Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  Wilson was back down now, cowering and attentive. Much better, Hunter thought.

  “So who the hell put you up to it? And I want a name.”

  “Put me up to what? You’re insane.”

  “This is your last chance,” said Stephanie, echoing Hunter’s sentiment.

  “Maybe this will help. We’ve analyzed the signatures on both complaints. You do recall signing off on these, right?”

  “I do.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Not sure—”

  Hunter cut Wilson off, right back to playing dumb. Whoever or whatever he was protecting, thought Hunter to himself, was pretty damn significant. “The handwriting doesn’t match.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is that so?” asked Hunter, nodding to Stephanie. Stephanie proceeded to remove the papers from a manila folder. She placed them atop the table, forcing Wilson to look.

  “It’s amazing you have the audacity to sit here and deny what we’re saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a handwriting expert there tomorrow, just to impeach this entire office’s credibility. Of course, the very real threat of criminal forgery will come next.”

  “It’s pretty obvious,” said Stephanie.

  Hunter studied Wilson’s body language, which was fidgety and distracted. Wilson refused to make eye contact. Hunter just figured he was having some sort of internal debate about how much to reveal, if anything. He was clearly conflicted in a fess-up-now-and-save-my-sorry-ass sort of way.

  “All right, all right.” A deliberate pause. Hunter perceived that to be a bad sign. Wilson had elected to invent a story as he went along as opposed to ’fessing up.

  Stephanie and Hunter exchanged a quizzical glance.

  “The signature on the original filing isn’t mine,” he admitted. “I had asked my secretary to sign my name. Strictly pro forma,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “And it was the first and only time I’d ever asked her to do something like that. She can vouch for any of this if we need her to.”

  “Might I ask why?” questioned Hunter.

  “Family emergency.” Wilson managed a clearly artificial and contrived look of distress—the kind that people use when they’re milking a family crisis in the workplace—justifying poor performance and the like.

  “Family emergency?”

  “Yeah,” stalled Wilson.

  “So do you plan on sharing or just keeping us in suspense?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he replied, momentarily shifting his gaze.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You realize that explanation won’t suffice when you’re under oath?” warned Stephanie.

  “It’s gonna have to,” he said arrogantly, “because that’s the goddamn truth.”

  “Go on,” instructed Hunter, keeping them on task, tired of wasting valuable time and getting worked over.

  “What else do you want to know?” asked Wilson, feigning a willingness to talk.

  “So you drafted it?”

  “If you mean was I the one who literally typed it up? Of course not,” he said, scoffing at the notion that a powerful man such as himself would be reduced to administrative tasks.

  “I meant put the suit together. Determine whether there was enough there to proceed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the same for the amended complaint? The one adding Ruben Hayek, presumably with his consent?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied, instinctually shifting away his lying eyes. Bullshit.

  “We’re not buying it,” said Hunter, shaking his head regrettably. Wilson was fresh out of chances. Hunter signaled to Stephanie, and they both rose. “Just tell us who you’re covering for.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re delusional, Mr. Gray?” The commissioner’s smile was a cross between admiration and derision.

  “Of course, Mr. Wilson,” said Hunter with a fiendish grin. Right back at you. “Just delusional enough to suspect you’re covering up for some pretty influential players.”

  “Covering up?” he asked, galled. “I take serious offense at the implication.”

  “I’ll try to remember that when I’m handing over the evidence to the district attorney’s office, Mr. Wilson.”

  Hunter and Stephanie started for the door.

  “Wait,” insisted Wilson. “Hold on a minute.”

  Neither slowed, though. “See you tomorrow, Commissioner,” said Hunter, indolently. “You can explain everything then.” And then the door clicked shut.

  FORTY-NINE

  Hunter and Stephanie descended the single flight of white marble steps outside The Curtis Center into what could only be described as anticlimax hell. For all the zeal and unchecked idealism, they barely had anything to show for it. Naturally that was putting aside instinct and a smattering of flimsy evidence. And that included Gates’s e-mail discovery, which had already lost its luster in light of seemingly innocuous and easily justifiable communications. The claim that somebody had hacked into their respective accounts was entirely defensible in light of the rampant security issues associated with computing. If viruses could deploy malware to transform someone’s computer into a zombie with one careless click of the mouse, any theory of breach was salable. The bottom line was that Hunter’s last-ditch effort to acquire reliable evidence simply wasn’t working. The mayor and now the commissioner refused to budge. Instead, in what appeared to be a well-orchestrated conspiracy of silence, they were digging in their heels, ceding absolutely nothing. And the seeming hopelessness associated with Hunter’s quest for answers had become an albatross around his neck.

  Hunter coughed as black plumes of public transportation exhaust and staggeringly high humidity levels momentarily restricted his breathing, mimicking the symptoms of a massive panic attack. Neither said a word as they retreated back up Walnut Street, defeated and painfully aware that they were quickly running out of options. The prospect of an all-nighter mocked the futility of their last full workday before trial. It was barely noon, and yet there was already a healthy smattering of executive types meandering in cliques, gossiping and snickering in between sips of lavish iced Starbucks concoctions and sodas from one of the dozen or so restaurants within a two-block radius.

  Hunter instinctually glossed over his BlackBerry inbox, momentarily hypnotized by the seemingly infinite cascade of messages. He’d resigned himself earlier that morning to the fact that all 187 e-mails would have to wait until after the trial to get a reply. Of course, there was also the very real possibility that he could be liberated from the onerous task of responding at all, depending on whether he was still gainfully employed after tomorrow’s trial—or incarcerated for that matter. There was a text from Sheila, which elicited a pang of guilt in real time. Against his better judgment, he decided to block it out and instead reply to a text from Dillon, which had come through during the meeting with the commissioner. Dillon claimed to have valuable information and offered to meet, suggesting the Reading Terminal Market, presumably for the crowds and killer lunchtime offerings. It was Philly’s premier indoor farmer’s market, located just a stone’s throw from the Convention Center and Chinatown.

  “I’ll meet you back at the office,” said Hunter abruptly, distracting Stephanie, who was walking and thumbing away on the keypad of her BlackBerry. “Why don’t you start assembling everything? Putting the trial exhibits in order.”

  “Wait. Didn’t you want to hear about my interview with Ruben Hayek?”

  “I did. I mean I do.” Hunter seemed scatterbrained.

  “Then where are you off to?”

  “Dillon thinks he’s got something that will help us. Something major.”

  “Can I go with?”

  “No point in both of us going.”

  “Understood,” she replied, looking very team player. “I get it. You’re right.”

  Hunter had already started off in the other direction.

  “Hey. Where you gonna be? Just in case of
an emergency.”

  “Reading Terminal. Shouldn’t be long, though.”

  “I’ll just stall if anyone asks,” she replied, in sync with Hunter’s rhythm.

  “Perfect.”

  Naturally, they both knew they were referring to Mancini, who was assuredly triangulating on Hunter’s whereabouts like a sonar missile rocketing through the stagnant Philadelphia air.

  Dillon persuaded Hunter to grab lunch at what he claimed would be the least obvious of all locations in the Reading Terminal: the Beer Garden. Leave it to Dillon. Amid the densely packed gastronomical haven, where ascetically garbed Amish men packaged meats and poultry and the aroma of freshly baked Famous Fourth Street chocolate chip cookies wafted into the air, holding the senses of passersby hostage, there was a sparsely decorated German biergarten. Strings of randomly placed white Christmas lights radiated a warm glow seducing travelers in need of thirst quenching. Cheap outdoor patio furniture added a grungy festival flavor, signaling to patrons that the price was right and that the “phila” in philandering and Philadelphia was alive and well. Dillon was already two Hoegaardens in by the time Hunter took a stool next to him at the end of the bar.

  Glassy eyed, Dillon slowly set down the plain-Jane pint glass. “Tell me this wasn’t genius.”

  “You think you’re the only wino lawyer in town?”

  “Hey. Watch your step, homey,” cautioned Dillon. “Now chill the fuck out and order something,” he said, flagging down the haggard, blonde, fortysomething bartender. “One of these for my friend. Thanks, sweetie.”

  “Yuengling draft is fine,” corrected Hunter.

  “Come on. Live a little already. When are you going to stop drinking that piss?”

  “When and if I ever acquire your arrogant sensibility. And can’t forget about world-class charm and nobility. Speaking of piggish and lowly, how’s my ex-girlfriend treating you these days?”

  “She’s in love. What can I say?” He paused, arching his brows suavely. “See what happens when a real man comes along?”

  “I bet.”

  “And how about you? Is that first year still putting you on?”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asked Hunter, taking his first sip.

  “I just don’t know if I would trust her. That’s all.”

  “She’s all right,” assured Hunter.

  “Don’t be so sure.” Dillon gave a considerate pause before explaining. “This is not me saying this either. I checked her out, too. One of the reasons we needed to meet.”

  “With who?” probed Hunter, frustrated more at the possibility he was being duped than anything else.

  “A very reliable source. Let’s put it that way.”

  “Who? That friend of yours over at the US attorney’s office?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Who then?” Hunter questioned before taking a second guess. “That Inspector Clouseau guy?”

  “It’s Corday, smart ass. And yes. That’s who. He’s the best. I’ve told you.”

  Herbert Corday was a God-fearing, cerebral, and highly intelligent former cop and detective who was something of a legend in crime-solving and forensic circles. He was a modern-day sleuth who had graced a recent cover of Philadelphia Magazine, recognized in its smartest Philadelphian edition. Dillon had befriended Mr. Corday after striking up a conversation at a local watering hole on the other side of town.

  Hunter’s stomach went taut—a fisherman’s knot of dread and anxiety. He took a generous sip of the lager, bracing himself.

  “Hey,” said Dillon. “I thought you’d be psyched I did this.”

  “It’s all right,” Hunter acknowledged without elaborating. Dillon left it alone, knowing Hunter well enough to know that eating crow didn’t rank too high in Hunter’s world.

  “So anyway,” continued Dillon, putting his mangled, firm-issued BlackBerry on the bar counter, “and I hope you didn’t fall for this girl.” Dillon’s admonition was chockfull of innuendo, like that of a loving parent warning an experimenting child about the dangers of recreational drug use.

  Hunter barely reacted, maintaining a poker face, on the off chance Dillon was merely speculating.

  “Here’s Exhibit A, my friend.”

  Dillon turned the cracked screen in Hunter’s direction, revealing a surveillance-style photograph of Mancini and Stephanie. Hunter’s instinct was to refute the shot’s significance. That was not feasible, though. The picture clearly showed Stephanie and Mancini exchanging a passionate kiss, both wearing baseball caps and sunglasses, doing their best to look incognito.

  “When was this taken?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “And you’re positive about that?” Hunter pondered the significance of Stephanie’s involvement with Mancini. Was this just Mancini seducing a powerless associate with partnership aspirations? Perhaps there was a history here between them? How much could she possibly know about Mancini’s connection to Vito Armani?

  “Yeah. A hundred percent. Sorry, man.”

  “You don’t need to say that,” replied Hunter defensively, polishing off the beer and pointing subtly to the waitress, cuing her he wanted another. The waitress was at the other end of the bar, cozying up to a heavy-set teddy bear type, in his fifties, wearing a homemade jean jacket vest that revealed biker tattoos and fat-filled arms disguised as muscles.

  “I know,” revealed Dillon, referring to Hunter and Stephanie’s fling. “I’ve got pictures of that too.”

  Dillon’s claim caught Hunter off guard. “What? So now you’re keeping tabs on me too?”

  “Just being thorough.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I was just looking out for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah. Chillax.”

  Hunter wavered against his better judgment.

  “You’re really on edge, man.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” A reflective pause. “It was a one-time thing anyway,” Hunter clarified.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” Dillon assured him, looking him squarely in the eye. The Man Code pronounced that one should never expose a friend as a cheater. Of course, Hunter knew inevitably he’d fess up to Sheila anyway. “Corday already destroyed them.”

  “And what else?” Hunter asked, doing his best to keep his emotions at bay but knowing he had to avoid Stephanie like the plague. I should’ve never let my guard down with her.

  “On her?”

  “Yeah. I’m assuming he did a background check.”

  “He did,” replied Dillon. “And he didn’t find anything. Aside from her penchant for sleazeball egomaniacs, everything else about the girl is clean. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Dillon paused, shaking his head in disbelief. “I knew that chick couldn’t be trusted.”

  “Looks like you were right for once,” conceded Hunter, slightly acerbic. Dillon seemed to be enjoying this too much. Knowing Dillon, he just loved to rub your nose in it. “What about Mancini?”

  “Sure you’re ready for this? I guarantee this is gonna blow your fucking mind.”

  “Would you spit it out already?” demanded Hunter.

  “Okay, okay. Here’s the deal.”

  FIFTY

  For approximately the next hour and with pinpoint accuracy, Dillon proceeded to recount Mancini’s role in a staggeringly sophisticated criminal enterprise, implicating prominent members of the local organized crime family and politicians. The particulars were nothing shy of bone chilling, substantiated by bits and pieces from an ongoing federal criminal probe, snippets that Corday miraculously managed to obtain. As the details were unearthed in Dillon’s laid-back yet brilliant style, Hunter couldn’t help but tip his proverbial hat to Corday, the sleuth, a miracle worker by anyone’s interpretation of that term.

  The evidence presented an intricate mosaic of judicial corruption, with none other than Albert Mancini squarely in the center. Succ
umbing to the allure of pure, unadulterated greed, the root of all evil, as the saying goes, a tight-knit band of the state’s most powerful judges, representing each of the appeal courts and a string of local counties, “sculpted the quintessential model of judicial corruption.” The racket, which essentially placed gilded “For Sale” signs on the front of the judges’ respective lofty benches, had persisted for close to a decade and lined the designer pockets of corrupt officials and partners like Mancini with literally tens of millions of dollars.

  Hunter interrupted, still uncertain about the link to Armani, a man who certainly didn’t need any supplemental income at the risk of an indictment and losing a cash cow. “And the connection to Vito Armani?”

  “You’re joking, right?” Dillon donned an incredulous know-it-all expression.

  “Mafia?” replied Hunter hesitantly. But Hunter’s instincts told him otherwise. He wasn’t sure whom to believe at this point.

  “Bingo.”

  “So you know for a fact that Armani is connected? Not just on the receiving end of an extortion plot.” Mancini had gone out of his way to persuade Hunter that Vito’s son was a deadbeat gambler with fatally high debt owed to Mafia-tied loan sharks.

  “Maybe that’s what Mancini wants you to think. But it’s way off the mark. Armani is undeniably a made man who’s been using that joint to launder money for years.”

  As Hunter continued to mull over the gooey evidence, his cell phone quivered. It was a text from Stephanie warning him that Mancini was on a warpath and was en route to the Reading Terminal. And why would Mancini need to be in bed with the mob if he had this whole judicial corruption thing going? Could he really be that blinded by greed?

  Dillon tried to get a visual on Hunter’s LCD. “What is it?”

  “Nothing really. I guess Mancini found out I’m here, and he’s out for blood. Apparently, he’s on his way.”

  “I’m here, or we’re here?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Who gave you the head’s up? Please don’t tell me it was Stephanie,” said Dillon, dreading the inevitable.