“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Moore.
Two officers immediately moved to either side of Jimmy. The man in the raincoat waved a document and said in a weary but precise voice, “James Douglas Moore and Chester Concannon, I am here on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania with warrants for your arrests.”
That brought a shocked little babble from the crowd.
One of the officers, a broad-shouldered woman, said to Moore, “Put your hands behind your back, sir.” She had the voice of a gym teacher urging her girls up the hanging ropes.
“This is a travesty,” shouted Moore. “I am being persecuted.”
“Hands behind your back, sir,” said the woman.
Concannon, who was standing at the rear of the crowd with Veronica, tried to back away but a young blond officer grabbed his arm and another officer, older, with a serious face, put a hand on Chet’s shoulder. “Hands behind your back, please, Mr. Concannon,” said the older officer. His serious face squeezed itself in embarrassment as he brought out his handcuffs. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to cuff you. I have orders.”
“I’m Mr. Concannon’s lawyer,” I said after I had made my way to my client through the crowd. “By whose orders is he being cuffed?”
The officer nodded at the African-American man in the raincoat. “Assistant District Attorney K. Lawrence Slocum.”
Prescott cut through the crowd and took hold of Slocum’s arm. “What is this about, Larry?” he said, his voice sharpened to a fine edge.
Slocum looked down at his arm until Prescott let go. “We’re making an arrest.”
“I’m acting as Councilman Moore’s attorney. You tell me what is happening, immediately, or I’ll slap a civil suit against the state and city before you leave the Parkway.”
“Stay out of our way, Bill,” said Slocum calmly, “until the suspects are taken into custody.”
“Hands behind your back,” said the woman officer as she took hold of Moore’s arm, turned him to the side, and leaned him forward.
“James Moore and Chester Concannon,” said Slocum as soon as the men were cuffed. “You are both under arrest for the murder of Zachariah Bissonette.”
I looked at Concannon, whose head was down and whose arms were pinned behind his back. His eyes darted to and fro like minnows as the young blond officer frisked him.
“Bissonette?” I said to Concannon. “I thought he was in a coma.”
“Not anymore, sir,” said the officer with the embarrassed, serious face. “He died at eight-o-two this evening at Pennsylvania Hospital. Too bad, too. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“But a butcher in the field,” said the young officer.
“I didn’t do anything,” said an angry Concannon. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“Shut up, Chester,” I said sharply. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Give your name, your address, your Social Security number, and nothing else. We will get you out of jail and we will take it from there, but you keep your mouth shut.”
His lips twitched, but he managed to calm himself. “What are you going to do?”
“Do you understand what I told you?”
“Yes.”
“You just hang on,” I said. “We’ll get you out.”
Flashes popped as the society photographers clicked away, thrilled at something more exciting than a spilled glass of Pinot Chardonnay to photograph on their beat. “Look this way Councilman,” one shouted as Moore and Concannon were led to the museum doors, “and be sure to give us a smile.” Old habits, I guess, die hard.
“Enjoy yourselves,” shouted Moore to the throng of gawking swells. “Continue the festivities. My lawyer will clear up this little misunderstanding.” He started to say something else, but before he could get it out he and Concannon were whisked out the doors and down the front steps to the waiting police cars. They were barely out the door when the band started up and the whirl of conversation turned gay again. No reason to let a silly little thing like a murder arrest get in the way of a party.
I followed Slocum out the doors to learn what exactly would be happening to my client. Assistant District Attorney K. Lawrence Slocum stopped between two columns right outside the entrance and watched with Prescott as the suspects were led down the steps and around the fountain to the cars. He was bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“I’m surprised at you, Larry,” said Prescott as we watched the woman officer put her hand on Moore’s head and press it down so it wouldn’t hit the roof as she placed him into the back seat of one of the cars. “I would have expected you to find a more public place for the arrest.”
“You know how it is, Bill. The Eagles were out of town this week.”
“I’m Victor Carl,” I said. “I’m representing Chester Concannon.”
“What can I do for you, Carl?”
“Tell us when we can bail out our clients.”
“We’ll arraign them at the Roundhouse right away.”
“Who’s the judge there this evening?” asked Prescott.
“Does it matter?” said Slocum. “We’ll ask to hold them without bail but whatever judge we get probably owes his seat to Moore and will set a half a million at ten percent. For Concannon too.”
“And where do you think they are going?” asked Prescott.
“This is a homicide here,” said Slocum in all his weary righteousness, the jaw muscles beneath his smooth dark skin working. “A death penalty case. They shouldn’t walk with just fifty thousand down.”
“Do you have anything more on them than the U.S. Attorney?” I asked.
“They got everything but the tapes from us in the first place,” said Slocum. He turned his head and spat onto the step below Prescott. “But Eggert’s not one to wait his turn.”
“I assume you notified the press at the Roundhouse,” said Prescott.
“They’ll be waiting.”
“You’ve always been a hound, Larry,” said Prescott.
“A city councilman being arraigned in night court. Front page of the Daily News, don’t you think?” said Slocum. “That’s why I had them cuffed. Looks better on page one.”
“You missed your calling,” said Prescott.
“Maybe so,” said Slocum, taking off his thick glasses to wipe the lenses with his tie. “But I’d rather make news than report it.”
The cop with the serious face climbed up the steps to Slocum. “We’re all set.”
“You read them their rights?”
“Word for word.”
“Well, gentlemen, it was a pleasure,” said Slocum. “Want a ride to the Roundhouse?”
“We’ll take the limo,” said Prescott. “Better scotch in the back seat.”
“Oh man,” said Slocum, shaking his head as he walked slowly down the steps to the police cars waiting for him, their engines running, their lights still flashing. “I can’t wait for private practice.”
“Is he any good?” I asked Prescott as Slocum ducked into one of the cars and all three pulled back around the museum.
“The best they have,” he said. “Let’s get our clients out of jail. Chuckie will prepare a statement for the press.”
“Concannon was a little unraveled,” I said.
“He’ll get over it. I’ll tell you what’s really unraveling. The federal case. Eggert had always hoped that Bissonette would revive and finger Jimmy. That’s one of the reasons he wanted to delay everything. Now there’s one less witness to worry about.”
“So who do you think actually did kill Bissonette?” I asked offhandedly.
He looked at me with his cold blue eyes squinted sternly for a moment and then eased his face into a paternal smile. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said.
Part II. Pretrial Emotions
11
THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE was in a narrow, dirty building sandwiched between two glass skyscrapers. Lawyers with offices in the skyscrapers bustled in and out of the revolving doors, the tassels on their loafers swishing, their Rolexes flashing as they hailed the cabs lined up on the street, the drivers all hoping for that apocryphal fare to the airport. Lawyers from the DA’s office passed out of their filthy lobby in weary navy blue waves, pushing shopping carts full of their day’s files, girded for battle in the city’s grimed and undermanned courtrooms. There was about this throng of city attorneys the air of a soon-to-be-defeated army pushing forward only because any avenue of retreat had been cut off.