Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5)

by Forster, Rebecca

  “Anything else?”

  Judge Healy looked from one counsel to the other. When they didn’t respond he said:

  “Thank you, both. This is a complicated matter that this court will attempt to uncomplicate. Detective Montoya? Do you have the DVD you spoke of?”

  “I do have a copy, Your Honor.”

  He handed it to the clerk who had come to the bar, he in turn handed it to the judge, who then called a recess. Mike Montoya left the courtroom as did Mrs. Anderson. Doctor Hardy remained at Rita Potter’s request. While they talked quietly, Josie stared at the great seal above the bench and the relief of Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, hewn into it. Hopefully Minerva was sitting on Healy’s shoulder because she had sure deserted Josie. If Josie Bates was the judge, she had no idea what she would do with Billy Zuni.

  CHAPTER 26

  Seven days a week, seemingly twenty-four hours a day, Ante Fistonich could be found in his restaurant aptly named Ante’s. The place had been in San Pedro almost fifty years serving up grilled meat and cabbage soup. Somehow the man had convinced the city of San Pedro to name the street outside the restaurant Ante Avenue. More than once Archer had sought him out during an investigation that called for someone who knew something about everyone within a twenty-mile radius of his place. Archer gave the man a 7.5 on the scale of ten for trustworthy information. In his book, that was pretty darn good for a guy who didn’t want to burn bridges and who didn’t owe Archer anything.

  Archer opened the heavy wooden door and walked from the gloom outside into the cave that was Ante’s place. Though he couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he could feel them as he made his way past the ox-blood upholstered booths and cracked veneered tables. Photographs of Ante with various people who grinned like celebrities lined the walls, but all were unrecognizable as such. The ceiling was covered in popcorn plaster. Archer found the man himself in the back booth, the one that had a great view of the front door but was set an angle that kept him out of sight until you were almost in his lap.

  “Ante. When are you going to remodel this place?” Archer hailed him and waited for a response.

  Archer waited. Seconds of silence passed. Ante was convinced this affectation put the fear of God into people. Archer thought he had just seen too many Humphrey Bogart movies when he was learning how to speak English. Finally, the man’s hand rose and a finger pointed heavenward.

  “See that? See that?” Archer raised his eyes even though he knew the conversation they were about to have by heart. “That ceiling. The city will tell me it is asbestos. They will make me pay their corrupt inspectors because they will say the ceiling is poison and that I must have more inspectors just to tell me what I already know. It is not asbestos. Do you see anyone sick? I sit here every day and all night, and I am not sick. You see any of my customers sick?”

  Archer looked around. Two booths out of twenty had someone in them. Three waitresses who had been there since the day the place opened lounged by the front door. Somewhere in the back there was a cook who probably smoked while he stirred his pots and roasted his meat.

  “How would you know if they were sick or not, Ante? If they don’t come back they might be sick? Maybe they died because of that ceiling.”

  Ante dropped his hand and chuckled. The ceiling was of no consequence. He would never pay anybody money when he did not have to, and he liked the place the way it was.

  “My customers always come back, and if they don’t it is because of the food. That stinking cook sometimes makes bad food. I miss the old cook. He was good, but he didn’t like America.” Ante picked up his demitasse cup and lowered his head to put his lips on the rim. Before he did, he said: “Sit. Sit. At least look like you are here to eat and not torture me.”

  Archer slid into the booth across from Ante. It was the same conversation they had each time they saw one another. The old cook had been gone for twenty-five years. Archer couldn’t tell the difference between the old cook’s skill and the new. Cabbage was cabbage, the grilled meat exceptional, and the salad never tasted the same way twice even though it was nothing more than iceberg lettuce and bottled dressing.

  “I don’t think your brother would like to hear you say that. He’s been cooking for you since the last one took off.”

  “Bah,” Ante waved that away. “He does his best. He is my brother. He’s okay. So, why are you here? It has been too long, my friend. We used to see you more often.”

  “I used to work for the police. I’m retired now. I’m getting married.”

  The old man lifted his heavy head. His brow was as wide as his jaw, his jaw as wide as his neck. If you didn’t know Ante Fistonich, you would think he looked fearsome. Then again, most old men looked fearsome. It was because all the terror they had known in their life slowly bubbled up from inside and settled in the wrinkles and lines of their face like sediment. Archer understood. That was why he was not afraid of Ante Fistonich. Now the old man looked Archer up and down to see what could be told by the younger man’s expression.

  “You are happy. It’s good to find a woman when you have years on you. Tell me, is she young?”

  “She’s a woman,” Archer answered.

  “Ah, she’s old,” Ante chuckled. “You should find a young girl. They will take care of you in your old age.”

  “When I’m old I’ll get rid of this one and find a young one,” Archer assured him, and Ante laughed all the harder.

  He lowered his head again, hanging it between fleshy shoulders, resting his chin on a barrel chest. His cotton shirt was so thin Archer could see the ribbed wife-beater beneath it and the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeves. Around his fleshy neck was a gold chain. On the man’s left wrist was a gold bracelet and on his finger a gold ring. Like an Indian bride, he wore his wealth, not trusting anyone with his money. Word on the street was that Ante had been some kind of hero when the Croats and Serbs went at it. It was a story Archer didn’t doubt. Ante never spoke of it, so Archer didn’t either.

  “You look worried, my friend,” Ante said though Archer would be hard pressed to know how he came to that conclusion.

  “I am curious, Ante. I have a friend with a problem.”

  “I know your problem.” Ante raised his eyes again. “You have coffee while we sort it out.”

  Before Archer could say no, Ante motioned to one of the waitresses. A moment later a demitasse cup was in front of him. Turkish coffee wasn’t his thing, it was like trying to drink mud out of a thimble, but he took a drink nonetheless.

  “It’s the blood in Hermosa Beach. That’s bad business. Very bad.”

  “You’re psychic, Ante.”

  “I am smart, Archer.” Ante tapped the side of his nose. “I hear from the workers. Business is off because of the strike on Oi’s place. So many of our good boys work for him. He should have given them what they asked. It wasn’t much.”

  “Is it one of the good boys who killed him?” Archer turned the tiny cup a quarter turn but kept his eyes on his host.

  Ante shook his head. “I don’t think so. They come in. They drink. Some say it’s a good thing Oi is dead. That is all talk.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Sam says that. He’s got a big mouth. Most are worried one of them killed the man. They don’t like not knowing. They say every brother should know everything the other one does. I say that’s bull. The smart man keeps his mouth shut.” Ante raised his cup, sipped his coffee. “You want to eat?”

  “No, not this time. Thanks.”

  “Is that your woman? The one in the house with you when you found Oi? Is that who speaks for this boy?”

  “Yes. She’ll be my wife,” Archer said.

  Ante sat back, “I don’t know nothing about the boy. No one talks about him.”

  “What about the name Duca? Jac Duka?”

  “Him, I don’t know.” The big, heavy head shook again.

  “Can you put me on to any of the guys who come in here? Vouch for me so they’ll talk
?”

  Ante barked a laugh and fingered the heavy gold at his neck.

  “Do you think I’m God himself?” Ante smiled broadly as he spread his arms over the back of the booth. “They come here and drink and I hear talk, but they don’t make no mistake. Those boys are Albanian. I’m Croatian. We got no problem with the Albanians, but they think they gotta fight everybody. Maybe they do. They got nothing to sell except themselves. They do anything for money and pride.”

  Archer nodded, understanding completely what Ante was alluding to. When his work brought him to Wilmington or San Pedro or anywhere the unions had hold, Archer ran into cultural clashes and always it was old country culture that won out. Even third generation men didn’t leave it behind. They may like America and the opportunities it provided, but it was the motherland or the fatherland that held their hearts. Croats were the good guys, Serbs the devil and now he heard the Albanians were the backward stepchildren. It all depended on whom you spoke to.

  “Albanians are the worst, you know what I mean? Croats, we move on. We take care of business. We don’t hold nothing against nobody. Serbs, Albanians. All hard headed.”

  “That’s why I came to you. You’re a fair man, Ante. You’re a respected businessman. You know everyone, Ante. I’ve got two big problems.”

  “Only two? You are blessed, Archer.”

  One of the waitresses came and brought fresh cups of coffee. Archer held up his hand. She shrugged and left only one cup for Ante.

  “I am, Ante, but still these problems need to be solved. I’ve called a friend at the state department, but I believe that your influence will help me find the answers more quickly.”

  Ante pulled up his shoulders. His eyes closed. The palms of his hands rose slightly as if to say what Archer said was true thanks to God.

  “First, what do you know about trafficking girls? Have you heard anything about that?”

  “It happens,” Ante shrugged. “Albanians have nothing to sell so they sell their people: men to Greece and Italy to do work no one else will do. Women and girls for sex and who knows what else.”

  “Does it happen here? Did you hear about Greg Oi trafficking?”

  “I don’t know about Oi, but I know I don’t want to hear about the ones who do these things. That is bad business, and I don’t want it down on my head. I can’t help you, Archer.”

  “Can’t or you won’t?”

  “Same difference.” Ante blew him off. “Even if you were my no-good brother and it was his daughter I wouldn’t stick my neck out.”

  “Can you at least give me a name, someone I can talk to in the Albanian community?”

  “Why would I want you to do that? I like you. You gotta watch your back every second with them.” Ante pulled his bottom lip up and shook his head so that his jowls quivered. “They don’t care if your woman is Mother Theresa. They can make a buck with her, they will. These girls are nothing. What else got you worried?”

  “I’ve got a guy who showed up claiming he’s related to the victim and the boy. His name is Gjergy Isai. I also have something that looks like a marriage certificate between Oi and the girl that got stabbed.”

  “Why doesn’t she tell you all this?” Ante raised a bushy brow. His reluctance to get involved was starting to make Archer nervous. He had thought they were chasing ghosts, but now he wondered if they had a tiger by the tail.

  “Nobody knows if she’ll live, Ante. Her name’s Rosafa Zogaj, but she goes by Rosa Zuni. She works at a strip joint called Undies.” Ante raised a brow. “We’re thinking that maybe Oi put her there, sold her. What we can’t figure out is why he would let her bring a kid along and why the marriage certificate?”

  Archer took a deep breath. Saying this all out loud made him realize just how crazy it all sounded, yet one look at Ante and he realized it wasn’t crazy at all. The man listened, his brow beetled, taking in every word as if it were a story that didn’t surprise him.

  “I’m sorry,” Archer went on. “It’s all complicated. All I really want to do is keep the boy close to home. My woman thinks the judge is going to put him in a group home, and we all know it’s better to be with family. If I had some proof that this guy, Gjergy, is related to Rosa then we might have options with the court.”

  “Is this a good boy?”

  “Billy is a very good boy,” Archer assured him.

  “The cops want this information, too, heh?” Ante asked.

  “They do. I won’t lie.”

  “If I get it to you that’s it. I don’t want the cops coming at me.” Ante wagged a thick finger at Archer.

  “You got my word,” Archer promised.

  “Where are you looking to find out about Gjergy Isai? What town? North or South Albania?” Ante pressed.

  “North. A place called Bajram Curri. Do you know it?”

  Ante nodded. “Yes, my friend, but do not ever try to say it that way if you are in Albania. I know someone who drives a furgon from Kosovo. Bajram Curri is hardly of any consequence except that the President of all Albania is from Tropojë District. That is where Bajram Curri is.”

  Ante faded into the corner of the booth, picked up his phone, and punched in a lot of numbers. The man spoke low despite the fact he wasn’t speaking English and Archer wouldn’t understand a word. There was a glint of gold when he leaned forward to ask Archer for the phone number he was given at Undies as well as Archer’s own cell number. Archer gave them; Ante repeated them. Archer heard the name Gjergy Isai, Greg Oi, and Rosafa Zogaj passed off before Ante offered profuse thanks and prayers to God. He reiterated the name Zogaj. The phone was back on the table, and Ante was talking to Archer again.

  “My friend will call you. He will ask in Barjam Curri to see if that’s where Oi was from, and if that’s where this girl comes from. He will find what you need if he can.”

  “Thanks, Ante. I need the information sooner than later. ”Archer put the contact’s name into his phone and reached across the table to shake Ante’s hand.

  “Sometimes God wills what is best for us and we do not appreciate that.”

  “I’ll just have to hope that God’s on top of this one, then.”

  Ante was laughing as Archer left the restaurant and stepped out onto the street. Though the day was gloomy, he was nearly blinded by the light. That’s how dark Ante’s place had been.

  He dialed Faye.

  “Hey, it’s me. Have you heard from Josie?”

  Faye told him she hadn’t then asked, “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

  “We are,” Archer said, hoping he and Faye weren’t making the right call. “See you tonight.”

  He pocketed his phone when he opened the car door and saw the book he had taken from Billy’s backpack. He grabbed it and went back to Ante.

  “One last thing,” Archer said. “Do you know what this is? Or someone who can translate it?”

  Ante put his hand out and touched the worn book reverently.

  “No need to translate, my friend. That is the Kunan. That is the holy book. The book of rules. That is the law.”

  ***

  Judge Gayle Lynds, presiding judge of family court, had a penchant for chocolate covered almonds. Knowing that she could not be trusted to be moderate, she never kept a bowl on her desk. Instead, she put a bowl in the clerk’s office down the hall which forced her to get up, think about what she was doing, and decide if she really should have a handful of chocolate covered almonds. The answer, after minimal consideration, was always yes. That meant at a specific time each morning and afternoon she would head to the clerk’s office for a candy fix.

  To get there, she passed three chambers, one of which was that of Judge Christopher Healy. Although he had not specifically thought to corral her on her quest for candy, he was happy to see her and motioned her in. Actually, happy was the wrong word. Grateful might have been a more appropriate adjective.

  “Come here. I want you to take a look at this.”

  Judge Healy replayed the Montoya�
��s DVD of Rosa and Billy. He did so twice. Gayle raised a shoulder.

  “I’ve seen worse. We both have.” She pulled up a chair. “What’s got your judicial panties in a knot?”

  Healy tossed the remote onto his desk. “That’s the kid involved in the Hermosa Beach thing. I’m trying to decide what to do with him. Newton wants him in county jail even though he hasn’t been charged, county counsel wants him with a family even though we’re not sure if he’s violent.”

  “Did you have a workup done?” Gayle asked.

  “Yeah. Inconclusive.”

  “If you’re thinking that tape is reason to incarcerate him, I’d think again. That’s a little boy going after someone with little boy fists. Get a current tape that shows the big boy in all his teenage glory doing the same thing and you might have cause to put him away.”

  Gayle waited. She wanted her chocolate covered almonds, but she was presiding judge. If one of her judge’s had a problem it was her problem. Finally, Christopher Healy told her what was really bothering him.

  “We’ve got the feds, we’ve got the D.A., we’ve got an immigrant community, immigration and naturalization services. Christ, every damn agency’s kitchen sink is thrown in to this thing. If I make the wrong call and that kid is violent, I’m going to take it on the chin if I place him in a low security situation; if he’s not and something happens to him in lock-up, I’m in trouble with the watchdog groups. I’m too close to retirement to have any controversy now.”

  Gayle nodded. She bit her lower lip. Healy was right. He was between a rock and a hard place.

  “We all know we try to do what’s best for each case, but sometimes circumstances narrow our options. Look,” she said, adjusting her expression into one of sincere regret that her counsel had to be of the practical sort. “I know you’re a good guy. We’re all good guys, but let’s get real. It’s just one kid and he’s old enough to watch his butt. We can’t save ‘em all, Chris. That’s just the goal, not the reality. I wouldn’t agonize over this.”