Page 6 of A Matter of Pedigree
“I’m not sure. Paulie just called me.” Carole tapped her steering wheel with her nails. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you get him out of wherever they’ve got him?”
“I can’t get him out. Nobody can.”
Carole was not used to taking no for an answer. “Why not?”
“Well, they’re probably questioning him right now. And then he has to be arraigned—you know, formally charged with the crime. After that, a judge will set bail.”
“Bail’s no problem. How much do they want? I’ll go to the bank and get it right away. Cash?”
Connie sighed again. “No, Ma. It doesn’t work like that.”
Carole was getting mad. What was with all this nonsense? “Why not?”
“Murder is a capital case. There has to be a hearing, and the judge will set bail.”
“When will that be?”
“A day or two, probably. Daddy’s lawyer will let you know.”
“A day or two! That’s crazy. Are they gonna keep him in jail?”
“Well, yeah, Ma. They think he killed somebody. They’re not going to let him go free.”
This was ridiculous, thought Carole. “Are you kidding me? The paper’s full of people getting killed every day. The morning news is nothing but knife fights, drive-by shootings. Like that poor pregnant lady who got shot sitting on a bus and lost her precious unborn baby. Most of the time nobody even gets arrested. I don’t know why they’re picking on your father.”
“Ma, this is different. That’s street crime, mostly mentally ill people, gang fights, people on the bottom rung of the economic ladder. Dad is accused of killing Hosea Browne. He’s a very important man. He’s CEO of a venture capital company, a trustee at Brown University, and on the board of a couple of banks, too. He’s got a finger in everything that happens in Providence.”
“So you’re telling me that Hosea Browne matters more than that lady on the bus? I thought this is America and everybody’s equal.”
“Come on, Ma,” said Connie. “It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. You know that as well as me.” She paused. “They wouldn’t make an arrest without some sort of evidence. Ma, you don’t think it’s possible Dad was involved somehow?”
Carole was outraged. “What are you saying? You think your father is a murderer!”
Connie was quick to defend herself. “I’m not saying that at all. I just want to know what you think is really going on here. The big picture.”
“Well, I know your father is innocent! And no matter what they taught you at that goofy un-American law school, everybody in America is supposed to be innocent until they’re proven guilty!”
And with that, Carole ended the call, wishing she could slam down the receiver, but you couldn’t do that with a cell phone. Made you miss the good old days. She continued sitting in the car, staring at her phone, gradually becoming aware of a spicy, meaty scent. The food for Frank-O! Well, Connie was pretty much useless, which was not the return you expected for paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for law-school tuition, but that’s what you got. She might as well take the food over to Frankie Junior’s place. He might even be home and have some ideas. She did her best thinking when she drove; maybe something would come to her.
Frankie Junior—she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t get used to this Frank-O business—lived in a tenement on the hill behind the Esplanade. In her opinion, it was an absolute horror, but she understood why he wanted to live independently. Not that she liked it, not when she and Frank would be more than happy to get him one of the cute studio apartments at the Esplanade. She was driving a bit too fast, coasting down the hill, and she had to brake hard in front of the ugly, brown-shingled building on Caverly Street that was built into the hill, with one side taller than the other.
Shaking her head over the building’s somewhat dilapidated condition, she collected the bags of groceries and the bakery box and started the climb up to the porch. The door was unlocked, and she still had to climb another flight of stinky, rickety stairs to get to the apartment. That door was also unlocked, and she nudged it open with the pointed toe of her Jimmy Choo, grimacing at the sour smell that filled her nose. Frank-O definitely needed to do some laundry and change the sheets on his bed.
“Anybody home?” she called.
Nobody answered.
Sighing, she made her way through the clutter of dirty clothes, shoes, and books that littered the floor and went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere, the garbage was overflowing, a giant bluebottle fly buzzed at the window. She opened the refrigerator, which, thank goodness, was empty, and put the food containers inside, along with the soda and bread. She sure wasn’t going to leave the bread out on the counter where whatever else lived in the place might get at it. There were some takeout menus stuck on the fridge door with magnets; she took one and, digging an eyebrow pencil out of her bag, wrote a note in giant letters over the notation for Family Dinner A: “Call me! Emergency! Love, Ma.”
That ought to do it, she thought, hurrying out of there. She had more important things to do than worry about Frank-O’s disgusting lifestyle. Back in the car, she had a sudden inspiration, remembering that kid Tom who lived next to Mom and Big Frank. Hadn’t she heard somewhere he was a cop in the homicide division? It was worth a try. She had to call Mom and let her know what had happened anyway.
Mom’s reaction was predictable. “My bambino!” she wailed. “My baby Frank! This can’t be happening!”
“I know, it’s all a big mistake. But in the meantime, I need some info. Remember that kid, Tom, used to live next to you? Isn’t he a cop or something?”
“Little Tommy Paliotto. What a cutie. He’s all grown up now. I thought he and Connie might’ve got together, both being interested in the law and all …”
“Right, Ma,” said Carole, cutting her off. “Didn’t I hear he works downtown in homicide? Something like that?”
