King Con (6 page)

“You’re the worst time-waster since video games,” Gerry sneered. “We’ve been in pre-trial for three months already. They’ve been dragging it out, Your Honor. This is wrong. My client has been forced to endure harassment in the media, and our District Attorney has been dancing on Joe’s forehead every night on the
Evening News.
My client’s only crime is he was born with an Italian surname. This needs to end. We want to impanel the jury
now.
If there’s a case here, which I doubt, we want to get started.”

The dilemma lay before Judge Goldstone like messy road kill. He toyed with the problem in his head while he worked the percentage possibilities of a reversal by the Appellate Court. The old grandfather clock standing
in the comer of the Victorian chamber cut slices of time with sharp pendulum ticks until Murray Goldstone finished his silent review and cleared his throat. “I understand your problem, Miss Hart, but we need to get going. The charge against Mr. Rina is attempted murder. If you want to raise kidnapping or Murder One charges with respect to Carol Sesnick and the two police officers, I’ll entertain those at a later date.”

“I can’t prove that yet. The police are just starting their investigation.”

“I’m sorry then. We’ll continue impaneling the jury this morning, and when that’s completed, I’ll grant you a seventy-two-hour continuance to get your case back together. Failing that, I’ll have to entertain a motion to dismiss.”

Victoria was watching Joe Rina very carefully as the Judge said this, trying to gauge his reaction. He was rock-solid. He didn’t give anything away. No thought or smile crossed his handsome face. He looked at the Judge with mild sadness, as if he actually cared about the missing witness.

He was good.
What a total shit,
Victoria thought.

The April sun was bright, but the day was crisp and cold. A light wind ruffled the leaves where the State Courthouse sat.

Victoria’s beeper had gone off two minutes ago. She looked at the L.C.D. readout and saw the familiar “911-GG” on the tiny screen, which meant:
Get back to the office, quick
Gil Green wanted to see her. She knew he must have heard about Judge Goldstone’s ruling and was probably about to throw one of his low-key passive-aggressive fits. She had just crossed to her Nissan and put the key in the lock when she felt a presence and smeiled mint cologne. She turned and saw Joe Rina standing right behind her. It startled her and she wondered
how he had managed to get that close without her seeing. They were almost exactly the same height and she was looking right into his tropical blue eyes.

“You gave it the old college try. No hard feelings,” he said gently, as if they were about to become friends and not lifelong bitter enemies.

“Whatta you mean, no hard feelings? I’ve got big-time hard feelings. Get away from me, you murdering slimeball.”

“In that case,” he smiled innocently, “I just wanted you to know that I think it was your fault you lost her and the two cops.”

“Really? Are you admitting something here, Joe?”

He smiled and took his time as the breeze ruffled his rich black hair. “I’ve learned that admissions are very much like theatrical concerts. The quality of the music can often depend on where you’re sitting.”

“Just get the fuck away from me,” she said, resenting him so deeply that she could barely control herself. She knew that he’d had her three friends killed and was now standing there smiling and talking about it like a Trenton theater critic.

“You don’t need to use abusive language, Miss Hart. That’s generally an affectation of people who don’t trust their own opinions and need to dress them up with foul language to get them to fly.”

“Oh really? Gimme a minute so I can file that under ‘Who gives a shit?’ You don’t become more acceptable because you can form a proper sentence, dickhead. And you’re in the food business like I’m in the ballet. You’re just a sawed-off oil can in designer clothing who kills people, so get away from me.”

“It was your fault, Victoria. The Trenton Towers was a bad choice. If you’d put her in Berlington Place, two blocks away, on the top floor, you could have locked off the elevator. You could have controlled entry and
exit. They have TV-monitored security. I’ve kept a few people safe over there. Maybe next time you should check that one out.”

“So, now you
are
admitting something.”

“Not really. Besides, whatta you gonna do? Nobody’s gonna listen to an unsubstantiated charge from the Prosecutor trying to convict me.”

“You’re really something,” she said with pure disgust.

“As are you, Miss Hart, but as it happens I guess now you’re finally out of my hair and on to your next harrowing legal adventure.” He smiled benignly, turned, and walked gracefully on the balls of his feet to his car, where Texaco Phillips was waiting for him behind the wheel.

“I’m not through with you yet!” she called after him.

He turned and looked back at her. When he smiled, his ivory sparklers glinted in the cold sunlight. “Yes, you are. If I were a betting man, and your bookmaking detail downtown tells me I am, then you’re never gonna see your witness again. So you probably shouldn’t even waste your time looking. I’d say ‘See you in court,’ but that isn’t gonna happen either.” He got into the passenger seat of the car and Texaco pulled away slowly. As the long, shiny black limo rolled past her, she saw herself momentarily reflected in its glossy surface: The moving car strobed her image, bending it badly.

They met upstairs in Gil’s plaque-infested office. But Victoria couldn’t get the incumbent D.A. and potential Lieutenant Governor to look at her.

“It was your responsibility to protect the witness,” he said, looking out the window at the lazy traffic on State Street. He was dressed in his
Live at Five
attire … his custom-made, gray cashmere suit, his dark maroon tie. The tie was by far the most colorful thing about
him. He was ready for the
Evening News.
Gil Green was, in all ways, nondescript. Victoria once thought he should have considered a career as a hold-up man. He was so average looking, nobody would ever pick him out of a lineup. He had no distinguishing features, but his every-man looks masked a ruthless political ambition.

“I had two cops there protecting her, Gil. …”

“You are the lead prosecutor. You picked the building. It was your responsibility. I can’t cover for you there, even if I wanted to,” he said, laying out the usual C.Y.A. office ground rules. That was the way it was in the District Attorney’s office. You had to “Cover Your Ass,” because Gil always covered his. There were no sacrifices, no shared failures. “Sesnick is missing,” he went on. “Even if I had three bodies, I still wouldn’t have enough to bring murder charges. Rina’s alibied anyway. Without the bodies, it’ll go down as an unsolved disappearance. A bullshit missing persons case. With bodies it’s better, but without more evidence, still not close to an indictment for murder. He’s got a whole troop of Boy Scout lawyers ready to swear for him. We won’t get past that.”

“What about Tommy?” She asked.

“You won’t get anything from him either. He’ll probably have the Cardinal from the Sixth Diocese swearing Tommy was stamping out communion wafers all last night.” Gil grunted, “We’re fucked. Or, let me rephrase that … you’re fucked.”

“I’m fucked?” She knew she was, but she attempted to at least make him feel bad about it. “All of a sudden I’m out here alone, Gil?”

“We made a big deal outta bringing Joe Rina to trial. The timing is horrible for me with the election coming. If this turns to shit, you’re gonna have to wear the hat, Vicky. Sorry, but that’s show biz. Around here, everybody’s gotta fall on their own fumble.”

Sports metaphors from a guy who never played anything more dangerous than bridge. “I’m stunned,” she said disingenuously.

“Forgive me for anything I might have to say on TV,” he continued. “It’s not personal, just necessary.”

When she saw the six o’clock news, it was hard to forgive him. It was a segment called “New Jersey Talking.” Gil Green sat on a set in front of a blue curtain, with the host, Ted Calendar, who had a blond toupee that was so bad it looked like a yellow cat was sleeping on his head. In his soft, non-aggressive voice, Gil told the interviewer that the witness who had been lost would have surely ended Joe Rina’s career in crime. He informed the audience that Carol Sesnick had disappeared, along with two brave police officers. He admitted reluctantly that he was personally very disappointed in the security arrangements and only this morning had been brought up to date on the badly chosen safe house.

“This woman’s life was in our hands,” he said sadly. “I’m afraid this inferior location, picked by a member of my own staff, was a serious mistake and possibly resulted in the death of these heroic people. I’m going to have to conduct an efficiency review on this particular prosecutor. Beyond that, I really can’t say much at this time.”

Victoria sat in her apartment in front of her TV and silently cursed him, even though she agreed with his assessment. She had been foolish. She had underestimated Joe and Tommy Rina.

In her memory, she saw Carol Sesnick’s goofy, playful grin. She remembered her standing in the bathroom with the poodle curls piled high atop her head. She heard Carol’s lament as she pointed to the failed hairdo.
I fucked it up, V,
her missing friend’s voice echoed ruefully in her memory.

“No you didn’t, hon,” Victoria said to her empty apartment. “I did.”

And then seven hours later, while Victoria was in a restless sleep, the phone rang and changed her life forever.

I
T HAPPENED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, trying to push the fuzzy cloud of deep sleep out of her head and understand the black male’s ghetto vernacular on the other end of the phone. “What are you saying?”

“I be trying to hook you up, mama. So cut all the hoorah, we ain’t on colored people’s time here. Gotta get busy and be workin’ it.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at the clock. It was two
A.M.
She didn’t have a clue what he was saying and was about to hang up, but his next sentence stopped her.

“Dat Jake gangsta gone an’ get hisself clipped for sure. Dey go find d’brother in Hoboken las’ night. Dat dumb Rasta nigga, somebody go bus’ a cap at his ass … leave in a junk yard. Shee … it.”

Now Victoria sat up. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Dat nigga be my Ace Cool. Das all how I be fer now. All you gotta know is I done pieced it out. … Das why I call you up, on account’a you was tryin’ t’splash on dem guinea gray cats.”

She could barely pick the words out of the thick rolling ghetto accent. She thought he was saying that he was a friend of the Jamaican the police had found inside that stolen Econoline van in the junkyard in Hoboken
yesterday. The man on her phone seemed to think it had something to do with the Rinas. She didn’t know how the two cases could possibly be connected. She had heard about the junkyard murder but had paid it almost no attention. Her mind had been reeling from the loss of Carol and the destruction of her case. The police thought the murder was some kind of a drug payback killing because the Jamaican had heroin in his blood. But this person on her phone at two in the morning seemed to be saying the two cases were connected. He sounded high on something. She wondered how he got her home number.

“Can you speak English?” she finally said.

“Hey, don’ go disrespectin’ my ass. I be tryin’ t’drop some good science on you.”

“Just say it. What is it?” she pressed, beginning to get frustrated. She reached out and turned on the light in her black and white, minimalist bedroom. She could see a low full moon through the sheer drapes.

“He come here, my Ace Cool, he be zooted up, he say here’s de plan, Amp, I gonna work fer dem grease-balls, den I gonna go get me a dope ride, den boom, I be hook it up like I want. He say he gonna be livin’ large, but he always been one boned-out nigga, spen’ way too much time suckin’ da glass dick. He always pumpin’ up de volume on everythin’, y’know? So I don’ pay him much never mind. He say dey gonna go throw dat bitch you was guardin’ an’ dem two blue light specials down de elevator shaft. He say how dem guinea gray cats go got him a deuce-deuce t’carry. … Tell how all he hadda do was sit ina ride out front. He tell me ever damn ting ‘bout dat piece a’work.”

Now she was on her feet, pacing with the phone.

“You’re telling me that Carol Sesnick and the two police officers are at the bottom of the Trenton Towers elevator shaft?”

“Ain’t you fuckin’ listenin’? Dat’s what I be sayin’! I bet you de fat man aginst d’hole in a doughnut dat’s where dey be at.”

“What’s your name?”

“What’s my name? Lemme see … for now, I gonna be d’dead cat on de line. Dis here be d’free sample. … My Ace Cool, he one dead rag nigga now. Ain’t nothin’ gonna buy him no more rock. You look down der, you’ll see I ain’t jaw jackin’. But you want mo’, you gotta tighten me up.”

“If this is good, I’ll pay. How do I get in touch with you?”

“Don’ worry, sugga, I gonna be watchin’ the T and V. I be come over hit on your wall.”

And then she was listening to a dial tone. Victoria grabbed her phone book and dialed Ron Johnson’s number. She had written it down yesterday morning. After a few rings she got Ron’s wife.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“This is Victoria Hart. I’m sorry to call you so late. Is Ron there?”

There was the sound of the phone being dropped and then passed … then Ron’s voice came on, trying to sound wide awake, but he was faking. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“I just got an interesting call. He didn’t leave a name but he sounded black.”

“That’s racist shit, Miss Hart. Good thing we get along or I could write you up for that.” His voice was a little tight, pissed off at being awakened.

“Come on, Ron, knock it off. You should’ve heard him. It was all ghettoese. If I didn’t spend half my life taking depositions from these guys in jail, I never would’ve understood. He says Carol, Tony, and Bobby are at the bottom of the elevator shaft at Trenton Towers.”