I laugh, not the polite titter or snicker of a subaltern, but a belly-wrencher, right from the gut. “Come on, Tony. This guy’s so greasy you don’t want your name on the same piece of paper with his. Do me a favor-save the prominent-citizen crap for the newspapers and the jury.”
He abandons the civics lesson. He gives up a good-natured laugh. He is in shirtsleeves, and so the roll of flab just under his chest is free to jiggle. Brown is serious.
“Ah, Ron, at least they won’t accuse us of coming to the dim-witted.” The severity begins to crack into an uncomfortable grin around the comers of Brown’s mouth. Fearful that he might miss his cue, he finally issues a grudging chuckle.
“Please, sit down, Paul-please.” Tony gestures toward the chair. “I want to allay your fears of impropriety.” Skarpellos begins to speak in hushed tones. He now asserts control over the meeting. There’s more professionalism here than I would have credited.
He compliments me for my shrewd perceptions in grasping the magnitude of the matter. He apologizes for the clumsy approach of Brown, who slithers uncomfortably against leather upholstery as his boss makes amends for him. Tony tells me there is little wonder that Ben thought so highly of me, and engages the art of self-deprecation conceding the obvious-that he’s not the world’s greatest gift to the trial bar, that his talents lie in what he calls “business.” There’s a warm paternal smile here. He couples his hands on the desk like some rural preacher about to counsel one of his flock.
“This case, this client, is very important,” says Skarpellos. “I doubt if you will ever fully understand the significance of the matter.”
“Humor me.”
“Irrespective of anything you may think of me, I want you to understand that I-that this firm-would never ask you to engage in anything improper or unethical.” There’s a sober and stern pause as if to emphasize the genuine nature of this guarantee.
“If your client is immunized and threatened with contempt, we understand that your counsel to her must advise the course that is in her best interest. There will be no offer of compensation for her silence-not from me, not from Potter, Skarpellos. Still, we want you and your client to know that should she choose not to testify, to assert her Fifth Amendment right, we will defray all legal expenses that might be occasioned by that decision. Our client has instructed me to offer to pay Ms. Hawley’s full defense fees, compensation that will be paid up to the limits of this firm’s usual fees-$250 per hour for preparation, $300 an hour for all time spent in court.”
“Who’s your man?” I ask Skarpellos.
“We can’t tell you that,” says Brown.
“Confidences. You understand.” Skarpellos looks at me, another broad grin.
“Well?” Brown is leaning forward in his chair. “What’s your answer?”
For Ron Brown it’s an easy question, as is any other that weighs an ethical indiscretion against the offer of certain opportunity.
“The question is not for me. It’s for my client. I’ll talk to her. Nothing more. I’m duty bound to convey your offer. You’ll have your answer in a few days. But you should understand. I will make no recommendation to her on this. It’s her decision and hers alone.”
There’s an immediate smile, an expression of relief from Skarpellos. “I knew we could count on you. Ben always said you were one of the most promising finds in this town. A real diamond in the rough.”
I know that these are not the words of Ben Potter. My eyes fix on the bank of windows behind Skarpellos and the rippled edges of earth that is the High Sierra a hundred miles to the east. And I remember one of Ben’s homilies. “You know,” he said, “the trouble most people have with resisting temptation is that they never really want to discourage it completely.”
CHAPTER 11
I sit nursing a drink, the ice cubes melting slowly in the tea-colored slush at the bottom of my glass. Topper’s is filling up fast. The usual crowd of half-swacked lawyers and lobbyists exchanging war stories are working up calluses on the undersides of their bellies as they press against the bar. The din of voices builds to a climax and erupts in laughter as a group at the far end of the room competes for bragging rights.
Two women in short, tight skirts and sequined tops struggle to look sedate, propped on bar stools as they spend the early shift waiting for legislators to finish up their afternoon session at the capitol a block away.
I’d been introduced to Topper’s by Ben. It was a hangout for the capitol crowd, a few lawyers, but mostly lobbyists, heavy drinkers with much time on their hands for professional socializing. I’ve selected Topper’s instead of the more familiar Cloakroom for this meeting, in hopes that we will not be interrupted.
I watch as Leo Kerns makes his way around the tables, that red cherub’s face grinning at me as he approaches at full waddle. Leo is one of those small balls of energy who look like they’ve been poured into a wrinkled suit. The collar of his white dress shirt is open, the knot of his tie rests halfway down his chest, where the outward slope of his stomach starts.
“Leo, I’m glad you could make it.”
He sticks out a beefy hand, and I take it. Before he’s even seated, his eyes begin a frantic search for the cocktail waitress. In mid-gawk his gaze settles on one of the bimbos at the bar. “I’m in love,” he says. This is Leo Kerns, hopelessly out of date, tasteless. The only glad-handing cop I know. I’ve often mused over the idea that he missed his calling, for Leo is the best salesman I’ve ever met. In the office he’s constantly on call to perform that ritual of every jailhouse, cast in the role of good cop versus bad in interrogations. This disarming fat little man with the cherubic smile has done his part for prison overcrowding. He nourishes the natural desire of suspects to converse with a friendly face, to unburden themselves of gnawing secrets at a troubling time, on an understanding shoulder, to a sympathetic ear.
Here Leo’s in all his glory. Topper’s is a cut above the Cloakroom, the bar across from the courthouse that’s become an institution for the legal fraternity and some of the cops. Here the hookers aren’t quite so brazen about showing their wares. And what they’re showing isn’t quite so worn.
“So whadda you wanna talk about that it was so important we couldn’t discuss it on the phone?” He says it with distraction. Leo’s holding up two fingers in a loose victory sign hailing the waitress. He orders a double bourbon and water.
I dodge his question with a few pleasantries in hopes that his drink will come quickly. Some liquid distraction to match the visual diversions while I pump him for information.
Kerns drops himself, all five feet, three inches, into the chair on the other side of the table and almost disappears into the abyss. I’ve often wondered, but never lacked sufficient taste to ask, how Leo skirted the height requirement in order to be hired as an investigator with the DA. He stood out like the village elf whenever there was a gathering of the office staff. But whatever he lacked in stature he made up for with his Irish version of chutzpah and that deadly, disarming manner.
“How are they treating you, Leo?”
“I could complain, but it wouldn’t do any good.”
I’m trying to ease into it without being too obvious, the matter of Ben’s case and the turns the investigation is taking. I prepare to put on the preliminary bout first, a little distractor. Rumors are rife that the DA is closing in on a major political scandal. Hawley’s “boink book,” I think, the list of names Lama is trying to get from my client.
Leo and I reminisce; he talks about Nelson the DA. “What an asshole,” he says. Seems Nelson’s been on the warpath since one of the investigators got caught living in the backseat of a county-assigned car, parked overnight in one of the more swank parts of the city. “Guy had a little trouble with his landlord, so he moved out. Couldn’t come up with the advance rent and security deposit for a new place,” says Leo, “so he batched it in the backseat of his car. He was showering at the ‘ Y’ and using the John at a local gas station, doin’ meals on a hibachi strapped to the front bumper-can you believe it? Some citizen saw the government plates on the car and complained.” Leo laughs. “That sonofabitch Nelson’s now forcin’ us to turn the cars in to the county lot every night.”