“And you knew the location of the warehouse?”
“Sun Tzu, Mr. McFarland. To win, the general must know his enemy as well as he knows himself.”
Mick considers this. “Did you know your daughter was seeing Antonio Valiante?”
Nunzio doesn’t answer.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about your daughter?”
Nunzio shakes his head. “That girl. She doesn’t think. She feels.”
Shifting gears, Mick asks, “Did you go alone?”
“Again, when the time is right.”
Mick looks down at his legal pad. “Talk to me about Antonio Valiante.”
Nunzio answers slowly. “Tough. Smart. And very careful.”
“Not smart enough. Or careful enough.”
It’s Nunzio’s turn to switch gears. “I want you to find out who called me.”
“The police will be able to determine that easily enough. I’m sure they took your cell phone when they arrested you. They’ll learn the caller’s identity from his number, if they haven’t already.”
“I’m about a thousand percent certain the call was placed from a burner phone.”
“Still, I’d think you’d be in a better position than I to find out who made the call.”
“I’ll be working on it, too. Absolutely. But it helps to come at a problem from more than one direction.”
Mick senses there’s more to this than Nunzio is letting on, but he doesn’t push. “I’ll do what I can.”
Nunzio takes another drink of water, then says, “I understand you have a daughter of your own.”
Mick’s hackles go up.
“Relax, counselor. I’m just looking for common ground.”
Anger in his voice, Mick says, “Our worlds overlap. That’s it. You and I are not alike.”
Nunzio smiles. “We’ll see.”
3
THURSDAY, APRIL 11, CONTINUED
It’s three o’clock when Mick walks into the conference room. With the exception of his partner, Susan Klein, the whole firm is assembled. Associates Vaughn Coburn and his fiancée, Erin Doyle, sit next to each other on the far side of the large glass table. The firm’s investigator, Mick’s brother, Tommy, is on Vaughn’s left. Piper, along with paralegals Andrea and Jill, and Angie, the firm’s receptionist, are lined up on the near side of the table. Mick takes a seat at the end and asks about Susan.
“Doctor’s visit,” Angie says, looking away.
Mick watches her for a second, then addresses the group. “So, I just met with Jimmy Nunzio—”
“How’d that go?” Tommy interrupts.
Mick pauses. “We danced. He led.”
Tommy smiles. “A new experience for you.”
Though five ten, the same height as Mick, his brother is built like a brick and has prison tats sneaking up from underneath his collar. There’s an edginess to him, even when he makes an attempt at humor.
“On the surface, this looks like an open-and-shut case,” Mick says, ignoring Tommy’s jab. “Police bust into a drug warehouse, find one guy dead of a slit throat, another guy covered in blood and holding a knife.” He looks around the room. “But, of course, it can’t be that simple.”
“Why not?” Piper asks.
“Because the guy with the knife is Jimmy Nunzio.”
“A killer,” Piper presses.
“A capo,” Mick says. “Guys at his level don’t do the dirty work.”
“Plus, he’s smart,” Vaughn says. “He’s never been convicted of anything. Or even been tried.”
“But . . . his daughter.” Piper looks around the conference table.
“Exactly,” says Mick. “All bets are off. Nunzio told me he went to the warehouse because he got a call that his daughter was there and that she was going to be killed.”
“So . . . what? He lost his head and just rushed over without any backup, without a plan? Doesn’t sound like him.” Tommy reaches for one of the pastries sitting in the center of the table.
“I don’t know. A man gets a call his daughter’s in mortal danger, I think he’s going to run to her as fast as he can.”
“So, take it to the next step,” Erin says. “He managed to get inside the warehouse. What happened that Tony Valiante ended up dead? Was there a fight, or did Nunzio take him by surprise and open him up before Valiante had time to react?”
“He wouldn’t tell me what happened. Said he was going to wait until the time is right.”
“Of course that’s what he’s going to do,” Tommy says.
“So, what’s the plan?” asks Vaughn.
Mick leans into the table. “The plan is we’re going to try to find out who placed the call to Nunzio—and why.”
“The why seems pretty obvious to me,” says Tommy. “Someone wanted either Nunzio or Valiante dead. So he found a way to get them into the same room together.”
“And the daughter?” asks Mick.
“Collateral damage,” says Tommy.
“They’re already comparing them to Romeo and Juliet,” says Angie. Everyone turns to her. “The press. It fits, too. Think about it—two rival crime houses, the fathers hate each other, the kids fall in love.”
“Anyone have the background on the Valiantes?” Mick asks.
“I did some research while you were visiting Nunzio,” Vaughn says. “Antonio ‘Tony’ Valiante was the elder son and chief lieutenant of underboss Frank Valiante, second-in-command to Vincent Savonna of the Savonna crime family in New York. Of the five families, the Savonnas and the Giansantes are the most powerful. Since Nunzio is an underboss to Giancarlo Moretti, the Giansante don, he and Frank Valiante are natural rivals. They are also close in age. Nunzio is fifty-one, and Frank Valiante’s fifty-five.”
“Does anyone want to talk about the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room?” asks Erin.
Everyone looks at her.
“A wiseguy underboss slits the throat of the son of another powerful mafia leader in New York—”
“War,” Tommy says. “Frank Valiante’s gonna come to Philly with guns blazing.”
For the second time, Mick recalls the case of Vaughn’s cousin, whom Nunzio initially blamed for killing his son. When it was over, Vaughn told Mick in confidence that Eddy had come within seconds of being burned alive by Nunzio’s henchmen. Although Eddy narrowly escaped that fate, another man didn’t. And a second man’s death was equally gruesome: torn to shreds by dogs brought into prison as comfort canines.
“Depending how hard Nunzio fights back, it could be a bloodbath,” Vaughn says.
“Will we end up in the middle of it?” asks Erin.
Mick considers the idea that Valiante’s retaliation might include Nunzio’s legal team. As a rule, lawyers are off-limits when it comes to mob revenge. But it was Frank Valiante’s son Nunzio killed.
Will normal rules apply?
“I admit I hadn’t thought of that. But it is worth thinking about, and I will. In the meantime, is there anyone here who has strong opposition to our representing Jimmy Nunzio, for any reason?”
Everyone looks at each other. Mick spots concern on some of their faces. But they all shake their heads.
“All right. Here’s what I’d like to do. Vaughn, find out everything you can about Nunzio and the Valiantes. Tommy, reach out to your sources in the police department, ask them to keep an ear to the ground about the call to Nunzio. Dig up what you can about the daughter, too. Christina.”
“I already know about her,” says Angie, a South Philly native. “She’s a party girl. Dances and drinks her way all around the world—on Daddy’s dime, of course. In the papers, her nickname is the Queen of Clubs. Because she’s always out clubbing.”
“Any insight into why she’d be spending time in a dirty warehouse with a rival underboss’s son?”
“Have you seen Tony Valiante? He’s gorgeous. Was. And you know what they say—the heart wants what the heart wants.”
Mick recalls what Nunzio said about his daughter—t
hat she doesn’t think, she feels.
“As for the crime itself,” he says, “since Nunzio’s keeping quiet about what happened, we’re going to have to piece the puzzle together ourselves. Hopefully learn something that will help our client beat what otherwise looks like a slam-dunk case against him.”
That seems unlikely, although it’s hard for Mick to be certain. When he saw the cops pulling the mobster from the police car and walking him toward the Roundhouse on TV, Mick spotted something in the famous man’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. The unflappable monster was visibly rattled.
Whatever happened inside that warehouse shook Jimmy Nunzio to the core.
4
FRIDAY, APRIL 12
Mick enters the Juanita Kidd Stout Center for Criminal Justice at 1301 Filbert Street, passes through security, and takes the stairs leading to the basement, where the preliminary arraignments are held. He enters room B-08 and takes a seat on one of the front benches. On the other side of the Plexiglas half wall that divides the bunker-like gallery from the well of the courtroom, a female public defender sits on the desk at the left. To her right, a young assistant district attorney, no jacket, waits at the prosecutor’s table. Magistrate Delia Smick presides from the bench.
The defendants appear on CCTV, on a screen mounted in front of the defense attorney. Processed assembly-line fashion, the preliminary arraignments introduce a sad progression of disheveled miscreants sitting against a yellowed tile wall. With each prisoner, the magistrate first confirms the man or woman’s name, then gives the same speech: “It is alleged that on such-and-such a date, you: entered the property at such-and-such an address and took two thousand dollars’ worth of property/fondled the genitals of a minor/offered sexual favors to an undercover police officer. You are being charged with: burglary and related offenses/indecent sexual assault and related offenses/prostitution and related offenses.” The magistrate then informs the defendants of their court dates, orders them not to have any contact with the person they raped/stole from/intimidated, including through social media. Finally, the magistrate sets bail: $500 for the man charged with possession of a controlled substance and $250,000 for the child rapist. “If you fail to show up, a bench warrant will be issued for your arrest, and the trial can proceed without you.”
Once the magistrate is finished, the public defender gives her own spiel: “Hello, I’m from the public defender’s office. I sent you a nonwaiver form; did you sign it? Good. That means you are represented, and that no one can question you outside the presence of your public defender. ‘Question’ includes subjecting you to a lineup, lie-detector test, or blood test. If anyone does try to question you, tell them you are represented.” The defender informs them that their phone calls will all be recorded. And finally she says, “Just because you meet someone in prison doesn’t mean they’re a prisoner; don’t say anything to anyone in prison about your case.”
Each defendant’s arraignment takes about five minutes.
Mick has listened to six or seven of them when Max Pagano, a high-ranking assistant district attorney, takes a seat across the aisle from him. He nods at Pagano, who grunts back. Built like a bulldog—a muscular five-nine frame supported by bowlegs and topped by a bald head—Pagano is known as a fearless fighter.
The DA did well to pick Pagano to run the case against Jimmy Nunzio.
Three more arraignments—fifteen minutes—come and go before Nunzio is placed before the camera. The public defender and junior ADA leave their seats, and Mick and Pagano take their places.
Slurping from a giant Wawa cup, Magistrate Smick watches impatiently. Once Mick and Pagano are seated, she asks, “Are we ready now?”
Mick has appeared a hundred times before Delia Smick, a rough-edged native of the city’s Kensington section. Delia’s hair, once black, turned gray years ago but is back to black again now that her husband has passed and she’s back on the market.
Mick glances at the TV screen. Nunzio looks back at him. His eyes are cold and black, his face devoid of emotion. Gone completely is the chagrin Mick spotted on the news the night the mobster was arrested. Nunzio appears composed, almost bored.
The magistrate, reading from her computer, asks Nunzio if he’s Nunzio. When he says he is, she continues. “It is alleged that on Wednesday, April tenth, at a warehouse off Admiral Peary Way in South Philadelphia, you caused the death of Antonio Valiante by cutting him with a knife. You are charged with murder in the first degree . . .”
Mick waits until the magistrate has completed her speech, then tells Delia Smick that he’s already given his client instructions about not talking to anyone or letting himself be questioned.
Turning to Nunzio, she says, “Because the charge is murder one, you will be held without bail. Following this arraignment, you’ll be taken directly to the Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility on State Road, where you will remain until trial. Do you understand that?”
“He understands, Your Honor.”
Delia Smick turns back to Mick, annoyance on her face. She skips a beat, then says, “I assume you’re not waiving the preliminary hearing, Mr. McFarland?”
In the preliminary hearing, the prosecution proffers its evidence to persuade the judge to bind the defendant over for trial. A defendant has the right to waive the preliminary hearing, but the right is rarely exercised because defense attorneys use the hearings to learn what they can about the prosecution’s evidence. The prosecutors know this, so they offer up only as much of their case as necessary to move the case to trial.
“Of course not,” says Mick.
The magistrate schedules the preliminary hearing for Monday, April 22, ten days hence, and the arraignment is concluded.
“A word?”
Mick looks over his shoulder at Max Pagano. “Sure.”
Mick lets the prosecutor lead him through the waiting area and into the hallway. They board the elevator alone. Mick knows what’s coming. When the doors close, Pagano starts in.
“We have your client dead to rights. You know that.”
“Let’s skip directly to sentencing, then.”
“Funny.”
Mick puts up a hand. “You’re going to tell me I should get him to plead. Save time, money, spare my client and his family the embarrassment of a trial, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
A smile spreads along Pagano’s lips. “That’s what you’re expecting, I know. The standard pitch. What ten out of ten other prosecutors in my position would be saying. But here’s the thing, Mick. I’m hoping your client will tell me to go pound sand. Actually, more than hoping. I know he will. There’s no way Jimmy Nutzo’s going to plead to anything. He thinks he’s too smart for that. He’s beaten the system his whole life, and he thinks he’s going to beat it this time, too. He’s not—because of me. But he won’t see that until it’s too late. I’m counting on it.”
The elevator doors open, and Pagano steps out. Mick follows him, and they face off.
“Looking to bring home the trophy, eh?” says Mick. “Land the big fish nobody’s been able to catch? Maybe make a run for district attorney?”
“Close.”
“Well, good luck with that.” Mick turns and walks away.
Fuck you, Pagano. You want a ball game? You got one.
Mick is at his desk after lunch when Susan Klein walks past. He catches her long legs and ash-blonde hair in his peripheral vision. Susan is a triathlete who has competed in several Ironman competitions. Running is her strong suit, and she consistently finishes among the top twenty women in both the Broad Street Run and the Philadelphia Marathon. Her blue eyes and strong jaw complement her athletic body and complete his picture of her as the perfect Nordic archetype.
She wasn’t in the office yesterday or this morning. She’s been missing a lot of time lately, he’s noticed, which isn’t like her. He decides to see what’s up.
“Hey,” he says, walking into her office.
Susan puts down her pen, looks up at him.
“You
okay?” he asks. “You were out yesterday. Angie said health issues.”
“I’m good,” Susan says, waving him off. “So . . . Nunzio. When’s the preliminary hearing?”
“It’s scheduled for the twenty-second. Should be a quick affair. The DA will put on the two cops. They’ll testify they found him covered in blood and with a knife in his hand ten feet away from a dead guy with a slit throat.”
“Who’s the prosecutor?”
“Pagano.”
“Figures the DA would pick him. That guy doesn’t back down for anyone. He give you the speech? Your client’s dead in the water, plea now or forever hold your package—in prison?”
“Just the opposite. He’s aching for a trial.”
She considers this. “He gets a conviction, it’s a giant notch on his bedpost.”
“You want in? It’s a big case, whichever way it goes. Lots of press.”
She smiles wanly. “My name in lights?”
He studies her. “You seem tired.”
She shrugs.
He gets up. “If you ever want to talk . . .”
Back at his desk a few minutes later, Mick stands by his windows, looks east past City Hall to the Delaware River, considers his partner. Susan graduated from Penn Law, five years behind him. At Penn, Susan was managing editor of the Law Review and valedictorian of her class. She was offered a clerkship with a court of appeals judge but wanted to try cases. She went straight to the US Attorney’s Office in Philadelphia, where she became known for her no-nonsense attitude and her fiery brilliance in the courtroom. When word got out she was looking to go into private practice, Mick and his former partner, Lou Mastardi, literally raced to meet her and scooped her up.
Susan’s personal life, as far as he could tell, had been less of a success. She’d made at least three bad boyfriend choices in the time he’d known her. Most recently, she’d been dating an Argentinian soccer player with the Philadelphia Union—an athlete famous for temper tantrums on and off the field. More than once, Susan had shown up for work wearing sunglasses or heavy makeup around her eyes, and he’d been sorely tempted to enlist Tommy to do some reconnaissance. He knew he would have to be careful to tell Tommy not to send soccer-boy a message without clearing it with him first.
A Killer's Alibi (Philadelphia Legal) Page 3