“I
told you to call first, not just show up at my office,” chided Sheila as she backed away from a large mahogany bookcase, where a compact Sony television broadcast live media coverage of Russo’s death. One of the rows was reserved for shiny silver frames containing photographs of Sheila posing adoringly with her two children. Hunter was concerned for their safety. “This was
not
a good idea,” she added, glaring in his direction. Her shoulder-length hair and antique chandelier earrings swayed gracefully, despite her seething anger. “And I have a lot on my mind right now.”
“Let me guess. I’m already on
America’s Most Wanted.
” At this point, Hunter’s life was spiraling out of control.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested, indicted, or bumped off.
He couldn’t help but try to infuse the situation with a bit of levity, anything to cope with the surreal turn of events. If he got lucky, his meds helped him to feel out of body, which clearly wasn’t the case now.
“Very clever,” she snapped, clearly not amused. She was wound as tight as a division-one marching drum.
“And what happened to that cool, calm demeanor I was starting to fall for?” he asked, taking another stab at lightening the mood.
“Hunter! Do you have any idea how bad this is going to look?” she asked disgustedly, slightly detached. Hunter figured she was visualizing the career carnage in her mind’s eye, an earth-rattling implosion of a Philadelphia landmark like the dilapidated family court building on Vine Street. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, especially knowing the new meaning her career had taken on after the divorce. It was her work and children that had assuredly saved her during those darkest of hours.
“And since when did you start caring so much about your public persona?”
“That would be when my boyfriend became a murder suspect.” Sheila was now in front of the office’s large window, peeling back the verticals, assessing the media frenzy at street level. “Jesus Christ!” she grunted in disbelief. The glare of the afternoon sun penetrated the room like a photographer’s flashbulb. Sheila’s French-manicured hands released the plastic in defeat, the way a bank robber would when the bandit realizes that the jig is up and the building is surrounded by sharpshooters.
“Aren’t you going to ask
Hunter
about the Vito’s case?” quipped Hunter, still hoping to pierce the tension in the rapidly expanding stress balloon continuing to divide them.
“Enough!” she barked, looking frazzled in a way he’d never seen before. With Mancini gone, she could finally let her guard down, he supposed. “Tell me what the hell’s going on, Hunter.”
“Why don’t you tell me, Your Honor?” he replied calmly, standing his ground and mildly mocking her by alluding to the Mancini interaction just moments earlier. The timing of her meeting with Mancini, so quickly after the death of Russo, had to have some significance. The timing certainly was no accident. Plus, she was edgy and defensive, two clear indicators she was concealing something.
“Everything was going swimmingly until you decided to accept this case,” she observed. “This inane Vito’s case. Had something to prove to Al and the other partners in the firm. Just couldn’t resist pounding your chest, could you?”
“Hey,” snapped Hunter. “I believe in the goddamn case,” he said, defensively, glaring in her direction. “Otherwise, I would’ve never taken it.”
But I am realizing it was really a dangerous mix of blind ambition, ego, and idealism.
He was too far in now. No turning back. “And I sure as hell don’t need your approval. Save that for your kids and the courtroom, goddammit.”
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself to justify having done it, go ahead, be my guest,” she dared.
Tough love.
“I never thought I’d be explaining the hazards of the occupation to you of all people.”
“Trust me, I don’t need a lecture from you or anyone else on that topic. But this is far from a typical case, Hunter. And you sure as hell know it, so don’t feign ignorance with me.” She shook her head adamantly, taking another quick peek at the media circus. The sound of the commotion below was clearly audible, seeping through the walls like a noxious gas.
“You make it sound as if I could’ve anticipated any of this.”
“I tried to warn you early on. I don’t trust Al, and you should’ve never either. This was a fucking Pandora’s box just waiting to happen, and you knew it.” She paused. “Plus, where the hell were you yesterday?” Sheila had called twice, but he’d been entirely consumed by the case, making up for lost time when he returned from Atlantic City.
“Doing some field work.”
“You and your second chair, huh?” she asked mockingly.
So that’s what this is all about! She’s jealous of Stephanie Diaz.
“Oh, I get it. This is about my imaginary yet torrid affair with the colleague I just met.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then what, Sheila? Because this juvenile insecurity isn’t very becoming.”
“Go to hell,” she yelled.
Sheila turned toward the window for another peek, in desperate need of a break between rounds. She was losing, and she knew it. “Anyway, are you sure you really want to know much more than that?” No response. As his journey into the eye of the Mafia storm became progressively more precarious, he had resolved early on to keep her out of it, if more for her safety than anything else. He figured what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
“Maybe I should get going,” he said soberly, easily donning a solid poker face. Although his instinct was to warn her about Mancini, he’d clearly erred in going there in the first place. His judgment had been clouded by his impromptu interrogation by Detective Risotto. “This whole thing was probably a mistake on both of our parts.”
And that includes our “thing.”
“You don’t need to get mixed up in any of this,” he added apologetically as he started for the door.
At the threshold, Hunter suddenly heard Sheila. “Wait. It’s too late for that. I’m already way too invested.” Hunter quickly processed her invitation to stay, debating whether to keep going. Against his better judgment, he turned on the heel of his scuffed work shoe. “Plus the cops and media are swarming all over this place. It’s a fucking feeding frenzy out there,” she argued, falling into the high-backed leather desk chair. “And don’t think for a minute they don’t know you’re up here,” she advocated. Hunter, still without an understanding of the exact purpose of Mancini’s visit to her chambers, decided to hear her out.
And after making nice, they focused on the issues at hand.
Hunter, now seated in front of Sheila’s desk, took it right back to Mancini. “CLE?” he asked.
That’s the best you could come up with?
“What?” She turned defensively. “I didn’t think it was too shabby considering it was on the fly.”
“Assuming Mancini’s that gullible.” A deliberate pause. “He knows about us, Sheila.”
“I know,” she confessed.
“Then why the need for the deception?”
“I still don’t think it’s any of his goddamn business,” she replied defensively. “That’s why. Even if that means the three of us just pussyfoot around the truth.”
“Agreed. But think about it. Really. What’s the real harm in his knowing, anyway? Letting the cat out of the bag?” Hunter asked, downplaying it, hoping to put her at ease a bit. “So I will never be partnership material at Whitman.” Deep down, though, he knew they could both be in deep shit, susceptible to an ethics investigation. “And what’s Mancini going to do? Whatever it is, he would’ve done it already,” reasoned Hunter.
“Not necessarily,” she warned.
“He hasn’t because he’s got nothing to gain from outing us. As jilted or egotistical as the man may be, or even if he’s got it in for me, that’s far too transparent for him.”
“And so is your rationale.”
“Why? You share mutual acquaintances, right? People who knew you were together before you left private practice?”
“I mean we were discreet. But I suppose.”
“Right. And you know he’s way too arrogant to run the risk of being perceived as a scorned lover. Even assuming he is jealous, I don’t think he’d go there.”
“You obviously don’t know Al.”
“Maybe not.”
She has a point. Yesterday’s criminal side caught me entirely off-guard.
“Don’t think he’s gotten to where he is by being obvious. He’s not the best litigator. I can assure you of that. But he’s a master manipulator.”
Which explains how he bedded you.
“So if there was one person capable of mocking the green-eyed monster himself, that would be Al.”
Hunter typically enjoyed Sheila’s literary references. She had majored in English at Penn as an undergrad. Yet now he was in anticlimax hell, truly regretting having gone there in the first place. Maybe by overstaying his welcome, he was subconsciously testing the limits of their “thing,” whatever it was. And much to his chagrin, her true colors were shining through. “So what? Let him take his best shot.”
“Not the time for unfounded optimism, Hunter,” she snapped. “I think you’re in desperate need of a reality check. Don’t underestimate him.”
“All right,” he replied, grinning and bearing it. “Point taken.”
“For my sake if not anything else. Everything’s different now that I’m a judge,” she reminded herself. “The stakes are higher. And I really want this,” she said as she leaned down and reached toward the desk’s bottom drawer. She set a half-empty bottle of Gray Goose vodka atop the shiny mahogany surface.
“Sheila.”
“What, Hunter! Don’t tell me to take it easy,” she lashed out as she poured a shot into a sleek, bone-white mug. She swigged it down and then reloaded.
“Drink, then?” she asked, scanning the desk for another mug, this one labeled with the Justinian Society logo. The Justinians were judges and lawyers, all of Italian ancestry. Sheila had been a faithful member for years, as had Mancini.
“All right,” he agreed, although he knew it was the last thing in the world he should be doing. Yet he was caving more easily than usual these days, especially when it came to masochistic temptation.
“Look,” she said sympathetically, “we can get through this insanity together.” She paused. “In fact, we
have
to get through this.” The painful yet inevitable realization had been made now that the anger and frustration were out of her system.
Hunter downed the shot, considering her offer and momentarily relishing the much-needed relief as the edge began to fade ever so slightly. “And exactly what would that be? The sideways glances and ethics inquiries? Or the murder investigation into Russo’s death?”
“Both,” she replied assertively.
H
unter stared at Sheila skeptically, trying to reconcile the sudden change of heart. “Both, huh?” he asked, wrinkling his brow and grinning. “I must admit. Frankly, Sheila, you’re confusing the hell out of me. Just moments ago you were up in arms about the collateral damage to your career. Yet now suddenly you’re willing to trade in your robe for the coveted post of lead counsel on the Hunter Gray murder defense team,” he said facetiously.
“I overreacted,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “Russo’s death caught me off guard, as you can probably imagine. Although I never liked the guy, I still had the utmost respect for him as a jurist. I wasn’t prepared for any of this.” She paused. “But the unfortunate reality is that I just so happen to care,” she added endearingly.
Hunter shook his head in frustration. “It sounds good, Sheila. It truly does. And as much as I’d like to believe the explanation is that simple, something tells me there’s more to it, isn’t there?” Hunter hadn’t put it together yet, but his instincts told him to push. And he had nothing to lose by starting to trust them again. Their eyes locked, Hunter’s conviction enveloping her evasive gaze like a finely tuned polygraph machine. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Sheila diverted her eyes for a split second, a subtle admission she was holding out on him.
Even judges are human.
“Sheila?” No response.
“You have to trust me, Hunter.”
“As much as I’d like to—”
She cut him off, though. “Let’s just say we both have a serious interest in clearing our names now.”
“Clearing our names? You’re serious? I’m perfectly innocent, Sheila. I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide. How about you?” asked Hunter, whose question wasn’t entirely serious. Sheila’s having blood on her hands was a virtual impossibility. Yet she was still concealing a valuable fact.
“Very clever,” she replied. “I won’t even dignify that question with a response.”
“Then what? What else have you so conveniently omitted?” He couldn’t help but feel the same way he had just days earlier when she first broke the news about her former fling with Mancini.
“It’s not important right now. I just need to know what the detective said to you, word for word. Did my name come up?”
“It didn’t,” he replied, growing increasingly frustrated with her caginess. “But just tell me what’s going on,” he demanded.
“All right,” she agreed, getting to her feet and beginning to pace in front of the window. “You remember how I suspected that Russo knew about us,” she started nervously. “How I sensed he was up to something? His throwing in subtle references to us in the presence of the other judges: the sanctity of the position, the public’s perception of the judiciary, which included how and with whom we passed the time when we were off the bench—that sort of thing.”
“Right,” he replied, wondering where she was going with all this.
“Spearheading an ethics inquiry, secretly orchestrating my demise, only to bolster his chances of achieving that coveted slot with the state Supremes.”
“Okay.”
“And at the time, you accused me of being paranoid delusional.”
“I still don’t understand how he could’ve known about us.”
Then again, it would explain the Mediacast debacle.
“I wondered the same thing myself. I tried to block it out, secretly hoping he would eventually let it go or that maybe I was just being delusional. And if things eventually came to a head, I was pretty sure I’d find out then how he knew about us.”
“I’m still not sure I understand,” replied Hunter. “Why does any of this really matter now? Russo’s scheming days are officially over, in case you haven’t heard.”
Hunter wasn’t typically in the habit of desecrating the memory of the recently departed, especially the ones who had kicked the bucket within the past twenty-four hours or so. Yet Russo would probably be one of the few exceptions to that general rule during the course of Hunter’s lifetime. Thanks to Russo’s personal crusade against him, his dream of making partner was dashed and his days almost certainly numbered at Whitman.
“Just listen,” Sheila snapped in frustration. Hunter indulged her. “Well, as it turns out,” she continued, “Russo
did
know about us all along. My hunch was right.” She paused. “And take a wild guess who confirmed it for him, when he initially grew suspicious, inadvertently noticing you leaving my chambers after hours outside the presence of other counsel?”
“Who?” asked Hunter, edgily.
“Your boss. Al Mancini,” she revealed with an ironic smile. “Claims Russo was actually the one who approached
him
and that the evidence was pretty damning. All that he could do at that point was to confirm it, as much as he wanted to deny it.” There was an awkward pause. “Which, of course, he didn’t have to do,” she added under her breath, still trying to reconcile that piece of the puzzle.
“Mancini, huh?”
What would be his motivation for that, though?
Hunter recalled the way Mancini had referred to Russo when they were discussing the Mediacast case. Playing the scene back in his mind’s eye, he actually made a point of letting Hunter know he wasn’t one of Russo’s biggest fans.
“Yup. I guess he thought he had an ally in Al. No pun intended,” she said, finally loosening up.
“Still not sure I get the connection, though. They didn’t seem particularly fond of each other.” A perplexed Hunter asked, “Do you believe him?”
“I suppose. I mean, I have no real reason not to. That’s not the sort of thing one generally admits to very freely. He knew I’d be pissed when he told me.”
“Why would he tell you this, though?” asked Hunter, mulling over the question in his own mind.
“Russo steered a lot of work in your firm’s direction,” educated Sheila. Hunter raised his brow in surprise, caught entirely off-guard by the notion. “And trust me when I tell you I know that much for a fact. Mancini used to brag about it as far back as I can remember.”
“That’s pretty shocking.” Although it
wasn’t
entirely improbable, Hunter thought. He wouldn’t put it past Mancini or half the lawyers in this town to toot their own horns, especially when it came to one’s rainmaking prowess. When all was said and done, countless months of grueling trial preparation and one relatively arbitrary jury verdict later, it was still the clients who kept the firms afloat. Win, lose, or appeal, the brain trust of any one given firm was immaterial without the funding for them to have the luxury to flex their intellectual muscle.
“This was before he became the king in the Whitman fiefdom and yours truly ever even considered running for the bench,” she clarified. “Frankly, he probably never thought he’d make it far enough for it to matter, anyway.” After a brief pause, she equivocated: “Wait—actually, I take that back.” In hindsight, Sheila never truly knew or understood the man. He was a cheater, for God’s sake. The type who had no qualms about leading a dual existence, maintaining various fictions just to keep things going for as long as he could. He was as calculated as they came, pure grit, and unshakable determination. Think of him as a modern-day Caesar.
“And how long have you known about this?”
Sheila quickly glanced at her platinum Cartier watch. “About an hour ago.”
Which certainly explained Sheila’s edginess, reasoned Hunter, who immediately began to ruminate over the possible significance of this relative bombshell, especially on the day the world learned of Russo’s murder.
“And it makes perfect sense. Of course, I haven’t had time to do any real digging. But from what I can gather, preliminarily at least, Russo ensured that Whitman had more than its fair share of favorable—strike that—
very
favorable decisions.”
Which thoroughly contradicts what Russo was in the process of doing in Mediacast prior to being murdered.
“So there was a quid pro quo thing happening?”
“Unquestionably.”
The wheels were turning inside Hunter’s head, not that he had either the time or the energy for any of it. His efforts on the Vito’s case, if he ever expected to be prepared by Thursday, had to be nothing short of Herculean at this point. “So apparently they were much closer than they appeared,” said Hunter, thinking out loud, balancing as he rocked back in the stiff wood chair, the tattered rubber soles of his shoes resting rebelliously on her desk. “Despite the impression created by Mancini.”
“Interesting,” Sheila said, incorporating Hunter’s last insight into her calculus. “Plus, it couldn’t have hurt that Mancini had a score to settle with me,” she continued. “They’d both get their rocks off as they witnessed the carnage, watching my career and reputation go up in flames.” Sheila had her hand at her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief at the very distinct possibility that her theory was accurate.
“So why now? Why’d he wait so long before he ’fessed up?”
“Claims he wanted to warn me.”
“About what?”
“About the appearance of Russo’s death in light of his plan to take me out.”
“So Mancini confirmed it.”
“Yup.”
“See, that’ll teach you never to heed advice from a man again.”
“Who said anything about heeding?” she asked playfully.
“Right.”
“And who’s your voice of reason, by the way?”
“I wish I had one.”
“I sure hope it’s not Dillon Wright.”
“And why’s that?”
“Don’t trust the guy. Never gotten a good vibe from him.”
“He’s one of the only people who gives a shit about me.”
“He’s your competition, Hunter. And don’t ever forget that. Remember, I used to be in your world.”
Growing increasingly impatient with her sororal wisdom, he navigated them back to the course of discovery they were charting. “So what about how Russo’s death would come across?”
“Al’s only point was the perception that I have a motive to preempt my fall from grace. Stop Russo from initiating a judicial investigation and targeting me.”
“So ‘preempt’? As in murder?”
Sheila nodded at the gravity of the situation. As far-fetched as it may have sounded, it wasn’t an altogether unbelievable scenario. To put it another way, very powerful people have done much crazier things.
“And that’s why I’m so curious to know what this Detective Risotto said to you,” she clarified.
“Risotto,” Hunter replied. “Wait. How did you know his name? Did I mention—” And then he stopped himself mid-sentence, the explanation hitting him hard.
All Judge Primeau, murder suspect number two, could do, was nod in total and utter disbelief, confirming Hunter’s hunch that Mancini had arrived too late, intentionally or unintentionally, which was still unclear for the moment. Detective Risotto’s first interviewee had been Sheila.