Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  He stopped talking long enough for one last look around the old Charlestown streets. Then he put the car in gear, and we were back to silence. He slowed down as we passed through the narrow streets of the North End — the almost exclusively Italian neighborhood. He took a sharp right and cruised down Prince Street. Half way down, he pulled over in front of DeMeo’s Pastry Shop.

  “You better know it all, Michael. December eighteenth, the week before Christmas. Matt had fought his way up to a shot at the number-three contender. That’s up there, Michael. This one was at Boston Garden. He wins this one, and he’s two fights from the world heavyweight championship. He was going against a good fighter, Angie DeMarco from Brooklyn. The odds on the fight were about even.

  “Dominic came into the dressing room while Matt was getting taped up. He was jumpy as a cat. When the trainers left the room, he got down to business.”

  Mr. D. went silent again. Suddenly he got out of the car, and I followed. We walked to the end of the block where a small alley with three houses opens onto Prince Street.

  “That’s where Dominic lived. He still lives around here somewhere.”

  I looked at the vowel-filled names on the shops, the old men sitting, smoking, speaking in Italian in groups on chairs on the sidewalk. You could almost taste the aromas of fresh sausage and tomato gravy cooking in the kitchens. We could have been on a street in Rome.

  “Matt and I didn’t know it, but this tough kid, this Dominic that we took as a brother, had other brothers. He was working his way up through the lower ranks of the Cosa Nostra. He thought he could keep his two lives separate.”

  Mr. D. stopped again. I was too far into it not to prime the pump.

  “And?”

  “They had a piece of him, but they wanted all of him. He had an assignment. Get Matt to take a dive. They knew about us three. They thought he could deliver Matt. They thought wrong. It tore the hell out of us when Dominic even suggested it. Matt and I just looked at each other. We knew nothing would ever be the same again. We gave him a message he could take back to his North End buddies. I think a piece of both of us went out of that room with him.”

  Mr. Devlin started back to the car.

  “So what happened in the fight?”

  “The first round was typical big-fight tactics. Both fighters jabbed and ducked and danced. Then in the second round, Matt was ready. He exploded out of the corner, throwing lefts until DeMarco was against the ropes in his own corner. Matt caught him with a right that glanced off his jaw. It wasn’t enough to take him down, but it opened up a cut in his mouth that spouted blood like a geyser. Matt backed off. I could see by the look on his face, he knew what was happening. Since they couldn’t buy Matt, they got to Demarco. He was wearing a wire.”

  “What kind of wire?”

  “Barbed wire. DeMarco was taking a dive the easy way. He put a piece of barbed wire inside his lower lip. Any punch would open up cuts inside the mouth that looked like a major hemorrhage. The fight would be stopped because of the loss of blood. He’d get a rematch, and the boys in the North End would collect whatever they bet on Matt. Probably a lot.

  “Matt knew it right away. I saw him back into his corner. He looked like everything he fought for was turning sour. The ref’s hand started to go up to stop the fight. Matt grabbed the towel from around the trainer’s neck and threw it into the ring in front of the ref. He conceded the fight to DeMarco before the ref could call the fight. The whole Garden went crazy.

  “I pulled Matt out of the ring into the dressing room. I knew the bozos behind the fix did not suffer losses gladly. Matt dressed, and we got out of there. Neither one of us knew how this would play with the boxing commission. It turned out it didn’t matter.”

  We reached the car, and Mr. Devlin leaned back against the hood.

  “It all seemed so long ago. Then today in Matt’s church it was like yesterday.”

  Mr. Devlin turned around and looked into the empty front seat. “I went over to Matt’s apartment the next afternoon. He was living in South Boston, to be near the gym where he trained. There was no answer to the bell. I rang one of the other apartments. When I got buzzed in, I ran up the three flights to his door. It was partly open, so I went in. Matt was there. He was on the floor. He’d been worked over pretty good, but most of it would heal. The real damage was his hands. They were broken so badly—”

  I remembered the twisted knots of fingers that looked like roots of blackthorn.

  “Did they ever find out who did it?”

  “Maybe. Three days later, the police found three low-level Mafia hoods in a car. They each had a bullet in the back of the head, execution-style. Word had it they were the muscle involved in fixing fights. I had a hunch these three were sent to make an example of Matt. Then someone executed them.”

  “Someone?”

  Mr. Devlin looked at me for a second. “You’ve got a suspicious mind, Michael.”

  We got in the car. Before he started the engine, Mr. Devlin said something so softly I could hardly hear it.

  “I had the same suspicion. So I decided to talk to him about it. I met Dominic at a bar we used to go to near the gym. I never told Matt about it. It looked like the same old Dominic, but something was very different. We had a beer, and then I got to it. I didn’t ask anything. I just said it was odd that three guys who were probably sent to teach Matt a lesson all got a bullet in the head. He didn’t say a word. He dropped a five on the bar for the drinks. He put a hand on my shoulder and said what I thought would be the last words I’d ever hear from Dominic Santangelo. ‘Tell Matt I’m sorry.’ ”

  CHAPTER SIX

  My trusty secretary, Julie, was there to intercept me between the elevator and my office.

  “The messages are on your desk. Just break the spider webs and blow off the dust. You could call back the ones who are still alive. Some of them are probably in homes by now, but—”

  “Enough, Julie. You’re my secretary, not my mother.”

  “A fine distinction. Michael, come over here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Michael.”

  “I’m coming.”

  To win the argument would take longer than the inspection. Julie will probably drive me to a corner room in the state home for the incurably fussed-over. In the meantime, if she should cease to be my secretary, I’d probably retire from the practice of law.

  Her only major drawback is that she is twenty-six and an auburn-haired, hazel-eyed, vital, witty, knockout. Add to that, the unfortunate fact that all five-foot-three-and-three-quarter inches of her is solid heart. That combination raises the hideous specter of marriage to someone who could take her out of professional life — my professional life.

  “Michael, you look like you were attacked by a sushi chef.”

  “Two days ago you would have said a serial slasher. This is an improvement. The flowers were beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome. It was the least I could do. They said you couldn’t have visitors, except Mr. Devlin. I think he said he was your father.”

  That brought a smile to my lips that ran very deep.

  “The teddy bear was beautiful too, Julie.”

  “That was overdoing it, but I wasn’t sure I’d see you again to be embarrassed.”

  “Very sweet. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Would you please call four or five hundred of these people back before I say things your clients will take personally?”

  “Actually, no. We’ve got a hot one. This is going to take up all the burners for the next week or so. Anything so overwhelmingly urgent it can’t wait?”

  “Yes. My resignation.”

  “Very funny, Julie. Just tell them all I’ll get back to them ASAP. I’ll be with Mr. Devlin.”

  I entered the corner office and quietly closed the door. Mr. D. was dialing a phone number. His square-built form looked like a block of concrete with suspenders. It only reinforced my vision of him as a solid pillar to hold onto when the wi
nds of our practice got furious, as they occasionally did.

  He saw me and punched the button for the speakerphone. His suit coat was on the table, and he looked ready for combat, except for a wearying around the eyes. It was a sign I’d begun to spot around three in the afternoon on days when the morning had been draining on the old warrior. He still sprang to his elbows in front of the phone when the voice of the receptionist of the Suffolk County district attorney filled the room.

  “Good afternoon, Mary. Would you ring Miss Lamb, please?”

  “Is she expecting your call, Mr. Devlin? She’s in a meeting.”

  “I bet she’s in a meeting, Mary. She’ll have the war council in permanent session for the next month. Tell you what. Would you just whisper into her crusty little ear that Lex Devlin is on the phone, and he represents Mr. Santangelo. You might be prepared to catch her teeth if she drops them.”

  I could hear the grin in her voice when she said, “I’ll deliver the message, Mr. Devlin.”

  I enjoyed visualizing the scene with my eyes closed. We have Ms. Lamb, five-and-a-half feet of lean, mean, calculating machine, with every obedient strand of pitch-black hair pulled so tight in a bun that her nose quivers. Nothing defined her quite so much as the fact that she was the current occupant of what she viewed as a catapult to the governor’s chair, otherwise known as the District Attorney’s Office. There she was, holding in her clutchy little talons the Santangelo case, a metaphor for the knife that would cut the rope that would spring the catapult. The flight would be meteoric and unimpeded. The only major question was whether to wear long or short for the inaugural ball.

  Suddenly, a small receptionist is standing there telling her that between her and the goalpost has arisen the defensive front line of the New England Patriots. Mr. Alexis Devlin will be personally seeing to the dismantling of her ambitions. I could only hope that the messenger would survive the telling.

  She was on the phone in thirty seconds. Her voice sounded deliberately controlled, and a pitch lower than usual. I wondered how she’d handle it when she heard that the word had gotten out about Peter Santangelo’s prospective indictment by the supposedly secret grand jury.

  “Lex, this is a surprise.”

  “I hope a pleasant one, Angela. Let’s talk about the Santangelo case. What have you got?”

  “Santangelo? Nothing, at the moment. Much as I’d like to personally walk Dominic Santangelo to the chamber, I don’t know of anything—”

  “Peter, Angela. Peter Santangelo. Let’s stop playing make-believe and get down to business. I’ve got two things to tell you. One is that your little rowboat sprung a serious leak. Grand jury proceedings are supposed to be secret. The state constitution says something about that. And yet, here I am knowing about the Peter Santangelo indictment before the grand jury’s given it to you.”

  That lifted her from sneaky to belligerent, two of her better qualities.

  “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to, but if you think you can bluff—”

  “Angela. I told you I had two things to tell you. Now I have three. Shall we get out of the sandbox and deal?”

  Silence.

  “Good. The second thing is that an indictment without a trial will make you look … what’s the word … inept. Not good in politics. Just keep listening, Angela. The cat’s out of the bag. You know Santangelo senior’s organization as well as I do. Those people can tuck Peter Santangelo away so you’ll never find him. If you can’t find him, you can’t bring him to trial. Are you following all this?”

  “I’m actually recording every word of it. I believe I have Lex Devlin on record as threatening to obstruct justice.”

  “Oh, Angela. How do you find the office in the morning? I haven’t threatened anything. I haven’t seen Peter since I changed his diaper twenty-five years ago. I have no idea where he is, nor do I intend to until we have an agreement. You know I don’t play with those monkeys his father’s involved with. You also know they don’t exactly play by the rules. Am I going too fast here?”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “I’m proposing a fair exchange. When the indictment comes down, I’ll bring Peter in personally. You’ll get your trial.”

  “How can you guarantee that?”

  “I’ve never made a promise I didn’t deliver. You have my word, and you’ll never get a piece of paper better than that.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “Two things. I want immediate protective incarceration in solitary when I bring him in. I want him protected until the end of any trial, and appeal if necessary. I’ll hold you legally accountable for his safety.”

  “That’s one. What else?”

  “I want you to open your file. I want disclosure now of every bit of evidence you have against Peter. You’ll have to disclose it later anyway.”

  “You have no right to anything preindictment. I don’t have to disclose anything to you.”

  “Angela, you’re not following the conversation well at all. I know what I’m entitled to. We’re not discussing that. We’re talking about what you’re willing to give up for a guaranteed defendant to try.”

  There was a gap of silence. I could almost hear the little hamsters making the wheels go around in her head, looking for a next move that would at least do her no harm.

  “I’m going to put you on hold for a minute, Lex.”

  “That’s fine, Angela. I’ll be here for another two minutes.”

  When the music came on the line, Mr. Devlin held his hand over the speaker microphone and whispered, “She’s talking as fast as she can to Billy Coyne. He’s there with her. Thank God. He’ll tell her what to do.”

  The redoubtable Deputy District Attorney Billy Coyne had been a fixture in the Suffolk County office through seven political climbers who occupied the title position. He was roughly Mr. D.’s vintage, and unquestionably the best thing that could be said about the office. He had a solid head for the law and no discernable political ambitions. He made the office tick while the newspaper headlines flew over his head to the top dog.

  “What makes you think Mr. Coyne’s in there.”

  “She may not be able to find the courthouse without a map, but she knows the political value of this case. She also knows who the lawyer is in that office. She’ll be out front for the headlines, but she won’t brush her teeth without Billy’s okay till this case ends.”

  The music clicked off the line.

  “Lex, are you there?”

  “Yes, Angela.”

  “I’ve decided that justice would best be served if you and I cooperate. I’m ready to disclose the evidence we have on Peter Santangelo as soon as I have your assurance in writing that if an indictment were to come down, you’d turn him over to us within twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s half the deal.”

  “You’ll bring him to my office, and I’ll agree to have him put in protective solitary for the duration of the trial.”

  “I can imagine. Right after a full photo opportunity for every yahoo in the media that can spell your name. No deal. I don’t want him exposed till I know who his enemies are.”

  Mr. D. changed the tone of his voice before he called out, “Billy Coyne, Billy, for the love of Pete, are you there? Speak up, man”

  There was a bit of shuffling before a different voice came across the speaker.

  “Hello, Lex.”

  “Billy, let’s make sense of this. You know what I’m talking about here.”

  “I know. We want him alive too. The question is the best way to keep him that way. We have to agree on a transfer point. Not this office and not police headquarters. We don’t know any more than you do about the real players in this thing. You and I can work out a handover with people we can both trust, the fewer the better. We’ll hold him well out of Suffolk County. I’ll let you know when I work it out.”

  “Ah, Billy. The angel of reason. Give me a time frame so I can set it up on this end.”

  “We
’re looking at tomorrow around noon for the indictment. It shouldn’t take any longer than that.”

  Angela broke in. “That’s absolutely confidential!”

  “Angela, get a grip. If anything about this farce were confidential, we wouldn’t be having this enlightening conversation. You’ve got some serious plugging to do. Billy, I’ll try to set things up for tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

  “I understand, Lex. Be careful. These are not the playmates you’re used to. They have a totally different set of rules.”

  “I know. You know why I’m doing it.”

  “I take it the old acquaintances have been rekindled.”

  “For better or worse. Now, which one of you wants to tell me what you have?”

  Angela jumped in before she lost total control of the proceeding.

  “I’ll give you what we have. During the week before the bombing, Dominic Santangelo was in Sicily. John McKedrick, the young man who was killed, worked for Benny Ignola. They represented Santangelo’s people on criminal matters.”

  “I know about John, Angela, get on with it.”

  “We picked up one of their hoods on an extortion charge, a Mr. Salvatore Marone. He was mid-level in the Santangelo family. He was a three-timer, which meant life, so he wanted to deal. He told us that the previous week he had information that John McKedrick wanted to leave Ignola. He wanted out of the whole business. The trouble was he knew too much. He’d represented members of the mob so long that he might have had enough information to connect even Dominic Santangelo himself. He knew they’d never let him walk away. He was about to go to the FBI to get into the witness protection program. He never worked directly for Santangelo so there was no problem with lawyer-client privilege.”

  “I understand that, Angela.”

  “Since Dominic Santangelo was out of the country, Marone went to his son, Peter. He told him about McKedrick. Marone will testify that Peter Santangelo was upset, worried for his father. He said, and I quote, ‘I’ll take care of McKedrick. I’ll do what my father would do if he were here. It’s about time I got my hands dirty.’ I guess we can all interpret that, Lex.”