Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  Judge Gafni took it with more equanimity.

  “You say you have a witness, Mr. Devlin. Please enlighten us.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to call to the stand the corpus delecti of this first degree murder charge — Mr. John McKedrick.”

  Angela’s head spun around in the opposite direction toward the door of the courtroom, and even the judge’s eyebrows lifted. John walked into the courtroom as if he had never been dead a day in his life. The skin of Angela’s face drained of every drop of blood and her eyes followed John’s walk to the witness stand as if Elvis had just walked into the courtroom.

  The judge looked back at defense counsel.

  “I assume you have an explanation for this, Mr. Devlin.”

  “I do, Your Honor. I have just one question of this witness. Could we have him sworn in?”

  The judge’s clerk did the swearing, and Mr. Devlin took the floor.

  “Are you the John McKedrick who is supposedly the person who died in a bombing incident allegedly ordered by my client, Peter Santangelo?”

  John was the soul of composure.

  “I am, Mr. Devlin.”

  Angela’s perplexity radiated from every pore of her blanched face. She seemed fixed in one position.

  I saw that glint in Mr. Devlin’s eyes that told me he could in no way resist hammering the last unnecessary nail in Ms. Lamb’s case.

  “And would you tell the court, Mr. McKenna, are you in any sense of the word dead?”

  The judge was on his feet and striding toward his chambers without allowing time for an answer.

  “I’ll see counsel in my chambers. This witness is not excused.”

  Ms. Lamb, Mr. Devlin, and I gathered in chairs around the judge’s desk.

  “Mr. Devlin, you did not overstate the matter. This is an extraordinary day. I’m looking for an explanation from you, Miss Lamb.”

  “Flustered” is the only word that comes close to poor Angela’s state at that moment, and the word doesn’t even come close.

  “This comes as a complete shock to me as well, Your Honor. I had absolutely no idea.”

  That statement needed no backing up beyond one look at our shaking Queen of Prosecution.

  “Then, Mr. Devlin, let’s hear it from you. I want this done in chambers before the press goes shooting off half-cocked.”

  Mr. Devlin gave a brief account of how the assumed corpse of John McKedrick had returned to the world of the living. He wrapped it up neatly.

  “The most immediate piece of business is your ruling on my motion to dismiss the charge of murder against my client, Peter Santangelo.”

  The judge looked at Angela simply as a matter of courtesy. “If I may ask an absurd question, Miss Lamb, do you have any objection to the motion?”

  She stalled for a few seconds to see if there was any possible straw to be grasped. The judge gave her an incredulous look.

  “Miss Lamb, that was practically a rhetorical question.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I can’t — think of an objection.”

  “No. I’d think not. The motion is granted. The indictment is dismissed. I want to do this in open court. Is there anything else at the moment.”

  Angela bounced back in admirable style.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I want you to issue a bench warrant for the immediate arrest of John McKedrick.”

  “Interesting, Ms. Lamb. On what charge?”

  “Fraud on the court, to begin with. There may be other charges.”

  “Very well, I’ll issue the warrant. Any objection, Mr. Devlin?”

  Mr. D. just raised his hands in submission.

  “He’s not my client, Your Honor. No objection here.”

  The slight smile on his face told me that he and I were sharing the same thought.

  Our little troop marched back into the courtroom, where we discovered with a glance that the witness chair was empty. The judge called the bailiff, Keiran O’Toole, to the bench.

  “Where is he, Keiran? I told him he was not excused.”

  Keiran, in his Irish brogue, reported that Mr. McKedrick had had the need to make use of the men’s lavatory facilities and had left the courtroom merely for that purpose.

  The judge sent Keiran to fetch back Mr. McKedrick. Keiran returned in a minute to report, I believe to the surprise of no one, with the possible exception of Angela, that Mr. McKedrick was nowhere to be found.

  The judge made short work of granting the motion to dismiss the indictment against Peter, and we left the courtroom. On my way out, Keiran took me by the sleeve and led me over to a corner.

  “Mr. Knight, he left you a message.”

  “Keiran. You let him walk right by you.”

  I smiled when I said it, and Keiran smiled when he replied.

  “And shall I give you the message?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Mr. McKedrick wanted me to say to you in these very words, ‘May the road rise up to meet you, and may the wind be always at your back.’ ”

  I felt a lump the size of a grapefruit come up in my throat. I just patted Keiran on the shoulder by way of a thank you, and he understood.

  I knew that was John’s way of saying good-bye, and that I might never see him again. I think he was also telling me exactly where I could find him if I ever needed him. I think he wanted me to put that old Irish blessing together with my knowledge of where John’s ancestors were buried in the west of Ireland.

  I said a reciprocal prayer for my once friend and brother, and left the courtroom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I got as far as the courthouse steps when my cell phone rang. It was Mr. Devlin.

  “Michael, we’ve got one more loose end to tie.”

  “I know. Can we do it?”

  “Who knows? I have to try. I want you there. Meet me in an hour at Matt Ryan’s church.”

  I walked up the steps of the Church of the Sacred Heart with a sense of impending closure. This was where it began, and by the grace of God, this was where the last act would play out.

  Based on the lack of cars out front, I assumed I was the first one there. I relished those few moments of quiet peace before the altar — the first still moments I could remember for some time.

  Monsignor Ryan came to the pew and sat beside me. I told him the news about Peter. That brought a heartfelt smile. Then I asked him not to mention it to Mr. Santangelo if he should arrive next. That brought a dark cloud. I think he knew exactly why I made the request.

  “How is he, Michael?”

  I knew he meant Mr. Devlin, and I knew he was not looking for a glib answer.

  “In the mornings, he’s flint and steel. By the late afternoon, I see a weariness that wasn’t there before. He’d never admit to it, but it’s there, and it worries me.”

  Monsignor Ryan put a great knuckled hand on my shoulder. He looked at me as if he were reading my thoughts.

  “You love him, don’t you, Michael?”

  I smiled. “It shows, does it? Yes. I admire him. I respect him. But most of all, I guess I love him. My own dad died when I was very young, and—”

  “Don’t for a minute think that he loves you any less, Michael. You’re awfully good for him.”

  I could just nod in thanks. There was nothing he could have said that could have gone so straight to my heart.

  There was a sound at the back of the church, and we both walked back to meet Mr. Devlin. A minute later, Mr. Santangelo appeared. I remembered what a stake in my heart it was the first time I saw him in that church, and recognized what I thought was the absolute Icon of Evil. Now he looked like just an ordinary older man who was aging fast.

  Monsignor Ryan led us back to the office. We sat in our usual seats. Mr. Santangelo was the first to get to business.

  “What do you want to tell me, Lex?”

  Mr. Devlin rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. I knew that meant that he was searching for a place to begin.

  “Dominic, I’m g
oing to make a deal with you.”

  “I thought we had a deal, Lex.”

  “Consider it a renegotiation.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “How much is Peter’s life worth to you?”

  That question stunned him.

  “Are you looking for a fee, Lex? Ask any amount you want. If I can pay it, I will. If I can’t, I’ll get it.”

  “In other words, any amount.”

  “Did you ever doubt it?”

  Mr. Devlin stood up and walked over to lean against the edge of Monsignor Ryan’s desk.

  “No. I didn’t. But I’m not talking about money. That being so, does the same upper limit hold?”

  Mr. Santangelo was openly at a loss as to where this was going. I knew, and I’m sure Monsignor Ryan knew. Nevertheless, Mr. Santangelo nodded in the affirmative.

  “Dominic, you and I lost each other many years ago. You can say we took different paths. That wasn’t it. We became different people. I’m going to be blunt here. I’m no angel, but you willingly followed a life so despicably evil that I said to myself I’d have no part of it or of you.”

  The lines on Mr. Santangelo’s forehead said that Mr. Devlin’s words were causing direct pain, and I wondered how much more of it the don would take.

  “I was wrong, Dominic. I didn’t hate you. I never did. We were brothers, you and me and Matt.

  He took a pause that was more than a breath. His voice was tighter when he could continue.

  “All these years. I hated what you were doing, and how it almost killed our brotherhood. Now Matt, our brother, this priest, has opened a door for us. I want to walk through it, and I’m calling on you to do the same.”

  “You talked about a deal, Lex. What do you want me to do?”

  Mr. Devlin leaned forward to speak even more directly to Santangelo.

  “I’ll give you back your son, Dominic. That’s my part.”

  Mr. Santangelo looked somewhat taken back, almost hesitating to believe it.

  “How, Lex?”

  “As I say, that’s my part. It’s a promise. I can do it. I’ll explain in a minute.”

  A cloud seemed to lift tentatively from Mr. Santangelo’s face, but he allowed Mr. Devlin to stay on track.

  “And my part, Lex?”

  Mr. Devlin leaned even closer.

  “Become the man I knew forty years ago.”

  Mr. Santangelo looked away. Ten seconds later when he looked back, he was the aging man I saw when he came in.

  “How can I—?”

  Mr. Devlin looked directly into his eyes and I knew that he had never faced a jury that he more deeply wanted to win over.

  “You’ve been wronged, Dominic, in the most painful way. Your lieutenant, Aiello, is a traitor of the worst sort. He attacked you through your son. I can tell you this. The danger to you and Peter from his insidiousness has passed. That’s a story we can tell later. There’s another danger. You have control now. What will you do? Will you take blood revenge because you can? If that’s what you choose, you’ll break the bonds that are beginning to grow again between us. Make no mistake. That’s the price.”

  Mr. Santangelo looked directly into Mr. Devlin’s eyes.

  “Why do you defend this Aiello?”

  “I don’t, Dominic. I’m defending you, and me, and Matt, and what we had before.”

  He looked at Mr. Devlin for what seemed an eternity before speaking.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Aiello’s defeated, Dominic. Let him leave. Alive. Back to Sicily if he chooses, but alive.”

  Mr. Devlin pulled his chair over to sit and face Mr. Santangelo directly. “This has to be your free choice, Dominic. Hear me. Peter’s indictment has been dismissed. He’s free to go. You can bring him home when we finish.”

  Mr. Santangelo was on his feet as if some new life had revitalized his body. Mr. Devlin stood to face him.

  “It’s true, Dominic. You have your son.”

  Mr. Santangelo looked as if he wanted with all his heart to embrace Mr. Devlin, but there was still a mountain between them. I could see moisture forming in Mr. Santangelo’s eyes. I was surprised to see that this Godfather was capable of tears.

  “Dominic, we’re old men. There isn’t much time. I want to meet you in heaven, and I don’t want it to be in anger.”

  Their eyes were locked. I watched the tension slowly drain out of the face of Mr. Santangelo. His arms came up, and so did Mr. Devlin’s. It was as if some greater power was pulling them together. They stood with their arms around each other as they might have done forty years ago to celebrate a knockout win by Matt Ryan, and their arms only opened to enclose Monsignor Ryan in the circle.

  They never noticed when I left the room. This was their time. And besides, there was a young lady I’d promised a date without one single murder or kidnapping all evening.

  If you enjoyed Frame-Up, you should also enjoy

  Black Diamond

  By

  John F. Dobbyn

  An excerpt from Black Diamond follows this page.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A track-wise old denizen of the backstretch at Boston’s Suffolk Downs once shared with me his conclusion that there are dozens of ways a horse can lose a race, and only one way to win. It sounds poetic, but it’s basically bunk. There are as many ways to make a horse win a race as there are devious twists in the minds of those who stand to make a buck.

  That thought cruised through my mind the afternoon of the Massachusetts Handicap, the granddaddy of New England stakes races. I was in the grandstand at Suffolk Downs early in the afternoon to watch Danny Ryan, a buddy from my youthful days when we were both stable hands for my adoptive father and patron saint, Miles O’Connor. Danny was riding a two-year-old colt, Black Diamond, in one of the earlier races. The Diamond went to the post as a twenty-to-one long shot.

  I had a few bucks on him, but that aside, when he entered the starting gate, my heart was pounding for the sake of Danny. He had run a painful gauntlet with some unhealthy substances, but now he was clean. This was the start of a major comeback.

  Rick McDonough, the trainer of Black Diamond, had gone out on a limb to give Danny the mount. According to track scuttlebutt, Rick’s stable needed this win to keep the thread it was hanging by from snapping. In the salad days, when Danny was the leading rider at Suffolk Downs, he’d brought in winners for Rick’s stable more often than not by putting his body at risk with moves that would give most jockeys the shivers. His wins bought a lot of hay and oats, and Rick never forgot.

  The race was five furlongs, a little over half a mile. Black Diamond broke well from the third post, and Danny settled him nicely into a comfortable fourth position on the rail. They just cruised in that position until they hit the far turn, and my heart went into a slow seizure. Danny was completely boxed in by the three front-runners. He had no choice but to stay in the box, hard on the driving heels of the horse ahead of him, catching clods of dirt with every stride, until they hit the top of the homestretch.

  In one magic moment, the horse on the rail ahead of Danny veered to the right just enough to open a bit of daylight. Black Diamond blew through the opening and went for the lead. Over the crowd, I could barely hear the track announcer booming, “Here comes Black Diamond, and the Diamond is flying!”

  And flying he was. Hector Vasquez, the jockey on the leader, Sundowner, went to the right-handed whip. His horse veered left, and pressed Black Diamond nearly to the rail, but the Diamond never slackened. They were noses apart, swapping the lead with every stride. Danny was hand riding him. He never went to the whip, but by the eighth pole, it was becoming clear that Black Diamond was seizing the lead for good.

  A sixteenth of a mile to go, and I was yelling my lungs out, though in that din, I wasn’t sure I was making a sound. Black Diamond’s lead of a nose grew to half a head and kept growing. I was picking my route to get down to the winner’s circle to congratulate Danny.

  This is wher
e it gets fuzzy. I’ve tried a thousand times to put together what I saw next. Some of it doesn’t scan, and I’m never sure what my imagination is adding or subtracting.

  In a fraction of a second, Danny went from the rhythmic crouch of a jockey aboard the front-runner to a splaying spasm of arms and legs that had him hurtling over the rail into an unnatural twist of body and limbs on the inside turf.

  Black Diamond went on to cross the finish line riderless and therefore disqualified, but every eye in that suddenly hushed crowd was on the still figure of the jockey. For seconds, I was too stunned to move. I just stared with everyone else, trying to will movement into Danny’s distorted body.

  The ambulance came flying down the track behind the final finishers. The first EMTs who reached Danny immediately signaled for the brace that would hold his head and neck in line with his spine. The rest was blotted out by people and horses in the way of my view. In a matter of minutes, all I could see was the track dust behind the wailing ambulance. I prayed to God that they were taking my buddy to the hospital and not the morgue.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no word from the hospital that afternoon or evening. Danny was in what seemed like interminable surgery. A few predawn calls the next morning zeroed me in on the intensive care unit at the Mass. General Hospital. I arrived there before the night shift changed. Experience taught me that it’s easier to get past the nurses’ station at the end of a long night shift than to avoid the attention of the alert, more populated day crew.

  Danny had just been moved to a private room, but he was still under guard against visitors. I approached the two-hundred-pound Cerberus in a nurse’s pantsuit and asked her for a quick minute with “my brother.” I figured that small deviation from the truth would obviate the usual, “Are you a member of the family?”

  Nurse Ratched compared my six foot one to Danny’s five foot three and gave me a look of squinting disbelief. I gave her an understanding nod and my most ingratiating smile.