Blind Man's Alley (38 page)

52

A
FTER UNCOVERING
Dwayne Stevenson, Duncan had immediately put together a motion demanding that the DA turn over all records of the police’s contact with their failed witness, as well as asking for sanctions for the DA’s failure to comply with the
Brady
requirement to turn over all exculpatory material to the defense. He’d e-mailed a copy to Candace after filing it, and sure enough the other reporter, Alex Costello, had done a brief piece.

He and Candace had been e-mailing on and off for the last week or so, Duncan using his personal Gmail account. It’d started with his e-mail about the LLCs, in which he’d apologetically given her the brush-off, saying that his firm wouldn’t comment. Candace had given him a hard time about that, but in a playful way, Duncan pretty sure they were flirting a little now, strange as that seemed under the circumstances. Their uneasy truce was official, anyway, and it could certainly be useful to have the ear of a reporter, particularly for the Nazario case.

To his surprise, Duncan had received a call from Judge Lasky’s courtroom deputy just a few days after he’d filed the motion, telling him the judge wanted to see the lawyers in chambers at the end of the week. Duncan thought it good news that the judge wanted to deal with the motion in private rather than publicly in court, since Lasky had already established that he didn’t want to embarrass the DA.

When Duncan got to chambers on Friday afternoon ADA Castelluccio was already there, seated in the front room across from the judge’s secretary. Duncan greeted her, Castelluccio offering him only a glare in response. He’d known that asking for sanctions wasn’t going to improve their relationship, but still thought it childish of her to refuse to even say hello.

The two of them sat in silence for ten minutes before being summoned into the judge’s office. Judge Lasky was dressed more formally this time, in a white dress shirt and tie, his judicial robe hanging by the door. He was seated behind his desk, an opened tabloid paper in front of him, peering over his glasses as they approached. After gesturing for them to sit, he looked down at the newspaper and began to read aloud: “‘After the hearing, Nazario’s attorney, Duncan Riley, said he expected the district attorney’s office to drop Logan as a witness. He also predicted that the DA’s office might launch an internal review of other cases in which Logan had presented GSR evidence.’ Did you say that, Mr. Riley?”

Duncan could tell this wasn’t going anywhere good. “I don’t recall what I said word for word, but I did say something along those general lines, yes,” he said.

“I can only assume it was because you wanted to cause problems,” Lasky said, the edge in his voice growing sharper.

“I wasn’t trying to cause anything,” Duncan protested. “The reporter buttonholed me outside the courtroom; I was just trying to say that I didn’t think the DA would be putting forward the GSR evidence.”

“Judging from this article, that’s not all you said,” Lasky said. “Were you trying to get the reporter to dig into Logan’s other cases?”

“No, but if there are innocent people in jail—”

“Look, son,” Judge Lasky interrupted. “I don’t know how they do things at your white-shoe firm and your billion-dollar lawsuits in federal court, but let me just explain to you where you are. You’re in New York City’s criminal justice system, and it’s safe to say I’ve forgotten more about how this system works than you will ever know.”

Duncan resented being condescended to, even by a judge, but he also knew it wasn’t in his client’s interest for him to further piss Lasky off. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“The system is a delicate balance. We process thousands of cases a year, with a new pile of shit getting shoveled on each and every day. We have to keep things going forward, because otherwise the whole goddamn mess is doing to collapse. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I do.”

“Then don’t go around showboating to the press, and don’t try to turn your client’s victory into some parade for all humanity. I’m issuing a gag order—there will be no more talking to the press about this case by you or anyone else involved. Failure to obey this order will result in your being held in contempt. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Duncan said. He didn’t like the idea of being gagged, but it was within the judge’s authority to do it, and Lasky clearly wasn’t looking for a debate.

“Now, what’s being done about Logan?” Lasky asked Castelluccio.

“Mr. Costello from the
Journal
has been looking into other cases in which Mr. Logan has testified,” she said, ignoring Duncan and talking only to the judge. “He’s called our office about it, reached out to some defense attorneys as well, I understand.”

“Sounds like the genie has left the bottle, then,” Lasky said. “It wasn’t my intention to reopen closed cases, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. How’s your office going to respond?”

“I’m not sure,” Castelluccio said. “But I believe there is serious consideration being given to opening up a review of other GSR testimony from Mr. Logan.”

The judge shook his head. “Congratulations, Mr. Riley,” he said contemptuously. “With any luck some stone-guilty murderer will get a new trial, thanks to your meddling. Now what fresh trouble are you looking to cause today?”

The judge’s anger was real, but Duncan had little choice but to go forward with making his argument, despite the obvious hostility it would face. “I recently uncovered a witness who was between the site of the murder and my client’s apartment at the time of the shooting. That young man didn’t see my client running away from the crime scene to his home, contrary to what Mr. Driscoll has claimed. This new witness has been interviewed by the police twice, once on the night of the murder, once more recently. Further, at this second interview, he claims that the police offered to assist him with his own legal troubles if he would testify against my client. Yet no record of either of these two interviews was turned over to me as
Brady
material.”

Judge Lasky regarded Duncan for a moment before turning to Castelluccio. “Did the police interview someone who contradicted Driscoll?”

“Your Honor, in canvassing the area shortly after the shooting, the police came upon two known drug touts, both of whom said they refused to, quote, ‘snitch.’ This person was not saying he didn’t see the defendant, but rather refusing to say what he did see. The police simply viewed him as uncooperative. They therefore did not consider his interview to be exculpatory.”

“Do you have any objection to turning over whatever interview notes exist for this witness?”

“But it’s not actually
Brady
material—”

“Then reviewing it will prove to be a waste of Mr. Riley’s time,” Lasky interrupted. “But if he’s so inclined to waste it, I’m not inclined to stop him. Let’s moot the motion, agree to turn over the material, and go on from there.”

“My concern, Your Honor, is that Mr. Riley plainly intends to suggest that this witness was offered something by the police for his cooperation.”

“I’ll see to it that Mr. Riley obeys the rules of evidence in my courtroom,” Lasky said. “Just as he’ll restrict his advocacy to the court and not the press. One warning is all I give, Mr. Riley.”

“I’m not somebody who needs to be told twice, Your Honor,” Duncan replied.

53

P
ELLETTIERI CONCRETE
was on Verona Street, an industrial strip of Red Hook just off the East River in Brooklyn. Jack Pellettieri was in the office by himself, the front door locked. It was a little after ten at night, and he was going through the books, preparing his company for bankruptcy. The ink was barely dry on the wrongful-death settlement, and the plan was for the company to be in Chapter 11 before the plaintiffs could come for their money. His insurance company was first on the hook for paying off the lawsuit, but there was little doubt that they’d refuse to pay, arguing that the accident had been caused by deliberate misconduct.

It’d be a long, tedious fight, and Pellettieri couldn’t bring himself to give much of a shit who ultimately won. His company was going under no matter what; there was no bringing it back. It’d been a dead man walking ever since the accident. Their work had completely dried up, and while they had finished doing the Aurora, that had just been a matter of litigation strategy by the developer and the contractor. Omni had been on their ass every step of the way.

So Pellettieri was doing what was left to do: getting the books in order. It was not a task he could leave to anyone else. He was stripping out what assets he could before the company filed Chapter 11. His company’s books had always had a tenuous correlation to its actual operation. Their equipment—from the mixers and trucks on down—was all rented from other companies that Pellettieri also owned. Pellettieri paid well over the market rates to rent equipment from himself, an easy way to make some extra money on a job. It was fraud, technically, but everybody did it. The company’s assets had always been kept to a minimum, and Pellettieri was making sure that he had as much of them flowing out to his other companies as he possibly could.

Not that Pellettieri expected to be around to enjoy it, not anytime soon. The DA’s Rackets Bureau had its knives out for him, and his lawyer had made it clear that real jail time was almost certainly in the cards. Pellettieri was already thinking about a plea—it’d be too risky to go to trial on manslaughter charges.

He was surprised at the extent he’d made his peace with it. But the accident was his fault, ultimately: he’d gotten too greedy, taken unnecessary risks. The skimming and no-show billing and all that were one thing, but putting the people who worked for him in danger was another. Sure, Jeremy Roth had paved the way, but Pellettieri couldn’t bring himself to blame Jeremy for what had happened, not anymore. He was a stupid rich kid, somebody born to it who couldn’t tie his own shoes. You couldn’t blame such a child for a man’s mistakes.

Pellettieri was jerked out of his reverie by a noise. He looked up, trying to figure out what it was he’d just heard. A moment later he saw a shadow moving across his open office door.

“Burning the midnight oil, my man,” Darryl Loomis said as he stepped into the room.

Pellettieri found himself standing up behind his desk. Back when his brother, Dominic, had been his partner, there’d been a pistol in the drawer, but those days were long gone. “How’d you get in here?”

“I’ve had a key to this place for weeks,” Darryl said.

“You kidding?” Pellettieri said, still standing.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t steal nothing,” Darryl said. He looked at Pellettieri. “Why you all jacked up and shit? Sit down, relax.”

“You been spying on me?” Pellettieri said, reluctantly sitting.

Darryl, still standing, smiled thinly, a show of diminishing patience. “Course we have. Thought you’d be taking that for granted.”

“I’ve done everything you guys asked,” Pellettieri said. He was looking up at Darryl now, which he suspected was the reason the man had told him to sit. “I haven’t caused any trouble.”

“But trouble we have, Jack. Has ADA Sullivan come to you about making a deal?”

“Deal? They haven’t even arrested me; how’s there going to be a deal?” Pellettieri said. If Darryl was here to kill him, Pellettieri thought, he wouldn’t bother talking to him first, and wouldn’t have come alone. He wasn’t sure either of those things was actually true.

“Nothing tests a man’s sense of loyalty like looking down the barrel of serious prison time,” Darryl said. “I’ve seen brother turn against brother.”

“I’ve earned a little more respect than this, Darryl,” Pellettieri said angrily.

“You can think that,” Darryl replied. “But there’s a solution for everybody. You run.”

Pellettieri couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m in my fifties. I’ve got a wife and kids.”

“Your kids are grown,” Darryl replied evenly. “And your wife won’t much like going to visit you in jail.”

“If I run and they find me, things will be a lot worse.”

“Not like we’re talking about buying you a one-way ticket to Mexico here,” Darryl said. “I’ll be putting together your plan.”

“And what if I say no?” Pellettieri demanded.

Darryl’s expression didn’t change, his face impassive, his eyes blank. “You think you’ve been asked a question?”