“I’m sorry you had to waste a trip here,” Harrington says.
“It’s like I was trying to say before,” Robby Sassoon says,walking over to the sink and rinsing his mug. “The older Sonny gets, the more of a worrier he becomes.”
Then he says to Harrington, “Mind if I make myself more coffee.”
Harrington doesn’t even turn around, just jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
“You obviously know where everything is,” Harrington says.
He doesn’t see Robby smiling.
“So I do,” he says.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
KATHERINE WELSH AND JUDGE Michael Horton and I are in Horton’s chambers. It is now nine thirty. The trial was supposed to have resumed a half-hour ago.
This is a smaller trial, but every bit as intense. We are all here because Welsh has announced to the judge and to me a couple of hours ago that she wants to move up the testimony of Paul Harrington, which would be the same Paul Harrington, former commander of detectives at the 24th Precinct in the city, who was arrested and later released for ordering a hit on Jimmy Cunniff and me.
So now, in chambers, I’ve been afforded my last chance at convincing the judge that Welsh shouldn’t be allowed to call Harrington at all.
“I frankly don’t understand why you’re so dead set against this,” Welsh says to me. “We both know Harrington has prior history with your client that I believe is relevant to these proceedings.”
“Oh, bullshit, Katherine,” I snap. “What you want is to get him on the stand and then have him accidentally blurt out that he thinks my client has been shooting people since he was a teenager, starting with his own father. Who are we kidding here?”
“I’m just looking for context,” Welsh says, “that is probative, not prejudicial.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Probative like a trip to my ob-gyn.”
“Ms. Smith,” Judge Horton says. “You seem to have forgotten I’m still here. And can hear you.”
“Harrington tried to kill me!”
“Allegedly,” Welsh says calmly.
“Allegedly my ass,” I say. “I know he did it, Jimmy Cunniff knows he did it, whether that case stuck or not. And if you’re calling Harrington, you know full well that he believes Rob Jacobson shot his father and probably the old man’s girlfriend, and you’re just dying to get him to put that into the record.”
“Now you’re just speculating,” Welsh says.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say. “That’s not speculation. It’s just more bullshit and you know it.”
“Whatever you think of him, Paul Harrington was once a decorated New York City policeman,” Welsh says, “one who was on the job when Robinson Jacobson and Carey Watson died, whether you like it or not.”
“I wasn’t aware that they were giving out medals in those days for being in Sonny Blum’s pocket.”
Welsh shoots me a smile dipped in acid.
“Now there’s your speculation right there,” she says.
I look over at Horton. We all know it’s getting late, but he seems to still be enjoying this—as a spectator and not the one who will eventually adjudicate this matter.
“Seriously, Katherine?” I say. “Why do you think Harrington ended up at Riverhead Correctional? Because he heard there were reasonable room rates there now that summer is over?”
“We are both aware, Jane,” Welsh says, “that Harrington is a free man, one on his way to this courthouse shortly, because so much of what got him thrown in jail was classic fruit-of-the-poison tree. Which made it a classically bad arrest. If you really want to talk about bullshit.”
“And then he got lawyered out of jail by that weasel Gabe Dees,” I say. “Who because of what you must think is one oflife’s crazy coincidences, happens to be Sonny Blum’s lawyer, too.”
“Which, sadly, Ms. Smith, is irrelevant to this conversation,” Judge Horton says. “A conversation we now need to wrap up.”
