Lucky Bastard

by Charles McCarry

  “I have to tell you we have no money,” Teresa said to his back. “I mean, none whatsoever. No savings. All we have is Phil’s paycheck. We rent. The car is eight years old. We’ve got three kids under school age and I just missed a period. They’ll stop Phil’s pay. God knows how much the bail will be.”

  “Forget about money,” Jack said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ll take no fee and we’ll find the money for expenses elsewhere. Put money out of your mind.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  Jack was the picture of sincerity. He said, “I’ll do my best for you, Teresa.”

  Now tears did appear in Teresa’s eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  Jack said, “Did Phil know when the preliminary hearing is going to be?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten,” Teresa said. “They slipped him too much dope for him to appear sooner.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Jack said. “Don’t talk to the cops. Be nice to the media if they call, but don’t discuss any of the details of the case or repeat anything Phil told you. Just say you know your husband is completely innocent of any wrongdoing and let it go at that. No accusations of a frame. No wops and cops. Count to ten before every word. Don’t let them see anger. Let others be angry for you.”

  “Who, for instance?” Teresa said.

  “You’ll be surprised,” Jack said. “Now go home to the kids, and I’ll go talk to Phil. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the hearing.”

  3 After Teresa left, Jack called a reporter friend who had been at the scene of the arrest and had written the lead story about it for his paper.

  “One question about the Gallagher business,” Jack said. “Where did they find the girl’s clothes?”

  “Let me check,” said the reporter. After a moment he came back on the line. “In the girl’s car,” he said. “Are you taking this case?”

  “One more question. Did you happen to look at the knees of Gallagher’s pants?”

  “Before or after he put them back on?”

  “After.”

  “No, but I’ve got some pictures here.” He looked at the photos, Jack could hear him slapping them down on the desk one after the other. Finally he said, “Here it is. The pants were torn at the knees.”

  “Like he fell down on pavement? If you blew the picture up, could you see if his knees are scraped?”

  “Maybe. Are you taking this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the gimmick?”

  “Gimmick?” Jack said. “There’s no gimmick. Phil Gallagher’s an innocent man.”

  The reporter said, “Sure he is. All the signs point that way. Especially the fact that he had a hard-on the size of a three-cell flashlight.”

  “You have pictures of that?”

  “This is a family newspaper. But that’s what the other cops said.”

  “‘That’s what the other cops said,’” Jack repeated. He said, “Let me ask you a question, Glenn. Do you think an honest man like Phil Gallagher, a hero cop who has laid his life on the line for what’s right, a guy who has powerful enemies, bad cops and notorious criminals who will stop at nothing, would be stupid enough to rape and sodomize a fifteen-year-old girl at gunpoint in the back of a police cruiser, on a public street, while under the influence of LSD? And if he did, that he’d still have it up after all that?”

  “Good line, but the question is, will a jury believe Gallagher’s enemies would be stupid enough to set him up in such a crude and obvious way? A lot of people would say the situation is so unbelievable that it can’t be anything but the truth.”

  “That contingency is not covered by the rules of evidence,” Jack said. “Juries know the truth when they hear it.”

  “That must be why they fuck up as often as they do,” said the reporter. “They hear it so seldom. You’re going to have to prove this guy’s innocence, Jack. Reasonable doubt won’t be enough.”

  “My client will be acquitted because he is innocent,” Jack said.

  “Oh yeah,” said the reporter, typing away. “Good luck, counselor.”

  He hung up without saying goodbye. But he was pleased that Jack, a Harvard man, wanted to hear his opinion, and he was betting on Jack to win and hoping that the dirty cops who hated Gallagher would lose and be humiliated, and all that came through in the story that he wrote for the next day’s edition.

  Every news organization in town, plus the wire services, sent a reporter to Phil Gallagher’s preliminary hearing. The defendant, now wearing county jail coveralls instead of his blue uniform, was an upright, handsome man, but he was disoriented by the drugs he had taken, and he had not shaved in two days. The day before, Jack had talked to him for about an hour but had learned little more than Teresa had told him. Gallagher remembered falling, remembered pain. His knees and hands were skinned like those of a child who has taken a fall on a sidewalk. He remembered not being able to breathe.

  Jack showed no curiosity about this detail. He said, “When was the last time you fired your service revolver?”

  “Last Monday, on the range.”

  “When did you last clean it?”

  “Same day.”

  “Has it been out of the holster since?”

  “No. Because of the kids I lock up my whole harness in the hall closet as soon as I get home.”

  “What about the LSD?”

  “The only thing I can figure,” Gallagher said, “is someone slipped it into my thermos.”

  Jack said, “Like a police officer who had just confiscated LSD while making an arrest?”

  The judge disallowed the question, but it was already on the record with the media, which was all that counted. Gallagher was charged with rape and forcible sodomy of a minor, resisting arrest, assault with a deadly weapon (the arresting officers said that the drug-crazed Gallagher had fired his pistol at them before they wrestled it away from him), and several other felonies and misdemeanors. If convicted on all counts he faced life in prison, almost certainly without possibility of parole. Gallagher pleaded not guilty to all charges. The prosecutor asked that bail be set at $200,000, but after a conference at the bench he did not press the point when the judge, at Jack’s suggestion, released Gallagher without cash bail but confined him to his own home under what amounted to house arrest.

  Jack asked for certain tests to be carried out on Gallagher by the crime lab unit of the Ohio State Patrol, and not by the local police. These included saliva, urine, and blood tests, close-up photographs of the accused’s knees and elbows and palms and forearms, a wax test to determine if he had recently fired a pistol, and a complete medical examination, including physical and X-ray examination of the skull and a search for recent bruises or punctures of the skin on any other part of the body. He also asked that the court forthwith take custody of and place under seal all evidence so far gathered in the case, including any blood or urine samples already taken, and all of Gallagher’s personal belongings, especially his uniform, his thermos, and his service revolver. The judge granted all these requests.

  These unexplained requests made excellent copy and raised many questions in the minds of journalists; as Jack knew, their questions would soon become the questions of their readers and viewers.

  Outside the courthouse, Jack told the cameras and microphones, “The truth will be discovered in this case. I promise you that. And the truth is, Phil Gallagher is a hero in war and peace who can stand on his own two feet in any court in the world. The truth is his friend just as the forces of darkness are his sworn enemies. Phil Gallagher is an innocent man. Phil Gallagher will be free. Justice will be done by the great state of Ohio and its people. That’s all we have to say at this time, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Phil Gallagher, standing beside him, shaved now and dressed in blue jeans and a winter jacket, said nothing. As Jack had earlier instructed him to do, he put an arm around his wife, as if afraid for her safety.

  4 Morgan arrive
d home from our meeting in the Keystone Motel in time to watch Jack’s statement on the noon television news. She was outraged. Jack had taken the case, devised his strategy, and splashed himself all over the media without consulting her.

  In her agitation, short of breath, she looked out the window. Down below was Jack, bantering on the sidewalk with a little pack of pencil reporters who had walked back from the courthouse with him. As he talked, they scribbled in their notebooks. Because of her training, because of her true auspices and secret purposes, Morgan felt a pang of anxiety. She feared the press, feared its curiosity, its stupidity, its moralism. Below her window a perfectly relaxed Jack smiled, looked serious, joked, insinuated, charmed. She thought it was folly to let journalists come so close.

  One of the reporters was a thin young female with a soft-lipped vulnerable face. Morgan knew the type: Ten years ago she had gone to demonstrations, a copy of Che’s memoirs held title outward against her chest, not to fight for the cause but to meet boys and sniff tear gas from afar. To outward appearances, Jack paid no more attention to her than to the others, but Morgan knew Jack. His eyes were on this female, and she knew it. The interview ended. The reporters scattered. She stood on tiptoes—miniskirt, skinny legs, windblown hair—and hailed a cab. As she got in with flashing thighs, she gave Jack a shy smile.

  “Jesus!” Morgan cried, closing the door of Jack’s office behind the two of them.

  Jack said, “Hi, Morg. How was your trip?”

  Morgan said, “You’re all over the goddamned television.”

  She never swore among strangers anymore, but now she was swearing at Jack in the harsh half-whisper she used when talking to him in the office. Danny sat on the other side of a thin partition, working on his wills and trusts and torts.

  Jack said, “Practicing law.”

  “Oh, is that what you call this sideshow? You didn’t think you should consult me on something as public as this?”

  “You think lawyering is too public?” Jack said. “What do you think the future’s going to be like?”

  Morgan said, “This is now. You’ve exceeded your instructions. Behind my back. This is very serious, Jack.”

  “Well, gee, Morgan,” Jack said. “I’m sorry I slipped the leash, but I wasn’t exactly in control of the timing. You were on the road, no phone number. It was an opportunity to be seized.”

  “A rapist cop? Take on the Mafia and the police?”

  Jack said, “Wops and cops.”

  Morgan said, “This is not a joke.”

  “No, it’s a breakthrough case. I’m going to defend this guy, and I’m going to get him off, and we’re going to reap great benefits from that.”

  “Jack, for Christ’s sake. He’s a pig. An enemy of the people. You’re going to save a cop? A cop that raped a child?”

  “Why not?”

  “What planet are you living on? You can’t fulfill this mission by fighting for the wrong side.”

  Morgan was close to Jack, still whispering, waving her arms. Jack seldom touched her, but now he captured one of her flying hands and held it between both his own hands.

  He said, “Morgan, honey, I’m sure you’re absolutely right about everything and I’ve made a terrible mistake, but it’s too late to do anything about it. No matter how badly I’ve fucked up the plan, I’vegot no choice now but to win this case. If I lose it, I’ll never recover. So give me a break, okay?”

  “And if you do win it?”

  “It will cut five years off the schedule.”

  “Oh, really?” Morgan tugged at her hand.

  Jack held on for an instant. He said, “Really. When you’re calmer, I’ll explain.”

  Accusation still smoldering in her eyes, Morgan drew a long deep breath. She said, “Okay. What do you want from me?”

  “Two things,” Jack replied. “Money—”

  “What a surprise.”

  “—and the support of your loonies.”

  “My what?”

  “Just kidding,” Jack said. “The support of the good people—how’s that?—for a good cop, unjustly accused by the forces of evil, whose acquittal would do more damage to the image and power of the corrupt police than anything since Attica.”

  “Come on.”

  “Think about it. Yesterday, before he was framed, Gallagher was a hero cop. Save a hero, be a hero.”

  Morgan was calmer now—oddly, Jack had that effect on her when he talked political realities—and theoretician that she was, she suddenly saw the same possibilities he saw, and even greater possibilities beyond those. Peter was right about this guy; Peter was always right.

  She said, “Okay. It’s a go. How much money will you need?”

  “About twenty grand for an investigation by private detectives, expert witnesses, and so forth. I’m forgoing a fee.”

  “So I heard on the tube. And what kind of support do you need from my loonies?”

  Her lips compressed in a sardonic quarter-smile. Jack grinned; he had won. He was relaxed now, big oxblood wingtip shoes on the desk, hands clasped behind his head. “Demonstrations, placards, pressure on the press, posters, pamphlets, speeches, phone campaigns, a woman at every meeting in the city demanding justice and an end to the link between the Mob and the cops, until the trial.”

  “That’s easy.”

  “I don’t mean zealots’ meetings. I mean PTAs, missionary societies, the mainstream.”

  “That can be done. I’ll write a check.”

  “No. It has to be raised from the people. Quarters, crumpled dollar bills, small checks from fearful widows.” Jack smiled. “I even thought of a name for the fund-raising operation.” He wrote it on a slip of paper.

  Morgan smiled, shook her head. Giggled. “I love it,” she said.

  “Atta girl,” Jack said. “And I’ve got another idea. Phil and Teresa Gallagher are all alone with their kids in the house. Who will protect them? The Mafia is out there, also fascist cops. What if you organized a round-the-clock vigil, a circle of women around the house, protecting a sister?”

  Morgan’s eyes widened in admiration. She said, “You are a once-in-a-lifetime motherfucker, Jack. Really you are.”

  That same day an organization calling itself the Greater Ohio Oversight Defense Coalition Opposed to Police Corruption (GOOD-COP) posted four women sentinels, the first of hundreds who would keep watch day and night outside the Gallaghers’ modest rented home. With more exposure in the media, GOODCOP collected about thirty thousand dollars in the first week of its appeal. This was enough to disguise the additional twenty thousand that I later passed to Morgan in cash.

  “If ever there was a case that should be fought pro bono publico—for the public good—this is it,” Jack told the reporters who walked to work with him almost every morning now. “And compared to what Phil Gallagher did for the taxpayers a few years ago, forgoing a legal fee is nothing.”

  5 It was months before Gallagher’s trial began, but by seeding the media Jack kept the case alive in the public mind. On opening day, hundreds of the curious waited in line for the handful of available seats that had not already been allocated to journalists, including network camera crews from as far away as New York City. Jack did not disappoint them. In a courtroom filled with lambent April light, he turned the trial into a replay of the David and Goliath story.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said Jack in his opening statement, “Fats Corso is the man in the shadows who lurks outside every decent home in our community, looking for men, women, and children to corrupt and victimize with his drugs, his gambling, his prostitution, his whole portfolio of crime and evil. Fats Corso is the man in the shadows who is trying to trick his neighbors into sending a clean cop, a hero cop, a cop who is one of us, to prison because he exposed Fats Corso’s connections to dirty cops.”

  Jack said all this, and much more, in a tone of calm reason. As he spoke, he positioned himself in a diagonal beam of sunlight. Speaking without notes, head thrown back, perfectly at ease, h
e seemed to be breathing in golden words from the very sunshine and then breathing them out again for the spellbound jury. The David and Goliath image was magnified by the physical appearance of the prosecutor, a big clumsy Republican named F. Merriwether Street who was six feet six inches tall. Street introduced a parade of policemen and expert witnesses who established, item by item, the seemingly damning evidence against Gallagher. On cross-examination, Jack showed that the officers who arrested Gallagher were not responding to a call but had “happened” on the scene, which was several miles from their assigned patrol area. A witness had noticed Gallagher’s thermos lying on the front seat of his cruiser, whose door was open. When Jack showed the witness, a plainclothes nun who worked in the inner city, three similar thermos bottles, she chose the correct one.

  Jack’s exchange with one of the arresting officers, Patrolman Randy Sebring, was the keystone of his defense:

  JACK: Officer Sebring, you have testified that Phil Gallagher was in the backseat of the cruiser when you arrived at the scene, that he had a naked young lady on his lap, and that his service revolver was on the floor of the backseat. Is all that correct?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  JACK: Was the back door or any door of the cruiser open?

  WITNESS: No.

  JACK: All four windows rolled up and locked? All four doors, too?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  JACK: The door opens from the outside but not the inside? Cannot be opened from the inside, standard police cruiser without inside door handles, designed to make sure dangerous criminals can’t just open the door and escape? Got a screen between the front seat and back so the perpetrator can’t get out that way?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  JACK: Officer Sebring, I find that fascinating. Let me ask you this: Why do you suppose Lieutenant Gallagher would get into the backseat of his own cruiser with a naked young lady, knowing that he couldn’t get out?

  WITNESS: I don’t know.

  JACK: Was Lieutenant Gallagher wearing his hat?

  WITNESS: What?

  JACK: You have testified that Lieutenant Gallagher resisted arrest and was subdued by you and your partner after a violent struggle in which he fired his revolver. Is that correct?