Frame-Up (7 page)

Mr. D. beat me to the office. It was Saturday, but we usually worked at least a half-day. He seemed to have the nervous fidgets as we discussed questions we should ask our client.

The phone rang about quarter of nine. Mr. D. punched on the speakerphone. His secretary, Mrs. Hansberry, announced, “Mr. Devlin, it's the officer from Springfield.”

“Thank you, Anne. Put him on.”

“Mr. Devlin, this is Captain Martin.”

I've never given myself credit for psychic powers, but the voice sent a chill from the tip of my spine up to the back of my neck and down again. There was the kind of tremor in the baritone voice that gave me the feeling he'd rather lock his grandmother in solitary than make this call.

“Captain Martin. I was about to call you. Is everything all right?”

“No, sir. Not … No, sir. I swear we did everything. We had everything covered. I can't explain it yet, but I'll get to the bottom of it.”

I had a feeling he was pleading his case to someone beyond Mr. Devlin, and I could just imagine who that was.

“Bottom of what? Is Peter all right?”

“I can't …”

“Say it, man. Is he all right?”

Then the shoe fell.

“Sir, he's dead.”

“We found him dead in his cell this morning at six o'clock. The cell door was open. His throat had been cut. Two guards were unconscious in the corridor outside the cell. We're doing all we can, but that's all we know right now.”

Mr. Devlin was as stunned as I was, but he fired the right questions. “What was your prisoner count last night?”

“Twelve. Eleven were in the main block. Mr. Santangelo was alone in protective solitary.”

“And this morning?”

“Full count. Counting Mr. Santangelo.”

“How many guards were on duty last night?”

“Two. Plus Lieutenant Lewis in the central office. We're a smalltown lockup, Mr. Devlin. The facility's underequipped. We took Mr. Santangelo as a favor to Mr. Coyne. We thought the primary protection was secrecy.”

“As did we. Do you have video monitoring, Captain?”

“Yes, we do, but—”

“I don't think I want to hear this, Captain.”

“The cameras covering the main block and solitary both malfunctioned. We're investigating now.”

Mr. Devlin looked at me with an expression of total, hands-tied frustration.

“Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Has the boy's father been notified?”

“That's been more difficult than it sounds. There's no listed
number or address for Mr. Santangelo, sir. We've kept it from the press until he can be notified.”

Mr. Devlin closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. I know he was trying to absorb the blow and cover every base at the same time. I scribbled a note and put it in front of him. He read it and asked the question.

“Do you have the videotapes that covered the front and back entrances to the lockup?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Have you checked them? Did anyone come into the building or leave it after Mr. Santangelo arrived?”

“That was the first thing we did. No one entered or left the building all night after you were here.”

“And you haven't a clue about movements of any of the other prisoners?”

“I can only say there was a full count in each cell last night and this morning. All cells were locked during that period. As I said, the videos in the—”

“Yeah, I know. Captain, you'll be getting calls from the press in about five minutes.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Devlin. I won't say a word.”

“Yes, you will, Captain. You'll tell them exactly what you've told me, including the fact that Mr. Santangelo was brought in last night in secrecy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but I'll need clearance from Mr. Santangelo.”

“You have it. I'm his attorney.”

As soon as he hung up, Mr. Devlin made calls to news editors at both the Globe and Herald. He also notified the three major television stations and WBZ, the major news radio station. The word was brief. Call the captain in charge of the lockup facility in the city of Springfield just west of Worcester. Be prepared for a major story.

That done, he made the call that we could both have lived a full and happy life without experiencing. The speakerphone was on, and he left it that way when Dominic Santangelo came on the line.

“Dominic, it's Lex.”

There was a heavy sigh on the other end. “I'm an old man, Lex. When you call me ‘Dominic' instead of ‘Dom' I know you're going to make me older still.”

“Did we ever pull punches with each other?”

“No.”

“There was a murder last night.”

A pause, then “Yes?”

“I'm sorry, Dom.”

There was a silence followed by one word.

“How?”

“It was quick, Dom. His throat was cut.”

There was nothing but silence. Eventually, Mr. D. spoke very softly.

“I'm terribly sorry, Dom. I wish we had more time. We have to make some plans.”

“I've tried your plans, Lex. I've even tried your law. I don't think they serve me very well. I'll keep my own counsel now. Good-bye once again, Lex.”

“Dom, this won't go away. Before you do anything, meet with me and Matt. What can you lose? Just listen to me, and then do what you wish.”

There was a heavy silence. We were at a fork in the road. Before a choice was made, Mr. Devlin spoke once more and then hung up.

“I'm leaving now, Dom. I'll be at Matt's church in half an hour. I'll wait there one hour.”

When we pulled up in front of the Church of the Sacred Heart, there was no other car parked on the road within a block. Monsignor Ryan met us at the door and took us back to his office. Mr. Devlin excused himself to use the phone in the curate's office while we waited. When he returned, it was still just the three of us.

I could hear the seconds ticking on the wall clock. We had arrived at ten o'clock exactly. I knew that we'd be leaving at eleven o'clock exactly if no one showed up. I knew there was nothing left to
do but listen to the ticking and pray. I also knew that if we left that office without some agreement with Mr. Santangelo, there would be a bloodbath across the streets of Boston and beyond that would dwarf the mob wars of the sixties.

At one minute past eleven o'clock. Mr. Devlin rose out of his chair. He looked — and I'd never thought of this word in connection with him — defeated.

“Thank you, Matt. It's in God's hands now.”

“It always was, Lex.”

We reached the office door, when the phone rang. Monsignor Ryan picked it up, said “Hello,” and handed the receiver across to Mr. Devlin.

Mr. Devlin listened for a minute and simply said, “We'll wait.”

We sat again without saying anything further. In about five minutes, the door opened and Mr. Santangelo came in. His complexion was gray, and there were no smiles. He stood just inside the door opposite Mr. Devlin.

“So, Lex. I'm here to listen.”

“I'm glad you're here, Dom. I wasn't sure you'd give my way a chance.”

“He didn't. I did.”

The voice that came from the door behind Mr. Santangelo startled us all. There was a slender, dark-haired younger man looking intently at Mr. Devlin. Their eyes were locked, and when the young man approached, they came together with their arms around each other for a long moment. I couldn't hear the words that were whispered between them, but they were soft and seemed to express an affection that had aged roots.

When he turned back to me, Mr. Devlin said, “Michael, I'd like you to meet my godson. This is Peter Santangelo.”

I looked at Mr. Devlin. It was hard to hide my sense of lack of trust in not being let in on the game plan.

Mr. Devlin understood.

“It was an oath, Michael. Last night, when we met the car outside the lockup, only Dominic and a young man who looked like Peter were in the car. That was the first I knew of it. It was a reasonable precaution. Nobody there knew what Peter looked like. Dominic made me swear to tell no one, absolutely no one. In a few days, if all went well, Peter would take his place in the cell.”

It made sense, but it needed to sink in deeper to fully dissolve my initial reaction. If nothing else, the remains of the edge that I felt made me less subdued in the awesome presence of Don Dominic Santangelo. In my unfounded confidence, I put the question. “Who was it that actually died in that cell, Mr. Santangelo?”

“A young man who worked for me. A very brave, very loyal young man. I'll miss him very much. I'll see that his family is taken care of, but the loss is very deep.”

Mr. Devlin spoke softly. “They've begun an investigation, Dom. I'll let you know what they find.”

Mr. Santangelo waved his hand as if dismissing the idea. “I don't need their investigation. It's being taken care of.”

My imagination filled in the vagueness of that statement and sent a chill through my nervous system.

“Dom, what you're thinking about is going to play very badly in Peter's case.”

“Peter's case may be going no further than this. In any event,
this other matter involves treachery in my own family. It can't be tolerated. There are doors to be closed.”

I could see the lines deepen on Mr. Devlin's face. I could read the disgust he felt for Santangelo's world where violence was an instant substitute for the law. If Peter had not been his primary concern, he might well have walked clear of the whole situation. I could see him narrowing his focus.

“Then at least listen to me about Peter. He's under indictment for murder. He'll have no life in hiding. We can get him into safe custody. I told you. I have an alternative. Will you listen?”

“I always listen, Lex. But I'll decide for myself what's in the best interest of my son.”

“I'll stake my life on Billy Coyne. His word is like mine, and yours. I just talked to him on the phone. He'll work with people he can trust in the federal system. We can get Peter protective custody in the federal witness protection program. You must know from experience that even you can't break that security.”

I recalled witnesses whose testimony had put two of Don Santangelo's capos in prison. They might not have lived to testify if the don had been able to breach the security of the federal witness protection program. Mr. Devlin added a final point.

“Hear me, Dom. I've seen to it that the report of Peter's death will be in every newspaper and television newscast by tonight. Even the DA's office, with the exception of Billy Coyne, doesn't know that Peter's alive. We can have him in safe quarters before we put out the truth. It'll take one call. If we delay, we could lose that advantage.”

We all looked at the man who had built an empire and beaten the odds against staying alive by trusting no one outside of his professional family. I believe it would have weighed less heavily on his mind if it had been his own life at stake instead of his son's.

It was clear to us all that Santangelo was turning over the option of smuggling his son out of the country into friendly hands, probably in Sicily. We also knew that while it might have kept his son alive, it would deprive him of a life. Peter was an American with a promising future after college. There was no such future in Sicily.

We all looked at Santangelo, but the first one to speak was Peter.

“Let's go, Uncle Lex. We'll try it your way.”

We still looked to Santangelo, who had his arm on Peter's shoulder. He looked at Peter, but he spoke to us. I could see him straining under the words.

“Peter is twenty-two-years-old. He's a man now. A man makes his own decisions. One thing. Word of this goes no further than this room, and Mr. Coyne, and the federal agents in the program until Peter's safety is secured. Do we have your sacred word on that?”

We all agreed.

Mr. Devlin made the call to Billy who had already made the arrangements. The federal authorities were willing to cooperate in exchange for favors of cooperation that Billy could provide in other prosecutions. A transfer point outside of Boston was agreed on. Mr. Devlin, as Peter's attorney, was given a telephone number to memorize through which he could transfer messages to and from Peter.

The four of us, Mr. Santangelo, Peter, Mr. Devlin, and I, rode together in Mr. Santangelo's limousine to the hand-off spot. One of Mr. Santangelo's men drove Mr. D's car behind us.

During the ride, we tuned the radio to the all-news station. We were pleased to hear the report of the murder the previous night of the son of “reputed” mob patriarch, Dominic Santangelo. That suited our situation.

What was less suitable, and, in fact, considerably disturbing to Mr. Devlin and me, was the follow-up report that one night-shift guard and three prisoners in the same lockup had been found dead that afternoon. Each had thirty dollars stuffed in his mouth and a knife in his back. No one beats the Mafia for symbolism. Thirty pieces of silver was the price of Jesus's betrayer, Judas. The knife in the back underlined the point.

We listened in silence, but I knew Mr. Devlin and I were sharing the same thoughts. When we were admitted to the bar, we had sworn an oath to uphold the law. When the news report ended, Mr. Devlin continued to look out the window, but his words were slow and deliberate and carried unquestionable conviction.

“Michael and I will defend my godson, Dominic. We'll use every legal defense in our power. We'll do this because he is no part of this despicable empire of yours. When it ends, you'll do me one last favor. And that will be my fee. You will never call me again for any service as long as we live.”

There was silence, until Mr. Santangelo addressed me.

“Michael, you and I and your partner, my old friend, are all from different heritages. Yes, I have power. I use the power to produce justice as I see it. Which of us is right?