Lincoln and Herndon
Law and justice
in the City Between Two Rivers
Retreat from Oblivion
It was a bad rap. Seven years in and out of the darkest, dampest, dirtiest cells in Glasgow.
Framed by the Secret Service. Framed by the State apparatus. Framed in the corridors of justice. She and her college roommate were framed for conspiring to kill her husband.
At the fourth trial, the reckless prosecutor made the charges stick. Broke, disowned and destitute, she writes her own appeal. Suddenly, they are released by the High Court. The Crown gives up and orders them deported.
Both of them, free from the terrors of Scottish justice and the chains of matrimony, return to Pennsylvania.
She rents desk space from her ex-boyfriend. Yael Herndon is ready for her first day as a court appointed lawyer in the City Between Two Rivers.
A curse of four generations
The ex-boyfriend isn't much of a lawyer. How he got into law school is an open question. How he passed the bar is another.
America has been plagued by four generations of Abraham Lincolns. Avi's great grandfather got the name because the racist immigration agent at Galveston could not spell. The family has been trading on the name ever since. The present Abraham Lincoln calls himself Avi, to plug into the Israeli trade at which he does very well.
A source of unknown reliability
Avi's sidekick is his cousin Charlie. At age 60, Charlie has never held a real job. Officially he is a translator, which means that he's Avi's runner. Years ago, Charlie changed his name to Battenberg. He claims to be the American branch of the Royal Family. The Royals should be so lucky.
The foundation of evil
Yael and her college roommate live at the Dorchester, a floor below where newspaper editor and heir John S. Knight III was murdered in 1975. After returning from Scotland, Lilith talked her way into a job with a big foundation. Don't believe her. Once she got busted. The judge raised her bail when he caught her lying that she and Yael were sisters. Lilith tells guys that Chatham College is one of the Seven Sisters.
He can't go back to Canada
Today, Yael had her first preliminary hearing. It was at Broad and Champlost, a 1970-style police station. It has a mural honoring several police officers from that district who were killed in the line of duty. After two hours waiting, the preliminary hearing was continued. The witness did not show.
The time wasn't wasted. Yael met a private investigator.
Rex is on the watch list of British Intelligence. Rex is a free lancer. Two decades ago, he went around western Canada exposing assets. I'm speaking of Nazi collaborators who switched sides and worked for the British during the early Cold War. When their usefulness was up, they were hidden in Canada. These guys were the worst of the worst. Even Paraguay would not take them. Rex can't go back to Canada. If the government would not arrest him, he would be a dead man on the streets of Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmondton, and a dozen other prairie towns and hamlets.
The bank
Yael knows all about the Department of Homeland Security. That's why she lied on her census form and does not believe in banks and credit cards. When she's short of money--which is often--she visits a dry cleaning store on Ogontz Avenue.
There she sees her father, who took her back after she was deported from Scotland. In the early 1950's, Sparkie was fired by the School Board for refusing to answer questions. He put his understanding of economics to good use. He founded a chain of dry cleaners. Karl Marx was good for something. To this day, he is registered Republican. "It keeps the FBI off my trail," he chuckles.
Avi and Charlie at the crossroads
Avi and Charlie are going out to sign up a new case. It's a Battenberg special. Decent injuries--no witnesses.
They get off the subs at Erie. Broad and Erie are the crossroads of the City Between Two Rivers. Six transit lines intersect here. In the cool air and bright afternoon sun, the working class is headed home. They are waiting for the Streetcars to Nowhere. The 23 and the 56 went bus in 1992. The wires are still up, giving the members of a Yahoo transit group faint hope.
Posted on a trolley pole is a sign advertising 25 exotic male dancers at a Mother's Day brunch at a club on Spring Garden Street. Just down the block, two women smooch in front of the Clock bar. This establishment has been here for at least half a century---a famous takeout for shrimp and crabs. In the window is a sign saying that all frying is done with transfat free oil. Another streamer says Dungeness. Patrons file out, bringing with them the aroma of fried fish.
On the corner is a vendor's table. He's not there, but his copy of the Noble Quran is lying on the table cover facing up and pages open. Three oldtimers sitting on folding chairs are telling jokes. People are waiting for the bus. A boom box is playing.
Avi and Charlie enter Maxx's steak shop. Through the window, one can see the short order cook, spreading oil on the grill, working on slithers of steak and chopped onions, chopping and flipping it, and placing it inside a roll which was toasting on the grill. The chef is an artist. He should be a surgeon.
Avi and Charlie walk past the steak counter towards the rear of the building. They have entered the Eagle Bar. They are here to meet Doc. Actually Doc is a disbarred lawyer. Doc and his nurse-wife run a chain of medical clinics. Mill would be a better word. Doc's wife examines the patients. An impaired physician comes in every few days to sign the charts and make the prescriptions look legal.
The wife also owns a pharmacy. Her brother runs a medical equipment business. It's a neat package. But you won't hear them talk about it. They don't need another interview at the Economic Crimes Unit.
Judge Lincoln
Avi Lincoln has decided to become a judge. After four generations in America, the Lincoln name needs some respectability.
Megan
He heads over to the Palm for lunch with powerbroker Megan. Don't let the teased hair and fake eyelashes fool you. She has juice. Every big deal, every big political operation in this town is touched by Megan. At Goretti she had a different name.
In 1964, she whispered the words "single bullet theory" into the ear of a certain attorney. Without Megan, the coverup of the Kennedy Assassination would never have worked.
Every day, Megan works out at the Sporting Club. Before the likes of Ed Rendell, Arlen Specter, judges who cannot be named, and business and political stars, she flaunts her muscular stomach and designer sports bras. What she spends in a month on workout fashions, the working stiff doesn't earn in a year.
Avi walks into the Palm. Power is everywhere. "This place has class," he thinks. "I like being a judge already."
"What kind of judge do you want to be?" Megan asks.
"Federal," says Avi.
"The FBI will investigate you. The American Bar Association will evaluate your legal writings. The whole world will know your academic record. You are running for a local court," she said.
"Look, you'll wear black robes, perform weddings, and everyone will call you Your Honor. Besides, you can attend all the big dinners in South Philly," she said.
She took out a slip of paper and wrote the name Oscar and a room number on the Ninth Floor of City Hall.
"He's waiting for you," she said.
Oscar
Avi enters City Hall, passes through security, and rides the elevator to the seventh floor. He walks up a couple flights of steep steps and enters the dusty, musty, mildewed attic of City government. Amid rotting court files---the divorce degree of David Goodis is nearby---and through dark passages and over creaking floors one finds Oscar. You have entered the nerve center of the city's secret government.
Oscar is a veteran of the political wars and a survivor. A sharp dresser with a shined dome, a neatly trimmed moustache, and contrasting sport jacket and pants, Oscar says that everything can be compromised. Forty years ago he took the fall for the big boys. Oscar and a magistrate were charged with ripping off old ladies. He pleaded guilty and spent a few months in Holmesburg Prison. Then the compromise. He was pardoned by the governor and got a lifetime appointment in City Hall. Nobody can find him. Not even the FBI.
They chat for a while. Oscar takes out a strip of paper. He writes down a number and the words "to grease some palms." He shows the paper to Avi, puts the paper in his mouth and swallows it.
"You'll hear from me soon," Oscar says.
Behind the mechitza
Yael has her first private client.
At a chance encounter at Le Bus bakery near Rittenhouse Square, she ran into Phyllis. They had been cheerleaders together at Cheltenham High School.
"My son is in big trouble. Drugs. We have to talk in absolute privacy," she said.
Yael told her to meet her at the Tuesday morning minyan (services). She gave her the address of an Orthodox synagogue in the suburbs.
They meet behind the mechitza. In this synagogue, the mechitza is a screen extending from ceiling to floor. The women sit behind it. Women can hear the service, but men will not be distracted by seeing them.
"The government has bugged just about every religious site, but they'll never think of this," Yael explained.
"I need $20,000 cash to get started," Yael said. "There won't be a written fee agreement. I won't report the transaction to the government."
"The first rule of a lawyer is to break every rule you can," Yael said. "I learned that from Due Process Sally, my friend from jail in Scotland. There are some mighty smart people in prison. They taught me things, even I did not know."
"If they're so smart why are they in prison," Phyllis thought.
The quarry
Yael's celphone exploded. "I have the money. What are we going to do with the witness?"
It was Phyllis.
"Freeze," Yael said. "There's no expectation of privacy on a celphone."
The next night they met at a Bar Association reception in City Hall. Lawyers and judges sampled the rigatoni and prociutlino in Conversation Hall. Judicial wannabees and bar junkies worked the room. Yael and Phyllis slipped behind the statue of George Washington.
"Here's the money," Phyllis said. "Now what about the witness?"
In Scotland, Yael had learned a lot about resolving delicate personnel issues. If you want to * * * your husband, would you use your girlfriend or hire a professional? You hire a professional!
"I'll let you know the options," Yael told Phyllis.
The date
Sunday night they met at a small cafe near the Italian market. Over canolis, their eyes locked. After their last espresso, they walked to the Delaware River. Alongside the cruiser Olympia, they kissed. It was a scene for a New York Times wedding video. The next morning he called his mother. "This is what I want to marry," he said.
As she walked down the cantilevered stairway of City Hall, Yael saw him. "You're looking good," he said. "Why, do I usually look terrible," she snapped.
There won't be a second date.
Rara avis
Yael and Lilith are sunning poolside with their twin cats Sodom and Gemorrah. Yael is reviewing the statement of the key witness against Phyllis' son. Lilith looks up from her copy of the Maltese Falcon. "You need a fall guy," she says.
Uncle Jack
Lilith is off to visit Uncle Jack at the old age home. Well, she's really not his niece but everyone says she's a wonderful niece. She's bringing Jack his weekly stash.
Jack is a charmer. In his Jewish immigrant jive he calls the women "sweeter" and "dearie." But don't let the charm fool you. Jack is the biggest dealer in Montgomery County.
The Congressman
If Avi is ever going to be a judge, he will have to raise some serious money. He reaches out to Congressman Smile.
Years ago, Smile was the boy wonder of politics, but he led several lives. You know the type. They line their pockets while preaching social justice. They vote pro-life while paying for their girlfriend's abortion. His career crashed with an indictment. Smile beat the rap. The accuser was even more disreputable than he. It may have been the only crime Smile did not commit.
Smile launched a new career. He's made a fortune several times over.
Avi asks Smile for help. Smile says no.
At least someone thinks Avi is honest.
Lilith finds God
Lilith found religion . . . AGAIN.
Her first husband was a renegade priest. The details of his death are forever buried in the crypts of the Department of Homeland Security.
As for her second husband, she learned of the divorce from the prison social worker, who showed her a legal notice in the newspaper. Her only reaction: "I should have spiked his insulin."
Since returning to the City Between Two Rivers, she's been hanging out at seminaries. There are plenty of them in this town. She brings the seminarians oxycontin and engages in other forbidden fruit.
Some seminarians get high on Jesus. Others just get high.
Pete and Frank
Lilith is off to a new business prospect.
She heads to a grimy industrial building on Spring Garden Street. The first floor used to be a furniture outlet. Today, the windows are plastered with "for rent" signs and old political posters.
She goes down the steps to the basement. She is in the law office of Pete and Frank.
Pete made a fortune in real estate, restaurants and auto body shops. But law drives his fortune. Pete is not just any lawyer. He takes the cases most lawyers won't touch. His clients don't care about prestige addresses. They don't want to pay for fancy furnishings.
The office--if you can call it that--is an experience--if you don't choke on the musty smell of floods past. Files and court transcripts are piled on the floor. Dust is everywhere. Many of the lights are burned out.
Lilith says hello to Pete and Frank, but her eyes are drawn to the vault. In the old days, Pete kept doctor's letterhead in the vault. When a client needed a medical report, Pete typed it out.
"I'm looking to shift my focus," Lilith said. "The drug trade is drying up. Already, marijuana is as good as legal in Philly. The prisons are overstuffed with drug dealers. Even the right wingers want to get rid of mandatory sentences. The cost of prison is killing the taxpayers. The shorter the jail terms, the less the risk, the less the profit."
She looked at Frank. There isn't anything about law he does not know. But Frank is only a paralegal. He could never get into law school. His last stretch was Federal. He got caught counterfeiting money in the print shop at Holmesburg Prison. It was a smart scam. The fake money was smuggled out of prison and given to drug dealers. The drug dealers used the fake money for change. The buyers were too high to realize the money was bad.
"What's the deal?" Pete asked. She looked at Frank.
"Citizenship papers." she whispered.
Surprise at Broad and Champlost
Today is the day. Finally. Phyllis's son has his preliminary hearing.
Yael told them how to dress for court. Phyllis bought her son a long sleeve shirt--to cover his tattoos, and suspenders so his pants won't fall down in front of the judge. His girl friend is coming for moral support. Phyllis bought her an extra-large turtle neck, so the tattoos on her breasts will be hidden and her panties won't be exposed to the world.
Phyllis also borrowed a baby. She knows that you're supposed to bring a baby to court, because everyone else does.
Yael meets them on the steps at Broad and Champlost. Yael has a knowing look, but she won't say what she knows. They cross Broad Street to Dunkin Donuts. Over chocolate frosted donuts and everything bagels, Yael tells them what to expect--well, not everything. I won't comment on the food, but I can say this much about Dunkin Donuts. Nowhere can you get so much energy at breakfast.
Back in the court room, the case is called. Yael recognizes the judge, but she won't remind him. Case continued. The star witness hasn't been seen in days.
Walking out of the court room, a detective approaches Phyllis. "Come upstairs. I want to ask you some questions." Poetic justice. When Phyllis was dating, she asked relentless questions of her men. Now she's in for the interrogation of a lifetime.
As she is escorted upstairs to the detective bureau, Yael shouts, "The questions are your Miranda rights."
Dragnet circa 1952
It was a rough five hours. Like Dragnet 1952. But Phyllis toughed it out. First they told her she was not a suspect. That meant no Miranda warnings. No right to a lawyer. No right to a telephone call.
Yes, they treated her okay. The good cop shared his San Cristobal cigars--the good stuff from the store on Walnut Street. The bad cop made her La Colombe coffee. But then they let her have it. Material witness. Your kid will never get out. We know your husband's business.
Fortunately, Yael only said she would hire experts and things would work out. So, Phyllis didn't have a thing to give the cops.
After five hours relentless interrogation, question after question, threat after threat, they threw her out on Broad Street.
As she picked herself off the sidewalk, Phyllis texted her husband.
"Go to the safe deposit box and get the German passports. Call your cousin in Cuba."
Cigarette Alley
It should be called Cigarette Alley.
Wedged between the Witherspoon Building and the former Bankers Securities Building, this block of Juniper Street has seen it all. The Witherspoon was once headquarters for the Presbyterian Sabbath schools. It was built before cars were invented.
The Bankers Securities Building was part of Albert M. Greenfield's empire. Friend of Presidents and real estate advisor to the Cardinal, Greenfield owned it all. This is the building where David Goodis went for legal advice and launched his law suit over The Fugitive.
Years later a lawyer took a dive from the ninth floor. They said he could not keep up with his wife's financial demands. The truth was that his runner had died. After that, the City paved over the cobblestones. Why not? In a city where babies are dying, what better use for taxpayers' money. You can't leave dried blood in an alley.
On this hot summer day, a thunderstorm is looming. Health oblivious smokers, expelled from their smoke free environments, line Juniper Street. As the black storm clouds loom over the buildings, the smoke is trapped between the buildings and held down by the dirty,humid urban air.
Yael and Lilith are leaning against the Witherspoon Building. They had just been thrown out of the Naked Chocolate Cafe. No smoking there. As they guzzle their cigarettes, Lilith asks, "Have you heard from Phyllis?"
Yael opens a box from Fairmount Bagels in Montreal. Inside are a dozen real bagels, not the tasteless, unchewy, white bread from the land south of Oregon.
"Let's eat the evidence," Lilith says.
Evil Karma
Lilith has a twin, or at least a double.
Karma.
They met on one of Lilith's regular trips to a seminary in the suburbs. There, Karma is going for her Master's in pastoral counseling.
Over hot pastrami, cheese fries and Dr. Brown's celery soda at the Reading Terminal, they catch up.
Karma lives on the edge. Though her parents are the biggest cardiologists in Colorado, she feasts on salt and saturated fat. How does she keep her figure? Don't ask.
Her first husband disappeared on a ski trip in Switzerland. Her second husband fell overboard from a fishing boat in the Bahamas. You could say the sharks got him.
"I'm being accused of killing my husband," Karma confides.
"When did he die?" Lilith asks.
"Tomorrow," Karma answers.
"Quick cancel his life insurance," Lilith says.
"He doesn't have any," Karma says.
"Good, the perfect crime," Lilith says. "After it happens, see Yael and bring cash. Lots of it."
Community Court
Charlie is headed to Community Court.
Not as a defendant. Not as a lawyer. Not as a victim.
Charlie is looking for a date to take to his niece's wedding.
On the second floor of the building where Girl Scout cookies were invented, lies Community Court. Officially, it is where minor crimes are punished. Defendants get community service and their records are expunged. The cost of trial, with all the due process and Constitutional rights, is avoided.
Unofficially, Community Court is the hottest dating scene in the City Between Two Rivers.
Where else can you check out the tattoos and falling trousers, without spending a dollar for a drink or a membership in a dating site? And Community Court defendants are non-violent, or at least they were never charged with a crime of violence.
Charlie looks around the court room and makes a beeline for the sign language interpreter. Crisp, sporty and professional, she stands out among the rubble.
She says yes. Charlie has a date.
When asked how they met, the story will be better than "we met on J-Date."
A judge we can count on
Avi gets a telephone call.
"We like your qualifications. We know you will be fair."
Avi stops by Nicky's law office.
Greeted by a plastic plant, one would never suspect this seedy outpost on Chestnut Street is the center of black ops in the City Between Two Rivers.
Nicky's family are Batistianos. In 1958 they left Cuba, pockets and suitcases stuffed with mob money. Nicky bought his way into Princeton and Columbia Law School. He paid someone to take his bar exam. United States Senators could not get away with that scam.
It is said that Nicky had a hand in the assassination of Allende, funding the right wing death squads in El Salvador, and spiriting away Nazi collaborators from the jaws of the Justice Department. Basic decency is not in his vocabulary.
Nicky operates behind a front of cheapness. A middle aged woman in stretch pants greets visitors to the office. Clients are offered instant coffee with chemical cream.
For years, Nicky's firm used wet process copiers because they were cheaper. With wet process, you tore the sheet off where the printing ended. No waste with full page sheets from dry copiers. His office mimeographed appellate briefs when everyone else used quick copy stores.
When a partner of the firm was disbarred, they kept using the same letterhead, crossing out the disgraced partner's name. Why waste otherwise good stationary?
As for lunch, when lawyers were going to the Union League and the Locust Club, Nicky went to H&H. Where else could you get chemical cream?
Nicky hands Avi a cashier's check for $20,000. He gives Avi a name with an address in Houston, Texas.
"You're the kind of judge we need here," Nicky said.
As Avi left the office, a camera embedded in the plastic plant snapped Avi's picture.
So much for the independent judiciary.
Archie's
Lilith and Yael meet for breakfast.
For Yael, it is a big day in court. Another status conference for Phyllis' son. Still no witness.
For Lilith, a busy night making deliveries to stop and goes, steak shops, nail salons, tattoo parlors, hospitals and old age homes.
Her last stop was a hospital--if you can call it that--on the edge of Center City. The hospital is not really a hospital. It is more of a parking lot and ripening establishment. Lawyers have their clients admitted for rest and therapy so the medical bills in their cases can grow.
Across the street is Archie's, a pathetic breakfast and lunch place, run by a loser named Archie. Archie is about 40, bald, with big glasses and a drooping face. A face lift is in order, but he's not rich and never will be.
Archie is chef, bookkeeper, waiter. He does it all. He's proud of his food. "Everyday I cook a turkey," he tells a customer. "I know it's cheaper to buy turkey roll, but I like to do it right."
Archie's is more than a restaurant. It's a family operation. Upstairs, is his father's domain. Officially it is a hotel. More accurately a flop house. Single rooms, with lumpy beds and stale air. Down the hall is a bathroom. Don't count on hot water. As for the character of the tenants, never ask.
Last night one of the tenant's died. Archie's father inventoried the man's possessions. There was nothing worth stealing. Then he called the police.
Lilith turned her eyes to Archie. "We have a fall guy," she whispered.
Photos from http://www.phillyhistory.org