“For two-fifty an hour I’d sleep with an orangutan,” I said. “This is only slightly worse.”
“What are you going to do?”
I took the piece of paper from her and read it quickly, eight sentences typed in bold capital letters so that I wouldn’t stumble as I read it to the jury. “What I’m going to do,” I said, “is discuss it with my client and then, Beth dear, I’m going to suck it up.”
“You suck it up any more, Victor, you’re going to start looking like a chipmunk.”
I hadn’t told her about the shattered hatchback window and didn’t intend to, nor about Veronica, nor about Chuckie’s call, nor about Norvel Goodwin, nor about my disastrous poker game. If there was danger to be ducked, it was mine and I would do the ducking. So all I did, as she looked at me with disappointment flashing in her sharp, pretty eyes, was shrug.
When I sat down at the defense table I showed the paper with the eight sentences to Concannon. “Is this what you want me to give as an opening?”
“Is that what Prescott showed me last night?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Is it a problem?”
“It’s a big fat zero,” I said. “It does nothing.”
“The way he explained it to me is that we should make my role in the deal, the arrangements, everything, seem as small as possible.”
“Eggert’s not going to let the jury forget you’re on trial.”
“If that’s what Prescott wants you to give, then give it.”
“You know I checked it out, about Bissonette and Raffaello’s daughter,” I said. “It appears to be on the up.”
“Victor, Victor,” he said, his voice slightly scolding. “You were supposed to stop your interfering.”
“Consider it stopped,” I said just as the door behind the judge’s bench opened and the court clerk stood to start the trial. “From here on in I’m Chuckie Lamb’s mannequin.”
“All rise,” said the clerk as the judge climbed the steps to the bench.
We all rose.
26
“ANY CRIME IS A betrayal of the trust we have in each other, but when it is a public official who commits the crime, an official who asked for our vote and swore an oath to serve the public, the betrayal is particularly cruel.”
Eggert very slowly walked over to the defense table until he was directly opposite the defendants. He was giving his opening to the rapt jurors, his reedy voice rising in indignation. He pointed at Jimmy, his finger close enough to the councilman’s face that Jimmy could have bitten it off if he wanted to, and the moment it flashed there, like a white scimitar, that’s exactly what it looked like Jimmy would do. Then he recovered control and the look of deep sobriety returned. Through it all, his eyes never wavered from Eggert’s; if there was to be a staredown, it would be Eggert who blinked first. In the front row of the public benches, three different artists were furiously sketching the moment, Eggert’s straight back, his accusing finger, the bunched muscles in Jimmy Moore’s neck.
“James Douglas Moore is a city councilman, a public official placed into office by the people of this city who looked to him to promote the interests of all of Philadelphia, not just his own. The first requirement of his office was honesty, and that was the first thing he threw out the window. The evidence will show, ladies and gentlemen, that Jimmy Moore used his office to extort money, and when his extortion plan went awry he resorted to threats, which you will hear on tapes legally obtained by the government, he resorted to arson, and he resorted to murder. Murder, ladies and gentlemen, the murder of Zachariah Bissonette, the former ballplayer, who stood up for what was right and refused to be blackmailed. Jimmy Moore took a baseball bat and battered Bissonette so badly he was in a coma for five months, never to open his eyes, to see the beauty of the day, to look into the faces of his loving family, never to recover before he died. That is how Jimmy Moore observed the public trust. And we’ll show you where the money went, how it was funneled through his political action committee, how a chunk of it never even got to the committee but was instead skimmed off for his own personal use, how Jimmy Moore used his office to grab enough money so he could ride around the city in a big black limousine and drink champagne and gamble in the casinos along the Boardwalk. That’s what the evidence will show.”
Eggert moved on to Concannon and again the finger of the prosecution pointed.
“Chester Concannon is Jimmy Moore’s chief aide, a public servant whose duty was to help the councilman achieve his legitimate goals as a public official. But instead of looking out for the interests of the people of Philadelphia, Concannon aided the councilman in each of his extortion schemes. Concannon was the go-between, the bagman, the fellow to see if you wanted the councilman on your side. Chester Concannon took his share of the lucre ripped out of the skin of the people of this city, and Concannon was with Jimmy Moore the night Bissonette was battered with that baseball bat into complete and unwavering unconsciousness.”
When he was finished accusing the defendants he detailed the elements of the crime of racketeering that he would prove, going over what each witness would say and how it would all come together to show so clear a pattern of illegal conduct that the jury would be forced to convict. Then he leaned over the defense table and stared, first at Jimmy Moore, then at Chester Concannon. “At the end of this trial, I’m going to come back to you and ask for a guilty verdict on all the counts. And instead of the money or the political power or the black limousines and champagne nights and extravagant evenings in Atlantic City, I’m going to ask you to give this corrupt councilman and his corrupt aide all that they truly deserve.” With a final look at the defendants, a look filled with all the weary disgust he could muster, Eggert walked slowly to the prosecution table and sat down.
Prescott didn’t jump up to follow Eggert as most lawyers would. He remained seated, his head down dramatically. Judge Gimbel, still at work on whatever opinion he was drafting for some other case, didn’t seem to notice the delay and just kept writing. The crowd in the courtroom stirred, one of the jurors coughed, Prescott remained seated.
“It is at a time like this,” said Prescott finally, while still seated at the defense table, “it is in a trial like this that the genius of the jury system shines through.”
With a great sigh, Prescott stood, his shoulder slightly bent, his head shaking sadly. He looked down solemnly as he spoke and the whole effect was of a profound disappointment.
“My client Jimmy Moore is a politician who is gaining power in this city because he practices the politics of inclusion. His goal is to fight the scourge of drugs, a scourge that has taken the life of his daughter, his only child. The youth home he founded is a national leader in drug treatment for the young. And in pursuit of this noble goal he has brought together all the people of this city, no matter their race, no matter their religion, no matter their economic status, whether they are homeless or HIV infected or children subject to the worst abuses. His political action committee, Citizens for a United Philadelphia, or CUP, has in the last two years spent over half a million dollars informing citizens of their rights and registering the unregistered. His committee has added two hundred thousand voters to the city’s polls. And as Jimmy Moore’s influence grows, so does the power of his opposition.”
Prescott turned to look at the jury and then slowly walked from behind the defense table to a position directly behind Eggert, who was leaning forward in his seat.
“There are powerful men in this city who feel threatened by the inclusive coalition being forged by Jimmy Moore. Fat cats and politicos who want to keep it all for themselves and are not willing to open the system to those they have been able to ignore. Men with enough power that they can use the United States Attorney’s Office as a tool for their political designs.