Blood Money

by Laura M Rizio

  Manin sat, stonily staring ahead. He had never expected this turn of events where he would win by default, by a legal maneuver instead of a verdict. “I suppose you would think I have. And in fact, I may have. But you attorneys don’t care how you win as long as you win. Well, I care. You knew I always cared from the start. I don’t want to escape on a technicality. I want to win—” his voice rose to a shout, totally atypical of him—”to really win based on the belief of those twelve people sitting in that box.” He pointed to the door that led into the courtroom. His hand shook as he held it out. “I want them to find me innocent. I want them to vindicate me. Only they can restore my life—not a legal maneuver cooked up between two lawyers.” Manin stood up. “Let’s go back in there. Do your job. OK? Make them find me innocent. That’s what you’re being paid for, isn’t it?”

  “You’re a greater fool than I thought, Doctor Manin,” Asher said, straightening his tie.

  “Why am I a fool? It’s a sure-fire winner, isn’t it?” Manin grinned weakly for the first time in two years. He wasn’t even sure he could do it. His facial muscles were so unused to the expression.

  “Nothing is sure-fire with a jury,” Asher said coldly. “You’re always playing Russian roulette with the folks in the box. Can’t you see that? Don’t you understand? You can lose.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Manin rose slowly from the chipped brown chair and followed as Asher led the way into the courtroom.

  Theresa Riley stared at Nick shaking her head in utter disbelief. “You mean you’re going to let him go? The man responsible for my husband’s death?”

  Nick threw up his hands. “Mrs. Riley, for the umpteenth time— there is no case against Doctor Manin. Your husband was murdered, not malpracticed on. And I’m not letting him go, the judge out there—” Nick pointed to the adjoining room where Primavera was busily reviewing the ruling he would make on Asher’s motion for a non-suit. “—he’s going to let him go. I’m just warning you ahead so you won’t—” Nick paused. He wanted to say “freak out,” but he restrained himself. “So you’ll be prepared.”

  “Prepared? Listen, you bastard!” she yelled. Nick was taken aback by the one hundred and eighty degree turn in her demeanor, from the sweet little Irish widow to a snarling harpy. “My husband’s dead and somebody’s gonna pay,” she growled. “That doctor in there was in charge of my husband’s life and he left him to die. He left him in the hands of a murderer to die—while he went to get ready for a party.” Her face had reddened to the color of a cooked beet, and the veins bulged in her sagging neck.

  “But he didn’t know…”

  “But he was in charge,” she hissed as spittle spewed from her mouth. “If he’d stayed with my husband awhile like he did with the others, Sean would be alive today—and I wouldn’t be alone…” She broke down into sobs.

  Nick dropped his hands to his sides, reached out, and took her trembling body in his arms. It was no use trying to reason with her. He was of little comfort, he knew, but he tried. “Come on, Mrs. Riley. We’ll do the best we can. I won’t let you down. Let’s go into the courtroom and see what the judge does.”

  “You won’t let him throw the case out, will you?” she sniffed, wiping her eyes with the ever-present tissue, so damp from tears that it had little or no absorbency left.

  “Look, I can’t make the judge do anything or prevent him from doing anything. I’ll just do my best—OK?”

  “Promise?” she croaked, cocking her head like an entreating child. Another one hundred eighty degree turn.

  Although Nick tried to maintain his objectivity, she had gotten to him. He couldn’t help it. Her helplessness reminded him of his own mother, even if it was calculating manipulation.

  “Promise.” he took her bony hand and led her toward the door.

  “You’re a good boy,” she smiled as she shuffled along. “I know you’ll help me. I prayed to the Blessed Mother last night, and she never lets me down. So you won’t either. No, you won’t, Mr. Ceratto.” She smiled as she patted his hand.

  “All rise,” the court crier’s voice boomed across the almost empty courtroom. The attorneys quickly rose to their feet, followed by their reluctant clients. Grace Monahan stood behind Nick.

  Primavera glided in and stepped deftly onto the bench. “Be seated.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his papers. “Mr. Asher, I believe you have a motion…?”

  “Your Honor, my client wishes the trial to proceed to verdict. He doesn’t want me to make any motions at this time.”

  Primavera’s mouth fell open. “He doesn’t what?”

  Asher shrugged his shoulders, turning his hands palm up. “He doesn’t want me to make any motions, Your Honor. He wishes to proceed to verdict.”

  The judge shook his head like someone reacting to a stiff slap in the face. “Very well. That’s his privilege,” he said reluctantly. He paused, looking skeptically at the doctor through his thick, round glasses, hoping somehow that he could convey to Manin the stupidity of his decision. But even more so, the utter waste of the court’s time. But there was no reaction from the defense table.

  “Very well, bring in the jury. Mr. Ceratto, call your next witness.”

  For a moment Nick thought he was dreaming, that he was living his worst nightmare. He willed himself awake, but the nightmare wouldn’t go away. He stood, dumbfounded, as the jury filed into their respective seats. The curly blond juror smiled at him as she smoothed her skirt and wriggled into her chair, then quickly checked her manicure.

  Mr. Ceratto.” Judge Primavera’s voice entered the nightmare. “Do you wish to recall Ms. Price?”

  Nick, still reeling from the curve ball he’d been thrown, stood mute.

  “Mr. Ceratto…”

  The judge’s voice again reminded him that this wasn’t a dream. This was a living nightmare. There would be no motion to end it. And neither the judge nor could do anything about it. And both Dr. Victor Manin and Theresa Riley would have their way. The trial would go on.

  “Yes—ah, no. I mean no, Your Honor.” He heard his own voice as if it were coming from someone else. “No, I’m finished with Ms. Price.”

  “Well then, call your next witness.” Primavera, although sympathetic, still had a trial to conduct. Let’s see what you can do, Ceratto, the judge thought. Let’s see how you handle this. Let’s see if you learned anything from Joe Maglio. Joe would be smooth as silk. He’d glide right into his next witness as if things were as normal as could be.

  Nick took a breath and turned back to counsel table, smoothing back his hair, a nervous habit he had never been able to break. Fuck, he thought. Why is this idiot doing this to himself— and to me? His voice rang clear and confidant, despite his churning stomach. “I call Mrs. Sean Riley, Your Honor.” He walked slowly up to his client, gently took her by the hand, and led her carefully to the witness stand. She slowly sat. She cleared her throat and touched the gold cross that hung from her neck. She smiled painfully at Nick, her eyes watery but penetrating. He had no choice now. She was on the stand. The judge had said go, and he had a case to try—like it or not. Manin had forced the issue, had put him in this position. His conscience was clear. Fuck him, he thought. He picked up the yellow pad, which had no notations on it. He would use it as a prop. He knew he didn’t need any preparation for this direct examination. She would do a fine job on her own. Just wind her up and let her go.

  “Mrs. Riley, tell us about your husband, Captain Riley. Tell us what kind of a husband, what kind of a father he was.”

  Mrs. Riley took a deep breath and let go. Her husband had been an angel, a good saintly man, a great father and friend to anyone who needed him.

  One hour later there wasn’t a dry eye among the jurors. Even Hodge had trouble staying cool. He lowered his head and shifted his eyes so as not to make contact with the pitiful soul on the stand. He didn’t like cops nor did he place any trust in them, but he knew there were exceptions, and it sounded as if Sean Riley had been on
e of the exceptions.

  Nick had no other witnesses. And the defense was just as brief. Asher put Dr. Manin back on; the doctor testified as expected—that his credentials were impeccable, that he did everything right, and that this was a case of homicide, not medical malpractice. The defense expert, Dr. Leon Schaffer of the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, chief of vascular surgery, and a full professor at Penn Medical School, basically said ditto—and charged Asher’s client, Pro-Med Insurance, eight grand for testifying live for forty minutes.

  Closing arguments were just as brief. It was no surprise that Asher continually referred to the plaintiff’s witnesses’ damaging testimony. His closing basically consisted of reiterating Donna Price’s version of the facts—actually the only existing account of what happened to Sean Riley after surgery. There was nothing on record to contradict her, no testimony to the contrary; therefore the man was murdered. He had to be, and Asher went on to speculate that the murderer had been present in this very courtroom and then had mysteriously disappeared. Hadn’t Marina Doletov been instructed to stay close by, to stay in the building by the Judge? Certainly. Where was she if she had nothing to hide? Asher went on to remind the jurors that they should not let their sympathies rule their reason. That Mrs. Riley’s testimony was extremely moving, but it was not evidence of Dr. Manin’s guilt. That Nick Ceratto had in fact proven the defendant’s case. Asher then turned to Nick and said, “Thank you.” He did all but shake Nick’s hand before he took his seat at counsel table.

  Nick rose and strode to the jury box and turned quickly back to his opponent, pointing at him. “Don’t be so quick to thank me, Mr. Asher. This jury hasn’t made their decision yet. Please don’t insult them. Or me.”

  The jury was attentive, but Nick couldn’t read anything from them—except from Alonzo Hodge, whose arms were folded loosely across his chest. He stared at Nick as if to say, Whacha gonna do now, man?

  Joe Maglio’s words echoed in Nick’s head: Don’t try to blow smoke up the jury’s ass. But this time he had no choice. He focused on Alonzo Hodge.

  “Remember, folks, when we began this trial—the day I made my opening statement? I promised you that I would level with you. That I would respect you and your intelligence. No lies, no smoke screens, no theatrics—and in return you promised to keep an open mind. Not to jump to conclusions. Not to see everything as black or white, but to recognize the shades of gray that are in every case, in life as a matter of fact? Truth, and respect for each other—that was the deal—remember?”

  The jurors were quick to nod their assent. How could they not? But Hodge grimaced as if to say, Come on man, get on with it. This ain’t no kindergarten. We know our job. Now fucking do yours. So I can get outta here.

  “I brought Donna Price to this courtroom, all the way from California, so you could hear the truth—the real story about what happened to Captain Sean Riley. And she told you. And I had to tell my client that she had no case—based on Ms. Price’s testimony there was no medical malpractice. And Mrs. Riley”—Nick turned and pointed to Theresa Riley—”was very upset with me. As a matter of fact, she yelled at me and called me a few names I can’t repeat here.”

  Alonzo Hodge leaned back in his chair with a slight smile. That’s what I like to hear. Give it to him, lady. Cut through the bullshit.

  “I have to confess to you that with all our training in the law and years of experience, we attorneys don’t know everything. Sometimes we have to learn from our clients, from ordinary folks like yourselves. And I have to tell you I’ve been humbled by Mrs. Riley’s native intelligence and her insight about this case— insight I didn’t have. Because when I told her she didn’t have a case, she said, ‘My husband wouldn’t be dead if Dr. Manin had stayed with him like he did with all his other patients. Instead, he got dressed for a party while my husband bled to death.’ Folks— you could have knocked me over with a feather—because she’s right. Not only factually, but legally,”

  Nick paused to let his words sink in. Then he started to pace, slowly, as he gathered his thoughts. “The judge will instruct you on the law before you go into that room to decide the fate of the plaintiff and the defendant. He will tell about something called “the standard of care,” the rules that a doctor must follow when he treats a patient. Judge Primavera will give you the law on this standard. As a lawyer, I’m not permitted to give you the law. But I can suggest to you, one thing I can say to you, is that you heard about Dr. Manin’s personal standard—one he created himself— one which he always followed. And that is that he always stayed with his patients after surgery in the recovery room.” Nick stabbed the air with his forefinger to emphasize his words. “He was always available in case something happened. But not this time. Not after Captain Riley’s surgery. You see, folks, he was too busy satisfying a social obligation for his wife.”

  Nick spun around and pointed to Victor Manin. “You see, he was more concerned about Mrs. Manin’s feelings than he was about Sean Riley’s life.” He shook his head sadly. “And, folks, Mrs. Riley was right when she told me, ‘If Dr. Manin stayed with my husband, like he did with all the others, he would be alive today.’” Turning to Theresa Riley, he said, “How right you are, Mrs. Riley. Sean would be alive today, helping people, doing good deeds, doing his best to serve his community, if Dr. Manin had just lived up to his own standard of care.”

  Nick took a deep breath and turned back to the jury. “Theresa Riley has a greater sense of justice and fairness than I had. And I’ve learned something from her today. Mr. Asher thanked me today.” He turned to the widow again. “Now, I thank you, Mrs. Riley, for showing us all what justice demands.”

  CHAPTER L

  They ducked into a remote corner of the Striped Bass, attempting to separate themselves from the heavy lunch crowd and the tourists interested in eating in the same place where the anniversary scene in the Sixth Sense was shot. It was Joe Maglio’s favorite table and it was permanently reserved for him. After his death, Marty Silvio and Harry Levin had dibs. Now it was Nick’s, since it was all over town that Silvio had escaped and was running from the FBI and Levin had escaped permanently by putting a bullet into his brain.

  Nick stared over Grace’s head, past the cooks running about frantically in the open grill. He was oblivious to the clatter of pans and food sizzling on the open flames. He ignored the sounds and smells that had been music to his ears and perfume to his nostrils.

  She took his hand, hoping to gain his attention, but he withdrew it coldly, continuing to ignore her. He pulled a Marlboro from the pack he had tucked into his coat pocket. Today he deserved a smoke. He lit it, took a deep drag, and blew the smoke over Grace’s head.

  “Nick, you’re pissing me off. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “The jury’s not even in yet and you’re acting as if you lost the case.”

  “Don’t even try to comfort me ,” he snapped, finally looking her in the eye. “I don’t like losing, and no matter what the verdict is, I’ve lost. I fucked up. I should have withdrawn from this case a month ago.”

  “You couldn’t have,” she said comfortingly, “Barnes wouldn’t have let you.”

  “I should have told him to fuck himself and let him file disciplinary charges. Disbarment would have been better than this.” He took another drag, inhaling deeply, realizing that he had never lost his taste for toxins.

  The muscle in his right jaw twitched as he snapped his fingers rudely at a passing waiter. Normally he had respect for servers and was overly polite to them, but today was not a normal day.

  “A double Sapphire with extra olives,” he half shouted as the waiter turned in his direction, “and make it fast. I have to be back in court.”

  This was not the Nick Ceratto the server had come to know through Joe Maglio. He nodded, but before he could turn his head Grace put up two fingers. She waved the smoke away from her face. “Make it two,” she said. To hell with the baby, she thought. “Nick you can’t help what happened. You tried to help
Manin. You tried to clear Joe Maglio’s name. The point is, you tried no matter what happens. You did the right thing. Everyone knows that. Why don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but in this business trying doesn’t count. You win or you lose, and that’s it.”

  “The case isn’t over yet,” she snapped.

  “Yeah, and the jury has two choices. Guilty or not guilty. It’s a lose-lose situation for me, Gracie. If he’s negligent, then I lost because I tried to do the right thing. I worked my ass off to prove this fucker wasn’t careless. If he’s not negligent, I lost Mrs. Riley’s case. She walks away without a penny, and I’m a loser trial lawyer waiting for a malpractice suit. I wanted the judge to take it away from those twelve unpredictable, stupid people charged with dolling out justice when they don’t understand shit about the law and don’t give a shit about justice.” He took a long sip from the flared glass the waiter had just put in front of him, deftly dodging the skewered olives. “Justice isn’t about the law. It’s a game of chance. It’s Russian Roulette, and I just shot myself in the head like Harry Levin.”

  “Nick, there’s causation, too, remember?” Grace said, toying with her glass. “Remember, even if they find Manin negligent, they can still find that his negligence didn’t cause Riley’s death. And Manin’s out. No recovery. No money due. Financially, he’s off the hook. And everybody’s happy, especially Med Pro Insurance Company.”

  “You forgot that the asshole wants vindication, not financial relief. He wants a not guilty, period. And if he gets that, my ass is in a sling. I’ll be taking his place on the stand. I’ll be the next victim in the Riley case.” He pushed the cigarette down into the ashtray, snuffing it out almost completely, and watched the last puffs of smoke waft across the restaurant toward an annoyed diner who fanned it away with her napkin. “For once in my life I worked against my own sense of greed, my lust for money, my professional ego. I worked for truth, justice, the constitution, the red, white and blue. And what happens, that fucker Manin throws a monkey wrench in the works.”