American Gangster

12. The Judge

In the middle pew of a crowded courtroom, Richie Roberts, in a somber suit and tie, sat with his attorney, Sheila Allison, also in a severe (if stylish) suit, waiting their turn. Everyone in the courtroom was half of a divorced couple sitting with his or her attorney. Laurie Roberts and the male attorney representing her were on the other side, in more ways than one.

Richie had noticed the odd sight of attorneys bearing papers clipped with five-dollar bills or tens and sometimes even twenties, heading down the aisle toward the bench.

Sheila, a dark-haired woman, her professional demeanor taking not a whit off her blonde prettiness, was saying, “You should be prepared for your wife’s counsel to hit below the belt.”

“Who I had relations with,” he said, mildly defensive, “since we broke up, isn’t any of her business.”

He was specifically thinking of the fact that he and Sheila were sleeping together, and was wondering if having sex with your divorce attorney could be a black mark against you in a custody case.

“I wasn’t talking about your proclivities, Richie,” she said, patient but having to work at it. “Those I know only too well. This isn’t about you having a wandering eye.”

“What is it about then?”

Her expression was regretful, like a mother feeding a spoon of castor oil to her kid. “I’m talking about you being a cop.”

He made a face, waved that off. “You kidding? What, about me taking money? I don’t do that.” He laughed once, harshly. “You’ve seen where I live. Does it look like I care about money?”

But Sheila, like everybody else in this part of the world, couldn’t seem to get it through her lovely head that maybe not every cop was in it for the graft. “If you have taken money, Richie, I promise you, it will come out.”

“Fine. Swell. I haven’t.”

An eyebrow arched in the oval face. “You’re going to have to sit down with shrinks and social workers.”

“Big deal.”

“And your wife’s lawyers, and the judge, and there will be a lot of questions.”

“I’ll have answers.” He nodded toward the bench, in front of which a man in a gray suit was arranging the folders the lawyers had been bringing up to him. “What’s that about?”

She smiled tightly. “Scheduling.”

“I mean, the money.”

“The money is about scheduling. That’s the judge’s assistant. He’s rearranging the pre-trial cases in order of... rearranging them.”

“In order of the amount of gratuity, you mean?”

She didn’t answer his question. Instead she asked her own: “What about your old friends from the neighborhood? You still hang out with them?”

He shrugged. “Summer softball on Sundays with some guys.”

“With some wise guys, you mean. That’s going to look good, Richie. Just great.”

He felt red rising up his collar. “I grew up with those guys. Went to school with them. Big deal. I never did any business with them.”

Too casually, she asked, “What about Joseph Sadano?”

“What about Joseph Sadano?”

She paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out. “Richie, I’m just trying to understand certain things your wife has said. If they’re not true, just tell me. But if they are, well... what I don’t know can definitely hurt you.”

“Yeah, Joey’s a guy I hang with sometimes. Basketball. Poker.”

“You bet on basketball with him?”

“No. We play it. Badly.”

“What kind of poker games? High stakes?”

“Yeah, all the way up to a quarter a raise. Are you kidding me, Sheila?”

“Joey Sadano... he’s also your son’s godfather?”

He nodded, rolled his eyes. “Not that kind of godfather. Jesus.”

Sheila’s mouth tightened — it was not exactly a smile, and was almost a frown. She nodded toward the side of the courtroom where Laurie and her counsel sat. “Do you really care about this, Rich? Or do you just not want your ex to win — even when maybe she should.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sheila’s gaze wasn’t any more cutting than a laser beam. “How often do you see your son as it is?”

“Not enough as I should,” he admitted. “And it’s my fault, kind of work I do. But Laurie, Christ, she wants to make it never.”

Sheila studied him. She laughed, once, a tiny thing that didn’t make it out of her throat. “You want this bad enough to invest another twenty?”

They’d been keeping their voices low, but now Richie whispered: “What, pay some prick judge off?”

She sighed. “Well, I’m not to going to sit on a hard bench all day.”

And Sheila got a twenty dollar bill from her purse, and took it up to the judge’s assistant with it clipped to Richie’s paperwork.

When the bailiff said, “All rise,” Richie rose, but he wasn’t in a hurry about it.

Finally Frank Lucas got the nerve up to make an important call. He got the number from Joe Louis, who after all owed him a favor; this one might be well worth the fifty grand.

“I want you to know who I am,” Frank said to her. Even over the phone her voice retained its music, its magic. “That you’re an important man in Harlem?”

“No. Who I am. Where I come from. Are you free Saturday afternoon?”

And at one o’clock Saturday, Eva was waiting on a corner in Riverside, right where they’d arranged, just as much a vision in a dark sweater and skirt and handbag as in the gold-lamé gown.

Doc pulled the Lincoln Town Car up to the curb, and Frank told him, “I got this,” and opened the rear door and stepped out and stood before her as awkward as any downhome suitor.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” Frank said.

“No. No, you’re right on time.”

“A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t have to wait for anything.”

She smiled at that, almost laughed, and then she saw he meant every word.

The perfect gentleman, Frank held the door for her, then slid in after her.

“And where are we going?” she asked.

“Teaneck,” he said.

“What’s in Teaneck?”

“My mother.”

Before long the lovely young Hispanic woman was studying family photos on the mantel of the living room’s fireplace, with Frank at her side.

“Is that your father?” she asked, indicating a photograph of a well-dressed, respectable-looking Bumpy Johnson.

“No.”

“Who is it?”

“Martin Luther King.”

“It’s not! You’re a big tease.”

“You’re right.” Frank smiled at Bumpy’s visage. “To me, he was just as important as Dr. King. More so.”

“What his name?”

“Johnson.”

“What did he do?”

“Lot of things. And he had a lot of friends. He served New York and it served him back.”

Eva wasn’t looking at the photo now; it was Frank she was studying. “What was he to you?”

“Well, let me think about it... More than an employer. Teacher.”

“What did he teach you?”

Frank’s head moved to one side; his eyes narrowed. “How to take my time.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes. It is if you’re going to do something, do it right, with care... with love.”

He hadn’t meant to make the words sound seductive, but she clearly was warming to him, standing closer, her voice softer now as she asked, “What else did he teach you?”

The images flew unbidden into his brain: men beaten to a pulp, guys shot to death, Bumpy watching as gasoline was poured onto a competitor and a match was lit...

“How to be a gentleman,” Frank said.

Bumpy’s calm, benign face in the photograph seemed to agree with this assessment.

“Is that what you are?” She slipped her arm in his. “A gentleman?”

Her smile said she doubted this; but it also said she didn’t mind. She was clearly marking the time before he tried to take her upstairs. His mother’s house — right. Sure...

But Frank said smoothly, “I got five different apartments in the city I could’ve taken you to. I have a penthouse that would steal your breath away. But I brought you here, instead...”

A voice from the nearby staircase said: “Oh, is this her?”

Eva turned toward the voice and so, smilingly, did Frank.

His gray-haired mother was making her way down the stairs, beaming at them.

“I brought you here,” he whispered, “to meet my mother.”

Who was crossing the room with her arms wide open, saying, “Oh, she’s beautiful, Frank. Just look at her — an angel come down from heaven.”

Then Momma was embracing Eva, who looked at Frank questioningly, wondering if she’d been had.

Not yet, he thought. Not yet.