Justice Hunter (17 page)
“Which means that Vito Armani is connected.”
“Perhaps.”
“But don’t they have bigger fish to fry? It’s hard to imagine them getting caught up in a case like this,” said Hunter.
“Normally I’d say you’re probably right,” answered Mancini.
“But?”
“
But
there could be a lot more to this one than originally meets the eye. And after I clue you in to a little discovery I made over the weekend, the whole point of my trying to reach you, I think the Mafia’s involvement will make a helluva lot more sense. Stop by my office after lunch. We’re taking a little daytrip down to AC.” Atlantic City, the last place Hunter would’ve expected Mancini to come up with.
What the hell is in Atlantic City?
“I’m due in Judge Russo’s chambers at one.”
“On Mediacast?”
“Yup.”
Hunter could see it in Mancini’s eyes—the stare of an overprotective parent sizing up a potential threat. The wheels were turning regarding the nature of the conference. Yet Mancini decided not to pry. “That’s fine. Then just come straight after. You don’t expect it to take very long, do you?”
“No.” Hunter shook his head. “No big deal.” But that was a lie. The truth was that Hunter didn’t know why he’d been summoned. One thing was for sure, though. It was highly unusual that any judge would convene a conference so quickly after the preliminary hearing.
“Good,” replied Mancini. “Then that works out. See you in a bit.”
H
unter fidgeted with the knot of his blue-striped tie as he restlessly turned the pages of Stephanie’s lackluster brief, marking it up line by line. The stresses of the day were seeping into his pores, making it next to impossible to stay focused. It was of little consolation that the dreary waiting area in Judge Russo’s chambers was uncomfortably warm and noisy. Every little sound contributed to the irritating din blocking his concentration. The heavy wood door to Russo’s office couldn’t contain the judge’s contrived macho chuckle. His secretary, Dot, a throwback to the
Leave It to Beaver
era, cracked her Chiclets, frenetically chewing and typing a million of Russo’s long-winded words a minute. Melissa Zane, his opposing counsel in the Mediacast case, had plunked herself down onto the classic hardwood sofa, which was covered with burgundy baseball-stitched leather. She occasionally re-adjusted her artsy specs as she gossiped away on an iPhone, oozing confidence and self-control.
Hunter was barely a third into the Vito’s brief when the door to Russo’s office clicked open. Dot dutifully sprang to her feet.
“The judge will see you now, folks.” She gestured and then proceeded to usher them in.
“You’re totally fucked,” whispered Zane just out of Dot’s earshot.
Hunter paid her little mind. “Always a pleasure, Melissa.”
“Eat shit and die, Gray,” she taunted and then pasted on an artificial smile right before entering Russo’s office.
Hunter surveyed the contents of the office, catching a whiff of stagnant cigar smoke, which permeated the drab fabrics and furnishings. He was immediately met by the grimace of the judge’s clerk, the one who had come to his office only a few hours earlier to inform him of the conference. Looking slovenly, the clerk sat obediently toward the back of the room, yellow pad at the ready and threading a pen through his fingers, showing off a skill only mastered by the socially inept prodigies of the world. Of course, he was thrilled to fancy himself a member of that club. Legal pleadings, roughly three or four feet in height, were stacked into paper columns atop the lengthy wood table behind him. Dozens of marked banker boxes gathered dust underneath. And just as Hunter expected, the walls were adorned with political and military imagery, the bulk of which were devoted to Thomas Jefferson. There were a handful of photographs showing the judge standing proudly next to various military general types.
Russo shot them both an impatient look, his beady, pale blue eyes ordering them to sit in the stiff chairs reserved at the foot of his desk. He made them wait, as he finished reviewing a legal brief. And then, with a psychotic glint in his eyes, he glanced up at Hunter. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite young lawyer.”
“Your Honor.”
He turned to Melissa. “Ms. Zane. Looking quite spirited this afternoon.”
“Always, Your Honor,” she replied smugly.
“
Always
,” he acknowledged. “Well done.” He studied Zane’s reaction for a moment. “And I take it you’ve both met my esteemed law clerk Sean,” he said, gesturing politely to the back of the room.
“Hi Sean,” flirted Melissa, awkwardly doing her best bisexual impersonation. The clerk’s chubby cheeks flushed regardless. It didn’t take a whole lot.
Hunter acknowledged him with a fake smile and an exaggerated arch of the brow, his own special way of saying, “Fuck you.”
“Great to see you again, Sean,” Hunter added for the benefit of the judge, who could only see the back of Hunter’s head. The clerk could barely contain a snarl.
“So, let’s cut right to the chase, shall we?” said Russo. “In the spirit of judicial economy.” The truth was, and everyone knew it, that the notion of judicial economy was as antiquated as the concept of justice. Anymore, the adage was little more than an oxymoronic cliché.
“Works for me,” bullshitted Zane, who proceeded to remove a manila folder from her manly black briefcase. “Now, if I may have the court’s indulgence for just a moment…”
“Speaking of judicial economy,” Hunter jabbed under his breath.
“Be careful, son,” Russo scolded. “You’re treading on very dangerous ground.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” accepted Hunter, civilly disobedient. Hunter was astounded by the hard-on this guy had for him.
“You were saying, Miss Zane…”
“Thank you. Under the assumption this conference is in the nature of a scheduling conference, I’ve taken the liberty of outlining what I believe is a reasonable timeline for both parties going forward,” she said, handing the judge a memo.
As Russo scrutinized the document, she delicately handed one over to Hunter, playing the part of the courteous adversary to the hilt.
She continued, “The gist is that I have us completing all discovery and any necessary pre-trial motions before the New Year.”
“New Year,” admired Russo. “An optimist, I see.”
“Just being pragmatic.”
“Unfortunately,” Russo chose his words carefully, “or fortunately, depending upon your vantage point, I will be speeding things up considerably. I believe there are mitigating factors here that warrant an exceedingly swift resolution.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” backtracked Melissa, obviously fearful she’d overstepped. It was a well-known fact that scheduling was the province of the judge. “I mean, of course we would defer to the sound discretion of this court.”
“Anything you’d like to add, Mr. Gray?”
Hunter held up the paper for dramatic effect. Going second meant that a good litigator could adjust, based upon the judge’s reaction. “Only that we would propose a much more aggressive timeline, which we feel the facts clearly warrant.” Hunter paused to read Russo’s expression. “Of course, that’s if Your Honor ever intended on receiving the parties’ input on this front.”
“And I would concur with Mr. Gray,” said Russo, grinning. Hunter glanced over at Melissa, clearly disappointed. “Your, your…” stammered Russo. “What’s the word I’m looking for? Your
audacity
is nothing short of astounding.”
Shit! Where is Russo going with this?
“I’m not sure I follow…”
“Let me spell it out for you then,” the judge snapped, his ire rising. “Your flagrant disdain for this court’s scheduling has been outrageous.”
“If it’s about this morning, Your Honor,” Hunter defended, “I can assure you I didn’t know about it.”
“Sean?” Russo wrinkled his brow curiously.
“That’s not true! He’s a liar!” whined Sean the clerk from the back of the room. “I went to great lengths to ensure Mr. Gray was apprised of the conference.” Sean was adamant.
“Sean’s right,” swooped in Melissa. “Once my office received notice from Sean, which was fairly early in the afternoon on Friday, mind you,” she said, rubbing salt on the wound, “we immediately served Mr. Gray. That’s our custom at Kruger. Your Honor knows that.”
“Yes, I do,” observed Russo and then scowled at Hunter disapprovingly.
“I never got anything from your office,
Ms. Zane
.”
“It was by telecopier.” She turned to Russo. “If the court wishes, I can forward along the confirmation.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms. Zane. I know we can take you at your word. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gray?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor—”
“That’s enough, son,” admonished Russo, silencing him before he had a chance to deny ever receiving the voicemail. “Frankly, it’s irrelevant at this point. I have plenty to go on to prove you either knew or should’ve known about this morning.”
“Come on. Setting a conference for Monday morning on…”
“Shut up, Mr. Gray! The fact that you can’t keep a proper calendar over there is not our problem. You’ve made your bed.”
“Understood,” caved Hunter. The thought of explaining the snafu and his paralegal Debbie’s unexpected absence that morning crossed his mind. But Russo was on a warpath. Besides, how much worse could things really get? Hunter was already in deep shit over the first sanctions order. Throw in a second for good measure and it would be the proverbial nail in the coffin.
“Incidentally, my clerk also tells me there’s been a bit of confusion surrounding the sanctions order.”
“Confusion? What sort of confusion?” Hunter had no choice but to play dumb.
“Well, apparently the prothonotary hasn’t docketed your firm’s payment,” said Russo, facetiously. “Which creates the false impression that it hasn’t been addressed.”
“I think I can get to the bottom of that.”
“That would be wise,” Russo warned, but for some reason he didn’t push any harder. “Very well, then. I’ve made a decision in the case.”
“A decision sir?” asked Zane, wondering if Russo had gone off the deep end. “We intend to file…”
“I’ve made up my mind,” he interrupted. “I’m dismissing the Mediacast case. With prejudice.” With prejudice meant that Hunter was barred from ever re-filing the case. His only recourse was an appeal to the Superior Court.
It took a second for the judge’s decision to register. “You’re dismissing the case?” asked Hunter in utter disbelief. “I can’t believe this. This is insane! On what grounds?” He caught Zane’s bewildered expression out of the corner of his eye. Even Sean the clerk was in shock.
“I think that’s pretty obvious, Mr. Gray. On the basis that you’ve willfully disobeyed my sanctions order. Not to mention failing to appear at the conference.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I just did.” Russo grinned, flexing his judicial muscle.
“Is this some sort of a sick joke?
“A joke? Do I look like I’m toying with you, son?”
“Don’t call me
son
again!” Hunter got to his feet.
“Mr. Gray. I urge you to calm down, counselor.”
“No. I’m not going to calm down. This is fucking bullshit and you know it.”
“Mr. Gray!”
“You have no legal authority to do this,” said Hunter, regaining his composure.
“I’ll guess we’ll find that out on appeal now, won’t we?”
“I always knew you were a rogue judge,” Hunter replied as he walked away.
“I’ve made my decision. Sean. Prepare the order for signature. And don’t take all goddamn day, either.”
M
ancini’s brand-new black Bentley sedan devoured the main stretch of the Atlantic City Expressway. Hunter, riding shotgun, concentrated on the verdant pines as they whizzed by along the passenger side, forming a green blur. Andrea Bocelli piped through the car’s majestic sound system. The climate control chilled the opulent cabin. Mancini, tan and tieless, looked relaxed. His neatly pressed white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top.
Testing the car’s limits, he helmed the quarter-of-a-million-dollar supercar as if they were on the autobahn. Of all days, he picked today to break in his new car. He was driving like a fucking maniac, too. In between the chirping of the radar and curt calls to the office, Mancini rocketed past the other commuters, who were seemingly standing still. Every so often, Hunter caught the jealous scowl of another driver. A blonde trophy wife in her Range Rover tried to keep up. Mancini dusted her too, but not before flashing her his best James Bond grin.
Hunter wanted to enjoy this rare workday jaunt down the shore, but he kept racking his brain over the Mediacast debacle. He was positively fucked. To rub salt in the wound, which was quickly becoming his career at Whitman, Stephanie Diaz nearly had a meltdown over the Vito’s brief. Despite her assurances, the final product was mediocre at best. She had positively choked. His gut instinct had told him she would, and he was kicking himself for not going with it. And although he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sympathy for her, at the moment he was more concerned with his own career. Thanks to her, it wasn’t altogether inconceivable that the whole thing would be thrown out before Thursday’s trial.
Fortunately for Hunter, Mancini was too busy barking directives at the other partners and playing with his new toy to engage in any substantive conversation. The longer Hunter could avoid the subject of Mediacast the better. Hopefully, because they were heading down the shore to see whomever it was Mancini wanted to see, Mancini wouldn’t have the Mediacast case on the brain for the majority of the afternoon. But Hunter couldn’t rule anything out with Mancini. He was obviously calculated as hell. And Hunter had this ominous feeling Mancini was just waiting for the right time to engage. Mancini needed something from him. Hunter was sure of it. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what that something was.
And then in the distance, like a mirage rising out of the seedy strip leading up to it, the Atlantic City skyline came into view. Trump’s Taj Mahal. The Borgata. The Showboat. Hunter stared at the casinos, the ultimate symbols of American excess and greed.
“You a gambler?” asked Mancini, accelerating.
“No,” replied Hunter, shaking his head. “I mean once in a blue moon I play the slots, couple hands of poker. That’s about it.”
“Wise man.”
“And you?”
“Can’t say the same for myself,” he replied with a deviant smile. “I’ve got to admit I’m a sucker for taking risks. Throwing caution to the wind and experiencing that fleeting moment of uncertainty. And of course the higher the stakes, the more intense the thrill,” he reminisced.
“I wouldn’t know anything about high stakes. I usually just go with the table minimums.”
“You see, you’re just underestimating your talents.”
“Maybe,” considered Hunter. “But I’m probably a little more limited than you in the funds department,” he clarified with his palms turned outward, indicating the Bentley’s cabin as Exhibit A.
“Oh. I see where you’re going with this,” he replied, like a mega-successful businessman negotiating with the headstrong novice he has decided to take under his wing. “Now what exactly is the going rate for a rising star like you these days?” he asked rhetorically. “Because whatever it is, it’s clearly not enough,” added Mancini, tongue-in-cheek with the classiest-looking wink Hunter had ever seen. Mancini was an unbelievably talented bullshit artist.
“Amen. Now who do we need to talk with to make things right?” asked Hunter, playing along.
“Well…” began Mancini, before something in his line of sight distracted him. He wailed on the Bentley’s powerful horn at a New Jersey Rail and Road bus that swerved in front of his car, cutting him off. Mancini was within inches of wrecking. “You fucking piece of shit!” he roared, morphing into a maniac in literally the blink of an eye.
When the coast was clear, he glanced over calmly at Hunter, pretending he was road-rageless. “Apologies for the little outburst there, my friend.” His smile was positively fiendish. “It’s just that some of these morons are just trying to get rear-ended. The minute they see a nice grille behind them, they perk up and start seeing dollar signs. ‘Why not take that nice long disability holiday I’ve been dreaming about?’ that driver is probably asking himself right now. ‘And who cares that my bus just happens to filled to the gills with dozens of passengers? See those old people rotting away in the first few rows with their canes and their walkers? I’d be doing them a favor. Consider it a fucking gift. And the kids,’ the driver asks as he checks the oversized rearview. ‘Fuck ’em. They’ll grow up to be little degenerates anyway.’” Mancini broke off, clenching his rugged, angular jaw and shaking his head in disbelief. “‘So go ahead. Make my day. Hit me, you rich piece of shit. I’ll take my chances.’”
Mancini was clearly in dire need of anger management. Either that or he was suffering from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde syndrome. It was a known fact that Mancini had a short fuse. But Hunter began to consider the possibility that this guy was out of his friggin’ gourd. The managing partner of his firm, one of the most powerful firms on the east coast, just might be a fucking ticking time bomb.
Spectacular.
“And to think I once represented New Jersey Rail and Road, this asshole’s employer,” he said with a cynical smile as he pursued the bus. The driver recklessly switched lanes, cutting off an Audi sedan this time. The brake lights on the trailing cars lit up suddenly as a half dozen drivers slammed on their brakes. A chain reaction collision was barely averted. “Can you believe this fucking guy?” asked Mancini, gunning it through a small opening in the passing lane. Hunter braced himself for a wreck, clenching the overhead handle.
“So you represented them? Was this while you were at Whitman?” Hunter tried to distract him from the road-rage incident unfolding.
“It was. A wrongful death case, as a matter of fact. Very early on in my career. Come to think of it, I may have been lead counsel on that one…” Mancini broke off, the wheels of his memory turning. “That’s right, I was.” Mancini glared at the grinning bus driver and then accelerated past him.
“Isn’t it ironic, though?” asked Mancini. “When one of these guys slips up, some sucker like you or me winds up defending them. They know it, too. Get injured and collect. Meanwhile, the company’s left to clean up the mess. All the litigation. Construct defense theories around their imprudent decision making.”
“It’s almost like corporate
sabotage
.” Hunter knew the point was slightly off the mark. But he decided to make it anyway. He was testing Mancini. Seeing how the word
sabotage
registered with him. After all, his suspicion all along was that Mancini was setting him up for a fall with the Vito’s case.
“Sabotage?”
Hunter tried to make eye contact. “Sure. It’s the little guy’s way of pulling the strings. Letting the bigwigs in corporate know that if the pay and benefits get too crappy, they can always expose the company to serious liability. It’s as simple as crashing.” He wanted Mancini to know that sabotage was a two-way street. Hunter had more control over the Vito’s case and Whitman than a partner like Mancini acknowledged. It was the firm’s astronomical malpractice policy at stake, not his.
“I guess you’re right.” Mancini chewed on Hunter’s words like a preeminent food critic. Hunter breathed an internal sigh of relief when he realized a full-blown road-rage incident had been avoided. “I was given the case by the firm’s managing partner at the time.” Mancini smiled as if he could see the man standing before him. “A real waspy prick. His father was a senator. Harvard undergrad. Harvard law.”
“Not bad,” said Hunter.
“He lived in one of those old Tudor mansions on the Main Line. An avid squash player. Polo in the Hamptons. Custom-made suits. Chauffeured Rolls.” Supposedly Mancini lived in an exclusive luxury condo in town. He was the postmodern interpretation of a managing partner.
“I know the kind.” The big firms in town were teeming with heirs to old-money fortunes. These trust fund babies grew up in the ritzy Philadelphia suburbs, otherwise known as the
Main Line
.
“I bet you do,” replied Mancini. Most of these kids should’ve never been hired in the first place. It was nepotism at its finest. And for that reason alone, Hunter couldn’t help but kick their asses in the courtroom, deriving a significant amount of pleasure from the bludgeoning. “You probably wipe up the courtroom with their Brooks Brothers suits and hundred-dollar haircuts.” Mancini paused to make a point, giving Hunter a longer than usual glance. Mancini wanted to bond with him over their socioeconomic status. They were both scrappers from working middle-class families.
“Anyway, back to my little anecdote,” Mancini said, maneuvering the Bentley around one of the curves winding into the heart of Atlantic City. Hunter tried to guess their exact destination.
Who is this mystery mob connection?
From the look of things, they were heading straight to one of the casinos. “And mind you, I was a second-year associate at the time.”
“
Second
year?” Hunter couldn’t help but be impressed. Most big-firm associates didn’t see the inside of a courtroom until at least four or five years in. And even that was if the attorney was fast-tracked. It was unheard of to get a major jury trial that early on.
“Things were different back then, Hunter. Fewer associates, scarcer competition. Plus I was hungry,” he added, with a burning intensity in his eyes. “Voraciously so. Still am, in fact. How about you?” He stared him down, like a prisoner enlisting the support of a co-conspirator for an impossible escape.
“Of course.”
Am I?
“Okay.” Mancini wrinkled his brow, unconvinced.
“So where are we heading, incidentally?” They were stopped at a light on the way into town. The engine purred like a tame lion in the royal court.
“Come on, Hunter,” he replied with a devious smile. “You wouldn’t want me to ruin the surprise now, would you?”