The actual filing is a formality, done with the clerk, and Hike heads down to the courthouse to do it. I call Vince to give him a heads-up that it will be filed in twenty minutes, and he almost seems appreciative. And human.
There are reporters assigned to the courthouse from various local outlets, and they will pick up on it when it’s filed. But they’ll have to digest it, and follow up, while Vince will have all his journalistic ducks in a row.
It’s a half hour later that Vince calls and says, “I just spoke to Dylan.”
“You did?”
“Of course. I had to give him a chance to comment before we went to press.”
“And?”
“I should have taped the call; you would have loved it. He went absolutely nuts; there’s nothing he said that I can print.”
“Did he deny it?”
“Does ‘It’s bullshit, it’s bullshit, it’s bullshit’ constitute a denial? Then he mentioned something about ‘nailing Carpenter to the wall for this.’ It was the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.”
“Glad I was able to brighten your day,” I say.
“He should be calling you any minute.”
“No, not a chance. He might call me, but first he’ll be digging out the file and figuring out what happened, and how culpable he is. He’ll want to know exactly where he stands right away. I know I would.”
“When will you get this in court?”
“We asked for an immediate hearing, due to the gravity of the miscarriage of justice. If I know Hatchet, he’ll be crazed about the possibility that Dylan screwed up the trial by violating the discovery rules. He’ll want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”
“Let me know.”
“I will. But Vince, you know this can’t be contained anymore, right?” I’m telling him that it’s no longer a story his newspaper can dominate, that other news organizations will be all over it.
“I hear you, but we were the first ones in. We got to have all the fun.”
At twelve thousand feet, Simon Ryerson couldn’t feel the poverty. Not that he was looking for it. In fact, his attention wasn’t really on the poor villages at all, which were tucked into the basins below the focus of Simon’s attention.
He was staring at the Montaro River and the massive, aptly named Montaro Dam that kept it under control. It was a significant structure, probably the most impressive Simon had seen since his South American travels began.
“How long did it take to build?” Simon asked.
The pilot, Victor Lescano, shrugged. “There is no easy answer to that. It has been here in some form for centuries, but as the need became greater, more work was done. More work is always being done.”
“How long will it take to come down?”
Lescano smiled, though there was no humor in it. “Not centuries. Minutes.” He pointed down toward the villages. “They will have very little time, and nowhere to go.”
“Do not warn them.”
This time Lescano did not smile. “Do not tell me my job,” he said. “We are committed to this, once we get the money.”
“You will have it. When will the explosives be planted?”
“They are in place already,” Lescano said.
Ryerson was surprised and pleased to hear this. “Show me the airfield.”
Lescano nodded and turned the helicopter toward the east. Within thirty-five minutes they were at the airfield, with a runway surprisingly large and clearly adequate.
“Excellent,” said Ryerson. “Now all we need is the cargo.”
“That is being taken care of.”
“I’ve heard that before, but the matter is growing more urgent now.”
This surprised Lescano; it was the first time Ryerson had ever indicated that things weren’t going perfectly smoothly. “You are having difficulty?”
“Nothing unexpected, and nothing that can’t be easily handled. But we prefer to move quickly. Which brings us back to the cargo.”
“Nothing like this has ever been done before,” Lescano said. “It cannot be accomplished overnight.”
“The money you will be making is equally unprecedented.”
Lescano didn’t respond to that. There was no need to; they both knew the enormous amount of money that was on the line here.
“Have matters been cleared with your man at the Transportation Department?” Ryerson asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I like a civilized country in which money carries the day.”
Lescano pointed to the villages, receding as they flew away. “Those people have no money.”
Ryerson nodded. “And they will not carry the day.”
“I have no idea who that is,” I say, when Sam shows me the picture. “But I do know you shouldn’t have taken it.”
“It was easy,” Sam says. “No problem.”
“Finding the location was enough,” I say, though I’m actually happy Sam did much more than that. I just don’t want to encourage him too much, because I don’t want him taking risks in the future.
“I figured if someone took the phone outside the house, then it’s probably not Carmine’s. We just need to find out who this guy is.”
“Sam, this is a big help. Thanks.”
He waves me off. “No sweat. Glad to do it.”
I call Pete Stanton to confirm he’ll be at the precinct this morning. He says that he will.
“I need your help,” I say. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“That’ll barely give me time to get my hair done,” he says, and hangs up.
“Let’s go,” I say to Sam.
“You want me to go with you?” he asks, his pleasure at being asked obvious.
“Absolutely.”
When we get to the precinct, we’re quickly brought back to Pete’s office. When he sees us he says, “Well, if it isn’t the Hardy boys.”
“If you would catch an occasional criminal, we wouldn’t have to,” I say, and then put the picture that Sam had taken on his desk.
“Who’s that?” Pete asks.
“That’s what we were hoping you could tell us.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. Give me a hint.”
“He hangs out at Carmine Desimone’s house.”
“And how would you two know that?”
“We ran a stakeout,” I say. “Staked the whole thing right out. You should try it sometime.”
Pete starts to say something, but then just shakes his head in disgust. “Wait here,” he says, and then walks out of the office, leaving Sam and me sitting there.
“He’s got an attitude, huh?” Sam asks.
I shake my head. “He was just showing off for you.”
It’s about five minutes before Pete comes back, still holding the picture, but with a cop he introduces as Carl Griffith. “Carl knows him.”
“Who is he?”
Pete jumps in before Carl can answer. “First tell me you won’t be going near him. I don’t want to have to start running a tab at Charlie’s.”
“If I talk to him, it will be on a witness stand. Or Marcus will be with me.”
That’s good enough for Pete; he knows Marcus’s talents very well. He turns to Sam, who says, “Don’t look at me; I’m just an accountant.”
Pete nods the OK to Carl, who says, “His name is Tommy Iurato. He is a seriously dangerous individual.”
“He works for Carmine Desimone?” I ask.
Carl nods. “A member of the family going on eight years. From the new school.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know that phrase, ‘Honor among thieves’?”
I nod. “What about it?”
“The new school doesn’t teach that.”
“Is it possible he’s operating independently of Carmine?”
Carl shakes his head. “I would strongly doubt it. Iurato’s not a leader; he’s a follower. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, but it wouldn’t be his idea.”
“Could he be taking orders from someone else, besides Carmine?” I ask.
Pete jumps in. “Like who?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. But I believe Nicky Fats was murdered in that house. Is there any chance Carmine ordered it done?”
“No way,” says Carl.
“Then maybe someone else did.”
Carl seems adamant about this. “It is inconceivable that Carmine would tolerate it.”
“Maybe Carmine had no choice.”
Carl shakes his head. “Carmine got to be Carmine by making sure he always has choices.”
Sam and I leave Pete’s office and head back to mine. On the way, I say, “I need you to do something, but you have to promise me that you won’t leave your office to do it.”
“Come on, Andy, don’t put it that way. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Not until you promise; these are dangerous people.”
“Fine,” Sam says, no doubt lying through his teeth. “I promise.”
“You’ve got Iurato’s phone number, the one that Alex called.”
“Right.”
“Can you find out who Iurato calls? And who calls him?”
“Of course.”
“From your office?”
“Fine. From my office. You happy?”
“Thrilled.”
I had an affair with Rita Gordon.
I say it that way because it sounds really adult, and it fits the technical definition of affair, which includes the words “an event or series of events.” What we had was an “event,” though certainly not a series. There is also nothing in the definition that says the “event” has to last more than forty-five minutes, and ours didn’t.
It was back when Laurie had moved to Wisconsin, and I thought we were over for good. Rita was in retrospect probably doing me a favor, sort of welcoming me back to the dating world.
It was a wild forty-five minutes.
Since then we have reverted back to our previous type of relationship, which consists of friendly, usually sexual banter. Rita is the court clerk, so I’m able to occasionally combine the banter with information gathering, and this is one of those times.
“How did Hatchet react to the petition?” I ask. I’m in her office, so I can’t claim that I just coincidentally ran into her. Therefore I come right to the point.
She laughs. “You know I can’t tell you that,” she says.
“Then no more sexual favors for you.”
“How will I live?”
“It will be an empty existence; you’ll spend all your time yearning. Come on, what did he say?”
“Haven’t you seen the ruling yet?”
“Did he issue it?”
She nods. “This morning. We faxed it to your office.”
“I wasn’t there, and Edna probably didn’t check it. The fax machine is almost twenty feet from her chair. Have you got a copy?”
She opens a file, takes out a document, and hands it to me to read. It’s only one page, addressed to Dylan and me, ordering that we appear to have a preliminary discussion of the matter tomorrow morning.
“Good old Hatchet,” I say. I’m pleased by the result, but a little taken aback by the timing. It’s even faster than I expected, though I’ll certainly be prepared to make my arguments.
I thank Rita and leave. I call Edna in the office and ask if I received a fax, and she says, “I think I heard the machine, but I haven’t gotten over there yet.”
She tells me that Willie Miller was in looking for me, so I head for the building in Haledon that houses the Tara Foundation, the rescue group that I run with Willie and his wife, Sondra.
Willie has led a rather interesting life. He spent seven years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, and I successfully represented him in a retrial. A follow-up civil suit netted him ten million dollars.
Not too long ago, while helping me on a case, he thwarted a major terrorist attack on a natural gas plant near Boston and established himself as a national hero. He even ghostwrote a successful book about the event, and at some point he intends to read it.
Yet Willie and Sondra spend their days at our foundation building, taking care of the dogs we’ve rescued, and making sure they get adopted into good homes.
Sondra is at the desk in the reception area when I arrive, and she tells me that Willie is in the back playing with the dogs. “He’s worried about you,” she says. “He wants to help.”
I head into the back, and, sure enough, Willie’s throwing tennis balls across the large play area, and the dogs are having a great time running and fetching. It looks like a great way to spend the day; instead of law school, maybe I should have gone to fetch school.
When he sees me, he comes over and gives me a fist bump. Fist-bumping is not a strength of mine; I simply cannot do it in a way that looks cool, and doesn’t hurt. Besides, the greeting world is moving too fast for me; I’ve only recently semi-mastered high-fiving, and now all of a sudden fists are the way to go.
“Tell me about these guys that are after you,” he says, obviously having heard about the incident on the highway.
I explain that I really don’t know who sent the killer, but that I assume it has something to do with my investigation in the Desimone case.
“They’re trying to scare you off?” he asks.
“I wish. I think they’re trying to kill me off.”
“I want to help,” he says. “I’ll watch out for you.”
“Marcus is on the case.”
I can see the relief on Willie’s face. He’s a black belt in karate, an immensely dangerous individual when crossed, but he knows that compared to Marcus he’s a Cub Scout. “Good,” he says. “Laurie force you into it?”
“It was her idea, but forcing wasn’t necessary.”
“So as long as your ass is covered, how else can I help?”
“There’s really nothing for you to do right now. If that changes I’ll let you know. But with the case going on, I’m going to be here even less than usual.”
“No problem. Me and Sondra got it under control.”
“Thanks, Willie. I’m sorry about this.” I’m constantly feeling guilty that I don’t contribute enough time, but Willie truly seems to have no problem with it.
“You just let me know what I can do, you hear? Tell Marcus the same thing.”
“I will.”
“I don’t want your ass getting shot up.”
“I don’t either.”
“You going to get Joey out?”
“I hope so.”
“Being inside is really bad,” he says, remembering. “Being inside for something you didn’t do is the worst.”
“You could have come to me and told me what you were doing,” Dylan says. We’re standing near the defense table in the Passaic County Courthouse, waiting for the hearing to begin.
I nodded. “And you could have turned over the documents in discovery like you were obligated to.”
“That’s all bullshit.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bailiff stand, meaning he’s about to announce Hatchet’s arrival.
“You’re about to have your chance to convince Hatchet of that.”
We head to our respective chairs, and the bailiff introduces the Honorable Judge Henry Henderson. He comes in looking like Pissed Off Judge Henry Henderson, a scowl on his face. Of course, Hatchet looking annoyed is not exactly a news event; if he smiled it would be reason to alert the media.
Vince’s story, which was picked up by other media outlets, has generated some interest. The gallery is about half full, and it seems like most of them are reporters. If anything, that has a tendency to make Hatchet more cantankerous, but that’s OK with me, because for a change I don’t expect to be the one on the receiving end.
“Counsel for Joseph Desimone has filed a brief with this court seeking a retrial for the double murder conviction of Mr. Desimone. You have read the document, Mr. Campbell?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Hatchet turns to me. “As I’m sure you are aware, most of the items you cite would not have gotten you through the door today.”
“I believe much of our new evidence is compelling, Your Honor, especially when supported by our witnesses.”
“What a surprise,” he says, drily. “Moving right along, this hearing will focus on the defense’s contention that exculpatory evidence was unlawfully withheld in discovery.”
He turns to Dylan, picking up the folder on his desk, which I assume contains the brief. “Included in this, as I am sure you have noted, is a letter from Lieutenant Chris McKenney of the Montana State Police. Said document is addressed to you, Mr. Campbell, and I’m paraphrasing accurately here, informs you that members of a Montana militia group had vowed to murder Mr. Solarno.
“Coincidentally, it is the same Mr. Solarno whom Mr. Desimone stands convicted of murdering. It also states that Lieutenant McKenney followed up the letter with a phone call, and spoke to you directly, during which time he repeated the same information.”
He puts the folder down and leans forward slightly, peering ominously at Dylan. “You have a satisfactory response to this?”
Dylan stands. “I do, Your Honor. First, I would remind the court that these events transpired more than six years ago, and I have had many cases since, quite a few of which have been before Your Honor. I—”
Hatchet interrupts. “Try and finish your speech before it becomes seven years since these events. And if you’ll recall, I didn’t ask if you had a response. I specified a ‘satisfactory’ response.”
Dylan nods. “Yes, Your Honor. But since my memory of these events is obviously not perfect, I’ve called all the files from the warehouse, and gone over them methodically. I can find no evidence that this letter was ever received by my office, and I certainly have no independent recollection of it.”
“You would acknowledge that withholding such a letter, had you received and been aware of it, would have been a serious violation of the laws of evidence?” Hatchet asks.
“Certainly, Your Honor. Had that been the case, I would be so stating it today.”
“Are you disputing that the letter was sent?” Hatchet asks.
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