We stand like human islands in Judge Franklin’s chambers, an archipelago of attorneys situated around the mainland of her mahogany desk. Blake Sims to the left. I’m in the center with Jenny behind me. Livy stands to the right, apart and alone, reading the spines of the books in Franklin’s shelves.
“Ms. Sutter, are you with us?”
Livy half turns to the judge but doesn’t come close to eye contact with me or Jenny. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge looks up at me, her eyes hard. “All right, Mr. Cage. What exactly is on this tape?”
Blake Sims is shaking his head, but he doesn’t speak.
“I haven’t heard it myself, Judge. But this woman claims that it refers directly to the murder of Del Payton, and I have reason to believe she’s telling the truth.”
Franklin transfers her glare to Jenny. “How did you come by this tape, young lady?”
“I worked for Clayton Lacour. The lawyer who made the tape. I went to work for him to try to find out the identities of my birth parents. I’m an adopted child, and I knew that Lacour had handled my adoption.” Jenny glances at Livy, who is pointedly ignoring her. “While working for Lacour, I found out Leo Marston had been involved in my adoption. When I quit that job, I took all the files and tapes pertaining to Judge Marston with me.”
“You mean you stole them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Judge Franklin looks like she wants a cigarette or a drink, and probably both. “I don’t understand. Why were there tapes at all?”
“Mr. Lacour taped most of his phone calls. He was connected with the Marcello family in New Orleans. You know, Mafia. He was seriously paranoid.”
Franklin sighs and holds out her hand. “Let me have the tape.”
I hand over the cassette. The judge studies it for a few moments, then speaks without looking up. “Did you learn who your birth parents were?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Who are they?”
Livy goes rigid beside the shelves.
“At least one of them is in this room right now, Judge. Do you want me to say more?”
Franklin shakes her head in amazement. “Not at this time.” She looks up at me. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on behind this lawsuit, but I don’t appreciate having my court used as an arena to play out private vendettas. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor.”
“I want counsel back at their respective tables. You”-Franklin points at Jenny-“stay with me. I’m going to listen to this tape. Then I’ll make my decision as to admissibility. If I walk back into that courtroom and announce that the tape will be played, I don’t want to hear a single objection. If I don’t mention the tape, the same holds true, and I will give this case to the jury. It’s late, and there’s too much craziness surrounding this trial to drag it into tomorrow if we don’t have to.” She claps her hands together. “Everybody out.”
As I walk back to my table, Caitlin nods in encouragement from the bar. I take my seat and slide back within earshot of her.
“What do you have?” she whispers.
“I’m not sure. A tape of Marston and a New Orleans lawyer. Jenny says it will nail Marston.”
“You haven’t heard it?”
“No. Franklin’s listening to it now. She’s going to rule on admissibility.”
“I’m praying here,” Caitlin says. “I’m actually praying.”
The wait is almost impossible to bear. Two minutes stretch to five, then ten. The spectators are silent at first, but as the minutes drag on, they begin to whisper. Without Franklin to intimidate them, the whisper grows to a hum, then a dull roar. It reminds me of students assembled in a gymnasium. Twice I look across the aisle to Marston’s table, but Leo and Livy stare straight ahead, their faces set in stone. Only Blake Sims looks worried. Sims looks, in fact, like he would rather be getting a root canal than sitting at his client’s table.
At last Judge Franklin’s chamber door opens, silencing the court. Jenny Doe walks through first and heads for the spectators’ benches, her head bowed. Franklin emerges carrying a cassette tape player, a cheap jam box with a silver antenna sticking up off of it.
At Marston’s table, Blake Sims actually covers his eyes.
“Yes,” whispers Caitlin from behind me.
Judge Franklin takes the bench, sets the tape player before her, then turns to the jury box. “Members of the jury, I am about to play a tape recording of two voices having a telephone conversation. One, I am told, belongs to a lawyer in New Orleans. The other, I am convinced, belongs to the plaintiff in this case, Leo Marston. I have instructed counsel to make no objections to the playing of this tape. The supreme court might disagree with my decision, but this is not a murder trial, and I suspect that it will never see an appeals court.”
A murmur of anticipation ripples through the crowd.
“The language on the tape is profane,” Judge Franklin goes on, “as language spoken between men in private sometimes tends to be. I will play only that portion of the tape I believe relevant to this case. I want no displays of emotion. I want absolute silence. I will eject anyone who disobeys that order.”
She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. Then another liver-spotted hand emerges from the black robe. It presses a button on the machine and turns the speakers toward the jury.
Static fills the courtroom. Then an unfamiliar male voice comes from the speakers, the New Orleans accent plain: Brooklyn with a little crawfish thrown in. This must be Clayton Lacour.
“… and this problem, Leo, it’s, you know, one of those things you could earn a lot of gratitude by fixing.”
“I’m listening.”
A collective intake of breath by the crowd as it recognizes the resonant voice of Leo Marston.
“Order!” demands Judge Franklin.
“This goddamn new guy they got at the field office here,” Lacour goes on, “Hughes, his name is, he’s not playing by the old rules. This is the new SAC I’m talkin’ ’bout. He’s stoppin’ by for coffee at Carlos’s office at the Town and Country, for God’s sake, got surveillance on him around the clock. Uncle C is gettin’ ulcers. You gotta help me out here, cher.”
“I’m not sure what you want.”
“What I want? It’s not me, Leo. I’m just passing a message from the man.”
“From Marcello?”
“Yeah. Elvis was down here a few months ago, and he told Carlos you were tight with Hoover. He said-”
“Elvis?”
“Yeah. Presley. That, ah… what’s his first name? Ray. Carlos’s guys call him Elvis.”
A pause on Marston’s end. Then: “I thought Frank Costello greased the skids with Hoover for Marcello.”
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, okay? But Carlos and Frank are on the outs just now. Not a good time for Carlos to call New York for a favor. So anyway, Elvis was down here, and he told the man you guys cooled out a nigger down there two or three years back, and Hoover let it slide for you-”
A gasp from the jury box.
“-said you call him Edgar, like he’s your uncle or something.” Lacour laughing now. “Anyway, Carlos wants you to talk to the old queen and get this Harold Hughes off his back. This fucking guy don’t know how it works down here.”
“Does Marcello understand how things work with Hoover?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hoover expects a quid pro quo.”
“Hey, there’s always a quid pro quo, right? That’s business. But look, Elvis wasn’t just talkin’ shit about this nigger, was he?”
“No. Hoover grew up in Washington, D.C., when it was still a Southern town. This business you’re talking about was in sixty-eight. Hoover would have traded twenty nigras for one electoral vote for Nixon. It was that close. You tell Marcello I’ll speak to Edgar, but remember… quid pro quo. That goes for me as well.”
“Hey, do I know you or don’t I? Now, what about those gas leases where they’re dredging down by Houma-.”
