Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  Whitaker’s mood immediately lifted. “Damn right we do! Rudy Giuliani isn’t the only guy who can go after organized crime in this state.” He glanced at me. “Ms. Fox, meet with Coyle and see what he has to offer, but don’t share too much information.”

  Sitting there, I understood why Whitaker was sticking with O’Brien and me. That FBI creep had tried to cut a sweetheart deal with a known child rapist and murderer. I wondered if Whitaker was afraid Longhorn might try to do the same with Persico if the FBI got control of our case. And if Vanderhoot was positioning himself for a U.S. Attorney’s job, then his loyalties might lean toward Longhorn, not us.

  None of this political wrangling had anything to do with solving our murder. But I’d learned early on as an A.D.A. that this sort of backstage politicking played a key role in the success or failure of cases. From the moment a victim was identified, factors such as who was assigned to investigate the crime, prosecute the case, defend the accused, and sit on the jury influenced whether justice would be served.

  O’Brien broke the silence around the conference table. “Those guys don’t have a clue yet who that victim is,” he said.

  Steinberg nodded. “When he finds out it’s Tiny Nunzio’s daughter, he’s going to push even harder to get control of this case.”

  Their remarks confirmed what O’Brien and I had suspected. Our murder victim, Isabella Ricci, was the only daughter of Giuseppe “Tiny” Nunzio, a capo in the New Jersey–based Gaccione family. In mob hierarchy, Nunzio was Persico’s equal, only he operated across the Hudson.

  “People could start killing each other over this,” O’Brien warned.

  “That might not be a bad thing,” Steinberg said.

  “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?” I asked. “I’m not so sure Persico killed her.”

  “What?” Vanderhoot said in a surprised voice. “Of course he did.”

  “Doesn’t it seem a bit too obvious? The Butcher leaves Isabella’s body hanging in an apartment rented by one of his own law firm’s stooges? Does anyone else think this might be a setup?”

  “Who’d want to frame him?” Vanderhoot replied. “Persico probably was going to send a cleanup crew over this morning. Even gangsters celebrate New Year’s.”

  “I want to see those FBI logs,” I said. “The building’s super said Isabella and her lover had been using that apartment for a rendezvous twice a week for the past three months. If Persico was her lover and the FBI was tailing him, the logs should reflect that, but right now, we simply don’t have enough facts.”

  Whitaker checked his Rolex. “All right, on to the press conference. I’ve changed my mind about having you there, Miss Fox. It’s more important for you and O’Brien to keep working this case before Longhorn finds out our victim is Tiny Nunzio’s daughter and tries to muscle in.” Standing from his chair, he said, “If the Butcher is our man, bring me his head.”

  His three chiefs responded approvingly in “Aye-aye, sir” tones, but I kept quiet. Something just didn’t smell right about this case.

  8

  Vanderhoot walked briskly toward the elevator when we exited Whitaker’s office. I hurried up to catch him. “Chief, I’d like any files you have on Persico before we go see him,” I said.

  Vanderhoot glanced around the hallway to make sure that only O’Brien and I were in earshot. “I bet you would, wouldn’t you, sweetheart,” he said sarcastically. “Let me clue you in, Ms. Fox. You are not getting squat. You want to play with the big boys and show us how brilliant you are by taking one of our cases, guess what?”

  The elevator arrived.

  “I’m only doing what I was ordered,” I said.

  But he wasn’t in any mood to listen. As the doors began to open, he said “Fuck you” under his breath before stepping quickly into a group of courthouse workers already inside the elevator.

  O’Brien and I waited for the next lift down and headed across the street to our offices. The lobby of the Domestic Violence Unit’s office was crowded with witnesses whom I needed to prepare for upcoming cases. There was a huge stack of messages waiting on my desk, too.

  O’Brien followed me into my office and asked, “How we handling this?”

  I let out a frustrated sigh and said, “I don’t feel comfortable turning over my trial scheduled for tomorrow morning to someone else.” I checked the time and said, “Look, I’ve got to prepare, but I’m going to work through lunch and should be done later this afternoon. Then we can pay a visit to the Butcher.”

  “The boss said this was a priority,” he gently reminded me.

  “So is tomorrow’s trial.”

  “Got ya. I’ll check in on the Yonkers detectives,” he said. “But first, I’m getting coffee. That’s a priority, too.” He disappeared while I began reading the pink return-call slips on my desk. Will had telephoned from the newspaper three times so I dialed his direct number in the newsroom and when he answered, I gave him a cheery “Good morning! I didn’t see you at the murder scene last night.”

  “I stopped there but didn’t recognize any of the cops so I moved on. They wouldn’t let me inside anyway,” he said. “Can you believe the victim is Isabella Ricci?”

  There was something about the tone of his voice that made me suspicious.

  “Are you trying to get me to confirm it was her?” I asked him bluntly.

  The phone went quiet for a moment until Will said, “Sorry, Dani, but the city desk is really pushing me and no one will say on the record whether it was her. I, just, well, yes, I thought if you confirmed it, I could run with it. Right now, all I’ve got are rumors. So tell me, is it her?”

  My face felt flush. Maybe it was inevitable for there to be conflict between our jobs, but I’d trusted Will and thought he was above this sort of cheap reporter’s trick. Shortly after we’d started dating, we’d agreed that we would keep our professional lives completely separate from our personal ones. Now I was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.

  “In my defense,” Will said, “I wasn’t asking you to tell me her name. I was just floating a rumor by you. If it is her, this is going to be one hell of a story—the sort of scoop that gets a reporter noticed.”

  “First, I’m not just another courthouse source,” I replied. “I’m your girlfriend, remember? Second, you didn’t ask me directly. You pretended you knew it was her and tried to trick me into confirming it.”

  “Will you?” he said in a sweet voice.

  “I certainly will not either confirm nor deny it. I cannot and do not want to be a source.”

  “Okay, calm down, Dani. I apologize. You must be having a bad day. How about if I take you to Roberto’s for dinner tonight?”

  Roberto’s is my favorite restaurant.

  “Let’s check in later today,” I said, still peeved. “Right now, I’m busy.”

  “You’re busy investigating the Isabella Ricci murder, right?” he said, apparently trying to make a joke. Or was he?

  I hung up.

  O’Brien returned with his coffee. “Trouble in paradise, huh?” he said, smirking. “I told you not to date a reporter. He’s not one of us.”

  “And Miss Potts… is one of us?”

  “How many times are you gonna break my balls about her?”

  “Until you get something on me,” I answered, grinning.

  “Oh, believe me, I’m looking.” As he left, I told the receptionist to send in the first witness for the next day’s case.

  9

  In the big picture, The People v. Harold Ryan was not a major criminal case. I could have easily passed it over to another A.D.A., but most of my peers were more interested in prosecuting cocaine dealers and armed robbers than husbands who beat their wives. Such abuse wasn’t even considered a crime between married couples until 1977 in New York. But I felt a special obligation to handle the Ryan case personally.

  I’d first met Anna Forsano a year ago when her mother, Sarah, literally dragged the twenty-one-year-old into my office. She had a
busted lip and two black eyes that her boyfriend, Harold Ryan, had given her. Apparently, they’d been drinking with friends in a bar when Anna had said something that irked Harold. He backhanded her, splitting her lip, and then began punching her in the face. The only reason that Anna had agreed to accompany her mother to our office was that she was afraid that her father, Albert Forsano, would find out and go after Harold. Apparently, Albert disliked him and had an equally hot temper.

  I’d interviewed Anna that morning at her mother’s side—or I’d tried to interview her. She’d done exactly what most victims of domestic violence do: she blamed herself. “I provoked him,” she said. “I know he’s got a temper. I shouldn’t have nagged at him.”

  I hear this over and over. A push turns into a slap that turns into a punch. By the time there’s a full-scale beating, the victim really believes she deserves it, because her abuser has destroyed her self-esteem and confidence. By the time the physical bruises and scars appear, the emotional and psychological damage has already been done.

  Because of that, many of the women who come through my office are reluctant or refuse to testify. They need help, but they’re convinced they’re to blame. Most of them also don’t want me to lock up the family’s sole breadwinner, further anger him, or take him from his children.

  And that is exactly how Anna had been when we first met that morning. I tried to warn her that abusers don’t stop, despite all the promises that they make and the bouquets of roses that they bestow after violent arguments, along with a litany of “It will never happen again” and “I love you.”

  No matter what I said, Anna refused to tell me anything more than that the bruises were her fault. After a few moments of gentle prodding by me, Anna broke into tears and promised me and her mother that she would seek psychological help. Our meeting that morning ended with Anna promising that she’d have Harold come see me.

  Of course, he didn’t, but I had a little trick of my own waiting for Mr. Ryan. Under New York law, I had no authority to force him to do anything. But shortly after our unit opened, I had stationery printed with the heading WESTCHESTER COUNTY DOMESTIC VIOLENCE UNIT emblazoned across the top of each sheet. I addressed a letter to Ryan and directly under this name, I wrote: “In the Matter of the People of the State of New York against Harold Ryan.” I suspected that my wording might scare him. And it did.

  Had Ryan taken my letter to a lawyer, he would have been told that there was no case pending against him nor had any criminal charges been filed and that he absolutely did not have to show up. But Ryan assumed the worst and he reported to my office a few days after my letter arrived. If he had been candid with me, I might have handled him differently. But when I asked him about Anna’s busted lip and swollen eyes, he lied. He said that he’d never touched her. She’d gotten drunk and fallen at a bar when they’d been out with friends.

  “She’s clumsy like that,” he said. “Especially when she’s had a few.”

  “Bull,” I said. “You hit her and that’s a crime. Period.”

  At that point our conversation had gone from being merely unpleasant to downright ugly. No one was going to tell Harold what he could or couldn’t do with Anna.

  “She loves me,” he bragged, adding that she would never press charges or testify against him. “And you can’t make her,” he taunted.

  “Look, buster,” I snapped, “I don’t know who you think you are, but I represent the People of the State of New York, and I can file charges and prosecute you whether Anna testifies or not.”

  Having gotten his attention, I said, “You either go into counseling and anger management, or I’ll prosecute you. If you can’t afford the counseling, my office will make arrangements for you. I expect you to report back to me because I will be keeping an eye on you.”

  Harold did not immediately reply. “I want to talk to a lawyer,” he said after several moments, then stormed out.

  A few days later, I got a call from a local attorney who told me that Anna and Ryan had gotten married. If they were thinking that as husband and wife, she couldn’t be forced to testify against him, they were wrong. But neither of them would talk to me unless his or her lawyer was present.

  In my line of work, I’ve come to trust my gut when it comes to judging people. Harold Ryan struck me as a dirtbag whose abuse would only get worse if I didn’t step in and do something. So I got O’Brien to help me get the bartender to come forward as a witness. I now could charge Harold with several felonies.

  As with most criminal cases, I assumed there would be a plea negotiation with Harold’s attorney. My goal was to get him into treatment before he hurt Anna again. But Harold and his attorney dug in their heels, leaving me no choice but to indict Ryan and take him to trial.

  I worked through lunch and into the early afternoon, preparing witnesses who had seen the beating. By three o’clock, I was feeling confident. I was nearly finished when our receptionist announced that she was putting through a call from defense attorney Richard Coppola, who was representing Harold Ryan.

  Ah, I thought, a last-minute plea offer. Harold had finally come to his senses.

  “This is Dani Fox,” I said into the receiver.

  “Have you heard?” Coppola asked me.

  I felt a sense of dread and immediately suspected the worst—that Harold had killed Anna.

  “What’s your client done?” I asked.

  “My client?” Coppola asked. “My client is dead.”

  Coppola explained that Anna’s father, Albert, had fatally shot Harold in front of Anna and their neighbors. The cops were questioning him in lockup. There would be no need for a Ryan trial.

  As I was putting the phone back in its cradle, O’Brien sauntered into my office.

  “Harold Ryan just got himself killed,” I said.

  “No great loss there,” O’Brien replied.

  “Albert Forsano killed him in broad daylight with a shotgun.”

  “Good for him,” O’Brien said.

  “C’mon, O’Brien, you don’t believe that.”

  “Hey, the kid was beating his daughter. If your father was alive, he’d have done the same thing.”

  I thought about Leo, my father, and wondered if O’Brien was right. Dad was a World War II veteran who’d seen combat but who also was one of the most peaceful men I’ve known. But the truth was that I didn’t really know how my own father would have reacted if one of my boyfriends had given me a busted lip or black eye. Fortunately, I’ve never had to find out.

  “No one has a right to take the law into their own hands,” I said. But it sounded halfhearted. “C’mon,” O’Brien said. “Look on the sunny side. We can get back to catching Isabella Ricci’s killer. Unless you plan on putting a dead man on trial.”

  10

  Traffic was horrible and it took us more than an hour to reach Persico’s family-owned butcher shop in the heart of Yonkers’s Little Italy. Fortunately, the shop catered to customers on their way home from work who needed to pick up dinner: it didn’t close until 8 p.m.

  Persico’s storefront looked much as it probably had when it first opened in the early 1900s, when immigrants from southern Italy were pouring into New York in great waves. There were four patio tables with folding metal chairs on the sidewalk out front, where customers could sip coffee and eat freshly made deli sandwiches. Above the door was a painting of a big pink pig with a curly tail that spelled out the name persico.

  I told a chubby clerk that we wanted to speak to Mr. Persico and he disappeared into the rear of the store. There was a camera mounted in a corner, so I assumed we were being watched. About two minutes later, the clerk reappeared with a husky, short man in his fifties who was wearing a thick gold chain and an open-necked shirt that was exposing a black and gray mat of chest hair.

  “Whaddya want?” he asked.

  “I’m an assistant district attorney,” I said loudly. “This is Detective O’Brien. We need to speak to Mr. Persico.”

  “Hey, I recognize youse
,” he declared. “You’re that broad who was all over the papers. The prosecutor who got that child-molesting bastard put away.” He seemed genuinely appreciative. He eyeballed O’Brien. “You got a badge or something?”

  O’Brien showed him his ID.

  Satisfied, he said, “So why youse two want to see the boss?”

  I said, “And you are who, exactly?”

  “I’m the man who decides whether youse two get through that back door and see Mr. Persico,” he replied defiantly.

  “You got a name?” I asked.

  “Carmine Caruso,” he replied. “I sorta run things for Mr. Persico.”

  “We’re here about Isabella Ricci. Tell him we can talk here or we can do it up at the D.A.’s office.”

  Caruso gave me a long, hard stare. I stared right back at him. He had a big gap between his two front teeth, and tied around his protruding belly was a white, bloodstained apron. As he wiped his sausage-sized fingers on his apron, he walked through the door behind the counter without further comment.

  For a good ten minutes, customers, mostly older women from the neighborhood, came and went.

  I was beginning to get irritated at the lack of respect and was just about to tell Carmine that we would be back with a subpoena when I heard a voice speak quietly behind me. “Ms. Fox and Detective O’Brien. A call to our office would have been in order.” It was Alonzo Gallo from the law firm of Gallo & Conti, along with his younger sidekick and apartment renter, Alberto Bianchi.

  Continuing, Gallo said, “You’re trying to blindside us, counselor. You know that Mr. Persico is our client.”

  With a smirk, O’Brien said, “Why’s he need an attorney? We’re just here for a friendly chat.”

  Gallo glanced at the video camera so that his face could be clearly seen. Then he and Bianchi stepped behind the meat counter and the chubby clerk swung open the door that led into the back for them. I decided to fall into step behind them.