Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  Ordman handed several documents to the judge and then passed me a copy as well. There were two affidavits from people whose names were a mystery to me declaring that they had witnessed a prior altercation between Anthony and Francine that had resulted in serious bodily harm to Francine. There were also pictures of Francine with a split lip and a large bruise on one arm.

  “This assault occurred about one week prior to Miss Mott’s death,” Ordman explained. “And according to the witnesses, Mr. Febbo had Miss Mott’s blood on his shirt when he left. However, that shirt has never been found.”

  “That’s interesting, counsel,” the judge replied, though he sounded anything but interested. “But I’m not sure how this applies to Mr. Morgan.”

  “Mr. Morgan and his co-counsel have repeatedly stated that their client never returned to his apartment after his arrest,” Ordman replied.

  “That’s true,” I admitted though I could already see the trap Ordman had laid.

  “In fact, the only people, other than the police who have been in the apartment, are Mr. Morgan and Ms. Bennet,” Ordman continued. “When confronted at the scene by the police, both refused to allow the police to search their briefcases. It was soon after their departure that the police were unable to locate the missing shirt.”

  “Your honor--” I started to protest.

  “This is it?” the judge asked. “This seems rather thin. If the assault was a week before, why wouldn’t the defendant have gotten rid of the shirt before then?”

  “As you can see from the affidavit of Mr. Sabato, Mr. Febbo removed his shirt once they were outside the club and left it in Mr. Sabato’s car,” Ordman replied. “Mr. Sabato returned the shirt on the day of the murder after attempting to clean it. Mr. Febbo thanked him and informed him that he couldn’t see the blood any more, which was good because it was one of his favorite shirts.”

  “Your Honor,” I protested, “we’ve never even heard of these witnesses, much less been allowed to interview them.”

  “I’m still unclear why you think Mr. Morgan here removed the shirt,” the judge sighed.

  “The garbage hadn’t been collected,” Ordman said in a soothing voice. “If Anthony had tossed the shirt, it would still be in the garbage in his apartment, or in one of the building’s cans.”

  “Your Honor,” I tried again. “I’d like to point out that Ms. Bennet and I were not the only ones who were in the apartment that day.”

  “Ah, yes, the alleged attacker,” Ordman snickered.

  “He felt pretty damn solid for an alleged person,” I replied sharply.

  “Mr. Morgan,” the judge sighed.

  “Ms. Bennet and I went to the apartment to check on our client once we learned his bail had been posted,” I explained. “When we arrived, the downstairs neighbor agreed to let us in since we were representing Mr. Febbo, and he was concerned because he hadn’t seen him. Ms. Bennet and I went to the apartment, and discovered that the door was open. We went inside and found a stranger going through Mr. Febbo’s personal items. I fought with the man, which is the noise that the neighbor heard and reported to the police.”

  “And yet, when the police arrived, this stranger had disappeared without being seen,” Ormond sniffed. “Only Mr. Morgan and Ms. Bennet were in Mr. Febbo’s apartment.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I said with a note of satisfaction. “We have a witness who saw a man matching my assailant’s description run from the apartment building at the time of the assault.”

  “Isn’t that convenient,” Ordman murmured.

  The judge gave Ordman a warning glance, then held out his hand towards me. I quickly retrieved a copy of the package that Asha had so carefully put together and presented it to the judge. The judge scanned the affidavits and the photos, then frowned as he studied the two sets of photos.

  “Mr. Ordman,” the judge said, “I’m seeing some interesting differences between the photos taken by Ms. Bennet and the police photos taken sometime later.”

  “We just received the photos,” Ordman said with a note of disdain. “We haven’t had time to confirm their authenticity.”

  “Then maybe you should make time,” the judge warned. “Do you have anything else to support your allegation?”

  Ordman must have felt his slam dunk motion slipping away from him. Without a witness who could say they had seen me slip the shirt into my briefcase, there was only speculation. And while the statements of the police officers and the downstairs neighbors might normally have helped, the apparent addition of evidence after we had been in the apartment served as a nice counterpoint to Ordman’s argument.

  “Unless you’ve got something more, Mr. Ordman,” the judge said after a moment of silence, “I’m going to have to deny your motion. And I would suggest you review your evidence in this case. I won’t allow this case to proceed with false evidence.”

  Ordman looked abashed for the moment, and I tried not to look gleeful. The paralegal appeared from the doorway behind the bench once again and collected the documents we’d handed to the judge. Ordman and I returned to our respective tables to collect our belongings while the next group of attorneys prepared for their own motion hearings.

  Ordman and I stepped out of the courtroom together, and I grabbed his arm before he could walk off. He looked at my hand for a second, then slowly raised his eyes to mine.

  “That would be an assault,” he hummed.

  “Fine,” I replied. “You can make another motion. We need to talk about the cases against my client. Now.”

  “Whatever you want to argue--” Ordman began.

  “Now,” I insisted. “Because I can prove more than the evidence tampering I showed the judge. I can show that you personally were careless, at best, or concealing probative evidence, at worst.”

  Ordman actually paled for a moment, then he slowly pried my hand from his arm. He looked around the hallway at the other attorneys that moved to and from the courtrooms, and then nodded.

  “Let’s find an empty conference room,” he replied.

  We found a small room at the end of the hall. The door was open, which meant the room was available, and once we stepped inside I could guess why. It felt like a sauna inside and the room smelled like my old high school gym. Ordman scowled, but apparently he didn’t want to spend any more time searching for an available room. He closed the door, then turned to face me with a scowl.

  “That’s a hell of an accusation to make,” he began.

  “So is evidence tampering,” I pointed out. “Yet you felt free to toss that one out without anything to support it.”

  “I have plenty of support,” he smirked.

  “You have nothing because there is nothing,” I snapped.

  “So what’s your evidence?” he asked as he waved away my rebuke.

  I set my briefcase on the wobbly table and pulled out the envelope from Landis. I found the envelope from the MTA, but I didn’t hand it to Ordman.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Did anyone in your department or in the police department ever request the EZ Pass information for Anthony’s car that night?”

  Ordman’s eyes narrowed and I knew he was trying to figure out what the best answer was, not necessarily what the truthful answer was.

  “I discussed it with the detective,” Ordman said slowly. “We agreed that it wouldn’t be helpful.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The car isn’t registered to your client,” Ordman replied. “Nor is the EZ Pass. Both are the property of a company owned by Salvatore Febbo. And Detective Archer was told by several people at the company that company cars can be driven by anyone who works at the company. There’s no list kept of who has a car at a particular time.”

  “So your argument is that anyone could have had the car that night,” I replied. “Even if the EZ Pass showed that the car followed the route Anthony said he took.”

  “There’s no way to prove who was driving,” Ordman agreed. He smirked again, apparently convince
d that he was back on safe ground.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said as I pulled the pages from the envelope and set it on the table.

  Ordman leaned over to look at the envelope, and I saw him frown when he saw the MTA’s logo.

  “See, the EZ Pass in the car that my client drives didn’t have enough cash in the account to pay for all of the tolls he racked up that night,” I added. “And the firm charged with handling these types of things hasn’t refilled it yet. So the MTA sent a request for the outstanding balance. The thing is, in order to prove that it was your EZ Pass that went through the toll, the MTA takes pictures of every car that didn’t pay and sends a copy of those photos along with the demand for payment.”

  I carefully laid the MTA’s letter along with the photos that clearly showed the car with Anthony at the wheel on the table. Ordman went deathly still as he took in the image of Anthony at the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

  “You’ll notice,” I said as I pointed towards the tag at the bottom of each picture, “that the MTA kindly provided the exact time, date and location of the violation. And I think you’ll agree, that based on the timeline provided by the coroner, there’s no way my client could have killed Francie Mott and still have been captured on camera on the Manhattan side of the tunnel.”

  “There’s a large gap of time in the coroner’s report,” Ordman replied hesitantly.

  “Now, here’s my next question,” I said softly. “Did you request the MTA records? And I would think very carefully before you respond.”

  Ordman finally registered the trap that I had set. If he stuck with the story that he had decided not to request the information, then he looked negligent. If he had requested the information and received it, then he had withheld crucial evidence. And the MTA would have responded quickly to a request from the DA’s office, almost as quickly as one from the police.

  “You should know that there was no request from the police for the EZ Pass information in the copy of the investigation file we received,” I said.

  Which gave Ordman an out, if he was willing to take it. He could lay the blame on the police department, either for not requesting the information or for concealing the information not just from me but from the DA’s office as well.

  “This should be investigated,” Ordman declared and I knew then that he had decided to throw Archer under the bus. I had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Archer wouldn’t go quietly.

  “It should,” I agreed. “But in the meantime, I’m sure you wouldn’t want this to become public knowledge. It might interfere with your investigation into evidence tampering, and maybe even corruption.”

  Ordman’s head swung up at the mention of corruption and the tanned skin man flushed a darker shade for a moment. His fingers inched towards the MTA letter, but I picked up the MTA’s correspondence and returned it to my briefcase.

  “What do you want?” Ordman finally asked.

  “What I’ve wanted all along,” I replied. “Drop all of the charges against my client and whatever new charges you might be concocting against him, me, Ms. Bennet, or anyone else associated with us. And I want you to release a statement to the press saying that you’ve dropped the charges because new evidence has come to light that clearly proves my client’s innocence.”

  Ordman tapped his fingers on the table hard enough to shake the thing.

  “The release needs to be made by the end of the day today,” I added for good measure.

  “Fine,” Ordman finally muttered.

  I started to leave but it was Ordman’s turn to grab my arm.

  “Don’t think this is the end,” the tall DA warned as he leaned in closer. I knew he was trying to intimidate me with his height but I didn’t budge.

  “I could say the same,” I said calmly. “Now, do you want to go back in front of the judge and discuss our mutual assault charges?”

  Ordman released my arm and I left him in the sweltering room to contemplate how to save his hide. As I stepped back into the reasonably cool hallway, I realized just how much I had been sweating in the tiny conference room. I pulled off my tie and unbuttoned the top buttons on the shirt as I waited for the elevator. I was tempted to pull off the jacket as well, but I knew I had a trail of sweat down the back of my shirt that the other passengers probably wouldn’t want to see or smell.

  Once I was safely outside, I found a reasonably quiet spot where I could pull off the jacket while I tried to decide who to call first. The decision was made for me when the phone came to life in my hand, and I saw that Brenda Borowski of the auburn hair and girlish smile was calling me.

  “How’d it go?” she asked before I could offer a greeting.

  “You knew about the hearing?” I asked in surprise.

  “I have a friend in the clerk’s office,” she replied. “So?”

  “It went fine,” I said. “I’m still on the case, though I expect the DA will be dropping the charges later today.”

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “How on earth did you manage that?”

  “I had a discussion with Ordman about evidence tampering and corruption,” I said. “I suggested he might need to look at his own house before he started coming after mine.”

  Brenda let out an appreciative whistle and then chuckled.

  “I’m not sure Ordman is someone I’d want to piss off,” she said. “He’s a tough bastard, even by DA standards.”

  “Well, I think I can handle him,” I replied. “And thanks for the call. Now I just have to tell my client and my co-counsel.”

  “Hey, listen,” she said quickly, “there was another reason I called.”

  “Oh?” I prompted as I heard her shuffle some paper around.

  “Remember how I mentioned that I had been putting together information about the Serbians?” she said.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “So, I’ve put together some interesting statistics about them,” she continued. “But the one I think you’ll find the most interesting is this: the Serbians first started showing up in various Mafia operations around 2002 or so, after the attack on the Trade Center. Most of the families seemed to follow Salvatore’s pattern and the Serbians were basically just doing muscle jobs. But over the next ten years, a few of them started showing up in higher positions. Not in Salvatore’s operations, but in some of the other families. Guess what the numbers look like today?”

  “I’d say a lot more were probably moving up the ladders,” I replied.

  “Nearly half of the officers in the other families are Serbians,” she said. “And here’s the other interesting thing, once the Serbians were in, they hired other Serbians exclusively, which is how the numbers got so high so quickly. They’ve basically pushed out the Italians, and I’m pretty sure they plan to get rid of the rest of the Italians as quickly as possible.”

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d find that interesting,” she replied.

  “Let me call Anthony,” I said. “I need to warn him, again, and I need to let him know how the hearing went.”

  “Just be careful about Ordman,” Brenda warned. “If he is working for the Serbians, then he’ll keep coming after your client.”

  The reporter hung up after that final warning, and I dialed Anthony’s number right away. The phone rang twice, and then I heard Gulia’s voice briefly.

  “The hearing is finished already?” Anthony asked.

  “It is,” I said. “And I’m still your attorney.”

  “Finally, some good news,” he replied. “So what was this evidence you supposedly tampered with?”

  “They said I removed a bloody shirt,” I said.

  “The police took all my clothes,” Anthony laughed. “In fact, they still have them. So how are you supposed to have removed it?”

  “Not from that night,” I explained. “Ordman said you and Francie had a fight a week earlier and that you had blood on your shirt from that. He argued that the shirt was missing from your apartment when th
e police went to look for it and that Liz and I were the only ones who could have removed it.”

  “I did have her blood on an old t-shirt,” he said slowly. “But it wasn’t me who caused it.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I replied.

  “We were at the Hard Mile,” he mused. “It wasn’t that late but a couple of guys who were already drunk got in a fight. Before the bouncer could toss them, they took a few swings. Francie had gone to the bar to ask for a cup of ice and got slammed into the top of the bar by one of the guys. Not on purpose, he just sort of fell on top of her.”

  “Was there a police report?” I asked.

  “Must have been,” my client replied. “A couple of cruisers showed up and hauled the two idiots away.”

  “What did you guys do after that?” I pressed.

  “Nothing, really,” Anthony said. “Francie had a cut across her lip. She tried to use a napkin to stop the bleeding, but I finally pulled off the t-shirt I had on underneath my hoodie and told her to use that.”

  “Did the police take your statements?” I asked.

  “They talked to Francie,” Anthony replied. “Asked her if she wanted to press charges. When she said no, they pretty much dropped it.”

  “Do you know the names Albert Percival or Rafa Camilleri?” I asked.

  “Never heard of them,” Anthony said.

  “Well, they know you, apparently,” I noted. “They both signed affidavits saying that they had witnessed you hit Francie.”

  “What?” Anthony exploded on the other end of the phone.

  I heard Gulia ask something in Italian, and Anthony responded in kind. Gulia’s voice became more agitated as her son explained, and a few moments later I heard Gulia cursing up a storm in several languages.

  “So what does this mean for the case?” Anthony demanded when he finally turned his attention back to me.

  “Not sure,” I admitted. “For the moment, I’ve convinced the DA to drop the charges or face evidence tampering claims of his own.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Anthony huffed. “Great job, Hunter. I knew you’d keep this from going to trial.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s already working on another way to bring you down, though,” I added.