Mob Rules

by Marc Rainer

  “They all love Boo here,” she said softly. “She’s been here often enough.”

  “Best patient they could have ever had,” Trask whispered.

  A technician opened a door for them at the end of the lobby and ushered them into a small room with a loveseat, a chair, and several mats on the floor.

  “Do you need to see the doctor first?” she asked them.

  “No,” Lynn said, sobbing. “It’s time.”

  “I’ll be back with her in a minute,” the tech said. She took Boo’s leash and led the big dog out of the room. She was back a short time later, and Trask saw that an IV had been put into Boo’s right front leg.

  She’s certainly had enough of those, he thought. It’s routine for her.

  They sat on the floor, and the big dog approached them both and kissed their faces. She then licked Nikki’s muzzle, and then Tasha’s.

  “Oh my God, it’s like she knows!” Lynn sobbed.

  “I think she does,” Trask said. He held the big dog’s head as she gave him another face bath. “We’ll see you at that Rainbow Bridge, Boo-boo.”

  The doc knocked and then entered the room with a couple of large syringes.

  He patted Boo’s head, and then looked sympathetically at Trask and Lynn.

  “I do think it’s time,” he said. “Are we ready?”

  They nodded.

  Boo was lying in front of Lynn while both she and Trask patted Boo’s fur. The doc gently picked up her right paw and fit the syringe into the IV. The big dog took a couple of deep, final breaths, and then her head sank into Lynn’s lap.

  The vet put a stethoscope to Boo’s chest and listened. He looked up and nodded. “She’s gone. I’m so sorry. She was special to all of us.”

  Little Tasha walked over and licked Boo’s face. Trask tried in vain to close the blue eyes they had fought so hard to save.

  They spent a few more moments just petting her back and trying to tell their hands not to forget the touch. They finally walked the other pups back to the car for the drive home.

  Trask made himself focus on the road, not wanting to compound one tragedy with another. He noticed that the jukebox that was always playing the music in his head had fallen completely silent.

  Kansas City, Missouri

  “Are we ready?” J.P. Barrett asked as he stuck his head through the door to the conference room.

  Trask turned around in his seat at the head of the table.

  “I think we’re as ready as we can be. Cam and I have carved up the witness list. He’ll open, I’ll close. Ronnie’s going to wrangle witnesses again for us, John will be the agent at the table.” Trask waved his hand around the room as he spoke, and the people he mentioned waved at Barrett from their seats.

  “How’s Lynn doing?” Barrett asked.

  “We’re coping,” Trask said. “There’s still a big hole and a lot of sniffling at home.”

  “Tell her we’re thinking of her, please,” Barrett said. “Like I said before, they’re family.”

  “That they are,” Trask said.

  “How long do you estimate that this one will take?” Barrett asked.

  “A week, maybe ten days. It depends—as always—on the length of cross.”

  “Good luck.” Barrett waved and shut the door.

  “Are we ready to go up?” Trask asked.

  They took the elevators to the sixth floor and Judge Brooks’ courtroom.

  The marshals had all the defendants already seated when Trask, Cam, and Foote walked in to take their places at their table. Due to the large numbers of defendants that were to be tried together, there were two defense tables set up in the well of the courtroom. The Dellums brothers and their cousin, along with a local, appointed defense counsel for each one of those defendants, sat at the table farthest away from the prosecution table. Victor Fontana and his three New York mafiosos sat at the closer table. Bernstein was sitting next to Fontana, and seemed to be directing not only Fontana’s defense, but that of the other New York defendants, each of whom had imported his own mouthpiece from the east coast.

  Foote nodded toward the courtroom’s spectator section.

  Trask turned and saw that the room was filling up with the wives, families, and girlfriends of the mob defendants from New York. Most of the women—including the older teenage daughters—looked like they’d been taken out of an audition line for a Las Vegas burlesque review. There was ample evidence of surgical enhancement and hair coloring among the female spectators.

  “What do you think of our typical New York mob audience?” Foote asked Trask in a whisper.

  “I think I wish I had stock in peroxide and silicone,” Trask whispered back.

  “All rise,” the clerk shouted.

  Judge Brooks entered the courtroom and took his seat on the bench. “Please be seated,” he said.

  “Any preliminary matters that counsel wish to raise before we begin jury selection?” the judge asked.

  “We have one additional suppression motion that we wish to raise, Your Honor,” Bernstein said, standing. “It has to do with what we think will be the government’s inability to satisfy the lahr of this circuit as it pertains to the authentication of some video recordings and photographs that are included in the government’s exhibit list.

  “As I understand it, after reviewing the voluminous discovery file provided by the prosecution, Mr. Trask intends to offer videos taken by a security camera at a chop shop formerly operated by a dead guy named ‘Papi,’ and he also intends to offer photos taken by a woman named Monaco, who—like Papi—is also deceased.

  “My research indicates that—under 8th Circuit case lahr—before such evidence can be introduced, the government is required to call the person or persons who were operating the devices which recorded such evidence, and they must also show that these devices were operating properly at the time the evidence was recorded. They must also show that the videos and photos have not been tampered with.”

  Foote looked nervously at Trask, then at Cam. Trask was sitting calmly. Cam looked at Trask, then back at Foote.

  “Look at him,” Cam whispered to Foote, pointing to Trask. “Don’t sweat it. He’s got this. I’ve seen this act before.”

  “Response, Mr. Trask?” Judge Brooks asked.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Trask said, rising to his feet.

  Trask paused for a moment as if he were trying to pull a memory out of the air. He bent down and quickly whispered to Foote. “I actually prepped for this last night; it was expected.”

  “Your Honor,” Trask said, turning to face the judge’s bench, “the standards for authentication cited by Mr. Bernstein are those set forth in the 1974, 8th Circuit decision of United States v. McMillan. That case has not been specifically overruled, and we do still satisfy those standards from time to time.”

  Trask glanced at the closer defense table and saw that Bernstein was elbowing Fontana and nodding as if to say, “See, I told you so.”

  “We are not, however, required to follow McMillan, Trask continued, “because those standards would only still apply as requirements if we were trying this case prior to 1975.”

  Bernstein started scowling and fumbling through one of his folders.

  “The McMillan case—while technically still controlling for cases tried before 1975,” Trask explained, “was actually superseded by the enactment of the Federal Rules of Evidence. McMillan was, therefore, controlling common law until the Rules of Evidence were codified by an act of Congress. For cases tried after that enactment in 1975—such as this one—the Rules of Evidence control.

  “Federal Rules of Evidence 901(b)(1) is the specific rule that controls the issue raised by Mr. Bernstein. It specifies that for authentication of such things as video recordings and photographs—as well as audio recordings and other products of electronic media—it is sufficient that the exhibit is identified as being an accurate reproduction of the event by a person with knowledge of the event.

  “While it
is true that Papi is deceased as the Court recalls, since Papi was a defendant in this courtroom—he committed suicide—there are two witnesses who will testify that the relevant scenes in our exhibits are accurate reproductions of the events. Those two witnesses are Arturo Diaz—who also testified in Papi’s case—and Tyler Cannon, both of whom appear in the recorded videos from Papi’s shop.

  “Regarding the photos taken by Mrs. Monaco, Mr. Cannon also appears in those photographs, and can confirm the accuracy of the photos regarding the events shown therein. Our proffer is, therefore, that adequate authentication foundations will be laid through witness testimony prior to the point at which we will offer those exhibits into evidence.”

  Trask sat back down. Cam looked at Foote and shrugged; he looked back at Trask across the table and whispered, “Nice job, hero.”

  “Response, Mr. Bernstein?” Judge Brooks asked.

  Bernstein stood and began stammering.

  “Judge, M—Mister Trask himself admitted that the—the McMillan decision has not been overruled, and that it—it is still good case lahr—”

  “Are you saying ‘law,’ Mr. Bernstein?” Judge Brooks asked, interrupting.

  Bernstein got even more flustered.

  “Yes, Judge. Lahr.’

  “I see.” Brooks nodded. “Please continue.”

  “It is our position that since the case had not been overruled, it is still the controlling lahr.”

  “Do you have a calendar handy, Mr. Bernstein?” Brooks asked.

  “I have one on my cell phone, Your Honor.” Bernstein began fumbling through his briefcase. “I turned it off before court.”

  “I greatly appreciate that,” Brooks said. “You have my permission to turn it back on for a moment.”

  “I have it now,” Bernstein said after a moment. “The calendar, I mean.”

  “Thank you,” Judge Brooks said. “What year is indicated at the top of that calendar?”

  “Twenty-nineteen, of course,” Bernstein answered, confused.

  “Exactly.” Brooks shook his head. “I don’t know if your practice in New York is to cite inaccurate authority to your courts there,” the judge said, “but such shoddy research is not appreciated in this courtroom. Mr. Trask is one hundred percent correct in his analysis. I also note that your motion was filed out-of-time, and without asking this Court’s permission to file such a belated motion. Your motion to suppress is therefore overruled, both for failing to state a basis for relief, and for being filed late.”

  Trask looked at Bernstein’s table. Fontana was not happy with his attorney, and neither were the other defendants at the table. Bernstein sank back in his chair before recovering a small bit of composure. Trask heard him assure the others that they would win the case on cross-examination, or in “the other way.” It reminded Trask of his own preliminary motion.

  “May it please the court, Your Honor,” Trask said, standing again, “we also have a pending motion.”

  “Yes, the motion to empanel an anonymous jury, given the past history of Mr. Fontana and his associates in New York?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Yes. I have, of course, read the government’s motion, and I will take judicial notice of the several articles and prior court adjudications concerning witness tampering by these and other defendants in their alleged crime family. I am granting the motion. The jurors’ names in this case will not be divulged, and we will conduct jury selection only by referring to the jurors’ assigned numbers.”

  Bernstein jumped to his feet as best he could.

  Judge Brooks dismissed him with a wave.

  “Sit down, Mr. Bernstein. I’ve read your response. We will be seating an anonymous jury so that the verdict in this matter will be based solely upon the evidence.”

  “But, Judge—” Bernstein began to protest.

  “Sit!” Brooks ordered.

  Bernstein sank back into his chair. This time, there was no attempt to reassure the others at the defense table.

  “I have one other matter to inquire about, Mr. Trask,” Judge Brooks said.

  “Your Honor,” Trask said, standing again.

  “It appears that the lead defendant in this matter—Mr. Beretta—is still a fugitive, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “In the interests of not having to try this complicated matter more than once, I feel obligated to ask whether there is any likelihood that Mr. Beretta might be apprehended and brought here in the very near future. That could allow all defendants in this matter to be tried together.”

  “May I have a moment, Your Honor?” Trask asked. “I need to confer with our case agent.”

  “Certainly.”

  Trask looked at Foote.

  “He’s had his chances, Jeff,” Foote whispered. “He has to know about the indictment by now. They have the internet over there, even in Andorra. He even dodged the Interpol guys at the airport in Barcelona and drove back into Andorra instead of flying. He’s had his chances to resolve this inside our system. He’d rather take his chances with their system.” Foote nodded toward the rear of the courtroom. “It’s time.”

  Trask thought for a moment, then nodded. He rose to his feet.

  “Your Honor, it is our belief that Paul Beretta will not be available for trial at anytime in the immediate future. He has chosen instead to retreat to a European nation that has no extradition agreement with the United States. We would, of course, call upon Mr. Beretta to surrender himself to Interpol in a nation that does have such a treaty, so that he might resolve these charges.”

  “Not a very likely prospect, given the seriousness of these charges, is it?” Brooks asked.

  “No, Your Honor.” Trask waited for the final question, the last shoe to drop.

  “Where is he hiding, Mr. Trask?” the judge asked.

  “Andorra, Your Honor.”

  The judge nodded. “Let’s proceed with jury selection, then.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  The trial was just a longer “prolonged guilty plea” than Papi’s had been.

  The informants did well. Arturo Diaz, Velasco’s informant, Cannon, Collavito, and the mob informant from New York all held their own against the cross-examinations of all the defense counsel. It didn’t hurt at all that their stories were all corroborated by the videos from Papi’s shop, the photos taken by Marylou Monaco, the surveillance efforts by Velasco and the others, and the physical evidence in the form of the heroin seized from Cannon, Collavito, and Fontana’s house.

  Trask and Cam finished strong, with the medical examiners from both Kansas City and New York, who were all too happy to testify that their autopsies of the customer-victims had revealed the causes of death to be lethal overdoses of heroin laced with fentanyl.

  After eleven days of jury selection, testimony, instructions from the court, and deliberations, the trial ended when the jury returned verdicts of guilty on all counts for all defendants.

  The Dallas authorities were also successful in the trial of Cannon’s Mexican suppliers. Cannon testified for them as well.

  Tyler Cannon, Sammy Collavito, and Arturo Diaz all received reduced sentences for their cooperation and testimony. Even so, their sentences were substantial. Cannon got twenty years. Collavito got fifteen. Diaz received a sentence of twelve years. They were scattered to Witness Security Program prisons in Pennsylvania, Florida, and Colorado.

  The Dellums brothers and their cousin, as well as Vic Fontana, received sentences of life imprisonment. Fontana’s New York soldiers each got life also, since their dope—like the drugs in Kansas City—had killed.

  Larry Bernstein, Esquire, was found floating in the East River. He appeared to have ingested fentanyl before trying to swim from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

  Hotel Montana

  Incles, Soldeu – Andorra

  Beretta had been reduced to a quaking shell of his former self.

  It had started when he had read the online version of
the Kansas City Star following the first day of trial. The headline had read, “Beretta Hiding in Andorra; AUSA Asks Defendant to Surrender to Interpol.” The feds had found him—and worst of all—they had told the whole freakin’ world where he was.

  He barely left the hotel anymore. The roads to the valley were all open in the summer season, so he had lost the additional measure of protection that the snow provided when it isolated the valley in the winter.

  He had paid every employee at the hotel for their silence. To them now, he was no longer Paul Beretta, but Antonio Verde. He knew, however, that a bribe was only as effective as long as it remained the highest bid. There would probably be higher offers, and he had no way of knowing when those might be accepted.

  He didn’t go out to dinner anymore—not even in the hotel dining room—relying instead on the room service provided by the hotel employees. He had actually considered accepting the feds’ invitation to contact Interpol, but only for a moment. Back in the States, he’d die in jail like the others, but he would not serve a long sentence. In an American prison, he’d be waiting for the knife in the back, and the death would not come quickly. In his hotel room, he maintained some semblance of freedom, even if it was reduced to which channel to watch on the television, and which meal to order to be delivered to his room.

  The thought made him hungry, so he picked up the phone and ordered a chicken cordon bleu. An hour passed before he heard the knock at the door, and heard the familiar, “Sr. Verde? Servei d’habitacions.” He recognized the voice of one of the servers, Maria.

  He opened the door and saw two large men. One shoved Maria to the side. The simultaneous blasts of two twelve-gauge Benelli shotguns nearly cut him in half. One of the men held his finger to his lips as he looked at Maria. She nodded and hurried away.

  Kansas City, Missouri

  John Foote stuck his head into Trask’s office.

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” Trask said. “I’ll play.”

  “Billy.”