“If you need a few minutes…” observed Risotto, understandingly.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Risotto’s gentle voice sounded like a segue into hypnosis.
“Yes.” But then Sheila called again.
“Take it,” the detective instructed. “It must obviously be important.”
Hunter contemplated whether Risotto knew about his “thing” with the judge as he accepted the call this time and stepped away, holding the phone out without speaking, as if Risotto had just asked him to empty the contents of his pockets, slowly, very slowly. He instinctually moved toward the center of the club, where other patrons were assembled, talking over each other in passive-aggressive sound bites. He needed to drown out the sound of any unnecessarily incriminating conversation between himself and Sheila.
There must’ve been a corporate seminar happening that morning because a couple dozen stiff-looking businessmen, all in conservative dark suits, wing tips, and striped ties, congregated near the buffet, forcing smiles and spewing politically correct bullshit in each other’s faces. An attractive blonde in a relatively powerful-looking silk blouse and pantsuit, with just the right hint of cleavage, effortlessly negotiated her way around her mostly married and hard-up colleagues.
Hunter tried to rush Sheila off the phone, explaining that he was in the midst of a “friendly” interrogation, assuming that such a thing even existed. As his lawyer-slash-the-judge-he-was-screwing, she advised him not to answer “another fucking question.” In her mind, it didn’t bode well that the lead detective was devoting his time, at such a critical point in the investigation, to questioning Hunter. It was too late to avoid creating the impression that he had nothing to hide. Whether or not he was disclosing it, Risotto must’ve had a good reason for being there. Now was the time to lawyer up, not self-incriminate. Of course, her advice ran totally counter to his other main reason for wanting to continue on with the questioning; he was trying to acquire information to assist with his own probe into Andy’s attack and now the murder of Judge Russo. Hunter’s instincts told him somehow they were connected, and he had every intention of finding out how and why.
As for Russo’s death, Sheila sounded surprisingly sedate, even by her standards. The media was already describing it as the “brutal slaying of one of the judiciary’s most revered jurists.” The thing that seemed to concern her the most was not her own safety but rather the entirely damning yet entirely accurate rumors about their relationship now reverberating through city hall like the chatter of gnawing rodents in the dank, gloomy recesses of that haggard building. She was never a huge fan of Russo—that was for sure. He was virtually a self-proclaimed sexist. Sheila used to joke about the man’s sexuality, theorizing that his overt attempts at machismo were little more than a smokescreen for an insatiable homosexual craving.
For the first time, though, Sheila admitted that Russo had somehow gotten wind of their affair and had been spearheading an effort to get her brought up on ethical charges. She was positive her high approval ratings posed a threat, especially in light of his aspirations to ascend to the appellate bench. And Russo must’ve been convinced he had just the scandal to ensure that she never became such an impediment. Hunter vowed to wind things up quickly there and to call as soon as they were done.
The reality that the whole legal community—even the whole city—now knew about his relationship with Sheila didn’t hit him until he ended the call. Thanks to him, Sheila’s legal career, not to mention her life, now hung in the balance. And thanks to her talents, it was starting to look as if they both had motive to silence the judge who was now officially speechless. Russo would take his crusade against Sheila with him to the grave, and Sheila would get to keep her day job.
How fucking convenient.
A
n absolute media circus surrounded city hall. Every major local news station was present, their tricked-out news vans self-importantly lining the edges of Market and South Fifteenth Streets. Even CNN was represented in the shape of a tour bus adorned by the CNN logo like a modern-day crest better suited for a rock star. Commuter traffic was at a virtual standstill along the perimeter of the building. Horns blared in a cacophony of frustration. Drivers and scores of pedestrians rubbernecked, trying to catch a glimpse of the newsworthy event, whatever the subject on that otherwise humdrum workweek morning. Tragedy, political scandal, corruption probe—it didn’t really matter. They all ranked between a seven and nine on the scale of intrigue, making for superb dinnertime conversation or office talk, something juicy enough to distract colleagues and also pass supervisor muster. Wasn’t it discriminatory to curtail the First Amendment in the workplace, especially when the story involved something so vital to the fabric of the city?
Hunter’s electronic security pass was officially missing. He held his bar ID card in one hand and what was quickly becoming the bane of his existence, his BlackBerry, in the other. His eyes glazed over the inbox, which, from a cursory glance, contained pressing messages from his adversary on the Mediacast case and something from Stephanie Diaz about the Vito’s case. Before he diverted his eyes, he also noticed an extremely terse e-mail from Chris Gates, the firm’s IT guy. Chris just said it was urgent that he call him or stop by the server room. Hunter wondered what Chris could’ve possibly wanted, feeling slightly annoyed at the possibility that he was trying to get a status on Hunter’s interminable efforts to get him laid.
Hunter flashed his credentials to uniformed and plain-clothes cops manning the entrance on the opposite side of the building from Russo’s office. City hall had several entrances, all of which looked virtually identical once you got inside and invariably took you to the wrong section of the building, forcing lawyers, messengers, and crazy pro se litigants at least a few minutes out of their way. And those couple of minutes could mean the difference between hitting or missing a court-imposed deadline, one of the few vestiges of order still left in this anarchic world, yet perhaps the most arcane.
Hunter rode the claustrophobic elevator car up to the sixth floor with an older black security guard who got on just before the doors shut. The guard, who looked much younger except for graying facial hair, gave Hunter a suspicious sideways glance. The pimpled metal door opened at two, where a short, bald lawyer got on.
“And look what the cat dragged in,” said the guard. His voice was deep, old school, Philadelphia-soul era.
“Hey there, Cal. What’s the good word?”
“You know the deal, man.”
“Tell me about it, man,” replied the uptight lawyer, trying just a little too hard. His “man” came off like an impersonation of a middle-aged white guy trying to sound black. It was awkward, but Hunter could tell the guard found it amusing in a friendly sort of way. “So what’s the
deal
with this Russo thing?” he asked, turning just enough to get a good look at Hunter.
“It’s crazy, man. Shit. They’re not tellin’ us little guys nothin’.”
“Must be big, I’ll tell you that. In all my years of practice, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Between you and me,” he said, leaning over and staring down, “my peeps are sayin’ some bad shit went down. Russo’s brains got blown out or some shit like that.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What’s this world coming to, man?”
“Did they nab anybody?”
“Not yet.”
The elevator dinged, then jerked and stopped on six. Hunter squeezed by the two men and made his way to his girlfriend’s office, or chambers, rather. Sheila Primeau’s secretary, Mary O’Reilly, was a sweet mother of five with average-looking features, a ruddy complexion, and long, red hair. Her career as a legal secretary had spanned close to thirty years, and by now she had worked for half the judges on the Common Pleas Court bench. And that included Russo, with whom she had been relatively close at one point. Although that ended poorly, she still had feelings for the man. Her withdrawn expression said it all.
“Hunter,” she said, taking her beady brown eyes off the outdated computer monitor when he opened the wood door and stepped into the drab, confined entranceway. She seemed surprised to see him.
“You hanging in there?” asked Hunter, sensing she was mourning the loss of a former boss and likely one-time confidant.
“I guess,” she replied unconvincingly. She forced a weak smile, a few of her caffeine-stained teeth poking through. “I’ll be all right,” she added, nodding slightly, but she was obviously ready to break down at any moment.
“Is she in?”
“The judge is in, but…”
Hunter didn’t wait to hear the “but” and instead made a beeline for Sheila’s office. He rapped on the door.
“Yes? Come in,” said Sheila, firmly and slightly annoyed.
Hunter opened the door. Sheila, looking mournful and particularly stunning in a black silk blouse and antique diamond chandelier earrings, was seated at her desk. Dusty, off-white vertical blinds concealed the office’s only window, located directly behind her.
Mancini?
There he was, leaning against an antique table set against an interior wall with one hand in his suit pant pocket. A standard-issue bronze lamp illuminated a small offering of magazines. Mancini was striking a pose, like one of those maturing male models in
GQ
. In fact, Hunter was pretty sure Sheila kept fashion magazines on the table, which only led him to think Mancini was copying a look he came across while fumbling through its pages.
Anything to rekindle things with his former flame.
“Hunter?” acknowledged Sheila, obviously guilty of something. Then she shot him a look that said: “I’ll explain later, and why the fuck didn’t you call first!”
“Hi. I didn’t realize…”
“That’s fine,” she replied, keeping her judicial composure and waving off a discombobulated Mary at the door, who must’ve been right on Hunter’s heels. The door shut with a penitent click, leaving Hunter to enjoy the benefits of their bizarre love triangle. Sheila, casting a morose stare, turned toward Mancini, coolly awaiting her best effort at a plausible explanation. “Al, you know Mr. Gray, right?” she asked. “I
believe
he’s an associate with your firm,” she said, feigning that she was making that connection for the first time.
Mancini’s smile was polite yet infused with a bit of arrogance and amusement. “Of course,” he acknowledged. “Hunter’s a
rising star
at the firm,” he added sarcastically before he turned his sinister gaze to Hunter. “Hello, Hunter.”
“Mr. Mancini.”
Just fucking great.
“What a coincidence.”
“I know,” stalled Hunter, grasping for a persuasive excuse to be there.
“Actually,” interrupted Sheila. “I invited Mr. Gray here to discuss an upcoming CLE I’ve asked him to be part of.” CLE stood for continuing legal education.
“That’s right.” Hunter was all over that. Mancini eyed up Hunter skeptically. He obviously wasn’t buying it. But in his mind, and clearly Sheila’s as well, that was better than nothing. And frankly, their relationship really wasn’t any of Mancini’s business. Hunter just had to get out of this without ruffling too many of Mancini’s feathers. The last thing he needed was an enemy in Mancini. Assuming, of course, that was something he could still manage to avoid. Hunter sensed the rage intensifying within Mancini. Mancini distracted himself by leafing through the headlines in the leading daily legal newspaper,
The Legal Intelligencer
.
“I see. I must say I’m impressed, Sheila. Forging ahead despite the tragic loss,” said Mancini somberly. “I guess that’s one of those qualities that invariably breeds success.”
“Whatever you say, Al,” she replied, unamused by his commentary upon her supposed callousness.
“And I can certainly come back,” volunteered Hunter.
“No. Stay,” ordered Mancini. “I think we’ve dwelt upon Judge Russo’s murder for long enough. We were just starting to get nostalgic when you barged in,” he added with a mischievous grin. Translation: “I used to bang your girl.”
“Nostalgic?”
“We narcissists will do and say just about anything to keep reality at bay. And of course we can focus on more trivial things anytime. Perhaps your intrusion was timelier than I suspected.” In passing, he boasted, “The judge would’ve had no occasion to mention it, of course, but we used to be much closer in our younger days.” Translation: “I used to bang your girl before she became your sloppy seconds.”
“Speak for yourself, Al,” chided Sheila.
“Just referring to our friendship, of course,
Your Honor
,” he clarified disingenuously.
“Right,” whipped Sheila, arching a dark eyebrow dubiously. There was an awkward silence.
“Well,” said Mancini, placing the paper on the table. “I’ll leave you two alone. Leave you to enlightening the illustrious members of our bar.”
Wink, wink, nod, nod.
Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. He would deal with Mancini’s jealousy later—much later.
Sheila, still maintaining a poker face, replied, “Thanks for your unyielding understanding, Al. No rest for the weary, as they say.”
“That’s never been your style, Sheila. I get it.” Mancini had regained his composure, yet again exemplifying his mercurial personality. “Sorry again for your loss, Sheila. Seriously.”
Mancini approached Hunter solemnly and extended a hand, manicured yet rugged and strong. “See you back at the homestead. Swing by before you leave for the day. Just want to be sure you’re ready for trial on Thursday. Without distraction. Just when we thought one issue was behind us, another one crops up and throws the whole legal community out of kilter.” It took a second for Hunter to make sense of what Mancini meant by the issue that was behind them. But he realized he was referring to the Mafia’s “interest” in the outcome of the case. Mancini’s theory was that Vito’s son owed a relatively hefty gambling debt and the father was their insurance policy, if you will, confirmed by their little road trip the day before.
Hunter shook firmly. “Sounds good.”
I’ll be there. But your theory is off the mark, boss.
“Oh,” he added as an afterthought. “We withdrew the Mediacast case this morning. We’re re-filing next month out of respect for Judge Russo’s sudden passing. Guess we’ll never know how he was going to rule after all. Frankly, I was starting to get a bit nervous.”
Hunter was speechless. The reality that he may have escaped the Mediacast fiasco relatively unscathed hadn’t hit him yet.
Mancini nodded farewell and then walked away. He looked over his shoulder before he got to the door. “Your Honor.” Sheila listened. “Have Hunter fill you in on his work on the Vito’s case. It’ll help take your mind off things.” Hunter felt his blood start to boil again. “Without revealing anything privileged, of course. Because
that
would be unethical.”
As unethical as a lawyer dating a judge
, Hunter thought.
“Oh.” Sheila pretended to care, ignoring the insinuation.
“It speaks volumes about his character that we’ve selected him to work on the case,” he said paternalistically. “Not only are the legal issues fairly complex—implicating the First Amendment, etcetera—but trust me when I tell you that this case could have national repercussions as far as race relations in this country go.”
“Impressive,” complimented Sheila half-heartedly as she anxiously pushed around a few files on her desk. “I’ll be sure to inquire.” Now it was Sheila’s turn for a barb or two. “But Mancini. Don’t take this the wrong way,” she offered, just when she’d seemed to have tuned him out, “but I’ve never known you to be a humanitarian. Why the sudden change of heart?” she inquired judiciously.
“Maturity, I guess,” he replied.
“Interesting.” Sheila digested the response before Mancini warned her to be especially vigilant and reiterated the request for Hunter to take her mind off of Russo’s murder. Although Russo’s death very well could’ve been an aberration, there was also a possibility a judge killer was on the loose, lurking in the shadowy corridors of city hall, waiting to exact revenge of one kind or another. Sheila, in typical Sheila fashion, fearlessly dismissed Mancini’s admonition, rebuffing the implied offer of protection from her bitter ex. Hunter wondered if what he was about to tell her, based upon his instincts, would give her a very good reason to be concerned.