A Long Line of Dead Men

"I think you're probably right."



"It was right after twelve public-spirited citizens of the Bronx gave Warren Madison judicial absolution for his sins, and that rubbed a lot of cops the wrong way."



"And a few ordinary citizens, too."



"Including you, Matt?"



"What I think's not important."



"Tell me anyhow."



"Why?"



"Why not?"



"I think Warren Madison is a homicidal son of a bitch who ought to spend the rest of his life in a cell."



"Then we agree."



I looked at him.



"Warren," he said, "is what some other clients of mine might characterize as a stone killer. I'd call him an utterly remorseless sociopath, and I'd like to see him live out his days as a guest of the state of New York."



"You defended him."



"Don't you think he's entitled to a defense?"



"You got him off."



"Don't you think he's entitled to the best possible defense?"



"You didn't just defend him," I went on. "You put the whole police department on trial. You sold the jury a bill of goods about Madison being a snitch for the local Bronx precinct, in return for which they let him deal dope and supplied him with stash confiscated from other dealers. Then they were afraid he would talk, though God knows who he would talk to or why, and they went to his mother's house not to arrest him but to murder him."



"Quite a scenario, wouldn't you say?"



"It's ridiculous."



"Don't you think cops use snitches?"



"Of course they do. They wouldn't make half their cases if they didn't."



"Don't you think they allow snitches to pursue their criminal careers in return for the help they provide?"



"That's part of how it works."



"Don't you think confiscated dope ever finds its way back onto the street? Don't you think some police officers, cops who've already broken the law, will take extreme measures to cover their asses?"



"In certain cases, but-"



"Do you know for a fact, an irrefutable fact, that those cops didn't go to Warren's mother's house looking to kill him?"



"For a fact?"



"An irrefutable fact."



"Well, no," I said. "I don't."



"I do," Gruliow said. "It was utter bullshit. They never used him as a snitch. They wouldn't use him to wipe their asses, for which I can't say I blame them. But the jury believed it."



"You did a good job of selling it to them."



"I'll be happy to take the credit, but it didn't take much selling. Because they wanted to buy it. I had a jury full of black and brown faces, and that ridiculous scenario I cooked up struck them as perfectly plausible. In their world, cops pull shit like that all the time, and lie like hell about it afterward. So why should they believe a word of police testimony? They'd rather believe something else. I gave them an acceptable alternative."



"And you put Warren Madison on the street."



He gave me a look, eyebrows raised, mouth on the verge of a smile. I'd seen it before; it was his patented expression of disappointed skepticism, flashed in court at a difficult witness, in the hallways at an uncooperative reporter. "In the first place," he said, "do you seriously think the quality of life in this city is going to be measurably different for the rest of us if Warren Madison or anybody else is on or off its streets?"



"Yes," I said, "but a cop has to believe that or it's hard to get to work in the morning."



"You're not a cop anymore."



"It's like being raised Catholic," I said. "You never get over it. And I do think it makes a difference, not so much in terms of the people Madison's likely to kill but in the message people get when they see him walking around."



"But they don't."



"How's that?"



"They don't see him walking around, not unless they're in maximum security at Green Haven. That's where Warren is, and where he's likely to be until you and I are both long past caring. Remember what Torres said when he sentenced the kid for stabbing that Mormon boy in the subway? 'Your parole officer hasn't been born yet.' You could say that about Warren. He killed those drug dealers, and he was convicted, and he'll be behind bars as long as he lives."



"You couldn't get him out from under those charges?"



"I never even tried. He had other counsel. And I wouldn't have wanted the case. Killing a drug dealer is murder for profit, and there are plenty of other lawyers who can represent you. Shoot a cop and you're making a political statement. That's when a guy named Gruliow can do you some good."



"Somehow no one remembers that Madison's serving time."



"Of course not. All they remember is Hard-Way Ray got him off. And the cops don't care whether he's locked up in Green Haven or out in Hollywood fucking Madonna. Their take on it is the same as yours, that I put the department on trial. I didn't, I put the system on trial, which is what I always do, in one sense or another. Whether it's civil-rights workers or draft resisters or Palestinians or, yes, Warren Madison, I put the system on trial. But not everybody sees it that way." He pointed at his plastic window. "Some of them take it personally."



I said, "I keep seeing that picture of you and Madison after the trial."



"Embracing."



"That's the one."



"You figured what? Bad taste? Theatrical gesture?"



"Just a memorable image," I said.



"Ever hear of a criminal lawyer named Earl Rogers? Very flamboyant and successful, represented Clarence Darrow when the great man was brought up on charges of jury tampering. In another case his client was charged with some particularly odious murder. I forget the details, but Rogers won an acquittal."



"And?"



"And when they read the verdict, the defendant rushed to shake hands with the man who got him off. Rogers wouldn't take his hand. 'Get away from me,' he cried out right there in the courtroom. 'You son of a bitch, you're as guilty as sin!' "



"Jesus."



"Now that's theatrical," he said with relish. "And bad taste, and ethically questionable at the very least. 'You're guilty as sin!' They're almost all of them guilty, for God's sake. If you don't want to defend the guilty, find another line of work. But if you do defend them, and if you're lucky enough to win, you can damn well shake their hands." He grinned. "Or give 'em a hug, which is more my style than a handshake. And I felt like hugging Warren, I didn't have to fake it. It's goddam exhilarating when they say 'Not guilty.' It's moving. You want to hug somebody. And I liked Warren."



"Really?"



He nodded. "Very charming man," he said, "unless he had reason to kill you."



13



"I'm hungry," he announced around six. He called up a Chinese restaurant. "Hi, this is Ray Gruliow," he said, and ordered several dishes, along with a couple of bottles of Tsing-tao, telling them not to forget the fortune cookies this time. "Because," he said, "my friend and I need to know what the future holds."



He hung up and said, "You're in the program, right?"



"The program?"



"Don't be coy, huh? You asked me in my own house if I was a fucking serial murderer. I ought to be able to ask you if you're a member of Alcoholics Anonymous."



"I wasn't being coy. People outside of AA don't generally call it 'the program.' "



"I went to a few meetings a couple of years ago."



"Oh?"



"Right here in the neighborhood. The basement of St. Luke's, on Hudson, and a little storefront on Perry Street. I don't know if they still have meetings there."



"They do."



"Nobody told me, 'Gruliow, get your ass out of here, you don't belong.' And I heard things I identified with."



"But you didn't stay."



He shook his head. "It was more than I wanted to give up. I looked at the First Step and it said something about life being out of control. I forget how they phrased it."



" 'We admitted we were powerless over alcohol- that it made our lives unmanageable.' "



"That's it. Well, I looked at my life, and it wasn't unmanageable. There were nights I drank too much and mornings when I regretted it, but it seemed to me that was a price I could afford to pay. So I made a conscious effort to cut back on my drinking."



"And it worked?"



He nodded. "I'm feeling the drinks I had just now. That's why I ordered food. I don't usually have this much to drink before dinner. I've had some stress lately. I think it's only natural to drink more at times of stress, don't you?"



I said that sounded reasonable.



"I wouldn't have brought it up," he said, "but I didn't want to order beer for you if you were the nondrinker I understood you to be, nor did I want to appear inhospitable." He slurred the last word just the least bit, and stopped himself from taking another stab at it. Shifting gears, he said, "The woman you live with. How old is she?"



"I'll have to ask her."



"She's not thirty years younger than you, is she?"



"No."



"Then I guess you're not as much of a damned fool as I am," he said. "When the club first met, Michelle was still in diapers. Jesus, she was the age Chatham is now."



"Chatham's your daughter?"



"Indeed she is. I'm even beginning to get used to her name. Her mother's idea, as you no doubt assumed. A man in his sixties does not name his daughter Chatham. I suggested to Michelle that if she wanted to name the kid after an English prime minister she should give some thought to Disraeli. It goes better with Gruliow than Chatham. Dizzy Gruliow. It has a nice ring, don't you think?"



"But she didn't like it?"



"She didn't get it. She's half my age, for God's sake, but God help me if I treat her like a child. I have to treat her like an equal. I told her, making a joke of it, that I don't treat anybody like an equal, young or old, male or female. 'Yes,' she said. 'I've noticed.' You know something? I don't think I'm going out to Sag Harbor tomorrow. I think the pressures of work are going to prove too great for me."



* * *



We ate in the front room, with the plates balanced on our laps. He found a Coke for me and drank his two bottles of Chinese beer.



He said, "It's funny. It was Homer's death that shocked me. He was a very old man by the time he died, older than anybody I'd ever known, but I must have expected him to live forever. He wasn't the first to go, you know. He was the third."



"I know."



"It was a shock when Phil died, but a car crash, that's the kind of lightning that's always there. It's going to strike somebody sooner or later. Did you grow up in New York?"



"Yes."



"So did I. In the rest of the country you don't get through high school without having a friend or two die in a wreck. Every prom night you know there's going to be at least one car that doesn't make it around Dead Man's Curve. But kids don't drive in the city, so it's a form of population control we're spared here."



"We've got others."



"God, yes. There's always some form of attrition that thins out the ranks of the young males. Historically, war's always played that role, and did a fine job before the dawn of the nuclear age. Still, limited wars and local skirmishes take up the slack. In the ghettos, dope's the medium. Either they overdose on it or they traffic in it and shoot each other." He snorted. "But I digress. If I ever write my memoirs that'll be the title. But I Digress."