The Intruder (37 page)

“The grand jury didn’t think so,” pouts Ms. Fusco.

“I could get a grand jury to indict my dog if I was DA,” says the judge.

Jake feels a surge of hope. Maybe this case will get dismissed after all. But then he remembers that Henry used to bluster on in court this way before dashing out into the hall to cut some pathetic deal for his client.

Sure enough, Frankenthaler turns toward Susan like a cobra sizing up a chubby mongoose.

“And Miss Hoffman,” he says “I must say I’m somewhat disappointed in you. The best witness you can put forward is this John Gates? I see from the record he’s been on Rikers for a drug charge as well as being arrested recently and hospitalized for his hallucinations.”

“Isolated episodes,” says Susan, keeping an even tone and graciously not pointing out she’d beaten Henry with far weaker cases when she was a prosecutor. “In any event, he’s no less reliable than their witness. We’re prepared to present expert testimony from the head of the psychiatric department of NYU Hospital that Mr. Gates is capable of remembering what happened that night.”

“And we have an expert of our own who will disagree,” says Francis.

“Fine. So it’s dueling fruitcakes.” The judge, exasperated, looks down at the case file. “How’s a jury going to make a qualitative
judgment about the credibility of their testimony? I don’t want to turn my courtroom into cloud-cuckoo-land.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Ms. Fusco interrupts. “How many cases have you tried where it was one drug dealer testifying against another? I think juries are sophisticated enough to understand that choirboys are rarely present at the commission of a major crime.”

The judge nods and sighs. “Point taken,” he says. “It’s a crime committed in a railway tunnel. Who else is going to see it except someone who lives underground?”

“Exactly, exactly,” says Ms. Fusco, with a trace of a Belt Parkway accent pushing through her overbite.

Jake’s stomach clenches. This is what his life has become. Gloom, accusations, and the taste of ashes in his mouth. There’s no solace in knowing the DA recently decided not to seek the death penalty against him. He still has a vision of himself stumbling out the front gate of some prison after twenty years and seeing Dana, worn out and frayed: her hair gray, her face lined, her mouth hard and bitter from waiting for him. He sees Alex, grown and unrecognizable, with children of his own about to reach their teens. Grandchildren who’ll never acknowledge him. A lonely and bleak old age stretching out before him.

“Tell you what I’m going to do,” says the judge. “I always tell my wife I like to get to the movies in time for the previews because they’re often more interesting than the film that follows. So I’d like to arrange for a preview here. Just to avoid a circus.”

Jake notices that since ascending to the bench Henry has started speaking even more often in sculpted, portentous tones instead of the peppery banter of a defense lawyer. More Park Avenue and less West Islip. The judge presses a button and has one of the exhausted-looking young men who clerk for him bring in his calendar.

“I want to bring both of these gentlemen in for a Wade hearing,” Frankenthaler says. “Make sure both of them are able to identify the defendant. I have a spot open on my calendar for Friday. And then we can start the actual trial on Monday as scheduled.”

Jake hears a rustle of nylon and sees Ms. Fusco whispering nervously to Francis.

“Your Honor,” says Francis. “We seem to have temporarily lost track of our witness, Mr. Taylor. We might need the weekend to get in touch with him. He moves around a lot.”

“Then I suggest you find him a fixed abode,” says Frankenthaler, going high church again. “Otherwise I’ll be forced to reconsider Miss Hoffman’s motion to dismiss.” He shifts his eyes to look at Susan. “And I expect you to have your witness here too. There are two sides to this. Have both of them take their medication, and may the best prescription win.”

74

I don’t like this business with you threatening people,” Ms. Fusco tells Philip.

They’re sitting in a $15-an-hour room at a motel near the Bronx Zoo. The walls are thin and the mattress on the double bed is light and spongy.

“Who threatened anyone?” says Philip, sitting at the foot of the bed. “Jake came into a bar to talk to a friend of mine. I was there. I told him to mind his manners. My friend didn’t want to talk to him. End of story.”

“I still don’t like it.” Ms. Fusco stands across the room, wearing a preppy herringbone jacket and nibbling on one of her bloody cuticles. He notices her hair is in a ponytail today.

“I want you to stay away from the Schiffs.”

“Hey.” Philip shoots his arm out. “If they have a problem, it won’t be with me.”

“And another thing,” says Ms. Fusco. “The DA wants to know when he’s going to see some production out of you investigating your uncle.”

“Jesus Christ, one thing at a time.” Philip holds up his hands, like she has him against the ropes. “I thought we were going to finish this case against Jake before we started concentrating on my uncle.”

Another delaying tactic. Philip figures that Carmine is almost
seventy. If he can drag his feet and draw things out long enough, Carmine will be dead by the time the investigation wraps up and they turn in the court papers. He’ll die never knowing his nephew was an informant.

“What do you want me to do?” Philip asks Ms. Fusco. “Start wearing a wire right away and asking him, ‘Do you remember?’ all the time? You think my uncle’s an idiot?”

She studies his face for a moment, not quite satisfied.

“All right, let’s get back to the Schiff case,” she says. But her eyes are still fixed on a point somewhere behind him. “The trial begins on Monday. We don’t want any mistakes from here on in.”

“I’m not making any mistakes.”

She takes the rubber band off her ponytail. “And we want to make sure we’re all clear on your plea agreement. You’ve told us about everything you’ve done before. Right? We’re not going to learn about any other crimes you’ve committed.”

“Absolutely not.”

He’s not going to tell her about Isabel now. That would bring the whole roof down. The prosecutors would come around the Alpha Bar asking questions, and then Carmine would get nervous, and before you knew it Philip would be admiring the view from inside the trunk of a Chrysler.

Ms. Fusco shakes out her hair. “You’re also aware that any discrepancies between your grand jury testimony and your trial testimony will lead to us revoking your plea agreement, right?”

“Sure. You don’t have to keep telling me.”

She pulls back the musty green drapes and looks out at the parking lot. “We just want to make sure you’re not jerking us off.”

From the next room, he can hear bedsprings squeaking and the mechanical groaning of a thoroughly professional Fordham Road prostitute doing her job.

“I don’t jerk anybody off unless they want me to,” Philip says.

Ms. Fusco lets out a deep breath. For a moment, Philip thinks she’s going to come over and slap him.

Instead, there’s a knock at the door and she goes over to open it. The pudgy Hispanic detective who’d been sitting in the red Chevy outside comes in wearing a porkpie hat and a mustard
sports jacket. The Irish wooden Indian is nowhere in sight today. Maybe he had a fight with Ms. Fusco, Philip thinks.

She says something to the new detective in rapid-fire Spanish. He mutters an answer and gives Philip a sidelong glance that puts a chill in his belly. Then he heads back out to the parking lot.

“Did he say something about me being American?” Philip asks.

“No, why?”

“I thought I heard him say the word ‘American.’ ”

“No, that wasn’t the word he used.” She pulls back the drapes and watches the detective walking back through the snow to his car.

“Well, what did he say then?”

“It’s not important.” She puts her nails up to her mouth again but then thinks better of biting them.

“Come on, tell me.”

“It was nothing.”

Something inside him begins to vibrate. From the next room, the bedsprings are getting louder.

“If it’s nothing, you can tell me.”

“All right. He called you a
maricon.
Are you happy?” she says with harsh impatience.

“What?”

“I told him I was a little nervous being alone in the room with you and he said I shouldn’t worry about it because you were a
maricon.”

“He called me a
maricon’?
He called me a faggot? You know what happens to people who call me that?”

“No. What?”

The bedsprings in the next room sound like they’re about to snap.

“Never mind.” Philip catches himself. “Why the hell did he say a thing like that?”

“He talked to your old cell mate from prison.”

Philip’s arm flings out involuntarily again. He has a sudden urge to walk across the room and hurt her.

“Look, it’s not any big deal,” she says. “I have a brother who’s like that and he’s terrific.”

“What are you saying? I’m not gay.”

He stares at a dark spot on the rug, trying hard to control himself.

“Hey, if that’s the way you feel, no problem.” She puts her hands in the pockets of her skirt.

“You think I’m gay?”

She straightens her shoulders. “It’s none of my business.”

“But is that what you think?”

She licks her lips and stares at her shoes. “I just know that sometimes if you’re not honest with yourself things can come out in funny ways.”

“What are you saying to me?”

“Oh come on, Philip, look at yourself. You assault a gay man with a crowbar, you cut off another man’s nipple . . . God knows how you get along with women . . . You’re an intelligent person. Haven’t you ever asked yourself what that’s all about?”

The bedsprings stop squeaking.

Philip just looks at her. Is it possible she’s right? The light coming through the drapes changes. For years, he’s been telling himself that what he did with Diego in prison didn’t count; you were only a faggot if you sucked a prick on the outside. But maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he is that way. Maybe that’s why he’s gone through life with a fist cocked back over his shoulder. Maybe that’s why he smacked his wife. Maybe that’s why he beat the living crap out of Isabel that day in the warehouse when she teased him and called him a
maricon
—just because he couldn’t perform with her. Maybe that’s why he feels so torn and angry sometimes when he looks at other men’s bodies. Maybe that’s why he has to work so hard to prove he’s a man.

But then he thinks about what his uncle and the rest of the Bath Avenue crew would say. No, it’s unacceptable. He’ll kill someone else before he admits that’s what he’s about.

“Listen,” he says to Ms. Fusco. “If you’re not sure about me, come sit down on this bed. I’ll show you.”

“Oh Philip.” She brings her hand up to the side of her face. “Just forget I said anything.”

75

Alex Schiff and his friend Paul Goldman are having lunch at a hamburger place across the street from their private school on the Upper West Side. Greek cooks work over the grill like men digging a grave. Frankie Valli sings “Sherry Baby” on the radio. Smoke and humidity fill the room.

“I just got my tongue pierced. You wanna see?” Paul opens his mouth.

Alex ignores him and stares straight into the vat of pickles in the middle of the table. Life sucks.

And now that his father is about to go to trial for murder, it sucks even more.

His grades have been going down the drain for weeks. He can’t concentrate in class anymore. And he constantly has the feeling people are looking at him.

Until just lately, he hadn’t even thought of his father as just a guy. He was a dark powerful force to be resisted, like the Shadow King in an
X-Men
comic or the disco revival. An embarrassment. An object of ridicule. And maybe once in awhile someone he loved. It was only in ninth grade that Alex stopped to consider that his parents might have had lives of their own before he was born and might still conceivably have sex. But the idea of his father frightened and vulnerable, an ordinary man in trouble, is more than he can get his mind around.

A slightly older white kid wearing a Snoop Doggy Dogg T-shirt under a purple warm-up jacket and a Cat in the Hat striped cap sidles into the booth next to him.

“Excuse me,” he says.

“Hey, we’re already sitting here.” Paul opens his mouth, revealing the lump of metal on his tongue.

“Now I’m sitting here too,” says Philip’s cousin Ronnie. He looks at Jake’s son. “You’re Alex, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

Ronnie studies the menu for a second and then sets it aside. “I got a message for your father,” he says. “Don’t go where you don’t belong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’ll know.” Ronnie gets up and looks down at Paul, whose mouth is hanging open.

“Damn, boy!” he says. “You got a fuckin’ paper clip on your tongue!”

76

Jake arrives home just before midnight that night and heads straight up to his son’s room.

“How you doing?”

Alex is lying on his bed with the headphones on, Kurt Cobain screaming wordless adolescent fury into his brain.

“You got any more messages for me from the knuckleheads?”

Alex shrugs. If the visit from Philip’s cousin Ronnie bothered him that much, he hasn’t let on about it yet.

“You mind if I turn this down a sec?” Jake asks.

The boy’s eyes remain motionless. His mouth twists slightly. A heavy secondhand feeling lingers in the air, like all the oxygen in the room has been through his lungs twice already.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved with all this crap.” Jake turns down the volume a little and sits at the foot of the bed.

No response.

“You know, starting on Friday, things could be kind of different around here.”

Alex still doesn’t say anything. Kurt Cobain is just murmuring at the moment. At least Jake has a shot at his attention.