Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel

by Neal Goldstein

  Rabinowitz crossed the road driving against the oncoming traffic for a quarter mile. He left a multi-car pile-up behind him as he accelerated around the approaching vehicles before reaching the break in the median barrier and driving off the interstate at the next exit. He laughed to himself knowing that the FBI failed to realize that Israelis are the craziest drivers this side of Italy and his pursuers had absolutely zero chance of keeping up with him.

  They exited the highway and drove surface streets thirty miles north to Fort Lauderdale checking for a tail the entire trip. When they were satisfied there was no one following them, they parked the car in the long-term parking lot at the airport, and rented a car for the trip north. Neither Nooris nor Rabinowitz noticed that they were being followed the entire 1000 miles back to Philadelphia. Although they had successfully lost their FBI watchers they failed to consider that there might be others who were equally interested in their activities.

  “Commissioner may I have a moment?” Rico Valdez asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “I was just informed by my boss that the Miami FBI lost contact with Nooris and Rabinowitz early this morning.” Valdez gave him the details of the high speed chase through the streets of South Beach.”

  “So they have no idea where they are?”

  Valdez shook his head.

  “Until we know different, we have to assume they’ll return here. Let’s coordinate with your office and get their descriptions out to all the surrounding police as well.”

  “Commissioner if it’s alright with you I’d like to be assigned to help with the protection of your son and his wife and her son.”

  Regan nodded.

  Vito Coratelli sat at the desk at his home on 8th Street in the Bella Vista section of South Philadelphia. The modest row house with the oversized picture window gave no outward sign that Coratelli was one of the most successful trial attorneys in a city where the legal profession was heralded as setting the standard for aggressive, if not obnoxious, advocacy. The term ‘Philadelphia Lawyer’ was often derided, but when someone wanted results regardless of the cost, either in dollars or otherwise, they ultimately found their way to the City of Brotherly Love.

  As was his custom he sat in his study with the blinds drawn and contemplated his strategy for the coming day. The only light in his study was from the desk lamp that illuminated his trial notes.

  He had won a major victory the preceding afternoon when the judge ruled that the Commonwealth had failed to establish that the fetuses upon which six of the homicide counts had been based had been delivered alive, thus eliminating those charges from the jury’s consideration. Coratelli’s expert witness described the procedures the defendant had used and studies the Commonwealth was unable to contest that the Digoxin the defendant administered to the fetuses induced fatal heart attacks. That left the homicide of the woman who had died from complications following the abortion, and the various charges that involved violations of the state’s abortion laws still pending.

  Since he accepted the case, Coratelli had been subjected to severe criticism from the conservative media and numerous groups advocating the elimination of legal abortions in Pennsylvania and across the country. The vitriol directed at him on the right wing talk radio programs was so extreme he insisted his wife temporarily relocate to their shore house in Avalon, New Jersey until the trial was over. He had even been singled out as ‘misguided’ by his parish priest at Saint Peter the Apostle during his homily following last Sunday’s Mass. The priest asked the congregation to pray for Coratelli to receive divine guidance.

  Ironically, Coratelli was a devout Roman Catholic, a graduate of South Catholic High School, now Neumann-Goretti, and La Salle College, who believed in the sanctity of life and was opposed to abortion, except for the most limited of circumstances. He generously contributed to organizations that advocated against abortions. Regardless of the depth of his beliefs, he was first and foremost a hired gun, and never allowed his personal views, or his lack of empathy for his clients, to interfere with the chance for a big retainer.

  Herbert Martison consistently maintained that his clinic was a legitimate operation that provided vital services to the poor and largely African-American community he served in West Philadelphia. Maybe he was telling the truth, but Coratelli didn’t care. The clinic had never been cited by any licensing agency as substandard, so Coratelli had an angle he could exploit. There were other holes in the Commonwealth’s case he was prepared to use to his advantage.

  The prosecution’s case had been completed and Coratelli was still evaluating the risk/reward of proffering his client as a witness in his own defense. Martison was adamant that he take the stand and confront the charges. Coratelli was not so sure that would be in his client’s best interests. Although Mark Young, the Assistant District Attorney in the first chair was inexperienced, Coratelli was impressed with his skills as a litigator. There was also the possibility that the District Attorney could decide to tell Jack Regan to take over the case. If that happened Martison would be swimming in the deep end of the pool with a shark that had very sharp teeth.

  Coratelli was so deep in thought he didn’t realize his phone was ringing until the fifth or sixth ring. He looked at the caller ID before he answered to make sure it wasn’t another anonymous hate caller threatening to kill him for defending Herbert Martison. The caller ID read Jack Regan.

  “Hello Jack, I was just thinking about you,” he said when he picked up the phone.

  “I hope it wasn’t anything unpleasant,” Regan replied.

  “No, nothing like that; I was preparing for today’s hearing and trying to figure out what you and the kid were planning to surprise me with. You wouldn’t be calling to give me a heads up were you?”

  Regan laughed, “We’re more concerned about what you’re planning to spring on us. Looks to me like you have Judge Matthews in your pocket. But I didn’t call you to talk about the case. I wanted to let you know about the latest developments regarding Ari Norris and Nochem Rabinowitz.”

  “Your father told me the federal authorities released them from Guantanamo Bay a couple weeks ago. He said there had been some kind of screw up and they had not been immediately transported to Israel.”

  “That’s right. The FBI had them under surveillance but this morning they lost them in a high speed car chase.”

  “And your father is concerned?”

  “Yes, he told me that Nooris may hold you, Izzy and me responsible for his arrest and may want to retaliate. Anyway, Dad’s going to reach out to you later this morning. In the meantime, if you happen to notice a car from the 26th District in front of your house they’re there to protect you.”

  “Do you think that’s really necessary?”

  “Who knows? I’ll see you in court.”

  “Thanks Jack, stay safe.”

  Jack had figured out why Nooris waited nearly a month before offering the CIA the location at which they could find al-Zawanhiri. He ran into a colleague who practiced International law and told him about the screw up. His friend suggested that it was likely the statute of limitations on the charges that could have been asserted as the basis for their extradition to Israel had expired. Apparently, Nooris played his cards to perfection and trumped whatever plan the CIA and the Mossad might have conjured up to get him back to Israel. Jack still hadn’t come up with a logical explanation for Nooris dragging Izzy and him to Cuba.

  When Jack hung up the phone he heard Kate walking down the stairs, “Who were ya talking to just then? Ya looked so serious.”

  He sighed, “My father told me that Ari Nooris and his companion managed to get away from the FBI. He’s worried they may come back here to take revenge on everyone they hold responsible.”

  “And who do ya suppose they hold responsible?”

  “Michael Flynn is probably at the top of the list. Since Flynn isn’t here he could decid
e to target someone close to him….”

  She frowned and said, “Jack I don’t want to worry Liam about this.”

  “I agree. But we have to take steps to make sure the two of you are safe. My father’s going to arrange to have the Fourth District increase their patrols around the neighborhood.” He looked at the picture of Liam playing soccer he had taken a week ago that sat on the fireplace mantel and turned to Kate, “We have to get out of here, someplace safe until they catch those bastards.”

  “But what about your trial?”

  “The hell with the trial. Nothing is more important to me than you and Liam.”

  “How about your boss’ endorsement?”

  Regan looked directly in her eyes, “I want to be the District Attorney, but not if it means putting you and Liam in jeopardy. I’m going to tell Susan we’re going on our honeymoon. Start packing.”

  “Maybe Liam and me should go back to Dublin. That way you won’t piss yer boss off.”

  “The hell with her!”

  “Jack. Slow down. Let’s think this through.”

  Chapter 23

  Bill Myers smiled at her when she walked behind the counter and put her apron on. She was wearing the Phillies ball cap he had given her a few days ago. “Good morning, someone left you a note,” he said and handed her the envelope with her name on it. “I found it stuck under the door when I got here. I bet it’s from a secret admirer.”

  Before she could open the note a crowd of customers entered so she stuck it in her back pocket and tended to her duties. It wasn’t until after the morning rush 90 minutes later that she read it.

  “Everything alright?” Myers asked when he saw her reaction. “Is it from Kastanski? Don’t worry about that guy. I won’t let him bother you again.”

  She forced a smile and replied, “No, it’s just a note from an old friend.” She looked at the note again, “I need to take care of something. Can you handle things here on your own? I’ll be back in time for the lunch crowd.”

  She left the Perfect Cup, crossed Frankford Avenue and took the El to center city. The note was from Ari Nooris. How had he gotten out of custody, and how had he found her? She always knew deep down that it could never be that easy to just walk away from her past without paying a price for what she had done.

  She walked down Pine Street to Camac. The narrow cobblestone street, more like an alley, was lined with two and three story row houses on both sides of the block. She knocked on the door of 807. Nochem Rabinowitz waved her into the tiny living room. Like she had once been, Nooris had rendered Nochem completely codependent. His domination was so absolute that the young man had lost all sense of self.

  “Rabi you look tired,” she said and gently touched the scar on his face.

  He gave her what was as close to a smile as he was capable of, “He’s upstairs.” She brushed his cheek with a kiss and walked to the spiral staircase that separated the living room from the efficiency kitchen.

  Nooris looked up from the drafting table when she stepped off the staircase, his cold eyes belied his smile, “Shona, you look wonderful. I was worried about you when you didn’t respond to the messages we sent you before we were taken back into custody,” he said as he got out of his chair and approached her. She held out her hands fending him off.

  “Shona, what’s wrong? Are you cross with me?”

  “I thought you were in Guantanamo Bay. How did you get out?”

  He ignored the question.

  After a moment’s silence she asked, “How did you find me?”

  “You shouldn’t have used the credit card as a reference for your apartment. We traced the inquiry to a real estate agent, Mr. Kastanski, a rather loathsome character. Fishtown, don’t you find it just a bit tacky?” he smiled. “We didn’t want to disturb you last night. The old man who runs the coffee shop seems to be very protective of you,” he paused, “Not sharing? Well anyway, I’m glad you could break away and see me.”

  “What do you want?”

  His eyes narrowed almost disappearing as he studied her. “You know you really pissed me off when you didn’t use the opportunity I handed you to take the boy after I went to all the trouble of getting Regan and the detective out of the way on that fool’s errand to Cuba.” He had shed the avuncular façade and let the killer loose.

  She shot him a defiant look, “I didn’t see the point since you let the Irishman shoot you. It looked to me like you lost a step.”

  He smirked, “Looks like you underestimated me. By the way, what have you done with the Braque?”

  “It’s in a safe place,” she replied.

  He momentarily considered her evasion, “Alright, we’ll deal with that another day. I know you won’t disappoint me again.”

  She looked at him not bothering to conceal her contempt. “I have to leave now.”

  “Counsel are we ready to proceed?”

  Jack stood, “Your Honor my colleague hasn’t arrived yet. Can I ask for the court’s indulgence and delay the proceedings for a few more minutes?”

  The judge nodded and Jack called the office to see if anyone had heard from Mark Young. Fifteen minutes later he asked for a meeting in the judges’ chambers.

  “Judge, Mark was in a hit and run accident this morning. He was biking along the Kelly drive when he was run down.”

  “Was he badly hurt?” Coratelli asked.

  “He’s in surgery. I’m not clear on the full extent of his injuries.”

  The judge considered the news. “Gentlemen, I realize this may sound cold, but we have to continue with the trial. Jack are you prepared to proceed without Mr. Young?”

  He hesitated. He had planned to tell his boss that she could shove her endorsement and let Mark Young fly solo for the remainder of the trial. Now that option was no longer available.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes Your Honor.”

  “Alright then we’ll tell the jury what’s happened and proceed,” the judge paused and said, “Jack please let me know how the young man is doing.”

  When Romansky told him the news he asked if Harriet Samitz was back from LA. “Susan I wasn’t supposed to try this case.”

  “Jesus Christ Jack I didn’t think the kid would get himself run over. There’s nothing I can do. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  When court convened the judge explained the reason for the delay. “Is the defense prepared to proceed?”

  Vito Coratelli stood up, “Yes Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Herbert Martison.”

  Regan showed no reaction whatsoever. Calling Martison was either a brilliant move, or a fatal error. Regan was certain that whatever the outcome, Coratelli must have carefully considered the risks and decided it was worth the gamble.

  He could tell from the jury’s reaction that Coratelli’s gambit had captured their attention. For two weeks the parade of witnesses had created two diametrically opposed portraits of the doctor. The prosecution attempted to lead the jury to believe that Martison was a godless, greedy predator who had enriched himself by running an abortion mill, a cold hearted criminal who took advantage of unfortunate young women in the African-American community in West Philadelphia. According to a number of the witnesses, the defendant not only performed illegal, late term procedures, but the manner in which he operated was so far below acceptable standards as to almost assure his patients complications that would lead to tragic, life endangering consequences.

  The defense portrayed Martison as a caring and selfless individual who had reached the conclusion years ago that young woman in desperate circumstances would resort to reckless extremes if no safe alternative was available to end unwanted pregnancies. According to its case, if Martison was the mendacious monster the prosecution claimed, where did the great wealth he had amassed go? Martison lived a middle-class existence in the very community in which he practiced. Where were the
multiple ‘victims’ the prosecution alleged had suffered from his butchery? And finally, how had he been able to conduct his business with no interference from the licensing agencies that were responsible to oversee his clinic if he was as negligent as the prosecution claimed?

  Lawyers on both sides of the battle were, of course, prone to hyperbole. No doubt the truth about Martison was somewhere in between the competing images the lawyers had projected. Coratelli had decided that the only way to allow the jurors to form their own conclusion about the defendant and what motivated him to devote his professional training to this practice was to put him on the witness stand, even at the risk of exposing him to potentially damaging cross examination.

  As he had contemplated, his direct examination presented the defendant in a favorable light. Martison, unlike most in his profession, was not pompous or condescending. On the contrary he was soft spoken and humble. He portrayed himself as someone privileged to become a physician, who believed he was obligated to serve his community. He testified that he chose to remain and raise his own family in his West Philadelphia community, rather than leave as had many of his contemporaries who moved away from the ‘hood’ to the suburbs.

  Coratelli’s direct examination led the defendant through the evolution of his clinic from the standard obstetric-gynecological practice to primarily limited to performing abortions. “Dr. Martison, one final question.” Ever the showman Coratelli paused, turned his back on the witness, and faced the jury, “Please explain to the jury why you decided to limit your practice in this manner?”

  Martison responded, “I felt I had no choice.”

  Coratelli still facing the jury asked, “No choice, what do you mean?”

  “For a number of years I refused to perform these procedures. I referred my patients to other clinics. In some cases, the young women, girls really, were unable to locate doctors who would help them. Sometimes they returned to my office, little girls with their infants, with no idea of how to properly care for them.