Mob Lawyer 3: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  “Like the cocaine bust on the dock last night?” I rubbed my finger along the rim of my mug as I waited for her reaction.

  “I tried to cover that, but he said it was nothing,” she replied with a frown. “Sara covered it, and she said it turned out to be a lame bust. Only a couple of guys are getting deported.”

  “What?” Now it was my turn to lower my voice. “What happened to the other ten dudes?”

  “The stuff they found tested negative for cocaine,” Brenda answered. “It was some fancy powder for making jewelry or something. They let all of the guys go except the ones who were illegal.”

  “No way,” I breathed and sat back in my seat. “So, either they figured out a way to beat the test, or someone gave them an out.”

  Brenda sat forward in her squishy booth and gripped her mug with both hands.

  “You mean to tell me that was a real cocaine shipment?” she pressed.

  “Yeah,” I confirmed. “And no one even really knows about it.”

  “What the hell,” she muttered. “I knew I should have taken that story from her.”

  “Well, if we can blow this shit open, I’ll have a hell of a story for you,” I said. “I have a feeling your corruption issues go a lot higher than the Queens DA.”

  “Ordman is terrible at covering his tracks,” Brenda chuckled. “I have a few things on him already, but I knew he wasn’t the head of the snake.”

  “The Serbian snake,” I pointed out. “And no, we need to find out who’s pulling the strings.”

  Before the reporter could answer, the waitress reappeared and slid our plates onto the table. The cinnamon rolls were as big as dinner plates, and I eyed mine with a growling stomach.

  “Enjoy!” the waitress chirped and scooted back to the register for one of the other customers.

  “Okay, what do I need to do?” Brenda asked.

  “Dig around in all the city offices,” I answered. “There are some big players in this, and I have a feeling the upcoming elections play into their goal.”

  “Oh, those dirty bastards,” she grunted. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find.”

  With that, we dug into our cinnamon rolls, and I couldn’t even finish half before my belly was nearly screaming at me to give it up. The sweet, fluffy breakfast had definitely been comparable to Lurleen’s cherry pie, and I debated getting a doggy bag for the remainder.

  “I’ll get that bagged up for you,” our waitress declared as she made my decision for me, and I nodded my agreement as I slid the plate closer to her.

  I picked up the tab and handed her a couple twenties before she could walk away.

  “Keep the change,” I said.

  “Wow, thank you,” she gushed at her huge tip and nearly ran to the kitchen to get my food ready.

  “Private practice pays well, huh?” Brenda teased and nudged Eddie. “We’re in the wrong business.”

  “Probably,” he agreed as he finally spoke his second word since we’d been here.

  The waitress returned with my food and a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and then we headed out the door to split up into our separate cars. I waved goodbye to the odd couple and hopped into my car with my doggy bag, coffee, and stack of newspapers. I spread the first one out in front of me, and I was annoyed to find no mention of the Serbian bust at all.

  I skipped to the Daily News and found the article Brenda had mentioned. Sara was the writer, and she had indeed written less than three hundred words about a scare at the dock that sent two illegal immigrants back to their home country. No mention of cocaine, Serbians, or anything that remotely sounded like what had happened at Red Hook.

  “Son of a bitch,” I grumbled to myself.

  I linked my phone to my radio and called Anthony. His voice quickly resonated throughout the cabin.

  “Good news?” he asked with a twinge of hope.

  “Not really,” I replied as I tossed the last two newspapers aside and threw my car into gear. “Brenda’s corruption story was squashed by her editor for lack of sources, which is complete bullshit, and now it seems someone convinced the NYPD they didn’t find cocaine last night.”

  “How did they explain that?” Anthony asked in exasperation.

  “Some jewelry-making powder or something,” I answered. “So, the only guys who didn’t get released were the ones without papers. And the news didn’t even cover where they got deported to. Brenda wasn’t allowed on the story.”

  “Great,” my client muttered. “There really is a high-level shakedown, isn’t there?”

  “I’d say so,” I agreed. “I’m going to get with Liz and see if she has any ideas for who we can reach out to in city hall. Maybe she has a clean source we can talk to.”

  “Sounds good,” Anthony said. “Keep me posted.”

  I hung up with the Mafia boss and turned up the radio as I made my way to my apartment in Brooklyn. The first thing I needed to do was shower. Now that my headache was wearing off, it felt like wine was seeping out of every pore in my body.

  I rushed through the last of the morning traffic before the lunch hour hit and skidded to a stop in my parking spot. As I walked toward the stairs, I waved to Sulla at the front door and skipped up the steps to the third floor. Once I was inside, I booted up my laptop and sent Liz an email and asked her to let me know when she was free for a few minutes. I tossed my doggy bag in the nearly empty fridge and headed for my bedroom.

  Then I jumped into the shower and rinsed away the last remaining smell of alcohol and sweat before I wrapped myself up in a towel and returned to my computer. A message in my inbox blinked for my attention, and I read Liz’s response to call her in about fifteen minutes. It was nearly eleven here in New York, so she was probably wrapping up her day in London.

  I took one last look on my news apps for an update to last night’s story, but nothing had changed. Everyone was still in the dark about the true events that had taken place.

  It had been almost twenty minutes since Liz’s email, so I dialed her number and waited for her to answer.

  “Is this an official co-counsel meeting?” the blonde asked.

  Her smooth voice was teasing after she picked up, and I reminded myself that I needed to focus on the matter at hand.

  “Something like that,” I chuckled and relaxed on the couch as I updated her with the events of the last couple days.

  “Wow, this could end up being a pretty big deal,” she murmured, and I could practically see her pacing her fancy London office as she soaked in the information. “So, what does Anthony want you to do?”

  “Find the root of the problem,” I answered. “Which is why I called you. I think we’re going to find that in city hall, but I don’t know who to talk to. We have to be able to trust them.”

  “I may have a few people we could reach out to, but if the bust and coverup happened in Brooklyn, I think you should focus there first,” she suggested. “What do you think of the DA?”

  “I think he’s well on his way out the door,” I replied with a frown. “Webber is endorsing some other guy named Chatel for the job.”

  “Why endorse someone else if the current one is doing the dirty work?” Liz wondered.

  “DA Jordan declared he’s running for re-election, but I don’t think he’s trying that hard,” I said. “I see Webber and Chatel ads all over the place. Maybe they’re hoping Chatel wins because Jordan wants out. It’s too obvious to just kill him, so they’d have to replace him.”

  “Then I think the Brooklyn DA’s office is where you need to start your search for someone with no ties to the mayor,” she determined. “Then you can see who’s really running their show.”

  “And that would lead us higher up the ladder,” I agreed with a grin. “See, I knew you were the right person to call.”

  “I usually am,” she laughed. “Now, tell me about everything else going on with you.”

  We chatted for a while about cherry pie and how the English have different names for some foods which led to some te
rrible meals.

  “Oh, Gulia was thinking about coming to visit you and taking you to her father’s vineyards,” I remembered as we discussed my wine adventure last night.

  “No way!” Liz exclaimed. “That would be so fun. I hope you told her I was interested.”

  “Nah, I told her you hate wine,” I scoffed and then chuckled at her gasp. “Yes, I told her you’d be happy to see her. I’m sure she’ll be calling you soon.”

  “I’m so excited,” she gushed. “And you’re stuck there figuring out political warfare.”

  “Yep,” I sighed. “You just keep traveling the world, and I’ll hold down the fort.”

  “I appreciate that,” Liz laughed before she held the phone away and spoke to someone else in the office. “Hey, I need to go wrap up this meeting, so I can head back to my fancy world-traveler apartment, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Have fun,” I replied.

  As soon as we hung up, I instantly felt better. I was going to figure out who was behind this scheme, and hopefully, that would lead to whoever made the attempt on Salvatore’s life.

  Then a thought struck me.

  What would happen when we figured out who started all this? Would Anthony seek revenge? Or would he let the law do its job?

  So far, the law hadn’t been on his side. In fact, they’d tried to make things worse for him more than once. I wouldn’t really blame him if he wanted to take matters into his own hands.

  “Damn,” I muttered to myself.

  I really was starting to understand this mob lawyer thing.

  I grabbed my laptop from my table and pulled up the website for the Brooklyn District Attorney. Jordan’s wrinkle-lined face appeared front and center on the home page, along with a small blurb about his determination to continue serving the people of Brooklyn, blah, blah, blah. I scrolled down through the page’s articles about community outreach programs, a new office for interns, and then an article about a prize-winning project caught my attention.

  I clicked on the page to blow up the picture, and a grin spread across my face.

  I had just found our way in.

  Chapter 4

  The striking hazel eyes and luscious chestnut hair of Alessia Pizzano stood out among the incredibly average-looking people around her in the photo. She stood nearly six feet tall, and it had always felt like at least two-thirds of that were her legs. Her long, lean body could have walked runways, but her brilliant mind had gotten her through law school with Liz and me.

  I clicked on the article and read about Alessia’s work with the prison system to help rehabilitate prisoners and decrease recidivism. It seemed she’d been pushing for more programs to be offered by the Department of Corrections to teach life and work skills to soon-to-be-released convicts.

  I scrolled through the article to find a link to a thesis she’d written about how busy minds are less likely to reoffend, and her work was supported by dozens of other attorneys and psychiatrists in the field.

  Alessia had been an incredibly smart woman in class, and it looked like she’d been continuing to kill it in her work, too. I rifled through what I could remember of her outside of school, but I only recalled brief mentions of her European descent and a fleeting drunken moment when she flashed a few of us to prove she wasn’t a nerd.

  Yeah, that was a good memory.

  I skimmed over a few more stories with the same conclusion: Alessia was still attractive, smart as a whip, and really damn good at her job.

  Now I had to come up with a good reason for calling her out of the blue. I’d worked with prisoners before, but not in the same way she was doing. And even my experience at the prison was limited to visits to various pro bono clients like Anthony. The vast part of my experience was either corporate bullshit or Mafia business that probably wouldn’t win her over. In fact, as a criminal defense attorney, I worked on the other side of the table, so asking for advice on a case wasn’t likely to go over well.

  Unless I was considering switching sides.

  My mind buzzed with the idea. If I could convince her that I was interested in prosecution instead of the defense I’d been working, maybe she’d be willing to meet up for that.

  I clicked on her name on the left side of the screen and scanned her very succinct profile, which basically consisted of her name, our law school, and links to the articles I’d already read. She hadn’t worked many cases yet, and her repeated appearance on the website seemed to be mostly related to her community work. So, DA Jordan hadn’t given her much courtroom time yet, but he clearly recognized her ability to make a difference in other ways.

  From the outside, Alessia seemed like the perfect candidate for someone who was interested in making sure the government held its members accountable, and I doubted she was involved in any level of corruption, but I’d have to be careful how I approached the questions.

  For now, I’d get her to meet me for dinner.

  I called the DA’s office and asked the receptionist for Alessia’s office. The phone rang for what felt like an hour before a hurried voice with the slightest Italian lilt answered.

  “ADA Pizzano, can I help you?” The shuffle of papers accompanied her greeting.

  “Hey, Alessia, it’s Hunter Morgan,” I chirped and paused for a moment as I heard the background noise cease. “Uh, from school. You remember?”

  “Curly black hair?” she asked after a hesitation.

  “Yeah!” I confirmed with a laugh. “How are you?”

  “Um, kind of busy,” Alessia answered, and the papers began to rustle again. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Actually, yeah,” I replied. “I wanted to get your opinion on prosecution.”

  “For what? A paper?” She set something down with a thud. “I can probably pencil you in later this week-- er, actually next week. When is it due?”

  “It’s not a paper,” I chuckled. “I’m working defense right now, and I was thinking about prosecuting.”

  “Wait, you defended Anthony Febbo, right?” Alessia seemed to focus more on our conversation all of a sudden. “I thought I saw that somewhere or someone told me, I don’t know. Is that true?”

  “I’ve opened my own private practice for criminal defense,” I said carefully. “And once I got a bogus charge dismissed, I helped NYPD solve a murder that was getting pinned on the wrong guy, which made me feel like I could do more, you know?”

  “Yeah, getting a murderer off the streets is a hell of a feeling,” she agreed with a happy sigh. “So, you’re thinking about applying here or what?”

  “Sort of,” I hedged. “I know you’re probably swamped with stuff there, and I’m running some cases of my own, so I don’t want to tie up your phone, but maybe we could get drinks or dinner tonight? I can bounce my thoughts off you?”

  “Tonight?” Alessia echoed and hesitated again. “I, uh, might be able to, but why did you ask me?”

  She emphasized the word “me,” and I wondered when that part was going to come up since we hadn’t spoken but a dozen words since we’d graduated.

  “I really wasn’t sure who to talk to about it,” I admitted honestly. “I was sort of scrolling through a few things when one of your prison reform articles popped up. I remembered how certain you were about working prosecution, even though a lot of us were more worried about paying off our student loans. It just sort of felt like divine intervention to see your face.”

  “Oh,” the ADA breathed, and I could hear the tone of her voice change as she smiled. “I suppose one might call it destiny, then.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “So, what do you say? I’m buying.”

  “Let me give you my cell,” she answered. “Text me the place, and I’ll tell you what time I can be there.”

  “Sounds good,” I murmured as I jotted down her number. “Talk to you soon.”

  Alessia disconnected the call, and I grinned at my success. She hadn’t pushed for info on my connection to Anthony, so she obviously wasn’t as interested in t
he Mafia as the mayor was, which was a good sign. It seemed likely I’d found at least one person in the DA’s office who wasn’t involved with Webber or the Serbs, but I had to be certain. I’d maintain my cover story about my interest in prosecution until I knew for sure she was on my side. I added Alessia’s number to my contacts and sent her a text.

  What do you think about Henry’s End?

  The Brooklyn restaurant was small and required a reservation, which meant we wouldn’t have to fight crowds or have someone hovering over our table while I asked my questions. Plus, it had been too long since I had their spicy andouille chicken sausage dinner. Just the thought of the spicy meal had my mouth watering, and I realized I’d spent enough time talking to Liz and Alessia to have missed lunch.

  Sounds good, I’ll be there at 7, she replied.

  And there was no way I was waiting that long to eat.

  I made an online reservation for two at Henry’s before I dropped my phone on the charger, got dressed, and trotted downstairs to hit the deli down the street. Once I’d demolished a footlong ham and turkey sub, I returned to my apartment and found I had a few emails and texts.

  One email was from the hospice clinic asking me to confirm their final reviews, and the rest were junk. Brenda had confirmed with Sara that all her info for the story had come from an NYPD rep, and she’d been denied interviews with any of the arresting officers. I shot back a reply that I was working a few things on my end as well before I sat down with my laptop and went over the wills and powers of attorney for my hospice clients.

  By the time I finished, the sun had started to fall, and I realized I had just enough time to get dressed and start walking toward the restaurant. As I buttoned up my gray-and-white checked shirt and tucked it into my navy slacks, I decided I’d rather drive in case Alessia needed a ride home afterward. I wasn’t sure where she lived, and it would be easier to have my car there than to walk back here and retrieve it.

  I grabbed my phone and keys from the table and locked up before I headed down to my car. I drove casually through the late evening traffic and scooted around Orange Street to park alongside the brick building where Henry’s End sat on the corner. As I strolled around the edge of the building, I watched a pair of long, tan legs step out of a neon-yellow taxi and land on a set of mahogany-colored heels.