“Wait one second.”
“We can’t,” said Sheldon, but we did, as I leafed quickly through the pile. It was a mishmash of things, letters from other cases, advertisements for continuing legal education courses. And then near the bottom, covered with clear plastic, bound with a thin black fastener, about a quarter of an inch thick, was a report by Bruce J. Pierpont, Ph.D., entitled: A Statistical Analysis by Demographic Sector of Community Views on Certain Specific Arguments to Be Presented in the Case of the United States v. Moore and Concannon. Got you, you bastard.
I rolled up the report tightly and stuck it into the back pocket of my overalls. “Let’s get out of here,” I said unnecessarily, as Sheldon was already out the door.
As we walked quickly for the exit and the elevator we heard the sound of a group coming toward us. Sheldon grabbed my shoulder and we turned and ran, ducking into the custodian’s closet before anyone could see us. Sheldon locked the door. We waited there for almost an hour, terrified, waiting as Security came and went and Madeline told her story to an associate here and a secretary there and then, on a secretary’s phone, to Prescott. When Sheldon’s stethoscope told us the field was clear, we ducked out silently but with pace.
On the way down in the freight elevator I asked Sheldon what he had found in the desk that had interested him so.
“Just a phone bill.”
“So?”
“Well, there had been a series of collect calls from a number in area code 512.”
“Area code 512?”
“Right, which includes Corpus Christi, Texas.”
“Okay, calls from Corpus Christi.”
“Well, Morris told me that this Prescott was involved in your case with Stocker. We had tracked Stocker to somewhere on the Gulf of Mexico. Last time I checked the map, Corpus Christi was right there on the Gulf of Mexico.”
“You think he’s there?”
Sheldon shrugged. “Who knows? It doesn’t matter, though, since Morris told me the time limit had passed for the case.”
“Did you take the bill?”
“No, you told me to forget it.”
“Jesus, Sheldon. I wish you had taken the damn bill. If we could link Prescott to Stocker it could be worth millions.”
“So if I had taken the bill, you would have hired us again to check out if Stocker was the fellow Prescott was talking to in Corpus Christi.”
“In a heartbeat, yeah.”
“At special rates, of course, being that Corpus Christi is halfway across the country.”
“Sure, you could have charged your special rates.”
“That’s interesting,” he said, staring up at the descending numbers lighting atop the elevator doors. “Because although I didn’t take the bill, I just happen to have memorized the number.”
“Little Sheldon,” I said, shaking my head. “When I first met you I couldn’t imagine anyone looking more different than your father. But all of a sudden I see the resemblance.”
45
“GOOD MORNING, VICTOR,” said Prescott to me the next day as I set my briefcase on the defense table.
“Good morning, Mr. Prescott,” I said.
Prescott had been presenting his case for a number of days now, witnesses testifying about the absolute need for money to run and win political campaigns, witnesses testifying as to the good works CUP was performing in the community, Mrs. Diaz testifying as to the crucial ministrations being given at the Nadine Moore Youth Center and the councilman’s ambition for a great bloom of healing. Today, I assumed, would be more of the same and I assumed right.
“Most of this session will be spent on character witnesses for the councilman,” said Prescott. “Political allies, community members whom he has helped. That sort of thing. Eggert was willing to stipulate to much of the testimony, but I thought the jury should be able to hear the full quantity of community support for Jimmy Moore.”
“That sounds fine,” I said. “I might have a few questions for some of the witnesses myself.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Victor,” said Prescott. “I think you won’t have any questions for these witnesses. And when the councilman testifies tomorrow you won’t have any questions either. Talk it over with your client.”
“You know I will, sir.”
“Splendid,” he said.
Prescott’s first witness of the morning was the Reverend James T. McHenry, pastor at the 57th Street Baptist Church of Divine Revelation. The reverend was a tall African-American with a narrow face accented by sharp cheekbones. He wore a flowered tie knotted thick as an ascot and he spoke in beautiful rhythms, as if he were up high on an altar, standing before a gospel choir, preaching. He had known Jimmy Moore for twenty years, he announced from the witness stand, and for much of that time they had been political opponents. But in the last five years, since the death of the councilman’s daughter, they had been marching together, ever forward in the struggle for dignity and human rights in this great city. Jimmy Moore had helped him get the funds to finish renovation of the church. Jimmy Moore had been a crusader in saving the children in his community, had been the scourge of drug dealers and healer of the drug dependent. He knew Jimmy Moore to be a fine man, a caring man, a family man who looked out for his God, his community, and his family before looking out for himself. Jimmy Moore, in the crucible of his personal tragedy, had become a great man, a fighter for righteousness who would never do anything to hurt his city or its people.
“What is your opinion, Reverend McHenry,” asked Prescott, in the archaic way required by the Federal Rules to elicit character testimony, “of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a truthful and honest citizen?”
“The Jimmy Moore I have worked with so closely lo these many years is as honest as Moses, as truthful as a saint, a God-fearing man who follows all the Lord’s commandments, including the prohibition against bearing false witness.”
“Objection,” said Eggert. “The reference to God is inappropriate.”
“God has no place in a court of law?” asked Prescott with false incredulity. “Isn’t that a Bible we swear on before we testify?”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Reverend, please just answer the questions.”
“Reverend McHenry,” continued Prescott, “what is your opinion of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a peaceful citizen?”
“I have worked side by side with Jimmy Moore to rid the streets of the scourge of drugs, I know all the good he is capable of, and I know in my heart that he is a peaceful man with the gentleness of an angel.”
“And what is your opinion, Reverend McHenry, of Jimmy Moore’s reputation as a law-abiding citizen?”
“I’ll repeat it, sir. Jimmy Moore is a man, sir, a man above reproach. A man who can look his family, his community, and his God, sir, his God straight in the eye so that all will know he is a righteous, law-abiding man.”
Eggert threw up his hands at the last response but stayed quiet.
“No further questions,” said Prescott.
“Mr. Carl,” said Judge Gimbel without looking up from his daily paperwork, “I assume you have no questions for the Reverend.”
I stood up. “Just a few, Your Honor.” The judge raised his head and looked at me gravely and then nodded. I could feel Prescott’s eyes staring me down from the other side of the table. I buttoned my jacket and strolled to the podium, but before I could speak Prescott was objecting.
“Can we come to sidebar, Your Honor?” he asked.
“If you must,” said Judge Gimbel, and all the lawyers huddled with the judge out of earshot of the jury and the witness.
“Your Honor,” said Prescott. “I don’t believe Mr. Carl’s intended cross is in conformity with his client’s wishes. I believe it is Mr. Concannon’s desire that he not cross-examine this witness and it is improper for Mr. Carl, therefore, to conduct this examination.”