Justice Hunter (25 page)
“That’s a mistake. You
need
to get them involved, Hunter,” he reasoned. “Don’t just rely on that detective. I’m telling you, man.”
“Interesting advice coming from Mr. Self-Help himself.” Dillon was notorious for bending the rules, if not breaking them altogether.
“It’s case-by-case, brother. And in this case, you’ve let this thing get out of hand. Now you’re boxed into a corner. You just better pray to God it doesn’t come out you lost the fuckin’ Mediacast case.” He paused. “At least you were smart enough to let me handle the sanctions bullshit for you.”
“You never took care of it.”
“I was in the process. And it would’ve gone away.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” conceded Hunter.
“Look, the good news is it never made it to the docket,” he said, referring to Russo’s sudden death. “Anyway, it’s too late to get them involved. But don’t think the thought didn’t cross my mind. Believe me. You would’ve done the same thing if you were me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You know they won’t do a goddamn thing about it. The cops, the prosecutors, ATF. They’re all scared shitless of these guys. And for good reason. I don’t care how idealistic someone is, nobody wants to wind up dead.”
Suddenly, a dark late-model sedan came out of nowhere, screeching as it approached the bend. It headed right for them. Hunter and Dillon flinched in unison, shell-shocked.
B
ut the accelerating car hugged the outside lane and took the bend at an excessive rate of speed. It was nothing more than a harried commuter.
“Fucking maniac!” yelled Dillon in the direction of the passing car, already out of earshot. It was obvious that Dillon’s angst was at least partly responsible for the explosion. An omen of sorts. He was officially on the Mafia’s radar. Anything was possible now. “Ever hear of pedestrian rights?” he continued screaming after the driver. “Douchebag!”
He nudged Hunter on the shoulder. “Nothing pisses me off more than that!” He sounded ridiculous, though. He was an utter hypocrite. When he was in
his
Beemer, leather gloves gripping the racing wheel, yielding to pedestrians, children included, was strictly optional.
“Right.” Hunter barely acknowledged Dillon’s rant, though. He was deep in concentration. “And what if Russo stuck his nose where it didn’t belong?” he theorized. “What if he got something on Mancini? Something about his relationship to Vito. Maybe he was about to expose him and so Mancini had no choice but to take him out.”
“I guaran-fuckin’-tee that prick Mancini had something to do with Russo’s murder. Wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled the trigger himself. I don’t trust that guy as far as I can throw him. He’s a scumbag. Knew it the first time I ever laid eyes on him.”
“Bullshit. You used to worship the guy.”
“Shut the fuck up,” snapped Dillon defensively.
“We’re being
brutally
honest, aren’t we?”
Touché.
“You idolize the fucking guy.”
“No. I play the game. Like you and everyone else in this bullshit industry. But I’m not afraid to say no, either.” Dillon paused. “Like with the Vito’s case.”
Hunter gazed at him inquisitively.
“Yeah. Mancini brought it to me first,” he boasted, catching Hunter entirely off guard. “Couple weeks before he even assigned it to you. Obviously, I turned it down.”
“You did?” Hunter suddenly recalled Clarence Hall’s confusion when Hunter originally approached Hall about backing out of the case. Hall thought somebody else had been assigned the case. And now it made perfect sense. Dillon had been Mancini’s first choice.
“What’s the big deal?” asked Dillon, playing it off. “Not interested in my sloppy seconds?”
“Frankly, no. I’m used to it the other way around,” Hunter jabbed, alluding to Dillon’s infatuation with his ex, Monica Fine.
“Fair enough.”
Hunter mulled it over in his head. “I just want to know why you never mentioned anything.”
“Didn’t even think about it, frankly. Crap like this happens all the time. Most of these cases are like whores—get passed around inside the firm until one of the associates finally falls in love.”
“Not a case like this.”
“Why? Because it came from Mancini?”
“This one’s different, and you know it.”
“And so what? It still wasn’t for me,” Dillon snapped suspiciously.
“Why?”
“If you really want to know the truth, I didn’t think I could mount a case,” he conceded. “That’s one fucking hard case.”
“But one you could nevertheless envision me handling?” Hunter kept thinking about Dillon’s steadfast resistance to Andy’s criticism of the case. All that talk about how lawyers couldn’t pick and choose their cases. They were soldiers subjected to a whole host of military engagements, oftentimes compelled to work with poor facts or poor law. Make do.
“If anyone could make it happen, that’s you.” Dillon paused. “And that’s exactly what I told Mancini when I turned it down.”
“You said that?”
“We’re still brothers, aren’t we? You would’ve done the same for me.” Dillon was alluding to the rivalry between them. Along with Andy and a few others, they were all vying for one partnership spot.
“I guess.”
“Think of it this way: you’ll be a fucking hero if you can put this thing to bed.”
“N
one of this makes any sense,” said Stephanie Diaz, her alluring silhouette reflecting off the panel of sparkling, wall-to-ceiling windows in the living room of her loft-style condominium. She wore form-fitting military cargo pants and a low-cut black V-neck tee.
Hunter, fatigued and slightly jittery, barely flinched. Instead he continued to stare out from the thirty-first floor into the darkness of the clear and humid Philadelphia night. Amid a smattering of residential high-rises, his eyes were drawn to the Ben Franklin Bridge, aglow with white lights outlining its parabolic shape. What Philadelphia lacked in police subsidies, it certainly made up for it with its nighttime light ensembles. The Cira Center, a modern skyscraper and recent addition to the city skyline, seemed to have a light event for every day of the week. Whether it was screaming green in support of the Eagles’ season-ending game or projecting the world’s largest and sappiest heart for Valentine’s Day, there was always a feel-good, unifying message being spewed out electronically.
“Hunter?”
“Yeah,” he acknowledged. He apologized for zoning out.
“Is it out there?”
“And exactly what would
that
be?”
“An answer. An explanation for Judge Russo’s murder? The extent of Mancini’s involvement?” She paused. “I just assumed that’s what—”
“It’s getting late,” he interrupted. “I should probably get going.”
Russo’s murder was all over the news, and Stephanie had been prying about Mancini all night. He felt as if he had to give her a little something, especially because of what had happened in the Italian Market a couple days before when she was nearly run down. Fortunately, though, rumors about him and Sheila and their possible involvement in Russo’s murder hadn’t started swirling yet. Plus, even if they had, Stephanie didn’t seem to know very much, which was fine by him. He felt morally obliged to keep her out of it as much as possible—and that, of course, meant the less she knew, the better.
“I understand,” she replied with a hint of dejection.
Empty containers of Chinese takeout and stacks of pleadings littered the modern glass coffee table behind them. A stack of expensive books on photography had been pushed to the edge. A white leather sectional formed an L in the center of the sparsely decorated room. The furnishings were sleek and minimalist, to the point of being sterile. Hunter had actually expected something different—something a bit more bohemian. Although he was only there because Stephanie insisted upon a change of venue, something she felt Hunter needed to regain his focus on the case itself, admittedly a part of him was drawn to Stephanie.
“Thanks for a refreshingly productive evening,” said Hunter as he stepped away from the wall of windows toward the sofa, where he’d placed his messenger bag hours earlier.
Stephanie smiled, knowing Hunter was doing his best to keep it above board. “Interesting,” she observed, “because I could’ve sworn your mind has been elsewhere for the better part of the night.”
“Okay. You got me. I confess.”
“Look, I get it. I can’t begin to imagine the amount of stress you’re under with this case.”
“Thanks.”
Their eyes locked.
“And that goes for the amount of energy you’ve been devoting to this fait accompli.” She paused. “So I guess my being assigned wasn’t such a bad thing, after all?”
Hunter smiled. “No. It wasn’t.”
“Just to keep you on task if nothing else,” she added coyly.
“Your ingenuity is refreshing, actually.”
“So I can consider myself redeemed after nearly blowing that deadline?”
“Redeemed.”
“And just so you know, I had a chance to meet with our expert this morning.”
“Our first choice?”
“Yup.” She gloated a bit.
“Nice work.”
Frankly, Hunter was surprised that the expert of his choice was even available on such short notice, let alone that Stephanie managed to persuade her to testify. Doctor Maya Sinclair was a liberal, dreadlocked University of Pennsylvania professor who just so happened to be a world-renowned social anthropologist. Not only was she brilliant—UC Cal Berkley, Harvard, postdoctoral work at Yale—but she was also young and charismatic. She was a darling on the national media circuit who frequently appeared on CNN and was quoted repeatedly by papers like
The New York Times
and the
Washington Post
on topics of race relations. Direct examination of experts of that caliber was tricky business, typically reserved for the most-talented litigators at the firm—someone with the experience to get in the right testimony without opening the door to potentially damning crap on cross-examination.
“Anyway, I must say, I read a few of her articles before the meeting, which were obviously pretty genius. But nothing could’ve prepared me for actually sitting down with her face to face. It was enlightening, to say the least. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen someone so passionate about what they do.”
“From what I’ve heard, she tends to have that effect on people.” He paused. “Let’s hope her testimony is just as compelling on Thursday.”
“I think it will be.”
“Do you have notes from the meeting? I’d like to have a look.”
“I do. In fact, I’ve already laid out her direct-examination for you. I can e-mail you the file if you want.”
Hunter had an idea. “Sure. And if you’re up to it, why don’t you handle her testimony at trial?”
“Are you sure?”
“Got to learn sometime, right?” he added graciously, wondering if he was pissing away the case by playing the part of the compassionate mentor. Dr. Sinclair’s testimony would link up immigration with race and be the lynchpin of the plaintiff’s case. One misstep, however trivial, might wind up costing them the case, though.
“I know, but—”
He cut her off. “Don’t make me reconsider.”
“Understood,” she replied, shaking her head appreciatively.
“Good. Now that that’s settled,” he said, reaching for his messenger bag.
“So what’s next on the agenda?”
“Going home and going to bed,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Alone?”
“Excuse me.”
Stephanie went flush with embarrassment. “Wait, that came out totally wrong.”
“I know.” Hunter smiled at the gaffe, but then he quickly realized it just might not have been a mistake.
“I meant are you sure you’re safe alone there with everything that’s been going on?”
“But I won’t be alone,” replied Hunter playfully.
Stephanie looked at him quizzically.
“Sam’s there. And we both know labs are feared as the most menacing guard dogs on the planet,” he said, all the while detecting genuine concern in her eyes. The truth of the matter was that he had to keep going. Try to maintain as much normalcy as possible. Although he dreaded the idea of using the thing, he took at least some comfort in knowing he was packing heat, just in case things got out of hand.
“Right,” she said, smiling slightly in amusement.
Feeling as if he’d dodged a bullet, especially in light of the obvious chemistry between them, Hunter started to turn his back to her.
“Wait. How about tomorrow? It’s the last day before trial.”
“Let’s talk first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t forget, we’re supposed to meet over at the commission’s offices at nine.” They were scheduled to follow up with the unshakable and always-outspoken head of the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission, Doctor Thaddeus Wilson. The question surrounding the amending of the original complaint to incorporate the testimony of Ruben Hayek was still lingering.
“Right.” Hunter had momentarily forgotten. “I may be a few minutes late. I’ll meet you there.”
“What could possibly be so important?” she asked sarcastically.
“I’ll tell you when I can.”
“Let me guess. Power breakfast?” She paused to read his expression. “Do tell,” she demanded demurely, closing the gap between them even farther. It was official—she had no qualms about transgressing that line between platonic collegiality and unadulterated passion. And she was even more relentless than he originally thought.
“It’s political,” he replied, arching his brow with false intrigue and retreating slightly, playing down his panic. “Let’s just leave it at that. Shall we?”
She oohed, mistaking his caginess for a challenge.
“Let it go,” he insisted.
“This might come as a bit of a surprise, but I’m much more politically active than I look,” she added seductively. That was an invitation to admire her perfect body.
Hunter tried to seem disinterested. “Nothing would surprise me at this point.”
“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked, inching even closer, the anticipation and desire associated with that first kiss heightening the sexual energy.
“Depends,” he retreated.
“On what?”
“Whether I’m in the mood to be surprised.”
“How about now? Are you in the mood?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ll behave,” she said as she placed her arms atop his shoulders.
“That goes without saying,” he replied cynically, starting to feel swayed, needing to confide in someone.
“I was thinking we could peddle our political wares. Have an adult dialogue.” Eyes locked, their lips were within inches of each other. “Challenge you. Prepare you for whatever it is you’re up to in the morning.”
Hunter still wasn’t sold.
“The privilege attaches.” Naturally Hunter didn’t need Sheila finding out through the grapevine. She seemed to read his mind. He would confess when the timing was right.
And then against his better judgment, he lost himself in the moment.