“We’re glad you were able to come this evening, Victor,” said Prescott. “We wanted to make clear exactly the foundation upon which our defense will rest in the upcoming trial.”
“Politics in America, Victor,” boomed Jimmy Moore. “That’s our defense. You’ve heard the tapes, we can’t deny that we were asking for contributions from that lizard Ruffing, and I wouldn’t if I could. But everything we did was required by our fine political system. Required. Do you understand?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“What is politics in America all about, Victor?” he asked.
I thought for a moment. “The will of the electorate?”
“Money,” he roared. “America is not about power being bestowed by the people, it is about power being grabbed. Grabbed. This country was built with a revolution, created again in a civil war, nothing comes easy or cheap here. American politics is the fairest in the world because the only thing that matters is the money. Hire the consultants, buy the television time, put a bumper sticker on every car, pay off the ward leaders, grab the electorate by its throat with all your money and take the oath of office. That’s the system and that’s damn fine. Any Tom, Dick, or Hanna can hand in a petition, but only the real Joe, can raise the dough. And to stay the real Joe, you better aim every day of your term at getting the contributions for the next election, you better never let down, not for a second. For those who want to support me it is not enough that they clap when I speak, they must give me money when I run. When I was demanding money from Ruffing for my political action committee, for my causes, for my future as a public servant, it was in the great tradition of American politics. All politicians do it, they just cloak it with cocktail parties or fancy dinners. But I cloak nothing. I was demanding money from a supporter because the system I love requires me to do it. And if I was asking a little more forcefully than others, it’s because I have a greater passion for what I’m doing than the others. Do you understand what I’m saying, Victor?”
“Our strategy,” said Prescott, with a pursed, mournful face, as if he were a presidential flack on Nightline, “is to turn this trial of these two public servants into a trial of the American political system and then to make sure the system gets acquitted.”
“You should be focusing on that strategy,” said Moore. “Preparing to build on that foundation. Isn’t that right, Chet?”
“That’s right,” said my client.
“Now we’ve hired a polling service,” said Prescott. “We’ve studied focus groups, examined the demographics. With the right jurors this strategy will prevail. We’re certain.”
“Can I get a copy of that study,” I asked.
Prescott smiled at me, but not his warm smile. “Of course. The key is to gear everything, the jury selection, the arguments, the testimony, everything to our strategy.”
“What about the murder?” I asked.
“Don’t worry yourself about it,” said Moore, reaching for a basket of toasted garlic bread.
“And the arson?”
“Forget it,” said Moore, his mouth now full.
“It’s hard to forget about murder and arson.”
“How’s your makeup doing, Ronnie?” asked Moore.
“Fine, I think,” she said.
“Why don’t you check it?”
She nodded and rose from the table, leaving the room without glancing at me. I couldn’t help but follow her out with my gaze. When I turned back, Moore was staring at me with a frightening ferocity.
“What were you doing at the DA’s office this morning?” he demanded.
I pulled back from the table. Did everyone know where I had been that day, what I had done, whom I had seen, how many times I had hit the pot? “I was looking into the murder,” I said. “Examining the physical evidence.”
“Why didn’t you clear it with Prescott?”
“I didn’t know I had to clear all my trial preparations with Prescott.”
“Tell him, Chet.”
“You have to clear everything with Prescott,” said Concannon.
Without taking his eyes off me, the councilman fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Holding it like a pencil, his lips tight and dangerous, he took a deep drag. “In war you have to pick your battlefields, son,” said Moore, breathing out smoke with his words. “That’s what Lee learned at Gettysburg.” He jabbed his cigarette at me and the syllables of his words came with the precise staccato of gunshots. “Our battlefield is not going to be Bissonette’s murder.”
“The federal indictment,” explained Prescott, with a surfeit of patience in his voice, “covers the crimes of racketeering and extortion. If the murder and the arson are not linked to the request for money, and if the request for money is legal, the federal case will fail.”
“But if Eggert ties the murder into the request for money,” I said, “any claim for legitimacy disappears.”
“He won’t,” said Moore. “Eggert’s so far down the wrong road he might as well be in Vancouver.”
“But you’ve been looking into Bissonette’s murder on your own, Victor,” said Prescott, “conducting an investigation without our knowledge or consent, acting contrary to your client’s express orders. Risking everything.” He looked at me hard so that I knew exactly what he meant, and he meant everything. “So tell us, Victor, what exactly have you uncovered so far?”
“Nothing definite,” I said. “But I have some ideas about who might have killed Bissonette, some theories.”
Moore leaned back and stared at me. “So you have some ideas, do you, Victor?” he said slowly. “Some theories.” There was a silence as he took another drag from the cigarette, all the while staring at me. He spread his arms wide. “Educate us all with your theories.”
“Yes, Victor,” said Prescott, smiling unpleasantly. “Please do.”
I was being threatened and tested at the same time, I thought. They wanted to see what I had figured out, to determine whether I was ready for all they had to offer me. Well, I was ready. I had been so ready for so long.
“They are just theories,” I started, leaning forward as I spoke. “But I wondered why Chuckie Lamb wasn’t indicted. Chet said it was because only Bissonette had direct knowledge of his possible involvement. That would have given Chuckie a motive for getting rid of Bissonette.” I didn’t tell them about the phone call that evening, didn’t want to run to Prescott and Moore like a little boy when the schoolyard bully threatened, but the call had convinced me that I might be on the right line about Chuckie’s motive.
“So Chuckie did it, huh?” said Moore.
“Also, Bissonette was apparently a ladies’ man,” I continued. “Lots of women. Jealousy could have been a motive. I have in mind one man in particular who was being cheated on who is known to be violent.”
“Tell us who?” asked Prescott while Moore continued to stare at me.
“I’d rather not say just yet,” I said, but I, of course, was thinking of my ex-partner, Guthrie. There was no doubt now that it was Lauren Amber Guthrie in the photograph I had picked out at the DA’s office, those bracelets, and somehow Guthrie must have found out about her and Bissonette too. She had said he could become violent with jealousy, but I knew it would have been more than jealousy, it would have been desperation. Lauren was as domestic as a bobcat, but a tidy package came with her, money, status, entree into a world that kept guys like Guthrie and me out just for the pleasure of the blackball. It was one thing to never have a shot at it, that just caused a slow tightening of the stomach, tying you gradually into knots until you resented everything, hated everybody, held malice and bitterness toward all. But to have it in your grasp, in your bed, to have it all and then to see it slip away as your wife threw herself at some broken-down ballplayer with pectorals, well, that was enough to drive a man to murder. It would have been enough to drive me to murder and Guthrie was no better.