At first glance Omphrey seemed like the typical politician, right down to the mistress (with the exception, of course, of the possible murder charge). But governing the Hawaiian Islands wasn’t anything like governing New York City. When unpleasant actions were taken by the government here, they were often irreparable; decisions, for instance, to pave over the state couldn’t be reexamined following the next election cycle.
Jake pulled a chair out for me and asked me to have a seat.
“I apologize,” I said to Yi and Omphrey, declining Jake’s offer of a seat, “but my meetings are by appointment only. If you check with our receptionist, Hoshi, I’m sure she can schedule a brief conference for sometime later this afternoon.”
The governor smirked. A criminal client with money and clout will bully a defense attorney right out of the business if he allows it. I’d seen my mentor Milt Cashman handle these situations in New York, with clients such as mob boss Vito Tagliarini, with the rap stars Rabid Dawg and Shave Ice. Constant calls to the lawyer’s cell phone at all hours of the day and night, “emergency meetings” set up at the time and place of the client’s convenience. Just recently Milt called me to bitch about one of his newest clients, the gangsta sensation M.C. WMD.
“You won’t believe it, Kevin,” Milt said. “One night this fucker M.C. WMD shows up unannounced at my home. My home, Kevin. Where my fifth wife sleeps and my mistress comes to play with my balls.”
Jake shrugged in the general direction of the governor. “Son, maybe—”
But before Jake finished speaking, I was halfway down the hall to my private office.
When I stepped inside, I closed the door. My heart raced and lead settled in the pit of my stomach. It took me a moment to realize that the painkillers were calling. I popped open my pill bottle, tossed back three Percocet, and washed them down with a warm bottle of FIJI water.
I sat behind my desk and replayed the image of Hawaii’s governor. Wrong politician, wrong party, wrong attorney to represent his interests in a criminal case. What the hell was I thinking last night? I’d acted solely on instinct, saw myself in the papers standing next to the governor, a possible candidate for vice president or at least for a cabinet position, maybe the US Supreme Court, and I’d jumped like a predator toward its prey. But now, memories of microphones and heartrending headlines rose to the surface like bubbles in boiling water. How could I even consider accepting a press case of this magnitude after all I’d already lived through?
Hoshi’s voice over the intercom broke through the silence. “Kevin, you have a call on line two. It’s Milt Cashman.”
“Speak of the devil,” I said when I picked up the phone.
“And the devil appears,” he said, “with a little help from AT and T.”
In the three years following my move to Honolulu, most telephone conversations between former mentor and protégé were initiated by me. But this was the second time Milt had called me in less than a month. Something was up. Milt wasn’t one to call to shoot the shit. He wanted something.
“I need a favor,” he said.
My gut flipped. Right now I had enough on my plate without having to research issues on appeal for the great Milt Cashman. Still, after all he’d done for me, how could I say no?
“What is it, Milt?”
“You remember a kid named Scott Damiano?”
“He wasn’t a kid, he was around my age, Milt.”
“Whatever. Anyway, when the kid got out of prison after his three-to-five stretch upstate, he came to me and said he wanted to get out of the game. But he didn’t know what in the hell else to do. He got his GED up there, but in this economy, an ex-con with a GED, he might as well slam his dick in the drawer and collect disability. So, pussycat that I am, I cut the kid a break and gave him a job. First he was just running papers back and forth to the Bronx, but then I had him meet with a few witnesses, and I’ll tell you, the fucking kid’s persuasive. Best unlicensed investigator I’ve ever come across.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Problem is his fucking father and brother, they wouldn’t let him alone. They continued keeping books and selling dope for the Tagliarini family, and last week the shit hit the fan. Nico Tagliarini—you remember him?”
“Nico ‘Head Case’ Tagliarini? How could I forget?”
“Yeah, well, Nico Tagliarini and most of his crew, including Scott Damiano’s big brother and dear old dad, were picked up by the feds last week. Word is, one or both of the Damianos are going to flip. There’s a contract out on them, only the feds hid them better than Hitler’s gold. So I don’t have to tell you who they’re going to come after next.”
“Scott,” I said.
“Exactamundo. So last night I put Scott Damiano on a plane to Honolulu. He’s got no passport, so that’s the best I can do.”
The Percocet nearly came up in my throat. “You’re asking me to take him in? You want me to take an ex-con with a contract out on his head into my home?”
“No, no. And quit being so fucking dramatic. All I want is for you to pick him up at the airport. I rented him a one-bedroom apartment in Waikiki where he can live on his own.”
I exhaled, enjoyed the warm sensation of relief. “I can do that.”
“Good.”
With that settled, I moved on to my own problems, explaining to Milt how Hawaii’s governor was waiting impatiently in my conference room. I told him how I became involved in the case, I described how I felt about him as a person, as a politician, as a high-profile client.
Milt stopped me midsentence. “What is this shit all the time with you and your feelings? This is a fucking business, Kevin. You don’t pick and choose your clients based on personality. You take the ones with money in their pockets and you tell the rest to fuck off. It’s that simple. You think I like Mr. Fucking M.C. WMD? No, but he’s got millions to spend on legal defense, and I want to buy my mistress a new condo in Belize. So there you have it. Feelings,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “Is that the kind of shit I taught you here in New York? Because if it is, you should come back and shoot me.”
“No,” I conceded.
“Good. Now listen, Kevin. One more favor I have to ask. When he gets there—my secretary, Candi, will give you the airport pickup information—I need you to give Scott Damiano a job as an investigator with your firm.”
Before I could say another word I was on hold, waiting for Candi.
“Hi, Kevin…,” she said.
I swallowed hard and took down Scott Damiano’s flight information.
When I finally hung up the phone I thought, When all this is over, I just might go back to New York and shoot Milt Cashman anyway.
CHAPTER 7
“They don’t think I did it,” Omphrey said, “they think I hired someone to do it.”
Jake had asked the governor whether the feds were going to find his fingerprints all over Oksana Sutin’s apartment.
“We understand that,” I said. “But in order to establish motive, they are going to have to produce evidence of the affair. And that evidence can’t be hearsay; in other words, it can’t be based in rumor and conjecture.”
“I know what hearsay is, Counselor. I was a lawyer and a judge for twelve years.”
A traffic court judge, I wanted to remind him, but I held my tongue. He knew that I knew that he was being evasive, avoiding the inevitable, but he wanted me to know that he had no reservations about wasting my time, just as I had wasted his this morning.
We were seated in the conference room, Jake to the left of me, the governor and Jason Yi across from us. It was just after lunch and the three cans of Red Bull I’d drunk were beginning to kick in.
“Yes or no, Governor?” I said. “Were you ever in Oksana Sutin’s Diamond Head home?”
“Yes,” he said with a slow bob of the head.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“How frequently then?”
“I don’t know.”
/> “Es-ti-mate.” Part of me wanted the governor to stand up and call this meeting to an end, to spit in my face and walk out the door never to return.
But he didn’t. He kept his cool just as he did in debates. “A few times. Maybe once a month over the past few months.”
Assuming his pudgy fingers had left at least one full usable print, the issue of whether the governor had had an extramarital affair with the victim would be resolved by reasonable inference. This simple truth now saved me and my staff the time, energy, and pure hassle of investigating whether evidence existed that Wade Omphrey knew Oksana Sutin. It was that simple. The bad news, of course, was that this fact most likely established motive.
“So you were having an affair with Ms. Sutin,” I said. “Did Mrs. Omphrey know about the affair?”
The governor’s wife, Pamela, was an outspoken and well-known, well-loved first lady, a fierce advocate for the environment and for the native Hawaiian people—a vast departure from the governor himself, who was often accused of not giving a shit for either. Wade and Pamela Omphrey weren’t quite the Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver of the Hawaiian Islands, but from what I knew of the pair, they were pretty damn close.
“No,” Omphrey said, “she did not. At least not to my knowledge.”
“Let’s talk about Oksana herself,” I said. “Did she ever express any fears to you? Was she concerned that someone was going to try to harm her?”
“No, never,” the governor said without hesitation. “I know of no enemies, no one who might … have done this.”
It was the first bit of raw emotion I’d seen from the governor, but I didn’t trust it; I never did. More often than not tears and trembling voices at the mention of the victim’s name were the result of the clients’ own fears, a recognition that this was serious, not some game, a realization that their trial could bring about an abrupt end to their own lives as they knew them.
I followed by asking the governor about Oksana Sutin’s life outside their relationship, and he could tell me little. Or at least he did tell me little. He didn’t know much of her history, how she’d earned money, who owned or paid for her expensive Diamond Head apartment, how long she’d been in the islands. Didn’t know whether she had family here or anywhere else for that matter, only that she was a Russian national.
“How did you meet her?” I said.
“At some function,” Omphrey said, looking to Jason Yi for help.
“A fundraiser at the Blaisdell Center,” Yi said. “There was a production of Phantom in the concert hall. They met during the intermission between acts one and two.”
“Who was she in attendance with?” I asked. “Who made the introductions?”
Yi shook his head. “That I do not recall.”
As he spoke, Yi’s BlackBerry began rumbling on the conference table. He picked it up, made a few moves with his thumb, then looked glumly at the governor.
“It’s Dias from the Herald,” Yi said to his boss. “Somehow the media has already made the connection.”
Both men looked soberly up at me.
“They’re looking for comment,” Yi said.
CHAPTER 8
I sent a car to pick up Scott Damiano at Honolulu International, then drafted a written statement on behalf of the governor’s office for release to the media in connection with the ongoing investigation into Oksana Sutin’s death. I cautioned the press not to jump to conclusions and reminded the public that Wade Omphrey, like any sitting governor, had made powerful political enemies while fighting for the citizens of the state of Hawaii. I promised further comments would follow the FBI press conference scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
Then I placed a call to the houseplant, aka Assistant US Attorney William F. Boyd. “My client Turi Ahina and I would like to come in for a chat.”
“Smart decision, Counselor.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Name the when and we’ll be there.”
“How about right now?”
I glanced at my watch. “A little late in the day, isn’t it?”
“You can stand to miss one happy hour, Counselor.”
“Let’s not make this about me and you.”
“If this were about me and you, Counselor, I’d tell you to go to hell and I’d begin prepping for trial so that I could nail your ass to the wall. But I’m willing to speak to your boy. As you may know, one of his codefendants drew Clyde Harris, and I expect a call from Clyde in the morning, in which case I won’t need you or your client anymore. So it’s now or never, Counselor. What’s your call?”
“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” I said quietly.
“Smart decision.” Then the line went dead.
A little over an hour later Turi and I were seated alone in a small room with no windows at the Federal Detention Center, and I was sweating, itching from the Percocet, yet trying to maintain my calm. Turi didn’t appear to be much better off, his legs shaking beneath the table, his hands taking turns wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“This document is called a Queen for a Day agreement,” I said, pulling a form out of my briefcase.
“I don’t think I like the sound of that, Mistah C.”
I set the form in front of Turi on the table. “Don’t worry, Turi. It doesn’t mean you have to dress in drag. This document is meant to protect you, and I won’t allow you to say a word before I have a fully executed copy in my briefcase.”
“How does it protect me?”
“This agreement provides that no statements you or I make this evening can be used as evidence against you in any criminal proceedings. But the government may use your statements against you for the purpose of cross-examination or impeachment should you testify at any proceeding contrary to this proffer. In other words, don’t lie because lies can come back to haunt you.”
“No lies,” Turi said as though instructing himself.
“No lies. Remember, in addition to the charges already filed against you, you can be prosecuted for perjury, giving a false statement, or obstruction of justice if you knowingly provide false information.”
“What’s the government promising me in return, eh?”
“Nothing,” I said flatly. “In return for your willingness to talk, if you provide the government with useful information during this debriefing, you may receive some form of leniency such as a plea to a lesser charge or ideally, immunity from prosecution. But they’ve made no promises so far. You have to make it worth their while to make you a promise. The better the information, the better the deal they’ll cut.”
Turi filled his large lungs with the stale air of the sealed room. “What do they want to know?”
“Everything.” I stood and removed my suit jacket, hung it neatly over the back of my chair. “One more thing. The government lawyer will be gauging how well you handle yourself to determine what kind of witness you’ll make. Be certain of what you say, maintain eye contact, and speak loudly and clearly. Understand?”
Turi nodded to me just as the metal door creaked open and AUSA William F. Boyd stepped in, followed by a man and a woman. Turi and I shifted our chairs so that we were seated side-by-side, ready to address our adversaries. Boyd took a seat on the opposite side of the table, flanked on either side by the man and the woman. The woman looked strikingly familiar.
“Mr. Corvelli,” Boyd said, “thank you for coming.” Boyd completely ignored Turi in an effort to show my client how insignificant he was. “Seated to my left is Special Agent Michael Jansen of the Drug Enforcement Administration. And seated to my right is Assistant US Attorney Audra Levy.”
Audra. I peeked at her slender left hand; no ring. She somewhat resembled a brunette I graduated high school with, but her last name had been Karras. Audra Karras. A tight-ass who had once turned me in for smoking a joint in the faculty parking lot.
Boyd presented a fresh copy of the proffer agreement and reiterated what I’d already said to Turi, then he pushed a silver Montblanc across the table to me an
d I handed it to Turi, indicating where to sign. After adding my John Hancock, I passed the document back to Boyd and stuffed the Montblanc into the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
“All right,” Boyd said. “Let’s get started. Mr. Ahina, why don’t you begin by telling us everything you know about Orlando Masonet.”
CHAPTER 9
“Counselor,” Boyd said an hour later, “your client is wasting my time.”
“I’m telling you everything I know,” Turi protested.
I motioned to Turi to keep silent.“Let’s you and I have a word outside in private,” I said to Boyd.
Jansen and Levy both nodded in agreement, and the four of us stood up and stepped into the hall, leaving Turi alone in the tight room. Jansen and Levy made for the vending machines at the end of the hallway, while Boyd crossed his arms and waited to hear what I had to say.
“Help me help my client help you,” I said. “We both know that the DEA doesn’t make a move until they’re certain they can nail the entire organization, top to bottom. So what is it you want confirmed?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Counselor. Maybe some dim-bulb state prosecutor might fall for your shit and play ball with you, but not me.”
I glanced over my shoulder down the hall; Jansen and Levy were nowhere in sight. “Every single question you asked my client was about Orlando Masonet. My client told you that he never spoke to him, never saw him. My client doesn’t even know what he looks like.”
“That’s too bad for all of us.”
I felt my cheeks glowing red under the fluorescent lights. “What evidence do you have that this guy even exists?”
“Oh, he exists—maybe not on paper—but that’s none of your concern, Counselor. But I will give you an idea as to why we’re moving on this now.” Boyd leaned in and lowered his voice. “We have word that Orlando Masonet is on this island right now, which according to everything else we know, is as rare as Halley’s Comet. So, if you want your client to have any chance at all at walking in this case, you’re going to have to get him to cooperate. And fast.”
Last Lawyer Standing Page 3