Hostile Witness

“Mr. Conca

“That’s fine, Mr. Carl.”

“Call me Victor,” I said.

“Victor or Vic?”

“Victor. I never liked Vic. It makes me sound too disposable, like a throwaway lighter or a ballpoint pen.”

He laughed at my old joke, which was good. He seemed a charming enough man, Chet Conca

“You mean stop me from lying,” he said, obviously amused.

“I know you might want to confess, the urge is understandable,” I said. “And whatever you say remains with me, but you have to be aware that any such confession could have consequences as to our defense.”

There was more to it than that, of course. I could have gone on speaking for a good ten minutes, but after talking about his undoubted need to confess and seeing him sitting there, calm, composed, his face lacking the slightest indicia of an urgency to tell me anything, I stopped.

“I guess you’ve heard all this before,” I said.

“I guess,” he replied.

“Good,” I said, though I started to sweat a little. There was something about his composure that was u

“Yes,” he said without a wince. “Before I met Jimmy I was involved with drugs and drug sellers. I was arrested often.”

“Were you convicted of anything?”

“Once of possession with intent to distribute a ba

“Still, you probably won’t be testifying,” I said. “Forgery is just the kind of prior conviction that a prosecutor would use to show your lack of honesty or trustworthiness.”

“That’s what Mr. McCrae said too.”

“Did you know Zack Bissonette?”

“Sure,” he said. “Nice guy, lousy ballplayer.”

“Assuming you didn’t do it, any idea who would have beaten that nice guy into a coma?”

“I heard it was the mob.”

“Is that what you heard?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Is that what he’s going to say when he wakes up?”

“What I also heard, Victor,” he said, his hands laying still, one atop the other on his lap, “is that he’s on the edge of never waking up.”

“And then you’d only be up for murder.”

There was a crack in the calm facade at that moment, a lowering of the guard, and what I saw was not the confident insider but a child, scared and lonely, the kid at the edge of the playground, the kid never passed to in the basketball games, who only received two valentines while his classmates took home sacks full. The peek inside didn’t last long, quick as a politician’s lie the facade was back, but I had a glimpse of what he was feeling and how much he was hiding and it all touched me in a strangely personal way. And suddenly my playacting the role of a hard-boiled criminal defense attorney didn’t seem quite so clever.

“Are you sure you don’t want someone more experienced?” I asked.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Jimmy said you’ll do fine.”

I thought about it for a moment. “If we both agree that I will represent you,” I said, “we also are going to have to agree on a strategy. What line of defense was Mr. McCrae going to follow?”

“He was going to follow Prescott completely,” he said.

I tried to smile reassuringly. “From what I’ve seen, that looks like your best bet,” I said. “But that decision is up to you.”

“I know,” he said. “And that’s the way Jimmy still wants it to go.”

“You know, Chester,” I said, speaking very slowly, very carefully, wanting to phrase what I was required to say just right. “With co-defendants there is always a potential conflict between defenses. One defendant could always point the finger at the other and say I didn’t do it, he did it.”

“There is no conflict here,” he said quickly, without hesitation.

“Do you trust the councilman with your life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Rushing to trial like we are, I might not be able to help you if things go wrong.”

“I appreciate you wanting to be in a position to help me, Victor,” he said, without putting even a touch of patronization in his voice, which was pretty impressive. “I really do. But there’s always been someone reaching out to help me, someone with a clipboard from the city or the state or the federal government, and all they’ve ever done is dig my hole a little deeper. Only one man ever reached out a hand and really, truly helped.”

“And who was that?”

“Jimmy Moore,” he said. “Jimmy’s been called a lot of things by a lot of people and he’s everything they say. But he’s been the best friend I ever had. He told me to hire you, so you’re hired. He told me to follow Mr. Prescott’s lead, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Then your explicit instructions are not to interfere with Prescott.”

“Exactly.”

I looked at him carefully. He was a smart man, I could see that, and he trusted Jimmy Moore completely. Who was I to get in the way? This had been easier than ever I had thought. I slapped my knee and stood up. “Good,” I said. “Then that’s settled.”

“So you’ll represent me?” he asked.

“If you want me to, I will.”

“I do,” he said.

“I don’t have the co

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Don’t worry, Victor. You’ll make out just fine.”

And that’s how we left it, Chet Conca

“Hell, I’m hungry. Hungry.” It was a sharp, emphatic voice, the voice of an overzealous lieutenant colonel or a college basketball coach. “I’m too hungry to work just yet. We have all night.” It was a voice of authority, an exuberant, demanding voice. “Let’s get out of this dump and find something to eat.”

I recognized the voice right off. I had been listening to it all day. It was the voice of Jimmy Moore.