"The who and the what over the which? Talk English." A more sensible reporter asked, "Do you think Alphonse Ferragamo is pursuing a personal vendetta against you?"
Frank lit up a big cigar, Monte Cristo number four. "Nah. People lie to him about me, and he's got to follow up. He's my good goombah." Everyone laughed. "You happy to be free this morning, Frank?"
He puffed on his stogie. "I gotta tell ya, I had the worst breakfast of my life in there. That's what I call cruel and unusual punishment." That got a good laugh, and as it became obvious that Mr Bellarosa was not going to make any newsworthy statements, the emphasis shifted to the entertainment value of the story. Frank was good entertainment. Someone asked him, "How much did that suit cost you, Frank?"
"Peanuts. I go to a little guy on Mott Street. I don't pay uptown prices. You could use a good tailor yourself, Ralph."
So the don held court for a few minutes as we made our way down the forty-six steps toward the street, surrounded by about fifty members of the press, including cameramen and photographers. Worse, a crowd of several hundred onlookers had materialized. It doesn't take much to draw a crowd in New York. I was not being completely ignored, of course, and reporters who couldn't get the don's attention were settling for me, but I was just reciting my mantra, which was, "No comment, no comment, no comment." We were near the bottom of the steps, but the crowd around us was so thick now, I couldn't see any way to get to the street where Lenny was supposed to meet us with the car.
A reporter asked me, "How much does five million dollars weigh?" It seemed silly to say 'No comment' to a silly question, so I replied, "It was heavy enough for me to think that it was excessive bail." Well, you should never encourage these people, and by answering one question I opened myself up for a lot of attention. I was really getting grilled now, and I glanced at Bellarosa, who gave me a look of caution through his cigar smoke. "Mr Sutter," asked a newspaper reporter, "you said in court that you were delayed by four cars on your way here. How did they delay you?" "No comment."
"Did they cut you off?"
"No comment."
"Do you really think those cars were driven by people from Alphonse Ferragamo's office?"
"No comment."
And so it went. I seemed to have a permanent microphone under my nose now, recording my 'no comment' for posterity. I spotted the Cadillac parked illegally in the square about fifty yards away, with Lenny behind the wheel. Then I noticed Vinnie approaching the courthouse with two patrolmen in tow. Meanwhile, the press were really getting on my nerves. I glanced again at my client and saw that he was still smiling, still puffing away, and still at ease despite being surrounded by aggressive A-type personalities. But though he was at ease, Bellarosa did not have the reputation of being a publicity hound. He could handle it, but he did not seek it out as did some of his predecessors, certain of whom were – partly as a result of their fondness for talking too much to the press – dead.
A particularly persistent and pesky female reporter, whom I recognized from one of the TV networks, was bugging me about the alibi. She asked me, "Are you certain it was Frank Bellarosa you saw?"
"No comment."
"You mean you're not sure it was Frank Bellarosa."
"No comment."
"But you said it was Frank Bellarosa."
And on and on she went, as if we were married or something. "Mr Sutter," she said very snottily, "Mr Ferragamo has five witnesses who put Frank Bellarosa at the scene of the murder. Are you saying they're all liars? Or are you the liar?" It must have been the heat, and I guess my own state of mind, or maybe that woman's tone of voice finally got to me. Anyway, I snapped back, "Ferragamo's witnesses are liars, and he knows they are liars. This whole thing is a frame-up, a personal vendetta against my client, and an attempt to start trouble between-" I got my mouth under control, then glanced at Bellarosa, who touched his index finger to his lips.
"Trouble between who? Rival mobs?"
Someone else, a Mafia groupie or something, asked, "Trouble with his own mob?
Trouble with his underboss? With Sally Da-da?"
Mafia politics were not my strong point, but obviously the initiated knew all sorts of underworld gossip and they thought I did, too. "Trouble with who?" asked someone else. "With the Colombian drug kings? With Juan Carranza's friends?"
"Is it true that the Mafia is trying to push out the Colombians?" "Mr Sutter, did you say in court that Alphonse Ferragamo ordered people to run you off the road?"
I thought someone already asked that question.
"Mr Sutter, are you saying that the U.S. Attorney is framing your client?" Mr Sutter, blah, blah, blah. I had this image of the television set over the bar at The Creek. I wonder if people really do look heavier on TV. I hope not. I could hear my pals now. "Look at him." "He's getting fat." "He's sweating like a pig." "His tie is crooked." "How much is he getting paid for that?" "His father must be rolling over in his grave." My father is actually alive and well in Europe.
Finally, the two cops, with Vinnie encouraging them on, got through to us. Frank bid the press fond adieu, waved, smiled, and followed Vinnie and the two cops through the throng with me bringing up the rear. We got out to the street, and Lenny inched the car closer through the onlookers. I was annoyed that the government could set the stage for a media circus, then not provide crowd control. Actually, I never realized how many annoying things the government did. Vinnie got to the Cadillac and opened the rear door. Bellarosa ducked inside, and one of the cops said, "Take it easy, Frank."
Bellarosa said to the two cops, "Thanks, boys. I owe you one." Meanwhile, I can't even get a cop to interpret complex and contradictory parking signs for me. But that was yesterday. Today, the cop near the open car door touched his cap as I slid in beside the don. What a screwy country. Vinnie had jumped into the passenger's seat up front, and Lenny pulled away, moving slowly until he was clear of the crowd, then he gassed it. We headed downtown, then Lenny swung west toward the World Trade Center, then downtown again to Wall Street. Obviously, he was trying to lose anyone who might be following.
We passed my office building, the J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and though I was still supposed to work there, I felt a sudden nostalgia for the old place.
We drove around for a while, no one saying much, except that Vinnie and Lenny were congratulating the don ad nauseam about his great escape, as though he had something to do with it. I really detest flunkies.
Bellarosa said very little in return, but at one point he leaned over to me.
"You did real good, Counsellor. Right up until the end there."
I didn't reply.
He continued, "You got to be careful what you say to the press. They twist things around."
I nodded.
He went on, "The press ain't lookin' for facts. They think they are, but they want a good story. Sometimes a good story has no facts. Sometimes it's funny. They think this stuff is all funny. This stuff with the Mafia and all. The big Cadillacs, the cigars, the fancy suits. Somehow they think this is all funny. Capisce? That's okay. That's better than them thinking it's not funny. So you keep it funny. You give them funny stuff. You're a funny guy. So lighten up. Make it all sound funny, like it's a big joke. Understand?"
"Capisco."
"Yeah. You did fine with that lady judge. Alphonse fucked himself up. He talks too much. Every time he opens his mouth, somebody wants to put their fist in it. He's pissed off now, but he's gonna be a lot more pissed off when the press starts asking him about the car bullshit this morning and the frame-up thing. You didn't have to say all that shit. You know?"
"Frank, if you don't like the way-"
He patted my knee. "Hey, you did okay. Just a few points I gotta make so you know. Okay? Hey, I walked. Right?"
"Right."
We kept driving around lower Manhattan. Frank ordered Lenny to pull over at a newsstand, and Vinnie got out and bought the Post for Frank, the Wall Street Journal for me, and some medical journals for himself, mostly gynaecology and proctology. Lenny shared the journals with Vinnie at stoplights. I like to see people try to improve their minds.