Clay Evans called the best criminal lawyer he knew when he received his subpoena. Then he picked up the phone and called Bob Richards. He knew the governor a little from social functions and such, but the two men were not close and Evans wasted no time letting Bob Richards know this was not a social call.
“Do you know what that crazy son-of-a-bitch you appointed state attorney is trying to do?”
“You mean Jack Tobin?”
“Who else? He’s convened a grand jury down there in Cobb County and he’s trying to indict me for the murder of that Kelly kid who was executed.”
Bob Richards couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re kidding me.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding? This guy has gone off the reservation, Bob, and he’s your problem.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Well, you better believe it. And you better do something fast. You know that grand juries are putty in the hands of prosecutors. You’d better fire that son-of-a-bitch before they bring back an indictment or all hell’s gonna break loose.”
“Calm down, Clay. I’ll take care of this. As we speak, he’s sitting in my waiting room. I’ll fire him right now and call you back. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“You better.”
Bob Richards was in a rage when he hung up the phone. He didn’t need a federal judge breathing down his neck. He also knew something like this was going to be a major, major news event. He had to try to squelch it before it took on a life of its own. He picked up the phone and yelled at his secretary to bring Jack Tobin into his office immediately.
Jack walked into Bob Richards’s office with a smile on his face. He could tell by the governor’s expression that he had received the bad news. His casual smile caused the usually well-controlled politician to explode.
“You son-of-a-bitch! You set me up! You’ve been planning this thing all along, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And now you stroll in here with that shit-eating grin on your face. What the fuck are you here for? You know I’m going to fire you, don’t you? Did you really believe in your wildest dreams that I would let you prosecute this case? You’re fucking crazy.”
Jack just stood there listening. He’d expected this—the outrage, the indignation. It was going to make what he was about to do that much sweeter.
“Let’s take a walk, Bob.”
“What for?”
“It’s a little stuffy in here.”
“I don’t want to walk anywhere with you.”
“I think you do. I think you want to hear what I have to say before you do anything rash.”
Jack’s statement made Bob Richards pause. He was angry, almost out of control, but Jack was right. He never wanted to do anything to hurt his political career. He didn’t know what Jack was up to, but he had to listen.
“Let’s go to the garden,” he snapped, walking past Jack and out of the office at a clip.
When they were safely in the garden, Richards turned to Jack. “So what do you have to say for yourself before I fire you?” Again, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done? You’re trying to indict a sitting federal judge for murder. Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe, but you’re not going to do anything about it.”
“Is that some kind of a threat, Jack?”
“That’s exactly what it is, Governor. I’m glad you can see that.”
“And what do you have to threaten me with?” Richards had obviously played this game before. He wanted to see Jack’s cards.
Jack took a small tape recorder out of his pocket and turned it on. Bob Richards heard his own voice on a telephone tape recorder telling Jack at one point that he thought Rudy was innocent and, in the next moment, that he couldn’t do anything about it for political reasons. Richards already knew about Geronimo Cruz’s confession because Jack had sent him and every judge on the Florida Supreme Court a videotape of it, along with the DNA test results. He immediately put two and two together. If the public found out that the State of Florida had killed an innocent man and that he, the governor, had believed that man to be innocent but had refused to act for political reasons, he was finished.
Richards came out swinging.
“That’s an illegal tape recording of a telephone conversation and you’re trying to blackmail me.”
Jack just smiled. “Well, you’re wrong and you’re right, Bob. You’re wrong about our telephone conversation being illegal. My tape machine came on before I picked the telephone up. As a matter of fact, you were speaking to the recorder when I cut in. You’re not going to be able to claim that the telephone conversation was surreptitiously recorded. You’re right, however, that this is blackmail, because if you attempt to fire me, I’m going to send copies of this tape to every news station in America. This will be national news, Bob. Everyone will be shocked that a governor used a death sentence for political purposes, and you will be a pariah.”
The governor’s demeanor turned on a dime. His anger faded like a light on a dimmer switch.
“Why are you doing this, Jack? I thought we were friends. I went out of my way to put you in this job.”
“You went out of shit, Bob. You gave me this job because I know some people who can help you get to the next level. This job was all about politics and we both know it, so spare me the bullshit. And don’t you dare call me your friend. Rudy Kelly was my friend. His father, Mike, was the best friend I ever had. I pleaded with you. I begged you to spare this young man’s life and you blew me off. Don’t you ever call me your friend.”
“I don’t know what to do. I just got off the phone with Clay Evans. He wants me to fire you and I told him I would.”
“Well, call him back and tell him you’re going to let the judicial process work. Tell him you’re sure he will be vindicated. Then do what you did to me—hang up.”
“What about the press? This is going to be a huge story.”
“It certainly is. You tell the press the same thing. Stick that strong jaw of yours out and tell them that you’re not going to interfere with the judicial process. Tell them that this nation is based on laws, not men—that it’s a matter of principle. Personally you might be appalled at what has transpired, but you cannot interfere. You’re good at that bullshit, Bob.”
Richards missed the sarcasm in Jack’s voice. “You think it will work?”
“Absolutely. Look, if they get off, you can say the system worked. And if they get convicted, you can say the same thing. This is a win-win situation for you, Bob.”
Richards walked along the garden path for a moment with his right hand rubbing at his chin. He suddenly stopped and turned to Jack. “What about the tape?”
“I’ll give it to you when the case is over—completely, appeals and everything.”
“Even if you lose?”
“Even if I lose.”
“What assurances do I have?”
“That’s the rub, Bob. You have to trust me and I know it’s hard for people like you to trust anybody.”
“What choice do I have?”
“None if you want to stay in politics.”
The governor’s shoulders slumped as he turned and walked away from Jack. He was beaten and they both knew it. “All right, Jack, it’s a deal. But don’t fuck me.”
“Don’t worry, Bob. It’s not you I’m after.”
Forty–two
The rumor in Miami was that Jimmy DiCarlo was a made man, and Jimmy did nothing to dispel that rumor. He was a criminal defense lawyer who specialized in drug trafficking cases, and his clientele included a number of big-name mobsters. Truth be told, Jimmy was Irish. His mother divorced his father, Joseph Hannigan, when Jimmy was four. Two years later, she married Giovanni DiCarlo, or Joe as everybody called him, a Brooklyn carpenter, who adopted Jimmy when the boy was ten.
In Jimmy’s world, truth was a combination of perception, manipulation, intimidation and whatever else was needed to get th
e story told the right way. If people wanted to think he was a made man, that was fine. It helped in his work. Prosecutors who weren’t crusaders, who just wanted to put in their time until private practice beckoned, did not want to play games with a man as connected as Jimmy. They accepted his version of the truth whenever possible, and consequently Jimmy’s clients spent very little time in jail. If necessary, Jimmy wasn’t above delivering a satchel full of cash to an undisclosed location to get the deal done. After all, there was truth, and then there was truth with money sprinkled on top.
Jimmy came to Miami on a football scholarship, although he never played a minute in an actual game. He was a big man, standing six foot four in his bare feet. In his “playing” days, he weighed in at two fifty-five, a defensive tackle who didn’t have the speed—or the heart, for that matter—to break into the starting lineup. Still, his office was littered with football paraphernalia from his “playing” days. Anyone walking in off the street would have thought Jimmy had been the star of the team. It was all a matter of perception.
These days, Jimmy was a high-rolling bachelor who hit the clubs a few nights a week and feasted regularly on filet mignon and other assorted delicacies. Although he still appeared muscular, Jimmy’s weight had ballooned well past the three hundred mark. In order to maintain a youthful, virile appearance, he wore a corset to shift his belly more towards his chest, dyed his thick hair jet-black and kept it gelled and combed straight back. When he was decked out in one of his many black Armani suits, adorned with gold tie clip, gold cuff links and gold Rolex, his head protruding from a stiff white collar, Jimmy commanded attention. He looked tough; he looked successful. He also looked like he was about to explode at any minute.
Jimmy had appeared in Clay Evans’s courtroom many times, and Judge Evans had been impressed at how he handled himself. Jimmy had a thick, strong voice—one you could not turn away from. When he was standing in front of a jury, or over a witness, he was always the center of attention. It was hard not to believe him because he was so forceful in his delivery.
There were whispers around the federal courthouse in Miami that some of Jimmy DiCarlo’s satchels of cash eventually made their way into Clay Evans’s pockets. But those whispers were usually made at a late hour after many drinks, when false courage helped a man say what he wouldn’t otherwise. Nobody in his right mind would utter those words in the light of day for fear that Jimmy might find out.
Although he’d handled a few murder trials, they weren’t Jimmy’s strong suit. That didn’t matter to Clay Evans. Jimmy was strong, smart, and sharp on his feet, and he would do anything necessary to win a case. He was the man Clay Evans wanted to represent him and Wesley Brume.
Late Wednesday night after he returned from his visit to Tallahassee, Jack received a phone call.
“Hello?”
“You’re about to make me a rich man and I just wanted to call and thank you.”
Jack had an unlisted phone number and he knew just about everybody who called him at home. But he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice oozed, sarcastically. “I forgot to identify myself. This is Jimmy DiCarlo.”
Jack knew who he was but decided to play along.
“Jimmy DiCarlo, Jimmy DiCarlo. . . . I knew a lawyer in Miami by that name.”
“One and the same.”
“And what can I do for you this evening, Jimmy?”
“Like I said, I’m just calling to thank you because you’re about to make me a rich man.”
“I am?”
“You most certainly are. Once you indict my clients for murder and we get the case dismissed, I’m going to own you. Is it true you’re worth upwards of twenty million dollars?”
Jack ignored the question. “A grand jury is about to indict your clients, Jimmy, not me. Congrats on getting the job, though. It’s certainly a step up from those drug dealers.”
Jack could tell he’d hit a nerve. “Whatever,” Jimmy said dismissively before continuing his taunting. “Indicting a sitting federal judge for murder—this is my wet dream. I’m going to sue your ass for millions.”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself, Jimmy? There’s the little matter of a criminal trial in the way of your quest for gold. It’s a good move, though, trying to instill some doubt and fear here at the outset. But you can save your breath. I didn’t earn my money picking daisies. Now, is there another reason you called?” Jack already knew the answer to his question.
“Actually, there is. My clients are not interested in attending that charade you’re putting on before the grand jury. Is there any way we could bypass the formalities of showing up just to take the Fifth?”
Jack knew he could make them show up—just to piss them off—but he wanted to get his indictment as quickly as possible now that everybody knew what he was doing. Jimmy DiCarlo certainly didn’t deserve any favors, calling him late in the evening and threatening him, but this wasn’t about Jimmy. He still wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy, though.
“How to Win Friends and Influence People—did you write that book, Jimmy? You call me up at home in the middle of the night, insult me, and then ask for a favor. That’s real smooth. I hope you bring this routine to the courtroom.”
“Are you going to make us show up, or what?” Jimmy snarled. He was tiring of the game he had started.
“Nah,” Jack replied. “Just send me a letter stating that your clients intend to take the Fifth and they won’t have to show up.” Jack wasn’t through. “There’s another reason you should be thanking me, Jimmy.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I’m going to make you famous. When this indictment comes down, it’s going to be national, maybe international, news. You’ll be a household name before it’s over.”
“You’re probably right,” Jimmy replied, realizing for the first time that this might be his big chance to hit the national scene.
“There’s only one downside to that,” Jack teased.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“You better not fuck up. Goodnight, Jimmy.” Jack hung up the phone.
The grand jury brought back an indictment for first-degree murder against Clay Evans and Wesley Brume on that Friday afternoon. It didn’t hit the national press until Monday, but it hit with a bang. CNN led the evening news with it. It made the broadcasts on NBC, CBS and ABC as well. By Tuesday, Bass Creek was crawling with news trucks, reporters and television crews. Jack knew the case was going to generate publicity—he just didn’t realize how much.
He wanted Rudy’s murder to be a public issue and he knew he had to be a part of that, so on Tuesday afternoon he gave his first interview to the Associated Press.
“I can’t talk about the specifics of the case,” he told the reporter, a blonde who looked young enough to be his daughter. “But I can tell you that these men will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. This is a nation of laws, not of men. The message everyone should take from this indictment is that nobody is above the law.”
“Have you spoken with the governor? Isn’t there a possibility he could remove you from office for indicting a sitting federal judge?” Jack knew somebody had planted those questions. He only answered the second one.
“I think the governor will let the judicial process take its course. He’s a man of integrity. He’s not going to interfere with the pursuit of justice.”
At that moment, in Tallahassee, Bob Richards was reciting the same script Jack had given him just a few days earlier.
“Jack Tobin is a capable lawyer and I’m sure the men who have been charged have capable lawyers. If they are innocent, the judicial process will vindicate them.”
Jimmy DiCarlo was the last to weigh in, but his statement was the most quotable of the day and was the one that led the news reports that evening.
“Jack Tobin once represented Rudy Kelly. He argued his appeal before the Sup
reme Court and lost. Rudy Kelly’s execution was a mistake but it was a mistake at many levels. Jack Tobin cannot accept that. He’s looking for someone to blame. He shouldn’t be on this case.”
Dressed in his black Armani, white shirt, and silver silk tie, his jet-black hair slicked back, Jimmy looked like a very fleshy movie star.
The day didn’t end at the office for Jack and Maria. Dick was at the wheel when they pulled into the driveway at home and encountered a whole new circus—a crowd of reporters, TV trucks and gawkers spilling over the front lawn.
“I guess our nice, comfortable lifestyle is over,” Dick mused.
“This will blow over soon,” Jack told him.
A week later they were still there, however, and everybody in the house started feeling a little claustrophobic. Jack, Pat and Joaquin couldn’t go jogging, and Dick, who had stopped drinking and started exercising when the job began, couldn’t go swimming. Nobody could go out of the house to do anything. Even shopping was a major project. There didn’t seem to be any end in sight, either. After the indictment, arrests still had to be made, pleas had to be entered, and motions had to be filed. There was plenty to keep the press buzzing.
“I’ve got to do something,” Jack told Pat one night when they were lying in bed. “I can’t put everybody through this for months.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Yeah, there’s a fellow I used to fish with a while back, Steve Preston. He owns a big ranch—thousands of acres—about twenty miles outside of town. His son was his foreman and when he got married, Steve built him a big house right on the ranch, a couple of miles down from his own place. Well, the son’s wife didn’t want him to be a rancher anymore and they moved to Atlanta and the son took a job with Coca-Cola. Steve was crushed.
“As far as I know the house is still vacant. Steve showed me the place when it was still under construction. It’s a huge house—bigger than this. I think I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he wants to rent it.”
The Mayor of Lexington Avenue Page 29