Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (6 page)

CHAPTER 8

The police arrived minutes later. They had no love for former ADAs who switched sides and now represented the scum they had risked their lives to apprehend. They also didn’t like being made to look like idiots or liars on the witness stand by lawyers wearing twenty-five hundred dollar suits and forgetting where they got their start.

“Let’s see how you like being on the other side of the bars for a change, Mr. Big Shot Shyster.”

The beat cop had a grin on his face. He was enjoying every last minute of it. Sugarman did not recognize or remember how he had made the cop to look like a fool a few years ago at a Robbery One trial.

What goes around, etcetera, etcetera.

Anthony was transported to St. Elizabeth’s for x-rays and probably to have his leg set and put in a cast. He was going nowhere for a good long while. That worried him more than the broken leg.

***

“Exactly what was stolen, Counselor?”

The detective was giving Sugarman no slack. Bob was not particularly loved by the Newark PD.

“Well, nothing actually. It was more like a break and enter.”

“And what was broken? As I understand it, the door was unlocked, it was during normal business hours, and the complainant was a client—oops, a former client of yours. Wouldn’t it be normal, again during regular business hours, for a client to walk into an unlocked office to see you? You don’t have a secret code or micro-chip that allows non-thieves to see you in your office, do you?”

Sugarman could see the explanation was going nowhere. Everything seemed to be going in the crapper since Judge K decided he knew better than the jury. He was politely escorted to a temporary holding cell to await arraignment. He was sure there would be no bail.

Just a whole lot of embarrassment.

“Own recognizance, Counselor. I suggest you treat your clients with a little more respect. Remember, they’re the ones paying for that new car of yours and the threads you like parading around the courtroom in. Sorta reminds me of a peacock in heat.”

The arraignment judge was referring to Bob’s custom made suits that cost more than the judge made in a full week. As to being released on his own recognizance, it was a foregone conclusion, though the ADA had given him a rough time just to bust his balls.

Screw him and the horse he rode in on.

Jealousy is an ugly shade of green. Your typical high priced criminal trial lawyer makes at least twice, usually three times as much as a politically appointed superior court judge. And the perks are far more delicious.

The spy cams showed nothing…except the clumsy diving tackle of Sugarman into the knees of a frightened kid whose only crime was knocking, asking if anyone was around, and standing in the waiting room. The stack of files to have been used as bait had not moved an inch.

Anthony was now hobbled by a thigh to calf cast. One of his first ventures out was to a sleazy negligence lawyer who advertised at least ten times an evening on TV.

I don’t get paid till you cash your check. Let me help you smile again.

The polite thing to do was send a letter of representation inviting Mr. Sugarman to notify his insurance company so they could gain access to doctor and hospital records and be given an opportunity to make a fair and just offer. That would have been the right way, the polite way, the easy way, to handle the case.

It was not the way Angelo DeAngelo did it. He was a first class scumbag. He did what he always did. He had a summons and complaint served on Sugarman, filed a Notice of Action in the Clerk’s Office and let everyone know he was now suing one of the top lawyers in town. It made him feel good. It compensated for the misery his ex-wife and her attorney had caused him all these years. Misery loves to get even.

Anthony didn’t know any of this. All he knew was he was hurting, it wasn’t his fault, and someone had to pay. That’s why God made ambulance chasing, blood sucking, negligence attorneys. He wanted his pound of flesh and DeAngelo promised to get it so he could smile again. Just as the TV ad stated.

He was unaware No Neck One and No Neck Two were fast becoming students of the law. They had their rather large noses and hands into everything. Everyone else was making their job much easier.

***

Judge K hated Miami. It was where his ex lived. It was where his son Teddy had lived before the tragedy. Walter Kolkolski had few friends or relatives; none in Florida. When he was told by the Chief Judge to take a vacation, he had nowhere to go, no one to see.

Miami Beach seemed as good a place as any.

The bungalow was not in the high priced district. In fact it was below Lincoln Avenue where the high rise hotels began. It was in an area where the Jews and shvartzas lived. It was small and clean and only a short two blocks from the beach. Most importantly, no one knew him there.

Walt’s routine was the same every day. He would stop at the corner deli for coffee and a buttered hard roll, then on to the beach with the cheap aluminum beach chair he bought from Walgreens. He carried a blanket from the bungalow, a water bottle, and his five-year-old laptop. He would make sure every inch of skin was covered with sunscreen and then check out what was going on in Superior Court in Essex County, New Jersey.

He was on vacation—a forced vacation. This was not retirement. He wanted to know who was trying which cases and what defendants were getting away with murder. Most important, he was watching the Chief Judge, just waiting for him to screw up.

He had no God damn right to force me to take a vacation. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I will do it again if given the chance.

By two thirty it was time for him to call it quits. The sun, even with a floppy hat, souvenir t-shirt and sunscreen, was getting to him. Maybe a cold shower, a long nap, and then he would find a place to eat. Wally loved Jew food, though he told no one. He would get to Wolfie’s by five, five thirty, and have creamed cole slaw, a hot pastrami on rye, and a bottle of Dr. Brown’s cel-ray. The bowl on the table was always filled with kosher pickles and tomatoes and he would eat every last one. That’s what they were there for, he reasoned.

I’m sure I locked the door when I left this morning.

Walter was looking at the partially opened door to this bungalow. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The room was a mess. It had been tossed, as the cops would say. It also smelled. On the worn bedspread was a load of feces from a very large dog or possibly human. On the bed was a computer generated note.

Oops, sorry. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You booked on your laptop and we control it. Now we control everything. Have a nice day, Your Honor.

Wally felt himself getting sick and raced to the bathroom. He stayed there for a good fifteen minutes. He was afraid to come out. He called the police while sitting on the can.

The usual report was filed. Nothing appeared to have been stolen. It was a huge embarrassment and the message had been received, loud and clear.

The overturned verdict was not going away. It would sit there and smell, like what was on the bed he had to sleep in tonight. The fact the feces had been removed, fresh linen, blankets and covers supplied, did not remove the knowledge of what had happened.

Wally was never a legal scholar but knew enough to research the law. He had a damn good idea of what he would find. Later that evening, while sitting in the wicker chair on the far side of the room, he confirmed what he already knew.

Once a directed verdict was given and the defendant set free, he can never be tried again for the same offense. It is called double jeopardy. Once a glass of milk is spilt, once an egg is cracked, once an insult is spoken, it can never be undone. Judge Walter Kolkolski’s decision would stand for all time.

It was time to leave Miami. Wally still had another twelve days on his lease. He knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting any part of the prepaid rent back, Superior Court Judge or not.

The smell was still in his head and would not go away.

CHAPTER 9

One of the first things Wally did when he got back home, totally off the record, was to call Robert Samuel Sugarman. Bob suggested the judge say nothing and they meet in person. No telling who was listening and recording. The defense lawyer had been paranoid since he was released from the county lockup. It had to be one of the most embarrassing experiences of his professional life. The guards, arresting officers, and the ADA loved every last second of it.

Bob had a long memory. No one is pure as the driven snow. Their time would come. You could take that to the bank.

***

“What happened? You look terrible.”

Judge K explained how he was forced to take a thirty day vacation, how he argued to no avail with the Chief Justice, the incident in the bungalow, and the fact he was sure his laptop was now corrupted. He now trusted no one, not that he ever did before.

“And you?”

Bob Sugarman looked around the room before he said a word. He too was worried he had been followed and someone very close was now listening. They were sitting at a back table in a nondescript bar in a section of Brooklyn Heights. It was mid-afternoon and the place was virtually empty. Bob had taken a cab and asked to be let out two blocks away. He had walked in circles for a few streets until he was sure he had not been tailed. He had no appointments for the rest of the day. He was sure this was no coincidence.

“Someone is out to get both of us. It has to be the complainant’s father. Everyone knows he’s connected to the Russian mafia. Why, those two goons never left the courtroom, not even to use the men’s room. During the breaks, they would just sit and stare—mostly at the both of us. Legally, they have broken no laws I can think of.”

Bob then went on to say how he had been arrested and jailed by knocking someone over, his own client it turned out, in his own waiting room.

“It wasn’t an accident. I was set up. I’m too old for this crap.”

The judge listened, thought for a few minutes, and said nothing. Bob wanted some answers and he wanted them now. He looked around again, just to be sure. He wasn’t about to make any incriminating statements to a sitting judge, with a bunch of witnesses around.

“Why in the hell did you grant my motion for a directed verdict? It had to be one of the stupidest things you have ever done.”

Sugarman was sorry he said it before the words had barely left his mouth.

“I did it because I could. It’s that simple. The justice system, as we all know, is broken. It doesn’t work. That was my courtroom and I’ll do any damn thing I want while I’m running it. Is that clear, Counselor?” The judge peered at Sugarman. “And by the way, why did you make the motion if you thought it was so aggressive? I would also suggest you lose that tone of voice when talking to me or have you forgotten I am not one of your dumbass clients?"

“Sorry, Judge. I’m a bit edgy.”

“We both are. The question is, what are we going to do about it? What can we do until we’re positive who is behind all this? We both know it’s Cummings, that Russian mafia guy.”

There was no question a crime had been committed…more than one…and the reason why. The question was by whom and how could they stop it. No Neck One and Two had not been seen for days. It was as if they had disappeared or been sent back to Siberia.

“Maybe we should start with that uppity foreman. The one who everybody heard threaten me. He said something to the effect I would not get away with it and I would rue the day I made my ruling. That sounds like a threat to me.”

“Judge,” Bob was being extra careful not to call him by his given name, “that was uttered in a moment of frustration. It was a spur of the moment thing, not a real threat. We both know that, don’t we?”

Judge K said nothing. There was not a great deal to say.

“I think we should stay in touch…by cell phone only. Here’s mine. Don’t want too many people knowing a sitting criminal court judge is having a drink with the defense attorney.”

With that Wally gave Lawyer Sugarman his personal card.

Neither of them paid any attention to what appeared to be a fiftyish old skag sitting at the bar nursing her drink. She never looked up, never turned her head, and never once looked at the two of them. All she did was carefully adjust her purse on her lap so the highly sensitive directional mike was facing straight at them, picking up every last word.

Gotcha.

The skag quickly laid a ten dollar bill on the bar for a single draft beer and quietly left. Ten minutes later she was making a call on her cell and playing the recording to a most interested listener. Then she disappeared so she could take off the tons of makeup and change back into the decent set of clothes left in her car.

“Good job. Keep it up.”

***

The internet does not have a faulty memory. It forgets nothing. It’s only a question of looking in the right place and digging. Bill Johnson was an IBMer. He was used to digging.

If there is something to find, I’ll damn sure find it.

If nothing else, Bill was as stubborn as the proverbial mule. His request for a judicial review had been turned down at every turn. It was not as if the justices didn’t know or understand what Kolkolski was doing, they had seen it all before too many times, and were just protecting one of their own. Who knows, next time it could be them.

“No” was not a part of who Bill was. He knew there was a reason why the judge agreed to the directed verdict, there was a reason why he appeared to be bored or sleeping through the entire trial. There is a reason for everything. The trick is to find it.

Bill found a mini crack. It was an article that mentioned Superior Court Judge Walter Kolkolski had attended a judicial conference in Atlantic City last year alone. The article stated he had been divorced for some period of time and always attended conferences alone. The grounds were incompatibility. After a few more hours of searching he found out the ex-wife and son had moved to Florida. Not much to go on, but at least it was a lead. He would try and find her and the son in the morning—or the next time he had a few spare hours to search the net. Maybe they could explain his odd behavior.

***

“I’m not pleased at what you’re doing. Do I have to forbid you?”

“It’s my life. It’s been ruined and I need to know why. Is that so wrong? Can you at least understand that?”

In fact he did understand. She was a mere child and way in above her head by stalking a superior court judge and recording conversations on state-of-the-art spy equipment not meant for civilian use.

The fact Vicky had walked right past Boris and Viktor, No Neck One and No Neck Two, in broad daylight, and had not been recognized was impressive. And all too scary. They were considered two of the best in the business and yet they paid no attention to the poorly dressed fifty-year-old woman with deep lines on her face and steel grey hair in a bun who shuffled with bent over shoulders right under their very noses.

Alexey Cummings Kummovitch would have a little talk with his two trusted employees. He wasn’t sure if he were more proud of his daughter or disappointed with Boris and Viktor. He also needed to know how Vicky got her hands on the ultra-secure recording device.

He was tired of being told to cool his heels and remain in the background. That was not his comfort zone. Not even close. He would be at his daughter’s side in less than twenty-four hours. Then he, and no one else, would decide how to deal with a runaway judge and a complacent attorney.