The Good Boss

by Scott Hildreth

  All the paperwork in the boxes, as staggering as it seemed, pertained to her father’s case in some way or another. If my calculations were correct, there were close to ten thousand documents I needed to go through. When I thought of a thorough examination of the evidence, impossible was the only word that came to mind.

  I looked at Terra. “It’s pretty typical, yes.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “Really.”

  “Can I look at it?” She stood and then fixed her eyes on the boxes. “Can I help?”

  Legally, she had the right to look at every shred of evidence he’d delivered. I had no idea what the boxes contained, but I couldn’t take the risk that she’d see something that she’d later wish she hadn’t.

  The family’s expectations of me required that I shield Terra from sensitive information. Doing so had proven to be a balancing act. Recently, however, it seemed the scales were tipped in favor of the family. My reluctance to be forthright with her had worn heavily on our relationship, especially the romantic side of it.

  “No,” I said. “I need to look at it because I’m working on the case, but it’s not going to make the attorney—or your father—very happy if I let you peruse through it.”

  She looked up. “Why not?”

  The only excuse I could think of was because it was business related. Knowing she probably wouldn’t feel right about digging through details of her father’s business dealings, I decided to use that as my excuse. “It’s basically paperwork about your father’s business transactions, procedures, and policies. I doubt that’s anything you’d look through if he were here, is it?”

  Her eyes drifted to the floor. “No.”

  “It’s best that it remains private,” I said. “If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Her eyes met mine. “Okay.”

  She looked disappointed, but she’d looked so for almost a month. I hated to see her in the state of mind she was in, but realized there was nothing I could do to make her feel any better. Well, nothing but what I was doing. My hope was that I could uncover something, and that whatever the something was would be enough to free Anthony from prison.

  She sat down and let out a sigh. “Do you think he did it?”

  The night they arrested him I had told her that he was innocent. I hoped reiterating it didn’t give her false hope.

  “I don’t think he’s innocent,” I said. “I know he’s innocent.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Trust me. I know.”

  She tried to grin, but failed miserably. “Okay.”

  Considering Terra’s state of mind, and the amount of time I was going to need to devote to Anthony’s case, I was beginning to wonder if there was any way that we could get married on schedule. If we did, and he was later released, we’d both feel awful for getting married without him.

  If the trial was over, and we were certain that he was destined to spend the rest of his life in prison, going ahead with the wedding wouldn’t be as difficult.

  Proceeding without him, however, seemed selfish and out of place.

  “I was thinking.” I pushed the chair away from the desk and fixed my eyes on her. “They don’t have a trial date in place yet. I assume they’ll set one soon, but it’ll undoubtedly be next fall at the earliest—”

  “Why so far away?”

  “Everyone will need at least that much time to prepare. From the moment we get the evidence, it takes between six and eight months to prepare.” I motioned toward the three boxes. “And, we just got it.”

  Disappointment washed over her face. “But if he’s in there until fall, he won’t be able to come to the wedding.”

  “That’s what I was getting at,” I said. “I was wondering if we should maybe wait until after the trial to get married?”

  She looked shocked. “For the wedding?”

  I gave a slight nod. “Just until this is over.”

  She looked like she was going to cry. I stood, walked around the desk, and wrapped my arms around her. “If we get married while he’s in there, we’ll both be disappointed when he gets out.”

  She rested her head against my shoulder. After taking some time to digest what I had said, she responded. “Do you think he’ll get out? Can he beat them?”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said. “I’d like to think justice will prevail.”

  I knew better. It would take nothing short of a miracle to get him out of jail. Having the trial over, and knowing his fate, however, would allow everyone to proceed with their lives.

  She leaned away and looked me in the eyes. Her face was weathered, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a month. Honestly, neither of us had slept well since Anthony was arrested.

  “Do you?” she asked. “Do you think justice will prevail?”

  Seeing the overwhelming evidence against him, I had my doubts, but I couldn’t tell her—or him for that matter. For the time being, I needed to believe that we would somehow find a way to free him.

  Or, at least act like I believed it.

  “Yes.” I leaned over and kissed her lightly. “I do.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you’re helping out with this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I know if there’s anything in those boxes that’s needs found, you’ll find it.”

  I shifted my eyes toward the three bank boxes. The thought of going through each and every piece of evidence looking for the unknown was disheartening.

  “If it’s in there,” I said, “I’ll find it.”

  And, I hoped like hell I was right.

  Chapter Six

  Terra

  I considered my father spending the rest of his life in prison, and couldn’t find a way to accept it as being something I could live with. The thought of him being away from his family for the rest of his life was impossible to process. As difficult as I knew it would be for us, it was him that would spend his life alone.

  And miserable.

  I pulled the box from the closet shelf and carried it to the bed. While recalling my most pleasant memories with him as a child, I opened the box and peered inside.

  The first picture I saw was of my mother, father, Peter, and me at Christmas. I pulled the picture from the box and studied it. Based on the furniture in the home and the clothes I wore, I guessed that I was eight years old.

  A pink-and-white Barbie Dream House sat beside the tree, fully assembled.

  I recalled the time it took my father to put everything together, and how many cups of espresso he drank in the process.

  The cussing he did was funny at the time, saying that Santa should have put it together the night before, and that he was an idiot for not doing so. Knowing now that my father and Santa were one in the same made me smile.

  I set the picture aside and removed a card that I easily recognized.

  Sweet 16.

  The card, from my sixteenth birthday, brought a flood of memories with it. My parents had thrown an extravagant birthday party for me and my friends, hiring a staff of people to attend and give us all manicures and pedicures.

  Without my knowledge, my father had either built a stage or had it delivered. A band played dance music until after midnight.

  Friends and relatives were everywhere, and gifts were aplenty. I remember thinking after opening all the presents that I hadn’t received one from my parents. After watching me open everything, my father handed me a card and grinned.

  I eagerly opened it, expecting the wealth of a king to somehow be inside. Upon opening it, I was shocked that all it contained was a pen-written note. I remember fighting back tears as I read the note, only to end up jumping from my seat and almost knocking over the table where I was sitting as I finished.

  T
erra,

  Witnessing you become a woman isn’t an easy thing to do. Every ounce of woman you become takes away an ounce of the little girl I’ve always cherished.

  I’ll forever treasure the memories of the little girl and allow the woman you’re turning into to take her place, because the woman I see developing before me defines what is beautiful.

  Happy 16th.

  Ti amo, mio Tesoro.

  Papa

  There’s a little something for you in the garage.

  Have fun. But be safe, please.

  I jumped from my seat and ran to the garage. Inside, a new Mercedes-Benz was parked. A huge pink bow gave every indication that it was mine, but I couldn’t believe it.

  I gasped when I saw it, fearful that the entire thing was a joke. I glanced over my shoulder.

  My father nodded, smiled, and tossed me the keys. “Happy birthday.”

  I closed the card, set it on top of the box, and let out a sigh. My father may have been the godfather of the mob, and there was no doubt that he’d done some things that most wouldn’t approve of, but he was a great father to me, and I loved him dearly.

  I flipped through the contents of the box for the entire morning, recalling days, events, and a lifetime of love that my father had offered me without question.

  Because of selfish decisions, and my inability to accept him for who he was, we’d grown apart in recent years. His eager acceptance of my relationship with Michael opened my eyes, and allowed me to become close to him again. Losing him at the beginning of what was sure to be a lifetime of new memories for me wasn’t something I was willing to do.

  I placed everything in the box, put the lid on it, and carried it to the closet.

  I realized my father wasn’t a saint, and that he never would be, but he was my father, regardless.

  And, I wasn’t prepared to watch him rot in jail.

  Nor would I ever be.

  Chapter Seven

  Michael

  Although I found working from my new office in Anthony’s home to be an honor, it was difficult for me to be completely comfortable. Being a creature of habit, I’d become accustomed to my office and my surroundings.

  One of those surroundings was Terra. Accepting the changes that had taken place in our relationship was impossible. For the time being, I chose to deny the depth of our problems, the lack of intimacy, and the fact that we were living parallel lives. The denial came easily when I was immersed in my work.

  Lately, it seemed I was drowning in it.

  As a matter of respect, I’d chosen to take occupancy of Anthony’s office when I assumed his position as boss. In my opinion, to make changes to the organization beyond him making me the acting boss would cause dissention in the ranks of the mob.

  I realized to allow the men to maintain a little of their comfort would require that I forfeited some of mine. It was a small price to pay for their peace of mind.

  Seven stacks of eight-by-eleven reports were separated on the desk. The equivalent of twenty reams of paper, and I had yet to open the third box.

  Overwhelmed, but determined, I decided to spend four hours a day going through the documents in hopes of finding something that would stand out as being useful in Anthony’s defense.

  The government was required to give us everything they had, the good as well as the bad. If they were going to use it in court, we were provided a copy. Conversely, if there was a document that could potentially set Anthony free, it was included as well.

  The problem was that if there was such a document, it was hidden within the ten thousand sheets of paper that were sitting before me.

  The piles were separated by the type of document that they were. The ATF’s daily reports were what interested me the most, so I began with that pile first.

  Separated in chronological order, I began with the top of the stack, which was the earliest document they had provided. Luckily, the pile of reports was significantly smaller than any of the other piles.

  The date on the document was handwritten at the bottom right-hand corner: 9 May, 2007.

  Terra would have been sixteen.

  I glanced down at the report.

  Begin investigation of Anthony Agrioli for various RICO violations.

  1 May, 2005. Followed suspect from his home to Vicki’s Diner. Suspect met with Salvatore “Mad Sal” Garrone for two hours.

  3 May, 2005. Suspect purchased new

  Mercedes-Benz.

  4 May, 2005. Surveillance of suspect’s home produced no evidence.

  6 May, 2005. Construction crew arrived on-site at suspect’s home. Stage was erected in backyard.

  The report was signed at the bottom by Special Agent Whistler.

  I set the report aside, surprised that Whistler had devoted more than a decade to apprehending Anthony.

  The next report was dated three weeks later. The contents of the document were, once again, handwritten, and contained nothing out of the ordinary.

  One by one, I lifted the daily reports, read them, and set them aside. In three hours, I had gone through one-tenth of the documents. The happenings were different on each, but one thing that remained true was that there was nothing criminal described in any of them.

  Frustrated, I reached for the bottom of the pile and removed a one-inch thick stack. The most recent documents were the ones that interested me the most, anyway.

  I looked at the last report.

  15 October, 2016. Performed search warrant on suspect’s residence. See search warrant 2016-WAB-003 for findings.

  14 October, 2016. Based on information provided in previous reports, obtained search warrant for suspect’s residence, 2301 Winding Meadow, Mission Hills, Kansas 66208.

  I hoped the address on the search warrant didn’t match the address of the home, and made the fruits of the search inadmissible. I wasn’t so lucky, however.

  13 October, 2016. Met with confidential informant 233A for one hour at 7-Eleven parking lot.

  12 October, 2016. Met with confidential informant 233A in parking lot of YMCA.

  11 October, 2016. Confidential informant 233A provided information pertaining to case 2005-01-233.

  The reports were brief, boring, and provided little information that was useful for anything but supporting a timeline for their case.

  I tossed the report aside and looked at the next. And, the next. And, the next. Two hours later, and the day was shot, the desk looked like hell, and I’d found not so much as a morsel of evidence that could be used in the preparation of defending Anthony from their onslaught.

  I exhaled a sigh of frustration and hoped Al was making far better progress than I was. At least he’d know where to look and what to look for.

  “You look like a fuckin’ secretary, not a boss.”

  I looked up. Sal sauntered into the room, paused, and pointed at the scotch. “Pour you a glass?”

  “I need it,” I said. “I’ve been going through this shit for eight hours straight.”

  “Tony’s wife doesn’t look like she’s doing too good,” he said as he reached for the scotch. “She let me in, I didn’t even recognize her.”

  “We’re all feeling the weight of this. It isn’t easy.”

  He slid a glass across the table. “Made pickups. That tax increase is making a huge difference. Little Frank’s was twice what it was last month.”

  “Little Frank has a dozen bars.” I took a sip of the scotch and then raised the glass. “They’re buying up the discounted liquor as fast as we can deliver it.”

  “Good move on your part,” he said. “Tony’s gonna be proud.”

  “He told me so when I visited him last.” I looked at the mounds of paperwork, and then let out a sigh. “It’s not looking good, Sal.”

  He t
ossed a handful of envelopes on the desk and then shot me confused look. “What?”

  I picked up the envelopes, walked to the safe, and tossed them inside. “This case.” I waved toward the desk and then sat. “I spent all day digging through this stuff and found nothing.”

  He nodded toward the mounds of documents. “All this shit’s for Anthony’s case?”

  I widened my eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Fuckin’ hell.” He gulped his remaining scotch and poured another glass. “Needle in a fuckin’ haystack, huh?”

  That was exactly what it was. I chuckled. “Pretty much.”

  “I think it’s all gonna be okay in the end. God forgives Italians for everything.” He shrugged. “He made us, so He knows what we’re gonna do with our lives. He forgives us. Then, we gotta find a way to forgive ourselves. I’m convinced the worst part of what I do is trying to forgive myself.”

  The same could be said about any race, color, creed, or ethnic origin, I was sure. I found the concept laughable, but didn’t dare laugh. “You think so?”

  He took a sip of scotch and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know so. And, if God forgives us, the court should do the same fuckin’ thing. Good men aren’t whacked by a member of this family. Of any family. Only the fuckin’ rats. And I can guarantee you, if God was sitting here right now, he’d tell you he hates fuckin’ rats, too.”

  I chuckled and then raised my glass. “I’m sure he does.”

  “If God hates rats, he ain’t gonna keep Tony in there forever.” He drank his remaining scotch and set the glass on the edge of the desk, and then stood. “Probably just long enough to remind him that he ain’t God.”

  I stood and walked around the corner of the desk, hoping his belief was right. We hugged and then he turned toward the door.

  Halfway to the door, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned his shitty little grin. “See you tomorrow, boss.”