Blood Money (36 page)

“Yes, pretty much,” Manin sighed, resignedly.

“And didn’t this bother you?”

Manin thought for a moment. “At first, yes. But after a while, it didn’t. You see I got used to it. It was a price I was willing to pay. My patients came first.”

Nick watched the curly blond’s eyes. They were glued to the thin figure on the stand. He was handsome, despite his disheveled appearance. He could sense that she was beginning to be turned on. He had seen the look so many times on women’s faces, particularly on the faces of lonely, middle-aged women, desperately seeking a mate—preferably a doctor or a lawyer. Married was acceptable, but a single doctor, or lawyer was highly prized among
such “barracudas,” as they were known among their wary prey. Nick sensed her mentally licking her chops as she examined Manin’s good bones and craggy features. She was probably wondering how he looked undressed, without the distraction of those wrinkled, baggy clothes. She was possibly thinking about how she could dress him up and make him look cool, perhaps in tight faded jeans, a leather jacket, maybe a black Harley T-shirt.
Nah
, thought Nick,
definitely not Manin’s style
.

“All right, Doctor. Let’s go back to the hospital after the surgery on Captain Riley. You went back to change back into your tux. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Not a rented tux?”

“No, I
owned
a tux.”

“A custom tailored tux, I assume—made especially for you?”

“Yes. That was back when I could afford it.” Manin watched as a look of approval began to appear on the jurors’ faces. He felt a growing acceptance. Even Alonzo Hodge appeared sympathetic. He even grinned as he shook his head.
Doc’s not a bad dude,
was the message that Manin got.

John Asher was wondering where the hell Nick was going with this line of questioning. Nick hadn’t flinched at Manin’s answer. And so many irrelevancies. But who was he to object? His client was looking better by the minute.

Nick went on. “OK. You changed or were in the process, I gather. And did something happen then?”

“Yes. I had taken a quick shower and had almost finished dressing when I heard my name again.”

“On the pager?”

“Yes, I was paged. I must say I grumbled to myself, that is…”

“You grumbled?”

“Yes.”

“Explain that, please.”

“You know…kind of ‘what the heck is going on? Why me again?’”

“Did you say this out loud?”

“No. I said it to myself. Because I was late, and now I was going to be later. I went to the phone to answer the page—and then I heard a code being called.”

“A code?”

“Yes. A code. An emergency procedure when a patient is in trouble.”

“Trouble? Can you explain that?”

“Yes. A code is called when a patient suffers cardiac arrest, or stops breathing, is in need of specialized resuscitative equipment and drugs. I rushed out of the doctor’s lounge. When I got to him, he was still in recovery and the code team was working on him, trying to revive him.”

“And then what happened?”

“Their efforts failed. Captain Mr. Riley was pronounced dead.”

“And did you ask what caused his death?”

“Yes. I actually saw what caused his death.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had exsanguinated. He had bled to death. His blood was all over the bedclothes, the floor.”

“What was your reaction?”

“I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it. I was sure that he was fine when he left the OR. I had seen to it that he was stable before being brought into recovery. The incision was fully closed. There was clearly no leaking from the artery. His blood pressure was perfect, respiration normal, heart rate was normal. The surgery had gone smoothly, as smooth…”

“Did you examine the wound afterward, after Captain Riley had expired?”

“Yes.”

“And what was its condition?”

“It was open. There was blood all over the place. I told you.”

“How do you think this happened? I mean—you said that you closed yourself, and everything was fine. What…?”

“I don’t know how it happened.” Manin lowered his head, almost apologetically. “I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before. I just don’t know.””Doctor, did you ever hear the name Donna Price, before?”

“Yes, she was an OR nurse. She was present at the surgery. She assisted while I closed. I’m sure she could tell you…”

“She can’t, Doctor. She can’t tell us anything at this time. Would it surprise you if I told you that Ms. Price is dead?”

Manin’s gaze shifted, his head still lowered. He took a deep breath. “She disappeared just after the surgery. I’ve been trying to locate her for almost two years. Now I understand.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you she was murdered?”

Manin looked as though he had been kicked in the stomach. He had suspected something had happened to her. Donna was a top-notch nurse and a friend. She had assisted him in many difficult operations. He could always count on her. She would never have voluntarily abandoned him when he needed her the most.

“Mr. Ceratto. I must stop you. Where are you going with this line of questioning?” Barnes’s face was glowing red with rage. He wanted to tear Ceratto’s throat out to shut him up. He resisted the temptation to leap over the bench in Nick’s direction.

“No, it wouldn’t,” said Manin, completely ignoring Barnes. He was doing well with the jury and was not about to be interrupted.

“Doctor Manin!” shouted Barnes. “I’m speaking to plaintiff’s counsel. You are not to proceed.”

“Why wouldn’t it surprise you?” Nick asked, defying the bench. He was on a roll and he wasn’t about to stop either—not for Barnes—not for anyone.

“Because Ms. Price had no reason to hide from me, to run away. She was dependable, efficient, pleasant, happy at her job…”

“Dr. Manin—” Barnes’s gavel fell like a thunder clap. “Shut up!”

Asher sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, objection. This…”

“Sustained!” Barnes shouted, interrupting Asher in midsentence. “Mr. Ceratto, you’re out of order. Sit down.”

“No, Your Honor!” Asher shouted. “I want an objection on the record. Dr. Manin should be permitted to answer Mr. Ceratto’s question.”

“You’re objecting to
me?”
Barnes’s ears glowed crimson. “You can’t do that. Not in
my
courtroom. You’re out of line, out of order.” His voice cracked. “Mr. Asher, sit down.”

The jury’s heads turned back and forth, following the volley. They paid close attention, intrigued by the exchange. This was great entertainment—they couldn’t get better on TV.

Alonzo Hodge was about to stand up and yell,
Let the man answer the question. We want to hear what the doctor has to say. We want all the information, not just what you want us to hear, you jive, red-faced, honkey motherfucker. Who do you think you are—we make the decisions, not you.

Seamus Riley couldn’t contain himself. He stood, “Hey, Ceratto. Where you goin’ with this bullshit? I thought you was
our
lawyer.”

“Silence!” Barnes slammed his gavel down and hammered away like a child having a temper tantrum. “I’ll not have you make a mockery of this court and turn this trial into a circus. I’m calling a recess. Bailiff, remove the jury. I want both attorneys in my chambers immediately. Dr. Manin, step down.”

“I will not!” shouted Manin. The veins bulged in his neck. “Ms. Price disappears and then gets murdered. I want to know why!”

John Asher stood. “Your Honor, you can’t silence the defendant. He has a right to know the truth, and so does the jury.”

“I’ll silence anyone I please, Mr. Asher. You’re in contempt. You’re all in contempt. Bailiff, take them away. Arrest them—all of them!” Saliva sprayed from his angry mouth.

The old bailiff limped toward the bench, totally at a loss. Two other guards followed, looking just as bewildered. “Who, Your Honor?”

“Them—them!” Barnes yelled, pointing with his gavel, sweeping it from the plaintiff’s table to the defense table.

“Everybody?” asked one of the guards, checking to see if there were enough hand cuffs to go around.

“Yes, you idiot!” Barnes screamed.

“Even the woman—Mrs. Riley?” The old bailiff was now more confused than ever.

“No. Not her, you stupid fuck!” Barnes’s obscenities echoed across the room. He was out of his senses and he didn’t care. Ceratto had gotten what he wanted, he thought. There was no way this case wasn’t a mistrial. And there was no way that he, the judge, wouldn’t be censured for his behavior—demoted, possibly booted off the bench. He had always been in control, ultimate control. And now, he wasn’t. Now he had lost it, the control and the respect. The question now was, how to regain it? He shook uncontrollably as his mind raced for a solution.

The widow Riley sobbed. She pushed her chair back and turned toward her sons. “Help me, Seamus, Patrick.” Her knees shook and then gave way, and down she went into Patrick’s arms. Seamus leaped from his chair and lunged after Nick, but Nick was too quick. He knew what was coming. Always strike first.
Shoot first, ask questions later. Never be a sucker. It can kill you
. Nick dodged the huge lump of a man, and as Seamus went down, Nick kicked him in the balls to keep him down. A technique that never failed.

The court reporter leaped from her chair, knocking her machine over as she scrambled toward the judge’s chambers, toward safety.

“Everyone sit down,” commanded Barnes. “Please—” turning to the jury, half of whom were standing ready to flee the mayhem— ”ladies and gentlemen, please be seated.” He didn’t know
what
to do.

The bailiffs descended, still confused as to who was to be taken out of the courtroom. One grabbed Nick, cuffs dangling from his right hand. Three sheriffs’ deputies arrived. One grabbed Seamus Riley from behind in a headlock, gun pointing at Seamus’s spine. The other tackled Patrick. The paramedics were on their way for Mrs. Riley. Barnes himself was about to flee when the heavy door at the rear of the courtroom swung open with a loud crash. The noise broke the momentum of the melee.

“Nick!” shouted Grace as she looked for him in the tangle of bodies below the now empty bench. “Get the fuck off him!” she screamed at the deputy who held a gun to Nick’s head while another attempted to handcuff his arms behind him. “Nick, she’s here. She’s here!”

The following day was an official day of mourning. Black crepe draped from the arches of City Hall. All over Philadelphia flags flew at half-mast. Newspaper headlines screamed,
DA Murdered!
As usual, the
Daily News
was tasteless in its announcement,
Pearly Gates For Muriel
! Every network featured news items on the DA’s life and there were reruns ad nauseam: Muriel being sworn in as an attorney in the early seventies with long stringy hair, wearing a frumpy, flowered dress; Muriel as an aspiring DA in the late seventies, a little heavier but better groomed; Muriel in the late eighties as a successful prosecutor, sporting a black, tailored suit and a severe haircut; Muriel in the late nineties, running for political office, touting her victories over drug lords, child molesters, and killers—killers of the mind as well as the body. Gates had hated smut. She specialized in closing down porn shops and breaking up prostitution rings. Crimes against women were particularly loathsome to her. And she had no mercy with those defendants.

Who would fill her shoes now? The first assistant district attorney, Frank Forester, was more of an administrator than a dedicated prosecutor. He was more interested in increasing appropriations from City Council than he was in fighting crime. His priority was hiring more assistant DAs and renovating and finely appointing his office with antique reproductions and prints of old Philadelphia..

Hardly any newsprint or TV coverage was given to poor Gloria Henley, Gates’ loyal secretary, or to Ralph Kirby, who was fighting for his life. But Margo Griffin got a full page. Beautiful, young lawyer cut down in the prime of her life. There were innuendos, buried here and there, about her relationship with the late DA, but nothing scandalous, nothing that would trigger a libel suit.

The killer was featured prominently on the second page of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, and on the front page of the
Daily News
.
His photo was plastered next to Gates’. Then on the next page was a collage of photos: Rudi as a cop, Rudi as a cab driver, Rudi as an EMT, Rudi as a Montgomery County detective. Rudi’s car had been found and his trunk searched. In his bag of tricks were all his fake IDs, copies of which had somehow made their way from Central Detectives Homicide Division to the
Daily News
.

Carmen and Lily had not been identified because of their ages but nevertheless were cast as child heroes in bringing down a vicious assassin. The networks were scurrying around frantically trying to locate a guardian who could OK an interview and later a talk-show spot that would instantly make the little orphans rich and famous.