by Thomas Kies
Glancing behind me, I saw the husband of Elena Bermudez sitting on a bench two rows back. Three weeks ago, at Jimmy’s indictment, I’d read in our newspaper that Julio Bermudez had brought all three kids with him to the courtroom.
Today he was alone. He wore a wrinkled, blue short-sleeved shirt and a tie, no coat. His face was dark from long days in the sun and there were creases around his brown eyes and the corners of his mouth that were his rewards for a hard life. He was a day laborer who worked construction jobs, when they were available. I’d bet that Julio Bermudez didn’t own a suit.
His face was grim. He rocked ever so slightly as the judge swept onto the bench.
It was over almost before it started.
Presiding over the courtroom was Judge William Cain who’d been on the bench for over a decade. He was known as a tough, no-nonsense judge but had a reputation as a political power broker. He recited the state’s charges against James M. Fitzgerald.
The prosecutor, Andy Sutton, and the attorney, Stephen Provost, both acknowledged the judge’s accurate description of the charges. Then the judge rhetorically inquired, “Am I to understand that a plea agreement has been reached?”
Once again they both replied yes. The judge instructed them to approach the bench.
After a few moments of conference and nodding, Provost and Sutton stepped back. The judge peered across the room at Jimmy and said, “Stand up, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
The young man did as he was told. With his head slightly bowed, he appeared properly contrite.
“The prosecution has informed me that the state is ready to drop the charge of manslaughter if you’re willing to plead guilty to the charges of leaving the scene of an accident and driving under the influence. You’ll serve community service and pay a fine, as yet to be determined, and provide compensation to the family of Mrs. Bermudez,” the judge stated in a flat voice. “Is that correct?”
Jimmy replied, “It is, Your Honor.”
“Is the husband of Mrs. Bermudez in the courtroom?” The judge’s eyes scanned the courtroom.
I glanced over at Julio Bermudez. He was still rocking, almost imperceptibly, in his seat. The muscles in his jaw were working as he ground his teeth. The man slowly stood up. In a voice that was barely audible, he answered, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are you aware of this agreement, sir? Has it been explained fully to you?”
He nodded, staring down at the floor. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you satisfied with the proceedings of this court?”
Mr. Bermudez nodded once again. “Yes, sir.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Please be seated,” the judge said. He turned his attention to Jimmy Fitzgerald. “Young man, your plea is accepted. Your sentencing will take place two weeks from today.”
I took a look at Julio Bermudez one last time as he sat back down. Tears ran down his face, leaving trails that glimmered on the sunburned skin of his cheeks.
***
I collared the assistant district attorney outside the courtroom. “Hey, Andy, how did that kid get away with murder?”
His face was deadly serious. “Turn off your recorder, Genie. This is all off the record.”
I made a show of putting the tiny silver machine back into my purse. “So?”
Andy surreptitiously glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “C’mon, Genie, you know the deal. Money talks and the rich kid walks.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
My head was throbbing again. “It does to me.”
He leaned in and put his lips close to my ear. He whispered, “This has gotta be off the record.”
“Yeah, yeah, off the record.” I held out my hands to show him I wasn’t holding a notebook or a recorder.
“I only know for sure what his old man is paying the family—three hundred thousand dollars.”
“And?” I knew there had to be another quid pro quo hidden in this woodpile.
He bit at his lip and then quietly said, “I’m getting this from someone who works in the judge’s office, so take it with a grain of salt, okay? She told me that a check was sent from Henry Morris Fitzgerald in the amount of a million dollars to a PAC attached to a United States congressman, a congressman who’s tight with the judge.”
I held up my hands like I was weighing cantaloupes. “Let’s see, a million dollars over here,” I let my hand drop, then continued. “Over here we have three hundred thousand dollars. Is that what the life of a mother of three children is worth these days?”
Andy Sutton shrugged. “Look, I’m not happy about this. But for a guy like Julio Bermudez, who has nothing…that kind of money and a green card is like hitting the lottery. Oh, yeah, the congressman is getting this guy a green card. Maybe you don’t know, but Julio Bermudez is an illegal. At first, Jimmy’s old man thought he could get the charges thrown out if Mr. Bermudez was sent back to Columbia. But then he decided it was easier to buy him off.”
Andy glanced down at the floor for moment and then met my eyes. “Genie, Elena Bermudez was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that. It was an act of God, bad luck, whatever you want to call it. But now these three kids have a chance to live in a nice apartment and maybe get themselves a college education. I know it sounds harsh but in reality, it’s the best thing that could ever happen to them.”
Losing their mother because some rich kid was taking a drunken joyride, the best thing that could ever happen to them?
I looked at my watch. “Hey…” I felt really tired. “All part of the grand design. Maybe Jimmy Fitzgerald should get a friggin’ medal for making mom a hood ornament.”
Okay, sometimes I have a really hard time restraining my anger and sarcasm. But I’m pretty sure that nobody had seen Mr. Bermudez crying that morning except for me.
When I left the courthouse, I was certain I’d be writing about Jimmy Fitzgerald again. The kid had no moral compass. Over the last three years, he’d been charged with identity theft, aggravated assault, and rape. In every instance, any witnesses or accusers had recanted and the charges were subsequently dropped.
Jimmy Fitzgerald was a sociopath. I was convinced that either he’d end up in prison or running for public office. I guess it depended on how much money his old man could afford to burn through.
Chapter Four
“I know who killed those people.”
The moment I heard those chilling words on my office voicemail, a jolt of adrenalin hit hard.
I touched the button and listened again.
“I know who killed those people out on Connor’s Landing. I read the story this morning and I got your name and number out of the newspaper. I can’t talk to the police and I can’t tell you who I am. But I know why they were killed and I know who did it.”
There was a short silence while the caller considered what he should say next.
All he came up with was, “I’ll call back.”
Caller ID said the number was “unavailable.” I listened to the message three more times to see if I could capture a single clue that might tell me who the caller was. It was a male, a baritone. He sounded nervous. There was nothing else, no stutter, no accent, no ambient background noise.
Could this guy be for real?
Or was he a nut? A high-profile story like the Connor’s Landing murders, you’re bound to hear from a few. In the years that I’ve been a journalist, the crackpots outnumbered the genuine tips by a gazillion to none.
But every once in a while, I’d get a real one. It’s like getting hit by lightning.
Why the hell hadn’t he told me when he was going to call back? What was I supposed to do, sit by the phone?
Typical freakin’ man.
I momentarily struggled with the notion of calling Mike Dillon and telling him about the phone message. A
fter all, this was his homicide investigation. But then I thought it through. The guy said he couldn’t go to the cops. If the caller was legitimate, then he was a source and a reporter doesn’t give up her sources.
And there was no guarantee the caller was even for real.
The tiny red light on my phone continued to blink, reminding me that there were still other messages waiting in my voicemailbox. Maybe the mystery man had called a second time?
The next message was nearly as interesting as the first.
“Geneva Chase…this is Kevin Bell. What a surprise seeing you last night. I get The Sheffield Post delivered at home and I see your byline all the time. I was going to call you weeks ago, but I thought that maybe working for the newspaper, well…I’m sure they keep you pretty busy. You’re a good writer. Um, look, I’d love to catch up with you sometime. Could you and I grab a cup of coffee when you have a few minutes? Call me if you think you can find some time and if you don’t, hey, I know you’re busy. But I’d love to see you again.”
He left me his phone number.
My heart gave an extra thump and wondered why.
Kevin had been my best friend through high school. But we’d never been romantic.
Not really.
I chalked it up to the adrenaline high I’d gotten from the mystery caller a few minutes earlier. That and too much caffeine. I’d skipped breakfast to get to the courthouse on time and my blood sugar was getting pretty low.
The rest of the calls were follow-ups from other stories I was working on. Nothing more from the tipster who wanted to talk about the Connor’s Landing homicides.
I’d settled in and started working on the Jimmy Fitzgerald piece when Laura Ostrowski stopped by my desk. She’s been a newspaper editor for over twenty years and has the tired, bag-laden eyes and pasty, prison-like pallor to prove it. “Just wanted to thank you for covering the courthouse today.”
I smiled. “No problem, but we’re square now on the favor thing, right?”
She didn’t smile back. “Not quite. Almost.”
Laura had covered for me one evening about three months ago after I’d stopped off at the Paradise Lounge, knocked back three vodka tonics, and then came into the office. She knew I’d been drinking the minute she saw my lush flush and sent me home with a whispered lecture. She told Casper that I had the flu. If he’d known the truth, he would have fired me.
She was right, of course. I owed her more than just the one favor.
Laura continued, “I need you to cover a black-tie fundraiser tonight.”
I squinted up into her face. “What?” My voice was clearly incredulous.
“The Fairfield County Bar Association has a dinner dance tonight at the Shorefront Club. They’re raising money for the American Cancer Association. I’m still shorthanded. I’ve already talked to Casper. He says it’s okay if I assign you to the story.”
I argued. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. God knows I could use the evening out, but take a look at my business card. It says I’m the crime reporter. I do the police beat.”
Laura shrugged. “A lot of cops and judges will be there. Good place for you to network. Here’s the information.” She dropped an invitation and two tickets on my desk. “You’re not drinking, right?”
That was the second time she’d grilled me about that.
Do I look that hungover?
I blinked and tried to sound sincere. “I’m even attending AA. I’ve become absolutely boring.” Holding up the tickets I asked, “Two?”
She shrugged again. “Take a date.”
As Laura walked away, my phone rang. Thinking it might be the mystery caller with more information about the homicides, I sprang to pick up the receiver. “Geneva Chase,” I stated quickly.
“Got time for lunch?”
“I told you not to call me anymore.”
“C’mon, it’s only lunch.”
“I’m in the middle of a story,” I snarled. I started tapping away at my keyboard as much for effect as for honesty.
“Portofino’s?” Frank Mancini has a wonderfully deep voice and even the most mundane words can sound seductive when they come out of his mouth. Plus, he wasn’t playing fair. He knows that Portofino’s is my favorite restaurant.
“I don’t hear from you for a month and now you expect me to drop everything and go with you to lunch?” My voice had a clear edge but I was working hard to keep it low enough that I wouldn’t disturb anyone else in the office.
“Portofino’s,” he said again. “Think of it as an apology lunch.”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear. I’m in the middle of a story.” I hoped that he couldn’t hear my stomach rumbling.
“Yeah,” he said, “those murders out on the island. That was some nasty business, huh? I know some people who live out there. You got names on the victims yet?”
Feeling testy, I snapped, “Not that story. Another story.”
“What’s the story? It can’t wait?” Frank was speaking from his cell phone. From the ambient noises, it was obvious he was calling from his car.
“Jimmy Fitzgerald, the rich kid from Greenwich, beat a manslaughter charge this morning. Another victory for the American system of justice. It’s the best that money can buy.”
Frank was silent for a moment. I like being critical of our country’s judicial train wreck. Frank’s an attorney and it really gets under his skin.
After an appropriate second or two, he took a deep breath. “Portofino’s?”
Casper had just come into the office. He’s the nighttime copy editor. Laura runs the day shift. They were talking with each other and glancing toward me.
Suddenly I feel the need to get out of the office.
“Okay. Give me half an hour.”
***
I like Portofino’s because it’s really comfortable. The colors on the walls, the curtains, and the tablecloths are all muted earth tones. The lighting’s obscured without being dim. The menu is familiar yet adventurous. The wait staff is friendly and attentive.
It’s comfortable and expensive.
“Miss Chase, so nice to see you again.” Massimo, the owner, greeted me with a hearty kiss on the cheek and a hug as I walked through the door with Frank.
I responded, “Massimo, you know, sometimes I think that having lunch here is better than sex.”
He stepped back, blushing and making a small hand gesture of apology, smiling sheepishly at Frank. “Only if it’s the osso bucco, Miss Chase.” He was good at thinking quickly.
I glanced over at Frank, hoping that I’d embarrassed him as much as I had the restaurant owner. He was giving me his bemused “you’re such a bad girl” stare.
I hate to admit it but I had missed Frank Mancini.
For one, I like the way he looks. He’s tall, over six feet, is graced with a dark Mediterranean complexion, chocolate brown eyes, full head of black hair, and a closely cropped George Clooney beard that’s showing the slightest hint of gray. He smiles easily, has a charming, old-world sense of humor, and speaks intelligently on almost any subject. Frank wears expensive suits and fills them well. He’s fifty and determined to keep his body as hard as a young man in his twenties.
Frank spends enough money to prove that he’s a very successful attorney. He’s usually even-tempered, but on occasion, I’ve seen flashes of anger and pettiness that lead me to suspect that Frank Mancini possesses a secret dark side. It makes him all the more attractive to me.
He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.
Except for the wedding band that he wears.
It’s not mine.
“A table overlooking the harbor?” Massimo asked, as we walked through the dining room.
“Please,” Frank answered.
Once we were seated, my eyes immediately checked the view. It was a clear, perfect summer day
and the restaurant overlooks a marina on the edge of Long Island Sound. Dozens of boats were tied to docks that were less than forty feet from where we sat. I figured there wasn’t a craft out there that was worth less than a quarter million dollars. Even though I went to high school in this part of Connecticut, I’m still amazed at the ostentatious displays of wealth. The rest of the world can be crumbling and broke, but Fairfield County raked it in.
When I turned my attention back to Frank, I was a little startled to see that he was watching me. “What?”
“I just like looking at you. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“A month,” I stated flatly, taking a drink from my water glass. “It’s been over a month.”
Before he had a chance to respond, a young man swooped by our table with menus and asked us if we’d like something to drink.
Frank quickly ordered a martini and then glanced over at me.
I clenched my jaws angrily. “Thanks for the support.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know I’m not supposed to drink. And you order a martini? The least you could do is order an iced tea.”
Frank made a small production of scanning the busy dining room. Then he quietly announced, “I don’t see any police here. I don’t see any judges here. I just see you and me. If you want to order a cocktail, then order a cocktail. I promise, I won’t tell a soul.”
I looked up at the young waiter, who was clearly befuddled, and scrunched up my nose. “I’ll have a diet Coke, please.”
Frank waved his hand in the air and ordered, “Bring the lady a vodka tonic.”
The waiter nodded and quickly left.
I shook my head and muttered, “Asshole.” I tried to sound angry, but secretly I was glad that Frank had ordered me a grown-up drink.
“So, look, I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner.” He kept his voice low. “The way it all shook out, I thought it might be best if things between us stayed quiet for a little while.”
“Stayed quiet,” I repeated. “You mean on the down low?”
The hint of a smile played on his lips. “Yeah, on the DL.”