The Good Lawyer: A Novel (22 page)

“Yes,” Rafael said, straining emphasis. “If he did that, I would have punched him in the nose and run away.”

A burn hit my stomach. I’d heard this before.

Kerres’ eyes were fixed on Rafael.

“Did Peter ever touch you in your private parts with his hands?” I asked.

“No, never.” He paused, looked at the priest, then added: “And Father Kerres told us at Bible lesson that we must all tell the truth before God.”

Kerres bowed his head.

I thanked Rafael and Carlos, and with a decisive nod at Raines and Guevara, signaled an end to the interview. Father Kerres told the two boys to go straight home. It was a comforting sensation, however peculiar it felt to me at the time, to hear and see Kerres come to life.

Raines and I shook his hand, and I thanked him for letting us use the rectory.

He muttered something back that resembled “you’re welcome.”

After showing my appreciation it seemed off the mark to ask him why he didn’t tell me when we met at Yankee Stadium that Carlos had recanted to him—this priest—this friend of Guevara’s. So I didn’t.

The two boys were waiting by the curb on University Avenue. Carlos asked me for two dollars again. Rafael had started to walk down the block. I gave Carlos the money and asked him to split it with his little brother. Then I watched as he caught up to Rafael and gave the smaller boy one of the dollars.

“Bribing witnesses are we?” cracked Raines.

I smiled weakly and looked back at the rectory and the church dome behind it. A hearse covered with flowers was parked out front. A frail old man was being helped out of a limousine by its chauffer and a young woman. Once standing, he pushed everyone aside, and with cane in hand, hobbled indignantly toward the church steps.

I thought of Dr. Terkel and turned toward Guevara, who was walking beside us, observing, listening intently, as if making mental notes.

“What’s with this doctor friend of yours? He calls me up. I call him back. He sounds like he’s old and dying, then comes back to life and says something weird about how someone can buy freedom and how I should come see him.”

“He’s not that old,” Guevara remarked casually. “I don’t even think he’s sixty. He acts strange, but that’s because he’s losing his mind from AIDS.”

“Jesus Christ, I had no idea.”

“He’s confined to his bed. A nurse cares for him. As much as I’d rather stay away, I’ll have to go thank him in person when the case is over for posting all that bail.”

“He must be very fond of you.”

“He’s been like an older brother to me for the past seven years. Fact is, that’s what he was, a Foster Brother. When I was younger and in the program, Terkel and I would see each other every two weeks. Sometimes, if he wasn’t too busy, even once a week.”

I glanced back at the church. “When the case is over we’ll all have our thanks to make.”

Back at the office, I thanked Raines for accompanying me. He was smart enough to know when to remain silent and had said very little in the rectory. His presence though, even if only to operate a tape recorder, was a crutch for me. Before I even asked he said he would have both interviews transcribed and sent to me ASAP.

I phoned Jimmy Ryan.

“Bullshit! Absolute bullshit, Mannino! I spoke to those kids myself before they went into the grand jury.” Ryan was bordering hysteria.

“Jimmy, I got it all on tape.”

“Yeah and I want to hear those tapes.”

“They’re being transcribed as we speak.”

“I want the originals.” This was a textbook reaction from one arrogant son-of-a-bitch prosecutor, and it didn’t surprise me in the least.

“You’ll get the originals at trial, if there is one. By the way, I’m making a motion to dismiss all charges.”

“The third boy—what’s him name, Chavez—didn’t recant too, did he?”

“No. But one never knows.”

“Forget it, Mannino. His mother’s rock solid on taking the case to trial.”

“But the mother isn’t exactly rock solid herself. Did you know she pled guilty to robbery, third degree, two weeks ago, and got probation? She also has a prior misdemeanor conviction, not to mention her on-again, off-again drug problem.”

“I know about the misdemeanor.” Ryan had calmed, but was still seething. “You’re kidding about the robbery, right?”

“No, I’m not. I’ve also got a shit load of school records on Jose Chavez describing him as a pathological liar. Not only that—they’re also replete with numerous verbalized sexual references, dozens of violent episodes, and even a sexual assault on a little girl in a clothes closet. I could go on in court for days about what’s in those reports. His mother’s credibility, and his credibility, will go right in the crapper at trial.”

“Got any good news for me?”

“Yeah. Once I win my motion and get the charges brought by the Rodriguez brothers tossed, you can look like a stand up guy by giving my defendant a fair shake at testifying in the grand jury regarding the Chavez boy.”

“Make your motion. Just make sure three-gun Graham doesn’t execute your guy on the spot if he doesn’t believe the recantations.”

“He’ll believe them. They’re the truth.”

I had been filling in Eleanor on the developments in the Guevara case in daily phone calls to and from Atlanta. She was happy for me, and I was happier still as each day brought me closer to seeing her again.

It was Friday night and the eleven o’clock news had just begun when she called. The lead story—a mob hit on Staten Island. The victim’s name appeared under a photo of a torched Cadillac. It didn’t ring any bells. I thumbed down the volume on the remote control then switched channels to a rerun of
The Honeymooners
.

Eleanor was rambling on about her brother’s wedding, reveling in the guest list—politicians, dignitaries, rich big shots. But the wedding was three weeks away, too soon for me to get anxious about. Besides, I was only half listening. The sound of her voice was its own pleasant distraction. She seemed truly happy.

She repeated how much she missed me, and after we hung up I tried to recount how many times she’d said it.

Lost in thought, my eyes traveled around the room until they landed on the fireplace mantel, and John Mannino’s picture.

“Stepfather” is such an irreverent eulogy to the only father a kid ever had.

As I sat there I imagined him looking down on me, reveling in another of my existential dilemmas as I wondered, in the smallness of my Merrick home, if I hadn’t been a lawyer, would I have even stood a chance with Eleanor.

The nightmare I had exactly one month earlier repeated itself. The shed. The search in the dark. The doll in Yankee pinstripes. The skull without flesh and blood. Only this time a door in the shed led to a dimly lit hallway that curved in and out of darkness. At the end of the hall three hooded figures waited inside a cone of light. The three then merged into one. My heart was pounding.
Who the fuck are you?
I mouthed the words. No sound came out. Two eyes appeared in the blackness under the hood. They were human.

I awoke.

My eyes were burning in puddles of salty sweat. I wiped them with the bed sheet, only to be blinded by a crack of sunlight beaming through a curve in the window shade. I buried my head under the covers in a futile attempt to fall back asleep, but the sun was not to be ignored.

Chapter 43

I
waited at a table by the window in the Villa Rosa restaurant on Merrick Road in Freeport, a two-minute drive from home. Uncle Rocco insisted I come alone. He had information on Oscar Jefferson’s death.

The owner of the restaurant, a short, stocky man, pushing seventy, with a thick half-cigar in his mouth, showed Uncle Rocco to my table. At Rocco’s insistence we moved to the rear of the restaurant away from the window. Rocco sat with his back to the wall.

The waiter arrived to take our drink order, but Rocco sent him away with a tight shake of the head.

It was cold in the dining room, yet I watched Rocco wipe perspiration from his upper lip. I had never seen my uncle so ill at ease.

“So what’s up, Uncle Roc?” I asked, attempting to lend a casual air to the otherwise serious mood.

He took a sip of water.

“Now listen, and listen carefully. Then…you forget everything. You hear me. I have no idea how much danger you’ll be in if you don’t. You’ve never asked me for anything. So I could not say no to you. But I should have.”

I patted his arm reassuringly. “You’re not making a mistake Uncle Roc. I keep confidences for a living. I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Don’t worry.”

He leaned toward me and whispered, “It was a hit, from the inside.”

“From the inside?” Since Rocco had never discussed his business with me, I needed clarification.

He nodded in assent.

“Brooklyn people?”

He shook his head. “From Aldo Leone’s gang in the Bronx.” He spoke so softly I could hardly hear him.

“But why?”

He put a finger to his lips.

I whispered: “Why would the mob want Jefferson killed? Where’s the connection?”

“I don’t know. I still have to find that out. Leone owes me a favor.”

“But how will you explain why you want to know?”

“You know the cop—the one whose ex-wife and baby got killed? The one who walks the beat in Sheepshead Bay? He’s been on our payroll since he was a rookie. He’s my reason for asking.”

“So you’ll tell Leone that this cop’s been loyal, and you owe it to the guy to find out.”

Rocco smiled proudly. “Very good, Nickie. You sure you don’t want to take over for me when I retire?”

I smiled weakly.

We spent the rest of our lunch in light conversation. I assured him all the house bills were getting paid out of my Legal Aid salary, and when he asked about my career plans, I told him that after Legal Aid I hoped to get hired by a top criminal defense firm. He responded that he could be of assistance when the time came. I didn’t brush him off as I might have years earlier.

Rocco picked up the check. There was no arguing with him so I didn’t even try. Outside, he told me to take care and hugged me long and hard. I watched him drive away in his Mercedes until I lost sight of him beyond the Meadowbrook Parkway overpass.

Chapter 44

M
onday morning and Gene Raines was in true form. On my desk were the original tapes of the recantations alongside two cassette copies. Underneath were two sets of written minutes. After listening to the tapes and checking the minutes for accuracy, I immediately dispatched Jose Torres over to Jimmy Ryan with a set of each.

Since my lunch with Rocco I had been wondering exactly how Aldo Leone got to Oscar Jefferson. I wouldn’t dare ask Rocco. Not that he would tell me if he knew. Then again, there must be a hundred ways to murder someone inside a prison, and at least half as many to make it look like an accident or even a suicide.

But why the mob? Why
did
Aldo Leone order the hit? Cops out for revenge could easily do it themselves, especially inside a prison. Tossing an inmate out a window and calling it a suicide seemed easy enough. But it wasn’t. It was actually a messy, and therefore, risky proposition. Too much could go wrong from too overt an act. And if a cop or guard wanted an inmate killed, all he had to do was put him in with the wrong crowd, and drop a shiv on the floor. And why would the cops, via the mob, be in such a rush to eliminate Jefferson?

So I asked myself:
Who had the greatest motive to kill Oscar Jefferson, and fast, before some young and ambitious defense attorney started uncovering evidence of his innocence?

I came up with only one answer—
the real Spiderman.

I shook off a chill as the diabolical nature of this unknown rapist and killer sunk in. Was he Mafia? Not if he was black. Could he have bought Leone’s services?—pieces to an incomplete puzzle—all scattered at my feet.

I had put the dead blonde out of my mind since the Jefferson case began. But it occurred to me then that perhaps there was a connection between her desire to speak to me, and her getting thrown from the Riverdale Towers. I thought about calling Eleanor and telling her some or all of it. But there were too many unanswered questions, the ramifications of which were nothing short of frightening.

I came upon Court Officer Jose Figueroa before court reconvened for the afternoon session. He was working the Administrative Judge’s courtroom, in Supreme Part 40, where felony cases got sent out to Trial Parts. As a result the plea action was intense and the room was always packed.

Jose’s pleasant face lit up when he saw me. It had been months since we’d crossed paths, but he greeted me as warmly as he did the night of Guevara’s arraignment.

“Hey,” he said, “what do you say we sneak out for a margarita?”

“I say—how come the supervisor’s still working the bridge?”

“Because the son-of-a-bitch Administrative Judge asked me to. Says no one works the bridge like me. Thanks and no thanks. So when it gets real busy I come over and kiss his ass.” Figueroa waved a set of court papers at me. “You got a case on? I’ll stick it near the front.”