by Tim Green
The house belonged to a twenty-seven-year-old punk named Anthony Fabrizio, who owned a marijuana possession charge at eighteen and a third-degree assault at the age of twenty-three. Fabrizio earned a modest income at a security company, too modest to afford the G55 he kept parked in the detached garage behind the crooked house. Jake knew all this after a late-night phone call to Don Wall. He had berated his friend for not coming up with the information on Massimo.
“I already got a job, you know,” Wall had said hotly. “And enough bosses for a dozen agents.”
Jake knew he hit a nerve, though, and because he came up with nothing on Massimo, Wall had agreed to run a quick check on Fabrizio before going back to bed.
The G55 hadn’t shown up until just before three in the morning, when the enormous Fabrizio stopped in the street and got out to piss on his neighbor’s trash before pulling behind the house. Even though Jake detected a wobble in Fabrizio’s gait and suspected it would be some time before the young man got up for work, he hadn’t taken any chances, and so he spent his night in the Cadillac’s backseat.
The car now smelled of Burger King. Jake looked around him, then slipped the bag of trash out onto the curb before climbing over the seat to take up his position behind the wheel. He checked himself in the rearview mirror and realized he’d need to change into one of the other shirts from the Marshall’s bag in the passenger seat before he returned to the BK around the corner for a quick coffee and the bathroom. He winced as he pulled the shirt over his head but a silver flash caught his attention.
With only his head and one arm in the shirt, he fired up the Cadillac and took off after the G55, impressed with Anthony Fabrizio’s work ethic. Fabrizio didn’t appear to be in a big hurry, though, and he proved it by stopping at a Spot Coffee on his way through the city, giving Jake a chance to finish dressing. Coffee in hand, Fabrizio continued to an exclusive city street out near Amherst where the homes sat well off the road, each boasting several acres and trees as thick as tractor tires. Jake kept going past the yellow Spanish-style hacienda with its red clay tile roof and gaping wrought-iron gates, making note of the street numbers for the next several houses so he could know the address Fabrizio had gone into.
“Twenty-seven fifty-five Middlesex,” Jake said aloud to himself, pulling over where he could keep an eye on Fabrizio coming out.
Jake dug into his bag and started his computer, waiting patiently for the wireless card to give him Internet access. His headache began to ease. He punched the address into the White Pages Reverse Directory and came up with two names: Iris and John Napoli. Using Autotrak and a couple other services Jake subscribed to through the TV network, he dug into everything he could find about the two Napolis but came up with nothing more than an old mortgage and a couple civil disputes from the past that looked like home contractors up to their usual tricks. When he Googled John Napoli and Buffalo, he got 631,000 hits. He went through the first three pages, mostly doctors and dentists named John Napoli, before he realized how common the name was and quit.
Frustrated, he dialed Don Wall again.
“What? Don’t you sleep?” Wall said, his voice raspy and broken.
“It’s after nine.”
“And you told me last night when we spoke at midnight that you were working the overnight shift like me.”
“Well, I did.”
“And you found what you were looking for,” Wall said, yawning. “So you need something else.”
Jake gave him the name, John Napoli, and the address, knowing the FBI had wells of information much deeper than anything to be found on the Internet.
“And after you run that,” Jake said, “see if you can ask around and find me someone who knows about the organized crime scene in western New York. An old-timer or something. There are about a million John Napolis and I need someone who can link the one with that address and maybe some criminal activity.”
“Okay, when I get up I’ll get you the info and make a couple calls.”
“When you get up?”
“Jake,” Wall said wearily, “when I dole out the signed face shots to the relatives over the holidays, you are the light of my life, but I’m working a Muslim cleric with a band of brothers interested in a cache of automatic weapons right now. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t act like the intern peeing down her leg to get you a cappuccino.”
Jake sighed.
“Seriously,” Wall said. “I’ll call you when I’m up.”
Jake said good-bye. He didn’t have to wait long before the G55 pulled back out onto the street, heading downtown. Jake set his computer down and took off after it. Only three cars back at a light on Elmwood, he was certain he could see the top of a small white head peeking out from the side of the headrest in the backseat. It had to be the old man from the abandoned mill, John Napoli. Jake’s heart began to pound and he told himself to relax, that he was a long way from any kind of breakthrough.
When the G55 pulled over at the curb in front of an Italian bakery, Jake pulled over, too, watching carefully. When Fabrizio disappeared inside, Jake jumped out and sprinted across the street to a bistro, now in desperate need of the bathroom. It didn’t take him long, but when he came out, the G55 was already pulling away from the curb.
Jake jumped into his car and took off, nearly smashing into a delivery truck. The G55 turned at the light and disappeared. Jake blew through a red light amid a blast of horns and followed. Up ahead, he just caught the glint of silver as the SUV veered onto an on-ramp. Jake crossed a double yellow, nearly colliding with an oncoming car before cutting off a long line to the on-ramp and cruising up the shoulder and onto the highway where the Mercedes surged ahead into the passing lane. Jake went nearly a mile and topped a rise in the road before he saw the G55 pulled over on the shoulder, idling.
Jake had no choice but to blow his cover, or just keep going. He kept going, eventually getting off at the next exit, pulling down the ramp, turning right, pulling a quick U-turn, then driving halfway up the on-ramp that would get him right back onto the highway. He spun around in his seat so he could see not only the oncoming traffic but the G55 if it got off at the same exit he did. Less than two minutes later, the silver SUV shot past him in the passing lane on the highway. Jake took off, keeping his distance this time, his heart thumping at the thought of having been discovered.
Before too long, they got off the highway, and after a few blocks Jake realized they were heading right back to the warehouse area on the river.
It wasn’t until he turned down Ganson Street, well behind Fabrizio and Napoli, that Jake’s heart began to pound in earnest. The pulse of blood hammered through his damaged head, heightening the pain again. With his focus on the G55, Jake hadn’t bothered to even look behind him. Now, with the cereal factory looming big in his rearview mirror, he realized that as he had followed the G55, two men in a dark sedan had been following him. Up ahead, a massive dump truck pulled out into the street, blocking his way. As Jake pulled to a stop, the sedan crept right up to his bumper, pinning his Cadillac before the two men hopped out with guns.
23
CASEY SHOWERED and changed into a dark brown Donna Karan business suit with a cream silk blouse and heels. She pulled her hair back tight and pinned it up with a comb, giving herself the more serious look she reserved for juries and judges. Marty had informed her that Judge Kollar would see her in his chambers around ten, after he completed a jury selection. Robert Graham waited in the hotel lobby and looked unusually good in dress slacks and a pin-striped shirt. On his wrist was a silver Cartier watch. His face was clean shaven.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I figured for the judge,” Graham said.
“He told me it’s all about the law,” Casey said.
“Money is nine-tenths of the law,” Graham said.
“You’re thinking of possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Right, and money is how you possess,” Graham said, offering her his arm and escorting her ou
t to a waiting Town Car.
“No Ralph?” Casey asked.
“Everyone needs a day off, right?” Graham said. “And I’m here if you need anything.”
“Coffee?”
“Anything you need, Casey,” he said, handing her into the back of the car. “I mean that.”
On the way to the courthouse, Graham asked Casey about the projects waiting for her back in Texas. She loved talking about her work and he seemed interested in the people she helped as much as the processes her clinic had set up to deal with a constant influx of clients. They stopped talking when they arrived at the courthouse. Marty, who had been waiting on the steps, opened the door for Casey and helped her out before Graham could get around the car. The two men shook hands.
“I told you he’d do good,” Graham said, slapping the young lawyer on the back.
“Don’t say that until we see how the judge rules,” Marty said, his brow furrowed. “I saw Flynn going in a few minutes ago and he looked pretty happy. I don’t know.”
They followed Marty inside and were shown into the judge’s chambers. Flynn was nowhere to be seen. Graham kept quizzing Casey about her clinic and that made the time pass a little quicker. Still, it was nearly eleven before the door swung open and the massive judge swept in with a swish of his black robes. He sat down without greeting them and whipped out a tiny pair of silver reading glasses before lifting what looked like Casey’s brief from his desk and studying it, his lips quivering in the silent formation of words before he looked up over the tops of his lenses without raising his head.
“This works,” he said.
Casey let out a long breath. Graham reached over and clasped his hand over the top of hers and they looked at each other, grinning.
“Politics had nothing to do with it,” the judge said, still sour. “I hope you know that. This is a damn good brief and I don’t like getting overturned on appeal.”
Casey stood, wanting to shake the judge’s hand, but he didn’t even look up. He drew another piece of paper to the center of his desk, picked up his pen, and signed it with a flourish before he handed it to her.
“I know it’s not about politics,” Graham said. “But I’ve always believed in supporting good judges who know the law.”
“You should get with Marty on that,” the judge said, nodding Marty’s way. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The three of them walked out together and hugged each other all around as soon as they hit the courthouse steps.
“Let’s celebrate,” Graham said.
“I want to get this to the hospital,” Casey said, waving the order.
“Let me take it,” Marty said. “You two go ahead. I’ll join you after I check in at the office.”
“You’re getting a bonus for this, my friend,” Graham said, pointing a finger at Marty like it was a gun and pulling the imaginary trigger.
“Time out,” Casey said. “I want to stop at the prison and see what we’ll have to do to arrange for a blood sample from Dwayne. I want this DNA work done yesterday.”
“Perfect,” Graham said, heading down the steps. “We’ll do that and then have lunch at Balloons. It’s right there. You know where, right, Marty?”
“Of course,” Marty said. “Right next to the wall. Good choice.”
“And ask Dr. Prescott how long it will take to dig up this sample, Marty,” Casey said, stopping on the curb as their Town Car pulled up. “I want it today. He gives you any grief, tell him I’ll be in myself.”
“I’ll get him going,” Marty said. “He’s a good guy, the doc. He’s just covering himself. You’ll see.”
Casey nodded and asked, “How are your contacts at the county forensics lab?”
“They use the lab in Monroe County. I’ve never had to ask,” Marty said. “Obviously, the DA has most of the swing there.”
“So we’re screwed,” Casey said, remembering her bitter meeting with Merideth.
“Maybe my uncle can help,” Marty said.
“Does it have to be the lab the Auburn DA uses?” Graham asked.
“No,” Casey said. “Another county lab could do it, or the Feds. If you’ve got a contact, maybe we can get it done in the next couple weeks.”
“Why that long?” Graham asked. “How long can a DNA analysis really take?”
“It’s not the analysis,” Casey said, “it’s getting an accredited lab to do it sooner than later. They’re always backed up. Usually, it takes months.”
“I know, but it doesn’t have to,” Graham said. “I’d like to wrap this up for Dwayne, and for you. With my contacts, there’s no reason why we can’t accelerate things.”
“How fast are you thinking?” Casey asked.
“How about a day or two?” Graham said, opening the car door for her.
Casey raised her eyebrows. “That would take some serious grease.”
“Go big or go home, right?” Graham said, circling the car and climbing in on the other side. “I’ve got a couple congressmen who owe me.”
“And I’ve got an assistant warden who told me ‘whatever you need,’ ” Casey said, producing Collin Mallard’s card from the bottom of her briefcase.
“I think he was talking about a cheeseburger,” Graham said.
“What about the power of celebrity?” she said. “Isn’t that what you said?”
Graham told the driver to take them to the prison.
24
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the prison, Graham held up his cell phone to Casey and said, “I’ll wait here and work on lining up the lab. You don’t need me in there, do you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Casey walked in between the castle turrets and asked through the small speaker in the Plexiglas if she could see the assistant warden. The burly uniformed woman behind the desk looked up from her crossword puzzle.
“You have an appointment with Mr. Mallard?” she asked.
“I don’t,” Casey said, “but he’ll want to see me. I’m with the Freedom Project, working on the Dwayne Hubbard case.”
The woman stared for a minute, then shrugged and picked up her phone. When she finished, she compressed her lips, leaned into her microphone, pointed over to a bench against the wall, and said, “You can have a seat. His secretary will be right down.”
Casey paced the floor until an elderly woman in a flower-print dress shuffled into view and led her through the metal detectors and into the administration building. Mallard had a cramped office with one small window and his secretary sat down at a desk right outside the door. Mallard jumped up from a pile of papers and shook her hand with both of his. He wore an out-of-date double-breasted gray suit with a pink tie.
“Back again. I am honored, Ms. Jordan,” he said, his smile outshining the bald dome of his head. “I was telling friends at dinner just last night about our meeting. How can I help?”
“I’d like to get a blood sample from Dwayne Hubbard and have it sent to a lab right away,” she said. “I think we’ve actually found the proof that will set him free.”
Mallard’s smile turned painful, as if turning someone loose rubbed against his grain.
“I am with the Freedom Project,” she said.
“Of course,” Mallard said. “He’s an unstable man, though, Ms. Jordan. I have to say that.”
“He doesn’t look that way to me,” she said.
Mallard almost frowned.
“I know looks can be deceiving,” she said. “And I know you have a job to do.”
“Four-hundred and sixty-three of the most vicious men in the state,” Mallard said.
“And not an escape since the new wall went up almost a hundred years ago, I’m told,” Casey said.
“Well, just one, actually,” Mallard said.
“And a blood test?” Casey said. “Do you have someone who could do that?”
“We have our own infirmary,” Mallard said.
“I would be glad to sign anything you need from our end,” she said, giving him her best smile. It
was a dynamite smile and she reserved it for such occasions.
Mallard sat up straight. His cheeks flushed, somehow increasing the brilliance of the shine atop his head, and he said, “I can handle it.”
Mallard picked up his phone and with an important-sounding voice asked to speak with the captain of the guards. He told the man to retrieve Dwayne Hubbard and bring him to the infirmary right away.
“That fast?” Casey said.
“Would you like to speak with him there?” Mallard asked. “Explain things to him? We’ll need his permission and Dwayne has somewhat of a reputation.”
“He looks like a math teacher,” Casey said.
“Right,” Mallard said, nodding in agreement, “I meant more as a slick talker. He’ll argue with you about the color of the sky if you let him.”
“I wondered before about him being chained up when we first met,” Casey said. “The guard said something about his file.”
Mallard shrugged. “We like to do things by the book. He’s been here quite some time. Someone back in the day may have checked the wrong box. That happens. Better safe than sorry, though.”
Casey followed the assistant warden through a maze of hallways with mint green walls and dull gray floor tiles cracked and waffled at the corners. They descended a stairway, footsteps echoing through the empty space, before a guard let them through a barred doorway that clanked shut behind them. Beds bolted to the floor lined the walls of the infirmary. The crisp white sheets would have looked ordinary but for the manacles hanging from the four corners of each bed. The room’s only occupant lay in the far corner, his face wrapped like a mummy’s in white gauze.
Mallard nodded toward the man and said, “The other guy stuck a hose down the gas tank of a food service truck, sucked out a mouthful, and pulled a circus act on our friend down here.”
“Fire-eater?”
“Spit it out at him over a cigarette,” Mallard said. “Doesn’t need his face, really. He’s a lifer.”
A bulky nurse entered, checked the burned man’s pulse, and waddled toward them.