“You just went before we left the station.”
“I’ve been pounding coffee all morning.”
“You have the bladder of an eighty-year-old. You keep this up, you’re going to have to start wearing Depends.”
Donoghue starts to open his door, but closes it as soon as he sees the two men leave the 76ers building. One is thin and wiry. The other is huge.
“Holy shit,” Donoghue says. “It’s him!”
Just as he says the words, the gray Taurus at the end of the block pulls out and crosses South Thirteenth Street, heading for Johnny G. and his companion.
“Whoa, something’s going down,” Weaver says. “Come on, let’s go.”
They both exit the Impala and stride toward the Taurus, which is now stopped in the middle of Crescent Drive. The front doors of the Taurus fly open. Two men rush out, guns drawn.
“Police!” Donoghue and Weaver shout simultaneously as they begin to run, drawing their service weapons.
One of the men from the Taurus, the passenger, turns and fires at them. The driver keeps moving toward Giacobetti and the other guy.
Weaver hears Donoghue grunt, turns to see the younger man go down.
“Motherfucker!” Weaver cries as he fires on the sedan’s passenger, hitting the man in the shoulder and chest. The passenger goes down, but not before getting off a final shot, which strikes Weaver in the hip. As he falls, he sees Johnny Giacobetti slowly sink to his knees, blood spreading like red ink on his white shirt. A final shot from the driver of the Taurus causes a spray of blood from the side of Giacobetti’s head. The giant falls over, his face contorted in rage.
Struggling to get to his feet, Weaver spots the Taurus’s passenger writhing in pain on the ground. He turns to see the driver of the Taurus walking toward him. The driver fires his weapon, and Weaver’s abdomen explodes in agony, sending him back to the ground. Lying with his legs spread, he presses his belly in a futile effort to quell the pain—and stanch the blood.
He sees the shadow on the ground just ahead of him and looks up to see the driver pointing his gun.
The last thing he sees is a brilliant flash of light. The sound of the gunpowder’s ignition doesn’t reach him in time for his brain to process it.
It’s just before noon when Mick looks up to see Vaughn rushing into his office. Tommy, right behind him, lifts the remote off Mick’s desk and turns on the large flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. Anchorman Jim is talking to a female beat reporter named Maggie, who is standing in a grassy area about a hundred feet from Crescent Drive. A dozen marked and unmarked police cars are parked around the four-story glass-fronted building that Mick recognizes as the home of the 76ers. Scores of uniformed cops and detectives swarm the area, which is cordoned off with yellow police tape.
“According to sources inside the police department,” reports Maggie, “an eyewitness standing approximately where I am now saw two men leave the glass-fronted building across the street. At the same time, a pair of men exited a gray Ford Taurus and moved toward them, firing their weapons. Two Philadelphia police detectives exited their own vehicle, which, as you can see, is parked farther up Crescent Drive, and exchanged gunfire with the men from the Taurus. In the melee, both of the officers were killed, as was one of the men leaving the building. The occupants of the Ford Taurus, one of whom was injured, escaped in the car. They are currently at large and considered extremely dangerous.”
Anchorman Jim asks, “Do we have the names of anyone involved at this point?” The anchor’s eyes sparkle, telling Mick that he already knows the answer.
“In fact, Jim, one of the two men from the building, the one transported by ambulance, is believed to be Johnny Giacobetti, enforcer for reputed mob boss James Nunzio. This is leading some in the police department to speculate that the attack is in retaliation for Nunzio’s alleged killing of rival mobster Antonio Valiante.”
“Any word on Giacobetti’s condition?”
“We know only that he suffered multiple gunshot wounds.”
Mick lowers the volume and tells Vaughn to get down to the hospital. “Tell everyone that you’re Giacobetti’s lawyer. He’s not to be interviewed by the police.”
“Sounds like he’s all shot up,” Tommy interjects. “You think he’s going to be able to talk?”
Mick glances at Vaughn, who says, “I spent plenty of time with that giant. Something tells me that bullets are more likely to piss him off than kill him.” With that, he’s out of the office.
Mick turns to his brother. “Care to bet how long it’s going to take before I hear from Nunzio?”
Before Tommy can respond, Mick’s cell phone rings. He picks it up.
“You heard?” Nunzio asks.
“I heard.”
“Get down here.”
Angelo Valiante races the Taurus up I-95 North. Bleeding under a blanket in the back seat, Dominic moans.
“Don’t worry,” Angelo shouts over his shoulder. “We’ll be home before you know it. Get you all fixed up.” He knows it’s bullshit. Dominic is bleeding out. Probably won’t make it another ten miles. If he could stay in the area and take his friend to a local hospital, things might turn out differently. But that can’t happen, for obvious reasons.
Angelo’s phone rings. He knows without looking who it is. He takes a deep breath, lifts the phone to his ear, and answers.
“What the fuck?”
“Pop—”
“Two cops, dead!”
“Listen, they—”
“The heat this’ll bring down on us—”
“They came out of nowhere. They surprised us.”
“You did this thing out in the open? You outta your mind?”
“It was a message—”
“It was a message, all right. That we’re a bunch of meatheads who kill cops!”
“The cops don’t know it was us.”
“Everybody knows it was us.”
“I got the giant, Pop. I saw his head explode.”
“Really? ’Cause I’m hearing he’s not dead. Which means you just grazed him.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Just get back here. Make sure you’re not pulled over.”
“Pop, listen. I—”
But the line is already dead.
Frank Valiante slams down the phone.
“Unbelievable.”
He sits back hard in his chair, presses the sides of his head with his palms. After a minute, he leans forward, reaches into his drawer, pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a tumbler. He fills the glass, throws it back, fills it again, and takes a long swallow.
How in hell am I going to fix this mess?
His favorite son, dead. The younger son racing away from an unauthorized botched hit. And to top it all off, two dead cops. Things couldn’t have gone worse. He looks at the phone, racking his brain for who to call and what to tell them when they pick up. But no answer comes.
Until the phone rings.
He looks at the number, and hope sneaks into his chest.
“I heard.” The voice on the other end is a familiar one. As old as dirt, it belongs to a man he’s known for more than two decades.
“Angelo.” One word. All he needs to say to the old man.
“Amazing how two kids sired by the same parents, raised in the same house, can turn out so differently,” the old man says.
“You got that right.”
He asks after the old man’s health.
“Still aboveground.”
They laugh; then the old man gets to his reason for calling.
“I have some news, from inside the company. About your friend.”
“Nunzio? What’d you hear?”
“He’s placed an order.”
“A plane? Safe passage for his family?”
“Vans.”
This puzzles him. “Vans?”
“Very special vans. Armor-plated. Bulletproof glass. Six of them. Each with seating for nine and a driver.”
/> Valiante sits back, looks up at the ceiling. “He’s planning a raid.”
“Don’t know the details.”
“Will you be able to find out?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But sooner or later, I’ll find out the delivery date for the vans. That should help.”
“Soon as you hear anything, let me know.”
“As always. And . . . as always . . .”
“I’ll be glad to send your payment, my friend.”
He and the old man go way back. For years, he’d heard rumors about a company that would move anything, anywhere, for a price. They’d even supply vehicles—cars, trucks, boats, even airplanes. He asked around about it and eventually found someone who knew someone. He made a call and arranged a get-together. That’s when he first met the old man. From what he could gather, the old man was a midlevel player, basically someone who took requests and fielded them to higher-ups. Since that initial meeting, Valiante had called the guy a dozen times and made deals to move drugs, cash, and people—some living, some not. He’d developed a rapport with the old man, and they’d enjoyed more than a few raucous meals together. One thing he’d learned was that if the old man promised he could get something done, it got done.
Obviously, Jimmy Nunzio knew about the old man’s company, too, and had made arrangements for the use of specialized vans. Lucky for Valiante, the old man got wind of it and gave him the heads-up.
He smiles. Nunzio thinks he’ll have the drop on me. But I’ll be waiting for him, and be ready.
Nunzio follows the guard down the hallway leading to the interview room. The guard’s name is Butch Doyle. Butch has a wife and two kids and a mortgage he’s struggling to pay. He has some gambling debts, too, but those have been taken care of, thanks to Nunzio’s intervention.
Butch opens the door for Nunzio. He enters and sits across from Mick McFarland.
“How are things with you and yours, counselor?”
“Not why I’m here.”
He feels his blood start to chill in response to the lawyer’s disrespectful tone, but he fights it, forces himself to smile.
“No small talk. Straight to business. I can respect that.”
“What happened outside your offices today . . . ,” the lawyer begins. “Does this mean the war’s started?”
“That? That was just distant thunder.”
“But the storm is coming.”
The lawyer’s response is more a statement than a question. McFarland’s been around the block. He knows how the business works.
He nods.
The lawyer stares at him, then asks, “How did the cops know to be there?”
That had been her idea: tip off the police that Johnny G. was in the building. The cops would send a car, provide added security in case Valiante tried something. A lot of good it did. Still, not a bad idea.
“Not a clue,” he says, seeing in McFarland’s eyes that the lawyer doesn’t believe him.
“I sent Vaughn Coburn to the hospital to act as Giacobetti’s lawyer. I assume you approve.”
“I approve.”
“I assume you’ll pay.”
“Take it out of the retainer.”
The door to the interview room opens, and Butch brings in a pitcher of water and some glasses.
The guard leaves, and Nunzio pours two glasses. “Water okay for you?” he asks the lawyer. “Or would you prefer a Coke?”
He sees a wary smile form on the lawyer’s lips.
“What else do you have the guards doing for you?” McFarland asks.
“Just little favors. In return for the little favors I do for them. The way the world works, counselor. ‘Mankind is governed by tokens.’ Louis the Fourteenth.”
“That’s why you bought Coburn the Porsche? After the Amtrak case?”
That’s exactly why he gave the kid the Carrera. He smiles, but the ice is returning to his veins. This time he doesn’t fight it. He leans forward, lets the darkness seep into his eyes.
“You make sure Coburn keeps the cops away from Johnny. Make sure, too, that your man doesn’t ask questions I’m not ready for Johnny to answer.”
“That’s between them. Attorney and client, just like you approved.”
“I’m not fucking with you here, counselor. Giacobetti knows to keep his mouth shut. But he might be doped up from painkillers and forget his place. I don’t want anyone from either side taking advantage of that. Understood?”
“I hear you. Now let’s talk about this war that’s coming. What can you tell me?”
That it’s all being planned out to the smallest detail.
“I can’t tell you anything. It’s not me who’s going to start it.”
“You must have some idea what Valiante’s likely to do.”
He shrugs.
“And what about your own plans? I don’t see you sitting around, waiting to be attacked.”
That’s exactly what we’ll be doing.
He thinks of the vans. Another one of her ideas, along with the rest of the plan to take care of Valiante.
Brilliant. Frighteningly so.
“What else can I do? I can’t just attack Valiante. The Commission would never authorize that.”
Except that it already has. Valiante’s boss, Vincent Savonna, has gotten too big and too smug. This will bring him down a peg, level the playing field. She was right about the war being inevitable. Right, too, that it was best sparked sooner than later.
“I want your assurance that my people won’t be placed in harm’s way,” says McFarland.
Not all of them. But you, certainly.
“I’ll do everything I can. But, like I said, I’m not the one who’s going to launch it.”
“If representing you is going to put my family in danger, I want to know it now.”
“Not to worry.” Nunzio leans back in the chair. “I’ve already impressed upon my people how important it is that your family be kept safe. So long as you are part of the team.”
Mick starts his Mercedes and exits the prison parking lot, turns onto State Road. A few minutes later he’s on I-95 South, processing his meeting with Jimmy Nutzo. So long as you are part of the team. The murderer’s words make clear that any decision by him to withdraw as Nunzio’s counsel would endanger his family. Nunzio does it every time they meet, one way or another—threatens his family. The delivery is subtle. The message is anything but.
When Mick returns to the office, Angie tells him the district attorney has filed the Information in the Nunzio case, the document setting forth the charges being brought against Nunzio. Under the rules, the Information has to be filed at least five days before the scheduled date for the formal arraignment, which must be no later than twenty-one days after the defendant is held for court at the preliminary hearing.
The primary reasons for an arraignment are to make sure the defendant is advised of the charges and to have his attorney enter an appearance. Because there is no need for either in Nunzio’s case—Mick having entered his appearance and explained the charges to Nunzio—Mick has already filed a waiver of appearance at arraignment with the clerk. Arraignment is also the point at which the prosecution typically produces its discovery. While ADA Pagano could have waited the additional five days until the actual arraignment in order to produce his discovery, Mick’s happy to learn from Angie that the prosecutor’s case materials have already arrived.
“The medical examiner’s report and photos are also here,” Angie says. “I put it all in the big conference room. Tommy is in there now, looking through it.”
He walks directly to the conference room, where he finds his brother leaning over the table, looking at the autopsy photos. The rest of the materials—the autopsy report, the 75-49 (the detective’s report), the CSU report, the 75-48s (the incident reports prepared by the responding officers), and the property receipts for the items taken from Nunzio on his arrest have all been carefully arranged on the tabletop.
“Any surprises?” he asks.
Tom
my hands him three of the autopsy photos. Two are close-ups of Valiante’s wrists, the third of his ankles. Each of the photos shows deep lacerations.
“Plasticuffs,” Tommy says, handing him a crime-scene photo showing two cut pairs of plastic handcuffs.
“He was bound?” This stuns Mick, who sees it as very bad news for Nunzio, because it would eliminate a self-defense argument or even a heat-of-the-moment scenario.
“And judging from the wounds, he was fighting like hell to break free,” Tommy says.
“But he wasn’t bound when the police arrived,” Mick asks. “Was he?”
“Not according to the incident reports,” Tommy answers. “Or the crime-scene photos.” He hands Mick a couple of pictures showing Valiante’s body lying facedown, the position the police left him in when they pulled him off the weeping Christina.
“So, was he bound when he was killed? Or had he been freed by then?”
“The ME couldn’t tell.”
Mick stares at the photos. “And why would Nunzio uncuff him?”
They look at each other.
“This case is getting crazier by the minute,” says Tommy.
Mick leaves the office at 4:00. Ever since the Hanson case, he’s made it a point to come home early whenever he can steal the chance. One of many changes that have saved his marriage and deepened his relationships with both Piper and Gabby. The reason he’s going home now, though, is that his meeting with Nunzio has made him uneasy. He feels the need to see his wife and child, make sure they’re safe.
Franklin is lying on the front lawn as Mick pulls the car past the house and into the driveway. As he puts the car into park, turns off the engine, and unbuckles the seat belt, he sees the big Bernese get to his feet and walk toward the car. He climbs out and pets the dog.
“Come on, boy,” he says, leading Franklin around to the back patio, hoping to find Piper reading or working there, her usual habit on beautiful afternoons such as this one.
“Hey,” she says, looking up at him, “I thought I heard your car.”
“Where’s Gabby?”
“Still at soccer practice.”
“Oh, right,” he says, remembering that he’s home early.
A Killer's Alibi (Philadelphia Legal) Page 11