to show up at our games even after my marbles disappeared because even stupid boys know some basic things about how not to bring suspicion on themselves—I found that cutting people in the face at random would somehow bring back the marbles, even if the person who got cut was not the boy who took my marbles.”
Mr. Madrigal ordered another cup of espresso. He glanced at McGlynn. “We have only a few more minutes. Do you want another splash, Mr. Dobyns?”
“Enough for today, thanks,” McGlynn said.
Madrigal leaned backward into the tattered sofa, folding his long graceful legs. McGlynn often wondered if Madrigal was gay.
He had never seen him with a woman.
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
“Let’s see now,” Mr. Madrigal said, “if my magic marbles come out after Mr. Klein’s cut. If they don’t, Mr. Dobyns, there are other people who could get scratched before they realize how important it is to put my marbles back on the ground where I can find them.”
* * *
In the newsroom the rows of computers and word processors gave a sleek, orderly appearance to the large space. Julie was utterly, completely unable to focus on her work. Stan Wasserman 113
was away from the office at an all-morning meeting. Julie could do nothing while she waited for him.
At the far end of the newsroom she saw one of NBC’s Puerto Rican messengers walking toward her. He scanned the faces in the room before he settled on her, and for some reason their eyes met. She watched him float among the rows of computers, almost disembodied, his torso, shoulders, and head moving toward her.
He wore a big gold earring in the lobe of his left ear. When he handed her a brown envelope, she said, brightly, “Thanks, Julio.”
The envelope bore the return address “United States Department of Justice, Office of the United States Attorney, Criminal Division.” She opened the two-page letter: the typed name at the bottom, she saw immediately, was that of Brooks Stoddard but it was signed by Neil Steinman.
She read, Information has come to our attention which suggests that the government has a need to review files and other records maintained by your late husband, Thomas R. Perini. An investigation has revealed that your husband’s files are no longer at his former office but instead have been packed and delivered in approximately twenty boxes to your residence. An attempt was made this morning to request that you grant government agents immediate access to the files. I understand that you rejected that request.
She stopped: there was another page to the letter. Since the words were scorching her, she decided to stop reading, at least for a minute, maybe two. She put the letter facedown on the cowl of P A U L B A T I S T A
the computer, stood and gazed out over the quiet newsroom. Stan Wasserman’s office was still dark. She rarely ever spoke to anyone else in the newsroom.
She continued to stand as she read the words on the second page of the letter.
Under ordinary circumstances this office would not make a request, either orally or in writing, for files that might indicate the commission of a crime or provide evidence of a crime. We have made a decision in this situation, however, to provide you the opportunity to voluntarily grant access to the evidence which we believe to be located in your residence. The 114
purpose of this letter is to give you a final opportunity to accommodate the Government’s needs.
If you do not cooperate, we will take all necessary lawful steps to secure what we need. I will expect to hear from you no later than 3:30 this afternoon with your affirmative response to this letter. I would remind you that any prior, current, or future attempt to remove, alter, or secrete the materials identified in this letter will be treated as an obstruction of justice and a federal offense and will be prosecuted accordingly.
* * *
“He didn’t sign it? What the hell’s the matter with you two?”
Neil Steinman threw a pencil down, hard, on his desk. The sharp tip broke.
McGlynn had the contempt for Steinman that all physically stronger men feel for other, smaller men who are in control. He also had that primitive, instinctive scorn for Steinman as a Jew that he shared with the other agents, all of them Irish or Italian, who were on assignment as investigators
to Steinman’s team. Despite the contempt and scorn, however, all the years McGlynn had spent in the Army, in the New York City Police Department, and now in the FBI had taught him the rigors of obedience, control, silence. He watched Steinman’s steady, furious glare at Kiyo Michine, who clutched in her hand a folder with the rejected papers.
“The magistrate said we needed more before he would sign it.”
“More what?”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you ask him?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
Kiyo said, “That it wasn’t his job to draw road maps for the U.S. Attorney. He said, in effect, you go figure it out.”
McGlynn was close enough to Kiyo to see that she was shaking, almost imperceptibly. The thought remained fixed in his mind that she was an elusively attractive Japanese woman who was always articulate and steady. He had also been impressed by 115
how she had handled herself as Magistrate Hunter—a fat, pompous man—had treated her with disdain an hour before when he refused to sign the search warrant she had presented to him.
But Steinman, as McGlynn saw, could get to her and unsettle that cool, difficult-to-figure exterior, “Did you offer to swear McGlynn in and ask him questions?”
“I did. But Hunter said that unless the agent had something to testify to in person that wasn’t in his affidavit then there was no point in live testimony.”
“Kiyo, Kiyo, Kiyo,” Steinman repeated, in a tone of quiet exasperation. McGlynn knew Steinman was an actor with a limited range: from the screaming drill sergeant to the patient schoolmas-ter. “You should have put him on. McGlynn is a good witness. It’s that Irish charm. All Hunter wanted was to put you—us—through the paces. He’s an arrogant fuck. But he would have signed it if you’d worked a little harder on him.”
“I just didn’t see that John would have had, in fact, anything more to say on the stand than in the affidavit.”
“Kiyo, you have got to learn to get over this fear you have of asking a live witness live questions in front of a judge. It’s stage fright.”
