AHMM, June 2005 Read online

  I had no idea how I was going to sell the idea of his donning pants and joining me for a drive to Boston for a couple of days. It turned out to be the easiest part of my day. I explained the situation, and in half an hour he was clothed and beside me whistling up the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  * * * *

  Keno's preliminary hearing was held at the start of the trial day on Tuesday. The burden was on the prosecution to establish probable cause to believe the defendant had committed the crime charged, which was felony murder, in this case the commission of the felony of arson during which someone died.

  Mr. Devlin and I were at the defense table with Keno. Safely ensconced two rows behind us was our defense witness, Sosa Agipa, who was ready, if not eager, to testify that his roommate had not left Philadelphia until the previous Sunday. The defense had no obligation to put in evidence, but if we could win a dismissal of the indictment at this stage, so much the better.

  Billy Coyne was sitting unusually rigidly at the prosecution table suppressing what to my untrained eye looked like white-hot anger. There was none of the bantering between the two old war-horses that usually goes on, and I was getting an uncomfortable feeling.

  Judge Mathis had the case called. Billy seemed to be in his own shell.

  "Present your case, Mr. Coyne. I have a full docket."

  Billy rose with an uncharacteristic stiffness.

  "My case, Your Honor, is an eyewitness who is familiar with the defendant and who saw the defendant running from the apartment at the time of the start of the fire. One man died in the fire."

  "Why didn't he run as well?"

  "He couldn't, Your Honor. He was tied up and locked in a closet."

  I watched Keno, who took all this in without a ripple.

  "Please proceed with your witness, Mr. Coyne."

  Billy braced with a grip on the edge of the table.

  "I can't, Your Honor. My witness was shot to death this morning leaving his apartment to come to this hearing."

  The heat of Billy's glance toward our client could be felt by both Mr. D. and myself as well. Judge Mathis picked it up.

  "Do you have any other evidence, Mr. Coyne?"

  "No, Your Honor. Not at this time."

  The judge looked to the defense.

  "Mr. Devlin?"

  "Your Honor, I have a witness who will testify that of his knowledge, Mr. Westoba was in Philadelphia on Friday. He arrived in Boston on Sunday. I'd like to ask Mr. Coyne if he has obtained an indictment against my client."

  Judge Mathis looked at Billy. Prosecution though he was, I was feeling pangs of sympathy for him.

  "It was my intention to go before the grand jury this afternoon. Obviously that won't happen at this time."

  The judge looked back at Mr. Devlin.

  "Then I must move for the release of my client immediately, Your Honor."

  The judge gave a frustrated look in Billy Coyne's direction before ordering the release of Keno. Billy Coyne was out of the courtroom without a word. You could fry eggs on the ground he walked on.

  * * * *

  I couldn't get Keno out of my mind that day or all day Wednesday. The uneasy feeling I had went back to our session at Daddy's on Monday night, but I couldn't put my finger on why.

  I remembered that Daddy had given Keno a gig at the club on Wednesday nights. Around ten thirty I dropped by. I took a side table. Daddy gave me a surprised look and a grin from the bandstand. He and Keno were cooking on Cole Porter's “Let's Fall in Love” along with a guitarist and drummer I hadn't heard before.

  Before the set ended, Daddy gave me an inviting nod toward the piano, but I just wanted to listen. By the end of the set, a light finally came on in my cranium, and I had a fix on the alarm that had been going off since the day before. It put a lead weight the size of a basketball in the pit of my stomach.

  When Keno came off the stand, I asked him to join me for a drink. He didn't exactly leap at the invitation, but he joined me at an isolated table in the back. For someone who had just had the threat of a murder indictment lifted from his neck, he seemed to walk in a cloud of morose tension that you could slice. The fingers that didn't hold a glass were drumming nervously under the table.

  We touched glasses, my Grouse to his Myers's rum, and he thanked me again for the help. Since he brought up the subject of the trial, it was easy for me to ask the question.

  "You say you never heard Hector Makela play, right, Keno?"

  "No, man. Never heard him."

  "That would be a pity. He had a style all his own."

  "Yeah, man. I guess."

  "You'd know, Keno, because you're a great sax player. You're also a barefaced liar."

  The drumming fingers stopped. He set down the glass. I had no idea whether he was set to fly at me or out the door.

  "You knew Makela. You knew him well enough to pick up the phrasing and those riffs when he'd improvise. They were all his. They were like his fingerprints. I never heard it from another musician, until I heard it in your playing the other night. I couldn't place it, but then I heard it again tonight. Let's try it again, this time with a little bit of the truth. How well did you know Makela?"

  There was no reaction for three seconds except to grip the table with both hands. Then he burst like a thoroughbred out of the gate. The chair spun across the room, and he was at top speed in two strides—smack into the brick wall of Daddy's chest. The mountain scarcely moved, but Keno dropped to the floor off balance with Daddy's hand gripping his collar.

  Daddy lifted him with one hand and half carried him to the room he used for an office at the back of the club. Daddy placed him in a chair and stood between him and the door.

  I asked him again, “How did you know Hector Makela?"

  His eyes darted from me to the door and the mass of Daddy blocking the only escape. Something in him just folded. The tension flowed out, and he was a bundle of shakes and sobs. I let it run for half a minute before asking the question again.

  He just shook his head. I pressed him, and between the sobs he got out, “I can't."

  "Can't what?"

  "I want to. God help me. I can't."

  I looked at Daddy. He shrugged. It summed up my feelings too. We were up a blind alley. I decided to try what the rules of evidence call “leading the witness.” I got down beside him and tried for a calm voice.

  "Keno, is someone threatening you? Are you afraid for your life?"

  He just shook his head.

  "Is it someone else? Are you afraid for your family?"

  He didn't answer, but a shock wave ran through his body that was as good as a polygraph.

  "Does someone have your family?"

  He just buried his head in his hands. I could just make out, “I can't."

  I looked up at Daddy, and his expression said what I was thinking. He'll never tell it. On the other hand, I figured there might be another way.

  * * * *

  Thursday morning I had Julie clear my calendar for the day. By noon, I was cruising Interstate 95 back to Philly. The only loose end I could grab was our star alibi witness, Sosa Agipa, whom I trusted about as far as I could throw the Fleet Center.

  With as little to go on as Keno's negative reactions, it seemed clear that some outfit large enough to pull it off was putting a serious squeeze on Keno by threatening his family. If Billy Coyne was right in believing that Keno torched the building, I chose to believe that he did it to save his family. I also chose to believe that whoever was behind it had also tied and gagged Makela and stuffed him in the closet without Keno's knowledge. They probably also lined up their man, Sosa, as an alibi witness just in case things went badly—such as Keno being spotted by an eyewitness—so that Keno's conviction would not be traced back to them. Since all the parts seemed to be played by Haitians, I figured we could be playing with one of the rebel groups from that turbulent little island. That last guess did not set my heart at rest.

  It was around nine at night when I pulled up again i
n front of Sosa's apartment in West Philly. The looks both I and my car were getting from the local worthies suggested I would do well to keep “hanging out” to a minimum.

  Sosa was surprised to see me at the door. I left him with one enigmatic teaser.

  "They called. They need you for another job. My car. Let's go."

  What I said fortunately made more sense to him than it did to me. He was in the passenger seat in thirty seconds. We cruised in silence for more neutral territory—the base of the Philadelphia airport bridge.

  I parked on the edge of a dark, desolate field. The sweat on Sosa's brow accented the look of confused uneasiness I was hoping for. I needed every edge since I was skating on no ice at all. I kept it calm and low, looking straight ahead.

  "I had to call them. Keno's become a problem. He's falling apart. He's becoming dangerous. They want you to take care of him. I'll give you his address."

  Sosa just looked at me with his mouth open.

  "What are you talking about, man?"

  "I'm delivering a message. Do I have to spell it out? You'll report to me when it's finished."

  He was still unmoved. He looked at me like something under a microscope.

  "Who are you, man? What have you got to do with anything?"

  I dug down deep for a low, cool voice that was definitely not in character at the moment. This time I looked at him.

  "I'm Keno's lawyer. Who do you think hired me? You think Keno can afford me? I'm also the one who keeps an eye on Keno to see he doesn't say things he shouldn't say. I can no longer guarantee that. I reported back. That's where you come in. Have we got a problem?"

  He was thinking hard and fast, but he was also gaining self-confidence—the last thing I wanted him to have.

  "Yeah, I got a problem, man. You don't look like one of us to me. How do I know...?"

  It was the moment I waited for. He couldn't have said it better if I wrote the script for him—which I practically did.

  I flipped open my cell phone and handed it to him.

  "Go ahead. Make the call. Check it out. It's good to be careful."

  He was still eyeing me like some unknown species, but he took the phone. He stepped out of the car with his back to me while he tapped in the numbers. The window was open so I could hear the dialing. I hung onto my nerves while it rang. I heard him speak to whoever answered in some language I couldn't make out. Then he went silent as if he was waiting for someone to come on the phone.

  In about ten seconds, he started talking the dialect again. This time his tone was quiet and deferential. He spoke for a bit and ended with what sounded like a question. Whatever was said on the other end must have been spicy because his side of the conversation was getting more and more animated, and he'd taken to glancing back at me. I let it roll since I was catching whatever Sosa was saying on my little hand-held recorder.

  When the heat was reaching a peak, and before the looks became more ominous, I decided it was show time.

  I leaned out the passenger window and said, “For the love of Pete, give me the phone. Let me talk to him."

  Sosa looked confused, but I think he was relieved to be off the hot seat. He said a few words and handed the phone through the window.

  I simultaneously grabbed the phone in my hot little hand and floored the gas pedal. The tires spun in the gravel, which gave Sosa the reflex time to grab the edge of the window. The tires began to grab solid ground and the car picked up speed with Sosa hanging on. It was at that moment as never before that I thanked the Lord and General Motors for electric windows. The glass slid up and cut off his grip.

  When the car was back on pavement, I headed for I-95 in the direction of Boston. My last glance in the rearview mirror was at one highly agitated Haitian, waving his fists and screaming things in a language I was grateful not to understand.

  As soon as I was well clear, I pulled over to the curb. I flipped open the cell phone Sosa had given back to me and hit the redial button. True to modern technology, the numbers that Sosa had just dialed reappeared on the screen. I wrote down the numbers and flipped the phone shut before anyone answered.

  So far, I had executed half a plan. Something had needed to be done to get Keno's situation off dead center. He was no worse off, actually, except for the fact that he and his family and possibly myself were likely to be put on an immediate hit list. That called for an attempt to pull off the second half of what I laughingly called a plan.

  I called Mr. Devlin. He was as delighted as I expected to be wakened, but he read my tone and stopped yelling at me. He got Billy Coyne on the line and set up a three-way conversation. My hopes that Mr. Coyne had cooled down since our last meeting proved to be overly optimistic. I figured the best approach was a full frontal attack.

  "Mr. Coyne, please just hold the phone and listen. You were right about Keno torching that building."

  Mr. Devlin broke in to box my ears about client privilege, but I had to press on.

  "It's just what you said, Mr. Coyne. It's a dirty business. But Keno's just a pawn. Whoever they are, they have his family. They'd have killed them if he didn't do it. I don't think he knew Makela was there. If we can work together, I think I can give you the big fish. Maybe the whole tank. Will you listen to me, Mr. Coyne?"

  It took a few seconds, but he said a begrudging, “Yeah."

  "Let's meet in Mr. Devlin's office tomorrow morning at nine. I'll give you what I've got. Will you do that?"

  Again a few seconds. “What've you got?"

  "It'll be worth the trip to the office. Mr. Devlin'll tell you I don't short on my promises."

  Mr. Devlin came out of left field, bless him. “Go with him, Billy. If he says it, he'll do it."

  "Alright, kid, I'll be there. But you better..."

  "Good. Now the other half. I need something right away or everyone that can make this happen will be in a box by tomorrow morning. I need you to have Keno taken into protective custody as soon as you can find him. They've probably got a hit man on the way already. Will you do it?"

  I was moving a bit fast for Billy Coyne's comfort level, but he agreed.

  "One more. Can you get the Philadelphia police to arrest Sosa Agipa? He was our alibi witness. I'll give you his address. He's the key."

  "On what charge?"

  "Accessory to the murder of Makela. The Haitians set him up as a phony alibi witness. He was part of the whole thing."

  Mr. Coyne was not delighted to be flying blind under my navigation, but he agreed.

  I made the drive to Boston and caught a few hours’ sleep at a motel instead of my apartment out of an excess of caution.

  * * * *

  At nine the next morning, the three of us met in Mr. Devlin's office. It was put-up-or-shut-up time. I gave Mr. Coyne the tape recording of Sosa's half of the phone conversation outside of my car the previous night. I told him that a translation would probably give him enough evidence to indict Sosa for conspiracy in the arson and murder of Makela. If he could get it done that morning, all to the good. My guess was that a serious threat of the death penalty might go a long way in inducing Sosa to flip—that, plus a little nudge that I could provide and Billy Coyne couldn't. If a deal were struck for protected witness status, Sosa could hand Mr. Coyne the big shots on a platter. That thought had him salivating, but still dubious.

  "So far, kid, you've given me nothing. So I nail Sosa Agipa instead of Keno Westoba. It's one low-level punk instead of another. Even if Agipa flips, we can't locate the heads of this outfit. We've been at this for years. They move around more than Gypsies. They pull a robbery or extortion to get money for guns to send to some band of rebels in Haiti. Every time we get close to tracking them down, they move to another location. Their headquarters was that apartment your client torched, probably to do away with Makela. He found out more than they wanted him to know. Now who knows where they are?"

  "I do."

  "Say what?"

  "I do."

  "Where?"

  "Not
yet, Mr. Coyne. This is where we do some serious dealing. I have only one concern here. Keno and his family. I want your word that you won't move in until I try to get his family out of their hands. I need to make one more move."

  I don't think he could believe what he was hearing from this boy-lawyer. Fortunately, I had Mr. Devlin's backing for clout. It took a minute, but I finally heard the words I needed to hear.

  "How long?"

  "Sometime today."

  "If this doesn't work, kid, I promise you I'll..."

  "If this doesn't work, Mr. Coyne, you'll be the least of my problems."

  I gave him the telephone number that I had gotten from my cell phone when I hit the redial after Sosa had called headquarters. Mr. Coyne called a number and got the address that went with the phone number. He gave me the address in the Roxbury section of Boston, and the game was on.

  * * * *

  I changed into a close-fitting T-shirt and jeans and took a cab to the Roxbury address. Most of the people in the street were African American, but when my cab pulled up to the curb, I noticed two tall, wiry dudes with Haitian features leaning against the door at the top of the front steps. The loose, island shirts showed contours that were more like weapons than parts of their anatomy.

  They zeroed in, and their eyes never left me from the time I got out of the cab. When I approached the steps they were down on each side of me.

  "You're in the wrong place, man. Nothing for you here."

  It was be-cooler-than-you've-ever-been-in-your-life time.

  "That depends. I've got an offer for the man upstairs. He may be upset with you boys if he doesn't hear it. Suppose you tell him Keno's lawyer wants to see him."

  They looked at each other. One of them turned and went up into the house. The other one turned me around for a closer look. He gave me a pat-down, but the tight-fitting clothes made it easy to tell I wasn't carrying anything dangerous or electronic and, as I had hoped, saved me a full search.

  I saw faces appear and look down from a third story window. In about three minutes, the one who left was back, and the two of them escorted me up the steps. I walked between them up two flights. The corridor seemed to buzz with tall males of the same Haitian cut, smoking and hanging out in the corridor.