Dead Man's Thoughts (15 page)

“How could anybody get to a guy in his cell?” I asked Vinnie. “I mean, they must patrol the place, right?”

“Sure,” Vinnie answered. “My brother says it used to be the C.O.s that did it—punched a clock at the end of the hall every half hour to show they'd walked the corridor. Then they started using inmate patrols.”

“Inmate patrols!” My mind started racing. “You mean some other inmate had access to him?”

“They patrol in two-man crews,” Vinnie explained. “I'm sure whoever was on his cellblock will be questioned pretty closely.”

“Yeah,” I said mechanically. My thoughts were miles away. I was visualizing an inmate enemy of Charlie's, ostensibly patrolling the cellblock to prevent suicides, reaching through the bars, strangling Charlie, and then stringing him up to look like a suicide. Which was how it would have been done at BHD, but how had Charlie been removed from suicide watch in the first place? I wasn't the only one who wondered.

“That still don't answer the question who changed that card,” Maria observed. “If I wrote it up the right way, how come it was wrong when it got to BHD?”

I turned to Red and Vinnie. “You took the card when you took Blackwell from AP4 to the ninth floor pens, right?” They nodded.

“You know that, Counselor,” Vinnie said. “The papers follow the body at all times. We wouldn't take a prisoner up without a card or a card without a prisoner.”

“When did Blackwell go up?”

“About a quarter to one. With about six other prisoners,” Red answered.

“Did either of you notice what his card said?”

“Hell, Cass, how could they? You can't read every fuckin' card,” Tim objected.

“As I recall, Vinnie, you were bringing prisoners back and forth and Red was in the pen. Was one of you there at all times?”

“Counselor,” Vinnie's voice was hard, “we was ordered to come here and answer their questions.” He jerked his head toward the door behind which the questioning was going on. “But ain't nobody ordered me to answer yours.”

“Come on, Vinnie,” Tim pleaded. “What the hell. Miss Jameson isn't looking to hurt anybody.”

“Oh, yeah.” Maria was her old self, a black lump of belligerence. “Look to me like she nailin' me pretty good. If nobody could change the card in the back because Red was there, then it got changed while it was on my desk, and that make me responsible, don't it?”

I started trying to convince Maria I wasn't trying to nail her. Tim was still defending me to Vinnie, and Red was shouting that I was trying to pin the whole thing on the court personnel. The upshot was that when the door opened unexpectedly and the Iceman came out, we were all talking at once. He gave us a frosty smile and walked out of the waiting room, his overcoat on his arm.

I was called next. I guess I ranked after the judge. They would probably call the court officers in order of seniority. Poor Maria. Her handkerchief would look like Swiss cheese by then.

The interview room was tiny, painted a revolting institutional green. The window that faced the little park between the courthouse and Chinatown hadn't been washed since La Guardia was mayor. There were three men and a female stenographer inside. I didn't really catch names, just that they were biggies in the Correction Department and that the investigation they were conducting was just that—a fact-finding inquiry, not a hearing or a trial. If they felt disciplinary action should be taken against a member of the Department of Correction, they would so recommend. If they felt the matter should be investigated further by the district attorney, they would so recommend. If they felt the whole thing should be quietly forgotten, they would so recommend. I got the feeling their recommendation would be to forget. Quickly.

I told them as concisely as I could what my connection with Blackwell had been and what I'd done for him on his last court date. It wasn't news. They'd had it from Judge Whalen, who, for all his faults, kept the kind of records everyone expects a fussy little man like him to keep.

When I finished my narrative, they began to ask questions. But they weren't the same questions I'd been asking myself. They weren't interested in the changing of the notation on the yellow card or in the motivations that might have led people to wish Charlie out of the picture. They were concerned more with Charlie himself. Had he been nervous? Had he said anything about suicide? Had he struck me as confused? Irrational? Had I known about his past 730 examinations? Had I asked Judge Whalen to order a 730? Why not?

The last question surprised me. In the first place, it had never occurred to me that Charlie was that wacked out. Sure, he was hyper, but as Nathan had rightly pointed out, a man in the business of selling out heavy friends gets hyper. I'd never thought a 730 was warranted. And even if I'd thought so, I wouldn't have asked for it. Charlie was Nathan's client, not mine. Unless he was flipping out pretty badly, I'd have left a decision on 730 to the attorney of record.

I said all this to the three officials. Several times and in several different ways. I didn't like the way they took it. From the questions on Charlie's state of mind, I got the feeling they were pushing hard to find his death a suicide. From there, the next move would be to find a scapegoat. Preferably one who didn't wear the blue uniform of the New York City Correction Department. Maybe even one who couldn't defend himself because he was dead. Their position would be that it was unfortunate that a disturbed person like Charlie slipped out of a suicide watch, but the fault wasn't theirs—it was his lawyer who should have seen that Charlie was a nut job and ordered him examined by a doctor. They would regret, they would deplore. They would whitewash. No inquiry into Charlie's enemies, or the fact that the Special Prosecutor wanted to talk to him, or that the yellow card ordering the suicide watch had been tampered with. Just a nice quiet cover-up with a posthumous slap in the face for Nathan for being so insensitive as to let his poor crazy client risk hanging himself in his cell.

E
IGHTEEN

I
dressed carefully for my Friday after-work meeting with Dave Chessler. A mauve wool dress with a full skirt and puffed sleeves accented by an embroidered black velvet vest. Tiny silver bell-shaped earrings and a silver pendant hanging from a black velvet ribbon. Black leather boots and matching clutch bag. It might be strictly business, but it didn't have to look that way.

I met him in the waiting area of a fancy bar in the ground floor of the World Trade Center. I was glad I'd dressed when I saw the clothes the other women were wearing. Expensive-looking, tailored, good materials. What the well-dressed female executive will wear. I was of two minds. Part of me envied women whose jobs both permitted and required good clothes, perfect makeup. Yet there was a lurking resentment, too. What did these well-groomed magazine-ad ladies know about the gritty realities of Brooklyn Criminal Court? On the other hand, we all live in worlds of our own choosing. What claim did I have to moral superiority because I'd chosen to work in the pits instead of the towers?

Dave sat me at a tiny table inside the bar and went for drinks. It was still Scotch weather, so I ordered mine on the rocks. He brought it to me along with a bourbon and water for himself.

“So what did you think of the transcript? Did you see what I meant about Riordan?”

“I sure did. Not only on paper, but in person, too. He's appearing on a case in Brooklyn Supreme, so I went over to see him. Say what you will about him, the man is one hell of a cross-examiner.”

“It's easy to be if the witness is taking orders from you instead of the prosecutor.”

“If I didn't know you better, I'd say that was sour grapes.” He didn't answer. I thought perhaps I'd gone too far, so I said, “Actually, you're probably right. I got the feeling the witness in the case I saw didn't exactly come through the way the D.A. expected him to. Riordan got a lot of mileage out of him, too. If he wins the case, it'll be because the witness fell apart.”

“Sounds familiar, doesn't it?”

“Not only that. When I spoke to him, Riordan warned me about getting involved. Said there were dangerous people around.” I didn't repeat Riordan's crack about Nancy Drew; I didn't trust Dave to understand the seriousness of the insult.

There was a pause. Dave sipped his drink in what appeared to be meditative silence. I figured I'd said everything I wanted to say; it was time for him to speak up. Finally he did. Slowly and a little reluctantly, he said, “There's something I didn't tell you last time, Cassandra.”

“Cass,” I murmured.

“Cass.” He smiled, an unexpected smile that nearly diverted me. “It fits you.”

Then he sobered and returned to the topic. “In fact, I'm not sure I should be telling you this now. Parma'd have my head on a plate if he knew I was talking to anyone about it, but I feel you have a right to know.” He looked around at the people at the tables closest to us. It looked to me like the usual TGIF pickup scene, but Dave leaned over and lowered his voice.

“I don't know where to begin exactly. For the past six months or so there's been a kind of task force in the Special Prosecutor's office dedicated to one thing—nailing Charlie Blackwell.”

“Then everything Parma said about the case being over and done with and forgotten was pure bullshit?” The word didn't go with my dress, but what the hell. You can take the girl out of the pits, but.…

“If that's what he said,” Dave grinned, “that's what it was. Oh, we did other work, had our regular cases and all, but getting Blackwell in a position where he'd have to play ball with us was our A-number-one priority.”

“Why? Sheer revenge? I mean, sure, Parma was mad about losing the Stone case, but why make a big deal now?”

“Don't you read the papers?” Dave looked appalled when I shook my head. It's true; what Dan Rather doesn't tell me, I don't know. “Parma's being considered for an appointment as counsel to a congressional committee. Congressman Gebhardt of Nassau County's going to head a Kefauver-style committee to look into organized crime. If it's handled right, it's the kind of thing that can make a lot of careers. And Del wants it to make his. He wants it so bad he can taste it.”

“What's Charlie Blackwell got to do with it?”

“The Stone case was Parma's biggest failure. Oh, we've had a few setbacks—cases reversed on appeal, verdicts set aside after trial—you can't go after the biggies without getting people mad. But the Stone trial was different. It was a slap in the face for Del personally. He started to get paranoid that the congressional committee would hold it against him. So his plan was to nail Charlie and force him to admit he threw the case. This would clear away any suspicion that Parma lost the case through incompetence. Then, if he could get Charlie to give him the goods on Riordan, he'd be scoring a real coup that should impress the hell out of the committee and insure his appointment. Get the picture?”

I nodded. Now it was my turn to be thoughtful. With a nice sense of timing, Dave went to the bar for more drinks. Try as I might, all I could make out of this was that Del had lied in his teeth when he claimed Charlie was ancient history. Which wasn't a crime.

Dave came back, set down the drinks, and said, “The upshot of all this is that my task force engineered the drug bust your friend represented Charlie on.”

“What! You're kidding!” I took a gulp of Scotch. “You mean—but wait—”

“Come on, Counselor,” Dave laughed. “You've been around the block. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you never thought of that? We jerked on Blackwell's chain to get him to roll over on Riordan. Happens every day.” Once again the contrast between the genteel voice, the mild features, the well-cut clothes, and the tough, streetwise manner grated on me. Which was the role, which was the reality?

I had recovered a little. “Even dealing with the Kings County D.A.'s office hasn't made me cynical enough for your outfit,” I told him. “I'm out of my depth here. Let me get this straight. You guys were totally responsible for Charlie being involved in the drug deal. That was a setup to get him in custody because once he was in custody he'd be so afraid of his enemies in prison he'd do anything to make a deal. Right?”

“Right. We were willing to drop the drug rap—or see to it the Brooklyn D.A. dropped it—in return for the truth about Riordan's fixing the Stone case.”

“But don't you see what this means? If the only reason Charlie was in jail was because you guys put him there, and you put him there because of his role in the Stone case, then it's one hell of a coincidence if he was iced by someone else for some totally unrelated reason. Isn't it?”

“Is that what the police think?”

“That's what Detective Button said when I told him I thought Blackwell had been murdered. He said Charlie had enemies coming out of his ears and that even if he was murdered, it wasn't necessarily because of the Stone case. But now—”

“Now you know the only reason he was there at all was because of the Stone case.”

“Which makes it unlikely that somebody else took advantage of the situation. The connection is clear. And it connects with Nathan too. If someone killed Charlie because of what he knew, Nathan knew the same things.”

“Now you see why I felt I had to tell you all this. It supports your thinking about why your friend was killed.”

“Yes,” I agreed thoughtfully. “If Nathan was killed by someone else, it was one hell of a lucky break for someone.”

“For Riordan.” Dave's pale blue eyes were grim. I shivered a little. It was one thing to believe Nathan had been murdered because of what Blackwell had told him. It was another to put a name to the murderer.

I remembered what Emily had said. “If you guys were keeping such close tabs on Charlie, how come he ended up in the system at all?”