“How so? The timing? The style?”
“They didn’t give me too much more to go on. Don’t want to,” Mancini used his fingers as quotation marks, “‘jeopardize the other investigations.’ What’s your instinct tell you?”
“My instinct?” asked Hunter, caught slightly off guard.
“Sure. Your instincts are pretty good, right?” Hunter couldn’t tell if Mancini was being sincere or just toying with him. Although it was true, his instincts were typically spot-on. The Vito’s case had thrown him off balance, though, rattled his confidence.
“My gut tells me it’s related to the Vito’s case.”
“The Vito’s case?” pondered Mancini. “That’s interesting. And what makes you say that?”
Hunter had debated over mentioning his own targeting. But he decided to take a risk and clue Mancini in anyway. “I won’t bore you with the nitty-gritty, and this isn’t my way of telling you I want off the case, but someone’s been keeping pretty close tabs on me. And frankly, I don’t think they’re very happy about my involvement in the case.”
“You mean the firm’s involvement?” corrected Mancini.
“Right. I guess it would be anybody representing the city.”
“And there’s no chance you’re being…”
“What? Paranoid?” interrupted Hunter. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell. These guys will do whatever it takes to send me a message. And that includes going after Andy.”
“Why Andy, though? I don’t see it. He’s not even on the case.”
“He’s close to me, though.”
“Still think it’s a stretch. If all we’ve got is a conceivably random attack on one of our associates, and one you know pretty well, then that’s not a whole helluva lot to base a conspiracy theory on.” Mancini clearly didn’t know about Stephanie nearly becoming roadkill in the Italian market. But that topic was entirely off-limits. Once Mancini realized where it happened and put two and two together, it wouldn’t be long before he figured out that Stephanie had gone there to warn him about Mancini.
“I’m sure you’re right. But if you’re not, we’ll find out soon enough. These people, whoever they are, seem hell-bent on getting their point across. They’re downright brazen.”
“So there’s definitely more than one of them? Not just some isolated whack-job?”
“I’m not sure exactly how many. I’ve only come face to face with one of them. But there’s no doubt they’re professionals.”
“And you’re sure everything started when you came on board the case?”
“Positive.”
“But how the hell did they know you were on the case that quickly?” wondered Mancini under his breath. “And so your thought is that it’s Vito Armani’s people? And the attack on Andy was supposed to be a warning shot to you and the firm about our involvement in the case?”
“Something like that. That’s the only logical explanation there is at the moment.”
“It doesn’t add up, though. The guy’s an extremely savvy businessman. And despite what he might’ve originally thought about the case, he’s been riding the PR train all the way to the bank. If anything, I would suspect that it’s one of those white supremacist groups.”
“Consider this for motive, though. If the guy loses the case, all the favorable publicity may very well go away. The last time I checked, no major network was in the habit of overtly promoting xenophobia or bigotry,” said Hunter.
“That’s debatable,” interjected Mancini. “A loss and a string of appeals might only bolster his public persona.”
“Anyway, at the moment, with the trial a few days out, there’s still a very real possibility that anti-immigration sentiment and free speech win the day. And if he truly is that business savvy, he understands the concept of quitting while one’s ahead. Should the city drop its case today, or tomorrow, for example, he’d go out on a high note. He becomes even more of a right-wing media darling, helping his cause and most importantly, his bottom line.”
Mancini still wasn’t persuaded. “But if he got caught trying to back the city down like that, the whole thing could just as easily blow up in his face. Not to mention he’d be looking at a nice little vacation to Club Fed.”
“Maybe the success went to his head and he convinced himself he’s invincible. Or he’s like any other shrewd millionaire. He’s got others he can rely on to take care of his dirty work.”
“Like who? Loyalty isn’t exactly for sale these days, in case you haven’t noticed. If there’s a conspiracy, the only conceivable explanation is that the Mafia’s involved.”
“Which means that Vito Armani is connected.”
“Perhaps.”
“But don’t they have bigger fish to fry? It’s hard to imagine them getting caught up in a case like this,” said Hunter.
“Normally I’d say you’re probably right,” answered Mancini.
“But?”
“But there could be a lot more to this one than originally meets the eye. And after I clue you in to a little discovery I made over the weekend, the whole point of my trying to reach you, I think the Mafia’s involvement will make a helluva lot more sense. Stop by my office after lunch. We’re taking a little daytrip down to AC.” Atlantic City, the last place Hunter would’ve expected Mancini to come up with. What the hell is in Atlantic City?
“I’m due in Judge Russo’s chambers at one.”
“On Mediacast?”
“Yup.”
Hunter could see it in Mancini’s eyes—the stare of an overprotective parent sizing up a potential threat. The wheels were turning regarding the nature of the conference. Yet Mancini decided not to pry. “That’s fine. Then just come straight after. You don’t expect it to take very long, do you?”
“No.” Hunter shook his head. “No big deal.” But that was a lie. The truth was that Hunter didn’t know why he’d been summoned. One thing was for sure, though. It was highly unusual that any judge would convene a conference so quickly after the preliminary hearing.
“Good,” replied Mancini. “Then that works out. See you in a bit.”
THIRTY-ONE
Hunter fidgeted with the knot of his blue-striped tie as he restlessly turned the pages of Stephanie’s lackluster brief, marking it up line by line. The stresses of the day were seeping into his pores, making it next to impossible to stay focused. It was of little consolation that the dreary waiting area in Judge Russo’s chambers was uncomfortably warm and noisy. Every little sound contributed to the irritating din blocking his concentration. The heavy wood door to Russo’s office couldn’t contain the judge’s contrived macho chuckle. His secretary, Dot, a throwback to the Leave It to Beaver era, cracked her Chiclets, frenetically chewing and typing a million of Russo’s long-winded words a minute. Melissa Zane, his opposing counsel in the Mediacast case, had plunked herself down onto the classic hardwood sofa, which was covered with burgundy baseball-stitched leather. She occasionally re-adjusted her artsy specs as she gossiped away on an iPhone, oozing confidence and self-control.
Hunter was barely a third into the Vito’s brief when the door to Russo’s office clicked open. Dot dutifully sprang to her feet.
“The judge will see you now, folks.” She gestured and then proceeded to usher them in.
“You’re totally fucked,” whispered Zane just out of Dot’s earshot.
Hunter paid her little mind. “Always a pleasure, Melissa.”
“Eat shit and die, Gray,” she taunted and then pasted on an artificial smile right before entering Russo’s office.
Hunter surveyed the contents of the office, catching a whiff of stagnant cigar smoke, which permeated the drab fabrics and furnishings. He was immediately met by the grimace of the judge’s clerk, the one who had come to his office only a few hours earlier to inform him of the conference. Looking slovenly, the clerk sat obediently toward the back of the room, yellow pad at the ready and threading a pen through his fingers, showing off a skill only mastered by the socially inept
prodigies of the world. Of course, he was thrilled to fancy himself a member of that club. Legal pleadings, roughly three or four feet in height, were stacked into paper columns atop the lengthy wood table behind him. Dozens of marked banker boxes gathered dust underneath. And just as Hunter expected, the walls were adorned with political and military imagery, the bulk of which were devoted to Thomas Jefferson. There were a handful of photographs showing the judge standing proudly next to various military general types.
Russo shot them both an impatient look, his beady, pale blue eyes ordering them to sit in the stiff chairs reserved at the foot of his desk. He made them wait, as he finished reviewing a legal brief. And then, with a psychotic glint in his eyes, he glanced up at Hunter. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite young lawyer.”
“Your Honor.”
He turned to Melissa. “Ms. Zane. Looking quite spirited this afternoon.”
“Always, Your Honor,” she replied smugly.
“Always,” he acknowledged. “Well done.” He studied Zane’s reaction for a moment. “And I take it you’ve both met my esteemed law clerk Sean,” he said, gesturing politely to the back of the room.
“Hi Sean,” flirted Melissa, awkwardly doing her best bisexual impersonation. The clerk’s chubby cheeks flushed regardless. It didn’t take a whole lot.
Hunter acknowledged him with a fake smile and an exaggerated arch of the brow, his own special way of saying, “Fuck you.”
“Great to see you again, Sean,” Hunter added for the benefit of the judge, who could only see the back of Hunter’s head. The clerk could barely contain a snarl.
“So, let’s cut right to the chase, shall we?” said Russo. “In the spirit of judicial economy.” The truth was, and everyone knew it, that the notion of judicial economy was as antiquated as the concept of justice. Anymore, the adage was little more than an oxymoronic cliché.
“Works for me,” bullshitted Zane, who proceeded to remove a manila folder from her manly black briefcase. “Now, if I may have the court’s indulgence for just a moment…”
“Speaking of judicial economy,” Hunter jabbed under his breath.
“Be careful, son,” Russo scolded. “You’re treading on very dangerous ground.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” accepted Hunter, civilly disobedient. Hunter was astounded by the hard-on this guy had for him.
“You were saying, Miss Zane…”
“Thank you. Under the assumption this conference is in the nature of a scheduling conference, I’ve taken the liberty of outlining what I believe is a reasonable timeline for both parties going forward,” she said, handing the judge a memo.
As Russo scrutinized the document, she delicately handed one over to Hunter, playing the part of the courteous adversary to the hilt.
She continued, “The gist is that I have us completing all discovery and any necessary pre-trial motions before the New Year.”
“New Year,” admired Russo. “An optimist, I see.”
“Just being pragmatic.”
“Unfortunately,” Russo chose his words carefully, “or fortunately, depending upon your vantage point, I will be speeding things up considerably. I believe there are mitigating factors here that warrant an exceedingly swift resolution.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” backtracked Melissa, obviously fearful she’d overstepped. It was a well-known fact that scheduling was the province of the judge. “I mean, of course we would defer to the sound discretion of this court.”
“Anything you’d like to add, Mr. Gray?”
Hunter held up the paper for dramatic effect. Going second meant that a good litigator could adjust, based upon the judge’s reaction. “Only that we would propose a much more aggressive timeline, which we feel the facts clearly warrant.” Hunter paused to read Russo’s expression. “Of course, that’s if Your Honor ever intended on receiving the parties’ input on this front.”
“And I would concur with Mr. Gray,” said Russo, grinning. Hunter glanced over at Melissa, clearly disappointed. “Your, your…” stammered Russo. “What’s the word I’m looking for? Your audacity is nothing short of astounding.”
Shit! Where is Russo going with this? “I’m not sure I follow…”
“Let me spell it out for you then,” the judge snapped, his ire rising. “Your flagrant disdain for this court’s scheduling has been outrageous.”
“If it’s about this morning, Your Honor,” Hunter defended, “I can assure you I didn’t know about it.”
“Sean?” Russo wrinkled his brow curiously.
“That’s not true! He’s a liar!” whined Sean the clerk from the back of the room. “I went to great lengths to ensure Mr. Gray was apprised of the conference.” Sean was adamant.
“Sean’s right,” swooped in Melissa. “Once my office received notice from Sean, which was fairly early in the afternoon on Friday, mind you,” she said, rubbing salt on the wound, “we immediately served Mr. Gray. That’s our custom at Kruger. Your Honor knows that.”
“Yes, I do,” observed Russo and then scowled at Hunter disapprovingly.
“I never got anything from your office, Ms. Zane.”
“It was by telecopier.” She turned to Russo. “If the court wishes, I can forward along the confirmation.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms. Zane. I know we can take you at your word. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gray?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor—”
“That’s enough, son,” admonished Russo, silencing him before he had a chance to deny ever receiving the voicemail. “Frankly, it’s irrelevant at this point. I have plenty to go on to prove you either knew or should’ve known about this morning.”
“Come on. Setting a conference for Monday morning on…”
“Shut up, Mr. Gray! The fact that you can’t keep a proper calendar over there is not our problem. You’ve made your bed.”
“Understood,” caved Hunter. The thought of explaining the snafu and his paralegal Debbie’s unexpected absence that morning crossed his mind. But Russo was on a warpath. Besides, how much worse could things really get? Hunter was already in deep shit over the first sanctions order. Throw in a second for good measure and it would be the proverbial nail in the coffin.
“Incidentally, my clerk also tells me there’s been a bit of confusion surrounding the sanctions order.”
“Confusion? What sort of confusion?” Hunter had no choice but to play dumb.
“Well, apparently the prothonotary hasn’t docketed your firm’s payment,” said Russo, facetiously. “Which creates the false impression that it hasn’t been addressed.”
“I think I can get to the bottom of that.”
“That would be wise,” Russo warned, but for some reason he didn’t push any harder. “Very well, then. I’ve made a decision in the case.”
“A decision sir?” asked Zane, wondering if Russo had gone off the deep end. “We intend to file…”
“I’ve made up my mind,” he interrupted. “I’m dismissing the Mediacast case. With prejudice.” With prejudice meant that Hunter was barred from ever re-filing the case. His only recourse was an appeal to the Superior Court.
It took a second for the judge’s decision to register. “You’re dismissing the case?” asked Hunter in utter disbelief. “I can’t believe this. This is insane! On what grounds?” He caught Zane’s bewildered expression out of the corner of his eye. Even Sean the clerk was in shock.
“I think that’s pretty obvious, Mr. Gray. On the basis that you’ve willfully disobeyed my sanctions order. Not to mention failing to appear at the conference.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I just did.” Russo grinned, flexing his judicial muscle.
“Is this some sort of a sick joke?
“A joke? Do I look like I’m toying with you, son?”
“Don’t call me son again!” Hunter got to his feet.
“Mr. Gray. I urge you to calm down, counselor.”
“No. I’m not go
ing to calm down. This is fucking bullshit and you know it.”
“Mr. Gray!”
“You have no legal authority to do this,” said Hunter, regaining his composure.
“I’ll guess we’ll find that out on appeal now, won’t we?”
“I always knew you were a rogue judge,” Hunter replied as he walked away.
“I’ve made my decision. Sean. Prepare the order for signature. And don’t take all goddamn day, either.”
THIRTY-TWO
Mancini’s brand-new black Bentley sedan devoured the main stretch of the Atlantic City Expressway. Hunter, riding shotgun, concentrated on the verdant pines as they whizzed by along the passenger side, forming a green blur. Andrea Bocelli piped through the car’s majestic sound system. The climate control chilled the opulent cabin. Mancini, tan and tieless, looked relaxed. His neatly pressed white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top.
Testing the car’s limits, he helmed the quarter-of-a-million-dollar supercar as if they were on the autobahn. Of all days, he picked today to break in his new car. He was driving like a fucking maniac, too. In between the chirping of the radar and curt calls to the office, Mancini rocketed past the other commuters, who were seemingly standing still. Every so often, Hunter caught the jealous scowl of another driver. A blonde trophy wife in her Range Rover tried to keep up. Mancini dusted her too, but not before flashing her his best James Bond grin.
Hunter wanted to enjoy this rare workday jaunt down the shore, but he kept racking his brain over the Mediacast debacle. He was positively fucked. To rub salt in the wound, which was quickly becoming his career at Whitman, Stephanie Diaz nearly had a meltdown over the Vito’s brief. Despite her assurances, the final product was mediocre at best. She had positively choked. His gut instinct had told him she would, and he was kicking himself for not going with it. And although he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sympathy for her, at the moment he was more concerned with his own career. Thanks to her, it wasn’t altogether inconceivable that the whole thing would be thrown out before Thursday’s trial.
Justice Hunter Page 17