“Mr. Nunzio.”
2
THURSDAY, APRIL 11
“Daddy, where’d you put Harry’s box?”
Mick’s nine-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, looks across the breakfast table at him. Harry is a turtle Gabby discovered in their yard a week ago. She’d insisted that he and Piper let her adopt it.
“Harry and his box are locked in my office, where Franklin can’t get to them,” Mick says, referring to the family’s Bernese mountain dog.
“Harry doesn’t like your office,” Gabby says. “Don’t you know that?”
Bringing the plates to the table, Piper says, “Maybe Harry’s changed his mind about where he wants his box, like you changed your mind about what color you wanted your room painted.”
“I don’t want eggs. I want French toast.”
“You had French toast yesterday,” Mick says.
“Yeah? I went to school yesterday, too. Does that mean I can stay home today?”
“You’re so funny,” Mick says. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“You’re not. Did everyone ever tell you that?”
Mick shakes his head, looks at Piper.
“Grandma’s going to pick you up after school today,” Mick says, knowing that Gabby enjoys spending time with Piper’s mother.
Helen Gray had blossomed in the wake of her husband’s debilitating stroke following the Hanson trial more than two years ago. She’d quickly rediscovered her passion for painting and was much in demand as a portraitist. She’d even set up an easel for Gabby, who’d taken to the brush—at least for the moment.
After picking at her eggs for a minute, Gabby looks up and points. “Who’s that? He looks like he’s hurt.”
Mick follows her eyes to the small flat-screen TV they keep in the kitchen.
The news video, taken the night before, shows two police officers escorting a man in his late forties or early fifties. He’s dressed in black slacks and a white shirt soaked with blood. The man has jet-black hair, a square jawline, and dark eyes. His hands are behind his back.
“Isn’t that Jimmy Nutzo?” asks Piper, turning up the volume.
Mick listens to the morning anchor explain that reputed mobster James Nunzio was arrested for murder late Wednesday night inside a warehouse along the Delaware River waterfront.
“Sources within the police department have told Action News that Nunzio was found covered in blood and holding a knife used to kill a man found murdered in the warehouse. The victim is believed to be a member of a competing organized-crime family, and there are rumors that he was dating Nunzio’s daughter, Christina, who was also found inside the building.”
Mick glances worriedly at Piper. “Go brush your teeth,” he tells Gabby. “It’s almost time to leave for school.”
Gabby casts him a dark look. “You never let me see anything good. It’s not like I don’t know what blood looks like.”
“Go easy on your father, Gabrielle. He’s only trying to protect you.”
Mick and Piper listen as Gabby stomps up the steps, shouting behind her, “I’m not a turtle! You can’t keep me in a shell.”
Mick turns to his wife. “And . . . three, two, one . . .”
The bathroom door slams.
Mick and Piper drop Gabby off at school and head down the Schuylkill toward the law firm’s office at Fifteenth and Market Streets in Center City.
Piper turns to Mick. “I think the Dowd case is worth looking into.”
Three years earlier, when the Hanson fiasco was crashing down around them, she and Mick had a come-to-Jesus talk. She told him that he’d spent all his life running away from the people he loved. That his behavior had led to his brother Tommy’s self-destructiveness and imprisonment. That he was on the verge of losing her, too.
One thing she told Mick that he hadn’t realized was that his move from the DA’s office to his criminal-defense practice had hurt her deeply. She had always admired him as a prosecutor. He’d even brought her into his cases, practicing his openings, closings, and cross-examinations with her, asking her for ideas and input. She saw them as a team working to make the world a safer place. But then he switched sides and fought for the bad guys. Worse, he closed her out of his cases and spent less and less time at home. She’d felt abandoned, rejected.
As part of the devil’s bargain they struck to win the Hanson case, Mick promised her that they would become a team again. In their personal relationship, he made good on it right away, taking a leave of absence to spend time with her and Gabby. It took a while, but he found a way to bring her back into his professional life, too. He set up the firm’s own Innocence Project. He decided to devote a chunk of his firm’s resources and time to helping win freedom for the wrongly convicted, and he invited Piper to spearhead the work. She jumped at the chance. Already her work had helped free two prisoners. She was coming to the office with Mick one or two days a week.
“Remind me of the facts again?”
“It happened up in Buchanan Township, southwest of Allentown. Darlene Dowd, age nineteen, was convicted of first-degree murder and sent away for life. She was tried for bludgeoning her father to death.”
“Heartwarming. So, what’s the basis for a retrial?”
“According to the questionnaire she filled out for the Pennsylvania Innocence Project, a witness came forward with important information but was scared off by the police chief. There’s also a deathbed letter to Darlene from her mother claiming that this same witness knows where the murder weapon is—it was never found by the police—and that it proves Darlene didn’t commit the crime.”
“Okay,” Mick says, aware that a law enforcement officer’s hiding of potentially exculpatory evidence is a major malfeasance, often justifying a retrial. “What was the prosecution’s theory of motive?”
“This is why I feel so strongly about the case. Darlene’s father raped her repeatedly—from the time she was twelve years old.”
“That is a pretty strong motive to kill your father.”
Piper doesn’t answer.
“The Pennsylvania Innocence Project passed on the case, I assume?”
“Elise Daniels called me Monday. The review committee rejected the case.”
“Lack of resources again?”
Piper hesitates. “I’m not sure.”
“She said the case smelled bad?”
“No. But I got the sense she was uneasy about it.”
“Are you sure you want to look into it?”
“I want to look into it.”
“Then we’ll look into it.”
An hour later, Mick is in his office finalizing a brief in a case involving two brothers who inherited their father’s insurance firm, then used it to defraud clients by collecting premiums for policies they never bound. White-collar dirtbags, the both of them. Raised in privilege, neither believed it possible that they could end up in prison.
He hears a knock and looks up to see the firm’s receptionist, Angie, opening the door. The look on her face is an odd mixture of fear and excitement.
“There’s a woman here who says she’s Rachel Nunzio.”
“Rachel?”
She lowers her voice, looks behind her. “Jimmy Nutzo’s wife.”
“I assume she’s here to see Vaughn.” The year before, firm associate Vaughn Coburn had represented his cousin Eddy, an Amtrak engineer arrested for a train accident that killed, among others, James Nunzio’s son, Alexander. For a time, Vaughn feared that Nunzio, notorious for his impatience and bloodlust, would exact his revenge on Vaughn’s cousin long before Eddy had his day in court. In the end, with some help from Nunzio, Vaughn proved that Eddy and Alexander Nunzio were both victims in the crash.
“No,” Angie says. “She wants you.”
Mick takes a deep breath. “I see. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”
Angie leaves, and Mick leans forward and closes his eyes. Jimmy Nunzio is widely recognized as the most violent organized-crime figure in the history of the Ph
illy mob. Born to a midlevel wiseguy, he maimed and killed his way to the top of his crime family’s pyramid and became the Philly underboss to Giancarlo Moretti, head of the New York–based Giansante crime family.
Mick knows representing someone like Nunzio carries both large upsides and downsides. The notoriety of taking on such a case can attract other major clients. Winning the case brings public scorn—along with the client’s appreciation. And losing . . . well, it’s never good to disappoint the Jimmy Nunzios of the world.
In the lobby, Mick spots a woman sitting on the sofa. She turns to him and rises.
“Mr. McFarland,” she says, extending her hand.
Mick takes it and studies her as they shake. Rachel Nunzio is stunning. Raven hair over an exotic, almost Egyptian-looking face. Large brown eyes, full lips, a perfect nose. On the taller side, maybe five seven, with a womanly figure.
He escorts the mob boss’s wife to the larger of the firm’s two conference rooms. They exchange small talk while Angie brings in coffee on a silver tray. Mick pours her a cup, waits until she takes a sip, then says, “This is unusual. I’ve never had a prisoner’s wife visit my office even before a preliminary arraignment.”
“Mine is an unusual family.”
“So I understand.”
Something flashes across her eyes—a mixture of darkness and amusement.
“The prisoner himself is supposed to call his lawyer,” Mick explains. “Ask the lawyer to come to the station. It’s his right to do so.”
“My husband did call a lawyer from the station. His business lawyer. There were some pressing issues that needed to be addressed right away.”
“More pressing than being arrested?”
Rachel smiles enigmatically. “My husband’s arraignment is set for tomorrow morning at nine. He’s asked that I hire you to represent him.”
“Why not Vaughn Coburn? They have history.”
“I expect he’ll explain why when you meet him.”
Mick nods. “How is your daughter doing? Christina.”
“Not well. The EMTs said they had to pull her off . . . that man. And that when they did, she went completely limp. They had to carry her to the ambulance, take her to HUP. She’s still there. The doctors tell me she’s in shock.”
“I’m sorry. It must’ve been awful for her to see—”
“To see her father slit her lover’s throat?” Rachel Nunzio’s voice is flat, matter-of-fact. Her face betrays no emotion. She seems an apt match for her sociopath husband.
“Before you hire me, we should talk about my fee—”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was wired into your firm’s operating account an hour ago.”
“How do you know the number of my operating account? Or what bank I use?”
Rachel Nunzio shrugs.
“I see.” Already, Mick is feeling uneasy.
“What time should I tell my husband you’ll be out to meet with him?”
“You can get a message to him, at the Roundhouse?” he asks, referring to the Philadelphia police headquarters building where Nunzio will be held until his preliminary arraignment.
She smiles.
Of course she can.
Mick escorts Rachel Nunzio to the lobby and sees her off. He returns to his office to find Vaughn Coburn in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, waiting for him.
“I assume she was here to hire us,” Vaughn says.
“She was . . . ,” Mick answers carefully. He pauses, then asks, “Is there some reason you can think of that Nunzio would want to hire me instead of you? Was there bad blood between you, at the end?”
Vaughn thinks. “Not unless he was hiding it. Maybe he wants you because you’re more senior than I am.”
Mick, at forty-five, has ten years’ more experience than Vaughn.
Mick nods, although he’s convinced there’s more to it than that. “What can you tell me about Nunzio? That isn’t public knowledge, I mean.”
Like most criminal-defense attorneys, Mick is already familiar with the history of the Philly mob. With its base in South Philadelphia, it operates throughout the southeastern part of Pennsylvania and southern New Jersey. From the late ’50s through 1980, it was run by Angelo Bruno. Nicknamed “the Gentle Don,” Bruno was known for his cool, businesslike approach. Bruno was murdered as a result of a dispute with the New York–based Genovese family and was succeeded by Nicodemo “Little Nicky” Scarfo. Famous for his temper and violence, Scarfo ruled the organization for ten years, until he and many of his top lieutenants were arrested and sent to prison. That led to a mob war, followed by the short reign of John Stanfa, who was backed by the Gambino family in New York. A group of younger mobsters disputed Stanfa’s ascension and took control once Stanfa was arrested by the FBI. The organization slowly weakened until it became a vassal state of the Giansante family in New York. Over the past decade, under the leadership of Jimmy Nunzio, a protégé of Giansante don Giancarlo Moretti, the Philly organization had gotten back on its feet.
“I really can’t think of anything,” Vaughn says. “Except that he doesn’t seem to fit my idea of a Philly wiseguy. Most of those guys live in row houses in South Philly. They operate out of local bars and scrounge up money by selling drugs or acting as loan sharks and bookies. They don’t wear twenty-five-thousand-dollar Stefano Ricci suits.”
“Nunzio is different?”
“He runs his business from a modern office at the Naval Yard. He has a fleet of cars and his own jet.”
“What’s a Philly wiseguy need with a jet?”
“And how can he afford one?” Vaughn thinks about it. “The last time I saw him, after Eddy’s trial, I brought up his cars and jet. I suggested I thought he might be more than just some Philly underboss. He didn’t say anything, but he smiled like he was agreeing with me.”
“So the question, then, is what exactly is Jimmy Nunzio?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Vaughn says. “If we’re going to represent him. Are we?”
“His wife wired two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into our account this morning.”
Vaughn raises his eyebrows. “That answers that.”
Mick passes through security at the Roundhouse. He’s ushered into the attorney-client meeting room, where he sits at the small metal desk. The room is standard-issue: low ceiling, cinder-block walls, chipped linoleum flooring. A place where arrestees sit numbly while their attorney explains the various stages of hell they’ll be passing through before and after trial.
The door opens, and a guard escorts the city’s top mobster into the room. Nunzio waits while his cuffs are removed, then thanks the guard and sits across the table. For a long moment, Nunzio says nothing. Mick can tell the crime lord is studying him, taking his measure.
Without saying a word, Nunzio reaches across the table, extends his hand. Mick takes it and the two men shake, their eyes locked. They release at the same time.
Nunzio smiles. “Good.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Mick says. “You want to tell me what went down in that warehouse?”
Nunzio takes a deep breath. “When the time is right.”
So that’s the way it’s going to be. Smart.
Nunzio reaches for a cup of water the guard placed on the table.
“Vaughn Coburn asked me to give you his regards.”
“You can send mine back to him. He did a great job on the Amtrak crash. He’s a straight arrow.”
“Yet you chose to hire me, not him.”
“He’s not the right man for this job. You are.”
Mick opens his mouth to ask why, but Nunzio speaks first.
“That was some stunt you pulled in the Hanson case. Using your wife to save your client.”
“Everything Piper testified to was true.”
It wasn’t, of course. To the contrary, Mick had Piper commit wholesale perjury. But it was the only way for them to extricate themselves from the quicksand Mick had landed them in.<
br />
Nunzio smiles. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you used her.”
Mick’s eyes narrow, his thoughts returning to the Hanson trial and the terrible events that precipitated it. Nunzio was right: he had used Piper. And not by accident, or on the spur of the moment, but as the culmination of a meticulously orchestrated plan. Nunzio had probably had too little time to uncover all the details, but Mick has no doubt that someone with Nunzio’s resources could, eventually, get to the bottom of what Mick had done. That’s the message Nunzio is sending him now: that their relationship is not as unequal as it appears, and that Mick isn’t going to run the show.
“We’re not getting off to a good start,” Mick says.
Nunzio pauses, studies him. “I understand lawyers like hypothetical questions. Here’s one for you. A man wakes up on an island. All he has is a gun, a saw, a hammer, and some nails. What does he do?”
“Seriously? This is how you want to spend our time?”
“Indulge me.”
Mick leans back. “All right, your nickel. The first thing he does is find water, then food. Then he uses the saw, the hammer, and the nails to build a shelter.”
Nunzio nods. “Now let’s alter the scenario. A man wakes up on an island with a gun, a hammer, a saw, and some nails. But this time, there’s another guy on the island with him. What does he do?”
“He uses the gun to make the other guy find the water and food and build the shelter.”
Nunzio smiles. “I’d say we’re getting off to a great start.”
“I wasn’t saying I would do that. It was your hypothetical, so I was envisioning you.”
“It doesn’t matter who you imagined in the story; the important thing is, it took you about two seconds to come back with your answer.”
So what? Now he thinks we’re birds of a feather?
“There’s one thing I will tell you about last night,” Nunzio says. “The reason I went to that building is that I received a call on my cell phone. I was in my office at the Naval Yard, and someone called and told me that my daughter was about to be killed at the Valiante family’s heroin warehouse.”
A Killer's Alibi (Philadelphia Legal) Page 2