During an hour-long telephone conversation I have explained this to her in crystalline terms comprehensible to Quasimodo, all to a chorus of “No way, Jose,” and expletives that do not bear repeating. While immunity, in this case, will mean that she goes free, apparently this scenario crimps certain commercial interests. It seems there is an ethic, even among the fishnet-stocking set. Dates who fink on their johns, at least in the rarefied political circles frequented by Susan Hawley, are blackballed for life.
“They may as well publish my name on the list of AIDS victims,” she tells me.
Susan Hawley is convinced that if she talks, she will be relegated to hawking her wares in the backseats of cars or with her skirt hoisted in dark alleys.
I have been careful to avoid any conversation with Hawley regarding her alibi for Skarpellos. On this I have a serious conflict of interest. Harry and I have erected what is known in the law as a quick “Chinese wall.” Since learning of her alibi for the Greek I have kept Harry, to the extent possible, in the dark on my dealings with Hawley, any information regarding her past life that she has confided to me during my defense of her. It will be left to Harry to deal with Hawley as a witness if she is called. He will have to impeach her, destroy her credibility with the jury. I will make a full disclosure to the court regarding my legal representation of this woman and excuse myself from any participation in questioning her. It is a questionable remedy, but one I think the court will be compelled to accept.
In adamant terms, she has told me she will not testify; her final words before hanging up are still in my ear: “They will have to find me first.” In the last hour I’ve come to wonder if I’m included in the plural pronoun. Successive telephone calls to her apartment by Dee have gone unanswered.
“This is not what I need,” I tell Harry.
“Substitute out,” he says. Harry is referring to the process that permits a lawyer upon proper notice to withdraw from a case.
“Fat chance,” I say. If the lady doesn’t appear come showtime, I know that the judge will be making probing inquiries as to her whereabouts, starting with me.
For the moment I have to shelve my concerns about Susan Hawley. Delia Barns has arrived, ushered into my office by Dee.
Delia is a certified shorthand reporter I use regularly for depositions. She is here at my request to take a sworn statement from Tony Skarpellos.
Nelson’s eleventh-hour disclosure from Skarpellos as a possible key witness in the state’s case leaves me little time to assess the potential damage of Tony’s testimony. I’ve asked the court for some leeway, a little special process because of this surprise. Acosta has ordered that I may take a sworn statement from Skarpellos. Normally this is not allowed, unless there is reason to believe that a witness may not be available at trial, somebody on his deathbed.
But I want to catch the Greek before he senses where I am headed with my defense. If we wait until trial I’m afraid his Mediterranean temper will cause him to embellish upon whatever evidence he claims to have. It would be like the Greek to add a few fictional flourishes to his story, a parting shot once he knows I’ve discovered his fight with Ben, that I know about Ben’s threat to go to the state bar.
We pass time, a little courthouse gossip, as Delia sets up her machine and feeds in a narrow stack of fan-folded paper for her stenographic notes. I offer her coffee. She declines, and we run dry of conversational items.
A few minutes later Nelson arrives. I have noticed him for this statement. He is here to protect his interests, to ensure that I don’t put words in the mouth of his witness.
“Where’s Mr. Skarpellos?” he says.
I tell him that he’s apparently not used to dealing with Tony.
He shakes his head, a little curious at my comment.
“Tony’s life is a chronicle of wasted time,” I tell him, “other people’s.” It’s true. It’s Skarpellos’s way of enforcing the social pecking order. He would make the pope wait.
Delia’s beginning to fume. She’s watching the clock. Court reporters are paid a per diem by the half-day, the good ones making more than the lawyers who hire them. But Delia doesn’t like downtime. There are too many notes awaiting transcription back in the office.
The Greek is now forty minutes late. The silence is heavy in my office.
Finally I hear voices in the outer reception area, Tony’s hearty bluster, partying with Dee. We wait. He doesn’t enter. There are a few high giggles. It seems Dee is busy being entertained. Nelson’s looking at me, as if to ask who’s running this circus. I’m about to get up and chew some ass, when finally Dee tears herself away.
“They’re all waiting for you in the office. This way,” she says, as if he could get lost between her desk and the door.
Dee announces him, then is gone, like a shadow at dusk. I call her back in to see if anybody wants coffee. She informs me that we’re out. Seems Dee has forgotten to order from the coffee service. I’d send her out, to the deli across the street, but knowing Dee I wouldn’t see her for days.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Why don’t you cover the phone.”
Tony’s shaking hands all around, like some glad-handing union president. His smile is broad, mendacious. There’s not the slightest apology for keeping us waiting, no sheepishness for his last-minute role in the state’s case, this despite the fact of his firm’s early association in Talia’s defense, something I intend to probe him about.
We get through the introductions. Tony stands looking down at the hard wooden chair I’ve placed in front of my desk, catercorner to the reporter and her little machine.
“The hot seat?” He looks at me. “You might take a little pity on an old man with hemorrhoids,” he says.
“I thought they were knowledge bumps,” I tell him.
There are a few chuckles at Tony’s expense.
Nelson is on his feet. He’d like a minute or two outside alone with his witness.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll have my secretary powder her nose.” This is one of the few things Dee does well.
It takes several minutes, the conference between Nelson and Skarpellos. When they return, Tony has all the appearances of a trip to the woodshed. The levity has been sucked from his sails.
He takes the empty chair.
“Are we ready?” I ask.
“We’re ready,” says Nelson.
He opens a notebook on his lap and leans forward. Harry will be penning our notes, which we will use until the certified transcript is returned.
I open the record, stating my name and the date, location, and purpose of the meeting. I identify those in attendance, except for Skarpellos, whom I ask to identify himself and spell his last name for the record. We move quickly through the initial background information, the fact that Tony and Ben were partners, setting the stage, the history of their relationship.
Nelson sits silently jotting a few notes. It is unlikely that he will ask any questions of his own, except to undo damage. He has access to the witness whenever he wants and would not wish to open an issue we have not thought of.
“Mr. Skarpellos, how is it that you came to be identified as a witness by the state in this case?”
He looks at Nelson, as if to get clearance.
“The police asked me questions,” he says. “I have to answer.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, like “What’s a guy gonna do?”
“And when did they ask you these questions?”
“Oh gee, let me think,” he says, like this is lost in antiquity. “Sometime after Ben was killed.”
I look at Nelson, who smiles at the obvious.
“How long after Ben was killed?”
“Let me think.”
“Maybe I can help,” says Nelson. “Mr. Skarpellos was told of the victim’s death the following day. Then we interviewed Mr. Skarpellos on October twenty-seventh, a week after the murder, the death of Mr. Potter. There was another interview, three weeks ago.”