squints at me now, so that I sense he can no longer see me. He feels around until he opens the center drawer of his desk, pulls out a small polishing cloth, and goes to work on each lens, exhaling a little warm breath on them as he works.
“Represented me on a couple of matters,” he says.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s been a few years,” he says. “Back in the sixties. Some property issues.”
“As you say, he’s a good lawyer.”
He puts the glasses back on, so he can focus again. The cloth disappears into the center drawer, everything in its place.
“So if it isn’t the court budget, what is it you need to see me about?”
“I’m looking for information on some appointments you made to the County Arts Commission some time ago?”
“People I appointed?” he says. “Why? One of them do something wrong?”
“One of them was killed,” I tell him.
“When was this?”
“Two months ago. I think you probably read about it in the papers. His name was Gerald Metz. He was shot and killed out in front of the federal courthouse, along with his lawyer.”
He looks at me, makes a face. “I remember seeing the headlines. But the name doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t think I know him.”
“You appointed him.”
“I appoint a lot of people to a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I know ’em. You have questions about this, you can get the information from my staff,” he says. “You go out the door there and find my secretary, give her your name, and she’ll get whatever information we have.”
“You say you don’t remember the name Gerald Metz?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I have two other names. Can I ask you if you know either of them?”
“Listen, I’m busy,” he says.
“What I need to know is, if you didn’t know them personally, were they recommended for appointment by someone else? And if so, who?”
“Why would you want to know that? Who did you say you worked for? Are you a reporter?” Fangs start to come out.
“No, sir. I’m a lawyer. I had a friend who was also killed. He was the attorney who was killed.”
He nods soberly. “I remember the shooting. Saw it in the papers. A terrible thing.”
“The client’s name was Gerald Metz.”
“Emm.”
“You didn’t know that one of the men who was shot in that incident was someone you had appointed to the arts commission?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No one told me that. I knew Mrs. Rush was on the commission,” he says. “I take it her husband was your friend.”
“You know Dana?”
“No. I can’t say I ever met her. But I knew the husband.”
“How did you know Nick?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Met him somewhere. An event, a fund-raiser. We’d met a few times. He seemed like a nice enough guy. What was the client’s name again?”
“Gerald Metz.”
He thinks about this, shakes his head slowly. “No. I don’t think I know that name. I’m not saying I didn’t appoint him. I just don’t remember the name.”
“So you wouldn’t know offhand why you might have appointed Mr. Metz to the commission?”
“I’m sure he was qualified. But offhand I can’t say.”
“Would there be documents anywhere that might show whether there were recommendations made by others to your office regarding these appointments?”
“Could be,” he says. I get the sense that the answer to this might depend on what I want to use these records for.
“Can you tell me how Dana Rush, Nick’s wife, got appointed?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he says. “Her husband asked me to appoint her.”
“Nick?”
“I assume that’s the only husband she had.”
“Then you must have known Nick pretty well?”
“As I said, over the years we’d met a few times. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Where can I get the records for these appointments?”
“Talk to my staff,” he says. Tresler is back to his pile of papers, trying to get rid of me.
“Can I ask you about one more name?”
“Who is it?” Now he’s getting short.
“The name is Nathan Fittipaldi.”
He thinks about this for a second, searches his memory quickly, then shakes his head. “Never heard of him.”
“You appointed him to the commission as well.”
“Like I say, I appoint a lot of people. If you have questions, talk to my staff,” he says. “Now, get out.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It has taken Harry less than two days to run down Tresler’s list of campaign contributors. As expected, Adam Tolt shows up everywhere.
“The man’s on everybody’s list of givers,” says Harry. Harry is sprawled in one of my client chairs, scanning the computer printouts as he summarizes his discoveries.
“Congress, half the state legislature, city council. Tolt gave to both candidates for governor the last time around. You’d think that would piss somebody off,” he says. “Apparently not. The guy’s name and address must come preprinted on everybody’s Rolodex when they buy ’em. Remind me never to get involved in giving money,” says Harry.
For some reason I don’t think this is going to be a problem.
“Tolt gave to all five supervisors,” he says. “No favorites. Two hundred and fifty dollars each. The max for individuals. He gave the same amount to Tresler.” Harry figures we can use this as a benchmark to judge the others. “He’s got a lot of money, but he gives in small amounts.”
It is one of the urban myths, that high rollers by definition give large amounts. Even wealthy ones usually confine it to a few hundred dollars per candidate. They just spread it around more.
“Metz and Fittipaldi both show up,” says Harry. “But again small. Metz gave a hundred. Fittipaldi a hundred and a half. What’s interesting is they only gave to Tresler. My guess is they had a goal in mind.”
“Appointment to the commission,” I say.
Harry nods. “And while I don’t like to disappoint you, Dana doesn’t show up at all.”
It seems she wasn’t lying. Dana is nonpolitical, at least when it comes to politics.
“But there is a bell ringer,” says Harry. “Guess who shows up as a major donor?”
“Nick.”
“How did you know that?”
“Call it a hunch,” I tell him. Tresler knew him. A politician with three hundred thousand constituents in his district isn’t likely to remember your first name unless you fall in one of two categories: You have clout or you’ve done something for him recently.
“How much?” I ask.
