Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (9 page)

CHAPTER 14

Oops, another mistake.

Not the first, not the last.

The computer generated note was stuck under the windshield wiper. All four tires in his year-old blood red Ferrari were flat. Sugarman couldn’t tell if the air had just been let out or if a knife had been used. He called Triple A and sat on the curb to wait. It had not been a good day; it had not been a good week, it had not been a good month. Ever since that damn directed verdict, his life had turned to shit.

Ever since those false flyers, business had dropped off considerably. His referrals from non-criminal attorneys, his real life’s blood, had dried up. No one wanted to refer anything to him for fear of being connected.

Bob Sugarman had the bad habit of most successful businessmen. He made it and he spent it. What good was busting your ass if you couldn’t enjoy the fruits of your labor? Bob had a big house and a big mortgage. He had a few high priced toys in his four car garage. Two of the four cars were paid for, the other two, not.

Money was going out faster than it was coming in. Much faster.

“Sorry, sir. It looks like the stems have been removed from all four tires. Not sure why but the tires do not seem to want to hold air. I would suggest we tow it to a Ferrari dealer. We’re just not equipped for this sort of problem.”

Sugarman knew every trip to the Ferrari dealership set him back at least a few grand. It had been a mistake to buy the damn money pit in the first place but ego overcame logic. Not for the first time.

***

The shock was totally unexpected. It was so far out of left field, no one could have anticipated it. It was beyond unreal.

Bob was sitting in his office when Vito, the service manager at the dealership, called.

“Mr. Sugarman, the tire problem has been resolved. The stems were removed and cement glue inserted. We ran a powerful solvent through the openings. The tires can be saved. But we were more concerned once we opened the hood. Where is the engine?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The engine, Mr. Sugarman. There is no engine in your car. It’s not something we could have easily overlooked. Someone, someone who had foreign car experience, removed the engine. What would you like us to do?”

“I’ll call you back—later.”

Son-of-a-bitch. How the hell am I going to tell the insurance company I parked my car a few blocks from the courthouse and when I came back, the engine in my new Ferrari was missing?

Bob then thought about the police. He would have to make a report in order to collect on his insurance. He would be the laughing stock of the courthouse. He could just see the flyers now.

Hot shot criminal attorney has engine stolen from new Ferrari in shadow of courthouse.

Damn Judge K. What was he thinking? I never expected the motion to be granted. It was just something you say automatically at the end of a trial. Motion for a directed verdict or I would like to thank the jury for their time, patience, and understanding in convicting my client.

It was too late now. His life was in the crapper and he knew no way of gracefully pulling it out.

***

On the other side of town, Viktor was asking his boss, “What do you want us to do with this engine, Mr. C?”

“Get rid of it. I don’t care where or how. Just as long as it can never be traced back to us.”

“Yes sir, Mr. C.”

The tow truck with the winch had not been difficult to obtain. All it took was money. The fact Mr. C himself was able to disconnect, chain it, and have it removed without scratching the car had been remarkable. A thing of beauty. Now it sat in a dingy, oil stained garage floor just outside the city.

Viktor and Boris both knew they could peddle it for 5k, no questions asked. It was a V8 Ferrari engine, for God’s sake. They also knew their lives were worth more than five thousand. If they were ever caught disobeying an order, that would be their demise.

“Wait. Don’t dump it. I have a better idea.”

Boris and Viktor did not understand, but did what they were told.

“I want the engine carefully dismantled. We will return the parts, one at a time, to Mr. Sugarman.”

Alexey now had a smile on his face, for the first time in a long while.

***

The jokes, the taunts, the comments did not stop. Everyone was now a comedian. No one knew Bob had received two piston rings from the Ferrari engine the day before. The computer generated note merely said:

Try rebuilding what has forever been broken.

Bob clearly understood the message. Although he could never prove it, there was not a doubt in his mind who was behind it. To try and prove it could cost him his life—and he damn sure knew it.

Robert Samuel Sugarman could not walk ten feet without someone approaching him with a spark plug or useless part of an auto and asking if he had lost it. The cops called to state they had found auto parts on the side of the road and asked if he would like to meet them on the Garden State Parkway to identify them.

Everyone was having a big laugh at Bob’s expense. What goes around, comes around. Bob stopped answering his phone. If it were a new client or an emergency, they would leave a message.

Alexey was enjoying every minute of it. The cops were doing nothing to solve the crime. Sugarman was a rogue lawyer, one who made cops look bad on the witness stand. This was their way of getting back. They looked the other way. They had more important problems to handle. Looking for who stole an engine from a slime bag lawyer’s expensive foreign sports car was not one of them.

Bob Sugarman was now between a rock and a very hard place. He had no one to turn to. He now blamed Judge Walter A. Kolkolski for everything. Everything.

Only a fuckin’ idiot or someone with a long time grudge and hated the judicial system would have granted my motion.

CHAPTER 15

“Why is someone asking about Teddy? He’s been dead for almost twelve years. What are you up to this time?”

Wally sat at his desk in chambers and stared at the phone like he just heard a ghost. He knew who was on the other end of the line. How could he ever forget? He just didn’t know why.

“Bernice?”

“No, it’s your late saintly mother, Stella. Who the hell do you think it is? Of course it’s me. Someone called me here in Florida a few days ago. He’s looking for you, something about an overdue credit card bill, and he wants to talk to Teddy. I hung up on him. What’s going on, Wally?”

Wally could not talk. He was trying to process and not getting very far. Someone, and he was sure he knew who, was out to get him.

“Bernice, how are you?”

“Why the hell do you care? You didn’t give a shit about Teddy and me when he was alive, why would you care about me now?”

Wally had no answer. At least none Bernice wanted to hear. That was almost fifteen years ago. He never thought it was his fault. There had been pressure put upon him by all sides. If he didn’t do what the party demanded he do, he would be out of a job in a heartbeat.

“Bernice, I think we should talk. I’m in the middle of something right now but can I call you tonight, when I get home? By the way, I don’t have your phone number.”

There was a pause. It was Bernice that had called, looking for answers, and was more than a bit curious as to what Wally had been up to these past fifteen years.

Has he remarried? Is he living with someone? Does he ever think about me?

She gave him the number. “Don’t call after nine p.m. I have an important engagement early in the morning.”

The line went dead. The only engagement Bernice had the next morning was making a pot of coffee and watching
Good Morning America
on TV. For all practical sakes, she was unemployable.

Wally was sitting at his desk looking at the assignments the chief judge had just given him. A slip and fall case involving the owner of a
bodega
and an eighty-one-year-old woman with a now fractured hip; a four car pileup on the Jersey Turnpike where everyone was pointing their finger at the other guy and the insurance companies were playing hardball; a landlord/tenant dispute between ex-relatives, and finally a lot line matter involving two neighbors who had been fighting for years as to whose property the fifty-year-old oak tree was on.

Why the hell am I being punished like this? And why is Bernice calling me?

Wally had no outstanding credit card bills, or any other for that matter, and why would anyone want to talk to his son who was killed in prison? He began to shake—all over again.

All because that dumb ass lawyer, who I thought was my good friend, made that motion, knowing full well I would grant it. It’s all his damn fault.

The lines of hate, blame and self-pity were being clearly drawn.

Wally needed a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Maybe two.

He also needed answers.

***

Judge K was not about to waste a day or two on a simple slip and fall case. Yes, there was garbage, the plaintiff alleged there were overripe bananas on the stoop and she had not seen them. The owner should have cleaned it up; the old lady should have watched where she was walking. The insurance company was charging exorbitant premiums due to the rundown area. This was a case that would be settled. Wally had more important things on his mind and he was sure Mrs. Mendez did not need a walker all the time. He called in Henry Armstrong, who had been representing insurance carriers for the past twenty years.

“Mrs. Mendez is suing for thirty-five thousand. I think it’s about time someone sent a message to those damn grocery store owners that the streets of our fair city are not their personal dumping grounds. I think a judgment of fifty thousand would get their interest. Go back to your people and tell them they have no friend in this courtroom.”

Judge K then called in plaintiff’s counsel, a nice young man with barely two and a half years’ experience under his belt.

“Please tell your client she should look where she goes. She knows the neighborhood better than anyone. She has lived there all her life. It would be an absolute gift if the insurance company offered her ten thousand. Between you and me, I think I can get them to go as high as fifteen. Don’t tell the plaintiff that, but if you think fifteen would settle it, I’ll stick my neck out for you. After all, I was once a young starving lawyer and it would have been nice if an old judge had given me a break, like I’m giving you.”

Three hours, four phone calls, and a fair amount of arm twisting later, and the case was settled for $17,500. It was a win/win situation for everyone. The plaintiff received more than she anticipated, the insurance company laid out less than it had budgeted, the judge was a hero, and he had a free day and a half on his calendar.

Now all he had to worry about was calling Bernice before nine tonight.

***

Bill Johnson knew he was on to something. It had to do with Judge K’s son. Theodore Kolkolski had seemed to have dropped off the end of the earth. Teddy had not filed an income tax return in the past thirteen years. There was no record of his renewing his driver’s license, in New Jersey or Florida. He could find no record of a passport being issued.

He had to be somewhere.

As soon as he had a few free hours, Bill would resume his research. He was not about to give up. Judge Kolkolski was hiding something and William Lincoln Johnson was not about to rest until he found out.

You can take that to the bank, my good brother.

Directed verdict. Horse feathers.

CHAPTER 16

Wally stared at the kitchen clock. It read 6:51. He had been unable to eat dinner, such as it was. He had Italian out last night and brought home the Styrofoam box with half of the chicken parm and some angel hair in marinara sauce. It was good yesterday. Now it was a thick blob of microwaved leftovers.

Besides, how could he eat when in a few minutes he would be calling his ex? He drank some more coffee.

He did not want to appear overanxious but knew she had asked he call before nine. Seven thirty would be perfect. Wally made a fresh pot of coffee. He wasn’t wired enough from the earlier phone call. He lit another cigarette as the coffee brewed. He noticed, not for the first time, the nicotine stains on his right fingers.

I’ve got to quit one of these days. Before it kills me.

***

The police refused to do a damn thing. The FedEx packages were being delivered almost every other day. The return address was always phony. No one had any idea as to the description of the sender. The cops had more important things to do than help a turncoat criminal defense lawyer. They weren’t even sure a crime had been committed. Whoever was doing it was smart enough not to use the United States Post Office, not that it would have made a tinker’s damn to anyone.

Bob Sugarman was livid. It had more to do with the fact his own insurance carrier was dragging its feet on the claim.

“Mr. Sugarman, how is it possible you parked your new Ferrari, that still has a big lien on it, not two blocks from the courthouse, in broad daylight, someone pulled out a four hundred twenty pound engine, did not leave a scratch, and no one saw it? Can you explain that to us?”

“How the hell should I know? I parked the car, spent less than three hours in court, came back to find four flat tires and then I learned someone stole the engine out of my car. Do you think I hid it in my freaking briefcase? Would you care to search my closets or my law office? If I don’t have a check for whatever it costs to get a new engine in my car by next Monday, I’ll do what I have been trained to do, what I do best. I will sue your ass and post a blog on my website. Let the world know what a cheap bunch of bastards you guys really are. Am I making myself clear?”

Sugarman felt a little better. But not much. Nothing a few big clients wouldn’t cure.

***

“Bernice, it’s me, Wally.”

“I know who it is. I know your voice. I slept with you for more than twenty-some years. Some things you just don’t forget. No matter how hard you try.”

Things are not going well.

“What’s this about a phone call on an overdue bill? And wanting to talk to Teddy?”

“You heard what I said on the phone earlier. Do you want me to repeat it?”

Damn, she’s not making this very easy.

“If you don’t mind.”

Bernice repeated the entire conversation with the so-called bill collector. Or as much as she could remember. Wally sat by the kitchen table that was as old as the apartment itself, drinking his coffee, smoking his cigarette, and listening.

So far no one has figured out what happened to Teddy. Everything’s on the internet. It is only a question of time before someone puts two and two together.

Wally began to sweat—again. He had no idea how many cold sweats, how many nightmares; he’d had in the past few months. Ever since he granted that stupid motion.

If I only had the opportunity to rethink it, to do it over again.

For a sitting judge in the middle of a trial, there were no do overs.

“Are you still there, Wally? Are you listening? Are you alone?”

“Of course I’m here, I’m listening, and not that it’s any of your business—yes, I’m alone. I have been alone since the day you walked out on me.”

“Whoa. Let’s not get started on that issue. You had no time for me or the boys. You were too busy kissing the ass of that damn Republican party of yours.”

“You mean the party that got me my job and allowed me to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. That party.”

There was a silence. Each was afraid the other would hang up. Something neither wanted. It had been too long and both needed to vent or at least talk in a civil manner.

It was Wally who finally broke the ice.

“Can we please start over?”

“What exactly does that mean? From when?”

“I mean this conversation. It seems we got sidetracked.”

“Oh. Sure. Why not?”

“When did you get the call? What did he sound like? Was there any accent you could pick up?”

“About a week or so ago. I really wasn’t paying any attention. I was so shocked he called about you. Let me think a minute. It was a guy. He sure wasn’t from around here. I would guess maybe Jersey. Yes, I think he was definitely from New Jersey. He could have been black. Not sure about that. We didn’t talk very long. When he asked about Teddy I just hung up. Figured he may have been a phony. Anything else?”

“Let me think.”

Any thought the Russians were connected went out the window. Wally had no other questions but didn’t want to hang up. He sorta liked talking to Bernice, even if she was busting his balls.

“How’s the weather down there?”

“What?”

“I asked how’s the weather down there.”

“Wally, if you want to know how the weather is, turn on the freakin’ Weather Channel. If you want to talk to me, just say so. I’m not going to bite you.”

“I miss you.”

“Now’s a hell of a time to mention it, Wally.”

***

The insurance company came through, not that they had much of a choice. No one would be brazen enough to make a claim for a Ferrari engine in a year old car. Especially a criminal defense lawyer who claims he was two blocks away when the engine was stolen.

Sugarman told the dealership to replace it, make sure the car was in perfect condition, and then sell it. He was too old, and a few pounds too heavy, to be driving a blood red Ferrari. Besides, he couldn’t afford the constant upkeep.

***

Carmela was worried to death. First she found the big brown bag and what was in it. Then she got a call from Anthony, letting her know he was invited to Manhattan by a college classmate for a few days. His buddy was leaving in a few hours and Anthony didn’t have time to come home to pack a few things. Whatever he needed, jeans, a sweatshirt, underwear, and toiletries, he could pick up once he got there.

Carmela forgot to ask and Anthony never told her who the friend was, where he was staying, and how she could reach him.

Anthony had no plan, not really. He had ten thousand bucks in his pocket and all he knew was he had to get the hell out of Newark—now. He would take a bus to Grand Central Station, find a semi-cheap hotel, and then figure out what he would do the rest of his life—later.

He would call his mama once he was safely in his new city. It occurred to him that he did not have a passport and could not even fly to Toronto or Montreal without one. Maybe he would be happy in Arizona or New Mexico or somewhere in that area.

I could get used to no cold or snow. Maybe I could learn Spanish and how to ride a horse. I could change my name to Antonio. Antonio Ricardi.

Anthony stopped at a Wal-Mart and bought a cheap suitcase, a couple of changes of clothes, and toiletries. The whole thing cost him less than one hundred forty-six dollars. He would grab a pizza and find a place to crash. Suddenly he was very tired.

And very alone.