Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  “Don’t you ever question whether your power of persuasion disrupts the natural order of things?”

  “Sometimes. But I can still look at myself in the mirror,” Mancini said as he repositioned himself to catch a glimpse of his mug in the rearview, just for effect. “Remember that we’re ethically bound to be zealous advocates,” he justified. “And no one—not you, not me, not the judge, no one—is in a position to ever second guess the instincts of a jury. To do that would be to undermine the integrity of our entire system.”

  He actually sounded as if he believed his own bullshit—distorting the truth, concealing evidence. Those were the Happy Meals served to juries these days. It was delivered to them the way they would expect it if they were on some television drama. Those were the tools used to manipulate the jury’s perception. The system wasn’t working, and Mancini and everybody else knew it.

  Mancini wheeled into the valet parking area at the Tropicana Casino. A young Latino hustled over to the car. “Just remember that as you pull together this case,” advised Mancini, referring to the Vito’s case. “There’s a lot riding on the outcome.”

  By now Hunter knew the city contract was worth millions for the firm. And in addition to being lucrative, it was an enticement for other major clients. It gave Fortune 500 companies like Mediacast peace of mind just knowing they had something in common with the city’s decision-makers—common outside counsel. Thinking about the Mediacast debacle from that morning turned Hunter’s stomach. If Mancini only knew the shitstorm about to erupt. He just nodded diplomatically instead, prolonging the agony.

  “I know I can do that,” he replied, trying to sound chipper.

  “You have no choice,” threatened Mancini. “That is, if you’re serious about wanting to make partner.”

  Hunter swallowed hard.

  “That’s all you need to do,” said Mancini, making it sound easy. “Be an advocate. And surely good things will follow. Money would no longer be an object. You can finally pay off those nagging student loans, take care of that mother of yours back in Chicago. Finally get to experience the thrill of playing the high stakes.”

  And if I lose? Or even worse, don’t make it until Thursday?

  With an assertive nod, Mancini cued the valet to open his door. Hunter opened his own, bracing himself for the rest of the afternoon with one of the most important lawyers in the city. And one who incidentally was watching his every move, getting into his throbbing head.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Once inside the casino, Hunter waited for Mancini, his back to the roulette wheels. A crew of frat-boy types, covered with Penn insignias and looking very Ivy, were bonding as they cut class and gambled away their mommy and daddy’s money. They were all over the cocktail waitress, a haggard yet attractive bleached blonde in her mid-thirties; her slender body and fake boobs barely contained by the casino’s sex-sells-middle-finger-to-the-feminist-movement little number.

  The Tropicana was seeing serious action for a Monday afternoon with all the usual oohs and ahs, swirling lights, and controlled chaos. The seniors were glued to the penny slots, still searching for something better as they blew their food money for the week. From the looks on their withered faces, it was looking like another week of tuna. No, those were cat food grimaces. One would’ve never known that the economy was in the crapper and people were losing their jobs left and right. And that reminds me. Hunter had gotten the distinct impression from Mancini that a lot more than partnership was at stake over the Vito’s case—and Mediacast, for that matter. He could be collecting unemployment checks and struggling to land a document review assignment through a temp agency any day now. Mancini told Hunter he had forgotten something in the car. Hunter suspected Mancini was just trying to ratchet up the suspense. As in, what the hell did a casino have to do with the Vito’s case?

  Hunter was distracted by a celebratory cheer erupting behind him. The proud winner, a mischievous college kid resembling Corey Feldman, gloated as the others offered up macho hugs, their hunch that winning was just that easy written all over their pompous faces.

  “Looks like dinner’s on Jared,” hollered one of the frat brothers.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” slurred another, sloshed.

  “And Delilah’s on me when we get back to the city,” joined in the nerdiest-looking of the bunch. Delilah’s Den was a well-known strip club on the Delaware River in town.

  The loaded one perked up. “Tonight’s the night Ben gets his cherry popped.” Hysterics broke out, the nerd turning beet red but laughing over it, nonetheless.

  The roulette dealer, a cool-looking black guy, could only shake his head and chuckle as he observed the scene. You see one obnoxious brat, you’ve seen ’em all.

  “Surprised you didn’t join them,” said Mancini, who snuck up on Hunter.

  “Too much testosterone for me.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, sorry about that. I forgot this little baby back in the car,” he said. He opened his suit jacket slightly and gestured toward his belt. There was a fierce-looking handgun expertly wedged between his pants and waist. “Don’t worry. It’s legal,” assured Mancini, reading the shocked expression on Hunter’s face. “I figured I’d bring it just in case. More for the peace of mind than anything else.”

  “Okay,” said Hunter as if he were talking to a certified lunatic.

  “It’s the Mafia we’re talking about, right?” said Mancini.

  “So that’s why we’re here. Did you arrange a sit-down or something?” Hunter asked.

  “Little premature for that,” joked Mancini. “Probably won’t get that far.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Seriously, though, if you want to turn back now, I understand,” offered Mancini sincerely. “You can hang here and try your luck at the tables.” He paused. “On me.”

  “Tempting. But technically it’s my case.” In a way, Hunter was relieved the cat was out of the bag. The case had become much more than a typical trial. The danger was inevitable. The sooner he got to the bottom of things, the better chances he’d have of living.

  “Very true,” said Mancini, smiling. “Well, follow me. There’s a person of interest I think we’re both due to meet.”

  Hunter and Mancini asked around the casino, trying to get a lead on where Vito Armani Jr., the apple of Vito Armani’s eye once upon a time, hung his hat. Finally they got to a middle-aged cocktail waitress with a raspy smoker’s voice and South Philadelphia accent. She was obviously a transplant, probably leaving behind a life of domestic abuse or something, getting a “fresh start,” if that’s what you’d call getting groped and serving drinks to inebriated cheapskates. She got lucky this time, though, as in a hundred-dollar memory jogger. Plus, she was a tough broad, fortunately for them. She had no qualms about blabbing about Junior’s whereabouts.

  The red neon sign was supposed to say “The Dunes,” which was the rickety old beachfront motel where Junior supposedly lived. Instead it just read “Dun.” Hunter laughed to himself when he considered the irony. That’s all he could do at this point. If things didn’t go exactly as planned from here on out, he was dun. Done practicing law. Done breathing. Finito.

  The toothless septuagenarian manning the front desk was watching Dr. Phil on a small black-and-white set when they walked in. He looked up in their direction, barely noticing them—and barely breathing, for that matter. “Can I help you?” he mumbled without ever taking his yolky eyes off the boob tube.

  “You sure can,” said Mancini, taking the lead. “An acquaintance by the name of Vito Armani stays here,” he said assuredly and then waited to read the old man’s reaction. He just nodded. “Well it’s urgent that we speak with him.”

  “He ain’t in no trouble again, now, is he? You guys aren’t cops?” He dropped his head momentarily and said under his breath, “I knew that boy was bad news.”

  “Just old friends.”

  “You sure don’t seem like his kind,” he said, looking them over and making
eye contact for the first time.

  “Don’t let the fancy suits fool you,” chimed in Hunter.

  The clerk wasn’t buying it. But he gave them Junior’s room number anyway, with a deviant glint in his eye. He said it as if he were ratting him out. Part of him was probably hoping they were there either to bump him off or arrest him. “And when you see him, tell the muttonhead he still owes me for last month. This ain’t no friggin’ charity.”

  Mancini whipped out his wallet. “This should tide him over for a couple more days,” he said, dropping five hundred on the counter like Monopoly money. The old man’s eyes bugged, and he grinned ear to ear, the toothless mouth looking like a little old lady’s. The pair didn’t bother waiting around. “Hey! Don’t you need a receipt, mister?” he asked as they took off.

  They surveyed escape routes before they got to Junior’s room, which were limited to the fire escape along the side of the decaying building. The second Mancini knocked on the door, they heard the sound of somebody making a run for it. Fortunately, there was no foot chase, but Hunter was prepared to cut him off if need be. Mancini was too quick, though, kicking open the chained door in one shot as if it were a movie prop in a campy Steven Segal flick.

  Junior looked as though he’d been rotting away to the core. Booze, drugs, and heavy partying had clearly taken their toll, making the short, stocky guy in his mid- to late-thirties look more like fifty. He could’ve been his father’s brother, a la Frank Sinatra and Frank Sinatra Jr. Everything about his face was virtually identical to Vito’s except for the full head of thick hair, slightly graying now. Come to think of it, that’s probably the one redeeming feature that got him laid back in the day. Hunter got a visual of him cruising the neighborhood with his degenerate friends in a brand-spanking-new red Corvette, just purchased by the father, naturally, who probably spoiled the rotten hell of him.

  Hunter stood there observing the shakedown and trying to figure out who Junior reminded him of. Joe Pesci. That’s it. “Get your fucking hands off me!” threatened Junior. Even the annoying, high-pitched voice was the same. He continued to squirm as Mancini held him against the faded marine blue wall of the one-bedroom studio, a tacky display of nautical knots falling to the ground, the paper-thin glass cracking on impact.

  Mancini was a lot tougher than Hunter would’ve ever guessed. His strong hand cupped Junior’s neck like a shackle. If he wanted, he could’ve easily held him off the ground. And Junior’s lame attempts at self-protection couldn’t conceal the fear holding his brooding brown eyes hostage and seeping through his thick, sweaty pores. Junior knew he was up shit creek without a paddle, probably for the thousandth time.

  “Why’d you try to bolt?” demanded Mancini softly, looking like a hit man himself in the suit and with a psychotic glint in his eye.

  “Fuck you, you faggot,” tested Junior.

  Mancini grinned, unfazed. “I take it you prefer the hard way.”

  “Fuck your mother!” And then he spit in Mancini’s face. With the back of his free hand, Mancini wiped it off. Then he calmly proceeded to land a powerful blow into Junior’s jaw. His head recoiled.

  “Go to hell!”

  Mancini cracked him again. This time blood started to ooze from Junior’s mouth.

  “I told you guys, I don’t have your friggin’ money.”

  Hunter perked up. So he thinks we’re in the Mafia. Debt collectors.

  “You’re not leaving me too many options here,” said Mancini, playing the role of gangster to the hilt. He is pretending. Right? Either this was the performance of a lifetime or Mancini was connected.

  “Just give me another few days.” Junior still sounded scrappy. But Mancini whaled him again, with blood spurting out this time. Hunter knew what Mancini was doing—wearing him down. Getting him to open up, both literally and figuratively. But he thought that last shot was unnecessary. Junior was starting to sing, as they say. Hunter just hoped Mancini wouldn’t go too far with the act, especially because he was packing heat, legal or not.

  “How many chances does one little shit deserve?”

  Junior’s Joe Pesci mug was starting to swell up. Suddenly, he was looking more like De Niro’s character in Raging Bull. Pesci and De Niro were friends, weren’t they?

  “Please,” he groveled. “Just one last chance.”

  Mancini turned toward Hunter. “What do you think? Is little Junior here fresh out of chances?” Mancini flashed his piece for added impact. Junior’s eyes bulged in terror, realizing that his prayers just might not be answered this time.

  “I say we cut him one last break,” said Hunter mercifully, awkwardly playing along.

  Junior swallowed hard, relieved. “You won’t be sorry,” he vowed pathetically.

  “Then I guess today’s your lucky day,” Mancini said as he released Junior from his chokehold and brushed off his shoulders. “And just so we’re on the same page, how much more do you owe us?”

  “Fif-fifty,” he stammered. “And that’s with the interest,” he said as if his life depended on getting it right. He paused when he didn’t get confirmation. “Why? Isn’t that what youz guys got?”

  Mancini pretended to consider the figure in his head. “Sounds about right.”

  “To me too,” seconded Hunter for authenticity’s sake.

  “Just curious, though. If you don’t mind me asking, how you gonna come up with our money?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Junior snapped defensively, revealing the false and typically delusional hope of a gambler down on his luck.

  “You better. And fast. You’ve got until Thursday. You can only imagine how things are gonna wind up if we have to pay you another visit,” Mancini warned.

  Junior nodded and blinked rapidly, digesting the hypothetical horribles. Found in the back of a trunk naked, bullet in the head, and a wad of hundreds stuffed into his empty eye sockets.

  Mancini smiled viciously and then turned to Hunter. “Shall we? Leave Junior alone here so he can work miracles.”

  “Okay.”

  “And just one word of friendly advice,” Mancini added. Junior was all ears now. “Why make everything so hard on yourself? Talk to your old man. We hear the shop’s going gangbusters these days.”

  “He cut me off,” he replied bitterly. “How should I know?”

  “I’m no therapist. But I think it’ll be much healthier for both of you if you put aside your differences and figure something out,” threatened Mancini. Hunter, feeling sorry for the guy, caught one final glimpse of Junior, who was on the verge of a breakdown. And then he followed his boss-slash-pseudo-mob-boss out of the room, considering what might happen if the real Mafia got wind of their little impersonation.

  The Honorable Harlan Russo’s most productive hours tended to be in the evening, well after his staffers and clerks had called it quits for the day. Russo was incredibly intelligent, no doubt about that. His superior work ethic distinguished him from his contemporaries, however, most of whom had become exceedingly good at delegating out the most tedious facets of their job, such as drafting opinions and poring over the mediocre and oftentimes long-winded briefs submitted by the blubbering lawyers who appeared before them. A few years back, when a vacancy for supervising judge opened up, Russo was the obvious choice. He had a couple decades of experience on the bench and was willing to shoulder far more responsibility for only a small salary increase. The ideal candidate. Plus, he would get the status he needed to finally make a bid for an opening on the appeals court a few years down the line.

  Once the five o’clock mass exodus had ended, unpaid overtime to city employees being like a stake in the heart of a vampire, he would generally put the finishing touches on the outstanding orders of the day and then amuse himself with some of his colleagues’ decisions as reported in The Legal Intelligencer. Admittedly, Russo also took great pleasure in reading the shameless publicity by some of the local firms, usually chuckling as he considered how deceiving appearances could be, familiar with most of th
e smug expressions and generally underwhelmed by their trial advocacy skills. Next he would turn on his wood-encased Tivoli radio, permanently set to his favorite classical music station, and pour himself his first of three glasses of scotch, just to take the edge off.

  Like any great leader, he had to maintain a look of unwavering strength at all times, but the job had taken its toll. And like everyone else, he needed a diversion from the constant hostility of litigation. He felt the stress leave his aging frame, his atrophied muscles relaxing, even his bowels loosening. Religiously, he would make his way to the public restroom at the opposite end of the dingy corridor, carrying status reports just to review the dockets of the other judges and make sure the loads were distributed evenly and things were moving along respectably. During the walk to and from the men’s room, he tended to see the same familiar faces, one or two of his colleagues scurrying off to dinner reservations, the cleaning crew maneuvering their carts, bracing for another long night of minimum wage and solitude.

  A bit lighter, his hemorrhoids burning, he would unlock the door to his chambers and walk back to his office, eager to sink his teeth into drafting. He was famous for his opinions, his own signature style. Well-reasoned and controversial, he loved to weave in witty innuendo and double entendres, especially of the sexual variety. He was always curious to know who picked up on them, separate the intellectual wheat from the chaff.

  Tonight, his mind was already reeling with ideas. He had to get this opinion finished. It had been on his plate for a week longer than he preferred, and he had his clerk to thank for that. The case was about a botched boob job on a stripper, another in a long string of crappy medical malpractice suits. Suddenly the strangest thing happened. The smell of alcohol…had he spilled his scotch and traipsed it onto the carpet? That wasn’t it. Tragically, it was the smell of leather and ammonia flooding his nasal cavity. He gasped for breath but couldn’t get any oxygen through the black racing glove sealing his mouth and nose. He was too shocked to react. By the time he tried to flail his arms, put up any sort of struggle, it was already too late. His limbs had gone limp with paralysis, as if they’d been encased in lead. The last thing he saw before being forced into his chambers was the glint of a long metal blade as it hovered near his throat. It was over, and he knew it. Now came the pain. His only salvation was that by the time the warm blood began to coat his neck, the burning was being anaesthetized by a deprivation of oxygen to his panicked brain.