laughing by then
and had taken a mouthful of beer while he listened to whatever it was
Jack said. Then he swallowed the beer, and with a mirthless smile he
retorted to Jack. who did not wait for the retort but was already
walking back toward us.
"I'm trembling, brother," Charlie called to
him. "Trembling." He took another mouthful of beer, swished
it around in his mouth, and spat it in a long arc after Jack. Not
hitting him, or meaning to, but spitting as a child spits when he can
think of no words as venomous as his saliva. Then he turned away from
the direction of his spit, swallowed the last of his beer, and walked
his great hulk out of the bar.
Holy Flying Christ, I said to myself when I
understood Charlie's laughter and saw the arc of beer, for I
understood much more than what we were all seeing. I was remembering
what Jack's stylized terror could do to a man, remembering Joe
Vignola, my client in the Hotsy Totsy case, a man visited not by
Jack's vengeance but merely by the specter of it. I was remembering
Joe on his cot in the Tombs, tracing with his eye a maze a prisoner
before him had drawn on the wall, losing the way, tracing with his
finger, but the finger too big, then finding a broom straw and
tracing with that. And scratching his message above the maze with a
spoon: Joe Vignola never hurt nobody, but they put him in jail
anyway. Joe was dreaming of smuggling a gun in via his wife's
brassiere, but he couldn't conceive of how to ask her to do such an
embarrassing thing. And the district attorney was explaining almost
daily to him, it's just routine, Joe, we hold 'em all the time in
cases like this, an outrage, as you know, what happened, and we must
have witnesses, must have them. Also a precautionary measure, as l'm
sure you're aware, Joe, you're safer here. But I want to go home, Joe
said, and the DA said, well, if you insist, but that's twenty
thousand. Twenty thou? Twenty thou. I'm not guilty, you've got the
wrong man. Oh no, said the DA, you're the right man. You're the one
who saw Legs Diamond and his friends being naughty at the Hotsy
Totsy. I'm not the only one, Joe said. Right, Joe, you are not the
only one. We have other witnesses. We have the bartender. We have
Billy Reagan, too, who is coming along nicely. An open-and-shut case,
as they say.
* * *
Joe Vignola was in jail eight days when his wife got
a phone call. Somebody, no name, told her: Look on such and such a
page of the Daily News about what happened to Walter Rudolph. Walter
Rudolph was the DA's corroborating witness, and two kids had found
him lying off the Bordentown Turnpike near South Amboy, wearing his
blue serge suit, his straw hat alongside him, eleven machine-gun
slugs in him.
I was called into the case at this point. Vignola's
lawyer was suddenly inaccessible to Vignola's wife, and an old show
business friend of mine, Lew Miller, who produced Broadway shows and
had patronized the Hotsy and gotten to know Joe Vignola well enough
to go to bat for him, called me up and asked me to see what I could
do for the poor bird.
Memory of my first interrogation of Joe: Why did you
tell the cops what you saw? Why did you identify photos of Jack
Diamond and Charlie Filetti for the grand jury?
Because I wanted people to know I had nothing to do
with it. Because I didn't want them to put me in jail for withholding
evidence. And a cop slapped me twice. But why, really, Joe? Did you
want your name in the l papers, too?
No, because Billy Reagan had talked and would be the
main witness and because the cops had at least twenty-five other
witnesses who were in the club, and they told the same story I did,
the DA said.
But, Joe, knowing what we know about Jack Diamond and
people like him, how could you do it? Was it time to die?
Not at all. Basically, I don't approve of murder, or
Jack Diamond or Charlie Filetti either. I was brought up a Catholic
and I know the value of honesty. I know what a citizen has to do in
cases like this. Don't I hear it in
and had taken a mouthful of beer while he listened to whatever it was
Jack said. Then he swallowed the beer, and with a mirthless smile he
retorted to Jack. who did not wait for the retort but was already
walking back toward us.
"I'm trembling, brother," Charlie called to
him. "Trembling." He took another mouthful of beer, swished
it around in his mouth, and spat it in a long arc after Jack. Not
hitting him, or meaning to, but spitting as a child spits when he can
think of no words as venomous as his saliva. Then he turned away from
the direction of his spit, swallowed the last of his beer, and walked
his great hulk out of the bar.
Holy Flying Christ, I said to myself when I
understood Charlie's laughter and saw the arc of beer, for I
understood much more than what we were all seeing. I was remembering
what Jack's stylized terror could do to a man, remembering Joe
Vignola, my client in the Hotsy Totsy case, a man visited not by
Jack's vengeance but merely by the specter of it. I was remembering
Joe on his cot in the Tombs, tracing with his eye a maze a prisoner
before him had drawn on the wall, losing the way, tracing with his
finger, but the finger too big, then finding a broom straw and
tracing with that. And scratching his message above the maze with a
spoon: Joe Vignola never hurt nobody, but they put him in jail
anyway. Joe was dreaming of smuggling a gun in via his wife's
brassiere, but he couldn't conceive of how to ask her to do such an
embarrassing thing. And the district attorney was explaining almost
daily to him, it's just routine, Joe, we hold 'em all the time in
cases like this, an outrage, as you know, what happened, and we must
have witnesses, must have them. Also a precautionary measure, as l'm
sure you're aware, Joe, you're safer here. But I want to go home, Joe
said, and the DA said, well, if you insist, but that's twenty
thousand. Twenty thou? Twenty thou. I'm not guilty, you've got the
wrong man. Oh no, said the DA, you're the right man. You're the one
who saw Legs Diamond and his friends being naughty at the Hotsy
Totsy. I'm not the only one, Joe said. Right, Joe, you are not the
only one. We have other witnesses. We have the bartender. We have
Billy Reagan, too, who is coming along nicely. An open-and-shut case,
as they say.
* * *
Joe Vignola was in jail eight days when his wife got
a phone call. Somebody, no name, told her: Look on such and such a
page of the Daily News about what happened to Walter Rudolph. Walter
Rudolph was the DA's corroborating witness, and two kids had found
him lying off the Bordentown Turnpike near South Amboy, wearing his
blue serge suit, his straw hat alongside him, eleven machine-gun
slugs in him.
I was called into the case at this point. Vignola's
lawyer was suddenly inaccessible to Vignola's wife, and an old show
business friend of mine, Lew Miller, who produced Broadway shows and
had patronized the Hotsy and gotten to know Joe Vignola well enough
to go to bat for him, called me up and asked me to see what I could
do for the poor bird.
Memory of my first interrogation of Joe: Why did you
tell the cops what you saw? Why did you identify photos of Jack
Diamond and Charlie Filetti for the grand jury?
Because I wanted people to know I had nothing to do
with it. Because I didn't want them to put me in jail for withholding
evidence. And a cop slapped me twice. But why, really, Joe? Did you
want your name in the l papers, too?
No, because Billy Reagan had talked and would be the
main witness and because the cops had at least twenty-five other
witnesses who were in the club, and they told the same story I did,
the DA said.
But, Joe, knowing what we know about Jack Diamond and
people like him, how could you do it? Was it time to die?
Not at all. Basically, I don't approve of murder, or
Jack Diamond or Charlie Filetti either. I was brought up a Catholic
and I know the value of honesty. I know what a citizen has to do in
cases like this. Don't I hear it in
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