Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “Hunter,” Anthony said in a happy voice. “We were just finishing up.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I replied. “But I just got off the phone with a Brenda Borowski.”

  “The reporter for the Daily News?” Anthony asked in surprise.

  “That’s what she said,” I replied as I tried to hide my own surprise that Anthony had even recognized the name. Other than Will Shortz, who edited the New York Times crossword puzzle, I don’t think I could identify a single reporter at any of the papers by name.

  “Well, she usually does crime stories,” Anthony mused.

  “She says she’s doing an investigation into police corruption,” I said. “She says she has information that might be helpful to us, but she wants to interview you.”

  Anthony was silent for several moments, and I heard Gulia ask a question. Anthony grunted, though I wasn’t sure if that was intended for me or Gulia.

  “What kind of information?” Anthony asked.

  “She didn’t give me any details,” I replied. “I really dislike the idea of talking to her, but it could be that she has something we can use in your defense. I think I should meet with her first and see if she has anything. If she does, we can decide then if you do the interview or not.”

  “You think you can get enough from her to figure out if I should talk to her?” Anthony pressed.

  “I can,” I assured him.

  “I’ve heard about her,” Anthony warned. “She knows how to play the dumb girl bit, so people tend to underestimate her, but she’s really clever and really sharp. You’ll tell her stuff without even realizing it.”

  “There’s nothing I can tell her,” I replied. “Whatever I do know is confidential, and that’s what I’ll say if she tries to ask questions.”

  “But then won’t she just say the same thing?” my client asked.

  “She’s got to give me something,” I replied. “Something we don’t already know or she won’t get the interview with you. She knows that.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have anything,” Anthony said.

  “She wouldn’t have called me if she didn’t have something to offer,” I pointed out.

  There was another long pause, and this time I heard Annie laugh, then call out my name.

  “You should have stayed!” Annie yelled.

  “Call her back, tell her you’ll talk to her first,” Anthony said as he ignored his sister. “If you think she’s got something, we can work a deal. If not, we walk away.”

  I hung up to the sound of Gulia offering to pour everyone a small glass of Moscato. I took a few moments to gather my thoughts and decide on the best way to handle the reporter. Anthony’s warning was still in my head, and I had to admit, I had already pegged her as a breathless newbie not worth my time just by her phone personality.

  I finally opened the laptop, saved what little I had completed on my application, then did my own background search on Brenda Borowski. There were only a few pictures of her, which showed little more than a woman with dark red hair and a love of large sunglasses. She was older than I would have guessed, based on her voice, and had two more years on this planet than I did. She had graduated from NYU and landed a job almost immediately with the New York Times. She’d left what looked like the more prestigious job for a spot at the Daily News where she became the main beat reporter for the crime pages. I realized then that I did know her work, even if I didn’t recognize the name, and I was more convinced than ever that she had something we could use.

  “Ms. Borowski,” I said in my most formal voice when I called her back. “I’d like to meet with you first, just to get an idea of what you have to offer. If I think you have something we can use, then I can arrange a meeting with my client.”

  Brenda hesitated, though she couldn’t have been all that surprised by the offer. Maybe she had hoped that I would buy the breathless bimbo routine and let her inside the Febbo circle without doing much vetting.

  “That will work,” she finally said. “Can we meet tonight?”

  I glanced at the clock and saw that it wasn’t as late as I had thought. Still, I wasn’t exactly dressed for going out, as my mother used to say whenever my dad would suddenly announce that he felt like eating dinner at a restaurant.

  “Please?” she begged in her breathless voice.

  “Where are you now?” I asked.

  “The Village,” she replied. “But I can meet you anywhere.”

  I could have made her come all the way to Brooklyn, but I wasn’t feeling that mean. I also didn’t want to let her get too close to my home, though for all I knew, she already had my home address stored in her phone along with my number.

  “Meet me in the lounge at the Wagner in Battery Park,” I replied. “In half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there,” she replied in a gleeful voice.

  I tossed the phone onto the couch and retreated into the bedroom once again to figure out what to wear. Somehow, I didn’t think ratty gym shorts and a faded t-shirt would get me inside the bar at the hotel but I didn’t feel like putting on another suit either. I settled on the classic business casual of khakis and a button-down shirt, then made a quick stop in the bathroom to remove the five o’clock shadow that was starting to creep across my face.

  When I looked and smelled presentable, I made my way to the subway and the quick ride to lower Manhattan. It hit me as I stood on the platform that I hadn’t been back to the area since my dramatic departure from the hallowed halls of McHale, Parrish, and part of me was nervous that I would run into the likes of Barbara Ovitz as I walked the streets of the financial district.

  Happily, I didn’t spot anyone I recognized as I made my way towards Battery Park, a pleasant strip of grass and flowers that runs along the edge of the river. If you can tolerate the crowds during the day, it offers spectacular views of the river and the Statue of Liberty. At night, after the ferries to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty have closed, the park takes on a slower, almost peaceful air.

  The Wagner hotel was one of the first of the big hotels to be built in the financial district, one of the few sections of Manhattan that made do with a few small-scale places for years. Of course, it hadn’t taken long for the major chains to realize just how much money could be made by operating a large hotel geared towards business travelers in the business heart of the city. But the Wagner, with its prime location on Battery Park and a clear view over the river, was still one of the most popular hotels in the financial district, and the lounge often served drinks to people who worked in the area as well as those who were just visiting.

  I slipped into a spot near the end of the bar and ordered a beer while I waited for Brenda Borowski to arrive. I was surprised she wasn’t there already, since presumably she didn’t have to change and she had a quicker trip on the subway. In fact, I was there a good ten minutes before I saw her step into the bar and peer around.

  She was shorter than I expected, but that probably played into the dumb girl routine that Anthony had mentioned. The girls’ school uniform look only added to that impression, as did the pigtails she wore on the sides of her head. She spotted me a moment later and she gave me a girlish smile as she started towards me.

  “Hunter?” she asked as she thrust her hand towards me.

  Up close, I could see the laugh lines around her eyes and the dark smudges beneath her eyes that she hid with make-up. She had brown eyes, almost the same color as her hair, and pouty lips that I thought only existed in fashion magazines.

  “Ms. Borowski,” I replied as I shook her hand. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “What’s on tap?” she asked the bartender when he approached us.

  “Miller, Heineken,” the bartender began.

  “Heineken,” she said quickly.

  The bartender nodded and moved away to pour her beer. I pointed towards the empty seat next to me but she shook her head.

  “Do you mind if we sit at a table?” she asked.

  “There’s
one by the windows over there,” I noted.

  “I’ll grab it,” she said as she skipped away.

  The bartender returned with the other beer and set it in front of me.

  “I didn’t ask for her ID,” he said as he looked around for her.

  “Trust me, she’s legal,” I replied as I laid a bill on the bar, then picked up the beers and followed Brenda to the table.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said as I set the Heineken in front of her. “Sometimes I just really need to have a beer.”

  “Same here,” I replied as I took a sip of my own.

  “So,” I nudged when she didn’t say anything for several seconds. “What is it you wanted to share?”

  She slowly placed her glass back on the table and studied me for a moment.

  “I guess I should start by explaining what I’m working on,” she said.

  “You mentioned police corruption,” I replied.

  She nodded, took another sip of the beer, and then looked casually at the other people in the bar.

  “Sorry,” she said when she caught me watching her, “but I know I’ve been followed sometimes and I’ve gotten threats at work.”

  “That can’t be unusual for a reporter,” I commented.

  “It’s not,” she agreed, “unless it’s the police who are doing it.”

  “You know that for a fact?” I asked in surprise.

  “I’ve seen the same dynamic duo in a cop car several times, so yes, I’m sure they’re following me,” she said. “The threats are a little harder to prove.”

  “This sounds like a rather nasty bit of corruption you’ve uncovered,” I replied.

  “It is, although it wasn’t what I thought I would uncover,” she said.

  “How so?” I pressed.

  “Look, you probably know that corruption in the police department isn’t new,” she began. “It’s been around since the department was founded, and while they’ve always done a good job of rooting out, they’ve never been able to remove all of it.”

  “Sounds about right,” I replied.

  “The only thing that ever really changes is who’s doing the corrupting,” she continued. “You had rum runners in the roaring twenties, the yakuza for awhile in the nineties, even a jihadist periodically. About the only group that’s been consistently a part of the NYPD scene over the years is the Mafia.”

  “They do have a long history together,” I agreed.

  “The thing is, I’m not sure how much longer that will be true,” she said.

  I had started to lift my glass for another sip and I found that my hand had stopped about halfway to my mouth. I managed to get my arm moving again and I took a long sip before I slowly returned the glass to the table.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Are you suggesting that the police are going to destroy the Mafia once and for all? How exactly would they accomplish that?”

  “They’ve already started,” she replied, “but not in the way you’re thinking. This latest war is only a small part of a larger campaign that’s been going on for some time.”

  She definitely had my attention, and I felt myself lean forward. She still had her innocent girl look on her face, but I could see her watching me closely.

  “By the NYPD,” I clarified.

  She shook her head, stopped, and did the so-so motion with her hand.

  “They’re part of it, but they’re not the ones behind all this,” she replied. “There’s someone else moving in, with a plan to eliminate all of the families and take control of all of their operations. And that’s why I want to talk to your client. He, or his father, actually, is the only one who seemed to notice what was going on.”

  “Noticed what was going on?” I asked.

  “Surely in all the time that you’ve been around Anthony Febbo you’ve noticed how many Serbians are working for the families now,” the girlish reporter replied.

  I felt a jolt along my spine but I managed to stay still. Ever so slowly, I sat back and glanced around the room. I could still hear Salvatore dismissing the Serbians as untrustworthy and Anthony’s insistence that Kroger stop hiring them. Kroger had kept some of them on and claimed that they had proven their loyalty to the family. But I tended to believe Salvatore’s feelings about the Serbs, as had Anthony. And as I thought about what little I had seen not only of the Febbo operations, but also those of the other families, I realized the pint-sized reporter was right. There were a lot of Serbians working for the other families.

  “What exactly are you trying to say?” I demanded quietly as I leaned forward again.

  “I’m saying the Serbians have begun a hostile takeover,” she replied. “And it only ends when the Italians are all dead and gone.”

  Chapter 21

  I could feel other pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place, and it answered a lot of the questions I had about the who and why of the attacks against my client. But it also opened up even more questions, starting with how long this had been going on.

  “I can see you believe me,” the reporter said after she had taken another long sip of her beer while I stared blankly at the table. “And I can see you’re trying to work things out. I can tell you a lot more about the Serbian plan, but I won’t answer any questions tonight. I won’t say anything else until I’m in front of Anthony Febbo.”

  “That’s a risky strategy,” I commented. “If the Serbians are as dangerous as you seem to think, won’t they come after you?”

  “They’re not sure how much I know,” she replied as she brushed a stray lock of auburn hair from her face. “Right now, everyone just thinks I’m doing the standard story on police corruption. I don’t think anyone’s figured out that I’ve traced it back to the Serbians because I’ve let everyone, even my editor, believe that I’m following leads back to the Mafia.”

  “And they’ll let you do that because--”

  “Because they see it as another way to weaken their opponent without having to make a strike,” she explained. “If I wrote a story about how the Mafia had people working for them inside the department, there would be a house cleaning at the NYPD, but there would also be a strike against the families by the DA. The news would be filled with perp walks and talking heads discussing the best ways to get rid of the Mafia influence.”

  “And the families are on the verge of a war,” I mused. “They’d be pressed from both sides if the DA decided to act.”

  “Yes, if,” she agreed though her voice hinted that even that wasn’t so simple.

  “Do you have proof of any of this?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I’ll talk details but only if I get my interview,” the reporter replied.

  “And you’ll agree to keep your source anonymous?” I asked.

  “I always do,” she assured me.

  “Then let me talk to my client,” I replied. “I’ll call you if he decides to do this.”

  “I don’t want to pressure anyone,” she said, “but the sooner he can do this, the better. I’ve learned that sources tend to dry up if too much time passes.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied as I stood up.

  She smiled again as she slipped back into her school girl routine. I hadn’t even realized that she’d dropped the persona until she grinned, and I really expected her to giggle as she looked at me.

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  “What?” she asked as she gave me a wide-eyed innocent’s stare.

  I just shook my head and headed for the door. I passed through the lobby and stepped into the night air, where I stopped for a moment to soak in the fresh scent of river air. As I did so, I spotted a police cruiser as it crept along the street. It passed the hotel and the cop in the passenger seat gave me the once over. It wasn’t unusual for police officers on duty to study the people they saw on the streets, but all I could think about was Brenda’s claim that she had been followed.

  I could have kicked myself for not asking her what the officers looked like, and sinc
e she hadn’t passed me yet, I turned around and headed back to the bar. Only Brenda wasn’t there anymore, nor could I find her in any of the other public areas of the hotel. I realized she had slipped out, either through the door to the parking garage or a side door that I found.

  I ended up leaving through the side door, though I really didn’t have a good reason other than the nagging feeling that I may have miscalculated just how deep the corruption in the police department and the DA’s office ran. And, if Brenda Borowski was right, I’d underestimated the Serbs as well. Thoughts about Serbian conspiracies and their push to eliminate the Italians kept my brain busy for the trip back to Brooklyn, and by the time I stepped into my apartment, I was convinced that the girlish reporter was onto something.

  I spent the rest of the night reading over criminal reports and statistics and perusing Borowski’s earlier stories. It took a lot of digging, but I could see the start of the pattern that had probably tipped off the Daily News reporter. There were other resources still to be checked, but as I stared at a grainy photo of one of the other capo’s heading into Federal court with his lawyers and a familiar face that I knew belonged to one of Kroger’s Serbs, I felt my brain start to shut down. I forced myself to close the laptop and stumble towards my bedroom where I hoped I might find a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  I awoke with a start the next morning, jolted awake by an unnerving dream, though in the light of day all I could remember was Kroger lying dead in a grave while Salvatore sat nearby in the leather chair from his office and read lines from operas. It was such a bizarre image that I managed to hold onto it though I was sure that it hadn’t even been the most important part of the dream.

  Anthony called after I’d polished off another egg and bacon breakfast and had settled down with the last of my coffee to search through more records. I barely even glanced at the phone as I sorted through a long list of Serbian names I’d found on an obscure DOJ website dedicated to tracking possible gang activities, and my greeting was more of a mumble than an actual word.