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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 it pro 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 speciality, 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 Thompsons’.
He now regretted that decision. The way she was throwing the cognac down, the possibility existed that the headlines in tomorrow’s Bulletin and Ledger and Daily 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.”
