Текст книги "Privileged Lives"

Автор книги: Edward Stewart

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

Babe considered the implications of this. “You mean you hired lawyers and detectives to help the prosecution?”

“To help you,” Lucia said. “You’re our only child. What if we had lost you?”

“But I’m not a child and the only people who’ve lost anything through all your helpfulness are Scottie and me.”

“Child, child,” Lucia said in a voice Babe remembered from long ago, the voice that was at once soothing and subtly undermining.

“Scottie was charged and convicted,” Hadley said.

“Then why isn’t he in prison?” Babe shot back.

“He appealed on a technicality,” Bill Frothingham said. “The court allowed him to plead guilty to a reduced charge of reckless endangerment.”

“It would have been negligent homicide had you died,” Lucia said.

Babe’s voice rose a little. “What was the technicality?”

“Evidence was improperly introduced in the first trial,” Bill Frothingham said. “It was disallowed in the second.”

“They couldn’t very well convict without the evidence.” Lucia’s tone made it clear she considered this unjust.

“What evidence?” Babe demanded, angry at her mounting sense that she was not being told the whole truth.

More looks were exchanged. The room seemed awash in shadows and denial.

“The syringe,” Hadley said.

“Scottie did it for money,” Lucia said. “He wanted your fortune and he wanted to live with that horrid Doria Forbes-Steinman woman.”

“I can see by Babe’s face she doesn’t believe a word of this,” Hadley said. “It’s all coming at you too quickly, isn’t it, kid.”

Lucia sat there cool, unmoved. “If she doesn’t believe us perhaps she’ll believe The New York Times.”

Lucia went into the other room and returned with an armload of newspapers. She placed them in Babe’s lap.

Slowly, Babe read an article in one of the seven-year-old late city editions. It soberly set out the details of Scott Devens’s arraignment for attempted murder.

“How handsome he is,” Babe said, “even in this terrible photograph.”

“I never liked Scottie,” Lucia said. “I never pretended to. Your papa never liked Scottie. The only people who liked him were your café society friends, and that was only because he played Gershwin so divinely on the piano. Playing Gershwin is hardly a reason to marry a man you know nothing about.”

“It wasn’t just those people who liked him,” Babe said. “I liked him too.”

“Naturally you liked him,” Lucia said, impatient now.

“And Papa liked him too.”

“He did play a good game of golf,” Hadley said.

“Your papa does not like Scottie now,” Lucia said. “No one likes him except Doria Forbes-Steinman, and she’s a fool.”

“Maybe not such a fool,” Babe said.

“Not such a fool as you, perhaps.”

Babe skimmed news reports of Scottie’s denials, his appeal, his second hearing before Judge Francis Davenport, and his subsequent confession to reckless endangerment.

“Frank Davenport heard the appeal?” Babe said. “How was that possible? Didn’t they know he’s a friend of yours?”

“He’s not a friend anymore,” Lucia said. “Two months, can you imagine? A man tries to murder another human being and after two months they let him out of prison. You’d have thought, after all we’d done for him, Francis Davenport could have arranged a little bit more for us. But Francis said the law’s the law, foolish and unjust as it is. I say Francis Davenport is Francis Davenport, foolish and unjust as he is. You really can’t count on friends anymore: you can’t count on anything except family. Thank God we’ve still got family.”

“It’s unbelievable,” Babe said. “Frank Davenport should have been barred from trying the case.”

“Babe, please just read this.” Bill Frothingham handed her another document.

Babe studied the yellowed Xerox. It was Scott Devens’s signed confession that he did recklessly, willfully, and knowingly endanger the life of Beatrice Vanderwalk Devens by not calling for assistance when I knew she was in proximate danger of death.

“He didn’t confess to injecting me.”

“It was a plea bargain,” Bill Frothingham said. “His lawyer wasn’t going to let him admit to a potentially capital offense.”

“But there was a witness, and there was evidence,” Lucia said.

“What witness, what evidence?” Babe cried. “You told me the syringe was disallowed.”

“On a sleazy technicality.”

“Then who was the witness?” Babe said. “There’s no mention of any witness in these newspapers.”

“I didn’t give you all the papers.”

“I’m not a child! I want to know and I have a right to know. This is my life, my marriage!”

“Scottie’s admission to the lesser charge,” Bill Frothingham said gently, “was tantamount to a confession of attempted murder. The word knowingly is a diplomatic way of saying he knew there was insulin in your blood.”

“And willfully,” Lucia said, “means he put it there. And if it hadn’t been for that dreadful Ted Morgenstern the syringe would have been admitted into evidence. Anyone Morgenstern defends is guilty. Everybody knows that. Why else do you think Scottie went to him?”

“Who was the witness against Scottie?” Babe said.

In the silence that fell, distant sounds came to Babe distinctly and with remembered meaning: the summer breeze softly rustling the curtains, the wood beams of the house creaking with obscure strain, the hum of the elevator.

“You don’t need another shock,” Lucia said.

“You think one more is going to finish me off? How you’ve changed in seven years, Mama—and you too, Papa, sitting there afraid to say a word without her permission. You weren’t afraid to tell me not to marry Scottie. You weren’t afraid to hire detectives to dig up his past. You weren’t afraid to tell me everything sordid and disagreeable you could unearth about my first husband. Where was all your concern then? Why are you so worried about my feelings now?”

“Because you’re ranting and hysterical,” Lucia said.

“Maybe I’ll stop ranting when you tell me who testified against Scottie.”

In the silence a new voice spoke.

“Why not tell her? It’s not a secret, is it?”

A young woman with blond hair stood in the doorway.

“Cordelia,” Lucia said.

Cordelia was wearing green suede boots and jeans and a lace blouse, and an amethyst necklace. Cordelia crossed to Babe’s wheelchair and kissed her mother on the forehead.

“Hello, Mother, you’re looking well. I was supposed to be part of the welcome home committee but the traffic in from the island was terrible.” Cordelia went to the sideboard and foraged among bottles. “Who drank the mandarine?”

“There’s poire,” Lucia said.

“Poire’s for after dinner.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“Didn’t have a chance. Marshall Tavistock’s plane broke down. Anyone mind if I finish the Fernet-Branca?”

“I was telling your mother,” Lucia said, “that you don’t live here anymore.”

“Haven’t for years. Are you going to sell the place, Mother? You really should.”

“I like the peace here,” Babe said. “And the view.”

Cordelia dropped into a chair covered in glazed blue chintz and swirled her glass, studying the waves in her aperitif. “The Argentinian ambassador to the U.N. would buy in a minute.”

“I’m not selling.”

“It’s awfully big for one person,” Cordelia said.

“Maybe you’ll want to move back,” Babe said.

“Doubt it.”

There was a silence, and Babe said, “I hear you have a beautiful loft. I’d like to see it.”

“When you graduate to crutches you can. The elevator’s not working.”

“That elevator will be repaired long before your mother’s on crutches,” Lucia said.

“I don’t know. Mother’s moving awfully fast.” Cordelia smiled. “I see you’ve been reading old newspapers. Am I in any of them?”

“No,” Babe said. “You’re not in any of these.”

Cordelia’s glance went coolly around the room. “Who’s going to tell Mother? No one? Bill, is your drink all right? Grandpère, Grandmère, your drinks?”

“We’re fine,” Hadley said.

“The sooner we get it into the open,” Cordelia said, “the sooner we’ll never have to talk about it again.”

“Agreed,” Hadley said.

“Cordelia—” Lucia said, a warning in her voice.

“Really, Grandmère, why should Mother have to get it from the public library? She might as well know what everyone else knows. Sooner or later someone is bound to tell her anyway.”

“Let it be later,” Lucia said.

“No,” Babe said. “Now.”

“I agree with Mother,” Cordelia said. Her eyes met Babe’s. “It was me, Mother. I testified against Scottie at the first trial.”

For a long moment Babe couldn’t react, couldn’t believe it. Refusal welled up in her. “But you were only twelve.”

“I suppose that’s why no one believed me.”

“They believed you,” Lucia said.

“Well, it didn’t stick, did it.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Anyway, now Mother knows and we don’t need to discuss it, do we? Unless Mother wants a discussion.”

“I don’t understand.” Babe’s voice faltered. She made a hacking attempt to grasp this, to understand. “Cordelia … saw Scottie …?”

“I saw him come out of the bedroom with the syringe. That famous syringe. I hope they’ve got it in a museum somewhere.”

“You saw him?” Babe tried to gain some particle of comprehension. “But you were—so young, so little.”

“Being twelve doesn’t mean I was blind—or a dolt.”

Babe shook her head slowly. “I don’t see how … I just don’t see …” She fought for some sense of direction.

“Mother, this could get very boring. Everyone in this room except you has heard this cross-examination nine hundred times before.”

Babe couldn’t move. She needed something to point her feelings at and it wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Mother. Truly I am. How did we get onto this subject anyway?”

“It’s all because your mother doesn’t want to sign the divorce petition,” Lucia said.

“Yours and Papa’s divorce petition,” Babe said.

“Is Grandpère divorcing you, Grandmère? How adventurous for you both.”

“Please, Cordelia,” Lucia said. “We’re discussing something serious.”

“Why doesn’t everybody just lighten up,” Cordelia said. “This room is a morgue.”

“If Beatrice would sign the petition,” Lucia said, “she’d certainly lighten up Bill’s workload—only Bill’s too much a gentleman to say so.”

“I can’t sign something I don’t understand,” Babe said.

“You understand perfectly well,” Lucia said. “You just don’t want to admit you made a mistake marrying that man.”

“You’re right,” Babe said. “Because I don’t believe I did make a mistake. And I won’t believe it till I hear it from Scottie’s own lips.”

“Babe,” Hadley said gently, “just what do you expect Scottie to tell you?”

“He can tell me he tried to kill me.”

“He’s not going to tell anyone that,” Lucia said. “Not now when he’s off scot-free.”

“Then at least he can tell me face-to-face he wants a divorce. He can meet me in Bill’s office—and he can bring his attorney if he’s scared of incriminating himself. But unless you produce my husband, and unless he tells me this petition is his doing and his desire, I’ll …”

The air in the room was suddenly a wall of ice.

“You’ll what?” Lucia said.

“I’ll contest this divorce.”

24

MONDAY EVENING CARDOZO DROVE OVER to Beaux Arts Tower. Hector Dominguez was lounging against a pillar in the lobby. His belly was getting big for his green jacket.

Cardozo motioned him to the side of the lobby. Hector hesitated before stepping away from the door.

“I can’t get your cat out of my mind, Hector. I hate to see an animal falsely accused.”

“What was the cat’s name?” Cardozo asked.

“Estrellita.”

Cardozo took Hector’s arm, holding him back lightly. “We know about both your jobs. You’ve been dealing dope in this building. We know who your customers are and we know who your supplier is.”

Hector’s soft red face flared into a hard red face. “Bullshit.”

“Relax, Hector. We’re not interested in the dope. On Saturday the twenty-fourth you sold Debbi Hightower’s coke to someone else. Who was the other customer?”

Hector’s blink rate began edging up. “What customer? I’m a doorman.”

“Someone came into this building that you haven’t told us about and you sold them a gram.”

Hector looked at him. A thick knotty artery pulsed in his temple. “You’re crazy.”

“I need the name, Hector.”

“I ain’t got no name.”

“You withhold evidence, Hector, and I promise you, I will get angry about the coke.”

“That Hightower, she’s a coked-up whore. She’d say anything to save her skin. I’m a family man, I’m not going to get dragged into this. You want to accuse, talk to my lawyer.”

“I’m going to keep it one on one for the time being. Let’s take a walk. I’m parked by the hydrant down at the end of the block.”

Hector took a sidelong glance at Cardozo. “Man, you gotta be kidding.”

“No kidding, Hector. I need some answers from you and I can see this isn’t the right atmosphere.”

“I’m working, man.”

“So am I, man, and you call me Lieutenant, okay?”

Cardozo motioned his guest to a straight-backed chair, keeping the swivel chair for himself. He started off nice-guy. Standard operating procedure.

“Smoke if you want to,” he offered.

Hector took a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt and lit one. Cardozo pushed the ashtray across the desk.

“Truth time, Hector. Who bought the gram?”

“You got the wrong guy.”

Cardozo picked up a handful of paper from the desk. He began leafing through the latest interdepartmental memos. Ten minutes went by. He looked up.

Hector was showing no agitation except for the way he stubbed out one cigarette before lighting the next.

“Why are you shielding them, Hector? Who’d you sell Debbi Hightower’s gram to?”

There was no ventilation in the cubicle. Hector’s brown eyes squinted against the smoke of his cigarette.

Cardozo leaned forward and bent the neck of the desk lamp up. The reflector aimed the full glare of the hundred-watt bulb straight into Hector’s face.

Hector didn’t wince or blink.

“We have photos, Hector. Pictures of your distributor making the drop. Pictures of you dealing.”

“This is bullshit. I want to talk to my lawyer.”

“All I need is a name, Hector. And then you walk out of here.”

“I don’t know any fucking name.” Hector’s voice was sliding up into a whine. “I didn’t sell any fucking gram, I don’t deal coke. Hightower’s lying.”

Cardozo went back to his reading.

In fifteen minutes Hector said, “Can you move the light? It’s in my eyes.”

Cardozo slammed a fist down onto the desktop. The lamp jumped and Hector started two inches out of his chair.

“Tell me the name!” Cardozo shouted. “Come on, you stupid Spic meathead! Stop wasting my time!”

Cardozo yanked Hector’s right arm up behind his back and marched him out into the squad room.

“Hey, man, you’re hurting me.”

Cardozo pushed Hector over to the duty desk. Sergeant Goldberg looked up. “Need some help, Vince?”

“Yeah—cuff this scum and put him in the cage.”

This was pure police theater. The law said suspects could not be caged without being arrested, and most suspects knew this. But the press published so many horror stories of police brutality that suspects could never be sure the cops would go by the law. The press—by creating uncertainty—helped cops. The scenario was this: Cardozo would go back to his cubicle and Goldberg would say to Hector, “You look like a good guy to me, I’m not going to cuff you or cage you.” And Hector would sit there staring at that empty cage, believing it was only Sergeant Goldberg’s good heart that was keeping him out of it and knowing that a good heart, like patience, could wear out.

Cardozo shut his door and spent the next hour reviewing van photos of the ins and outs at the Inferno.

Details nudged his attention. This man’s hat, that woman’s bracelet. He was surprised by the number of limos with black windows, lined up outside the warehouse like a cortege heading for a burial in Queens.

He compared Inferno and Beaux Arts photos, noting in the log that the comparison had been made and that the match was negative.

A voice cut into his concentration.

“I want to talk to my client.”

Cardozo swiveled around, flicking on the desk lamp.

Ray Kane was wearing a madras jacket and green trousers. He carried a tan raincoat over one arm.

“Which client is that, Counselor?”

“Hector Dominguez.”

“Does Hector know he’s your client?”

“I’m his attorney of record in a matter still pending before the third circuit.”

“What matter is that?”

“I don’t have to disclose that.”

Cardozo drew himself together and stood. “Dominguez has no right to counsel till he’s charged. The law gives us eight hours to detain him.”

“You’ve used up three of them.”

“And I’ll use up another five.”

“Lieutenant, you have no probable cause.”

“I have plenty of probable cause.”

“I’d like to hear what it is.”

“The fact that a man of your distinction, an associate of Ted Morgenstern, is representing a lowly doorman.”

They stared at one another, each holding the other in the icy challenge of his gaze.

“You move Mr. Dominguez to arraignment in half an hour or I’m bringing habeas corpus.” Kane turned and with a waddling stride marched from the room.

Cardozo found Assistant District Attorney Lucinda MacGill working night shift in the second-story squad room.

“I’m holding a man called Dominguez,” he said. “I don’t want to charge him, but he has information in a murder. Is he entitled to counsel?”

“Since this is a capital charge, it would be advisable.” She leaned forward to lift her coffee cup from the desk, and fluorescence from the overhead lights flashed in her hair. “If you deny him counsel but don’t charge him, you’re in a gray area.”

“Gray I can live with.” Cardozo placed both hands on the desk edge. “An eager beaver from Ted Morgenstern’s firm is representing Dominguez in a case pending. Can we find out what the charge is?”

MacGill set down her coffee and motioned Cardozo to come with her across the corridor. She went to a computer terminal and punched in data. A moment later the screen came up a field of glowing green type.

“Is that Hector or Hernando Dominguez?” she asked.

“Hector.”

She punched in more data. “Raymond L. Kane the Third is representing Hector C. Dominguez, felony conviction possession of cocaine intent to sell, three-year sentence suspended, Dominguez cooperated with the D.A.”

“Cooperated how?”

“Doesn’t say. He’s released in Kane’s recognizance.”

“So what’s my situation if I don’t let Kane talk to him?”

“Nothing you get from Dominguez can be used to charge or detain him.”

“I’m not interested in Dominguez. Can the information be used against another person?”

“That depends. Does it incriminate Dominguez?”

“Of dope dealing, yes.”

“It’ll be thrown out, violation of Dominguez’s Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate himself.”

“Hector sold a gram of coke to an unknown person in Beaux Arts Tower at two P.M. the day of the killing. I need the customer’s name.”

“You feel this unknown person might be what—a witness to the killing?”

“I feel anyone in that building at that time might be the killer. It has to be checked out.”

“You’re in a bind, Lieutenant. If Dominguez gives you the name and it is the killer, you haven’t gotten that information legally and your investigation is tainted.”

“Once I get that name, I can go for the suspect on other grounds.”

“What grounds?”

“I’ll be in a better position to know that when I have the name.”

“Aren’t you going at this bass-ackwards, Lieutenant?”

“Got a better way to suggest?”

“You have no choice. At this point you have to charge Dominguez with withholding.”

“Why? I can hold him eight hours. The threat of that cage could change his mind. It’s changed other people’s.”

“You realize the odds are very strongly against you.”

“I’ve been on the force twenty-two years. I’m immune to the odds by now.”

He met her eyes. They were deep green and speculative, and he knew the thing they were speculating about was Vince Cardozo.

“Maybe you don’t remember who’s on night court,” she said. “Judge Joseph Martinez.”

Martinez, one of seven Hispanic judges in New York County, claimed that city police discriminated against Hispanics. Waging a one-man campaign to redress the wrong, he routinely dismissed all but the most heinous charges against Hispanics, and when he did not dismiss, he set ludicrously low bail. Cops had nicknamed him Let-’em-Go Joe; prosecutors had attempted through three city administrations to unseat him. He had the mayor’s protection because he delivered the Hispanic vote.

“Unless you charge Dominguez,” MacGill said, “Martinez will grant habeas.”

“If I charge Dominguez he has a right to talk to Kane and I’ll never get that name.”

“If you don’t charge him, Kane teams up with Martinez and they get you on false arrest. We’re talking about your skin now, Lieutenant.”

Cardozo stared at the green print on the screen. “Okay. Withholding evidence in a felony.”

MacGill rose and approached the bench. Her untroubled gaze met the judge’s. “Your Honor, Hector Dominguez is withholding important evidence in a murder case.”

Judge Martinez had a bored, square-jawed face, silver hair, and a sleepy Pancho Villa moustache. He folded his hands on his breast and closed his eyes.

“I was not informed of my client’s detention,” Ray Kane said. His madras jacket flopped open, exposing a well-rounded swell of shirtfront. “I was denied visitation. Hector Dominguez was not even questioned, but was held incommunicado for four hours. The police are harassing, plainly and simply, and violating my client’s constitutional right to protection against unreasonable search and seizure.”

Judge Martinez opened his eyes. “Counselor Kane, a dull roar will suffice. Is any of this true?” he asked MacGill.

“Your Honor,” Lucinda MacGill said, “the people have probable cause to believe that Hector Dominguez—”

“Your Honor,” Kane interrupted, “Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo had the audacity to call my client a Spic meathead.”

Judge Martinez leaned back wearily in his chair, gazing down into the courtroom, at the benches rustling with handcuffed hookers and pushers, cops, defenders, A.D.A.’s. His eyes found Cardozo and black lightning went out from them.

“I have two grounds for throwing this out. One, Lieutenant Cardozo’s behavior constitutes a prima facie case of police brutality. Two, Mr. Dominguez should have been charged before and not after four hours of detention.”

Not even a ripple disturbed Counselor MacGill’s surface. She had perfect control of her face. “Your Honor, police interrogation would be impossible if every potential or unwilling witness had to be charged before questioning.”

“Tell it to the Supreme Court, Counselor.” Judge Martinez brought his gavel slamming down. “The Spic meathead walks. Next case.”