Kiss

3.

Even though Henry Lowell had received his undergraduate degree from Duke and his law degree from Harvard, locker-room gossip maintained that he'd once gone to Oxford University. Either way, his record was an impressive one. Since starting work at the District Attorney's Office three years ago, he'd racked up twenty-six convictions as opposed to a sole acquittal. He had never tried a murder case.

Six feet four inches tall, beanpole thin, lank dust-colored hair hanging on his broad forehead and crowding his hazel-colored eyes, Lowell stood with Carella just inside the massive bronze doors that opened onto the marbled lobby of the Criminal Courts Building on High Street downtown. It was ten minutes to nine on Monday morning, the seventh day of January. It had taken almost two weeks to select the jury; this morning the trial would begin in earnest.

Carella again wondered, as he had the first time they'd met, why Lowell sported a - British accent rather than a Southern one, or for that matter any regional American one. He also wondered how the accent would sit with a jury composed of three white males, four black males, two Hispanic males, one white female, one Hispanic female, and one Asian female; you heard plenty of exotic accents in this city nowadays, but hardly any of them were British.

"I must tell you straightaway," Lowell said, "that I hope this doesn't break down into a trial of issues rather than of substance.”

Carella didn't know what he meant.

"I don't need to mention," Lowell said, "that in this city there have been recent incidents of Italian-Americans attacking and harming African-Americans ...”

Carella hated both those labels.

"... and conversely there have been incidents of African-Americans attacking and harming Italian-Americans. Point is, we have here a case of two African-Americans attacking an Italian-American ...”

My father, Carella thought.

"... and in fact inflicting upon him the most grievous bodily harm.”

Killing him, in fact, Carella thought.

"One of the perpetrators is still alive, and will be tried today and in the days to come. I'll do my best, of course, to convict him, but I don't want this trial to disintegrate into an ethnic contest. Point is, I'd be much happier if your father's name were Smith or Jones, but unfortunately it isn't.”

Wasn't, Carella thought.

"I don't have to tell you, I'm sure, that there is still a lingering prejudice in this country against people of Italian descent. The paisans in your own precinct didn't help matters any when they ...”

"If you're referring ...”

"... when they chased a black kid into St.

Catherine's and later went in there and made a mess of the place.”

"They're no paisans of mine," Carella said.

Lowell looked at him.

"Do you ever get over to England?" he asked.

"No," Carella said.

He wondered what that had to do with the price of fish.

"I was there a short while ago," Lowell said, "I love it there, well, Oxford, you know.”

He smiled in reminiscence. He had a good smile. Carella imagined he had used that smile to great advantage in the twenty-six cases he'd successfully prosecuted.

"Point is ..." he said.

Bad verbal tic, Carella thought. Point is.

"... during my stay, I ran across an interview in a newspaper called The Guardian. If you're not familiar with it ...”

"I'm not.”

"... it's a liberal newspaper, quite respectable. The piece was written by a man named John Williams. Its title was `Of Wops and Cops.`”

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"As I recall, the subject of the interview was some cheap American thriller writer of Italian descent. Point is, neither Mr.

Williams nor his newspaper seemed to realize just how offensive the use of the word wops was. They could just as easily have titled the piece Of Niggers and Triggers, do you catch my drift?”

"No, I'm sorry, I don't," Carella said.

"It's unconscious. Even there in England, thousands of miles away, a presumably respected journalist like John Williams ... is the name familiar to you?”

"It is now," Carella said.

"John Williams ...”

"I'll remember it.”

"... can feel free to slant an interview into an ethnic attack. Point is, however much you may deplore it, there'll always be people who'll find satisfaction in equating you with those paisans, those guineas, those wops, yes, who invaded St.

Catherine's Church.”

"I see," Carella said.

"So if we allow this trial to become a name-calling contest ...”

"Uh-huh.”

"One minority group against another ...”

"Uh-huh.”

"An Italian-American victim versus ...”

“I find that word offensive, too," Carella said.

"Which word?”

"Italian-American.”

"You do?" Lowell said, surprised. "Why?”

"Because it is," Carella said.

He did not think that someone with a name like Lowell would ever understand that Italian-American was a valid label only when Carella's great-grandfather first came to this country and acquired his citizenship, but that it stopped being descriptive or even useful the moment his grand-parents were born here. That was when it became American, period.

Nor would Lowell ever understand that when we insisted upon calling fourth-generation, native-born sons and daughters of long-ago immigrants "Italian-Americans" or "Polish-Americans" or "Spanish-Americans" or "Irish-Americans" or-worst of all- "African-Americans," then we were stealing from them their very American-ness, we were telling them that if their forebears came from another nation, they would never be true Americans here in this land of the free and home of the brave, they would forever and merely remain wops, polacks, spics, micks, or niggers.

"My father was American," Carella said.

And wondered why the hell he had to say it.

"Exactly my ...”

"The man who killed him is American, too.”

"That's how I'd like to keep it," Lowell said.

"Exactly the point I was trying to make.”

But Carella still wondered.

"And thank you for the insight," Lowell said. "I won't use either of those words during the course of the trial. Italian-American, African-American ... gone from my vocabulary as of this moment." He smiled again, and then abruptly looked up at the clock. "It's time we went upstairs," he said. "I hope your mother hasn't got lost.”

Carella looked up the corridor. His mother had gone to the ladies' room some fifteen minutes ago. He saw her coming toward them now, dressed in black, moving with a slow, steady pace over the marbled floors and between the marble columns.

There was a white, lace-edged handkerchief in her right hand. Her dark eyes looked moist.

He wondered if she'd been crying.

"Mom?" he said, going to her and putting his arm around her.

Just that single word.

"I'm fine," she said, and lifted her chin.

Together, they went upstairs, the son and the wife of the victim, and the man who would present their case to a jury not composed of Sonny Cole's peers-the word meant equals, and none of these men or women were murderers-who would determine whether the man who without question had shot and killed Anthony Carella had, in fact, actually shot and killed him. In the sunswept, wood-paneled second-floor courtroom that was General Sessions, Part III, twelve men and women would seek justice. Carella prayed they would find it.

Up close, Emma Bowles was even prettier than in the photograph her husband had shown him. The black-and-white picture hadn't even hinted at the peaches-and-cream complexion or the luster of her dark eyes. Blonde hair cascading long and straight to her shoulders, aglow in the Monday morning sunlight that slanted through the blinds. She was wearing a jumpsuit the color of her eyes, flat sandals with gold thongs that echoed her hair and the slender gold clip that swept it back on the right side of her head. She had a full-lipped mouth, the tented upper lip revealing a wedge of white.

"It's just that ... well, I'll tell you the truth," she said, "a bodyguard would embarrass me.”

"I'm not a bodyguard, Mrs. Bowles,”

Andrew said. "I'm a private investigator.”

"Whatever. But, don't you see, Mr.

Darrow? The police are already working on this, there's no need ...”

"Mrs. Bowles," he said, "your husband hired me to do a job, and with your permission, I'd like to try doing it.”

She was thinking he seemed pretty confident of himself. Tall, slender blond man wearing a brown turtleneck shirt and a corduroy jacket that matched the amber color of his eyes, dark brown slacks, brown socks, brown highly polished loafers. Easy, pleasant smile, soft, well-modulated voice, - not the sort of man she had expected. Not the sort at all.

"What exactly does he want you to do?" she asked.

"Two things," Andrew said. "First, he wants me to protect you. ...”

"Which is bodyguarding, isn't it?" she said.

"Well, no, not exactly. Because he also wants me to find out who's trying to kill you.”

"How much is he paying you for this?”

"Well, I think that's between me and your husband.”

"No, I don't think so," she said.

"Well," Andrew said, and shrugged. "The going rate for a private detective is thirty-five dollars an hour.”

"I see.”

"In Chicago," he said.

"And what's the going rate here?”

"I don't know what it is here," he said.

"I'm charging your husband what I'd charge him in Chicago. Thirty-five an hour. Plus expenses.”

"I'm not sure I know what you're saying.

What's Chicago got to do with any of this?”

"That's where I'm from. Chicago. That's where I'm licensed to operate.”

"I still don't understand," she said. "If you're from Chicago ...”

"Your husband called me there and asked if I'd like to do this work for him.”

"Called you all the way in Chicago?”

"All the way in Chicago, yes.”

"You must be good," she said.

"I am," he said, and smiled. "Your husband hired me to find out who's trying to hurt you, and I'm pretty sure I can do that.”

"I already know who's trying to hurt me.”

"You do?" he said, opening his eyes wide in surprise.

"Yes, I do.”

"Well ... who is it?”

"His name is Roger Tilly. My husband knows who this man is, I told him who this man is, he knows this man, he used to drive for him. It's just that he doesn't trust the police to find him. So he goes all the way to Chicago to hire a bodyguard, when really ...”

"A private investigator," he said, gently correcting her. "Not a - bodyguard, ma'am.”

She said nothing for several moments.

She was wondering if perhaps he might be able to help, after all.

"Well," she said, and hesitated.

He kept watching her expectantly.

"I suppose we can give it a try," she said.

Fat Ollie Weeks kept shaking his head.

Not because he'd found a dead man hanging from an asbestos-covered pipe in the basement, but because he could hear a record player going somewhere upstairs, and the song being sung was a little item called "Fuck tha Police." This was a fine way to teach respect. Black people singing a song like that. Rapping out a song like that. Ollie shook his head again. Ollie hated black people even more than he hated Jews.

He did not wonder what a white man was doing all the way up here in Darkest Africa, because he knew that a lot of goddamn white fools came up here to get their crack thrills. He also didn't wonder how come this particular white man had ended up with a rope around his neck, because he further knew that a lot of goddamn white fools came up here to Zimbabwe West and went back home in body bags. He didn't even wonder how all this had come about. All in good time, he thought, and first things first. Ollie Weeks was a terrible bigot, but he happened to be a good cop.

He phoned in the shit and sat back to wait.

By six-thirty that Monday night, his stomach was grumbling and his patience was running out. He had come on at a quarter to four and had caught this stupid squeal at five-ish, ten minutes after his partner had gone down for coffee and burgers for both of them. Now his partner was only Christ knew where while Ollie was here in this fuckin basement with dripping pipes on the ceiling and a dead man hanging from one of them and a lot of cops in heavy overcoats hanging around freezing cold with their hands in their pockets and Monoghan and Monroe from Homicide just coming down the steps and still no fuckin M.E.

"What've we got here, Weeks?”

Monoghan said.

"A little lynching?" Monroe said, looking up at the dangling man, his witticism missing fire in that the victim was white. Ollie pulled a face nonetheless.

"Where's the fuckin M.E.?" he asked no one. "I called this shit in an hour ago.”

"Busy night tonight," Monoghan said.

"Yeah, why's that?" Ollie asked.

"Guy Fawkes Day," Monoghan said.

"What the fuck's that, Guy Fawkes Day?”

Ollie asked.

"Lots of parties tonight," Monroe said, picking up on the gag. "Guy Fawkes Day.”

"I never heard of no fuckin Guy Fawkes Day," Ollie said.

"Anyway," one of the blues said, "Guy Fawkes Day is in November.”

"Who asked you?" Ollie asked.

"Anyway, it ain't," Monroe said.

"November the fifth," the uniformed cop insisted.

"No, it's in January," Monroe said, shaking his head. "It's today. The seventh of January.”

"Be sure to remember the fifth of November," the cop said.

"Who gives a fuck when Guy Fawkes Day is?" Ollie said. "Where the fuck's the M.E.?”

"My mother was born in England," the cop explained.

"Who gives a fuck where your mother was born?”

Ollie said.

"I'm only saying. Guy Fawkes Day,”

the cop said, and shrugged.

"Dumb fuck hangs himself from the ceiling,”

Ollie said, "I got to wait for my fuckin supper.”

"How do you know somebody else didn't hang him there?" Monroe asked.

"How do you know Guy Fawkes didn't hang him there?" Monoghan asked, and both Homicide detectives burst out laughing. They were both wearing black overcoats and black fedoras. Monoghan had taken to wearing a white silk scarf lately. So had Monroe. They stood with their hands in the pockets of their coats, hats tilted raffishly. They thought they looked like Fred Astaire and Cary Grant in the same old black-and-white movie, going to a party together on Guy Fawkes Day. Actually, they looked like two fat penguins.

"Who gives a fuck who hung - him?" Ollie said, and just then the M.E. came down the steps. "Where the fuck you been?" Ollie asked. "Some fuckin Guy Fawkes party?”

"What?" the M.E. said, and looked up at the hanging man.

"Somebody get him a ladder," Monoghan said.

"Go get him a ladder," Monroe said.

Two of the blues went off looking for a ladder.

The blue whose mother had been born in England stood around looking offended.

"What do you think killed him, Doc?”

Monroe said, and winked at Monoghan.

"Assuming he is dead," Monoghan said, and winked back.

The M.E. glanced at them sourly, and lighted a cigarette.

"That's bad for your health," Monroe said.

The M.E. kept puffing away.

Ollie lighted a cigarette, too.

The corpse kept twisting overhead. He was wearing a long blue overcoat, black leather gloves, blue earmuffs, and a gray fedora. The blues finally came back with a tall ladder. They opened it for the M.E., who watched them nervously.

"I've got acrophobia," he said.

"What the fuck's that, acrophobia?”

Ollie asked.

"Intense fear of heights," the cop whose mother was born in England said.

"This one's a mine of information," Monroe said, glaring at him.

"I'm not going up that ladder," the M.E. said.

He was beginning to turn a little pale.

"Then how the fuck you gonna examine him?”

Ollie asked.

"Take him down," the M.E. said. "I'll examine him down here.”

"What shall we do with this ladder?" one of the blues asked.

"Shove it up your ass," Ollie said. "We ain't allowed to touch him till you pronounce him dead," he explained to the M.E. "That's the rules.”

"I know the rules.”

"So if you won't go up the ladder and pronounce him dead, how the fuck can we take him down? We have to touch him to take him down, don't we?”

"I can tell he's dead from down here. He's dead. I pronounce him dead. Now take him down and I'll examine him.”

"I ain't going up that ladder," Ollie said.

"Me, neither," Monoghan said.

"Go on up that ladder and take him down,”

Monroe told the cop with the English mother.

"I don't go up ladders on Guy Fawkes Day," the cop said.

The other two blues went up the ladder. One of them hoisted the body a bit while the other one loosened the rope from where it was wrapped around the asbestos-covered pipe. Carefully, slowly, they walked the victim down the ladder and lowered him to the ground on his back. The rope was wound tight around the corpse's throat. Somebody had done a very good job on him. The M.E. put his stethoscope to the man's chest.

"You still think he's dead?" Monoghan asked, and winked at Monroe.

"Or should we get a second opinion?”

Monroe asked.

The M.E. looked at them sourly. They watched as he examined the body.

"What do you think killed him?" Monroe asked, still running with the gag.

"You think cause of death might have been hanging?" Monoghan asked, winking at his partner.

"I think cause of death might have been a gunshot wound," the M.E. said, possibly because he had just rolled the victim over and found a bullet hole at the base of his skull.

"Oh," Monoghan said.

Ollie tossed the dead man.

That was when he learned his name was Roger Turner Tilly.

Carella got there half an hour later.

Ollie was waiting for him outside the building, sitting on the front stoop, eating. He had sent the blue with the English mother out to get him a bagful of hamburgers and a large Coke, and he was eating his dinner upstairs here because he didn't like to eat where there were dead bodies. Also, he already figured this wasn't his case. That's why he'd called the Eight-Seven and asked them to beep Carella.

Carella was wearing two sweaters under his heavy overcoat, and he was wearing a woolen muffler and a hat with earflaps, and he was still cold. Ollie was wearing only a sports jacket over his trousers and shirt, but he looked toasty warm.

"Your man's downstairs," he told Carella, and bit into his sixth hamburger.

"Tilly, am I right? Ain't that what you said on the phone?”

"Tilly, right," Carella said.

He had spoken to Ollie late last week, on the offchance he'd have some fresh information on the man Emma Bowles said was trying to kill her.

According to Identification Section records, Tilly had stopped driving Bowles last spring because he'd left the city in March-for a prison named Castleview, all the way upstate.

He'd been sent up there because he'd assaulted a man who'd called him un maricón.

Tilly wasn't un maricón. Besides, he didn't understand Spanish, and he didn't even know what he'd been called until someone later translated it for him. That was when he went looking for the other driver. So that he could break his nose and both his arms, in that order.

The other driver was Hispanic. Or Latino. Or whatever other label was being hung on people of Spanish descent these days. That was why he knew what maricón meant. He had called Tilly maricón because Tilly was small and compact and light on his feet. He didn't know that the reason Tilly was light on his feet was that he'd once been a welterweight boxer. Hence the broken nose and arms.

The dispatcher at Executive Limousine, which was the limousine company for which both Tilly and the Spanish-American Hispanic Latino worked, called the police and also the hospital. The police got there first. Tilly punched one of them while they were putting the cuffs on him. This could have made matters worse for him, but the judge who heard his case thought that anyone with a name like Roger Turner Tilly couldn't be all bad. The judge himself hated minority groups of any stripe or color. He sentenced Tilly to a mere year and a half upstate. Tilly got out in six months.

The address he'd given his parole officer was 335 St. Sebastian Avenue, right up here in Ollie's bailiwick. But no one there had ever heard of him, hence the call to the Eight-Three.

Ollie promised Carella he'd listen around.

Now, as it turned out, he wouldn't have to anymore.

"Are you sure it's him?" Carella asked.

"Never saw the man in my life," Ollie said, chewing. "I'm only telling you what his ID shit said. Roger Turner Tilly.”

"Is the M.E. still here?”

"Nope.”

"What'd he say?”

"Gunshot wound.”

"Where?”

"Back of the head. He's still layin' on the floor down there, go take a look.”

"Who else is down there?”

"Just a couple of blues. We been waiting for the ambulance. It's been a busy night,”

Ollie said, and shook his head. "Fuckin Guy Fawkes Day.”

"Who'd Homicide send?" Carella asked.

"Monoghan and Monroe. They're already gone.

So are the techs. I told you, there's just the stiff and a couple of blues down there. Now that you're here, I can go home.”

"What do you mean?”

"I'll turn over all the paper, you can sit and wait for the meat wagon.”

"What do you mean?" Carella said again.

"I mean it's all yours, Stevie.”

"All mine?”

"Right. You can take it from here.”

"Take what from here? What the hell are you talking about?”

"You can pick up where I left off," Ollie said.

"Where you left off? You haven't even started yet. All you've done ...”

"The case is yours, Steve.”

"Oh, really? How do you figure that?”

"You told me you were looking for Tilly, didn't you? You said you wanted him for attempted murder.”

"No, I said I wanted to question him about an attempted ...”

"Same thing. So now you got him, Stevie baby. He's down the basement.”

"Uh-uh," Carella said. "This one's yours, and you know it.”

He was thinking that if Tilly was in fact the man Emma Bowles had identified as trying to kill her, then she was no longer in any danger from him. So why should he take on a homicide from another precinct? Ollie had caught it, the case was his. Ollie felt otherwise.

"They're related," he said. "First Man Up, Stevie, you know the rules.”

"First Man Up is when a previous homicide investigation is in progress. That doesn't apply here.”

"You were investigating an attempted murder, Stevie. That's the same thing.”

"No, it's not.”

"Besides, you can close this one out in a minute.

It's a suicide. The man hung himself from the ceiling.”

"I thought you said there was a head injury.”

"That's what the M.E. said. I'm saying he hung himself.”

"Either way, it has to be investigated as a homicide. You know that, Ollie. That means the whole nine yards.”

"So be my guest," Ollie said, and took another bite.

"No," Carella said. "It's your case.”

"You think so?”

"I know so.”

"Well, maybe so, who knows?" Ollie said.

"But I wonder what my lieutenant'll say about that. 'Cause I'll tell you, Stevie, the Eight-Three is up to its ass in homicides right now, and what we don't need is a fuckin 'nother one that's related to a case the Eight-Seven is already working. You know what I think the Loot'll say? I think he'll say this is your case, even if he has to talk to the Chief of Detectives about it, who by the way he plays poker with every Tuesday night.”

Ollie bit into another hamburger.

Carella looked at him.

"Yep," Ollie said.

I was beginning to wonder if I still had a husband, Teddy signed.

"I'm sorry I'm late, honey,”

Carella said, signing and speaking and trying to take off his overcoat at the same time, his fingers and his words getting lost in the sleeves, "something of an emergency.”

Teddy wasn't buying emergencies tonight.

Teddy had eaten alone with the children, her husband nowhere in sight, her TDD calls to the squadroom-four of them-going unanswered.

On her last call, she'd typed, WHERE - THE HELL R U? GA. The GA stood for GO AHEAD, but no one was going ahead, no one was answering her calls. She stood fiery-eyed and beautiful, arms folded across her chest, waiting for him to go ahead now. Carella tried to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned away.

"I really am sorry," he said. "Are the kids in bed already?”

Yes, the kids were already in bed, the kids had in fact been asleep for the past hour or so, this was now ten-thirty on a Monday night, and tomorrow was a school day. He knew he should go down the hall to look in on them, but he didn't dare turn his back on Teddy for fear she would clobber him with a hammer or something, in which case he would have to arrest her for assault. He had never seen her quite this angry. Well, yes, maybe two or three times, but in those instances he hadn't been the object of her anger. He wondered what she was really angry about. He'd come home late before, he was a cop, cops were always coming home late.

And this time, there really had been- "We almost had a riot," he said, and signed the word to her, spelling it out letter by letter, Rather-I-O-That, giving it emphasis so that she'd know he hadn't been hanging around downtown, frivolously putting away a few brews with the boys. She still wasn't buying it. Her blazing eyes were telling him that anything short of World War III was unjustifiable cause for him being late tonight. But why? What had happened to bring this on?

"I mean it," he said, "the whole damn station house was out there in the street trying to contain it," not daring to mention that he hadn't had dinner yet, and was starving to death.

What had happened ...

And he told this to her as his stomach rumbled and roared, fingers flying in the sign language she had taught him, mouth exaggerating each word in support of his hands ...

... was I went back to the precinct after I left the courthouse, and then Ollie called 'cause he had a stiff hanging in the basement, and he claimed it was rightfully mine, it's a long story, honey, but anyway I didn't get finished up there in Diamondback till eight-thirty, and then I had to go back to the squadroom to talk to the lieutenant about it, and what happened was some guy decided not - to take the parkway uptown because the traffic was too heavy, big fat white guy driving a Caddy, decided to come uptown on the precinct streets instead. So he was stopped at a traffic light when a black guy with a pail of water, a greasy sponge, and a squeegee came over to the car, ready to wash his windshield for him, and the white guy waved him away ...

Slow down, Teddy signed.

But at least she was listening.

... but the black guy kept on coming. So the white guy rolled down his window-this is how he reported it to us later-and told the black guy his windshield was clean, he didn't need it washed, and the black guy slapped the sponge onto it, anyway, and wiped a big smear of grease all over it, and started walking away. The light had changed by then, but the white guy got out of the car and yelled, Hey, you, wiseguy, or something like that, and when the black guy kept on walking he went after him and yanked him by the back of his collar and almost pulled him off his feet. He dragged him back to the car and was trying to force him to clean off all that shmutz he'd left on the windshield, when all at once there was a crowd in the streets, and the next thing you knew the white guy was running for his life.

David-Car happened to be cruising by, and the two cops in it-one white, one black-saw what appeared to be ten thousand black people chasing a fat white man through the streets in what looked like a bona fide lynching. So they got out of the car and took the white man in custody and started making the usual cop noises, okay, let's break it up, nothing here anymore, let's all go home, move it on now, let's go, but the usual noises weren't washing tonight. The crowd wanted blood, and the cops were the only thing preventing the satisfaction of this desire. So the crowd started surging forward, rocking the police car, at which point the shotgun cop, who happened to be the black one, got on the pipe and called in a 10-13. This was at a quarter to nine, while I was still talking to the lieutenant ...

You must be hungry, she signed. Let me put your dinner in the microwave.

... about the guy hanging from the basement ceiling, remember I told you about Fat Ollie's homicide? Anyway, I had to get out in the street with everybody else because we had this riot about to erupt over one fat white guy who'd chased one skinny black guy away from his car and then got annoyed when the guy messed up his windshield. Cleaning windshields is a form of extortion, anyway, you know, in that the driver's trapped inside his car and anybody approaching it-this one happened to be a skinny little guy, but some of them are this tall and this wide-appears threatening. But try to explain that to a bunch of people who are festering over all the bad things the black people in this city have to live with, just try to explain it.

"This is delicious, honey," he said, gobbling down his food and at the same time signing with his free hand.

Anyway, we finally got everybody to go home before one of those professional-agitator black ministers arrived on the scene, in which case the damn thing would have gone on all night or all week or all month. The fat white guy drove off steaming because his windshield was still dirty and he was now late for a dinner party in the bargain.

The skinny black guy pranced for the television cameras while all his pals made faces in the background, all of them famous for five minutes. By the time we all got back to the station house, it was past ten o'clock- "I came straight home," he said. "Why are you so angry?”

Because I thought something had happened to you, she signed, and then rolled her eyes as if this were something any idiot should understand. He was taking her in his arms when the telephone rang. He went to it at once, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he said.

"Steve?”

His mother. In tears. "Mom?" he said. "What's the matter?”

"That lawyer," she said, sobbing. "All those things he said.”

"Mom ...”

"You heard him.”

"Yes, but ...”

"That the man who killed Papa didn't kill him. That there's no proof he did it, the gun wasn't even his, there's no case against him ...”

"They always say that in their opening statements.

We've got everything we need, believe me.”

"I wanted to kill him," she said. "Sitting there with that look on his face while his - lawyer was telling everybody he didn't do it.”

"We'll see what kind of look he ...”

"He worried me. The lawyer.”

"No, Mom ...”

"He did.”

"No, there's nothing to worry about.”

"Suppose they let him go?”

"They won't.”

"But suppose they do?”

"Mom, you shouldn't have taken the lawyer so seriously. That's all part of the hype, the way they soften up a jury. So the jury'll believe whatever they see and hear.”

"Suppose they do?”

"Mom ...”

"Believe everything he tells them? Suppose they believe it?”

"They won't.”

"Do you trust this Englishman?”

"He's not an Englishman, Mom.”

"Then why does he sound so English?”

"He went to Oxford. That's the way they talk there at ...”

"He sounds phony.”

"Well ...”

"I hope the jury doesn't think he sounds phony.”

"They won't, Mom, don't worry.”

"The other lawyer looks like Santa Claus.

He talks right to the jury, he tells them his man didn't do it, I'm afraid they might believe him.”

"Mom, really, don't worry, okay?”

He heard her sighing on the other end of the line.

"Will you pick me up tomorrow morning?" she asked.

"Angela said she'd come by for you. I'll meet you both downtown.”

"I wish I liked him better," Louise said.

"Well," Carella said.

"I'll see you tomorrow.”

"Yes.”

"At the courthouse.”

"Yes. And don't worry about what the lawyer said.”

"I worry," she said, and hung up.