Blood Money

by Laura M Rizio

  “Margo, come on. I know how smart you are, baby. And I know how Gates feels about you. She’s crazy about you. She’s not going to let us go down the tubes—’cause if we go down, so does she. You know what she’s afraid of. Use it. Use whatever you can, baby. OK?” Silvio paused, waiting. He could hear her breathing, thinking. He knew her well.

  “I did it for you,” she said. “My relationship with Gates was for you. You know that.”

  “I know. But see how it worked out? And you’re gonna do this too, won’t you…for us?” he snickered reflexively.

  “Maybe…” Margo’s voice had a sudden and distinctive change of tone, from frightened to defiant.

  “What do you mean, maybe?”

  “I want a piece of the Riley case.”

  “What’s a piece?”

  “A third. I want a third. I’m not putting myself out as bait for you without a cut, a big cut.”

  Silvio laughed, taking the cigar from his mouth. “That’s why I love you, baby. OK, you’re on.” He flipped the cell phone shut. “Overreaching cunt,” he said as he stepped out of the booth. “Who the fuck does she think she is? I’ll give her a third,” he laughed.

  “What’s going on? You were yelling.” Levin followed close behind Silvio as he strode down the hall. “Tell me, for God’s sake.”

  “You wanna hear, old man? I’ll tell you.” He pushed his cell phone in Harry’s face. “First you do something for a change. Get your hands a little grimy.” He punched a saved number on the cell phone and pushed it in Levin’s face. “Tell him we need him right now.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  Joseph Barnes had kept his robe on as he paced the floor of his chambers. He didn’t like the smell of the case. And he didn’t like Ceratto: he was ungentlemanly, unpredictable, and untrustworthy. He decided to focus his attention on John Asher.

  “John, your client is bleeding and is going to hemorrhage to death in the next few days, just like his patient. Why won’t he settle this case? Is he a madman?”

  Asher sat back, casually crossing his legs, assuming a relaxed, confidant posture. But he was uneasy. “Your Honor, as you know, the insurance carrier wants to settle. They have expressed their interest right from the beginning. Mr. Ceratto knew this and agreed to accept the limits of the insurance coverage in this case, which as Your Honor knows is two million dollars. The hospital has already tendered its policy. This case should have settled. Mr. Ceratto knows this as well, and I’m assuming would accept the limits of insurance coverage to satisfy the Rileys’ claim.

  Judge Barnes turned to Nick, his glasses quivering on the bridge of his nose. “Well, Mr. Ceratto…”

  “Judge, it’s the defendant’s prerogative, as you well know. His insurance policy gives him the option to settle or let it go to the jury. It’s my understanding that he wishes the jury to decide his fate. It’s out of my hands, Judge.”

  Barnes looked at Asher, his jowls quivering as his voice raised ten decibels. “You tell your client to settle this case. That’s a jury from hell out there, and they’re going to draw and quarter him, after they hang him.” He sat down, folding his arms. He looked down at the document on his desk. “And after they dismember him, I’m going to disembowel him. I’m going to permit punitive damages in this case, which as you know, will at least triple any jury award. Your client will be spending the rest of his life sweeping floors at a welfare office.”

  “Your Honor.” John Asher shook his head. “I’ve explained this to him at least twenty times. He remains steadfast. His position is that he is innocent. That he did no harm to Sean Riley, and he’s willing to take his chance with the jury. He believes justice will prevail.” Asher shrugged his shoulders. “What else can I do, Your Honor?”

  “Is he mad?” Barnes face turned beet red. “There is no fucking justice, and you know that. There’s only luck, and I see a very unlucky doctor out there.”

  Nick shrugged his shoulders. “You never know, Judge. Maybe he’s right.”

  “Shut up.” Barnes pointed a finger at Nick. “It’s not your job to second-guess the jury.”

  “I do it all the time.” Nick chuckled, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “This is why I go into that courtroom. That’s the shot I take.”

  “Well, that’s my courtroom you go into, and the shot you take is with my sufferance.”

  “Remove me from the case, then.” Nick sat back, glaring.

  Asher looked toward Nick, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Is that what your ex parte meeting with His Honor was about— your wanting to withdraw from the case? I think I need to know why, don’t you?”

  “Ceratto, I ordered you to refrain from discussing this matter, and I remind you that…”

  “Yes, Judge, I know. I’m under wraps.” Nick looked at Asher, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

  John Asher stood. “Your Honor, with all due respect, I want to put my objection on the record that an ex parte meeting was conducted with Mr. Ceratto. And I was not only not permitted to be present, I was also not informed of what was said.”

  Nick smiled, looking squarely at the judge, watching him squirm, and enjoying every minute of it.

  “Your objection is noted, Mr. Asher.” Barnes picked up the phone and barked into it. “Mary, get me the court reporter. Mr. Asher wants to put an objection on the record. And tell the bailiff to bring in the defendant, Dr. Manin.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  “Look, I love you, but you’re asking the impossible. I can’t just bury the Lopez file. What’s in this list may be bullshit, but I have to investigate it. Now. We’re talking very serious allegations. This list represents fraudulent cases, set-up accidents. Cases where people were intentionally injured, even murdered in order to present phony claims to insurance companies. They represent millions of dollars paid out on false claims. And allegedly one of them is on trial right now.” Muriel Gates paced heavily between the wide, naked windows of her office. She occasionally looked below onto Arch Street, wishing she could just fly out and disappear into traffic. She needed a cigarette, but instead she gnawed on a plastic replica. She’d be damned if she’d start smoking again; not after six months of cold turkey and fifteen pounds of extra flab she didn’t need.

  “We’re talking allegations of assault and battery and murder in order to produce lucrative cases. We’re talking sending runners, ambulance chasers, to sign up grieving families after their loved ones were badly injured or killed. We’re talking insurance fraud, bank fraud, mail fraud, gross violations of the Rules of Professional Conduct. The potential penalties here are life in prison, or possibly the death penalty, for several people we know. I can’t walk away from this. I can’t withhold this from the proper authorities: from the attorney general, from the U.S. attorney, or Mike Rosa. It’s my head, too, remember. I clawed my way up to the top in this office, fighting every prick along the way.”

  “What? Are you kidding?” Margo interjected sarcastically, sitting back against the worn, brocade love seat. “You’re the ultimate authority here. You’re the district attorney. You make the decisions as to what to investigate and what to trash. A DA has ultimate discretion as to what to prosecute and what to drop. You’re in command—aren’t you, Muriel?

  “Please,” Margo said, lowering her voice to an almost inaudible level. “Do it for me, if not for the firm that put you in office. You see, if they go down, if Marty and Harry go to jail, it’s going to make things very difficult for me. My life will be an open book, and…” She paused for a moment. “And so will yours.”

  Gates walked to her desk and picked up the tan manila folder, holding it up. “Withholding information contained in this thin little file could put me in prison for more years than I care to contemplate…and none of the inmates are going to be as pretty as you.”

  Margo sprang to her feet and started toward the door.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “I’m going to give the good news to Marty and Harry. They’re at the Ril
ey trial right now. You don’t expect me not to warn them, do you? I think it’s only fair. After all, I’m sure there’s a lot they have to say. The media’s already there in droves, waiting for any tidbit of information. Why not throw them a bone?” she cried, tears streaming down her pretty face.

  Gates moved her ample frame in front of the door, blocking Margo’s exit.

  “I’m sorry.” Margo stared innocently up into the DA’s steel gray eyes, angry eyes the color of a stormy sea.

  “I don’t like being threatened. Nor do I like blackmail— especially when I’m the intended victim.”

  “Muriel, I’m just saying these guys won’t go down without a fight.”

  “Look, Margo. If there’s nothing to their story—if these arrogant little pissant kids just want to aggrandize their mother’s death to make it more than just a street crime, we’ll find out. I’m not going to go public with this right now.”

  Margo squared her shoulders in defiance. “But I am—about us—unless you destroy that file in front of me, right now.

  “Griffin,” the DA laughed nervously. “I don’t understand why you’re so protective of these assholes. Your career is not at stake here. They’re your bosses; they are not your partners. You’re a bright, attractive attorney. You can get a job anywhere. I’d even hire you,” she said mockingly.

  “No thanks. There’s not enough money in the job. DAs make crappy money. You know that.”

  “So you love the money. What else do you do for it—besides practice law? It’s no secret, Margo. You and Silvio, I don’t talk about it, but I know all about it. Besides fucking him, what else have you done for money? Is that why you’re so afraid of the Lopez file?” Gates’ face was red with rage. No little cunt was going to ruin her. She had worked too hard and too long, and for too little money, to lose her job.

  “None of your fucking business.” Margo stepped closer to the door until she was flat up against the imposing figure. But Gates didn’t budge. “Get out of my way.” Margo’s eyes were brimming with tears. She tossed her hair back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Gates knew she had to think, and think quickly. She could not allow Margo to leave, not now. She backed away, changing her expression from confrontational to compassionate. “Look, I’m sorry.” She took the young woman’s hand. “You just get to me, that’s all. Don’t leave. Let’s sit down and calmly work through this. Let’s talk about the alternatives and what we can do to make this all go away.”

  Margo lowered her eyes and smiled. “It’s simple, Muriel. It really is. Just take those papers over to that little ol’ shredder, right over there—” she pointed to the white machine that represented relief and tons of money coming her way—”and put them right through.” She put her hand affectionately on the DA’s shoulder. “No more evidence, no more problem.”

  “What about the two problems having breakfast at this very moment? We can’t put them through the shredder, can we, Margo?”

  “Kirby and the brats are easy,” Margo purred. “They’re already being taken care of. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  “Eenie, meenie, miney, mo,” he said out loud as he stared at the five photographs, which he held spread, fanlike, in his right hand. He was having the most difficult time deciding which he should do first. They had to be done close together in time, he knew that. But deciding which would be first, that was his problem. Usually it was one person, or possibly two in the same location. But this was different; two were in one location, three in another, although not very far apart. He had to find a way to move them together. This was a big job worth a hell of a lot of money, two hundred thousand a head, all in cash, half of which had already been wired to his Bahamian account. But all had to be done in less than an hour if he was going to receive the rest. Rudi couldn’t afford to screw this up. None could get away alive. Death must be instantaneous. There must be no evidence which could lead to him, or his employers. He closed his eyes to meditate.

  Recently he had begun feeling less confidant, less secure, less decisive. He worried about whether he was just losing it—losing his talent. He couldn’t afford that, not now. He was too young to retire; only forty with an Alzheimer’s stricken mother to support. He had put her in the best nursing home in the area, which he paid monthly in cash. He loved his mother. He loved his job. He loved seeing the look of surprise in his victims’ eyes at the moment they knew that he was the last person they would ever see; hearing the last gasp of breath they would ever take as they all, each and every one of them, fought for the impossible: to regain the life they had already lost. Then the resignation and then calm. He felt honored to be present at these sacred moments.

  He opened his eyes and suddenly it came to him. He had a plan. He went straight to work. He moved to the back seat of the silver Volvo he had “borrowed” from an unsuspecting visitor to the city who had left his car in the underground parking lot area of Penn Center Plaza. He reached into his large, black leather suit bag, which he always kept handy for occasions such as this. It was always with him when he knew he had a job to do. It contained getups for almost all occasions: wigs, makeup, glasses, a police uniform, executive wear, ties, white shirts, cufflinks, and work clothes: jeans, sweat shirts, work boots, an Eagles jacket, and a knit ski cap. He never knew what he needed to be. It was always determined by the job, and he needed to be ready to transform himself into what was necessary at a moment’s notice, like a chameleon.

  In thirty seconds he was dressed, using the back seat of the Volvo as a dressing room. The windows were tinted, so no pedestrians passing by had a clue what was going on. The metamorphosis was complete. Navy-blue blazer, rep stripe tie, white Polo button-down shirt, scuffed, well-worn wing-tips, and a camel hair coat, slightly worn but clean and pressed. He looked honest and hardworking, not slick, not like a model from GQ, although he could have been if he had wanted to. He had the angular good looks, but he never wanted to attract attention. He didn’t want any questions asked. He wanted to meld into the quiet drabness of normal Philadelphia life, humdrum workers who passed each other on the streets with no attention given or gotten. He checked himself out in his handheld mirror. Perfect, he thought. Then he went through the zipper compartment inside the suit bag and quickly found what he needed: an ID that bore his photo, as did all the other phony identification cards in the bag. It was official; it read “Montgomery County District Attorney’s Office” over the picture of his smiling face.

  “Perfect,” he said aloud. “It’s good to have friends in high places.” He chuckled to himself as he made his way to 1421 Arch Street, Executive Division.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  You lose or win your case in your opening, John Asher silently repeated to himself, as he approached the jury.

  “My name is John Asher,” he said, smiling confidently. He was a dapper figure, dressed in the darkest gray pinstripe suit. His starched white shirt was the perfect background for the blazing tomato-red silk tie and matching handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. His hair, graying at the temples, was perfectly cut and smoothed back. Not a strand was out of place. He was as cool as a cucumber, and in control of the situation. He carried no notes. He didn’t need any. He had given this opening statement a hundred times before. He had it honed to perfection, eliminating all the unnecessary words and adding all the right ones. He knew which words to emphasize and which to gloss over casually. Corresponding hand gestures had been choreographed and fit neatly into the script.

  Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Romancing the jury was a crap shoot. Sometimes they fell in love with you, and sometimes they chewed you alive and spit you out all over the courtroom. It was hard to tell. But John Asher was hard to dislike and harder to distrust. This would be the challenge of his life, he thought. The case was a surefire loser and his client, a masochistic idiot. And Asher had been charged with doing the impossible.

  “Friends—” he continued, walking with a slight swagg
er, back and forth in front of the box— “just because my client, Doctor Victor Manin, is here in front of you today, as the defendant, does not mean that he is guilty of negligence, in causing Sean Riley’s death, or in contributing to it in any way. You have all heard the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ I’m sure. Well, that not only pertains to criminal cases and criminal defendants, but it also applies to civil cases such as this one. The judge,” he looked and gestured in Barnes’s direction, “Judge Joseph Barnes, will tell you this clearly in his instructions.”

  Barnes hated being used to bolster a point. He kept his head bent and scribbled on his pad so as to appear impartial and simply taking notes. He was actually drawing gallows with Doctor Manin as a stick-figure hanging man.

  “Just remember there are two sides to each and every story. You know this from your own experience. So when you’re listening to the witnesses in this case, I ask you to please keep an open mind. You swore a sacred oath when you were selected to serve, and I know, and so does Doctor Manin, that you will keep your oath. I ask that when you listen to the evidence that you remember that the Rileys have the burden of proving their case, that the evidence must favor them, must tip the scales in their direction.” He held up an invisible scale with one hand while moving his other hand dramatically down, as if deeply depressing one side.

  “And I’m going to ask that you consider my client Doctor Manin’s track record, which you will hear about, as a doctor and a citizen—all that he has done in the name of goodwill, and all the care which he gave and still gives all his patients. Particularly the police.

  “We will show that during Sean Riley’s emergency surgery, everything went as well as it possibly could—not just well, but very well—like clockwork. We will present evidence that Officer Riley was doing fine and that Doctor Manin was so careful with this surgery that instead of leaving the closing of the incision to an assistant, as is often the case, Doctor Manin closed the wound himself, using fine, careful suturing. I ask you to remember that just because bad things happen doesn’t mean that someone is at fault. Bad things happen in this life…and that’s just the way life is sometimes.”