Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

Chief Judge Steven Saltmeyer was only too aware Walter A. Kolkolski was back in town. So far Wally had made no attempt to get back into his chambers, but that was now only a matter of days.

If he was lucky.

Judge Kolkolski had three years left on his appointed term and there was no way to remove him, short of disciplinary action. In other words, Wally had to screw up big time, and be caught with his pants down before the Chief Justice would take any action. There was certainly no love lost between Steve and Wally, yet they both wore the same robes and that seemed to be enough. At least for the time being.

If Wally was at one end of the scale, surely Steven Saltmeyer heavily tipped the other. Judge Saltmeyer graduated Princeton with a BA in political science. He was in the top ten percent of his graduating class from Yale Law School. After seventeen years of practicing with a white shoes law firm in Newark, he was tapped for a seat as a Superior Court judge. His reputation and case reasoning was impeccable. He was what most would call a judge’s judge.

Steve was happily married to the same woman for the past twenty-three years, and except for a drink at a few judicial law conferences, had never socialized with Walter Kolkolski a day in his entire life. Judge Saltmeyer intended to have it stay that way as long as he could help it.

The very thought of granting a directed verdict made Judge Saltmeyer cringe. “Why?” he asked himself. If the legislature wanted the court to be the final arbitrator of the facts, what was the purpose of the jury? As every freshman in criminal law learns the first week in class, the judge decides the law; the jury decides the facts.

It was just that simple.

It is the role of the judge to explain the difference between Murder One, Murder Two and Manslaughter. If the defendant brings a gun to the crime scene and has every intent of using it—I’m going to kill that motherfucker—that is premeditated. Murder One. Should there be an altercation, a fight, and the defendant pulls out his gun and shoots the victim, we have Murder Two. The victim was killed in the commission of a crime, but it was not premeditated.

Now if a defendant was driving home, the cell phone rang, he was not paying attention to the little old lady crossing the street in front of him, and he runs her over and kills her, she is still dead and it was still his fault, but there was no intent to hurt. That is manslaughter.

It is the judge’s role to explain the rules—and no more.

It is the role of the jury to determine the facts. Did the defendant intend to kill the victim before he ever entered the bedroom? In the heat of the moment, did the defendant pull his gun and shoot the victim? As to running the old lady over, was it strictly unintentional or was the little old lady his ex-mother-in-law who he was he stalking, just waiting for her to cross the street without looking?

Murder or manslaughter?

That is up to the jury to decide. No one else. Period. End of story

In all his years on the bench, never once did Judge Saltmeyer grant a motion for a directed verdict. Why would he? It was not his job.

According to court records, Judge K had granted it four times in the past six years. All in cases of “he said; she said.” All cases involving rape.

There was clearly a pattern. Surely someone had to pick it up. Judge Saltmeyer had, but said nothing to anyone. If the can of worms was opened, it would not be by him.

One thing you can bet on, I’ll never assign another case of “he said, she said” to Judge K as long as I am the Chief Justice. Not any type of rape cases, not on my watch.

Judge Saltmeyer knew if he had so easily picked it up, any court reporter with half a brain would find it out. It was only a matter of time.

***

Where do I go? What do I do?

Judge K was now back home, such as it was.

After the divorce he saw no need for a large house, not that it ever felt like a home. It was a place for him to have breakfast, dinner, and sleep. He kept his clothes there on weekends and locked himself in his basement chambers. At least there he felt safe and his wife knew better than to bother him.

The house was sold and the profits split equally. Eighty-three thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars each. He would never forget that figure. All those years of licking bootstraps, being the good little soldier, doing the dirty jobs no one else had the stomach for, and after all was said and done, he was now divorced, his son hardly spoke to him, and all he was left with was a lousy eighty-three thousand dollars.

Home was now a two bedroom apartment within walking distance of the courthouse. Why, on good days he didn’t even need a car. An apartment. He didn’t even own the damn place. He paid rent every month and knew the rent would go up a good ten to fifteen percent every three years. Inflation, he was told.

Bullshit. It was greed, pure and simple.

Now he had five days before he could report back to work.

What the hell am I going to do? Where do I go?

Wally was afraid to use his laptop. If they, whoever they were, could break into one computer, they sure as hell could break into a new one.

Maybe I’ll go down to Best Buy and see if they can sell me a secure laptop that has firewalls or whatever they use to prevent hackers from breaking in. What else can I do?

Had Judge K known the truth, he would have rested much easier.

A simple phone call to his chambers asking the judge to sign an emergency restraining order on a case he had on his docket, brought a response from the haggard clerk stating the judge was not available. After being pushed, the clerk revealed the judge was on vacation in Miami. The lawyer insisted only Judge Kolkolski was familiar with the facts and circumstances and the lawyer, or so the voice claimed to be, was sure if he sent the proposed order FedEx, the judge would sign it and send it back the next day.

So much for confidentiality. Everyone has access to all cases assigned to a particular judge. Ten minutes in the Clerk’s Office and five questions on a throw away cell phone was all it took to locate the good judge.

The only problem with Judge K’s laptop was it was old. Just like him.

CHAPTER 11

“What’s wrong, Anthony? You seem so jumpy.”

“What’s wrong? Ma, they want to kill me. I’m sure of it. The girl’s father is Mafia. Not bad enough, the God damn Russian mafia. I’m a dead man walking.”

“Don’t you use that language in this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma.”

Anthony had lost more than ten pounds since the trial. He had dropped out of school and spent most of his time at home. In his room. In bed. He only went out at night, when it was dark.

“You heard the judge. He didn’t believe for one minute that girl was telling the truth. She was scared and claimed it was rape afterwards. Now do you really think her father is going to believe the judge or his own daughter? He’s going to kill me. Did you see those big goons sitting in the back of the courtroom every day? Just staring. Staring at me.”

Anthony didn’t believe one word he had just told his mother. Oh, he damn sure believed his life was over. He knew he could never walk the streets of New Jersey again without looking over both shoulders and at every car coming at him. What he didn’t understand was why the judge didn’t believe Victoria. She was telling the truth and everyone in the courtroom knew it. The jury knew it, his own attorney knew it, and he damn sure knew it. So why? Why was he still a free man?

What was the judge thinking? What did he gain by setting me free? Who came up with this crap about a directed verdict? I just don’t understand. It makes no sense at all.

“I don’t feel good, Ma. I think I’m going to lie down for a while.”

“Anthony, it’s only eleven in the morning. You just finished breakfast. I think you should talk to someone.”

“All right, Ma. Maybe tomorrow.”

Anthony knew there was no one to talk to. Certainly not his ex-lawyer whom he was now suing. The cast was off his leg and he was now walking with a cane. When no one was around, no one was looking, he ditched the cane. The minute the check was cashed, the cane too would be history. All he wanted now was a settlement so he could boogie out of town. New Jersey was not the safest place under the best of circumstances. Now it was worse than some parts of Beirut.

His new lawyer, Angelo DeAngelo, had promised him a big settlement, but he had to be patient. “If the insurance company,” there was always insurance in the picture, “thought you were desperate, they would offer mere pennies on the dollar. After all, they would much prefer to see the money sitting in their accounts earning interest, not paid to some kid who would probably blow it on a car or a girl in a matter of weeks.”

Anthony remembered DeAngelo telling him, “I have told the adjuster we have no intent of settling. Once Mr. Sugarman pleads to a lesser charge, and he has no choice, then we have our victory. Any jury would just love to give you close to $100,000 to punish a lawyer who attacks his own client, in his own office, with no provocation. I can’t wait for summation.”

Here DeAngelo had begun rubbing his hands in anticipation of his one third that was already in the bank as far as he was concerned.

Anthony recalled vividly their first conversation where he was promised the case would be settled in a matter of weeks, a month at the most, for maybe thirty or forty thou.

Maybe it’s time to hire a new attorney; one I could trust.
If I can get twenty or thirty grand quick, I can be somewhere in the Caribbean before anyone even knows I’m missing. I can change my name and get a job as a bartender at some swank resort hotel.

Anthony had forgotten about a passport. It would come to him later. All he was thinking about now was Victoria’s father and the two stone pillars that sat in the back of the courtroom every day. He sat in his room for hours thinking what he could do. Then it hit him. He picked up his cell phone.

“Mr. DeAngelo. I need to see you right away. It’s important.”

Anthony sat and listened as to why he would have to wait. New client coming in, a hearing he had to prepare for in the morning, the adjuster was on vacation. His schedule was booked for the rest of the week and he would be trying the mother of all slip and fall cases the beginning of next week.

“No problem, Mr. DeAngelo. I have decided to change lawyers. My new attorney told me I can come in anytime and sign a Substitution of Attorney form whenever I want. Thank you.”

Anthony hung up. He knew DeAngelo would free up his schedule and call back in the next ten minutes.

He was wrong. It was only four and a half minutes.

While setting up an appointment for the first thing in the morning, eight thirty, before the office officially opened, Anthony peeked out the corner of his bedroom window. He thought he saw a black sedan drive by with No Neck Two at the wheel and his ever-present partner-in-crime, No Neck One sitting alongside him. He also was sure there was someone in the backseat. He could not make out any details.

Anthony freaked.

***

“That’s where he lives, Mr. C. He stays in his bedroom almost all day. I thought I saw the bedroom shade just move. He looks out at the street every fifteen minutes or so.”

Alexey thought a minute.

“Lease a car, a big, black sedan with tinted windows, in a dummy corporation’s name and park it right across the street tonight. I want him to stare at it all day and night. And I’ll have a package for you. Leave it on the front door porch late tonight. Don’t be seen.”

Alexey had no good reason to add the last few words.

Boris merely nodded. “Yes, Mr. C.”

***

The “package” contained a small, black metal cage. Inside was one dead rat. There was no note. The message was loud and clear. Someone would die—soon.

Anthony was up and dressed by seven in the morning. He didn’t want to be late for his eight thirty appointment with Mr. DeAngelo. He almost tripped over the large brown paper bag sitting directly in front of the door.

The scream was heard two doors away. After seeing the dead rat, Anthony noticed the black sedan parked ominously directly across the street. He panicked, dropped the bag, and ran. He had no idea how long or far he ran, but fifteen minutes later he was a mass of sweat. Only part of it was caused by the running.

He was sitting in front of Mr. DeAngelo’s office, a store front a few blocks from the courthouse, when Angelo showed up.

“You look like shit. Or like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Anthony was still out of breath.

“I ran almost all the way, Mr. DeAngelo.”

“Did anyone see you? And where’s the cane?”

Angelo could see his one third fee floating out the door. No one with a broken leg runs like that. Ethically speaking, not that it ever bothered him; he had a duty to report the change of circumstances to the insurance company.

“Settle the case, Mr. DeAngelo. Settle it now or I want my file back. I checked. It’s my case, not yours. I don’t care what you tell them, just get me a check by the end of the week or you’re history. Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Neither of them saw the black sedan parked across the street. The one with the spy camera with the directional mike attached. The one that had recorded Anthony running down the street like an Olympic sprinter and then talking to his own attorney on the sidewalk in front of the law office. On a public street.

No violation of any privacy laws there.

“Let’s go. I have seen and heard all I need.”

“Da, Mr. C.”