After a funny bounce and then dodging two sliding tackles with elbows, Hunter managed to wrestle himself free at midfield, gathering momentum as he went, the adrenalin coursing through his system like a twin-turbo charge. Within a few fast breaths, he had rocketed into scoring territory. Only the last line of defense stood between him and the tying goal. The obstacle was a brutish prepster with a buzz cut, haughty grin, and tree-trunk thighs. He was like a muscular Richard Nixon as an adolescent.
He slowed for what seemed like a millisecond, scanning the area for crimson and gold jerseys, his school’s colors, and contemplating his penultimate move. He drew the defender out patiently, luring him to commit. And then like a bat out of hell, Hunter cut straight to the goal. Mid-stride, as Hunter cocked his kicking foot and honed in on his target, the faster of the two foiled midfielders was upon him. Somehow he’d managed to catch up. And like a taunted wasp, he was incensed and hungry to avenge the wily maneuver at midfield. Then, suddenly, in a last-ditch act of vindictiveness, the opponent lunged mightily for Hunter’s legs, immediately giving way and plunging him headlong. Hunter’s body tumbled wildly, the fall buttressed cruelly by the near-frozen earth. With one final thud, he landed almost squarely on his nose, having no time to get his arms out to brace the fall. With the clarity of a Hollywood sound effect, the gory cracking sound signaling a broken bone taunted Hunter and the other players, even over the din of cheers and boos.
He still got uneasy just recalling the injury. That was the first and only other time he’d broken his nose and was the origin of the bump, which some, particularly of the female persuasion, had referred to as “character building.” For that, it was worth it, he supposed.
“We should probably get you some medical attention for that,” observed Detective Risotto as he approached Hunter, snapping him out of his stupor.
With the bloodied cloth still pressed against his nose, Hunter said, “I think I’ll survive.”
“We’ve got some ice on the way up.” Risotto paused. “I trust you’re anxious to get the hell out of here.”
“Why?” Hunter asked facetiously. “I enjoy being held against my will and interrogated by some raving lunatic with a badge.”
Risotto smiled, amused. “Please accept my apology on behalf of Detective Rossi. He’s a little…hotheaded, shall we say?”
“To put it mildly.”
“Youth coupled with idealism,” he observed nostalgically, recalling the beginning of his own crime-fighting career. “Something of a lethal combination.”
The detective could’ve just as easily been referring to him. And knowing Risotto, the insinuation was strategic.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s refreshing,” he continued. “But undeniably it’s a liability. I suppose there’s something to be said for a little cynicism every so often. Disillusionment can be a good thing. Breeds tact.”
“Like you, right?”
“Me? Others might say I’m just jaded and miserable. Seen too much of everything. Seen it all in fact. For me, life has become little more than an incessant flow of predictable problems and disappointments.”
“Must be difficult for someone with such a discerning eye. That amazingly keen perception. A real monkey on the back.”
“I get by.”
“How about striking a middle ground?” challenged Hunter. “Maybe that’s where you should concentrate your efforts. All the zeal tempered by a bit of prudence when necessary.”
“Ah,” said Risotto, feigning enlightenment. “The best of both worlds.”
“Something like that,” downplayed Hunter, reminding Risotto that their words were little more than fodder for repartee. The revelations the detective aspired to achieve wouldn’t come so easily. Nevertheless, he continued chiseling away at the words like a Renaissance sculptor practicing his craft on a crude rock until presented with a worthier slab of marble. “Otherwise some might say that you’re too jaded. Blinded to the reality of the situation. Making the facts fit the result. A dangerously myopic perspective.”
“Interesting,” said Risotto, pretending to be affected by Hunter’s power of persuasion. “Sort of like the Supreme Court, if you think about it,” he added skeptically.
Risotto’s observation was surprisingly intuitive for a non-lawyer. The Supreme Court was notorious for inventing rhetorical devices to reach an intended outcome, whether on political, religious, ethical, or moral grounds. Look no further than racial discrimination as a glaring example of that practice. Disparate treatment was actually condoned by the highest court in the land during a nadir in the history of this country’s race relations. It suddenly became apparent to Hunter that Risotto had forgone law school not because he wasn’t enough of an idealist, as he portrayed himself. To the contrary—he was far too much of one. The practice of law, as appealing as it might seem to astute overachievers in the beginning, in actuality was a constant compromise. Attorneys, even the most noble, were too often constrained by limitations pervading the law. They were handcuffed by poorly reasoned opinions, senseless precedent, inartfully drafted legislation, and legislation spearheaded by special interest groups with superior lobbying prowess and cavernous coffers to support the effort. Risotto, although still guided by fundamental legal doctrines, enjoyed much greater autonomy as a cop. He obviously relished his ideological freedom.
“Precisely,” replied Hunter. “Absurd results despite glaring evidence.”
“And you think that’s what I’m doing with you?”
“Too soon to tell. But if the last goon you sent in here was any indication…”
“At any rate,” said Risotto, moving on, “we’ll expect a signed release before we can agree to let you go.” The words were clearly spoken in jest.
“How very prudent of you,” Hunter said mockingly.
“Of course, you’ll have the right to independent legal counsel.”
“And very gracious.”
Shifting gears and accelerating past the witticisms like a fine Italian roadster, Risotto asked, “So why shouldn’t we charge you, Hunter?” His tone suddenly turned sober, as if Hunter was dangerously close to being charged with capital murder. “I’ll be frank with you. It doesn’t get much more serious than murdering a judge. The judiciary, not to mention all the heavy hitters in the city, want to see justice served on this one. And swiftly. They want to see someone hang. Not to mention I’ve got the feds breathing down my neck. They want answers, and yesterday.”
Wronged, Hunter replied, “I’m sure you’re under inordinate amounts of pressure, Detective. But you’re not going to get a confession out of me. None of that stuff changes the simple fact that I’m innocent and you know it. Even more important, my conscience is clean.”
“Do I?” Risotto smiled skeptically, clearly possessing evidence to the contrary.
“I swear I had nothing to do with it,” Hunter vowed. “Just think about it. What could I possibly stand to benefit by doing something insane like that?”
Risotto remained unmoved, almost seeming to ignore Hunter’s plea. “And what about his intention to throw out your case? I can only imagine Mediacast’s reaction to that,” probed Risotto, delicately peeling back a layer with the dexterity of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. He was getting to motive.
Hunter was seething inside as he reflected back on the Mediacast case, the abortion of justice that it was. He tried to maintain his cool, however.
“Come on, Hunter. I can’t imagine you weren’t pretty peeved about the whole thing.”
“I was angry. Naturally. But murdering a judge, for Christ’s sake?” The ludicrousness of the allegations was infuriating. “How about the evidence? The murder weapon? Forensics?” Hunter had a right to know.
“No murder weapon yet. But we’re leaving no stone unturned, I can assure you,” he said accusatorily.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Detective,” Hunter replied, rebuffing the insinuation.
“I’m flattered.” He ran his fingers through his
hair, as if he were on a Las Vegas stage, performing a world-famous illusion as the flashbulbs illuminated the blackness, revealing the mesmerized gazes of his legions of female devotees. “As it turns out, all we have at the moment are some prints.”
“There you go,” said Hunter, a bit surprised that one of Mancini’s henchmen would be so sloppy. “Any solid matches?” he asked, breathing an internal sigh of relief. His hope was slightly restored, at least temporarily.
“It’s a little premature. We’re still running some additional comparisons. But we think we’re close, very close.”
“Anything you’re at liberty to divulge?”
“Are you asking…?” He acted taken aback, as if Hunter had just tendered a bribe to a public official.
“You’re right. I understand,” balked Hunter, realizing he was asking far too much from someone so by-the-book.
“Typically, I can’t share that kind of information at this stage in an investigation,” chastised Risotto. “You of all people should know that.”
Hunter nodded stoically, reminding himself that extracting vindicating information wouldn’t be so simple with him. Plus Risotto seemed to be reveling in playing hard to get.
“But in this particular case,” Risotto went on, doing an about-face, “I don’t see any real harm in filling you in. You should be the first to know, I suppose.”
“You have my utter confidence,” assured Hunter.
“Good.” Risotto acknowledged the vow with a manly stare. “Because we think they may be… yours, Hunter.” And then the accusation hit him like a heavyweight body blow.
“You’re kidding?” He nearly gagged on his own words.
“I wouldn’t make light of something like that…”
“There’s a simple explanation for that,” insisted Hunter, coming off a bit more defensive than he intended. “I argued a motion in chambers. It must’ve been one of the last ones he heard before he died,” he surmised. “That has to be the case.” Typically, Hunter preferred these types of conferences. They were much less formal than hearings and motions, which gave counsel an opportunity to curry a bit of favor with the judge. Best of all, they were generally off the record. There was no stenographer, which meant preserving objections and strictly abiding by the rules of procedure weren’t nearly as important. This was one time, though, when he would’ve killed for a record. Without one, there wasn’t even proof that the conference occurred—only proof that he was there and may have in fact been the killer.
“We should know by morning. The disciplinary board’s cooperating fully.” Risotto was checking the prints against the database of attorneys in the state. Applicants were required to be fingerprinted prior to sitting for the bar exam.
“You need to believe me. A match means nothing. Do you honestly think I would’ve been so careless? If I was going to do something like that, I would’ve made damn sure the place was pristine before I left.”
“And what if you panicked? In the heat of the moment, for instance? Realized the gravity of what you’d just done? Or perhaps there was an inquisitive knock on the door? Couldn’t that explain the evidence left behind at the crime scene?” Risotto’s arguments were sound.
“And what about the judge’s clerk?” Before Hunter even finished asking the question, though, he realized how precarious his situation was quickly becoming. Desperate, he was relying upon the likes of Russo’s clerk. I’m screwed. That arrogant little shit had it out for me the day I met him.
“Can’t reach him,” the detective said as he whipped out his iPhone. “Sean Meister,” he read. “Sound right?” confirming the name as he glanced back up.
“Think so.” His words were lethargic, tainted by dejection.
“And of course, there’s Ms. Zane,” he observed.
A vacant expression overtook Hunter’s countenance. It was like drowning as an insurmountable undertow enveloped its next victim, muscles frozen in a state of sheer panic and exhaustion.
“She was on the opposite side of the case, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” replied Hunter.
“She would’ve been present for this conference in chambers, right?”
“Yeah.” All Hunter could think about was his rivalry with Melissa Zane, the one that began back in law school and resurfaced just days earlier in Russo’s courtroom. Impeccable timing! They loathed one another, and Hunter was fairly certain her capacity for hatred outweighed his. That didn’t bode well at all.
“Unfortunately, the sharks over at her firm won’t let me get near her without a subpoena,” he said.
“Just fucking great,” Hunter muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Maybe it’s time we Mirandized you, Hunter.” “Mirandizing” someone was criminal justice parlance for reading an arrestee his Miranda rights. The right to remain silent, etcetera. “Just to keep everything above board,” he added, gesturing toward the door.
“So you’re telling me I need to lawyer up?”
“Whatever you need to do, Hunter,” replied the detective, like a therapist assuaging a patient’s fit of hysteria.
“So you are holding me?” he persisted angrily.
Apologetically, he replied, “Looks like it, I’m afraid. At least until morning, if I have my way. We should know a lot more by then.” Then Risotto started retreating toward the door.
“And what about Sheila?”
Risotto stopped. “We’re checking out a few tips that came in.”
“Tips! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Hunter heard himself losing it.
“One of which seems extremely promising,” the detective said methodically.
“Wake up, detective! There’s no time for that. Whatever maniac killed Russo is obviously targeting Sheila too.”
“Duly noted, counselor.”
“And what about the death threat I got a few days ago?”
“What death threat?” he asked doubtfully.
“A note accompanied by a bullet. Warning me to stay away from Vito Armani.”
“Frankly, this is the first time I’m hearing about it,” replied Risotto dubiously. “Why’s that? You could’ve told me when I originally interviewed you.”
Hunter was pretty sure he had. Then again, on second thought.
“Did you report it to anyone else?”
“Nothing official.”
“And why not?”
“And what would that have done?” asked Hunter.
“Who knows? But I might’ve been able to use it.” A pause. “And did you recognize the handwriting?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like it?” answered Risotto, straight-faced.
“No. I didn’t. Anyway, you guys need to look harder! This is a fucking joke and you know it!”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to being giving orders,” said Risotto, playing the trump card. “Detective Murphy will be in shortly to read you your rights. And I’ll make sure he brings some ice, too. It’s starting to look pretty nasty.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Watch me.” And then Risotto disappeared from the room, preparing for his next mind-blowing illusion.
FIFTY-FOUR
The sterile walls of the interrogation room closed in on him in a painfully grueling state of suspended animation, his fate hopelessly at the mercy of a slick detective and his fabricated charges. Hunter closed his eyes, which were stinging slightly from sweat. He desperately hoped that when he reopened them, he would be in his own bed, waking up from this hellish nightmare. When that didn’t do the trick, he fantasized he was being Punk’d. It was useless, though.
The hands on the clock over the door, positioned at just about 7:30 p.m., were moving at a snail’s pace. Hunter chuckled inside at the sheer absurdity of his plight. Am I cracking up? Ever since he’d been assigned the Vito’s case, just a few days ago, time had been traveling at warp speed. Yet now that he was on the verge of losing his freedom, for God k
nows how many decades, the last thing on his mind was tomorrow’s trial. Barely an hour had passed since Detective Murphy, the one with the Paul Newman eyes, apprised Hunter of his constitutional rights, of all things, and replenished his ice wrap, which was furiously melting from the stagnant, balmy air.
Jolting him from his reverie, a torrential cascade of emotion and conjecture, was a completely unexpected yet familiar voice.
“Dude! What the fuck’s going on?”
His curiosity forced him to glance up too quickly, the throbbing sinus pain soaring to excruciating. “Ow.” And as his eyes focused on the figure before him, the smile taking root at his jaw was shunned by yet another shooting pain from the contracting muscles. “Ouch! Fuck!”
It was Dillon, in all his lawyerly glory, looking more sophisticated than usual. Even his tie, an Armani striped number, was cleanly knotted and fastened tautly. He was completely out of character.
Particularly fragile, Hunter was moved by Dillon’s support. One truly never knows who one’s friends are until adversity barges its way into one’s life.
Hunter’s curiosity piquing, he asked, “How did you find out I was here, Dillon?”
“You’re shitting me, right?” he asked.
“No.” Hunter shook his head earnestly. And his shoulders slouched with dejection. He massaged his temples as if they were valves of an overworked diesel engine.
Dillon’s swarthy expression turned uncharacteristically apologetic. “It’s all over the news, man. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Dillon gave Hunter a moment for that reality to sink in. Finally, Hunter looked up. “It’s all right. I mean, the writing was on the wall,” he added, making a throwaway gesture with his free hand. “Just didn’t think it would happen so fast. Or that it wouldn’t sort itself out by the time the story broke.” He recalled the shapeless blob of media accosting him on his way into the building. “This whole thing’s so unreal,” he told himself.
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