To his surprise, Duncan had received a call from Judge Lasky’s courtroom deputy just a few days after he’d filed the motion, telling him the judge wanted to see the lawyers in chambers at the end of the week. Duncan thought it good news that the judge wanted to deal with the motion in private rather than publicly in court, since Lasky had already established that he didn’t want to embarrass the DA.
When Duncan got to chambers on Friday afternoon ADA Castelluccio was already there, seated in the front room across from the judge’s secretary. Duncan greeted her, Castelluccio offering him only a glare in response. He’d known that asking for sanctions wasn’t going to improve their relationship, but still thought it childish of her to refuse to even say hello.
The two of them sat in silence for ten minutes before being summoned into the judge’s office. Judge Lasky was dressed more formally this time, in a white dress shirt and tie, his judicial robe hanging by the door. He was seated behind his desk, an opened tabloid paper in front of him, peering over his glasses as they approached. After gesturing for them to sit, he looked down at the newspaper and began to read aloud: “‘After the hearing, Nazario’s attorney, Duncan Riley, said he expected the district attorney’s office to drop Logan as a witness. He also predicted that the DA’s office might launch an internal review of other cases in which Logan had presented GSR evidence.’ Did you say that, Mr. Riley?”
Duncan could tell this wasn’t going anywhere good. “I don’t recall what I said word for word, but I did say something along those general lines, yes,” he said.
“I can only assume it was because you wanted to cause problems,” Lasky said, the edge in his voice growing sharper.
“I wasn’t trying to cause anything,” Duncan protested. “The reporter buttonholed me outside the courtroom; I was just trying to say that I didn’t think the DA would be putting forward the GSR evidence.”
“Judging from this article, that’s not all you said,” Lasky said. “Were you trying to get the reporter to dig into Logan’s other cases?”
“No, but if there are innocent people in jail—”
“Look, son,” Judge Lasky interrupted. “I don’t know how they do things at your white-shoe firm and your billion-dollar lawsuits in federal court, but let me just explain to you where you are. You’re in New York City’s criminal justice system, and it’s safe to say I’ve forgotten more about how this system works than you will ever know.”
Duncan resented being condescended to, even by a judge, but he also knew it wasn’t in his client’s interest for him to further piss Lasky off. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“The system is a delicate balance. We process thousands of cases a year, with a new pile of shit getting shoveled on each and every day. We have to keep things going forward, because otherwise the whole goddamn mess is doing to collapse. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“I do.”
“Then don’t go around showboating to the press, and don’t try to turn your client’s victory into some parade for all humanity. I’m issuing a gag order—there will be no more talking to the press about this case by you or anyone else involved. Failure to obey this order will result in your being held in contempt. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Duncan said. He didn’t like the idea of being gagged, but it was within the judge’s authority to do it, and Lasky clearly wasn’t looking for a debate.
“Now, what’s being done about Logan?” Lasky asked Castelluccio.
“Mr. Costello from the Journal has been looking into other cases in which Mr. Logan has testified,” she said, ignoring Duncan and talking only to the judge. “He’s called our office about it, reached out to some defense attorneys as well, I understand.”
“Sounds like the genie has left the bottle, then,” Lasky said. “It wasn’t my intention to reopen closed cases, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. How’s your office going to respond?”
“I’m not sure,” Castelluccio said. “But I believe there is serious consideration being given to opening up a review of other GSR testimony from Mr. Logan.”
The judge shook his head. “Congratulations, Mr. Riley,” he said contemptuously. “With any luck some stone-guilty murderer will get a new trial, thanks to your meddling. Now what fresh trouble are you looking to cause today?”
The judge’s anger was real, but Duncan had little choice but to go forward with making his argument, despite the obvious hostility it would face. “I recently uncovered a witness who was between the site of the murder and my client’s apartment at the time of the shooting. That young man didn’t see my client running away from the crime scene to his home, contrary to what Mr. Driscoll has claimed. This new witness has been interviewed by the police twice, once on the night of the murder, once more recently. Further, at this second interview, he claims that the police offered to assist him with his own legal troubles if he would testify against my client. Yet no record of either of these two interviews was turned over to me as Brady material.”
Judge Lasky regarded Duncan for a moment before turning to Castelluccio. “Did the police interview someone who contradicted Driscoll?”
“Your Honor, in canvassing the area shortly after the shooting, the police came upon two known drug touts, both of whom said they refused to, quote, ‘snitch.’ This person was not saying he didn’t see the defendant, but rather refusing to say what he did see. The police simply viewed him as uncooperative. They therefore did not consider his interview to be exculpatory.”
“Do you have any objection to turning over whatever interview notes exist for this witness?”
“But it’s not actually Brady material—”
“Then reviewing it will prove to be a waste of Mr. Riley’s time,” Lasky interrupted. “But if he’s so inclined to waste it, I’m not inclined to stop him. Let’s moot the motion, agree to turn over the material, and go on from there.”
“My concern, Your Honor, is that Mr. Riley plainly intends to suggest that this witness was offered something by the police for his cooperation.”
“I’ll see to it that Mr. Riley obeys the rules of evidence in my courtroom,” Lasky said. “Just as he’ll restrict his advocacy to the court and not the press. One warning is all I give, Mr. Riley.”
“I’m not somebody who needs to be told twice, Your Honor,” Duncan replied.
53
PELLETTIERI CONCRETE was on Verona Street, an industrial strip of Red Hook just off the East River in Brooklyn. Jack Pellettieri was in the office by himself, the front door locked. It was a little after ten at night, and he was going through the books, preparing his company for bankruptcy. The ink was barely dry on the wrongful-death settlement, and the plan was for the company to be in Chapter 11 before the plaintiffs could come for their money. His insurance company was first on the hook for paying off the lawsuit, but there was little doubt that they’d refuse to pay, arguing that the accident had been caused by deliberate misconduct.
It’d be a long, tedious fight, and Pellettieri couldn’t bring himself to give much of a shit who ultimately won. His company was going under no matter what; there was no bringing it back. It’d been a dead man walking ever since the accident. Their work had completely dried up, and while they had finished doing the Aurora, that had just been a matter of litigation strategy by the developer and the contractor. Omni had been on their ass every step of the way.
So Pellettieri was doing what was left to do: getting the books in order. It was not a task he could leave to anyone else. He was stripping out what assets he could before the company filed Chapter 11. His company’s books had always had a tenuous correlation to its actual operation. Their equipment—from the mixers and trucks on down—was all rented from other companies that Pellettieri also owned. Pellettieri paid well over the market rates to rent equipment from himself, an easy way to make some extra money on a job. It was fraud, technically, but everybody did it. The company’s assets had always been kept to a minimum, and Pellettieri was making sure that he had
as much of them flowing out to his other companies as he possibly could.
Not that Pellettieri expected to be around to enjoy it, not anytime soon. The DA’s Rackets Bureau had its knives out for him, and his lawyer had made it clear that real jail time was almost certainly in the cards. Pellettieri was already thinking about a plea—it’d be too risky to go to trial on manslaughter charges.
He was surprised at the extent he’d made his peace with it. But the accident was his fault, ultimately: he’d gotten too greedy, taken unnecessary risks. The skimming and no-show billing and all that were one thing, but putting the people who worked for him in danger was another. Sure, Jeremy Roth had paved the way, but Pellettieri couldn’t bring himself to blame Jeremy for what had happened, not anymore. He was a stupid rich kid, somebody born to it who couldn’t tie his own shoes. You couldn’t blame such a child for a man’s mistakes.
Pellettieri was jerked out of his reverie by a noise. He looked up, trying to figure out what it was he’d just heard. A moment later he saw a shadow moving across his open office door.
“Burning the midnight oil, my man,” Darryl Loomis said as he stepped into the room.
Pellettieri found himself standing up behind his desk. Back when his brother, Dominic, had been his partner, there’d been a pistol in the drawer, but those days were long gone. “How’d you get in here?”
“I’ve had a key to this place for weeks,” Darryl said.
“You kidding?” Pellettieri said, still standing.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t steal nothing,” Darryl said. He looked at Pellettieri. “Why you all jacked up and shit? Sit down, relax.”
“You been spying on me?” Pellettieri said, reluctantly sitting.
Darryl, still standing, smiled thinly, a show of diminishing patience. “Course we have. Thought you’d be taking that for granted.”
“I’ve done everything you guys asked,” Pellettieri said. He was looking up at Darryl now, which he suspected was the reason the man had told him to sit. “I haven’t caused any trouble.”
“But trouble we have, Jack. Has ADA Sullivan come to you about making a deal?”
“Deal? They haven’t even arrested me; how’s there going to be a deal?” Pellettieri said. If Darryl was here to kill him, Pellettieri thought, he wouldn’t bother talking to him first, and wouldn’t have come alone. He wasn’t sure either of those things was actually true.
“Nothing tests a man’s sense of loyalty like looking down the barrel of serious prison time,” Darryl said. “I’ve seen brother turn against brother.”
“I’ve earned a little more respect than this, Darryl,” Pellettieri said angrily.
“You can think that,” Darryl replied. “But there’s a solution for everybody. You run.”
Pellettieri couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m in my fifties. I’ve got a wife and kids.”
“Your kids are grown,” Darryl replied evenly. “And your wife won’t much like going to visit you in jail.”
“If I run and they find me, things will be a lot worse.”
“Not like we’re talking about buying you a one-way ticket to Mexico here,” Darryl said. “I’ll be putting together your plan.”
“And what if I say no?” Pellettieri demanded.
Darryl’s expression didn’t change, his face impassive, his eyes blank. “You think you’ve been asked a question?”
54
SORRY TO keep you waiting, Ms. Snow,” Leah said, extending her hand.
Candace, who’d been cooling her heels for nearly half an hour and didn’t appreciate it, made a point of hesitating an instant before shaking hands. “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Roth,” Candace replied. “I know your family isn’t the biggest fan of my reporting.”
Leah feigned confusion as she gestured Candace to follow her back to her office. “I don’t think my family has any opinion of you at all, Ms. Snow.”
“Call me Candace.”
“Call me Ms. Roth,” Leah said. Candace turned to her, needing a second before it registered as some form of joke. “An old icebreaker of my father’s. Perhaps it works better among men.”
“Perhaps,” Candace said. “When I said your family wasn’t a fan of mine, I didn’t mean to imply your family paid that much attention to me, just the lawsuit.”
They’d reached Leah’s office, which offered a spectacular view of the park. Candace debated ignoring or complimenting it. Given the extent to which they’d already gotten off on the wrong foot, she decided to go for complimenting.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s quite a view.”
“Thanks,” Leah said. “I imagine you work out of a cubicle?”
“In the newsroom, sure,” Candace said, not rising to the bait.
“I’m sure it helps build a certain esprit de corps,” Leah said.
“Most of my work takes place out in the world,” Candace said. “You know, uncovering corruption, that sort of thing.”
Leah smiled thinly, signaling she was ready to move on from their initial round of territorial pissing. “So, Candace, I understand you were interested in some campaign contributions that were made to Speaker Markowitz?”
“Yes,” Candace said, pulling a piece of paper out of her shoulder bag. “I have a list of LLCs that have made donations to him, and I’m wondering if you can confirm whether they are owned by your family.”
Leah took the paper from Candace but didn’t so much as glance at it. “We do control a number of corporations that have made political contributions, including but not limited to contributions to Speaker Markowitz, who we believe has a very bright future in this city, and perhaps beyond. The limits on political contributions treat every corporation as a separate entity, regardless of who owns it. So there’s nothing illegal, or wrong, about various corporations in which we have an ownership stake making political contributions.”
“But isn’t this just a loophole for you to get around the contribution limits?”
Leah showed no reaction to the challenge. “As I said, under the law, each company is treated as a separate entity, like it was a separate person. So just like a big family can make more contributions than a small family, so can somebody who has an ownership in multiple companies.”
“Do these corporations actually conduct any business? As far as I can tell they’re just shells, other than the political donations they make.”
Leah looked like she was losing patience. “Our tax lawyers handle our various corporate entities,” she said. “I can tell you that all of these companies are properly registered with the state and are legitimate corporations.”
“Can you confirm for me, then, that all the companies on that list are owned or controlled by your family?”
“I wouldn’t know off the top of my head. I’ll have someone get back to you on the list. But I can confirm that we operate numerous LLCs that make political contributions. And I want to stress that Mr. Markowitz is by no means the only politician to whom we make such donations. Any article singling him out and implying wrongdoing on his part would be misinformed, if not libelous.”
Candace was now getting why Leah was meeting with her at all: this was a favor to Markowitz, to make sure he didn’t end up alone in the spotlight. “Could you furnish me with a list of who else you made donations to?”
Leah scoffed. “That’s not something I just have here on my desk. I don’t really see why it’s our obligation to get you that.”
Candace figured it was a waste of time to press the point. “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you about,” she said instead. “Sean Fowler.”
Leah appeared confused, though Candace thought it looked like acting. Interesting, she thought. Had Leah expected to be asked about this?
“What about him?”
“You know who he is?”
“He was working for us when he was murdered,” Leah replied tartly. “Of course I know who he was.”
“He also worked for you at the Aurora, correct?”
/> Leah looked slightly uncomfortable for the first time in the interview. “What does Mr. Fowler’s death have to do with the Aurora?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Candace shot back.
Leah laughed, or at least made the gesture of laughter. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re getting at.”
“My understanding is that Mr. Fowler was involved in the embezzling from the Aurora,” Candace said. “Isn’t that your understanding as well?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Leah said. “The man’s dead, Candace. I hope you won’t slander his name with unsupported rumors.”
Candace decided to shift gears—she had no reason to think Leah knew anything about what Fowler had been up to. “Any comment on Jack Pellettieri’s imminent indictment?”
“The only thing I know about that is what I read in your newspaper,” Leah said. “I agreed to speak with you regarding our political donations, Candace, not the accident at the Aurora.”
“Putting the accident to one side, then, how about Pellettieri’s skimming from the project?”
“We’ve become aware of potential issues with some of the billing. Given that there’s litigation, as well as the DA’s investigation, I’m not going to comment further.”
“Are you concerned that your brother is going to be implicated in Pellettieri’s skimming?”
Leah’s gaze turned cold. “Of course not,” she said, the words quick and sharp.
“What I’m hearing is that your brother was actively involved in overbilling the construction costs, and that Sean Fowler was involved with it too. Of course, he’s not going to talk, is he?”
“Print anything like that and we’ll sue you,” Leah said. “You’ve got absolutely no support for that claim—no witness, no documents, nothing.”
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