by Dane Hartman
Powell ran badly. He had no endurance; his lungs, so often filled with smoke, were not up to the task. He reached the exit out of breath. But he was grateful that he hadn’t been pursued. Daring to look back into the lobby, he for the first time glimpsed all the curious onlookers but they, intimidated by the sight of his .357, were making no movement whatsoever; certainly they weren’t about to stop him. But among them there was no Harry Callahan.
That was all that counted, that there be no Harry Callahan.
Powell stepped out on Van Ness. His car was parked too far away; he wasn’t about to walk to it. A cab was pulling up; the back seat was empty and right away Powell hailed it and got in. At the same moment the door on the other side opened and a man slid in next to him. It was Harry Callahan.
Putting a .44 within inches of Powell’s head and placing his .38 so that if discharged it would blow Powell’s balls into the stuffing of his seat, he said very quietly, “You’re it,” thereby ending this particular game of hide-and-go-seek. Powell, recognizing the futility of resisting further, agreeably surrendered his gun.
The hack, who’d witnessed the tag in his rearview mirror, had yet to say a word, no doubt greatly disheartened to see all this artillery and men willing to use it sitting in his back seat.
“I’m a police officer,” Harry announced, adding that the hack would just have to take it on faith since he couldn’t very well get out his badge with both hands occupied. He directed the unhappy driver to headquarters, then turned his attention to his prisoner, handcuffing him. “Now, Mr. Powell, just so this is all kosher I’m going to read you your rights.”
“And then?”
“And then if you don’t start answering the questions I’m going to ask, you just might end up envying your friends Passaretti and Lesko.”
C H A P T E R
E l e v e n
The assistant D.A. couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old; he had the look of a Harvard Law grad who’d trained in the Southern District of New York, done some pro bono work, and somehow decided he’d be better off coming west and setting up shop on another coast altogether. Now it might be he was raised right here in San Francisco, but the impression Harry had was of someone who’d breathed the salt spray off the Atlantic Ocean until some dormant restlessness had sprung up in him and got him moving.
He still gave off an Ivy League aura; he was tall and not bad looking, but too serious in his bearing. He wore glasses that had a tint to them which subtly altered depending on how much light there was available and he dressed impeccably. His name was Robert Nunn. He beckoned Harry to a seat in front of his desk.
“Officer Callahan, I have been studying with great interest your report about the whole Tuber case,” he began, allowing his fingers to dance through a great sheaf of papers on his blotter.
Harry said nothing, waiting to hear that the evidence was so slender that it was not worth the State’s time and money to prosecute. Or else that the confession he’d elicited from Justin Powell was somehow unconstitutional and thus inadmissible in a court of law.
“You’ve been working on this for months now, haven’t you?”
Harry owned that he had.
Abruptly Nunn rose. “I like it,” he said. “I like the work you’ve done. I think we may have a problem with your promise to Powell. I’m a little disturbed, I don’t mind telling you, about the way you promised him immunity without clearing it with our office—” He put up his hand, uninterested in the protest he anticipated from Harry. “But that’s neither here nor there. I think we can work something out with our man Powell. The important thing is to get to Braxton, is it not?”
For the first time Harry regarded him with something other than skepticism and mistrust. Was it possible that he’d found an ally—and in the D.A.’s office of all places?
“I agree with you but you’ll notice Powell never named Braxton. He charged only that he’d received orders from Ryan and that all he did was to deliver them. That’s the way it’s always set up. Bull and Powell, they’re errand boys. They got power till Braxton snaps it away from them.”
“I am aware of that.” Nunn removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Without the glasses he looked slightly haggard as if he hadn’t slept well for weeks. “But I don’t think that we’re facing any serious obstacles here. I’ve obtained a warrant for Ryan’s arrest. Since you seem to have such a pronounced interest in this case I wanted you to know about the warrant. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to do the honors and serve it. I’m not in charge of that department.” He smiled at Harry. There was something more than he was revealing here, Harry knew. But he was willing to wait for it.
“The strategy of this office, I should think, would be to play one man against the other. Divide and conquer, right? Powell takes us to Bull. Bull takes us to Matt Braxton.”
“How do you figure? Bull’s scared shitless of Braxton.”
“I think we can persuade Bull. I can’t guarantee it but suppose we tell him he can walk. The Grand Jury hands up a sealed indictment maybe. But maybe not. Maybe something goes awry and we have to drop the case. Just so we go easy with him. But at the same time we tell him he can control the Brotherhood, really control it. Like Fitzsimmons got to do with the Teamsters once Hoffa was sent up. I think Bull will go for it. It must be humiliating for him being a puppet. Braxton’s what, in his mid-sixties? Something like that. A guy like that, Christ, he can hold out for decades. Years and years, and Bull’s sitting on his ass, his hands tied, can’t take a leak unless Braxton says yes. We play on that, and I think we have something.”
“I want to ask you a question. I like what you’re saying but there’s something I figure you’re holding back.”
Nunn shrugged. “Holding back’s my business. What’s the question?”
“The D.A., Pritchard, where does he fit into this scheme of things? He dream this up with you or have you been doing a little homework on the side?”
Nunn rubbed his chin thoughtfully, sat back down again, and started rocking in his chair. It was not a chair made for rocking and it almost seemed like he was going to topple right over. “Interesting question, Callahan. James Pritchard is an able district attorney, of course, and in the last year here I have received a considerable legal education under his guidance . . .”
Although Harry wanted him to cut the bullshit he recognized how under these circumstances such formalities were necessary; Nunn could not call into question his superior’s capabilities in front of an investigator for the police department.
“I don’t know whether you are aware of it or not,” Nunn continued, “but Mr. Pritchard is attending a special conference on law enforcement in Tokyo. He will be gone for another couple of weeks or so. He has decided to take a little vacation once the conference ends. He’s got a lot of time coming to him and he well deserves it.”
“So you’re in charge of this office until his return?”
“We stay in touch by phone naturally but yes, to answer your question, essentially I am in charge.”
“And Mr. Pritchard knows of your strategy in regard to this case?”
Nunn hesitated for a moment that went on a little bit too long.
“Let me assure you that the District Attorney has been and will continue to be kept thoroughly abreast of every development in this case. I would not take one step without being absolutely certain that I had his sanction.”
Two possibilities occurred to Harry; either Nunn was making this move on his own, taking advantage of his superior’s absence to further his own ambitions, which Harry could sense were considerable, or else he had the tacit approval of Pritchard who rather than be held directly responsible wanted to be far out of town when the shit hit the fan. Whichever was true it didn’t much matter to Harry. So long as the D.A.’s office would get behind him.
“I’m told that if Braxton or Bull or any of the Brotherhood’s top leadership gets put away there’s going to be a dock strike.”
“And
where did you hear that?” Nunn kept his voice even.
“These things get around.”
“The Brotherhood ratified a new contract last year. Any strike would be illegal and our office would view it with gravity. You know, Callahan, that the penalties we could impose are very stiff. The State has its own arsenal.” Nunn stood up, ending the interview.
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“This isn’t just for some publicity, is it? Everybody gets his picture in the papers, then goes home on bail half an hour later, and the whole thing dies?”
“Not at all, Callahan. This is for real. We’re in dead earnest.”
Whatever Nunn’s demurrals, it was apparent that publicity wasn’t the last thing on his mind either. For when police swooped down on the Brotherhood’s office at midday, only hours after Harry’s briefing, the press was out in force. Photographers swarmed around the building’s entrance, anxiously awaiting the imminent appearance of the suspect.
The suspect, John Bull Ryan, had had, until a few minutes previously, no idea that he was a suspect. The first he’d learned about it was when a Chronicle reporter had phoned him and asked him what his response to his arrest was. “No comment,” he’d answered curtly, hanging up.
Instantly he was back on the phone. As he always did in such exigent situations he called Braxton for advice. Braxton would know what to do.
“Give me time, I’ll get back to you,” was Braxton’s succinct comment when informed of the situation.
“Time! There is no goddamn time. The police’ll be here any minute.”
“Nothing I can do about that. Listen, Bull, we’ll get you out of it. You’re not going to have to do time, take my word for it. The Brotherhood’s flush. They’ll set bail, we’ll pay it, then we’ll work it out.”
“What went wrong, Matt? What went fucking wrong?”
“I honestly don’t know, Bull. But I’ll find out, I promise you.”
“It wasn’t supposed to get this far.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Braxton said, putting an end to the exchange.
Panic was spreading inside of Bull, like a poison contaminating his blood. It was a panic he’d felt before but many years ago, when he’d been arrested on the docks, bloody and half-blind with pain from police truncheons. But at least then he was not alone; twenty others had been taken into custody along with him. Now there was just him. And despite Braxton’s assurances, he wasn’t certain that he hadn’t been set up by Braxton to begin with. Although they hadn’t had any serious disagreements, that wasn’t a guarantee that he was safe. Braxton could have decided that with Powell’s arrest things had gotten too far out of hand and that a scapegoat was needed.
Outside there was some sort of commotion. His secretary was arguing with someone. The police no doubt. Bull seated himself, combing what hair he had remaining to him; at the very least he wished to look presentable, still in command . . .
A couple of minutes passed. The door to his office was opened and in walked four uniformed officers led by a man in plainclothes. He recognized the man in plainclothes. It was Harry Callahan.
He rose to greet his unwanted visitor. “You’re a lucky man, Callahan. You should never have made it to this point.” He barely glanced at the warrant Harry held out for his inspection. “You know you’re not going to keep me.”
Harry shrugged. “You know,” he said, smiling enigmatically, “you may be right.”
The manner in which he said this disconcerted Bull. Now he was truly worried.
As soon as news of Bull’s arrest was made public, first on radio newscasts, later in the afternoon editions, Braxton released an official statement, asserting that he was certain Bull was innocent, while at the same time accusing the San Francisco Police Department of a malicious “witchhunt.” “Unable to find the real murderers of Bernard Tuber and his family, the police in desperation have resorted to Gestapo tactics to convince the public they have solved the case,” he maintained. He also hinted that politics was somehow involved. “There are elements,” he went on, “that want to see the Brotherhood dismembered and destroyed. The Brotherhood, its leadership and members, wants to go on record in saying that if the police and the politicians persist in this witchhunt, the economic well-being of this fair city may be placed in jeopardy.” The implication was clear; keeping Bull locked up and pursuing the indictment against him—and anyone else in the union—might lead to a dock strike.
Not satisfied with this official statement, Braxton ordered the firebombing of a warehouse not far from the docks. It was chock full of fruit and cotton that had just been offloaded from a freighter with Panamanian registration that had done a shuttle run from the west coast of South America. Fire fighters required eight hours to extinguish the blaze that at times threatened other structures in the vicinity.
Braxton, when asked for a statement the following morning, met with reporters in his office, two floors above the one that Bull had occupied. He directed the reporters to his office window, which yielded a better view of the bay than his successor enjoyed, and gestured to the north. Ugly black smoke was welling up into the sky. The fire, while brought under control, had at that point still some hours to run.
“Of course, gentlemen, to my knowledge, no one in the Brotherhood had anything to do with that fire over there. I know what they’re saying. They’re saying it’s arson, but so far we have been offered no proof of that. It is my contention that the Brotherhood is being framed. I don’t want to name names. In fact, I’m just as much in the dark as you are. But you’re reporters. You investigate. I put up fifty thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of the murderer of Bernie Tuber. Would I do that if I thought my worthy successor Bull Ryan had any hand in it?” He leapt to his next sentence, uninterested in obtaining an answer to this. “But I’m serving a warning now that as much as I deplore acts of violence, against persons or property, I can well understand the emotional distress the membership must suffer from when something like this happens.”
“You mean the warehouse burning?” a Hearst reporter asked.
“I mean the unjustified arrest of Bull Ryan,” Braxton said, dismissing the newsmen from his presence.
Early that same evening the man in question was led into a windowless interrogation room at police headquarters, given a chair and a cigarette, and requested to sit.
His wait was not long. In a few minutes Harry appeared and took a seat opposite him.
“Are they treating you all right?”
“You care about my welfare?”
“Absolutely. You’re very important to us right now.”
Bull wondered just how important he was to Braxton but decided to say nothing.
“You ever hear of a fellow named Nick Lesko?”
“Never.”
“Patrick Passaretti? The name mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“What about the phrase, ‘the Chicago boys?’ ”
“I don’t know. Is that what they call the White Sox?”
“Cute.” Harry knew that they were only going through the motions, but it was a game that had to be played. “Clay Meltzer, you recognize the name?”
“Yes,” Bull answered evenly, “he was in the employ of the Brotherhood.”
“When he was killed was he still in the Brotherhood’s employ?”
“He was.”
“Why do you suppose he was killed?”
“I have no idea.”
“Didn’t the Brotherhood order him killed because he was about to implicate you and Braxton in the Tuber slayings?”
“That’s your version, not mine.”
“The way it is now, Mr. Ryan, we’re going to pin you with five murder counts and at least one attempted murder.”
“Oh yes? And who was the intended victim of this attempted murder?” Bull, expecting to be bailed out at any moment, was not bothering to take any of this seriously.
“You’re looking at
him,” Harry said.
“Then I can only regret that the attempt failed in that case.” He smiled. “Nothing personal.”
“Of course not. What I’m saying is that you’re going to hang for Matt Braxton. Unless—”
“Unless?”
“Unless you decide to cooperate.”
“And turn State’s evidence?”
“That’s right.”
Bull laughed. It was a quick, unpleasant laugh.
“You take me for an ass, don’t you? Until I have a lawyer I have nothing more to say.”
“Think it over.”
Bull obviously had no intention of thinking it over. But before he could be led back to his holding cell, Harry had something to add. “You want to be careful, Mr. Ryan. From now on in you’ll be wise to look over your shoulder wherever you go.”
Bull frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because like your associate, Mr. Powell, you’re a liability now. Word gets out you’re cooperating with the D.A.’s office no telling what will happen.”
Bull’s face had gone ashen; in a matter of seconds he seemed to have aged years.
“You son of a bitch,” he muttered, then turned from Harry. “You’re way over your head, you know that, don’t you? You know that?”
And in a sense Harry did know this; that he’d gotten this far surprised him. There was still a rabbi somewhere, probably in the department—Patel’s control—who was watching out for Braxton. If Harry didn’t act fast he would lose the whole ballgame; Braxton would slip out of his fingers, Bull would walk, and Powell, if he was still among the living, would repudiate his testimony. Even with Nunn’s support Harry couldn’t be certain he’d make any further progress, not without a little unauthorized improvisation of his own.
Two hours later a Federal judge set bail for Bull at one hundred thousand dollars. A lawyer for the Brotherhood, a balding man with the aura of an ambulance chaser about him, posted it promptly. John Bull Ryan was out on the streets again.
