Philip Ross - Bribe

The Bribe

Philip Ross

It is a cold and windy Saturday night in March when my father and I arrive for dinner. The evening is meant to be an informal celebration. The trial is still in progress but my brother Burt, a week away from his thirty-second birthday, has just finished on the witness stand. A verdict may be a month off, but there is reason enough to celebrate now. He was terrific.

Ross: Unflustered and Forthright, the morning paper had headlined.

All our witnesses should only be like him, the U.S. Attorney prosecuting the case had whispered during a recess.

Yet this dinner tonight is not so much to pay tribute to a great performance as it is to take quiet pleasure in the fact that the curtain itself has finally fallen. For Burt, at least, its over now. Ten months of FBI and staked-out restaurants, hidden mikes and recording equipment, U.S. marshals and Tommy guns, threats on his life and country hideouts. Its all over. And we have come to drink to that. To survival as much as to success.

The front door of Bill and Joanne Millers Long Island house is partly open and we walk in without knocking. Joanne Miller, Burts mother-in-law, is sitting on a couch next to an elaborately set dinner table. She is nursing a scotch. No one else seems to be around, which is strange because we are twenty minutes late.

Where is everybody? my father asks.

Joanne shrugs. Her usually effervescent voice is now almost a whisper.

Theyre all out looking for Willy, she says.

What do you mean? my father asks.

He must have jumped over the fence in the back, Joanne says. I dont know how the hell he could have gotten over that fence, but hes not there. Maybe he jumped or slipped into the canal.

Willy is the half-shepherd, half-collie that Burt and his wife, Laurie, picked up as a pup from a farmer while they were hiding out in the country. He is almost full grown now, sixty or so pounds of awkward energy with a brain that has impressed no one but Burt, who calls him my boy.

Joanne says they first noticed Willy was missing about an hour ago. Since then, Burt has been combing the neighborhood with Bill in one car, and Laurie has been driving alone in another.

The three of us sit silently, nibbling on some peanuts, perhaps more concerned that the festive evening we had looked forward to appears ruined than that Willie has disappeared.

When is it ever going to end with him? my father mutters. When is the drama ever going to end?

Perhaps twenty minutes pass and the door opens. Laurie walks in carrying Willy, who is soaking wet but seemingly all right. She lays him down on the living room rug and begins drying him off with towels. She had found him on a patch of mud near the end of the canal.

He must have slipped off the dock and been unable to get back on, Laurie says. Thank God the tide was out or he would have drowned.

Another fifteen minutes go by and Bill Miller and his son-in-law pull up. Bill, for most of his life a cop and undoubtedly one of the gentlest men to have ever donned a holster, walks in first. He sees the dog, shakes his head and walks directly to the kitchen.

Burt, in jeans and an olive ski jacket, comes limping in behind Bill. He takes a step or two into the living room and stops. He sees the dog. He stands there frozen, only his head moving, eyes darting from person to person. Suddenly he breaks down, his voice a series of low moans turning into one long primal scream

Willy, Willy, Willy. The sound is so pure and so filled with anguish that it is both terrifying and cathartic.

The dog leaps from under the towels and is all over Burt, knocking him off balance, tail wagging, licking his face. Burt sinks to his knees. His eyes are wild. Tears are running down his cheeks. He is sobbing uncontrollably, violently.

Bill stays in the kitchen and begins carving the ham. Joanne keeps a tight grip on her scotch. My fathers eyes are watery. Laurie walks up behind Burt and puts her arms around his neck.

I am confused.

Ten months earlier, on a warm Sunday afternoon in May of 1974, my phone rings. It is my brother and his voice is filled with the urgency I have come to expect as a political campaign draws to a close and he has some last-minute ideas he wants me to work on. I informally run the campaigns and am looked to for advice, but he calls the shots and does most of the work. As his brother, my major contribution is to get him to slow down.

On this day, I would like to bring him to a grinding halt. I have just come back from planting a garden at a friends house in the country and I am covered with spring. On the way back, I stopped with my daughters to pick wild flowers. I am not feeling very political.

Listen, Phil, he says. Ive got to talk to you.

Let me guess. They just sent out a mailing calling you a child molester.

Cmon, will you listen to me? Something incredible just happened. I think I was just paid a visit by the Mafia.

Good-bye spring.

You were what?

Yeah, Im sure of it. This guy Ive never seen before comes to my apartment and says Ive got to delay the board of adjustment vote on the Sutton property. He says that if the thing is voted down on Wednesday, a lot of lives are going to be ruined.

What makes you think hes Mafia?

Everything. He was wearing a silk suit. He had on a big pinky ring. He was incredibly tough-looking. You know, big chest, broad shoulders, the works. I think I saw a gun under his jacket. And he wouldnt tell me his name. He called himself Joey D. He even turned up the volume on my TV set to make sure no one could listen to us. Im telling you, it was like in the movies.

What exactly did he want from you?

He kept saying that the vote has to be delayed for a few weeks because the banks are applying pressure and if its voted down now, the whole thing will go under.

I ask my brother if that was the whole conversation. He says no. The guy who called himself Joey D. had said he could destroy the other slate in the upcoming primary, and he had asked Burt several times whether he had any money problems.

There are a number of thoughts racing through my head. They all come together in my next question.

Burt, are you out of your goddamned head?

He seems taken aback. What do you mean? he asks.

What do I mean? I shout. What the hell is the matter with you? Some guy you dont know but think is Mafia comes to your apartment and asks if you have money problems. And you let him talk to you? Why didnt you say that if he didnt get out, youd call the cops? Thats what you should have done.

Burt answers in an exasperated voice that makes me feel like a parent who has just told his teen-age daughter to be home before midnight.

Aw, cmon, he says. I can take care of myself. If I had done what you said, that would have been the end of it. Id never know who the guy was or whom he was representing or what kind of political information he had. I want to find out what the mystery is all about.

Im beginning to think that my younger brother is more than just stubborn. He is an idiot.

Look, I say, this isnt some cops and robbers game you used to play. Whats wrong with you? If you read this guy right, youre going to be in over your head. Im telling you, these guys dont play games.

Burt remains silent for a few seconds. I hope that I have made an impression.

Dont worry about a thing, he says finally. Nothing happened that I cant take care of. And besides, I didnt give him the slightest indication that I would do anything. I even told him I couldnt do anything even if I wanted to. But he was very persistent. He just kept saying that people should be able to talk and help each other and that I should think about it. So Ill call the U.S. Attorney first thing in the morning and see what he says. And stop being so nervous. I know what Im doing. I can live with myself.