Justice Hunter (8 page)
H
unter spent the little that remained of his weekend procrastinating within the confines of his moderately claustrophobic and stagnant apartment. He had to escape the jitteriness already beginning to wind its way through the drone floors of the firm. On a Saturday, no less. It was inevitable that once the clock struck twelve noon tomorrow, witching hour, the anxiety and competitive urges would reach a fever pitch among the associates, especially the underappreciated newbies. They vied for partnership approval like rookie pros at summer training camp. The weekend spell would wear off, and the pressure of the billable hour would once again rear its hideous head.
Too ambivalent about the Vito’s case and too overwhelmed to concentrate, Hunter pressed eject on the control panel of his mind and escaped for the park, tempted by the lull of the festive Saturday atmosphere in Rittenhouse Square on an unseasonably warm day—but the distractions, particularly the sunbathing coeds, proved too much. And of course there were Dillon’s parting words back at the office.
Hunter recalled them. “Just be smart about everything. You hear me?”
Hunter knew Dillon was referring to something other than just shrewd litigating. The image of the gangster in Chinatown immediately came into focus.
The ominous words resonated. “The jury’s still out on whether Vito’s connected.”
Genius. Now I’ve got the fucking Mafia on my ass. It’s the only thing that adds up. It has to be the mob.
So Hunter tried to drown out the thought noise by delving into the file—once and for all. The best starting point was the ordinance itself. He read and re-read the public accommodations law dozens of times. Nevertheless, even with a bit of legislative history for context, the law still remained murky. He knew what the ordinance was trying to do. Simply put, the city was attempting to regulate the unfair treatment of those in a protected class—race, color, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, religion, national origin, ancestry, physical handicap, and marital status—in places supposed to be open to the public at large, like restaurants, for instance. It was hard, though, not to be frustrated with the law’s inelegant and somewhat unintelligible drafting, assuredly the work of a bright yet highly inexperienced junior attorney in the city solicitor’s office.
In addition to the clunky ordinance, the Vito’s case also had an unusual procedural posture. First, the suit had been originally brought by the Human Relations Commission itself. From what he could see at least, that was a rare occurrence. In fact, until it was confirmed by the head of the commission, Hunter was pretty sure this case was the only one the commission, in its approximate fifty-year history, had brought on its own.
It wasn’t until several months later, probably when the commission realized the error of its ways, that an individual claiming to be aggrieved suddenly came forward. This alleged victim was Ruben Hayek, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican immigrant. Once Mr. Hayek emerged, the commission wasted little time in amending its original filing to include his experience with Vito’s as evidence to bolster its claims. A motion to exclude Mr. Hayek’s testimony from trial and have his allegations stricken from the complaint was still pending before the three-member hearing panel that would be deciding the case. That motion presented the affidavits of several witnesses who swore up and down they were there the night Mr. Hayek was supposedly refused service. According to them—regulars at Vito’s and local South Philly residents—Mr. Hayek and a small group came there looking for trouble.
These so-called witnesses are probably connected, too.
Apparently they were visibly intoxicated and cursing out the Vito’s staff in Spanish. And that’s why they refused to serve them. It had nothing to do with their ethnicity.
Obviously, Mr. Hayek would be a valuable witness, so Hunter made a mental note that he’d try to track him down first thing the following morning and get an interpreter there if need be. But an allegation in the amended filing caught his eye. According to the commission, Mr. Hayek was adamant about not filing his own complaint. Clearly he feared retaliation, which meant that tracking Mr. Hayek down for an interview, let alone getting him to next Thursday’s trial, would be a minor miracle. Subpoenaing him was always an option if push came to shove, but everyone knew subpoenas weren’t worth the paper they were written on. Witnesses frequently disregarded them. And with the recent wave of crime in the city, even victims of major crimes, like rape or attempted murder, refused to come to court to testify against their own attackers.
Sam’s bark interrupted his concentration. Hunter checked his TAG watch and realized that four hours had just passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, not an unusual occurrence when preparing for trial. He’d barely made any headway, though, and knew the case would be even more difficult to put together than he had originally anticipated. He forced himself to take a much-needed yet undeserved break, hoping to burn off the cloud of disorientation in his mind. So he stood from the ergonomically incorrect chair in his cramped second bedroom turned office and stretched. Sharp pains jolted through his bum right knee.
Wonderful,
he thought.
Not only am I not leading the charmed life of David Beckham, but this is how I’m spending my fucking weekends.
He made his way toward the galley kitchen. He had to pass through part of the living room to get there and couldn’t help but notice the low-slanting late-afternoon light penetrating the front window. Sam was still crumpled up in his favorite chair, already drifting back to sleep. Hunter stood at the water cooler, trying to make sense of Sam’s bark.
What caused him to stir? Another dog? That was strange.
The apartment was right off the street, and Sam had been desensitized to pedestrian traffic and other loud sounds. He’d even grown immune to animal scents, particularly those emitted by females in heat. Hunter was about to let it go, chalking it up to his own paranoia.
Probably a neighbor or a bunch of rowdy college kids boozing nearby.
But something compelled him to go to his front door. It was still locked, the chain guard taut. He unlocked it and immediately surveyed the entranceway for any sign of unusual activity. Nothing. As he went to close the door, though, breathing a sigh of relief, he noticed a business-sized envelope leaning against it.
No return address or postmark. Not even his name or address listed. He unsealed it with a kitchen knife as he swigged down a shot of his favorite tequila, Casa Noble Blanco.
Anything to take the edge off even more.
The letter was folded imprecisely, and there appeared to be a small metal object at the bottom of the envelope. He scanned it quickly. Typed in a generic font, the letter was quick and to the point. He focused on the words as he held the object in his other hand: a lone .22 caliber bullet.
Leave Vito Armani Alone.
That was it. Just four simple, terrifying words, shaving away his resolve, sliver by sliver. He tried to block them out, make light of them. Yet even a few liberal shots in, they continued to fester, taunting his fear with each passing millisecond. He left a message for one of his undergrad buddies—someone living way out in the sticks—giving him a heads up about the possibility that he might need a place to hide out. In the very near future.
Even if his mind flowed freely and he had the stamina to work straight through to trial on Thursday, twenty-four seven, that still would likely not be enough time to adequately prepare. The media was all over this case, which only made the anxiety bubble over. And the fact that Vito assuredly was connected, and all of the gruesome images that conjured up, kept repeating in his mind’s eye. He needed to stay the course and remember his oath of zealous advocacy. If he got too bogged down with the ordinance’s constitutionality, he’d play right into the defense’s strategy. He had to trust his instincts, typically one of his strengths. Yet this case was toying with him, progressively making him feel more and more out of control. Was it his own sense of dread? Or was the distinct possibility that fucking up this case would guarantee he never made partner messing with his head?
Digging up dirt on Vito was the only chance he had of winning this thing. A law school buddy over at the district attorney’s office didn’t seem to know jack shit. Plus, his contact acted clueless about what the feds might’ve had. But the feds always played it close to the vest. Glory hounds. Another friend, a solo practitioner who used to do some criminal defense for a couple of the local wise guys, hadn’t heard anything, either. Confronting the inevitable, Hunter knew his best bet was tracking down the thug from Chinatown.
G
roggy, Hunter awoke to the jarring ring of his firm-issued BlackBerry. Sheila, who appeared blissful in her post-coital slumber, stirred lazily. Rewarding himself with her company after progressing as far as he could go on the Vito’s case was his first big mistake from last night. The arid, cottony sensation in his mouth, a symptom of a few too many, was his second. He rubbed his eyes, the circles darker than usual, as he focused on the bedside clock until it came into clear focus: 2:23 shone in oversized red digital numbers.
Who the hell? Anyone but Rachel.
Rachel was his older sister, a self-loathing failed actress and drug aficionado. She was fresh off her most recent stint in rehab after being seduced by crystal meth. Again. She would assuredly decimate the smidgen of heart his widowed mother back in Chicago had left after losing the love of her life, his father. Cancer had proved a far too formidable foe even for him, a blue-collar factory worker who hadn’t missed a day of work in thirty years.
Hunter fumbled for the phone and then raised it to his ear, answering softly and with as much alertness as he could manage. As he concentrated on the voice on the other end of the line, he couldn’t help but notice the dreamy, almost-ethereal glow in the room. One of his vigilant neighbors had a habit of leaving on the floodlights in the rear of his single-family residence. Tonight, though, the light refracting in the back alley, right off his bedroom, moved differently. It was surreal. And although he couldn’t visualize the dream sequence, the angst that went along with it was still prominent. He had the rusted-out flood valve in his mind to thank for the restlessness.
The voice, colored by terror and panic, belonged to Andy’s famously uptight wife, Pam. All the usual suspects raced through his mind as he speculated about the reason for her middle-of-the-night call.
Car crash. Hopefully it isn’t Mike.
Their oldest child, Mike, had been born with a complicated and debilitating seizure disorder.
Pam managed the strength to utter a full sentence after about a minute of quivering. Gradually, she explained that Andy was hurt. He’d been admitted earlier that night in critical condition. He was in ICU at University of Pennsylvania’s hospital, seriously injured, the victim of a purportedly random gang attack.
Hunter hailed a cab, one of the only cars heading down Spruce Street, his block, at this relatively desolate hour. Within a few minutes of determined, almost suicidally reckless driving, he stood outside Andy’s room. Visiting hours were long since over, yet he managed to charm his way past a punky goth chick with pink highlights and a lip ring. The standards were clearly more relaxed for the graveyard shift.
He knocked gently, and the heavy oak door yawned open. Hunter quietly made his way into the room, the morbid, sterile smell wafting into his nostrils. Opaque shades were drawn tight around the large window frames, sheltering the outside world from the mortality plaguing them all. Illuminated machinery, aglow in green and orange tones, generated the grating sounds of life support. Pam, her knees raised to her chest in a fetal position, bided her time uncomfortably in an awkwardly shaped chair alongside the contoured metal bed. She didn’t look up when the door clicked softly behind Hunter, whose stomach did somersaults as he acclimated himself to the dismal sobriety permeating the room. His instinct was to withdraw. The painful memories of his feeble, dying father flooded his mind. Fortunately, that was the last time he’d been in an intensive care ward. It was his third and final year of law school when the pancreatic cancer, which led the charge against his father’s immune system with its depraved voracity, had finally conquered its prey.
Hunter clearly noted, even in the shadows, the bruising around Andy’s nose and eye sockets. A maze of tubes emanated from his orifices like tentacles. His eyes were closed peacefully, the effect of the painkillers tricking the synapses. A small yet noticeable cross-section of Andy’s hair had been sheared precisely, revealing a gnarly gash approximately four inches long held together by dark, Frankenstein-like stitching.
Hunter moved toward Pam, placing a gentle hand on her tense shoulder. Her mournful eyes opened. Relieved, she shifted toward him, rising slightly and then collapsing lifelessly into his arms. She sobbed uncontrollably as he supported her frame, contorting to do it, for several minutes. The torrent of emotion eventually dissipated, and she donned a brave face.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…” Hunter had always known Pam to be a strong woman; he’d never seen her so distraught.
“It’s fine,” Hunter reassured her. “It’s okay,” he said slowly, trying to force eye contact.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose with a glob of tissues she’d been clenching with her sweaty palms. “Look at me. Jeez. I’m a wreck.” Her breathing was deep. She was oblivious to how loud it was coming out.
Hunter clasped her arms and subtly gestured toward Andy. “What the hell happened?”
She just shook her head, disoriented, spiritless.
“He’ll be all right,” he whispered. “He’s a fighter.” Hunter couldn’t help but suspect the vicious beating was no mere coincidence.
Her lips quivered. “I know. I know.” A long pause. “He’s strong, right?” she asked, craving reassurance.
“One of the toughest people I know.” Hunter comforted her again as he marveled at the sheer immensity of the love between Pam and Andy. He knew at times Pam could be difficult; a taskmaster of sorts. But the admiration Andy had garnered over the years, a doting husband and father of two little boys, was a testament to his character. He was unshakably loyal and humble to a fault. Hunter often pondered whether he’d ever have the chance to experience something even remotely comparable. Or whether he was worthy, for that matter. “Don’t be deceived by the wiry frame.” Andy was slim, a bit gawky. Certainly not the muscle-bound jock type.
Andy stirred momentarily and then quickly fell back into the current of his drug-induced slumber.
“What did the doctors say?”
“They said he took one helluva beating. But that they don’t think he sustained any brain damage.”
“Thank God.”
“Why would someone want to do this to him?” asked Pam. “I just can’t make any sense of it.”
Hunter tried to mask the guilt, instinctually knowing he was in some way to blame. She was right. Andy wasn’t the type to have enemies. Hunter debated asking but knew that time was of the essence. “Has anyone spoken to you yet?”
“The police?” She paused, still out of it. “There were a couple who were leaving when I first got here. Hours ago already.” Hunter was relieved to hear there was already an active investigation. Not that it would necessarily foil the mob’s stratagems.
“Did they happen to mention whether there were any leads?”
“I don’t think so. But I’m really not sure. My mind has been so scattered. I’m sorry,” she said, overwhelmed. “I know I need to talk to them. I just haven’t…”
“I know,” he interrupted paternally. “When you’re ready. Take your time.”
She nodded listlessly.
“How about the kids? Are your parents over there?”
“Yeah,” she replied, distracted. “Wait. There was a detective. He left his card,” she added as she rummaged through her pockets. “My purse?” she mumbled to herself. “He was sort of quirky, with an odd name. Here it is.” She strained to make out the name on the business card in the darkness of the room. “That’s right,” she said, handing it over. “Risotto. Detective Risotto.”
“As in the Italian dish?” he asked as he scanned it. He made a mental note. He had to get to this detective and clue him in to the Vito’s case.
“Exactly.”
“Didn’t say much.”
“Can you recall any of it?” he asked, feeling too much like a probing detective himself.
“I think so. He mentioned that this was one in a series of seemingly random subway attacks around the city. And then he asked a couple questions.”
“Like what?”
“Real basic. Family stuff, my line of work.” Before kids, Pam taught elementary school full time. Nowadays she occasionally substituted. That was it. She was too busy with the boys. “He asked about Andy’s cases at the firm. And I really didn’t know what to say. You know how he is. He doesn’t tell me much. Too concerned with compromising his client’s case or the firm.” Andy’s ethical standards were second to none, almost superhumanly so. “Is there anything I need to know, Hunter? I know he tells you everything.”
Hunter lied, following his impulse to allay Pam’s concerns. “No. I mean Andy hasn’t mentioned anything out of the ordinary.”
“What about his adversaries?”
“Doubtful. He generally wins and does it with class. Don’t get me wrong—nobody enjoys defeat. But the corporate clients are all adults. Seasoned execs who’ve seen more than their fair share of the courtroom. All of the usual highs and lows that come with rolling the dice on litigation.”
She was on the verge of breaking down. “This is my fault,” she confessed, her eyes welling with tears. “All of it. I wish I could take this morning back.”
“Pam.”
“No. Don’t. We were fighting. It’s just that he’s been working so much lately. The thought of him spending another Sunday at that place was unbearable. But you know Andy. Die-hard commitment. He loves it,” she said, admiring Andy even in his comatose state. Her expression said she would never take normalcy for granted again. All she needed was a do-over.
“You couldn’t have foreseen any of this.”
“I took off in a huff, stranding him at the house without the car.” She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. “What the hell was I thinking?”
“So he trained it in?” The attack occurred on the train platform at Suburban Station, just a couple blocks from the office. “He always finds a way, doesn’t the little bastard?”
“Yes, he does.” Her smile, full of hope, was a good sign.
“Are you gonna be okay?”
She nodded, exuding strength for the first time that evening.
“Stay strong for him,” Hunter said.
“Okay.”
“Good. I should get going.” A pang of guilt hit Hunter. He felt like a deserter, but he knew the clock was ticking, oblivious to the uncertainties in life. He had to get answers. He decided to track down this Detective Risotto. “Call me the second he wakes up or if you need anything. I won’t be very far.”
“Thank you, Hunter.”
“Of course.” A pause. “And does Dillon know yet?”
“I tried his cell. But it went right to voicemail.”
Dillon always answers his cell.
“I’ll try him again. Just hang in there, Pam. We’ll catch the bastards who did this.”
She fought back the tears as Hunter embarked upon his journey into the thick of chaos.