Counsel (Counsel #1) (7 page)

"It's a nightclub."

"What
kind
of nightclub, Mr. O'Flaherty?"

"It has exotic dancing."

"What
kind
of exotic dancing?"

"Nude," he admits churlishly.

"Weren’t at least six dancers arrested for soliciting on the premises during your tenure?"

"They acted without my knowledge. The club can’t be held responsible," he protests.

"What action did
you
, the manager, and Mr. Cordi, the owner, take against employees engaged in illegal activities while on business premises?"

"People make mistakes. I believe in giving them a chance."

"By paying their bail and legal costs? By continuing to employ them, despite at least half of those women being arrested several times after? In fact, are not
all
of them still in Mr. Cordi’s employ?"

"Yes, but…" he flusters.

I interject before he can respond. "No further questions, Your Honor."

Recognizing the futility, Tom declines to redirect and calls Michelle Lee, another ex-employee of Liaison, to the stand. She claims that neither she nor any of the other dancers and hostesses were aware of Justin’s ownership status, that no female employee, to her knowledge, expected to sexually service members. Instead, she says they were paid to merely keep the men company over drinks.

I challenge her by presenting a copy of the sex workers’ list, which includes her name and the notations about her sexual preferences and limits. She denies agreeing to perform such acts and says the document must be a mistake. "It’s just some sick person’s fantasies," she claims. She falters under my questioning but fails to admit to the prostitution at Liaison.

"No further questions for the witness, Your Honor," I announce, satisfied that I’ve sufficiently discredited her testimony, and confident in the compelling nature of our documented evidence.

"Ms. Lee,
were
you involved in prostitution at Liaison," Tom asks.

"No, Sir," she replies, wiping at an imaginary tear.

Judge Parks, having listened to both arguments, reads through some of the documents again. He slowly raises his head to announce that Justin has a case to answer. Jodi surreptitiously squeezes my arm as he completes his summation. I give her a tiny smile, an acknowledgment of our first-round victory.

Amy Sanders, a dancer and escort at Liaison, is the first of two potential witnesses in the Wade case to be interviewed by Jodi today. I'm sitting in to observe and gain first-hand knowledge of Justin’s involvement.

Amy, I establish after just a couple of questions, loves to gossip, but she
has
provided some helpful insights into Angelique Bain and her relationship with Justin. We’ve learned that Angelique was initially hired only to dance. She was fired for some unknown reason shortly after but returned months later to work as an escort. Amy doesn’t know what happened to change Angelique’s mind and tells that, at first, she had sex only with Justin but later began sexual assignations with other men. Angelique, she says, was distressed about it. Then, for some reason, again unknown to Amy, she was assigned to Justin exclusively.

Jodi’s asks how long Angelique had been in that ‘special’ relationship.

"About two years, I think," Amy replies.

"How did
you
come to work at Liaison?"

"I danced at parties …bachelor parties mostly. Mick booked me for one and then, afterward, told me he was the manager of an exclusive club. He asked if I wanted to earn a lot of money; of course, I did, who wouldn’t?" she asks, adding that he recruited quite a few of the other girls too.

"By Mick, do you mean Mick O’Flaherty?" Jodi probes.

"Yes, he was the manager at Liaison. He asked me to come in for an interview and to settle things," she says, having just inadvertently informed us that O’Flaherty did more than simply manage a club. He also recruited sex workers for Joseph.

"What happened when you met with him?"

"
Them
actually. Mr. Cordi was there too. The money was a lot more than I expected, but Mr. Cordi said it covered my extra duties."

"Did he say what those duties were?"

"He said I’d have to do whatever members wanted."

"Sex?" Jodi asks.

"Yes," Amy replies.

"Did you question it?"

"People don’t question Mr. Cordi," she solemnly announces.

"Were you forced into doing something against your will, Amy?" Jodi asks with obvious concern.

"No. I knew what I was getting into; although some girls weren’t given a choice."

"Girls at Liaison?"

"At some of the other clubs."

"Do you know any of those girls?"

"No."

"Have you seen this girl?" Jodi asks, producing the photograph of Maria Riviera. I watch Amy’s face intently.

"No," Amy replies without hesitation.

"Do you know any of the girls you say were given no choice?" Jodi seamlessly continues.

The interview ends well. Amy’s named at least three of the clubs listed on Fidelity Properties’ assets register, providing us with further proof that Liaison and those establishments form part of an illegal and sophisticated prostitution network, and we’ve learned that O'Flaherty plays a bigger role than he's admitted to. She’s also left us with her signed employment contract, providing further documented evidence of prostitution, which will serve us well in both the Wade and Joseph Cordi cases.

I leave Jodi to conduct my scheduled interview with Fidelity Properties’ general manager. Paul Ryan confirms Justin’s ownership status, saying that not only he, but also the chief accountant and several key managers were made aware of the fact. He also confirms that he and the accountant are aware of Fidelity’s ownership of the nightclubs, but denies knowing they were brothels. He explains that revenue from the clubs, including Liaison, had been paid into a subsidiary company called Sigma and reported in Fidelity’s profit and loss statements simply as income derived from the Sigma B Account. Justin, as part owner, received the Company’s financial statements on a regular basis, he also reveals.

While Jodi and I conduct interviews, Jon’s working on locating Natasha Perkins, Justin’s former escort, who, we’ve discovered through Amy, felt slighted at being replaced by Angelique Bain. I expect she’ll be only too willing to cooperate with us.

A significant part of our workload has and will continue to revolve around witnesses. After the interviews, we’ll establish our final witness lists. Next, we’ll subpoena those people on the list, and then we’ll spend an inordinate amount of time preparing those individuals for trial. Most witnesses, only then, become aware of just how crucial their testimony could prove. It could, in fact, mean the difference between freedom and incarceration and, in certain jurisdictions, the difference between life and death. So it’s crucial that witnesses know what to expect and are prepared for what they’re about to face in court.

Both sides want their witness responses to be concise and to the point, each wants the jury to be left with the relevant points
they
wish to make. Of course, they want exactly the reverse for the other side, so witness conferences are primarily used to prepare for cross-examination by opposing counsel. I have no doubt that Tom, at this very moment, is going through the same process.

The week passes in a blur, and I spend most of the weekend recuperating by lazing around and enjoying the food Mom and Cait cooked the week before. I do, at least, rouse myself to go for a run on both days. On Saturday evening, for a brief moment, I think about how pathetic I am to be spending the night on my own; but I find a good movie, one that Jaclyn would have heartily disapproved of, and I’m instantly reminded about the benefits of my newfound singledom.

On Sunday evening, Cait rings to remind me of Mom’s surprise birthday dinner on Friday. Dad’s arranged for a weekend stay for the two of them at The Langham and plans on taking her to the ballet on the Saturday night. Mom’s aware that he's taking her to dinner but has no idea that Cait, Matt and I will be there, and she’s totally unaware of Dad’s other plans.

"I hope you haven't forgotten," Cait accuses.

"Of course, I haven't. I have it diarized!"

"Well, don't be late. We need to be there
before
Mom and Dad. Did you buy a present, or do I need to do it for you?"

"Caitlin, I'm a grown man. I can get myself to a restaurant on time, and yes, I've bought a present," I reply irritably. She's like a bulldozer when she's in organizing mode.

"What did you get?" she demands.

"Wait and see," I counter to deafening silence.

"It's the matching necklace to the earrings you bought," I finally confess, putting her out of her misery.

"How did you know?" she asks suspiciously.

"I have to go, Sis. I’ll see you on Saturday." I hang up before she can respond.

I overheard her telling Dad about the present she purchased, so I simply visited the same jeweler. She’ll blame Matt, of course, and give him hell; but he’s done worse things to me over the years. What’s important is that I’ve repaid her for being so irritatingly bossy.

.

.

The objective of Justin’s second hearing, which is about to take place, is threefold; it’s to detail the charges he’s facing, to ensure he understands those charges, and lastly, to determine whether he has adequate legal representation. It is at this hearing that he’s expected to enter a plea and that a trial date is set.

The hearing goes as anticipated, except for his plea. Given Tom’s submission at the first hearing, I'd expected him to plead not guilty, but he totally surprises me by entering an Alford plea.

In an Alford plea, the defendant admits that the prosecution holds enough evidence to prove the charge or charges but doesn’t admit guilt. In some instances, when the plea is entered the court will simply bring down a guilty verdict and allow for a plea bargain; in others, the trial is ordered to go ahead. In this instance, Judge Emerson calls a sidebar, during which I dismiss the notion of a plea bargain, remaining adamant in my assertion that the case should go to trial. Tom, unsurprisingly, agrees.

His decision confirms my earlier view; that his strategy is to present Justin as yet another victim of the ruthless criminal, Joseph Cordi. Should he be found innocent, Justin will have an opportunity to make a political comeback. The battle will then be to redeem any damage done to his reputation, and that battle will, ultimately, be fought in the court of public opinion.

If found guilty, I believe they’ll cite their plea as justification for challenging the verdict. They’ll maintain that Justin, despite documented evidence to the contrary, entered into the Fidelity contract in good faith; that he had, in fact, been a victim of Joseph.

A trial date is set for six weeks from now. Tom doesn’t object. It seems that they are as eager to get proceedings underway as we are. In these initial skirmishes, both sides have tested the other; battle lines have been drawn, so to speak. Their salvo, in the form of the Alford plea, which they’ve fired over our bow won’t impact on our strategy in any way. We'll mount the strongest case possible as we intended from the start, and I have little doubt that they’ll put up a formidable fight. Justin’s legal fate will, ultimately, be left in the hands of a jury as our system dictates; whatever happens after that is of little concern to me.

.

.

I do manage to make it to the restaurant on time on Friday
and
before Cait and Matt. A fact I point out to Cait with a great deal of satisfaction. Not long after we’re seated, Matt alerts us to our parents’ arrival. We’re as excited as kids on Christmas morning as we wait for Mom's reaction, and she doesn’t disappoint. She turns to Dad with a look of surprised joy when she spots us. He smiles at her lovingly and mouths, "Happy Birthday, Sweetheart."

For the rest of the evening, we delight in her obvious pleasure in everything; our company, the food, the ambience, the exceptional service and the dessert the chef prepared especially for her. Her eyes fill with tears, first when Cait helps to remove her earrings to replace them with her and Matt’s stunning gift, and then again when I present her with the matching emerald necklace.

When Dad announces that it's time they leave, Mom protests that she's not ready to go home. "That's good because we’re not going home," he says, and we kids grin at her excitement when Dad cryptically reveals that he has another surprise.

Matt decides to order a last round of drinks after our parents’ departure. While waiting, I excuse myself to visit the men's room. On my return, I run into Tom and a female, who has her back turned to me. Catching sight of me, he places his hand solicitously on the small of her back.

"Good evening, Counselor," he greets me facetiously. His companion turns, and I stare into honeyed eyes that widen as they land on me.

"Working hard, I see," I remark disdainfully, making her cheeks redden in anger or embarrassment; I can't tell which.

"Still an ass, I see," she responds coldly before turning away. Tom shoots me a smug smile as he bends to whisper something in her ear. I walk away without a backward glance.

"You look as if you’ve stepped in something foul," Cait comments upon my return.

"You could say that," I mutter, trying to dismiss my revulsion at the thought of Tom cozying up to Justin's erstwhile, or possibly current, escort.

I’ve woken from yet another dream-filled sleep. This time, I was plagued by visions of Eleanor; auburn hair styled elegantly, shoulders bared in a black dress and lips painted a vibrant red. She looked beautiful, the way I remember her before she became addicted to alcohol and drugs. The oddest thing about the dream was her wearing the emerald necklace I’d given Mom that very night. Eleanor smiled at me sadly as she touched the necklace. "I'm sorry, Adam," she mouthed.

The vision of her transformed into a young woman with long, dark hair, her face indistinct and turned in profile once again. All I could distinguish was a delicate, slightly upturned nose and long, thick lashes that swept her cheek as she bowed her head in near-supplication. As my dream-self stared, mesmerized, she turned. Every feature but her pouty, red lips remained blurred as she too whispered, "I'm sorry, Adam." The painful jolt to my chest I felt at hearing her despairing apology woke me.

Feeling unsettled, I stepped straight into the shower, hoping the warm water would wash away not only my fatigue but also the images that, even now, continue to swirl in my head.

"What the hell’s the matter with me?" I mutter, wandering into the kitchen, then slamming a cupboard door in frustration while setting up the coffee machine. Two cups later, with my brain still clouded and the coil in my gut as tight as ever, I call someone I haven’t contacted in a while. I met fencing master Nicholas Burns seven years ago at a tournament I’d been persuaded to attend. Intrigued, I participated in a couple of lessons and immediately developed a love for the sport. Today, I consider Nick a friend, and until my recent lapse, we fenced regularly.

"I thought you'd given up; finally decided you can't keep up with me?" he taunts good-naturedly on answering his phone.

"Just too busy and a bit lazy, I guess, but I’m hoping you can fit me in today."

"Sure, be here at ten-thirty. I can't wait to kick your ass!"

"I have no doubt you will." I laugh but groan inwardly because I already know that’s exactly what will happen.

Two hours after leaving home, I return well and truly beaten but with a clear mind and a sense of being in control once more. My phone rings just as I step out of the shower.

"Adam, how are you?" Lisa greets me sultrily.

"I'm fine, thanks. How about you?" I reply tentatively.

"I'd be much better if I'd heard from you," she says, with just a hint of accusation.

"I apologize, but I did say I'd be busy."

"Are you busy
tonight
?"

"I'm meeting some friends," I say. I'd thought about going to Ian’s but hadn't actually decided until just now.

"Well, what about tomorrow, Adam? Are you busy tomorrow?"

"Lisa, I don't want any late nights right now; there’s just too much happening at work."

"Let's at least have lunch. No strings attached, just two friends enjoying each other's company. We
are
friends, aren't we?" she asks, her voice now filled with promise. Lisa, as I’ve discovered, is truly adept at seduction and hard to resist.

"Yes, we're
friends
," I emphasize.

"Well, if we're friends, why can't we have lunch?"

"All right; we'll have lunch… as friends."

"I'll even meet you at the restaurant if it makes you feel better about it not being a date," she offers.

"Fine. How about Catalyst at twelve-thirty; I'll make the booking." I give in, feeling it’s the least I can do after the way our last outing ended. I’m determined, though, not to sleep with her again. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Jaclyn.

I do visit Ian’s and, despite my late night, wake on Sunday morning feeling remarkably refreshed. I go for another run before leaving to meet Lisa.

I can't see the expression in her eyes, which are hidden behind sunglasses, but her red lips widen in a welcoming smile when she spots me outside the restaurant. "Adam," she greets me breathily before kissing my cheek.

"You look lovely," I say; and she does, in a fitted, red dress. Every male eye in the near vicinity has turned her way. I glance down at her with a raised eyebrow as she links her arm with mine somewhat proprietorially.

"Oh don't panic, you commitmentphobe, it's just a
friendly
gesture," she chides me lightheartedly.

"As long as we're on the same page," I return, my tone matching hers.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she says, smiling saucily.

We're seated on the patio and order drinks before perusing the menu. She asks about my cases, and I tell her what I can. She, in turn, regales me with the latest gossip about Boston's social set. Lisa can be very entertaining; her sometimes-acerbic tongue, as she describes some socialite's latest compulsion, makes me laugh out loud and often. Being with her is easy, and I wonder why I'm so hell-bent on resisting at least trying for something more with her. The memory of my disastrous relationship with Jaclyn and my now failed friendships with Justin and Tom, however, remind me that we’ll probably never overcome the differences in our outlook on life.

I glance up as a couple is led to a table across from us. Why the hell, with so many people in Boston, do I keep running into her? She hasn't noticed me, so I continue to stare. Compared to most of the other female diners, she'd be considered dressed-down, yet she still outshines every woman in the room. The fitted, black slacks and matching turtleneck accentuates her lithe body, making her legs look a mile long; and with her hair swept high into a ponytail, those large, expressive eyes and long lashes are even more noticeable. She’s wearing almost no make-up, and her full mouth looks naturally pink and moist, although, I try not to fixate on that.

It’s her grace, coupled with her natural beauty and effortless style that makes her so extraordinary, I decide. She slides into her seat before turning to smile warmly at her companion.

My body, treacherous bastard, has reacted to the sight of her with quickened heartbeat and a stirring in my groin, and most maddeningly of all, as I watch her interact with her companion, a strange, hollow feeling in my gut. I mentally castigate myself and will my errant body into line, succeeding only barely by reminding myself of her true nature.

I turn my attention to the man folding his tall, muscular frame into the chair across from her. He’s in his early to mid-thirties, good-looking, with coffee toned skin and close-cropped black hair. I watch him take hold of her hand and her lean forward. "I've missed you," she says with a wistful look.

"Adam?" Lisa reclaims my attention. "Do you know her?" she asks, staring at Angelique.

"Not really." I cast a deliberately dismissive glance at their table, only to meet her eyes. She stares back before pointedly looking at Lisa, and then me once more; an eyebrow raised in challenge. The man, sensing her distraction, looks around and seeing me watching, scowls menacingly before turning back to her.

"Who is he; is he bothering you?" he asks.

"No one. No one to be worried about," she says, casting a scathing glance my way.

"Doesn't look like it to me," Lisa remarks, sounding disgruntled.

"She’s not important," I lie.

I try to reclaim my earlier light mood, but it’s lost. I try to forget about Angelique Bain, but her presence makes itself felt like a constant hum in the air. I studiously avoid looking their way throughout lunch. When we leave, I feel as if I can breathe again. I hail a cab, intending to drop Lisa off on my way home; but as we near her place, she leans in with a whispered invitation. Flustered by my unwanted reaction a woman I despise, I accept.

Later, I do my best not to think about soft, naturally pink lips as I watch Lisa’s red-tinged mouth envelop me.

.

.

Jodi and I spend most of Monday preparing for the Cordi brothers’ pre-trial hearings, scheduled to take place the following day.

Silvio and Enzo’s appearances proceed without incident. The judge rules that both men have a case to answer, and they’re escorted back to prison to await trial. Later, accompanied by Jon, we make our way to the courtroom where Joseph’s hearing is due to start. We’ve only been seated for minutes when the clerk approaches the defense table and leans in to speak with Jones. He nods curtly at the man before turning to have a short, animated discussion with Bryce. Jones gets up to leave, and Bryce makes his way over to us.

"There's been an unforeseen development," he addresses me. "Our client has waived his rights to a hearing. My colleague is notifying the court now and will, on his return to our office, prepare and then lodge the necessary paperwork."

"I hope this is not some stunt," I reply.

"I have more respect for our legal institution than that, Thorne," he returns, clearly annoyed. "I assure you that this has come as a surprise to us; we don’t know what our client is thinking at this point. Travis will speak with him."

"Good luck with that. We’ll see you in court for the next event," I say in a more conciliatory tone because I can tell he’s being truthful. I turn to confer with Jodi, but she’s standing, already having packed our documents. We rejoin a curious looking Jon. "Let's grab a coffee nearby," she says at his questioning look.

Pondering Joseph’s motivation, I ignore the conversation as Jodi fills Jon in on the latest occurrence. It's rare for a defendant to waive the right to a prelim, and even more rare that a defense attorney would advocate doing so because it’s their one chance to have charges dismissed. In instances where they fail, they generally use the opportunity to determine the exact nature of the prosecution’s evidence. In short, the hearing provides defense counsel with critical information and insight into the prosecution's case
before
trial.

"Why the hell would he do that?" Jon asks as the waitress leaves with our orders. "That slimy bastard does nothing without a motive."

"It could be for one of any number of reasons. Let’s say prosecution intends to call witnesses at the prelim hearing who may, for whatever reason, be unavailable for trial. They would, in effect, get testimonies on record, and those transcripts would then be available for use at trial. Waiving the hearing could prevent those testimonies from being available," I say, staring at them pointedly.

"Fuck!" Jon exclaims at the same time Jodi speaks.

"He's counting on witnesses not being available at trial. But how can he?" she asks.

"He can make them disappear," Jon concludes.

"But that means that he must be organizing it from inside." Jodi looks aghast.

We eat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. If Joseph
does
have the ability to contact one or more of his henchmen still at large, he could bribe, threaten or do worse to witnesses. We have enough documented evidence, but the lack of witnesses to substantiate it will weaken our case. I'm still thinking about how we can prevent that from happening when a waitress interrupts my reverie.

"Mr. Thorne?" she asks tentatively, holding out an envelope.

"Yes," I smile, and she blushes beet-red.

"Umm, that man just asked me to give you this," she says shyly.

I glance around the room, "What man?"

"At the door. He said he was a friend and wanted to surprise you."

"Oh, he's gone…" She exclaims when glancing over her shoulder.

I reach out, but Jon slaps my hand down. "Put it on the table," he tells the young woman sharply and removes his phone from his pocket.

"Can you get some rubber gloves and a plastic bag, Miss?" he demands. "Now, please," he adds more gently at her alarmed expression.