Justice Hunter (12 page)
R
uben Hayek had been on the wagon for nearly a year, as it turned out. And just like that, he was back off. The dreaded phone call was placed by the kind-hearted bartender at a not-so-glamorous watering hole in Camden, New Jersey. Honey’s was a can’s throw from the Campbell’s Soup factory and an infamous haunt for workers in need of drowning the monotony of their humdrum existences with booze. The drinks were dirt-cheap, the décor was delightfully tacky, and the crowd pretty much stayed the same. It was much like the bar in
St. Elmo’s Fire
—minus the coming-of-age and ritzy Georgetown setting.
These days Honey’s was off-limits to the likes of Ruben, who was serving a sobriety sentence in AA. He was battling a nasty bout of addiction, one that had culminated in a felony assault charge. Cheap tequilas were his poison of choice. He used to sit there for hours, biding his time, like the locals in a Tijuana bar in the roughest part of town. They just waited, flossing with rusty switchblades and becoming more menacing by the Mexican hour, just praying some preppy little American frat boy would stray from the tourist path and unwittingly walk into his worst nightmare.
Isaac took the credit for getting Ruben sober—and deservedly so. According to Frida, Ruben fell hard and fast for Isaac. In fact, Isaac was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He was his prince charming. Yet when he discovered Ruben’s dirty little secret, it was just a matter of time before he presented an ultimatum. It was the booze or him. Truly loving someone meant being able to set him free—like that Sting song, “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free.” It wasn’t easy for Isaac, either. He knew he was dealing with someone who had every reason in the world to seek an escape. Ruben’s sister, Frida, had been diagnosed with stage-five sarcoma the year before. She was given six months to live. On the heels of that discovery, their mother suffered a brain aneurism and passed on. And as for a father, they never really had one. He was an abusive alcoholic who vanished into the netherworld of denial while the children were still very young.
Hunter walked out of the bar with Isaac, who was already sporting that adult-in-the-relationship expression. It was the perfect blend of sternness, disappointment, and responsibility. Yet nothing could mask the euphoric sense of relief pulsing through Isaac’s veins. He had gotten a free pass. Tragedy averted. He vowed to appreciate his beloved, taking nothing for granted this time around.
The two bid their farewells. Isaac headed off while Hunter made his way to the heart of South Philly, considering how on earth he could make a case without his star witness. Isaac promised him a call after things settled down. At that point, though, Hunter sensed Isaac was just being polite. Nothing was said about the cause of Ruben’s erratic behavior. But then again, it didn’t have to be. Once they got the call, Frida’s I-told-you-so glare at Isaac said it all. The stress of the trial had to be the culprit. Hunter accepted the offer without much more and watched Isaac scamper off to complete the search-and-rescue mission. Then, like a married man drawn in by the wiles of a femme fatale, Hunter began his quest for clues.
Hunter must’ve hit every restaurant, cheese shop, and charcuterie in that section of the city. Each time he gave a description of the guy who had been tailing him, hoping it would register with employees. They would usually defer to the proprietor, dressed in a bloodstained white apron and holding an obscenely large carving knife in his swollen hand. And nine times out of ten, they barely spoke a lick of English, or at least pretended not to for fear of helping to make a member of the local mob. It was a lost cause, the hollowed-out eye sockets of the pig’s heads in each store taunting him as he left with absolutely nothing.
His energy level starting to crash, Hunter decided to grab a cup of joe in the Italian Market. He walked into a gourmet kitchen supply store, which looked ready to burst at the seams with fine Italian espresso machines, authentic hand-cranked pasta makers, and other gratuitous cooking tools. Framed photographs of celebrities lined the walls of the claustrophobic entrance, including all notable crooner types who’d made a special appearance in the past. One of the Chairman of the Board, Mr. Sinatra himself in his heyday, hung garishly right at eye level. The photo showed him standing outside, in front of the store, looking dapper. A diminutive, elderly Italian man, presumably the first- or second-generation owner of the place, stood proudly next to Old Blue Eyes. He’d arrived. That old world immigrant ear-to-ear smile said it all.
Hunter carefully navigated his way around floor-to-ceiling shelving to the back of the store, where the aroma of freshly ground gourmet coffee flirted with customer olfactory glands. An out-of-place blonde sorority type in her teens stood behind the counter, playing barista while a handful of caffeine aficionados crowded around the compact counter like Venetians at siesta. Hunter felt pressed for time, so he opted for a double espresso. As he swigged, a hand landed on his shoulder. He had no idea what to suspect as he turned around. The last person he expected to see was standing there before him, bearing an adventurous grin.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to warn you,” replied Stephanie Diaz. “And to get a decent cup of coffee. Never did entirely buy into the whole Starbucks subculture.” The barista offered Stephanie the bartender-now’s-your-chance-to-order look. “Regular, please.”
“Warn me about what?” asked Hunter defensively.
Please tell me she doesn’t know about the Mafia!
“Mancini,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Mancini? What about Mancini?” The older guy to Hunter’s right shot them an accusatorial look, the kind that said, “I know the guy you’re talking about.” He was wearing a Phillies cap and had a
New York Times
tucked under his arm.
He could easily be a big firm partner incognito.
“Let’s head outside,” Hunter said, realizing how paranoid he must’ve sounded.
“All right.”
“This is for both drinks,” he said as he hurriedly dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and followed Stephanie out.
“I apologize for that. It’s just that you never know…” said Hunter once they hit a less-trafficked section of the market.
“I understand,” she interrupted. “I was just relieved I found you before Mancini did.”
“Mancini’s looking for me?” asked Hunter, shocked.
“Stalking you is more like it. After you left, he stopped by the conference room. He seemed seriously pissed you weren’t there.” She paused, surprised by the words about to come out of her mouth. “It was kind of creepy, actually.”
“What did you tell him?” Hunter visualized the scene. Mancini standing over her, decked out in his ritzy golfing attire, calmly extracting the information.
“At first I tried to cover.”
“Why would you need to
cover
?”
Stephanie diverted her powerful and sexy gaze. Hunter couldn’t tell if she was lying or just nervous. “I don’t know. I figured you did something wrong by the way he was acting. Maybe you were supposed to be supervising the brief-writing or something.”
Her explanation seemed plausible enough.
“But he was relentless,” she continued. “Finally I had no choice. So I told him you left to meet Ruben Hayek.”
“You gave him the address? And that was it?”
“Yes.” She paused. “Why? What’s going on? Anything I need to know about the case?”
“I don’t think so.”
What the hell does Mancini want?
Hunter suspected it was one of two things. He might’ve been keeping tabs on him. Or he planned on derailing the investigation with misinformation. Either way, he was becoming a major pain in the ass. He needed to figure out a way to contain him and quickly, before things really started to spin out of control.
“That’s reassuring,” she replied sarcastically.
Hunter decided to throw her a bone, although the jury was still out on where her loyalties resided. “I’ll tell you more as soon as I know.” He was a natural when it came to bullshitting and lawyering, which pretty much amounted to the same thing.
She appeared at least somewhat satisfied with his co-conspiratorial offer. “So how’d it go with Mr. Hayek?” she asked, blowing on the lid of her to-go cup and sipping gingerly.
“It didn’t. Apparently he decided to tie one on after work. Still wasn’t there when I left.” They shared a just-one-more-gaping-hole-in-our-case lawyer look.
“Not good,” she said as she shook her head.
“Tell me about it.”
“So what’s plan B? Now that we know our star witness might have impairment issues.”
“Haven’t figured that out yet. And we’re not totally dead in the water with Ruben’s testimony. His partner was there on the night in question. He can corroborate everything, and he seems pretty reliable.”
“Will he testify? Can we bank on it? I mean, did he strike you as reliable?”
“I think so.” Hunter tempered his enthusiasm.
“So what’s the problem then?” asked Stephanie, slightly defensive. “If we can back up Ruben’s allegations, then there goes their conspiracy theory.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he vacillated.
Stephanie looked confused as she struggled with her scalding coffee. “How doesn’t it? If Ruben really was denied and singled out? I’m not sure I understand where you’re going with this.”
“Neither do I. Yet my gut just keeps telling me that something’s not right. It’s just hard to fathom that the sign, offensive or not, could be up for
months
. Yet no else came forward. Not once,” he observed.
“And there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that.”
“That fear acts as a deterrent,” surmised Hunter.
“Precisely.”
Hunter considered the possibility but still wasn’t entirely persuaded. “I suppose.” The ear-splitting growl of a passing SEPTA commuter bus’s engine momentarily silenced them. “Not even an anonymous tip,” he said when the noise died down.
“So let’s assume your instincts are right,” she replied, seemingly eager to brainstorm. “That the delay makes the city’s story less persuasive. That this whole case is just some political ruse. Now what? It’s not like we can just waltz into city hall and get the mayor to fess up.”
“And exactly why can’t we?”
“Y
ou’re serious?” she replied, raising her brows and smiling at the absurdity of the idea. Hunter grinned devilishly, though. “Oh my God. You are serious.”
“What do we have to lose?”
“For starters, how about our law licenses?” she asked tongue-in-cheek.
Hunter smiled at the thought. “Come on.
That
wouldn’t be so bad.”
It’s only a matter of time before she’s hopelessly jaded by the practice of law, anyway.
“You’re crazy,” she replied endearingly.
“Maybe. But think about how this thing plays out if we don’t. I haven’t given up on him yet. But for argument’s sake, let’s assume Ruben Hayek is unavailable to testify. MIA.”
“Or visibly intoxicated.”
“Right. Thanks for reminding me,” said Hunter playfully. It was a train wreck in the making. “We put on our fact witnesses. They put on theirs. So far it’s a wash.”
“Unless we can attack their credibility. The names of the witnesses who gave statements are in the file. I can do some digging to find out about prior brushes with the law, business dealings with Vito. That sort of thing.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Let’s hold off for now, though. See how our meeting with the mayor goes first.”
“If we can even get one.”
“We’ll get one,” said Hunter confidently. “We don’t really have a choice. I’ve already reached out to a sociologist at the University of Pennsylvania. But their expert will battle ours. Standard protocol. And I have no doubt they’ve spared no expense. So then we’ll be left with a tricky ordinance and the innuendo of a conspiracy. That the mayor’s got it out for Vito Armani. Does that sound about right to you?”
Stephanie nodded in approval. “Makes sense.”
“So that doesn’t leave us with too many other options. If the speculation about the political motivations is just a diversionary tactic, then I think we exploit it. First we find out if the mayor and councilwoman are even aware of the allegations being lodged at them. And if they’re not, which is my suspicion, then they’ll be motivated to tell their side of the story. They’ll thank us, if you ask me.”
“So we call their bluff, expose their underhandedness to the commission. The media will eat it up, which couldn’t hurt either,” she added, starting to really take to the idea.
“Exactly. Let’s beat them at their own game.”
“And if they’re right? If the mayor and the others really are preying on Vito Armani for political gain?”
“Then we’ve got a problem. Worst case is we’re forced to cut a deal depending on what we find out. It still doesn’t change the fact that Vito placed the sign there in the first place. We’ll still have something,” he reassured her. “Albeit it’s a pretty shitty case the way things stand now,” Hunter equivocated.
“I get that. But there would’ve never been any charges to begin with. And that’s what the panel will hone in on.”
“It’s a risk, no doubt. But under the circumstances, I think it’s one worth taking. I don’t know about you, but I want to get to the bottom of what happened, anyway.” Hunter paused to let his final argument sink in. “Incidentally, you wouldn’t have any contacts over at the city, would you?” asked Hunter, pouring on the charm.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. I know a handful of people over at the city law department. No one who can get us a meeting, though.” Hunter momentarily considered Sheila, who undoubtedly had the political juice to make it happen. He immediately abandoned the idea, though. Too risky.
Stephanie seemed to read Hunter’s thoughts. “Are you sure? A hot-shot associate like you must know some pretty influential players on the inside by now.”
“I wish.”
Is there any way she knows about Sheila?
“Too bad.” She acted convinced. “We’ll figure something out, I guess.” Stephanie had a thought. “Hey, what about Mancini? Do you think he’d be willing to make a call?”
“Not sure.” Hunter didn’t trust Mancini. Enlisting his help might only make sabotaging the case even easier. Hunter pictured Mancini and the mayor meeting in secrecy. He’d have no way of corroborating the conversation. “I think we should consider it.”
There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell.
Hunter wasn’t about to divulge his suspicions about Mancini just yet, either.
“Who knows? It might get him off your back,” she speculated.
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking. At least based on the little I know about Mancini, maybe he’s just looking to play a more active role in the case. Maybe he’s just bored.”
“He’s pretty hands-on. There’s no denying that,” said Hunter, pretending to consider the possibility. “Speaking of Mancini”—it was the perfect segue—“you should probably get going. Chances are he’s triangulating my location as we speak,” he added playfully. “No sense ensnaring yourself in the dragnet.” He was actually trying to protect her from the Mafia. And although she was beginning to prove her loyalty, it was still too soon to divulge everything he knew.
She smiled deferentially. “I can take a hint.”
“It’s for your own sanity. Trust me.” Sanity was one way of putting it.
“I know.” She appreciated his concern but of course, didn’t know the half of it. “But there is one last thing I meant to ask you. Does Vito have video surveillance at his shop?”
It was an obvious question, and frankly one Hunter never even considered. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt off-kilter since Mancini assigned him the case. “Not sure. I haven’t looked into it.”
“I would bet anything he does. He’s practically minting money over there. If I were him, I’d want to keep tabs on my unruly customers. Not to mention my employees if I’m not there. Stealing can be pretty rampant in that business. All cash.”
Hunter seriously weighed the possibility. It couldn’t hurt to find out. “Good thinking.” But Hunter knew the chances of getting his hands on any surveillance tape were slim to none. If Stephanie’s instincts were right, any footage could present a serious problem. There could be a smoking gun for all he knew, which would explain their conspiracy defense. Of course, if the tape were incriminating to their case, it would’ve gone missing by now.
“So if you’re okay with it, I’ll check for cameras on my way back to the office. I’ve got my bike, so it shouldn’t be too hard to scan the perimeter.”
“Just don’t get too close. Or pedal fast. If you’re right, we could live without footage of the city’s attorneys snooping around the defendant’s property. It might give the impression we’re struggling with our case. Go figure.” His expression said, “Which would be precisely the case.”
“Roger that.” Stephanie smiled and turned to leave. “So I guess I’ll head back to Whitman.”
“I’ll try to make it back there if I can.”
“And if I see Mancini again?” she asked as an afterthought. “What do I tell him?”
“Right.” Hunter considered his options. “Just tell him we spoke about the brief due tomorrow. That was it. I called you from a friend’s cell. That mine died.”
“You’re asking me to lie to him?” she asked, like a flirtatious secretary who feigns chastity before the first of many hot and heavy torrid encounters.
“Unless you want to tell him the truth. That’s up to you.” Hunter would never ask her to go out on a limb.
It didn’t take long for Stephanie to make up her mind. “You’re right. Okay.”
“Wise.” Hunter scanned the vicinity for anything suspicious. “You better get going. The last thing either one of us needs is for Mancini to track us both down here. And I’ve got a feeling he’s hot on our trail.”
“Then I’m off.” Stephanie walked confidently into the hectic section of the Market. She was on a mission. Hunter was discreet about it, but he kept a paternalistic eye on her. There was no sign of Mancini. Yet he had this sinking feeling that something horrific was about to happen. He made the mistake of chalking it up to a nerve-racking combination of paranoia and being out of his element.
