Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  Dillon got up in Hunter’s face, scrutinizing the fractured nose. “And should I even ask?” he probed, acting slightly repulsed.

  “Probably not.”

  “Fair enough.” Dillon paused.

  “And who said that police brutality wasn’t alive and well in the Commonwealth?”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “Nope.” Hunter shook his head. “I guess I kind of deserved it anyway. I definitely provoked the guy.”

  “Threatened his virility?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Works every time.” They shared a moment, the way only friends can in the midst of adversity.

  “Civil rights lawyers would have an absolute field day with this one,” said Dillon. “I’d sue their crooked asses off.”

  “Never been the litigious kind, Dillon,” he replied whimsically. “You of anyone should know that by now.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, Gray. Hey, so aren’t you even a tad curious to know how I got in here?”

  “Not really. But I know how full of shit you can be. So I’m sure it was a fairly colorful story.”

  “I just told them I was your criminal counsel.”

  “Then I’m surprised they let you in, frankly.”

  “Hysterical.”

  “So your reputation truly does precede you,” jabbed Hunter.

  “Not quite, wiseass,” Dillon replied, accustomed to Hunter checking his notoriously colossal ego.

  “You know I can’t resist sometimes.”

  “Timing.” He paused. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, you need any help you can get. You’re just one bad trial away from getting the fucking chair. Or whatever the fuck it is they do to judge killers these days.”

  “Would you just get on with it and please help me get the fuck out of here?”

  “Sure. If you shut the fuck up.”

  “All right,” Hunter replied, rolling his eyes.

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  “You better fucking believe it.” Sporting a calculating grin, Dillon casually glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the glass. “I assume that works for you.”

  “Yeah,” Hunter replied, hesitantly, still digesting Dillon’s generous yet wholly unexpected offer to kick in funds to retain one of the city’s foremost criminal defense lawyers. “That’s good,” he added, nodding as he committed himself to deferring to Dillon’s judgment, his trust in his friend outweighing the undeniable uncertainty. Up until that point, he hadn’t seriously considered retaining a lawyer, still not forsaking all hope. All he needed was to buy a bit more time. Inevitably, newly discovered evidence would exonerate him. He would be vindicated, although his name would never entirely heal from the scarring left by the accusations. Dillon’s act, indubitably for effect more than anything else, merely served to underscore his imprudence, though.

  “But weren’t they even a little suspicious?” asked Hunter out of curiosity. He purposefully toned it down a notch, having to remind himself that the room was wired for audio. “They know I haven’t even called a lawyer yet.”

  “They’re not recording. Or even eavesdropping, for that matter,” he assured Hunter. “Trust me. I have peeps over at the DA’s office. One of whom is smokin’ hot, I might add.”

  Hunter glared impatiently, utterly amazed by Dillon’s insatiable libido.

  “Anyway, they take the privilege pretty fucking seriously these days.” The attorney-client privilege is a bedrock tenet within the American justice system. There may be nothing more sacred. “Constitutional rights are no longer discretionary,” he went on. “The pendulum has swung and too goddamn far, if you ask me.”

  “Obviously,” said Hunter, pointing to his nose.

  “The system ain’t perfect,” he rebutted. “Exceptions to every rule, my friend.”

  Hunter nodded reluctantly. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if they were listening in anyway. He might even kill two birds with one stone. Steadfastly maintain his innocence and shine a spotlight on Mancini’s extracurricular racketeering activities. “So what are you proposing?”

  “You’ve got nothing to hide,” observed Dillon, sounding as if the thought started with a big “If.”

  “Right.” Yet Hunter wondered whether his ears had deceived him. He detected the faintest trace of hesitation in Dillon’s tone. And for some reason entirely unbeknownst to him, he suddenly felt the need to plead his case to Dillon. It was impossible to tell whether Dillon, somewhere in the depths of his soul, doubted his innocence. For the moment at least, Hunter chalked it up to paranoia. Perhaps his own subconscious was toying with him, feeding him the delusions associated with abandonment by supposed allies in the midst of an ill-conceived offensive against his decency.

  “So my vote would be to get the lead detective in here. Explain away any,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “evidence.”

  “He’s incorrigible. His mind’s made up.”

  “I don’t buy it. Everyone’s pliable.”

  “They found my prints in Russo’s chambers,” confessed Hunter.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I was there for that conference,” reminded Hunter. “The one where he tossed the Mediacast case.”

  “So,” Dillon went on, exuding poise, “all we need is the transcript of the proceeding…”

  But Hunter’s regretful expression and lifeless head shake spoke volumes.

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “No reporter.”

  “And you didn’t think to request one?” chided Dillon.

  “Like you would’ve done that! Don’t get sanctimonious with me!”

  “I would’ve! Especially if I knew there was some whack-job judge out there gunning for me. I would’ve gotten every last grunt, moan, and syllable the lunatic uttered. And on the record.”

  “So I dropped the ball,” ceded Hunter. Then he asked, upon noticing that Dillon had started to pace, “Now what?”

  Hunter realized the prints were his greatest obstacle. Even if he could prove he was there for a conference, the fact that they were covering the goddamn place certainly wouldn’t help him. They were there regardless of how or when they got there.

  There was a long pause.

  Brainstorming, under his breath, Dillon said, “And my guy still hasn’t gotten back to me.” Hunter could tell he was frustrated.

  Resigned to his fate, Hunter was sounding stoic now. A heroic grin overtook him. His compassionate and honest eyes assured his friend that everything would be all right. “It’s been decided. They’re charging me.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Very well may be,” he replied coolly, rationally.

  “That’s it? You’re rolling over that easily?” Dillon snapped angrily.

  “Just being realistic.”

  “I appreciate your pragmatism. But we’re talking about your fucking life here, man,” he said, egging him on.

  “Look!” Hunter exclaimed, growing frustrated with what Hunter perceived to be Dillon’s arrogant, even slightly delusional perspective. “I get it!” And then Hunter reeled himself in a bit. “Believe me. I understand. And I never said I was prepared to confess to something I sure as hell didn’t do.”

  “It’s defeatist. You sound like a martyr. Might as well confess with that mentality. Come on,” pleaded Dillon.

  Resisting Dillon’s combative style, Hunter settled back into the pocket. His inner strength, healing the psychological wounds with the force of vampire blood on a thousand-year-old corpse, caught him off-guard. There was an inner resolve even he couldn’t quell.

  Dillon sensed the sea change and placed his hands atop Hunter’s shoulders. “Good. Now that’s better,” he said, massaging firmly with encouragement. “That’s my boy.”

  “You know it’s only a matter of time before they turn it over to DACU.” DACU was an acronym for the District At
torney Charging Unit. They were the guys in charge of reviewing the file and formalizing the charges.

  “Which means we need to get you the fuck out of here. Any way we can.”

  “Any suggestions, counselor?”

  “I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

  “Don’t think too long.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Escorted by Detective Risotto, Albert Mancini made his appearance in the interrogation room, marching as if he’d been rudely interrupted during a board meeting. His suit screamed power and celebrity, and even Risotto, typically unaffected, seemed slightly awe-stricken by the icon’s presence in such humble surroundings. There was no question that Mancini owned the room—any room, in fact—and he fully expected the others around him to bow down in his presence.

  Dillon trained his eyes on Hunter, still looking understandably hesitant, and grinned.

  “Mr. Mancini,” said Hunter.

  “Are you all right, kid?” Mancini’s concern came across as heartfelt.

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to get you some rest, huh? Big day tomorrow.” Of course, Mancini was referring to the Vito’s trial in the morning, perhaps the last thing on Hunter’s mind.

  “I suppose—”

  But Dillon interrupted before Hunter could finish composing a response. “Thanks for your support. You got my message?” Dillon was taking the credit for Mancini’s unexpected arrival.

  “I did, Dillon,” he replied, clearly not wanting to be there. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me handle this.”

  “My money’s on you.” Clearly Dillon’s words implied something more insidious. Yet Mancini wasn’t taking the bait. With his balls in a sling, all Mancini wanted to do was get out of there relatively unscathed. Hold up his end of whatever deal it was he made with Dillon.

  With a comforting hand on Hunter’s shoulder, Mancini barely addressed Risotto, as if he wasn’t even in the room, “Isn’t that right, detective? We see no reason to hold Mr. Gray any longer, do we? He’s been more than cooperative with the investigation, I would assume.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, automatically.

  “Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye on that.”

  “We do.”

  “And, of course, my client will remain available for any further questioning.”

  “I understand, Mr. Mancini.”

  Mancini helped Hunter to his feet, grounding him as he got to his feet.

  “And again, sir,” Risotto volunteered. “Detective Rossi will be disciplined for his unbecoming conduct. With a written apology to follow.”

  “Fine. I expect to be kept apprised, though,” he threatened.

  “Of course.”

  “The district attorney will tell you whether you need to contact me directly or not as well.”

  “Right.”

  “Good evening then, detective.”

  Just that quickly and strangely, the unlikely triumvirate made their way to the main entrance. Not a word was exchanged—just deafening silence. The tranquility of Hunter’s first moment of freedom was short-lived, though, as a throng of reporters sprang from the relative darkness, feasting on their prey like ravenous jackals on their next meal. All Hunter could do was stare in wonder as a poised Mancini addressed the barrage of questions with grace and aplomb. The man was clearly designed for the media appearance, making believers out of critics as he tainted the jury pool for years to come and maintained Hunter’s innocence. It was a witch hunt taken right from the pages of history against a promising young attorney heroically delving into the nexus between the mob and Vito Armani’s estranged son. It was almost incomprehensible to think that Mancini was the same person who had traded verbal barbs with detectives just moments ago. He was a fierce adversary—one both Dillon and he had almost certainly underestimated. The next day or so should be interesting, thought Hunter as the dread boiled over into his imagination.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The ceremonial courtroom on the second floor of city hall was packed to the gills with throngs of reporters, members of the public, and others, all fascinated by the case that had been transfixing the Philadelphia region and even the rest of the country for months. The City of Philadelphia v. Vito Armani promised to be the most polarizing and conflict-laden battle in years, bringing politics to the fore along with unchecked xenophobia and intolerance. It was standing room only, with the observers spilling out into the dark corridors of the building, police running their plays in a disorganized attempt to create the appearance of order and wrestle control from the rabble-rousers. Like a tinderbox getting ready to explode, the rage polluted the already heavy air, sluggish from the humidity overpowering the senses on what was by far the hottest day of the year so far, breaking centuries of records and lending credence to the theories of disgusted environmentalists.

  The dark cloud masses seemed to be parked over the head of William Penn, who adorned city hall’s clock tower in all of his bronze splendor. There was a certain irony as the heavens prepared to open and unleash a torrent of rain directly onto this national symbol of pacifism and tolerance. It was truly the calm before the storm.

  Hunter and Dillon shoved their way past the factions tempting each other with hatred, waving makeshift signs through the air, like bumper stickers advertising one’s political and religious views. As if the rest of the world even cared. Hunter, delirious from yet another sleepless night, couldn’t help but think of his school soccer days as he looked into the hardened expressions of the protesters. At that moment the scowls and mania appeared no different from the faces of the students and parents cheering on their respective teams on the sidelines as if their lives depended on it. It was a validation of sorts, considered Hunter. People innately needed to know where they stood on things and to get behind them. It was just human nature. Nothing wrong there so long as the process didn’t hijack the beliefs, turn pacifists into murderers and egalitarians into racists or sexists.

  The deadening air greeted them at the door as they continued past the pews toward the front of the courtroom. Hunter, who was taken off the case at the eleventh hour, the firm deciding it was too risky for him to try it in light of the murder investigation, caught a glimpse of Vito Armani on the defendant’s side, looking quite the celebrity. Tan, toned, and ready for the camera. Even his grays had been blacked out by an unnatural shade from the bottle, the intended effect backfiring with a couple years tacked on, not the other way around. The dangling gold chain, rap-star thick, held a crucifix over his form-fitting black tee. He laughed, flaunting his unnaturally white, capped teeth, as he conferred with his legal team. In his corner you had local counsel plus three lawyers from a Southern, legal nonprofit, rumored to be funded by right-wing Republican PAC money. The Southerners, one buxom blonde belle and two oversized men, one sporting an untucked shirt and suspenders, conjured images of a race trial in Hunter’s mind. They were the stuff of John Grisham’s Mississippi. The unbelievable thing, though, was that Vito Armani, heralded as some sort of a folk hero for taking a stand against non-English speakers, was the one being defended for intolerance.

  It was a twenty-first-century dilemma in a way. The true victims, the Hispanics and Asians infiltrating the predominantly Italian, South Philadelphia neighborhood, had been labeled as the persecutors. As if being marginalized and unaccepted wasn’t enough, now they had to endure something doubly offensive: the suggestion that they were the prejudiced ones for playing a part in a misguided effort to silence the silencer himself, Armani. Armani was relishing every last second of this thing, and his lawyers, getting their fifteen minutes, were still pinching themselves for securing such a high-profile case. This was the first day of the rest of their legal careers. And a little flirting with the cameras never killed anyone. This was what it was all about. The pinnacle. Working on a legal issue that actually meant something. Press coverage with their names being bandied about in the media, right next to the likes of politicians, pro athletes, and murderers. Their names in lights. Who knows? Ma
ybe even a book deal or movie?

  “Can you believe that little bitch?” said Dillon, slapping Hunter out of his reverie. “Over there all casual. Pretending everything’s hunky-dory.”

  “What?”

  Dillon nudged Hunter’s shoulder with his own. “Wake the fuck up, counselor.”

  Hunter’s eyes wandered over toward the city’s side, just starting to come into view beyond the scores of people standing alongside the benches.

  “See him?”

  “Yup,” he replied, nodding slowly as he absorbed the scene.

  Mancini, dressed to the nines and doing his darnedest to exude calm, hovered near the human relations commissioner. The two men appeared to be speaking quietly, doing a little last-minute strategizing. Hunter knew the feeling well—that moment right before a trial when your instinct tells you to confirm one detail or another, wanting so hard to get the facts right and anticipate your opponent’s every move. Predictably, Stephanie Diaz, the seductive mole and his former co-chair on the case, stood loyally by Mancini’s side like an arm candy girlfriend playing the part of the loyal sexpot to the hilt, all for the benefit of the little rich fat guy flaunting the fact that he had enough money to pay for it. Of course, in this case, we weren’t dealing with some schlub. We were talking about one of the iconic legal figures in the country, trending very down and very quickly.

  Stephanie noticed them, and her eyes feigned surprise. Mancini’s hardened stare followed. Still in character, she robotically began to break away from team Whitman to meet Hunter halfway—probably to suck him dry for information and report back to Mancini. But Mancini, like Dr. Frankenstein, anticipating his creation’s every move, held her arm. Playing the part all the way right up until the very end, she flashed a disappointed smile for Hunter’s benefit, trying to arouse empathy for her situation with Mancini. Being forced to succumb to his eccentric and overbearing methods. As she had facilitated Hunter’s independent field research over the past few days, the very stuff Mancini was hoping to control, it was the model of a domineering and callous chair of their firm that brought the two together. Made her want to go out on a limb. Cover for him. Help get the answers regarding the Mafia’s ties to the case. Her upbeat-slash-sullen expression conjured up his uncontrollable feelings for her, which were all based on a lie.