Final Appeal

Artie’s eyes fly open suddenly, like a corpse reanimated. “Look, Grace! Look what I got!” He starts to unbutton his fly.

Oh, Christ. “I know what you got, Artie. Keep it in your pants.”

“No, no, Gracie! Something totally awesome! Look!”

I look down. Artie’s work shirt is yanked up to his neck. Directly north of his stomach, between two rather erect nipples, sits a basketball, regulation size. Its surface is brown and pebbled, and in the center, in familiar script, it says Wilson. “What is that?” I say, aghast.

“I got a tat! Isn’t it so excellent?”

“A tat?”

“Artie has a tat-toooo,” Winn says, singsong.

“No pain no gain,” Artie mumbles. “Today I am a man.”

“I got one, too,” Winn says, getting up. He brushes off his soiled pants, which does nothing to improve them. “Two tats. One for Harvard, one for me.”

“Terrific.”

“Barukh attah Adonai,” Artie says, “Eloheinu meleckh ha- olam. Let’s light the candles!” He waves his hand in the air, then it flops back against the cracked sidewalk.

“Want to see my tattoo?” Winn asks, standing a little too close for comfort. He smells like cheap beer and body odor.

“Keep your shirt on, Shakie,” I say.

“Grace’s being mean to me, Artie,” Winn says, pouting.

“Don’t be mean to him,” Artie says, eyes closed, from the pavement.

I look at Winn, unamused.

“Two points,” says Winn. “For me.”

Artie caterwauls in the shower while Winn sits forward on the beat-up couch in Artie’s apartment, quizzing me about what happened to Maddie and me. He looks uneasy when I finish the story and takes off his rain bonnet to run his fingers through his greasy hair. “This is too dangerous for you, for your daughter. I never should have gotten you involved in it.”

“So why did you?” I sit back on a folding chair in front of a secondhand coffee table.

“I had no choice. I had nothing on the leads I was running and I know something’s there.”

“What do you think’s going on? You said Galanter’s not the only judge involved.” I sip a Coke to hide my anxiety.

“Everybody dance now!” Artie sings in the shower, to C + C Music Factory.

Winn glances at the bathroom door, then leans close enough to give me another whiff of his rich stench. “Allegedly involved. I’m not sure yet, but I think Galanter’s in on it and maybe Townsend.”

I feel stunned. And no Armen. “A conspiracy?”

“It happened before, in this circuit, in the nineteen forties. Judges Buffington and Davis, together they sold a group of cases. One of ’em was working with a Second Circuit judge, too, who took half a mil. You could buy a lot of justice for that much money back then.”

I think of the $650,000. “But that was then.”

“Last year, Judge Aguilar in California told a Teamster who was embezzling union funds about one of our wiretaps on him. And Judge Collins, my personal favorite, took a hundred thou to give a drug dealer a lesser sentence. Both federal judges. Collins even collected his salary during the six years he spent in jail.”

“This a hobby of yours, judicial misconduct?”

“It’s what I do. All I do, in fact.”

“Like a specialty?”

He nods. “It’s fun, it’s brainwork, and it’s mostly bloodless.”

“The Quaker part.”

“In a way. I like taking these guys down. They’ve had every advantage, every privilege, and still they go bad. They’re hypocrites. They’ve got no excuse except greed.”

It doesn’t sound like Armen.

“Now it’s Galanter’s turn. It’s a scandal, Grace. It’ll blow the courthouse wide open.”

My heart sinks. For the court and for Armen, when they find out about the bank account.

“You still upset about today? You look kind of sick.”

I chug some Coke. “Just the gal for undercover work.”

“You’re not working undercover anymore. I want you out of it. Clear.”

“Why?”

“You need to ask, after today?”

“You’re assuming I want to get out. Tell me what you think is going on.”

“You remember the case that was argued Monday, the one I blew up? Canavan?”

“The racketeering case, with the florists.”

“Yes. The Mob was behind it. The lawyer just couldn’t figure out how.”

I force out the words. “The Mob?”

“I believe they got to the judges and paid somebody off to make it come out their way, either Galanter or Townsend or both. Artie told me the judges vote right after the cases are argued, and I needed more time to gather evidence. So I had to make sure the argument didn’t happen. Ticktickticktick.”

I put down my Coke and look at him with wonder. “They did postpone that argument.”

“Of course they did, and I got more time to watch everybody play the game. I told you I’m smarter than I look.”

I feel my pulse quicken. If Winn is right, the $650,000 couldn’t have been a bribe for Canavan. Armen would have voted to reverse, sending the defendants to jail: clearly not the desired outcome from the Mob’s point of view. “I don’t understand something. Does this have anything to do with Armen’s death?”

“I think so. He may have been killed to prevent him from voting in Canavan.”

“My God. Who killed him?”

“Somebody they paid to do it. Some scumbag.”

“Or Galanter.”

“What?” He rears back slightly. “That’s not how these cases work.”

“Maybe this one did. There was no break in, and Bernice wouldn’t have let just anybody in.” I tell him how Bernice attacked Galanter, getting excited as I speak; it renews my determination to work for him.

“Where’s the Canavan case now?” We both hear Artie turn off the water in the shower; Winn looks worriedly at the bathroom door. “Has it been scheduled for argument again?”

“I don’t know, it was Sarah’s case. It’ll probably be listed with the next sitting, a month from now. What is it you want me to do, when I work for Galanter?”

“Do you have the job already?”

“No, but I’ll get it.”

“Don’t. I told you, I want you out.”

“I’m going ahead, so you might as well tell me what I’m looking for. I want to find out if Galanter killed Armen.”

He rubs his gritty forehead. “I knew this was going to happen. I must’ve been crazy to—”

“All I need is for you to protect Maddie at school. I’ll be with her the whole weekend. Plus I have the local police.”

“You what?”

“I want you to park a car right across from the school field. Here’s her picture.” I fish one out of my wallet and hand it to him. “It’s not a new one, she’s actually cuter than that.”

“Freckles. I like freckles.” He smiles at the picture and slips it into his pocket. “I’ll have her watched, but I still want you to bow out. Quit now, I’ll handle Galanter. You’re too exposed. I don’t like it, Grace.”

“Tell me what I’m looking for. Where do I start, the Canavan record?”