“Well, that swallowtail coat and spats getup isn’t exactly endearing him to that down-home jury. Or his loud, bullying style. He’s about as subtle as John Barrymore half-in-the-bag.”
A waiter handed us menus and Lindbergh examined his with unblinking eyes, his expression not unlike the one the defendant had been wearing in court.
The middle-aged, potbellied waiter, though busy, stood attentively by while we read the menu and ordered at leisure; Lindbergh wasn’t just any customer, after all.
“What are the ‘Hauptmann Fries’?” I asked him.
“German fried potatoes,” he said blandly.
Lindbergh ordered vegetable soup and a hard roll; Breckinridge had the Lamb Chops Jafsie; and I had the Gow Goulash (named for Betty, the nurse, who’d come from Scotland to testify a few days before).
While we waited for our lunches, I said, “I notice Wilentz didn’t ask me about that suspicious guy I saw walk by Jafsie and me, at the cemetery.”
“Oh?” Breckinridge said.
Lindy said nothing.
“Must not fit his no-conspiracy thesis,” I said. “Slim, did he ask you about the guy
“What guy?” Slim asked.
“The guy you saw on
Lindbergh shrugged.
“Come on, Slim—it probably
“Just some bystander,” he said.
“Oh, it’s just a coincidence, we both saw, on our two separate trips, at our two separate cemeteries, a stooped-over wop covering his face with a hanky, while he walked by checking us out? Slim. Please.”
Lindbergh said, rather tightly, “Let Wilentz do his job.”
I sat forward; silverware clinked. “Why didn’t Wilentz ask me anything about my
“That is not,” he said crisply, “the focus of this trial. Let it go.”
“Let it go? Maybe
His mouth twitched irritably. “Just use common sense on the stand, Nate. All right?”
“Common sense?”
Our food arrived; I waited till everybody was served and the waiter was gone. The Gow Goulash looked tomatoey and was steaming hot and smelled good.
“Common sense,” I repeated. “You mean, lie on the stand?”
Lindbergh glared at me, but said nothing.
Breckinridge said, “No one is suggesting that, Heller, certainly.”
I took a bite of the goulash; it tasted as good as it looked. Damn near as good as Betty Gow looked, for that matter.
“You know, gents,” I said reflectively, “I’m from Chicago, and in many respects I’m your typical low-life greedy Chicago cop. Of course I’m private now, and part of why I left the department is that some people assumed I was for sale at any price. I’m not.”
“No one is suggesting…” Breckinridge began, nervously.
“There’s a lot of things I’ll do for money, or even just the hell of it. But I make it a point not to lie on witness stands.”
Lindbergh was looking at his soup as he spooned it; eating quickly, for him.
“You remember that gun I loaned you, Slim? The one you took to the cemetery that night?”
He nodded, but he didn’t look at me.
“I lied on the witness stand, once. The cops and the mob had a patsy picked out. It was even okay with the patsy—he was in on the fix. I didn’t see the harm of going along with it. So I lied on the witness stand.”
Lindbergh touched his lips with a napkin.
“It got me ahead,” I said, shrugging. “It’s how I got to be the youngest plainclothes officer on the goddamn Chicago police. But it rubbed my father the wrong way. Old union guy that he was. Stuffy about things like that, like telling the truth under oath. Funny—he didn’t even believe in God, yet if they put him under oath, he couldn’t have told anything but the truth. Anyway. That gun I loaned you, he killed himself with it. My gun. Since then, I’ve been fussy about what I say on witness stands.”
Slim said, “I’m sorry about your father.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“I know what your point is. I don’t appreciate being called a liar.”
