“Yes.”
“Where can I reach you later in the day?”
“I have a rehearsal.” She stood. “I think you know where it is.”
I nodded. “Why were you outside my house the other night?” I asked.
“I was curious.”
“I don’t want you near my house again, understand?”
She nodded.
“And yesterday in court? What were you doing there?”
“I was watching you.”
“How the hell did you know I would be there?”
“I called your office, and your secretary told me. When will I see you again?”
“This afternoon,” I said.
Lisa rose and, without saying anything more, walked out of my office.
Chapter 10
I WAS SEATED IN a row of orange, clamlike chairs. Two fat old black women were seated at the end of the row. I watched the receptionist, who was sitting behind a gray metal desk.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Phalen said he’d be out in a minute. I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”
“Most of practicing law is waiting,” I said. “I’ve gotten good at it. I’m sure he’ll be out as soon as he can.”
I looked over at the two women, who were also waiting. They sat silently, glaring at the receptionist. They could have been suspects, witnesses, or victims. There was nothing in their appearance that gave me a clue. They looked poor and angry, but that described most of the people who came in contact with the prosecutor’s office.
I liked John. He was a good prosecutor, and he was a gentleman. I had dealt with a number of honest and decent prosecutors over the years, but there were others I wouldn’t have trusted under any circumstances.
I’d seen prosecutors violate legal ethics by telling me certain reports or witnesses didn’t exist when they clearly knew otherwise. Other times, in an effort to pressure a plea, they’d told me they had more evidence or witnesses than they actually had. Some prosecutors encouraged cops to lie and told them what to say; some, more subtly, told the eager-to-be-helpful cop what would be the most effective testimony and only then asked him what had actually happened.
I hadn’t felt that I had violated legal ethics or any personal moral code by anything that I had done during the Betz trial. Legal ethics allowed me as a defense lawyer to destroy a witness like Lisa Altman. The system allowed me to feel moral outrage at a prosecutor who knowingly misled me, but that didn’t imply any ethical restraint on my humiliating in front of a jury a pathetic victim of a terrible crime! Something was wrong here.
I actually believed that there had been nothing personal in what I had done to Lisa, but if a prosecutor lied to me, I took it very personally—and I would wait for as long as it took to get even.
John Phalen finally entered the room. “Sorry, Michael,” he said.
“No problem. We’ve got a lot to talk about,” I said.
I followed John down a long corridor toward his office. We passed a line of cubicles, one of which I had occupied a number of years before. I looked inside, but no one was there. In the next one down I saw Cheryl seated at her desk. She had a long accordion file in front of her and a fat, middle-aged man seated across from her—Rocky Nisivoccia, or Fat Rocky, as some of his colleagues called him. Rocky had an overgrown crew cut that looked in need of a lawn mower.
I had known Rocky for years. In fact, he’d been assigned to me when I was a prosecutor. He had once told me a story about his daughter, Angela, that I’d never forgotten. When she was four, according to Rocky, she had had some kind of ear problem, and needed an operation. Rocky found the best ear specialist in the state. He took Angela to the hospital and waited outside the operating room. When the doctor came by on his way into the operating room, Rocky grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him up against the wall. According to Rocky, he said to the doctor, “Doc, I have five kids, all boys except my Angela. She’s the youngest. She’s my favorite. Understand? No mistakes.” And the doctor said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Nisivoccia. No mistakes.”
I loved Rocky’s stories. They certainly hadn’t taught those kinds of lessons about social engineering in law school.
“Hey, there’s my main man,” Rocky said, looking up at me as I paused at the doorway. Rocky always seemed pleased to see me.
I said hello to Cheryl and Rocky. “How’re we doing on the Larsen case?” I asked.
“No problem,” Rocky said, folding his short, fat fingers on the desk. “We’re going to rid this city of miscreants one by one. How do you like that word, Mikey? Miscreants. Not bad, huh?”
“Great, Rocky,” Cheryl said.
“I thought you were in homicide,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m helping Angelo out. He’s home nursing a bleeding ulcer. So not only is this not my case, the victim’s alive, gay, and probably had it coming.
“That’s what I love about you, Rocky,” Cheryl said. “You have such a practical approach to the law.”
“Are we going to start the Larsen case soon?” I asked. “My guy’s still in jail.”
“Sure. Sure. No problem,” Rocky said.
Cheryl shrugged.
I said good-bye and moved on. I finally reached John’s office. He was already seated behind his desk and I sat down across from him.
“Permit me to congratulate you again on the Betz rape,” John said. “You did a good job, Michael.”
“That’s very gracious of you. I came off better than my client,” I said.
“Only because you were lucky.”
“Oh, really?”
“You had timing on your side,” John said.
“Timing?”
“I got a call from a woman a couple of days after the verdict,” John said. “Obviously it was too late for me to use it, but the woman told me that she’d also been raped by Betz.”
“You couldn’t have used it even if she had called before the verdict,” I said.
“I might have been allowed. She said she was followed and he pushed his way into her apartment, the same way he did with the Altman woman.”
John was right: with those facts it was possible the judge would have regarded Betz’s behavior as a pattern. “Well, why the hell did she wait until the trial was over? If she’d come forward earlier, maybe she could have nailed the fucker.”
“She said she was frightened. And she thought he was going to be convicted without her. I can understand that.”
“When did Betz rape that one?”
“She said it was about a year ago. She didn’t want to give me any more details.”
“Did she give you her name?” I asked, reflexively. She might be a helpful witness to Lisa in her murder trial. Then I remembered that I wasn’t going to represent her. But I could pass the information on to her lawyer.
“No. She wouldn’t give me her name. I pushed her for it, but she asked me if she came forward now would it make any difference, and I had to tell her that I didn’t think so. What the hell was I supposed to do, lie to her?”
“No. You’re right. By the time you were talking to her, it wouldn’t have made any difference.” John didn’t realize the extent of the damage caused by this woman’s not having come forward earlier.
“You got one lucky client,” John said.
“He would have been luckier if he’d been convicted. I’ll get to that. The public defender called me just before I started the Betz trial and asked me to take on the Williams murder. I haven’t gone to prison yet to meet the guy, but I gather this is another case of yours.”
John reached into his desk. He took out a large manila envelope and threw it at me. “I thought I’d seen the worst. Take a look at these cheesecakes,” John said.
I opened the envelope and removed a dozen eight-by-ten glossy photographs. They were morgue shots of a little girl of about two years of age lying naked on a narrow, stainless-steel slab. Each picture had been taken from a different angle, some close-up, of the scars, the whip ma
rks, the torn flesh.
When Carmen, the woman from the public defender’s office who assigned the cases, had told me over the phone that my new client was charged with murdering his daughter, I had shrugged off my initial disgust at the thought of the horror of such a crime. I hadn’t accepted the case yet, but I had felt curious, drawn to find out what normal restraints of decency were missing in this man.
“I…,” I started to respond, but I had nothing to say. “I… Goddamn. How can people do such things? Have they no souls?” I shook my head and shoved the pictures back into the envelope, which I threw at John.
In the past I would have had an intellectual curiosity about a client like Williams. Maybe it would have been a way of keeping some emotional distance from him. Infanticide. The very word sounded clinical—unconnected to the reality of a man battering his daughter to death.
“If you look closely, you can see the cigarette burns on her forehead,” John said.
“Thanks anyway. I don’t know if I can deal with this guy.” In all the years I’d been practicing criminal law, I had never turned down a case. And Christ, for all that time I hadn’t thought twice about taking on a client like Williams. But now… “To break my ass for a creep like that—I just don’t know,” I said. “I’ve saved enough guilty animals.”
“Well, there’s no law that says you have to. Just let me know.”
“Give me a couple of days.”
“There’s something else?” John asked.
“Yeah. Some unfinished business from the Betz case.”
“Oh?”
“I’m told his dead body might be rotting in his apartment,” I said casually.
John paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t sit shivah, as you folks say. Do we have a perpetrator?”
“I’d rather call her a suspect. I actually think this one’s innocent, but I’m not sure I’m going to represent her, either.
“What? An innocent client and you don’t want to take it? You were just complaining about breaking your ass for guilty animals.”
“It’s too complicated, John.”
“Too much pressure to win if they’re innocent?”
“There’s some truth in that. But no, I’m thinking of getting out of the crime business altogether.”
“The slime business. But what the hell would you do?”
“Maybe there’s another area of the law,” I said, sounding wistful.
“It’ll bore you to death,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said.
“You know what Norman Dogbein once told me?” John asked.
“I’m sure I’ve heard it.”
“He said, ‘John, kid, when I’m trying a case, standing there in front of a jury, it’s the only time I feel totally alive.’”
“I’m sure that’s true for Norman,” I said.
“Sure, but not for you?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe leaving the crime business after winning for an innocent client would be a good way to go out. Kind of like a redemption,” John said.
“Sure.”
“One kicker, of course: you’re sure the innocent client’s innocent?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Chapter 11
I WALKED ACROSS THE street to the theater. The lobby was empty of people. I pulled one door. It was locked. I tried another and entered.
I walked through the lobby into the theater and stood behind the barrier between the last row of seats and the open area at the back.
The curtains were drawn back. The houselights were dim, but the overhead stage lights were on. Some sets and props were leaning against the back wall of the empty stage. Someone I couldn’t see was playing the piano in the orchestra pit.
I recognized Gene Carter. He was famous, a ferocious choreographer who was frequently mentioned in the reviews of Lisa’s performances that I had just been rereading. He was sitting in the first row of the audience seats, loudly tapping a cane to the beat of the music.
After four taps of the cane, Gene said, “Okay. Now…”
Lisa entered from stage right with a series of ballet turns. She was dressed in a leotard and ballet shoes. With her hair pinned back severely, and wearing no makeup, she looked as if she had been rehearsing for a long time.
“Yes. Better. Better,” Gene said.
Lisa did several turns.
“Stop,” Gene said.
The piano music and Lisa stopped. Gene shook his head. He stood and walked with a limp to the stage.
“The turn. Repetition. Variation,” Gene said, hitting his cane.
“I did that,” Lisa said.
“No. The variation should be a break in tempo,” Gene said, gesturing extravagantly with his hands.
“Right,” Lisa said.
“Give me what I want. Understand?” Gene said.
Lisa nodded impatiently.
“Okay. Start from the jeté,” Gene said.
Lisa took her position, and Gene remained at the edge of the stage. He beat his cane and the piano started up. Lisa began with a light jump, transferring her weight from one foot to the other.
“Softly. Softly,” Gene instructed.
Lisa moved gracefully across the stage.
“Flowing. Easy,” Gene said.
Lisa stopped after a few steps, then walked back to the spot where she had begun the last move.
“I’ll begin again from here,” Lisa said.
“Okay. It’s beginning to look better,” Gene said.
Gene beat the cane and the piano began again. Lisa started the jump. This time she seemed to have more concentration.
“Yes. Yes,” Gene said.
Lisa glided across the stage.
“Yes. Flowing. Ah. Hit!” Gene said, banging his cane hard against a seat. Lisa came to a dramatic halt. The tempo of the music increased and Lisa took off again with increased passion.
“Don’t rush it,” Gene said.
Lisa appeared more vulnerable.
“Yes. Open. Open,” Gene said.
Gene seemed aroused and excited. He banged the cane with increasing ferocity. “Yes. Lovely,” he said.
On one of the turns, Lisa’s long hair came undone and flowed out behind her. She looked like a little girl.
“Now building. Ready for the entrechat… sharply. From the glissade,” Gene said.
Lisa went into a new jump, crossing her feet rapidly at the highest point. There was a growing warmth in her performance.
“Again. Again,” Gene said.
She repeated the jump.
“Again. Again. Sharper,” Gene said.
Lisa jumped again, almost frantically.
“Moving. Yes,” Gene said.
Lisa appeared almost in pain.
“Yes. Yes,” Lisa whispered.
“Break. Now the battement! The battement!” Gene screamed, pounding his cane.
Lisa extended one foot from a fixed position against the lower calf of the supporting leg, then brought the foot back hard, almost hitting it. She repeated the move over and over, furiously, each time lifting herself up on the toe of the supporting foot.
“Harder! Again! Harder!” Gene screamed.
Lisa threw her arms outward each time she lifted herself up on her toe. She seemed possessed, transported.
“That’s it,” Gene said coldly.
Gene put down the cane and clapped his hands.
The man playing the piano stood up and walked out of the room. Gene put his papers together on a nearby table. Lisa tried to pull herself together. She was breathing hard.
“That’s probably as good as you can do it,” Gene said.
“Thanks,” Lisa said, sarcastically.
“You’re getting harder to crank up,” Gene said.
“You’re getting harder to bear,” Lisa said.
“A couple of more lines around the eyes, my dear, and you’ll be on your knees for me,” Gene said.
“I’d kill myself first,” Lisa said, and picked up a sweater thrown ov
er a chair. She wrapped herself in it and walked off the stage.
I stepped out of the darkness at the back of the theater and hurried down the aisle, then opened the door and climbed the steps to the back of the stage.
I saw Lisa walking slowly down the corridor. From her gait, she seemed exhausted, dejected, and very much alone. She was wiping her face and neck with a towel.
I walked down the corridor after her. There were dressing rooms on both sides. She reached her room and entered. I walked to that door. I opened it and entered.
The room was spare and typical. No windows. The dressing table was strewn with small objects. A large, stuffed overnight bag was on the floor beside the dressing table. Lisa was seated at the table, taking off her ballet shoes. Still sweating, she had the towel around her neck.
“After all the descriptions of this place at the trial, I feel I’ve been here before,” I said.
“This room wasn’t described at the trial,” Lisa said, without turning.
“You’re right. It was my investigator’s report.”
“So where do we stand?” Lisa asked. She wiped her face and neck with the towel and threw it on the dressing table.
“I talked to the prosecutor.”
“And?”
“He’s probably at Betz’s apartment now.”
“What happens next?” Lisa watched me from the mirror in front of her.
“You go in for bail,” I said.
“I can’t put up much money.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have it,” she said, still looking at my reflection in the mirror.
“What do you mean you don’t have it? You’re one of the most successful dancers in the country. What do you do with your money?”
“I had someone manage my money, and he managed to lose it all and not pay my taxes. Everything I earned in the last two years has been taken by the government.”
“I might be able to get you out without bail.”
“How can you arrange that?”
“The prosecutor told me that the day after Betz was acquitted a woman contacted him. She told him that Betz had also raped her.”
“Did he believe her?” Lisa asked, finally turning around to look at me directly.
“Yes.”
Question of Consent: A Novel Page 8
