“Mr. Gray, is it?” asked the mayor.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Don’t let anyone tell you I don’t have an open-door policy over here,” said the mayor with an endearing smile and a slightly cheesy wink in the woman’s direction, who attentively awaited her next official or unofficial instruction, as the case may be.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Your timing was actually impeccable—a welcome distraction from the tedium of planning next month’s itinerary. For some reason, Ms. Worthington here is under the false impression that the mayor is somehow capable of being in more than one place at the same time.” The mayor gestured toward the unidentified woman. “Mr. Gray, meet Ms. Worthington, personal assistant extraordinaire.” Olivia Worthington, half-black, with green eyes, long hair, and very long legs, nodded in Hunter’s direction.
“So, Mr. Gray, I don’t have much time. What’s the emergency?” As an afterthought, he asked, “And of course, you’re not with the press, are you?”
Hunter smiled at the irony of the question. “Far from it.”
“Excellent. Then what may I do you for?”
“Sir, it involves the city’s case against Vito Armani,” he said, trying to read the mayor’s reaction when he heard the name.
“Vito Armani,” he scoffed. “As in Vito’s Pizza, Vito Armani?” It was obvious Mayor Valentine didn’t hold Mr. Armani in very high esteem.
“That’s the one.”
“What the hell did he do this time?” he asked sternly.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Then I’m not sure I can be of much help to you. We obviously have our attorneys handling the matter, whatever it is. And naturally I’m not at liberty to comment on this case—or any of them, for that matter.”
“Sir—”
“Really, Mr. Gray,” he replied, “unless it’s truly an emergency, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Suddenly, Hunter could hear activity right outside the office, presumably other staffers or security detail awaiting the mayor’s cue.
“Please,” he said, putting his hands out in a diplomatic, hold-on-a-minute gesture. “I’m an associate at Whitman Packer and lead counsel on the case for the city—the Human Relations Commission, to be more precise.” He paused, allowing Mayor Valentine to absorb that fact. “I work with Al Mancini.”
A light bulb seemed to go off inside the mayor’s head. His exaggerated, even-I-make-mistakes smile morphed into an arrogant chuckle, clearly a response he had mastered over the years in politics. Ms. Worthington followed suit in a shameless display of ring kissing.
“Al Mancini. Now there’s a blast from the blast,” he said, running his thumb’s fingernail in between his yellowish front teeth. A nervous habit, Hunter thought. “What’s Al up to these days? You’ll have to convey my warm regards.”
“Will do,” said Hunter, feeling the mayor’s stare bore into him. Utter curiosity and determination marked Valentine’s expression, his hair an African-American salt-and-pepper puff—much heavier on the salt.
While Hunter had the mayor’s undivided attention, he figured he’d get right to the point, if to gauge his reaction more than anything else. There was no doubt in Hunter’s mind that the mayor’s behavior was strange. Now it was just a question of whether he was concealing something or merely playing the part of the savvy politician. “Sir, it’s my understanding that you, rather than the Human Rights Commission, initiated the case against Vito. Isn’t that highly unconventional?” Hunter had no actual proof for this allegation, but it was the only hypothesis that made sense.
Valentine, unfazed, smiled. “I’m not sure where you came up with that farfetched theory, or even why, for that matter,” he replied expertly, slowly turning toward his assistant. “Olivia, why don’t you leave us alone for a minute? Get started on the changes we discussed while I finish up here with Mr. Gray.”
Olivia obediently left the room. And with a simple nod from Valentine, the door to his office clicked shut. As cool as he was playing it in the company of staff, they were alone now. Valentine had carte blanche to blow up, set aside restraint. There were no witnesses, and it became perfectly clear that the mayor intended to do just that. “Who the hell do you think you are waltzing into my office slinging accusations like that? Without any evidence, no less.”
“With all due respect—” Hunter started, not intimidated in the least.
“Oh, come on now, son,” whipped the mayor, spinning on the heel of his Gucci loafer before moving into Hunter’s space. “Don’t give me that fake polite bullshit. Where are you going with this? Because I don’t take too kindly to people who waste my time.” A deliberate pause. “Does Al, or shall I say Mr. Mancini, even know you’re here harassing the person in control of every goddamn contract that firm of yours has ever seen?”
No response.
“That’s what I thought,” replied the mayor angrily. “And why shouldn’t I get him on the phone right now?”
“That’s your prerogative, Mr. Mayor,” said Hunter, calling his bluff. “But I would consider this before you go ahead and do that. I’ve acquired evidence that links Mr. Mancini to Vito Armani. If it turns out in the end this case was nothing more than a ruse, you’ll be implicated, guaranteed. And don’t think for an instant that your old pal Al would hesitate to sell you out if it meant cutting some sort of deal for himself.” Hunter waited for the threat to register. “Still want to make that call?”
“Just ask your goddamn questions. And know that this conversation never happened.”
The door clicked open, and Ms. Worthington reappeared. She held a note out in the mayor’s direction as she concentrated on her seductive gait and high heels. Hunter noticed for the first time that her business professional skirt was about two inches too short.
The mayor casually accepted the note and glanced at it, his accusatorial stare shifting to Hunter as the assistant retreated toward the door. “But before you do, let me ask you a couple questions.”
Hunter consented reluctantly, knowing that whatever was on that note couldn’t be good.
“So we just received word that you’re a person of interest in Judge Russo’s murder investigation. Isn’t that right?” he asked, revealing his litigation chops. In his previous life, Valentine had been a litigator at a powerful and politically connected insurance defense firm. “Why don’t you fill me in there, counselor,” he ordered.
“There’s nothing to know,” said Hunter, masking his anxiety. “Just a simple misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” asked Valentine, smiling in utter disbelief. “That’s a pretty big fucking misunderstanding, son. Isn’t it?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” replied Hunter, adamant about his innocence. “I can assure you.”
“I sure as hell hope not.” The mayor paused to strategize his next move. “And this wouldn’t be connected in any way to Judge Primeau, now would it?”
“Excuse me?” How the hell did he know about her?
“Oh, I know all about your convenient little tryst with that judge. A highly unethical one, I’m hearing, to boot,” he added, twisting the knife. “Isn’t that why you’re really here, though?” he pressed. “It’s got nothing to do with the city’s case against Mr. Armani. Rather, it’s about you. Trying to cover your goddamn tracks. That’s my theory.”
“My tracks?” questioned Hunter. “And you think I’d come here to do that?”
“Not a doubt in my mind,” Valentine replied, puffing his lips in revulsion. “Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Gray. I suppose you want me to start an investigation—something implicating Al, no less.” Valentine’s responses were beginning to seem rehearsed. As if he’d been forewarned by Mancini.
“If that’s what it takes,” tested Hunter.
Like an enraged bull, Valentine began his charge, getting right up in Hunter’s face. He was absolutely seething, venomous even. For a second, Hunter was sure the mayor was goin
g to clutch his throat. Yet he stopped just short in an impressive display of will power—the sort of control exuded by the most charismatic and narcissistic of leaders. “If I find out that you came here for the purpose of somehow implicating me in any of this, don’t think for an instant I won’t hunt you down and destroy you.”
“With all due respect,” replied Hunter, refusing to back down, “it’s too late for that.”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
Hunter retreated, never taking his eye off of Valentine. “I’ll leave. That’s fine. But I can assure you, sir, that I’m close. Very close,” he threatened.
“You’re insane. You know that?”
Hunter donned a big smile a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining. “Maybe you’re right. But just don’t say I never gave you a fighting chance,” he said before opening the door and making sure to slam it behind him.
FORTY-EIGHT
The adrenalin still coursed through Hunter’s veins as he hoofed it the dozen or so blocks to the main offices of the Human Relations Commission. The thought of cabbing it entered his mind, but that was short-lived. The concept of being confined and jostled around in the back of a barely roadworthy jalopy didn’t appeal to him. He was riding too high after confronting the mayor, reveling in a newfound sense of liberation—the kind that comes with pissing off the worst possible person in the midst of an idealistic crusade. Like a sleeping dragon stirring in its lair, the anticlimax was right around the corner. Yet for now, all there was to do was keep it at bay and bask in the euphoria of denial.
Upon entering the cavernous lobby of the office building that housed the city’s Human Relations Commission, Hunter glanced at his watch. The Georgian Revival building was known as The Curtis Center, named after the illustrious nineteenth-century publisher Cyrus Curtis. It was located in the posh historical section of town known as Society Hill. Hunter was nearly an hour late. Perfect, he thought to himself. The commission’s top dog, Doctor Thaddeus Wilson, was one arrogant son of a bitch, notorious for making everyone wait, just to make a point. His agenda, which seemed to be mostly political hobnobbing disguised as altruism, clearly took precedence. He dressed like a 1970s pimp and spoke with a preacher’s cadence. Rumor had it that he was somehow connected to Farrakhan and the rather notorious Nation of Islam, which wouldn’t have surprised Hunter in the least. Hunter would be there just in the nick of time, right after Wilson had finished spewing off his rhetoric of injustice and engineered diatribes. The usual dog and pony show. This time he wanted to turn the tables on Wilson—get him off kilter a bit. Shake things up. After all, this would likely be his last chance to unearth the true origins of the Vito’s case. He had to get to the bottom of precisely how this lawsuit had begun, once and for all.
Hunter was immediately escorted to the conference room by a nosy, fiftysomething Chatty Cathy type.
“Meeting over already?” he asked, setting his bag down gently, hyper-aware of the gun inside.
Stephanie, e-mailing on her BlackBerry with her back to the door, turned in her chair. “Does it look like it’s over?” She was visibly annoyed. The smallish conference room was littered with boxes of archived files.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Refused to start without you.”
“And why’s that?”
“Wouldn’t say.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You were totally right about this scoundrel.”
“Total prima donna, huh?” Hunter paused. “And you told him it was my idea to have you handle the interview?”
“Wouldn’t hear of it,” she said, sighing and arching her brow. “Unbelievable.” After a deliberate pause, “So, how did the power breakfast go? You’re looking pretty self-assured. Did he give you what you wanted?”
“Still too soon to tell.”
“But he saw you?”
Hunter nodded contemplatively.
“Wow. Pretty impressive.”
“That’s one way of characterizing it, I guess.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Let’s just say the meeting was cut short rather abruptly.”
“He threw you out?” she asked in disbelief.
“Sure did.”
“No way. That’s insane.”
“Tell me about it. That target on my back just got a whole helluva lot bigger. That’s for damn sure.”
“Hunter,” she replied, shaking her head empathetically.
“I’ll survive,” he replied, averse to pity.
“So did Mancini’s name come up?” she asked, pressing him more than usual. Hunter just chalked it up to her unwavering self-confidence and naiveté.
“In passing.”
“And how did he react?”
“It felt rehearsed—let’s put it that way. Played everything real close to the vest.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind, though. He’s involved.”
“Incredible.”
“I know,” said Hunter, his focus elsewhere. “Stay here. I’ll be right back. Let me find out if this goofball ever intends on making an appearance.”
“And by the way, remind me to tell you about my meeting with Mr. Hayek,” she said as an afterthought, playing down its significance.
“Ruben?”
“Yes,” she replied, grinning as she basked in the glory of her success—the good soldier soaking up the admiration from her commanding officer.
“How’d you manage that?”
“I have my own connections,” she said slyly.
“Clearly. I want to hear every detail.”
“Of course.”
“Is he on board?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Dead serious.”
“You’re a genius.”
Nearly a half hour later, Wilson was wiping his brow with a lavender silk handkerchief and fanning himself with the other hand, which was adorned with a diamond pinkie ring. The zoot-suit-style pinstriped jacket was draped over the chair next to him, and the sleeves of his coast-to-coast collared white dress shirt were rolled up, patches of sweat on his fleshy stomach adhering to the shiny polyester blend.
“Is it hot in here?” asked Wilson, looking around as if he expected to find a bonfire in the corner. Meanwhile, the sunlight, which typically penetrated the grimy street-side windows, was temporarily concealed by an ominous cloud mass. And the air conditioning was still blasting, keeping the room relatively cool on such an unseasonably humid day.
“I’m not,” said Hunter, shaking his head, holding back a smile. “Steph?”
“Cool as a cucumber.”
Wilson cocked his head, sensing he was being toyed with.
“But let’s get back to my question—Mr. Wilson, right?”
“Like I said—”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” said Hunter, interrupting him. “And you really haven’t answered the question.”
“Because I’ve got nothin’ more to say about it,” he responded, starting to get indignant. “We were perfectly within our rights to file the original complaint. And that’s precisely what we decided to do here.”
Hunter was still exploring the question of why the original suit didn’t make any reference to Ruben Hayek or even seem to contemplate Ruben’s allegations against Vito, for that matter. Instead, the original suit was amended, which created the distinct appearance that taking on Ruben’s story was little more than an afterthought, added simply for the purpose of bolstering the city’s case, incorporating that conspicuously absent element of human drama. In the commission’s history, this was the first and only time a suit initially had been pursued by the commission in its own name—confirmed.
“So that’s your explanation?” chimed in Stephanie. “Just because you can? And you expect us to believe that?”
Wilson managed a slightly sinister expression. “You’ve got no choice.” He was taunting her now. “Do you, lady?”
“Maybe not,” chim
ed in Hunter, “but the commissioners who will be deciding the case certainly will. And you’re kidding yourself if you think this won’t be a critical angle worked by the defense. They will make a fucking mountain out of this blunder.” Hunter went right back after him. “And save your sexist bullshit for somebody else. With all due respect, of course, Commissioner Wilson.” His tone was unmistakably facetious.
Stephanie mouthed, “Bitch slap,” basking in the satisfaction of watching Wilson get called out.
Suddenly, Dr. Wilson pushed himself away from the conference table like an immature teen at dinner reacting to allegations of degeneracy being slung by his parents. He quickly got to his feet, ready to storm out of the room any second. “I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
Hunter kept coming at him, though, standing himself and leaning forward over the table for impact. “Now you listen to me. I don’t give a crap who the hell you think you are or which corrupt politician handpicked you from God knows where. The simple fact is that you need us. And as your counsel, we urge you to sit your ass back down and do exactly what we say, starting with telling us the truth.” Suddenly, the commissioner’s mobile phone started to chirp out the disco beat of “Get Down Tonight.” Do a little dance, make a little love.
Wilson immediately sent the call to voicemail, a cue that Hunter had finally gotten his attention. “Now if you decide to walk out of this room, that’s on you. And you better believe me, both you and rest of this commission will be the laughingstock of the agencies in the city and across the country. The black eye you’ve already brought upon yourself will seem like nothing by comparison. Is that what you want? Vito Armani hitting the national media circuit, laughing his rich ass off? Of course, that will be before he sues the shit out of the city for malicious prosecution.” Hunter paused, letting the hypothetical horrible marinate for a second in Wilson’s mind. “Because you can mark my words: you can kiss your sweetheart appointment and all its little perks behind. The government car, the fancy dinners, expense accounts. And that bloated city pension—the one funded by us hard-working taxpayers—that will be gone so fast you won’t even know what hit you.”
Justice Hunter Page 27