“Your Honor,” said Eggert, “Mr. Prescott does not speak on behalf of Mr. Concannon and, with all respect due Mr. Carl,” he glanced at me and his face clearly indicated exactly how little he thought that amounted to, “we don’t want to go through the expense of a trial only to have a conviction overturned somewhere down the line for ineffectiveness of counsel.”
“That’s enough carping, both of you,” said Judge Gimbel. “Mr. Carl, can you be ready in thirteen days?”
“I think so,” I said.
“You only think so?” said the judge. “Mr. Concannon.” Concannon stood again. “Your counsel has just told me he only thinks he’ll be ready for trial in thirteen days but wants to go ahead anyway. What is your opinion of that?”
“We’ll be ready, Your Honor,” said Concannon.
“Why don’t you have a little talk with your attorney before you decide.” The judge waved us to the back of the courtroom. We sat next to each other on the last bench and spoke softly while everyone else waited.
“The judge wants me to explain to you what’s going on,” I said.
“I understand what’s going on,” he said. “They think because I’m black they have to say it twice, like English is my second language. Just do whatever Prescott says.”
“The truth is, Chet,” I said quietly, “Eggert’s right. There’s no way I can go over everything before the trial. There’s too much material.”
“Whatever Prescott says.”
I saw something move to our side and I turned my head quickly. One of the reporters was sneaking up the bench, trying to listen in on our conversation. “Do you mind?” I said loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. The judge stared hard at her as she smiled awkwardly and backed away from us.
“Vultures,” said Concannon, his head hanging low. He didn’t look so assured just then, he looked young and scared and sick of it all.
I looked away, scanned the courtroom, saw the gaggle of Talbott, Kittredge lawyers conversing easily. I swallowed once and said, “The government offered me a deal for you.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “They want me to testify.”
“That’s right. You’d end up with a minimal term. I could probably work out a recommendation for no jail time if I push.”
“They want me to testify against the councilman?”
“Yes.”
“And then what happens to me?”
“Maybe probation for a few years.”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing. You’re off the hook.”
“And then what?” he said. “Don’t you understand, Victor? There is no choice for me here. Before working for the councilman I was sitting on the stoop in my undershirt, buying malt liquor with my mother’s check. For the guys I grew up with that was the ultimate career goal. Occasionally, for a little extra beer money, I would cook up cheese steaks at a place my uncle owns, sweating into the chipped beef as I mixed it with the onions and Cheez Whiz. Two years of Temple University but that was still all the work I could find. I have a record, no worse than anyone else I grew up with, but enough to kill my future. Then comes the councilman, seeking guys with records who had cleaned up their acts, role models for his crusade. And so there I was looking for something and there he was looking for me. He saved me, absolutely. Now I drive around in his limousine and drink champagne every other night and make good money and do good work. And when he becomes mayor I’m going to be his chief of staff. Now what happens if I testify against him?”
“Chet, do you want to go to prison?”
“I’ve been there already and let me tell you, I’d rather sit in prison than on that stoop. You do whatever Prescott tells you to do. I’ll take my chances with the councilman.”
Another lawyer might have decided to withdraw, might have told the judge that despite his client’s wishes he could not be ready, forcing a continuance so that new counsel would have sufficient time to prepare. Another lawyer might have walked away knowing he was acting in the best interests of his client. That is what another lawyer might have done. But it wasn’t another lawyer standing there before prune-faced Judge Gimbel, it was me, with a $15,000 retainer check in my inside jacket pocket and my name on a guest list to a black-tie fund-raiser where I would meet the important people it was so very important for me to know. And somewhere in the uncertain future were newspapers with my picture featured prominently on the front page, adorning articles about this case, and deals in which Prescott had promised to include me, and cases he had promised to refer to me, and gobs of money he had all but guaranteed would be mine. And, yes, somewhere out there in that gray and ugly city was the mysterious Veronica, on whose dress strap I had pinned a single rose and who now had my number on a bent and spindled card.
“We’ll be ready,” I told the judge when Concannon and I had returned from the back of the courtroom.
“Now, Mr. Concannon,” said the judge. “I’m willing to give you a continuance if you ask, but your counsel tells me you don’t want one. Is that correct?”
Concannon stood. “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“So I don’t want to hear from you that your counsel didn’t have enough time to prepare if the verdict goes against you,” said the judge. “You are waiving your right to that claim in any future proceedings, and your right to any other insufficiency of counsel claim. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, sir,” said Concannon.
“Explain it to him anyway, Mr. Carl,” said the judge.
I leaned over and explained it to him as if English was indeed his second language.
“That’s fine with me,” said Concannon.
“You satisfied with that, Mr. Eggert?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Eggert.
“Do us all a favor, Mr. Carl,” said Judge Gimbel, “and stay away from Chinatown until this case is over. October sixth, ten o’clock. Come prepared to pick a jury.”
9
THE PHILADELPHIA MUSEUM OF ART sits aristocratic and brown atop a rise at a bend in the Schuylkill River, spreading its wings to embrace the whole of the city before it. Long flights of stairs rise from a great statue of Washington on horseback to a courtyard fountain, surrounded by columns supporting colorful Greek pediments. It is a grand entrance, made famous by the movies, and the courtyard affords a spectacular view of Philadelphia. At night, with a full moon and the city lights twinkling, if you squint you can imagine yourself someplace exquisite and full of hope, someplace elegant and magical. For me that had always meant someplace else until that evening. That evening the city truly did seem to sparkle like a jewel of promise in the night, a jewel ready to be plucked.
I didn’t have an invitation and so, while gay, formally dressed men and women with haircuts and gleaming teeth flashed their invitations and breezed on by, laughing, I had to wait as the guard at the rear lobby checked for my name on the list.
“Oh, yeah, here you are, Mr. Carl,” said the guard. “But it only says one.”
“There must have been a mistake,” I said in my best Winston Osbourne impression.
“I guess so, Mr. Carl. Go on in and enjoy yourself. You too, ma’am.”
“I suppose men in tuxedos do get more respect,” I said once we got inside.
“Unless they’re mistaken for busboys,” said Beth.
I had brought Beth because I needed company as I brushed shoulders with a crowd two or three classes above me. She would rather have spent the night at Chaucer’s Pub, where the draft beer is Rolling Rock and T-shirts are acceptable, but as a favor to me she had put on her red dress, the tight one, about which she was forever fretting as to whether or not it still fit. It fit tonight. Its smooth curves softened the normal sharpness of her face and she looked almost beautiful. I had always been a little bit in love with Beth. It was never a sexual attraction, really, but there was a power in Beth that I could sense, a sharp integrity. In some strange way I needed her to think I was worthy of her and, to my astonishment, she always had. Beth was my best friend, it was as simple as that. And that night I thought my best friend looked pretty damn good.