The Witness

EIGHTEEN

"I'm sorry, we have no patient by that name," the hospital operator said.

"But I know he's there," Helene Stillwell said snappishly. "Ivisited him this morning."

"One moment, please," the operator said.

"Damn!" Helene said.

A male voice came on the line: "May I help you, ma'am?"

Helene hung up.

They're monitoring his calls. Obviously. After that threat to-what did it say?

She dropped her eyes to theLedger, which she had laid on the marble top of the bar in the sun room, and found what she was looking for. It was in a front-page story with the headlineISLAMIC LIBERATION ARMY

"Death to the Zionist oppressors of our people and the murderers who call themselves police!" she read aloud. "My God!"

Under the headline was a photograph of Matt and Jerry Carlucci, with the caption "Officer M. M. Payne, of Special Operations, apparently the target of the ILA threat, shown with Mayor Jerome Carlucci three months ago, shortly after Payne shot to death Germantown resident Warren K. Fletcher, allegedly the 'North Philadelphia serial rapist.'"

Looking at Matt's face, she had a sudden very clear mental image of his gun, and the slick, menacing cartridges for it, which was then replaced by the memory of his naked body next to hers, and of him and the eruption, the explosion, in her, which had followed.

"Christ!" she said softly, and reached for the cognac snifter on the marble.

There was the clunking noise the garage door always made the moment the mechanism was triggered. When she looked out the glass wall at the end of the sun room, she saw Farny's Lincoln coupe waiting for the garage door to open fully.

I didn't see him come up the drive, she thought, and then: I wonder what he's doing home so early.

Helene went behind the bar, intending to give the cognac snifter a quick rinse and to put the bottle away. But then she changed her mind, splashed more Remy Martin in the glass and drank it all down at a gulp. Then she rinsed the glass and put the Remy Martin bottle back on the shelf beneath the bar.

Before Farny came into the house, there was time for her to fish in her purse for a spray bottle of breath sweetener, to use it, replace it, and then move purse and newspaper to the glass-topped coffee table. She had seated herself on the couch and found and lit a cigarette by the time she heard the kitchen door open and then slam.

He always slams that goddamn door!

"I'm in here," she called.

He didn't respond. She heard the sound of his opening the cloak closet under the stairs, the rattling of hangers, and then the clunk of the door closing.

He appeared in the entrance to the sun room.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi," Helene said. "I didn't expect you until later."

"I've got to go way the hell across town to the Detention Center," he said. "I thought it made more sense to get dressed now. I may have to call you and ask you to meet me at the Thompson's. All right?"

She nodded. "I've been thinking about having a drink. Specifically, a straight cognac. Does that sound appealing?"

"Very tempting, but I'd better not. I don't want someone sniffing my breath over there."

"You don't mind if I do? I think I'm fighting a cold."

"Don't fight too hard. You heard what I said about you maybe having to drive yourself to the Thompson's?"

"Why don't I just skip the Thompson's?"

"We've been over this before. Thompson is important in the party."

"You make him, you make the both of you sound like apparatchiks in the Supreme Soviet," Helene said.

"That's the second, maybe the third, time you made that little joke. I don't find it funny this time, either."

"You're certainly in a lousy mood. Has it to do with-what did you say? 'The Detention Center'? What is that, anyway?"

She got up and walked to the bar, retrieved her glass and the bottle of Remy Martin, and poured a half inch into the snifter.

"The Detention Center is where they lock people up before they're indicted, or if they can't make bail. Essentially, it's a prison in everything but name."

"What are you going to be doing there?"

"The one witness we have to the robbery and murder at Goldblatt's is going to try to pick the guilty parties out in lineups. Washingtonthat great big Negro detective?-has scheduled it for half past six. Christ only knows how long it will take."

"I think you're supposed to say 'black,' not 'Negro,'" Helene said.

"Whatever."

"Have you seen the paper?"

"I wasn't in it, my secretary said."

"I meant about the Islamic Liberation Army threatening reprisal, revenge, whatever."

"I heard about it," he said, and then followed her pointing finger and went and picked up theLedger.

She waited until he had read the newspaper story, and then asked, "Do they mean it?"

"Who the hell knows?" he said, and then had a thought. "Going over to see that kid was a good idea. I don't know if I knew or not, but I didn't make the connection. You do know who his father is?"

"Tell me."

"Brewster Cortland Payne, of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester."

"He's important in the party too, I suppose?"

"Helene, you're being a bitch, and I'm really not in the mood for it."

"Sorry."

"But to answer your question, yes. He is important in the party. And if this political thing doesn't work out, Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester is the sort of firm with which I would like to be associated."

"Then maybe we should have gotten him a box of candy or something."

He looked at her and took a moment to consider whether she was being sarcastic again.

"It's not too late, I suppose," Helene said.

He considered that a moment.

"I think that's a lost opportunity," he said.

Damn, it would have given me an excuse to go see him.

"Well, maybe we could have him for drinks or dinner or something," Helen said. "If it's important."

"We'll see," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "I'm going to get dressed."

He had just started up the stairs when the telephone rang. Helene answered it.

"Mr. Farnsworth Stillwell, please," a female voice said. "Mr. Armando Giacomo is calling."

"Just a moment, please," Helene said, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

"Are you home for a Mr. Giacomo?" she called.

"ArmandoGiacomo?" Stillwell asked, already coming back into the room.

She nodded. "His secretary, I think."

Stillwell took the phone from her.

"This is Farnsworth Stillwell," he said, and then, a moment later, " How are you, Armando? What can I do for you?"

The charm is on, Helene thought, Armando Whatsisname must be somebody else important in the party.

"Well, I must say I'm surprised," Stillwell said to the telephone. " If I may say so, Armando, hiring you is tantamount to saying 'I'm guilty as sin and need a genius to get me off.'"

There was a reply that Helene could not hear.

He's wearing one of his patently insincere smiles. Whatever this was about, he doesn't like it.

"Well, I'll see you there, then, Armando," Stillwell said. "I'm going to change my clothes and go over there. Helene and I are having dinner with Jack Thompson, and I have no idea how long the business at the Detention Center will take. I appreciate your courtesy in calling me."

He absentmindedly handed her the handset.

"What was that all about?" Helene asked.

"That was Armando C. Giacomo," he said.

"So the girl said. Whois Armando C. Giawhatever?"

A look of annoyance crossed his face, but he almost visibly made the decision to answer her.

"The top two criminal lawyers in Philadelphia, in my judgment, and practically everyone else's, are Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson of the aforementioned Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester and Armando C. Giacomo. Giacomo telephoned to tell me he has been retained to represent the people the police arrested this morning."

"That's bad news, I gather."

"Frankly, I would rather face some public defender six months out of law school, or one of the less expensive members of the criminal bar," Stillwell said. "I don't want to walk out of the courtroom with egg all over my face. I'll have to give this development some thought."

He turned and left the room and went to their bedroom on the second floor.

Farnsworth Stillwell had several disturbing thoughts. Armando C. Giacomo was very good, and consequently very expensive. Like Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, he had a well-earned reputation for defending, most often successfully and invariably with great skill, people charged with violation of the whole gamut of criminal offenses.

But, like Mawson, Giacomo seldom represented ordinary criminals, for, in Stillwell's mind, the very good reason that ordinary criminals seldom had any money. They both drew their clientele from the well heeled, excluding only members of the Mob.

If he was representing the Islamic Liberation Army, he certainly wasn't doing itpro bono publico; he was being paid, well paid. By whom? Certainly not by the accused themselves. If there was money around to hire Armando C. Giacomo, it challenged Matt Lowenstein's (and Peter Wohl's) theory that the Islamic Liberation Army was nothing more than a group of thugs with a bizarre imagination.

Farnsworth Stillwell had a good deal of respect for Armando C. Giacomo, not all of it based on his professional reputation. On a personal basis, he regarded Giacomo as a brother in the fraternity of naval aviators. They hadn't flown together- Giacomo had flown in the Korean War, Stillwell in Vietnam- but they shared the common experience of Pensacola training, landing high-performance aircraft on the decks of aircraft carriers, flying in Harm's Way, and the proud self-assurance that comes with golden wings pinned to a blue Navy uniform.

Stillwell did not really understand why a man who had been a naval aviator would choose to become a criminal lawyer, except for the obvious reason that, at the upper echelons of the specialty, it paid very well indeed.

He was forced now to consider the unpleasant possibilities, starting with the least pleasant to consider, that Armando C. Giacomo was a better, more experienced lawyer than he was.

I will have absolutely no room for error in the courtroom.

Or, for that matter, in all the administrative garbage that has to be plowed through before we get into court.

Christ, why didn't I keep my mouth shut when Tony Callis brought this up? When am I going to learn that whenever something looks as if the gods are smiling on me, the exact opposite is true?

Farnsworth Stillwell had been told by Sergeant Jason Washington that the lineups were going to start at the Detention Center at half past six.

Stillwell often joked that his only virtue was punctuality. The truth was that he believed punctuality to be not only good manners, but good business practice. He made a genuine effort to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. He expected reciprocity on the part of people with whom he was professionally associated, and demanded it from both his subordinates and those who ranked lower in the government hierarchy than he did.

He had never been to the Detention Center before, so in order to be on time, he had taken the trouble to locate it precisely on a map, and to leave his house in sufficient time to arrive on time.

When he pulled into one of the Official Visitor parking spots at the Detention Center, it was 6:28.

He entered the building, and went to the uniformed corrections officer sitting behind a plate-glass window.

"Assistant District Attorney Stillwell," he announced. "To meet Sergeant Washington."

"He's not here yet," the corrections officer, a small black woman, said. "You can take a seat and wait, if you like."

He smiled at her and said, "Thank you."

He sat down on a battered bench against the wall, more than a little annoyed.

He and Helene were due at Jack Thompson's at eight, and he intensively disliked the idea of arriving there late. He had told Helene that if he wasn't back, or hadn't called, by half past seven, she was to drive to the Thompson's.

He now regretted that decision. The way she was throwing the cognac down, the possibility existed that the headlines in tomorrow'sBulletin andLedger andDaily News would not concern the ILA, but rather something they knew their readers would really like to read, " Assistant District Attorney Stillwell's Wife Charged in Drunken Driving Episode."

If the lineups were to begin at half past six, Stillwell fumed, obviously some preparatory steps had to be taken, and therefore Washington should have arrived, with the witness in tow, at whatever time before half past six was necessary in order for him to do what he had to do so that they could begin on schedule.

Stillwell was aware that one of his faults was a tendency to become angry over circumstances over which he had no control. This seemed to be one of them. He told himself that Washington was not late on purpose, that things, for example delays in traffic because of the snow, sometimes happened.

Washington will be along any moment, with an explanation, and probably an apology, for being tardy, Stillwell thought, taking just a little satisfaction in knowing that he was being reasonable.

At quarter to seven, however, when Sergeant Washington had still not shown up, or even had the simple courtesy to send word that he would be delayed, Farnsworth Stillwell decided that he had been patient enough.

While he thought it was highly unlikely that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl would know where Sergeant Washington was and/or why he wasn't at the Detention Center when he was supposed to be, calling Wohl would at least serve to tell him (a) that his super detective was unreliable, time-wise, and (b) that Farnsworth Stillwell did not like to be kept waiting.

He asked the female corrections officer behind the plate-glass window if he could use the telephone.

"It's for official business only, sir."

Farnsworth Stillwell had a fresh, unpleasant thought. There was no one else here. Armando C. Giacomo was supposed to be here, and certainly there would be others besides Washington and the witness.

Had the whole damned thing been called off for some reason, and he had not been told?

"Are you sure Sergeant Washington isn't here? Could he be here and you not be aware of it?"

"Everybody has to come past me," she said. "If he were here, I'd know it."

"May I have the telephone, please?"

"It's for official business only, like I told you before."

"I'm Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. This is official business."

She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him, but gave in.

"I'll have the operator get the number for you, sir."

"I don't know the number. I want to talk to Inspector Wohl of Special Operations."

The corrections officer obligingly searched for the number on her list of official telephones. It was not listed, and she so informed Farnsworth Stillwell.

"Check with information."

Information had the number.

"Special Operations, may I help you?"

"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. Inspector Wohl, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. Inspector Wohl has gone for the day."

"Do you have a number where he can be reached?" -

"Just one moment, sir."

"This is Lieutenant Kelsey. May I help you, sir?"

"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. It's important that I get in touch with Inspector Wohl."

"I'm sorry, the inspector's gone for the day. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stillwell?"

"Do you have a number where he can be reached?"

"No, sir."

"You mean you have no idea where he is?"

"The inspector is on his way to Frankford Hospital, sir. But until he calls in, I won't have a number there for him."

"What about Sergeant Washington?"

"Are you referring to Detective Washington, sir?"

"I understood he was promoted."

"Well, what do you know? I hadn't heard that."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He's at the Detention Center, sir. I can give you that number. "

"I'm at the Detention Center. He's not here. That's what I'm calling about."

"Hold one, sir," Lieutenant Kelsey said.

The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.

"They're at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now."

"Thank you."

"Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?"

"That won't be necessary, thank you very much," Farnsworth Stillwell said.

He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.

Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant's car. A second Highway Patrol RPC with two Highway cops followed him. The third car was Jason Washington's nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington's Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RPC.

The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington's car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington's car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the building and held it open.

Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.

"Good evening, Mr. Stillwell," he said.

"You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It's now"-He checked his watch-"four past seven."

"We were delayed," Washington said.

"Were you, indeed?"

"We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Stillwell," Washington said, "this is Mr. Albert J. Monahan."

Stillwell smiled at Monahan and offered his hand.

"I'm Farnsworth Stillwell, Mr. Monahan. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Can you believe that?" Monahan said. "A Molotov cocktail? Right on South Street? What the hell is the world coming to?"

What is this man babbling about? A Molotov cocktail is what the Russians used against German tanks, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming wick.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Stillwell said.

"As we drove away from Goldblatt's," Washington explained, "party or parties unknown threw a bottle filled with gasoline down-more than likely from the roof-onto a Highway car that was escorting us here."

"I will bedamned!" Farnsworth Stillwell said.

My God, wait until the newspapers get hold of that!

"The bottle bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire," Washington went on.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"I understand a car parked on South Street caught fire," Washington said. "But no one was hurt. We went to the Roundhouse. I knew Central Detectives and the laboratory people would want a look at the Highway car."

"You could have called," Stillwell said, and immediately regretted it.

Washington looked at him coldly, but did not directly respond.

"I'm going to explain to Mr. Monahan how we run the lineup, lineups," Washington said. "And show him the layout. Perhaps you'd like to come along?"

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I'd appreciate that," Stillwell said. He smiled at Washington. Washington did not return it.

"The way this works, Mr. Monahan," he said, "is that the defense counsel will try to question your identification. One of the ways they'll try to do that is to attempt to prove that we rigged the lineup, set it up so that you would have an idea who we think the individual is. Lead you, so to speak. You follow me?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So we will lean over backward to make sure that the lineups are absolutely fair."

"Where do you get the other people?" Monahan said, "the innocent ones?"

"They're all volunteers."

"Off the street? People in jail?"

"Neither. People being held here. This is the Detention Center. Nobody being held here has been found guilty of anything. They're awaiting trial. The other people in the lineup will be chosen from them, from those that have volunteered."

"Why do they volunteer?"

"Well, I suppose I could stick my tongue in my cheek and say they're all public spirited citizens, anxious to make whatever small contribution they can to the criminal justice system, but the truth is I don't know. If they had me in here for something, I don't think I'd be running around looking for some way I could help, particularly if all I got out of it was an extra ice cream chit or movie pass. And, of course, most of the people being held here don't volunteer. As for the ones that do, I can only guess they do it because they're bored, or figure they can screw the system up."

"How do you mean?"

"Let's say there's a guy here who has a perfect alibi for the Goldblatt job; he was in here. So he figures if he can get in the lineup, and somehow look nervous or guilty and have you point him out, the guy who did the Goldblatt job walks away, and so does he; he has a perfect alibi."

"I'll be goddamned," Monahan said.

"So it's very important to the good guys, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "that before you pick somebody out you be absolutely sure it's the guy. It would be much better for you not to be able to recognize somebody in the lineup than for you to make a mistake. If you did that, it would come out in court and put in serious question every other identification you made. You understand, of course."

"Yeah," Monahan said thoughtfully, then added: "I'll be damned."

Washington pushed open a door and held it open as Monahan and Stillwell walked through it.

Stillwell found himself in a windowless, harshly lit room forty feet long and twenty-five wide. Against one of the long walls was a narrow platform, two feet off the floor and about six feet wide. Behind it the wall had been painted. The numbers 1 through 8 were painted near the ceiling, marking where the men in the lineup were to stand. Horizontal lines marked off in feet and inches ran under the numbers. Mounted on the ceiling were half a dozen floodlights aimed at the platform. There was a step down from the platform to the floor at the right.

Facing the platform were a row of folding metal chairs and two tables. A microphone was on one table and a telephone on the other.

There were a dozen people in the room, four of them in corrections officer's uniforms. A lieutenant from Major Crimes Division had a 35mm camera with a flash attachment hanging around his neck. There were two women, both holding stenographer's notebooks.

I wonder how it is that 1 was left sitting outside on that bench when everyone else with a connection with this was in here?

Stillwell recognized Detectives D'Amata and Pelosi and then a familiar face. "The proceedings can now begin," Armando C. Giacomo announced sonorously, "the Right Honorable Assistant District Attorney having finally made an appearance."

Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, walked quickly to Stillwell and offered his hand.

"Armando, how are you?" Stillwell said.

"Armando C. Giacomo is, as always, ready to defend the rights of the unjustly accused against all the abusive powers of the state."

"Presuming they can write a nonrubber check, of course," Jason Washington said. "How are you, Manny?"

"Ah, my favorite gumshoe. How are you, Jason?"

Giacomo enthusiastically pumped Washington's hand.

They were friends, Stillwell saw, the proof being not only their smiles, but that Washington had called him "Manny." He remembered hearing that Giacomo was well thought of by the cops because he devoted thepro bono publico side of his practice to defending cops charged with violating the civil rights of individuals.

"Aside from almost getting myself fried on the way over here, I'm fine. How about you?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Detective Washington?" Giacomo asked.

"Detective Washington is now Sergeant Washington," Stillwell said.

"And you stopped to celebrate? Shame on you!"

"We was Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," Albert J. Monahan explained.

"You must be Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm Armando C. Giacomo. I'm very happy to meet you."

"Likewise," Monahan said.

"What was that you were saying about a Molotov cocktail?"

"They threw one at us. Off a roof by Goldblatt's."

Giacomo looked at Washington for confirmation. Washington nodded.

"Well, I'm very glad to see that you came through that all right," Giacomo said.

"I came through it pissed, is the way I came through it. That's fucking outrageous."

"I absolutely agree with you. Terrible. Outrageous. Did the police manage to apprehend the culprits?"

"Not yet," Washington said.

"Mr. Giacomo, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "is here to represent the people we think were at Goldblatt's."

"And you're friends with him?"

"Yes, we're friends," Giacomo said solemnly. "We have the same basic interest. Justice."

Jason Washington laughed deep in his stomach.

"Manny, you're really something," he said.

"It is not nice to mock small Italian gentlemen," Giacomo said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Washington laughed louder, then turned to Joe D'Amata: "Are we about ready to do this?"

"Yeah. We have seven different groups of people." He pointed toward the door at the end of the platform.

Washington turned to Monahan: "If you'll just have a chair, Mr. Monahan-"

Detective Pelosi smiled at Monahan and put his hands on the back of one of the folding chairs. Monahan walked to it and sat down.

Washington waved Giacomo ahead of him and headed for the door. Stillwell followed them.

There were two corrections officers and eight other people in a small room. The eight people were all Hispanic, all of about the same age and height and weight. One of them was Hector Carlos Estivez.

"Okay with you, Manny?" Washington asked.

Armando C. Giacomo looked at the eight men very carefully before he finally nodded his head.

"That should be all right, Jason," he said, and turned and walked out of the room. Washington and Stillwell followed him.

Giacomo sat down in a folding chair next to Monahan. Washington sat on the other side of him, and Stillwell sat next to Washington.

"Okay, Joe," Washington said.

"Lights," D'Amata ordered.

One of the corrections officers flicked switches that killed all the lights in the room except the floodlights shining on the platform. The people in the room would be only barely visible to the men on the platform.

"Okay," D'Amata ordered. "Bring them in."

The door to the room at the end of the platform opened, and eight men came into the room and took the two steps up to the platform.

"Stand directly under the number, look forward," D'Amata ordered. The men complied.

The Major Crimes lieutenant with the 35-mm camera walked in front of the men sitting in the chairs. He took three flash photographs, one from the left, one from the center, and one from the right.

"You didn't have to do that, Jason," Giacomo said.

"Oh, yes, I did, Manny." Washington said. "I only get burned once."

I wonder what the hell that's all about, Stillwell thought, and then the answer came to him: I will get copies of those photographs. If Giacomo suggests during the trial that Monahan was able to pick out Estivez because the other people in the lineup were conspicuously different in age, or size, or complexion, or whatever, I can introduce the pictures he's taking.

He remembered what Tony Callis had said about Washington having forgotten more about criminal law than he knew.

"Number one, step forward," D'Amata ordered when the photographer had stepped out of the way.

"Number three," Albert J. Monahan said positively.

"Just a moment, please, Mr. Monahan," Washington said.

"Number three is one of them. I recognize the bastard when I see him."

"Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "I ask you now if you recognize any of the men on the platform."

"Number three," Monahan said impatiently. "I told you already."

"Can you tell us where you have seen the man standing under the number three on the platform?" Washington asked.

"He's one of the bastards who came into the store and robbed it and shot it up."

"You are referring to January third of this year, and the robbery and murder that occurred at Goldblatt's furniture store on South Street?"

"Yes, I am."

"There is no question in your mind that the man standing under number three is one of the participants in that robbery and murder?"

"None whatever. That's one of them. That's him. Number three."

"Mr. Giacomo?" Washington asked.

Armando G. Giacomo shook his head, signifying that he had nothing to say.

"Jason?" Joe D'Amata asked.

"We're through with this bunch," Washington said.

"Take them out," D'Amata ordered.

A corrections officer opened the door at the end of the platform and gestured for the men on the platform to get off it.

That man didn't show any sign of anything at all when Monahan picked him out, Stillwell thought. What kind of people are we dealing with here?

"Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I see that you're wearing glasses."

"That's right."

"Before this is all over, I'd be grateful if you would give me the name of your eye doctor."

"You're not going to try to tell me I couldn't see that bastard? Recognize him?"

"I'm just trying to do the best job I can, Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm sure you understand."

"No, I don't," Monahan said. "I don't understand at all."