The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  He looked at his watch again. “OK, I’ll meet you in your office at 3:30.”

  Within the hour Jack Collins called. “I understand you’ve been retained to represent Phillip Wallander in that messy hit and run in Harrisburg.”

  “How the hell do you know that? I mean the Wallanders just left my office. The ink is not even dry on the retainer agreement, for Christ sake.”

  “It’s on Dan Gross’ blog.”

  Dan Gross; did he have Mike Bollinger’s office bugged, I wondered.

  “How the hell does that guy Gross come up with this stuff?”

  “He’s a gossip columnist, not a feckin spy. People leak info to him.”

  “But there were only six people who knew about this. I don’t know Gross, so that leaves five others. I feel fairly certain that neither Phil nor his father would leak the story. I’d bet my life that Joel wouldn’t.”

  “So that would leave Bollinger and Arrington, or anyone they may have told,” he observed. “Don’t break your brain over it. Besides, any publicity is good.”

  “Think so?” I asked.

  “Sure, as long as it doesn’t mention your name and begin with ‘Prominent Philadelphia Attorney.’ That usually follows with something like, ‘is caught buggering a child’ or some other misdemeanor. So laddie, have ya figured out how you’re gonna go about defending this miscreant?”

  “I’m working on it,” I replied sounding more confident than I felt.

  “Knock em dead, Counselor.”

  Joel knocked on my door as he entered. I motioned him to close the door.

  “What’s up?” Solomon asked as he sat down on the sofa. “And Bernie, how did you get an office with a sofa? I’m a partner and you’re just an associate. All I have is a desk, a credenza and two chairs, and all of it is covered with files and crap.”

  “Jeez Joel, every time you come in here you complain about the damn sofa. Anyway, it’s really more like a love-seat, and I have no idea why it’s here.”

  “OK, OK. So what did you want to tell me about Worthington,” he said changing the subject.

  “I think I figured out why Worthington has such a hard on for me.”

  I filled him in on the Dunlap Group’s connection to the White Haven Detention Center. “Apparently Dunlap is a private equity investor that owns the facility. I thought the two judges and their families were the only investors, but there must be more involved.”

  “Anyway, remember the woman who was supposed to put me in the honey trap.”

  “Samantha something?” Solomon asked.

  I slid her card across the desk.

  He read it and looked up. “So Robert Worthington has something to do with the Dunlap Group, and you screwed up his investment in the White Haven Detention scam. And he now wants to screw with you. He must have been more than a casual investor,” he observed.

  “Right, so now that I made the connection what should I do? I mean, besides the card and the reference to the Dunlap Group in the corporate filings for White Haven, I really don’t have anything of substance.”

  “Why don’t you turn it over to the Attorney General?”

  “You mean Robert Conrad, the guy who kidnapped Nicky’s daughter and hates me for taking her away from him.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” he said. “Well, how about the U.S. Attorney?”

  “You mean the one who issued the subpoena for me to appear before the Grand Jury?”

  “Oh, yeah, there’s that thing too.”

  “Joel, you’re not being particularly helpful.”

  He nodded. “You know if I weren’t so damn busy with this fucking DUI homicide case you got me into, maybe I could be of more help to you in this mess.”

  “Stop breaking my shoes. It wasn’t my idea. In fact, I was trying to talk my way out of that and Mike Bollinger got carried away.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed. “It’s amazing how many powerful people you’ve managed to piss off in such a short time. Worthington, Conrad, the U.S. Attorney. Do you have any friends left?”

  Green shook his head. “I thought you were.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll think of something.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  The Top 5

  I sat at my desk and made a list of the Top 5 Problems I needed to deal with in no particular order of priority:

  Bob Worthington’s ‘hard on’;

  The Grand Jury testimony;

  Phil Wallander’s trial;

  Robert Conrad’s ‘hard on’; and

  Major Miller’s ‘hard on’.

  I stared at the list. It struck me that Phil’s trial and the Grand Jury were manageable. I realized that being lead counsel in a vehicular homicide trial, when I had never actually tried a case should be the most daunting of tasks. After all, if I messed up my friend could go to jail for a very long time. However, I would have the best and brightest support any litigator could hope for. I also had a client who was likely innocent. Who the hell was I kidding? The prospect of trying the case scared me shitless.

  OK the Grand Jury thing was not a problem. I had not knowingly violated any law. My dealings with Senator Cinaglia were minimal and innocuous. No matter what the U.S. Attorney tried to do, he could not make a federal case out of it. That is, unless he could somehow conjure up a witness to spin a conspiracy out of thin air.

  No matter how I magnified the consequences real and imagined of those two problems, they paled in comparison to the ‘hard ons’ my three nemeses presented.

  Conrad hated me for so many different reasons: I was alive and married to the mother of Conrad’s granddaughter, the woman his son should have been spending his life with. I stole his granddaughter, the only living link to his deceased son, away from him.

  Miller hated me for interfering with his relationship with his only daughter. He blamed me for snooping into his mysterious acquiescence to Conrad’s kidnapping of his granddaughter and keeping her where abouts from her mother, his daughter, for almost 8 years.

  At least Worthington’s desire to punish me made sense. It was perfectly rational. I had messed with his money, the detention center scam. An enterprising prosecutor could uncover a conspiracy that could, perhaps lead to a criminal conviction.

  Yes, these were the Top 5 Problems. I had nailed them. Now, if I could only come up with the solutions.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the District Attorney.

  “State Representative Bernard Green calling for the District Attorney. Can she take my call?”

  I had never identified myself in that manner before. I found it officious and obnoxious. However, I needed to speak with the DA and didn’t want to leave a message and get in line for a return call from some underling.

  “Mr. State Representative,” Susan Romansky answered the phone.

  “Thanks for taking my call, and please call me Bernie,” I replied.

  “OK Bernie, what can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Romansky.”

  “Bernie, call me Susan.”

  “Susan, do you know Robert Worthington?”

  “Sure, he’s the head honcho at the NRA in Harrisburg.”

  “Yes he is. I have come across something that may be of interest to you involving Worthington and the West Haven Detention case. Can you spare me 5 minutes?”

  As I left the office my thoughts turned to the one problem I had not included among the top five that I had reduced to writing. The problem that dwarfed all the rest; how could I explain to Nicky the one thing I vowed to myself I would never share with anyone?

  Fifteen minutes later I was ushered into Romansky’s office.

  “I see Patrick at Boyds is still dressing you.” She said as I sat down in the leather chair opposite hers.

  “Between Patrick and my wife, I have come to understand that clothes do make the man.” I said.

  “No, I don’t think that’s the case. So tell me Bernie, what exactly do you
have on that pompous, self serving jackass Robert Worthington?”

  I gave her the complete rundown from my initial run in with Worthington over the campaign contribution, the pro bono class action for the juveniles caught in the judges’ scam that identified the Dunlap Group as an investor in the detention center and culminating with the ‘honey trap’ episode with Samantha Binnager. I took Binnager’s card out of my breast pocket and handed it to her.

  “I assume this is the same ‘Dunlap Group’”?

  I nodded.

  “So why are you bringing this to me? Shouldn’t you be talking to the U.S. Attorney, or the State Attorney General?”

  “Well, there are a few things I need to explain.”

  Afterwards she said, “Geez, Bernie, you appear to have a talent for pissing important people off. I can understand about Conrad, truth is I never cared much for that stiff-necked jerk myself, but the U.S. Attorney? Why do you think he’s bringing you in front of the Grand Jury?”

  “I’ve been racking my brains for the past month trying to figure that out. I haven’t got a clue. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. But for now, I just don’t feel comfortable bringing this information to him. What do you think I should do?”

  “Do you think this Binnager woman will come clean?” she asked.

  “Dunno. She’s really smart. I don’t think she would take a fall for Worthington, but you never know.”

  “Let’s not worry about that for now. I have one of the best forensic accountants in the business on my staff. If there’s a money trail from the West Haven mess to the Dunlap Group to Worthington, he’ll find it.”

  “What if that doesn’t pan out?” I asked.

  “Well, we could always try to see if one of the judges or son of judge would flip and give Worthington up. I understand they’re already pointing the finger at one another. I think they’re anxious to cop a plea. Maybe this could be the quid pro quo to get a lighter sentence.”

  I left the District Attorney’s Office making a tentative mental cross off on the Worthington hard on problem. I placed a call to my apartment to check on Nicky and Bobby; Serge Paullo picked up.

  “Green residence.”

  I forgot that the girls had gone out for the afternoon. After a brief conversation with Paullo I thought that perhaps I needed to add Paullo to my top five list now that Worthington had been crossed off. Nicky and Paullo were spending a great deal of time together. They went out several nights a week to rehearse or to take meetings. I did not feel comfortable with the thought of my wife and the handsome Brazilian hanging out. Maybe I should check out Dan Gross’ column to see if there had been any mention of Nicky and Paullo. After all, Gross seemed to have a handle on everything else that was going on in my life.

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  The Fishtown Casino

  “Don’t forget your meeting with the Fishtown Residents’ Committee this afternoon.”

  “It’s on my calendar Carlota.”

  “Well they’re an angry group. They do not want that casino built in their neighborhood.”

  “I know.”

  The Gaming Commission had approved the license for the Creamery Casino on the Delaware River waterfront near the Fishtown neighborhood before I had been elected State Representative. While the Fishtowners did not hold me personally responsible for the casino, they were mad as hell and were fast reaching the point of no longer distinguishing between the politicians who screwed them and the good guys. Ironically, the Creamery Casino fat cats were equally angry at the politicians they had bought off who had failed to deliver the gaming palace at the taxpayers’ expense.

  “Folks, I’m just as angry as you are,” I stood at the front of the meeting room of the Teamsters Local 1013 Hall looking at the 200 or so people, many of them my neighbors when I was a youngster growing up in Northern Liberties, the neighborhood that bordered theirs, who packed into the room.

  “Many of you… make that most of you, know me. I went to school with some of your children, and served in the army with them. The idea of building a slots parlor in this neighborhood is flat out stupid.

  The local sharks who sold the Casino people on the site, who made it out to be connected to the fast money center city crowd, sold them a bill of goods. Sure, the neighborhood is starting to attract some new families. But those folks are moving in because they want what we have. A neighborhood that is quiet and safe, a place where you can raise a family and not have to worry about drugs and crime and the riff raff that a slots parlor would bring.”

  I noticed that Rocky Malone and James Brown were in the room. They often showed up at neighborhood gatherings and meetings to support me. Malone had shown a real interest in the District’s business, and had become one of my go to guys ever since the incident involving the explosion at his neighbor’s home.

  “The natives are restless tonight,” Malone had warned me before the meeting began.

  “So what are we gonna do to stop these bastards?” a woman with curlers in her hair shouted out.

  “Mrs. O’Malley, so far the tactics the various neighborhood groups like this association have mounted have delayed the construction, and cost the Casino people a ton of money. But I’m afraid that the legal actions have just about run their course.”

  “That’s not fair!” a man wearing a wife-beater shirt that barely concealed his body tattoos stood up and shouted. Rocky Malone looked over at the man and he immediately sat down.

  “I agree. I haven’t been an attorney very long but I can tell you that if justice happens in the courts it’s nothing more than a coincidence. Litigation is all about power and money, and the Casino crowd has a lot of money and they have the backing of powerful people.”

  “So are you telling us there’s nothing we can do?”

  “No. But I am suggesting we consider a change in strategy. In the time that has passed since the Creamery got its license, the economy has taken quite a hit.”

  “You can say that again. My 401 K is a 201 K and I just got a pink slip from the mill.”

  “I hear you Mr. McCaskey. But that’s my point. The time to build a slots parlor, especially at this location may have passed. We need to persuade the Casino crowd that it might be more profitable for them to build elsewhere.”

  After the meeting a well-dressed young woman approached me. “That was well done Mr. Green,” she said extending her hand.

  “Thank you Miss. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name,”

  “My name is not important. I have regards from a friend of yours. Samantha Binnager. Samantha asked me to extend her apologies for not responding to your calls. She’s been involved in an out of town assignment.”

  “Do you know how to reach her? It’s really important that I speak with her as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Green. If she wants to get in touch with you, she knows how. She asked me to give you a message. Be careful.”

  “Careful of what?”

  “She said you would figure it out.”

  A cryptic message from the mysterious Samantha Binnager; what the hell did it mean?

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  The Wallander Trial Begins

  I walked slowly to the dais and faced the jury. I brought no notes and grabbed the lectern with both hands to take the weight off my leg to relieve the pain that had become more noticeable during moments of stress. I suddenly realized that lately my leg had been bothering me more and more, but I had to focus on the trial. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I began my opening, “This case involves…”

  After weeks of preparation Joel and I, along with an army of paralegals, investigators, jury consultants and others had analyzed every conceivable aspect of the case. There was no doubt that I was ready for the Wallander trial. Solomon repeatedly assured me that my concerns regarding my inexperience were exaggerated and my initial nervousness would disappear once the trial began. “I’m telling you this will be like a walk in the park for you. It’s not like going into combat. No on
e’s shooting live rounds at you.”

  Joel Solomon was right I had been through worse, a lot worse. But just like combat where the lives and wellbeing of my platoon were my responsibility, in this case, I was responsible for the wellbeing of my client, my friend. I flat out could not afford to screw up. If I did, Phil Wallander would suffer severe consequences, and that was totally unacceptable.

  I turned my gaze from the jury and looked over at the defense table. Wallander was sitting next to Joel and Seymour Arrington. Phil was staring at me with an intensity that conveyed his unquestioned belief in my ability to defend him. Joel was fixed on the jurors. Arrington, who had been less than helpful throughout the trial prep just looked bored.

  I returned my attention to the jury. As I spoke the words I had rehearsed so many times I could literally recite them in my sleep, I searched the individual juror’s faces to find some sign that I was making a connection. Joel had warned me about that.

  “You’re not a mind reader. Don’t kid yourself. You really can’t tell too much from a juror’s reaction or expression. Some of them smile at you, or even nod in agreement. Some will not make eye contact with you, or worse they look like they hate you and your client. When the case is over and you poll the jury you find out the jurors you thought were on your side voted the other way, and vice versa.”

  Joel told me to be myelf. Talk to the jury like I was having a conversation with a group of friends in my living room.

  “Don’t try to sound like a lawyer. You’re Bernie Green, don’t try to be F. Lee Bailey, who by the way wasn’t that great.”

  When I finished my opening the judge gaveled the hearing adjourned for the day.

  “You were great,” Phil Wallander said and patted me on the back. Joel nodded. Arrington still looked bored.

  We went back to Arrington’s office to conduct a post mortem of the day’s proceedings and prepare for the District Attorney’s presentation of his direct evidence that would begin the next morning.

  There had been no surprises in the Commonwealth’s opening. Roger McQuiston, the District Attorney for Dauphin County laid out his case for the jurors. He had eyewitnesses to the accident, witnesses who described the vehicle involved as the same model as the defendant’s vehicle. The Harrisburg Police had recovered a vehicle matching that description from a garage in West Derry Township. That vehicle had damage to the front bumper that matched the eyewitness account of the hit and run accident. The defendant was the owner of the vehicle the Police had recovered.