by JJ Partridge
“Palagi alleged fraud?” I asked again. “Or was it Brunotti?”
“Italo Palagi lived a life of fraud …” Her voice withered away.
Damn it, I needed her to address allegations of fraud! “Palagi accused Brunotti of fraud? Vice versa?”
Her head straightened, her expression questioning my singlemindedness. “Everyone knows Brunotti overspends, has no interest in research, in academics, the work of the Institute, only in the show, the prestige of his position, to gain a reputation with donors, to pay for his women. Italo said Brunotti was a sciocco, a fool and thief and that he had evidence that would get that puffed-up portiere dismissed.”
“Maybe, it was more of the same? Do you know of anything specific?”
Her milky eye was unnerving in a blank stare that lasted thirty seconds. “I do know how Palagi lived—in a mirror. He saw what was behind him and he didn’t like it.” As a characterization of Palagi, it struck me as stark but penetrating, but didn’t help as to accusations against Cosimo Brunotti.
She blinked, apparently remembering another thought. One hand went to a jacket pocket, which produced a plastic swipe card and a metal key on a ring. “This,” she brandished the key, “is for the apartment. The card is for the gate. His apartment number is on the key.” She tossed them on my desk and abruptly grabbed her termination notice, stood, wheeled around my desk, and swept out of my office. “He will pay!” she declared in disgust and left me in a trail of damp.
I followed her into our tiny reception area where Marcie stared as the old woman trudged by her and slammed the door. I confirmed she had heard the accusations and asked her to contact the Institute for a copy of the termination notice. I returned to my desk trying to make sense of her rant. Harpies? Palagi also used that metaphor?
I went online in a search for a depiction and quickly found several including an etching by the French artist Gustave Doré. His Harpies were the personification of agents of punishment, hideous, vicious creatures, half woman, half monster, scratching at their victim’s vitals with terrible claws, inflicting unimaginable, unrelenting pain.
Each of Italo Palagi and Cosimo Brunotti had their very own Harpy.
18
THE PROVOST RAISED HIS eyes at my late entry and continued to complain to the speakerphone on his conference room table. “Not one faculty senate member had enough guts or common sense to argue that something so sensitive needed consultation before it was rammed through.”
I took my seat quietly, focusing on the room’s single window and the foliage of The Green beyond. Did any of those present—the Provost, his assistant who normally deals with the vagaries of the faculty senate, the public information officer, or the vice president for community relations—suspect Nadie Winokur as a participant, or worse, in the Columbus Day coup?
The Provost whipped on reading glasses, and said, “From today’s Crier editorial, quote, ‘Columbus Day is a colonizer’s holiday. Should we celebrate European hegemony, violence, oppression, and brutality? Should we honor a racist whose hands are bloodstained?’ How’s that for nuance?”
President Charles Danby’s distant, soft, and unruffled voice responded. “I need advice, not recriminations. I’ve got to return Tramonti’s call.”
The Public Information Officer, the PIO, a relative newbie to the arcane world of university public relations, hunched forward toward the speakerphone. “We have drafted a media release for your approval,” she said. “I’ll e-mail it to you. Very simply, it says that the President has not as yet reviewed the faculty senate resolution. When considered, the President will then discuss its implications with senior staff and faculty representatives.”
While short and sweet, it was a kick-the-can-down-the-road cop out that confused a naïve hope with a nasty reality. The Provost rejected it. “Too late for that,” he said gruffly; the ruffled feathers of the PIO could be sensed if not heard. “Charlie, it’s national news,” he continued. “Public Information has been called by the Times, Fox News and CNN … so far. Chris Mathews demanded a University spokesman tonight, said he had proponents and opponents lined up. So did Bill O’Reilly. Sean Hannity’s already making us look like crass bigots. The Italian press office in New York is all over us. The Institute must be deluged with calls …”
Danby muttered, “Brunotti,” which silenced all participants. When he continued, his voice had turned steely. “The timing couldn’t be worse with Columbus Day coming up, with the negotiations on the tax treaty getting close to agreement. I can’t lose this opportunity to resolve the tax issue because of what is seen as a provocation.”
Despite my intuition that the tax treaty was history, we had to fight on. “I have a thought,” I said. Before I left Congdon Street, I had conjured up some ideas that would be characterized by Nadie as “lawyer’s tricks.”
“Release a statement without attribution to the President, stressing the faculty senate’s failure to give notice, or to encourage debate, before voting on a sensitive issue. Don’t agree or disagree, just don’t embrace it. And here’s the substantive kicker. While the faculty senate sets the academic calendar year, there’s no precedent that gives the faculty senate the right to rename holidays. Besides, the calendar for this academic year is already printed as the Columbus Day holiday. So, nothing changes this year, our campus calendar remains as is, and the whole issue is in the under-advisement category. Maybe the Trustees would like input on the issue? Maybe it’s a holiday with no day off? If asked, the PIO’s position is whatever our faculty and students do individually is up to them but, officially, it’s still Columbus Day at Carter University.”
The Public Information Officer coughed at the responsibility. Others audibly exhaled relief.
“I don’t know,” Danby said thoughtfully. “The cat’s already cleaning her whiskers, as my mother would say. When someone’s hero is denigrated, victimization explodes and it’s an excuse to act out. But we just can’t hunker down.” As the first African-American President of an Ivy, he was no stranger to controversies, insults, and reactions.
I heard his reluctance but continued, “There must be someone in the faculty senate who’s a stickler about Robert’s Rules of Order, we let him or her know that objections have been raised as to lack of notice on such an important issue, suggest reputations for probity and correctness are at risk, convince him or her to file a notice for reconsideration so that the vote is transparent. Everybody loves transparency. That puts it back on the faculty senate agenda, which means it gets assigned to a committee for review. That’s at least six months of lead time. Right into graduation.”
All heads around the table, including mine, turned to the Provost who, to my surprise, cracked a grim smile as Danby, with a chuckle barely hidden in his voice, was heard to say, “Slick … and passes the sniff test, for now. That means no interviews and a press release that plays the controversy down, respectful of all points of view, Columbus Day is in on the calendar for this year, faculty senate should review its procedures. Make it clear that the University is not and will not insult any one’s ethnic background, we appreciate the achievements of all peoples, etc. I’ll return the call from the Mayor, otherwise, I’m not going to respond. I repeat, no interviews by anyone in the administration, only the press release. Community Relations should be reaching out to our friends in the city with the same message. And prepare something for the Institute along similar lines. And the donors. And make sure the message gets to Brunotti!”
“He’s in Italy,” the Provost said with exasperation.
Italy? Not here tomorrow when Pine and I grapple with Lucca & Lucca? The no-good son of a bitch!
“Reach him,” Danby thundered. “Send him the press statement, speak to him personally and caution him. He can be somewhat defensive, downplay it with the media in Italy and donors, but he must be supportive of the statement, with no major deviation from our position, and no, I repeat, no interviews. When he returns, we will sort things out.”
“By now, he
could be with the Italian press.”
Danby responded coolly. “As I said, make sure he knows my position.”
As the conference room emptied, I asked Danby to remain on the line. I summarized events in Palagi’s estate: Palagi’s affirmation of his estate plan, the mysterious A-4 account at Ravensford Capital, the recording’s accusations of fraud against Brunotti, Claudia Cioffi’s confused account of an argument between Palagi and Brunotti about fraud the day before Palagi’s death, and her termination by Brunotti. In deference to Father Pietro, I did not reveal further details of Palagi’s confession.
The Provost correctly observed that public airing of Palagi’s recording would be a public relations disaster for the Institute. “And what is there left to fight about if the investments are lost?” I reminded him of Palagi’s condominium in Providence, his apartments in Italy, his royalty and license fee arrangements, and whatever else Palagi might have owned at his death. The Provost muttered, “In comparison, small potatoes.”
Danby, who had been briefed by the Provost as to the decimation of Palagi’s trust assets, said, “The Institute’s finances are a problem. But right now, frankly, I’m more concerned over allegations of Brunotti’s fraud. Who else knows?”
“The priest, of course, Claudia Cioffi, but it’s difficult to understand what she thinks.”
“Whatever you need,” Danby replied. “Move quickly. If Brunotti took a nickel or if he wrongly fired her for personal reasons, he’s out. Algy, am I obligated to inform the Trustees?” I replied it would be premature. He agreed, said he had to leave for the airport, and we heard him click off.
The Provost took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Timing. It’s all timing. An audit of the Institute is something we were going to get to this year. Its Italian financial operations are handled internally by someone Brunotti hired over there. The Bursar is responsible for checking the books after the cash arrives in the University’s account but we don’t match Italian donors with donations or royalties with the payors, or the actual amounts collected in Italy at the collection bank to the amounts deposited in our account. That’s done in Rome. Leaves us vulnerable!”
He smacked his right hand into his left palm. “Damn! Brunotti could do it!”
19
THE CONVENTION CENTER’S PARKING garage was a labyrinth designed by a diabolic engineer who used Escher’s Ramps as an inspiration: once you got in, it was damn hard to get out.
A ticket was spit out by a machine at the entrance, I drove up, then down, five levels looking for a space without result, and tried to exit only to be stymied by a monosyllabic attendant who demanded a minimum charge of two dollars for the privilege of wasting my time. After a heated discussion accompanied by impatient horn sounding from cars behind me, the barrier finally lifted and I drove around the corner to the valet at the adjoining Omni Hotel. From there, it was another five minutes to reach the Convention Center Authority’s second floor conference room. I was now ten minutes late for my first meeting as a member of the Shoot-Out Commission.
My belated entrance and apology for tardiness elicited grumpy muttering from my fellow commissioners. I was handed a three ring binder marked Commissioner Temple and directed to a chair at a large oval conference table. The chair next to me was unoccupied but designated by a seating plaque for Legal Counsel.
My impression of the four Commission members present from Providence, all appointees of our ex-mayor, the morally bankrupt Angelo ‘Sonny’ Russo, was that eligibility requirements included bad haircuts, double chins, florid complexions, suspicious eyes, and frowns. They were two men and two women, whose names and occupations were in the binder—a club manager from Olneyville, a state representative who worked for the City, the owner of a taxi company, and the owner of a downtown messenger service next to City Hall—were clearly from Sonny Russo’s core constituencies. Their resentful impressions of me came not only from the source of my appointment but were likely grounded in the ingrained prejudices of Providence ethnic families to anyone with my lineage and wealth: Another East Side asshole to judge us. They grew up rarely hearing Yankee without goddamn before and bastard after.
The Commission chair, retired Superior Court Judge J. Francis Sanders, stood, gavel in hand. Sanders was a red-faced old pol known as Hap for happy or hapless depending on your experience with him. On the bench, he was hostile to lawyers he didn’t like, like me, representing establishment and institutional clients. He banged the gavel sharply and introduced me as Mayor Tramonti’s replacement for Mr. Zito who had ‘resigned,’ noted I was employed by “good old Carter University,” and that I wore neither “a white hat nor crusader tights.” His jibes prompted Commissioner Calvino, the Providence bar owner, to offer a single, echoing clap, as they say in Woonsocket, while others inspected the room’s interesting acoustic tile ceiling, blew noses, or picked lint from lapels.
Sanders then began what turned out to be a lengthy and glowing report on this week’s amateur portion of the Shoot-Out, the full house hotel occupancy numbers, the efficient distribution of scrip to players, the status and growing numbers of national and local sponsorships, and finally, arrangements for tonight’s Gala. While he droned on, I reflected on the tournament’s checkered connections with Sonny Russo and his reelection gambit that brought the Shoot-Out to Providence.
During the last months of Sonny Russo’s unsuccessful reelection campaign, the Shoot-Out promoters, Las Vegas guys, came to town looking for a host city. They had signed up national sponsorships and hundreds of eager pool halls, taverns, and sports bars to run weekly nine-ball elimination events to be followed by regional and super-regional tournaments designed to winnow contestants down to five hundred slots for a mega-tournament—somewhere. Each contestant slot would be worth scrip to be spent in local hotels, restaurants, and clubs, and an opportunity to win cash for each match won through the brackets of play. The total prize money for the amateurs was an unheard of one hundred and fifty grand with a fifty grand first prize, and another two-fifty in prize money for a pro tournament the following weekend and all the promoters needed to pull it off was a hefty, up-front subsidy from a city in return for delivery of thousands of players and fans to spend, spend, spend.
Sonny Russo didn’t see the tournament as an opportunity to show off his city, but a chance to cash in politically and revive his campaign. Cupidity, Providence’s rampant civic vice, also came into play. In record time, the General Assembly passed Sonny’s heavily lobbied legislation to create the Shoot-Out Commission to operate the tournament and allow sports betting run by the Lotto Commission on the Shoot-Out’s pro matches, with a fifty percent rake off of the betting profit for the promoters. That largess was, in effect, a guarantee of a goodly part of the promotional costs, scrips, and prize money, thereby obviating the need for a direct subsidy from cash starved Providence. A home run for Sonny, his supporters, the city’s gamblers and club owners, and all those panting to be at the trough of patronage. It was almost enough to get him another term as mayor.
“Always like to work with the good guys” whispered in my ear roused me to attention. The legal counsel’s chair had been filled by Leon ‘Puppy Dog’ Goldbloom, Sonny Russo’s City Solicitor, his legal lackey and my nemesis in city-university relations during Russo’s reign. Every machination of the Russo regime went through his office. Hard to believe! Puppy Dog Goldbloom as my legal counsel? Sonny Russo’s scheme had been realized: this Commission was simply lipstick on a pig for the tawdry business of politics.
Somehow, I managed a tight smile. Life out of City Hall seemed to agree with Puppy Dog. His blue blazer and tan trousers looked new, his comb-over hair was no longer an inky black, more of a yellowish gray, his complexion wasn’t as sallow and his nose not so carrot colored. His small, squinty eyes, however, retained the familiar rat-catcher quality and I knew he would be up to his neck in every crooked deal that came within the purview of the Commission.
The conference room cleared rapidly whe
n the meeting quickly adjourned after Sanders’ report. I closed my binder, ready to leave when confronted by Sanders, who handed me a green folder. “All the information, schedules, whatever, you’re gonna need,” he said. “And your badge. You know that you got Zito’s position with the refs, right?”
I didn’t.
“Every Commissioner has a specific coordination and oversight role,” he explained with a smirk at my surprise. “Hotels are with the Commissioners close to the hotels, restaurants and clubs are monitored by owner members, you get it? Frannie Zito had the refs.” A Federal Hill bad guy assigned to officiating? I could hear Nadie saying “Only in Rhode Island.”
“First meeting of the refs is seven thirty tomorrow morning in a room next door. Like to have you there. Shows we care. Kind of appreciate it if you’d, ya know, hit a few of the matches, too. They’re volunteers, from lots of places, and they’ve been vetted, but you never know. By the way, the Commissioners didn’t like the Mayor’s idea about having the refs’ names run through the BCI”—Bureau of Criminal Investigation—“for criminal records.”
I didn’t take ownership of the idea, which in fact was mine.
“You got a computer PIN in the folder so you can navigate the Shoot-Out website for Commission-only info. Oh, I almost forgot. Heard you play pool, understand the rules, so I also put your name in as a ref supervisor in case you’re needed somewhere during the first round tomorrow. Just in case …”
Sanders gave me a patronizing smile, patted me on the back, and left me feeling as useless as Don Quixote with a pool cue as my lance.