Francine looked straight at me and said, "I love you."
I could see the pulse in Ned's temple. I said to her, "If you think that's helpful under these circumstances, you're crazy."
"That, too," she said, smiling.
I wouldn't have liked to be inside Widmer's skin.
Finally, he spoke. "The photograph, from what you've said, I suppose you both know what's in it?"
"Approximately. But Brady's already lost its biggest asset. You've seen it. Francine knows you've seen it. I know you've seen it. Nobody got hit with lightning. We're all sitting in one room peaceably together discussing it. We've disarmed that photograph, just as I'd like to see Brady kept from slipping in any kind of sexual innuendoes about Francine in front of the jury before the judge can shut him up. I think the D.A. in his direct examination of Francine should make it clear she is not Queen Victoria, just that she wants to choose what she does and a rapist doesn't give her a choice."
I looked at Widmer. He seemed lost in his own office, with his own daughter.
"Is there a room nearby from which I could make a private phone call?" I asked.
"Of course," said Widmer. "My secretary will show you the way."
At the door I turned and said, "Francine, you might want to chat with your father a bit. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."
When I was alone, I dialed Fat Tarbell's number. Busy. I doodled on the scratch pad, then dialed again.
"Yes," said Fats.
"George Thomassy," I said. "I've got a heavy one."
"Shoot."
It was a risk asking Fats. The other fellow was also undoubtedly a client of his. "Brady," I said. "What have you got on his sex life, if he has one?"
Fat Tarbell laughed. "Oh he's got one. You're looking to get me into trouble. He gives me more business than you do."
"On his sex life?"
"No."
"Then we're not competing."
He laughed. "You got a sense of humor, Thomassy. This'll be expensive."
"How expensive?"
"Who's your client?"
I would have liked time to reflect on that one. "I guess," I said, "that I'm the client."
"Well. Didn't know you get yourself in trouble, George. Thought you kept your nose clean. Oh well, thousand sound too much?"
"Five hundred sounds better. And it better be something quick and good."
"Well, let's see. Amsterdam or New York?"
"New York'd be a lot easier."
"Right. Affidavit from a lady he visits about once a month."
"Straight lady?"
Fat Tarbell laughed. "Prostitute. Own brownstone. No other women. Privacy. Expensive."
"How'd you get the affidavit?"
"Listen, George, you thinking of getting disbarred and going into competition with me?"
"Not on your life."
"She got into a bad hassle with someone on the Mayor's staff. I fixed it in exchange for the affidavit. Sixteen people covered, but you're the first to put it to use. Now that I'm looking at it, George, I think five hundred's too cheap, even if it's for you."
"Five hundred to see. Seven fifty if I get to use it."
"How'll I know?"
"I'll see that you know."
"I trust you, George. You got a deal."
"Thanks. The Gristede parking lot?"
"Not this late. Come up to my place."
"I'll have a girl with me."
"Leave her in the car."
"As you say."
"How long will it take you to get here?"
"I'm still in the city. About an hour."
"Bring cash will you? I could use it tomorrow."
"Make it an hour and a half then."
"Take your time. I ain't going nowhere tonight. Bye, George."
When I went back into Widmer's office, he had his arm around Francine, and she looked like she might have been crying.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
Neither of them answered me. God, you leave a father and daughter alone together for a few minutes and what happens?
"I have to get up to Westchester fairly fast. Ned, you don't keep cash in your vault by any chance, do you? The banks are closed."
"How much?"
"Could you cash a check for five hundred?"
He nodded, disappeared for a few minutes, returned with an envelope. In my circles, he'd have handed me the money, counting it as he did so.
"It's in there," he said.
I gave him the check.
"Can I give either of you a lift to Westchester?"
Widmer shook his head.
Francine nodded at the same time.
As we left I said to Widmer, "I think I may be buying us some good news."
He had a puzzled expression on his face. I felt sorry for him. What I did for a living was sometimes fun.
"I think we're going to be able to do some interesting pretrial plea bargaining with Mr. Brady."
"Oh?" was all he said. I had a feeling that somewhere inside his vest was a little boy wanting to come along for the ride.
Thirty-three
Koch
I am walking home from the Thalia Theater, lost in thought, imperiled by traffic, agitated not by what I have seen in the movie house, but what is going on inside my head. I think: in this neighborhood if a man walking on a block empty of people suddenly feels the clutch of a heart attack does he cry out? To whom, there is no one in the street, and the people in their apartments have immunized themselves against cries from the world outside. He slumps to the ground and dies in silence, his throat filled with the anguish of having no one to call to. However, if the same man sees one other person on the street, he calls loudly for help, hoping that one other person will come quickly. And if the same victim feels the thump of an attack in the middle of a crowded street, does he cry out for help? He knows he will be noticed by the crowd, and despite a sudden fear of immediate death, he doesn't want his reputation besmirched by being thought a coward or a crybaby. He crumbles in stoic silence. It is his environment, the circumstance of other people, that governs whether a man speaks and, to an even greater degree, what he says.
Imagine a presidential candidate addressing the nation on television, saying, "I woke in the middle of the night from a dream in which the platform I was standing on was collapsing in slow motion and I was trying to grab on to people and they were shrinking away from my grasp, not wanting to go down with me, and suddenly I was awake in bed, my pajama top drenched in cold sweat. I need your vote." Yes, but that same man lying on the couch in my darkened office tells his analyst exactly that, the dream of the night before, and reaches out for the vote of the analyst that he is, nevertheless, a rational human being, anxious and frightened that he will not win in a career where winning is everything and losing is not second best but the beginning of severe depression. He wants to be sustained by me, and he speaks in a way he never would to his wife, or closest confidants, or the world. The speeches of our life are orchestrated not by what we want to say at any given moment but by who is listening.