by Claire Adams
“Thank you, Mr. Carrick,” the detective said. “If you want to give me a few minutes, I can give you a ride over there.”
“I have a car waiting,” Dean said. “Thank you for your offer, though, Detective. We’ll get to the truth if we have to drag it out kicking and screaming.”
The detective furrowed his brow. “Right….” He opened the manila envelope as Dean and I made our way back to the elevators and out of the building.
“Well, I guess we’re in it now, aren’t we?”
“You’re doing the right thing, Dean,” I said. “We’ll deal with the fallout together.”
We made it to the car and got in the back. Dean was using a new driver, someone he’d known for a while. Given today’s schedule, he needed someone in that seat he knew he could trust. It wouldn’t make sense for the mob to try anything before Dean testified, but there was just no way to be sure with those people.
“Are you ready for this?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.
“Nope,” he said. “Ready or not, though, what’s going to happen is what has to happen.”
The drive seemed even shorter than I thought it would be and in the next instant, Dean and I were trying to push our way through dozens of reporters.
“Mr. Carrick! Are you here to support Izzy the Monster?”
“Mr. Carrick! What is your connection to the mafia?”
“Mr. Carrick! Who are you wearing today?”
That one caught me off guard.
His answer to nearly every question was, “No comment,” although he did say, “The suit’s a Cifonelli.”
Dean’s bodyguards cleared a path and we made our way through to the courthouse. I’d never been in such a public place with him before then. Usually, it was either an exclusive hotel, or an exclusive restaurant, or the Sobu, but out there in the real world, people were going out of their minds for the fact that the Dean Carrick was there. I guess we’re all the lonely girl at the bar at some point in our lives.
We got into the courthouse and through the metal detectors. After picking up our things on the other side, we asked one of the officers working the scanner where we needed to go for Iozzo’s hearing. He pointed us in the right direction and we made our way up. When we got to the small, windowless room, we picked a spot near the back. Iozzo wasn’t there yet.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” he asked. “It’s not going to make things easy for a while.”
“I’m just happy to have another kind of difficult,” I told him.
Over the next few minutes, more people filed in, including the three who were to serve as Iozzo’s parole board. Once they were all seated, the room quieted and the woman in the middle asked the bailiff to bring in Iozzo.
My heart was pounding. I looked around the room. I didn’t recognize most of the people. When I glanced behind Dean and me, though, the woman who had done such a persistent job of threatening me was sitting there, and she gave me a half smile, mouthing the words, “Make it good.”
I turned to face forward again. Dean and I were still holding hands, so I squeezed his with mine. He leaned toward me and I leaned toward him, whispering, “That woman’s here. The one from the parking lot. She’s sitting on the back row directly behind us.”
Dean casually turned his head back to look and then swiveled it back again. “Yeah, she noticed that,” he said. “That’s the woman who was in the passenger’s seat. She’s the reason Izzy’s still alive.”
A hush came over the room as the side door opened and Izzy came shuffling through, led by the bailiff. He was shackled and in his jumpsuit, but otherwise he looked almost no different in person than he had in his mugshot.
Izzy the Monster was tall but not huge, probably 5’ 9” or 5’10”, and he had long hair that was slicked back. His expression was inscrutable as he made his way over to the small table where he was to sit.
Once Iozzo was seated, the hearing began.
“We are here as the parole board for James Iozzo to determine if the amount of time served for the charge of manslaughter in the first degree is equitable in the eyes of justice. I understand you would like to make a statement, Mr. Iozzo,” the woman in the center of the panel said.
“I do,” Izzy responded. He took a breath. “I’m innocent. They wanted to try me for murder, but there was no evidence. In a shameful act of boastfulness, the district attorney tacked on the charge for which I was convicted, and I know this was politically motivated.
“I’ve maintained my innocence throughout my incarceration, and I come before you today to ask you to hear out those who testify on my behalf. What happened was a tragedy, but I had nothing to do with it. Thank you.”
I leaned over to Dean, whispering, “He’s more well-spoken than I thought he’d be.”
“He’s not a stupid guy,” he said, “just an evil one.”
The man sitting on the left end of the panel spoke, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Iozzo. We also understand your wife is here to speak on your behalf. Mrs. Iozzo?”
Behind us, the woman stood up. It should have made sense that she had some kind of personal connection to Izzy the Monster—she certainly lived up to the last part of his nickname.
“Good morning. My husband has been incarcerated for….” She stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “My husband has been incarcerated for a long time. I know him. He’s a good man with a big heart.
“His son, Joseph, hasn’t seen him since his arrest because of all the things people have been saying, both in public and in private, about this wonderful, generous man before you today.
“He couldn’t have committed the crimes he was accused of, as one of the people here to speak on my husband’s behalf will testify here today. I ask that you look into your hearts and find compassion.
“Many of you may have noticed a surprising face in the room today, that of Mr. Dean Carrick, CEO of Farnsworth & Temple, and I know we can all agree that Mr. Carrick is, indeed, an upright and honest man. I would like to hand over the rest of my time to him so that we can all hear the truth about what happened that night.”
The moment had come sooner than I’d expected. This whole thing was moving too fast, and judging by the doe-eyed look of the members of the parole board, Iozzo was well on his way toward being released. Dean let go of my hand as he stood to take the floor.
“Members of the parole board, I have indeed come here today in regard to Mr. Iozzo and the crimes which he is said to have committed. I would like to inform the board that just a few minutes ago, I dropped off an envelope of evidence with Detective Monroe which will corroborate everything I am about to tell you today.”
I glanced back at Mrs. Iozzo. She winked at me, and I turned back around as the adrenaline really started to hit.
“I’ve known Mr. Iozzo in one capacity or another for many years, and I am here to tell you that not only is he guilty of the crime for which he has been charged, but I have evidence confirming him as the underboss of a mafia family based out of Yonkers, New York.”
And there it was.
“Liar!” Mrs. Iozzo shouted behind us. “My husband is a good man, and you are a crook, Carrick! You’re a fucking liar, and you’re going to pay! He’s a liar!”
She was screaming so loudly, I couldn’t hear it when someone on the parole board told the bailiff to remove Mrs. Iozzo from the room, but she did stop shouting just long enough for Dean to start again.
“I have further evidence that Mrs. Iozzo has been threatening not only myself, but my companion and partner, Marcy Blair, as well as her brother Luke Blair in an attempt to force me to provide a false alibi and ensure Mr. Iozzo’s release.”
Faustina screamed, “You’re a fucking dead man! You and your bitch can share a fucking casket!”
I was half-expecting Izzy to get up from his seat and rush at Dean, but he just sat there facing forward, his head tilted down a little.
“All of this evidence is in the hands of the police
. Mr. Iozzo and the people he works with have terrorized Yonkers and, indeed, the great state of New York for years. Where I grew up, joining up with them was the only real way out of poverty. To my eternal shame, I did, under persistent threats of violence and extortion, provide services for Mr. Iozzo and his group as a young man.
“When I tried to get out of it, they threatened me and Jenna, my wife. They carried out this threat, causing the death of Jenna Iverson Carrick on the fourth of August, 2011. I have a tape recording of Mr. Iozzo and some of his business partners discussing her death. This is a copy, the original is with the police. With your indulgence, I would like to play it for you now.”
“Proceed,” the man on the right end of the parole board responded.
Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and walked up to the front of the room, passing Izzy as he did. Setting the phone on the table, Dean pressed the play button.
The recording started with a man’s voice. “How’s our boy in the city? Can you trust him?”
Another man’s voice returned. It was Iozzo’s. “Of course we can’t trust him, not after what I did to that little biddy of his. You should have seen the way she was driving around, though. ‘Ooh, I can’t stop, I can’t stop.’”
The two men laughed.
“So it’s done?” the first man asked.
Iozzo’s voice returned, “I took care of his bitch, but I’d keep an eye on him.”
Dean just stood there at the front, his arms folded across his chest as he stared down Iozzo. Faustina had been escorted from the room well before the recording was played, but she wouldn’t be going very far. Dean made sure the pictures of Iozzo’s wife pulling my hair in the bathroom while she forced me to look into the mirror were right on top of the file he’d submitted. She’d never make it out of the building, but there’s a decent chance she could have gotten a phone call off before her apprehension.
“How long do you think we can bleed him?” Izzy’s voice came over the recording.
“Depends,” the other male’s voice returned. “He does things our way and his company starts turning a better profit, we can bleed him the rest of his life. The business goes underwater, so does he.”
The recording came to an end. Still facing Izzy Iozzo, the man who’d killed Jenna, who’d threatened us, Dean said, “That is only one of the recordings I was able to gather. There are thousands more conversations, both in audio, and in transcription, that will inculpate Iozzo in dozens of other crimes, most of them violent, as well as detailed information about the crew he works with, including his wife, Faustina Iozzo.”
“You better watch yourself, rich man,” Iozzo said, springing to his feet faster than I would have thought a man in shackles could. “You go after my wife and now it’s personal.”
“I think adding the threat Mr. Iozzo just made right here in front of everyone will give you an idea of his real character,” Dean said, never once looking away from Izzy. “I have other evidence which I will be discussing in further depth with the police—all of which is backed up over dozens of different devices, located in various countries to ensure its preservation.
“I ask that Mr. Iozzo’s parole request be denied and that measures be taken to ensure the protection of myself and others who are willing to testify to the horrific crimes of this waste of flesh and bone. Thank you.”
Dean grabbed his phone from the table in front of the parole board, and I could see him saying something to Iozzo as he passed. Izzy made a lunge for him, but the shackles caused him to miss. Dean just casually strode back and sat next to me.
“What did you say to him?” I whispered.
“I’ll tell you when we’re out of here,” he responded.
Somewhere outside the room, I could hear the muffled shouts of Faustina. From the sound of it, they were arresting her. One of the perks about being a big woman is how unimaginably easy it is to hide a wire under a sweater.
“Upon hearing this new evidence, this board has no choice but to deny the request of parole to James Iozzo until such a time as these allegations can either be corroborated or proven false. This hearing is adjourned.”
“Come on,” Dean said.
Taking my hand, he led me out of the room and once we were out, we all but ran to the stairwell. Once on the bottom floor, we rushed out of the building toward the waiting town car. The press had already gotten wind of what was happening and closed in tight around Dean and me.
I was instantly in a panic. This was the most dangerous part of Dean’s plan: leaving the courthouse. I don’t mind saying I threw some elbows. The only words out of Dean’s mouth were, “No comment.”
We made it into the back of the car, and I told Luke to drive. Given what Dean had just done, my brother and I were about the only people on the planet that he trusted. He and I were still holding hands as we pulled away from the curb.
Dean’s phone rang. He answered it, saying, “I know you’re calling to declare war, but before you do that, you might be interested to learn that I now own Transformative Security. If you don’t know who that is, they’re the ones that train and provide the prison guards throughout the state.
“If you come after me or anyone, or if anything happens to any of us, even by accident, I have a lot of men who will get nice and rich taking out every one of your guys on the inside, starting with Izzy fucking Iozzo. As far as you’re concerned, I’m the new boss and if you and your buddies want to make it through this mess alive and out of shackles, you’ll disappear from my world.”
With that, he hung up the phone, removed the battery, and tossed both pieces out the window as we made our escape.
“What did you say to Iozzo in there?” I asked Dean again.
“Oh,” Dean chuckled. “I said, ‘Who’s the bitch now?’”
Epilogue
Witness Protection of the Rich and Famous
It was three years since that day in the courthouse, and I wish I could say I’d stopped looking over my shoulder, but I hadn’t.
Dean’s wealth and his position of power over everyone the mob had in the New York prison system had kept us safe and enabled us to testify against Izzy and Faustina, even Joe, Dean’s old friend who’d put the mafia on him in the first place. Still, even with a few suitcases filled to the brim with cash—Dean couldn’t very well access his bank accounts anymore, as that might lead the wrong people to us—and most of the “family” behind bars, I didn’t want to take any chances.
When Dean first told me and Luke his plan, I didn’t think it was going to work. I figured, if anything, it would just get us all killed that much sooner. The further he explained it, though, the more it started to make sense.
He knew there was at least one mole on his security team, but couldn’t find out who it was without tipping him or her off, so he told me to try to ditch my security that night we met up in the hotel and he’d ditch his, hoping that the mole would give something away. I hadn’t expected to find Ames so quick, but Dean said whoever the mole was, they’d be the one person who’d look the other way if one of us tried to duck our protection. Ames was joining his friend Izzy in the pen.
I’d tell you where we moved, but it’s still too soon and someone might be able to pick up the trail. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to go home again, but I was happy for my life.
That night I unwittingly uncovered Ames and I met with Dean in the hotel, we’d finally reconnected. We were both careful about our words, as the room wasn’t a secret and we believed it was probably bugged—it was—but that was the night we realized we wanted to be on the same side of whatever fight would come our way for the rest of our lives, however long they may be.
Now, instead of a security team, we have a town of 17,000. Luke, Dean, and I all cut our hair and the guys grew beards, but every once in a while, someone in town would still recognize us. There aren’t that many populated areas we could go on the planet where no one would recognize at least Dean, so whenever that happened, Dean told whoever had recogni
zed us that they were mistaken and handed them a business card with his new name. Whenever he handed out one of those cards, though, that meant we’d be leaving town within the hour.
We couldn’t afford to take any chances.
Where we’d ended up was nice enough, though. It wasn’t skyscrapers and five-star restaurants, but it was a nice place, easy to blend in. Someday, someone else would recognize Dean and we’d have to move again. It wasn’t an easy life.
Luke’s part of the plan was two-fold. First, follow doctor’s orders to recover from the broken bones; and second, to be the getaway driver after Dean dropped the nuclear warhead right on Izzy’s head. Still, he’d been threatened, found, beaten before and we weren’t about to leave him behind.
So it was the three of us living in a very reasonably-sized house until we had to move to a new city and start over again. I didn’t mind. I’d discovered on Dean’s balcony that I actually kind of liked the feeling of danger—assuming it wasn’t the kind of danger that would creep up at any moment and kill me for failing to release a murderer. I’d probably never get used to that.
Luke, Dean, and I all sat around the dinner table, eating my household-famous chicken Alfredo. A funny thing happened once we were on the run: I started to lose weight. I’m still not the kind of woman anyone would describe as “small” or “petite,” but I found that confidence goes a long way toward change.
As Luke wiped his scraggly beard with a napkin, Dean and I looked at each other and smiled. I’d seen the news here and there, and there was always something new to ask Dean. The questions were never about business, though. “So, what did you do today, honey?” I asked.
“Could the two of you stop with the honey, sweetie, darling stuff?” Luke asked. “I get that you’re married and everything, but seriously. I’m trying to eat here and thanks to Mr. Business over here, it’s not like I can just leave.”
“Well, my treasure,” Dean said, ignoring my brother, “today, I mowed the lawn and dug up some weeds. I think it’s about time we started planting our garden.”