“There’s a simple explanation for that,” insisted Hunter, coming off a bit more defensive than he intended. “I argued a motion in chambers. It must’ve been one of the last ones he heard before he died,” he surmised. “That has to be the case.” Typically, Hunter preferred these types of conferences. They were much less formal than hearings and motions, which gave counsel an opportunity to curry a bit of favor with the judge. Best of all, they were generally off the record. There was no stenographer, which meant preserving objections and strictly abiding by the rules of procedure weren’t nearly as important. This was one time, though, when he would’ve killed for a record. Without one, there wasn’t even proof that the conference occurred—only proof that he was there and may have in fact been the killer.
“We should know by morning. The disciplinary board’s cooperating fully.” Risotto was checking the prints against the database of attorneys in the state. Applicants were required to be fingerprinted prior to sitting for the bar exam.
“You
need
to believe me. A match means nothing. Do you honestly think I would’ve been so careless? If I was going to do something like that, I would’ve made damn sure the place was pristine before I left.”
“And what if you panicked? In the heat of the moment, for instance? Realized the gravity of what you’d just done? Or perhaps there was an inquisitive knock on the door? Couldn’t that explain the evidence left behind at the crime scene?” Risotto’s arguments were sound.
“And what about the judge’s clerk?” Before Hunter even finished asking the question, though, he realized how precarious his situation was quickly becoming. Desperate, he was relying upon the likes of Russo’s clerk.
I’m screwed. That arrogant little shit had it out for me the day I met him.
“Can’t reach him,” the detective said as he whipped out his iPhone. “Sean Meister,” he read. “Sound right?” confirming the name as he glanced back up.
“Think so.” His words were lethargic, tainted by dejection.
“And of course, there’s Ms. Zane,” he observed.
A vacant expression overtook Hunter’s countenance. It was like drowning as an insurmountable undertow enveloped its next victim, muscles frozen in a state of sheer panic and exhaustion.
“She was on the opposite side of the case, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” replied Hunter.
“She would’ve been present for this conference in chambers, right?”
“Yeah.” All Hunter could think about was his rivalry with Melissa Zane, the one that began back in law school and resurfaced just days earlier in Russo’s courtroom.
Impeccable timing!
They loathed one another, and Hunter was fairly certain her capacity for hatred outweighed his. That didn’t bode well at all.
“Unfortunately, the sharks over at
her
firm won’t let me get near her without a subpoena,” he said.
“Just
fucking
great,” Hunter muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Maybe it’s time we Mirandized you, Hunter.” “Mirandizing” someone was criminal justice parlance for reading an arrestee his Miranda rights. The right to remain silent, etcetera. “Just to keep everything above board,” he added, gesturing toward the door.
“So you’re telling me I need to lawyer up?”
“Whatever you
need
to do, Hunter,” replied the detective, like a therapist assuaging a patient’s fit of hysteria.
“So you are holding me?” he persisted angrily.
Apologetically, he replied, “Looks like it, I’m afraid. At least until morning, if I have my way. We should know a lot more by then.” Then Risotto started retreating toward the door.
“And what about Sheila?”
Risotto stopped. “We’re checking out a few tips that came in.”
“Tips! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Hunter heard himself losing it.
“One of which seems extremely promising,” the detective said methodically.
“Wake up, detective! There’s no time for that. Whatever maniac killed Russo is obviously targeting Sheila too.”
“Duly noted, counselor.”
“And what about the death threat I got a few days ago?”
“What death threat?” he asked doubtfully.
“A note accompanied by a bullet. Warning me to stay away from Vito Armani.”
“Frankly, this is the first time I’m hearing about it,” replied Risotto dubiously. “Why’s that? You could’ve told me when I originally interviewed you.”
Hunter was pretty sure he had. Then again, on second thought.
“Did you report it to anyone else?”
“Nothing official.”
“And why not?”
“And what would that have done?” asked Hunter.
“Who knows? But I might’ve been able to use it.” A pause. “And did you recognize the handwriting?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like it?” answered Risotto, straight-faced.
“No. I didn’t. Anyway, you guys need to look harder!
This
is a fucking joke and you know it!”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to being giving orders,” said Risotto, playing the trump card. “Detective Murphy will be in shortly to read you your rights. And I’ll make sure he brings some ice, too. It’s starting to look pretty nasty.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Watch me.” And then Risotto disappeared from the room, preparing for his next mind-blowing illusion.
T
he sterile walls of the interrogation room closed in on him in a painfully grueling state of suspended animation, his fate hopelessly at the mercy of a slick detective and his fabricated charges. Hunter closed his eyes, which were stinging slightly from sweat. He desperately hoped that when he reopened them, he would be in his own bed, waking up from this hellish nightmare. When that didn’t do the trick, he fantasized he was being Punk’d. It was useless, though.
The hands on the clock over the door, positioned at just about 7:30 p.m., were moving at a snail’s pace. Hunter chuckled inside at the sheer absurdity of his plight.
Am I cracking up?
Ever since he’d been assigned the Vito’s case, just a few days ago, time had been traveling at warp speed. Yet now that he was on the verge of losing his freedom, for God knows how many decades, the last thing on his mind was tomorrow’s trial. Barely an hour had passed since Detective Murphy, the one with the Paul Newman eyes, apprised Hunter of his constitutional rights, of all things, and replenished his ice wrap, which was furiously melting from the stagnant, balmy air.
Jolting him from his reverie, a torrential cascade of emotion and conjecture, was a completely unexpected yet familiar voice.
“Dude! What the fuck’s going on?”
His curiosity forced him to glance up too quickly, the throbbing sinus pain soaring to excruciating. “Ow.” And as his eyes focused on the figure before him, the smile taking root at his jaw was shunned by yet another shooting pain from the contracting muscles. “Ouch! Fuck!”
It was Dillon, in all his lawyerly glory, looking more sophisticated than usual. Even his tie, an Armani striped number, was cleanly knotted and fastened tautly. He was completely out of character.
Particularly fragile, Hunter was moved by Dillon’s support. One truly never knows who one’s friends are until adversity barges its way into one’s life.
Hunter’s curiosity piquing, he asked, “How did you find out I was here, Dillon?”
“You’re shitting me, right?” he asked.
“No.” Hunter shook his head earnestly. And his shoulders slouched with dejection. He massaged his temples as if they were valves of an overworked diesel engine.
Dillon’s swarthy expression turned uncharacteristically apologetic. “It’s all over the news, man. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Dillon gave Hunter a moment for that reality to sink in. Finally, Hunter looked up. “It’s all right. I mean, the writing was on the wall,” he added, making a throwaway gesture with his free hand. “Just didn’t think it would happen so fast. Or that it wouldn’t sort itself out by the time the story broke.” He recalled the shapeless blob of media accosting him on his way into the building. “This whole thing’s so unreal,” he told himself.
Dillon got up in Hunter’s face, scrutinizing the fractured nose. “And should I even ask?” he probed, acting slightly repulsed.
“Probably not.”
“Fair enough.” Dillon paused.
“And who said that police brutality wasn’t alive and well in the Commonwealth?”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“Nope.” Hunter shook his head. “I guess I kind of deserved it anyway. I definitely provoked the guy.”
“Threatened his virility?”
“Something like that.”
“Works every time.” They shared a moment, the way only friends can in the midst of adversity.
“Civil rights lawyers would have an absolute field day with this one,” said Dillon. “I’d sue their crooked asses off.”
“Never been the litigious kind, Dillon,” he replied whimsically. “You of anyone should know that by now.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Gray. Hey, so aren’t you even a tad curious to know how I got in here?”
“Not really. But I know how full of shit you can be. So I’m sure it was a fairly colorful story.”
“I just told them I was your criminal counsel.”
“Then I’m surprised they let you in, frankly.”
“Hysterical.”
“So your reputation truly does precede you,” jabbed Hunter.
“Not quite, wiseass,” Dillon replied, accustomed to Hunter checking his notoriously colossal ego.
“You know I can’t resist sometimes.”
“Timing.” He paused. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, you need any help you can get. You’re just one bad trial away from getting the fucking chair. Or whatever the fuck it is they do to judge killers these days.”
“Would you just get on with it and please help me get the fuck out of here?”
“Sure. If you shut the fuck up.”
“All right,” Hunter replied, rolling his eyes.
“I’ve got a plan.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Y
ou better fucking believe it.” Sporting a calculating grin, Dillon casually glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the glass. “I assume that works for you.”
“Yeah,” Hunter replied, hesitantly, still digesting Dillon’s generous yet wholly unexpected offer to kick in funds to retain one of the city’s foremost criminal defense lawyers. “That’s good,” he added, nodding as he committed himself to deferring to Dillon’s judgment, his trust in his friend outweighing the undeniable uncertainty. Up until that point, he hadn’t seriously considered retaining a lawyer, still not forsaking all hope. All he needed was to buy a bit more time. Inevitably, newly discovered evidence would exonerate him. He would be vindicated, although his name would never entirely heal from the scarring left by the accusations. Dillon’s act, indubitably for effect more than anything else, merely served to underscore his imprudence, though.
“But weren’t they even a little suspicious?” asked Hunter out of curiosity. He purposefully toned it down a notch, having to remind himself that the room was wired for audio. “They know I haven’t even called a lawyer yet.”
“They’re not recording. Or even eavesdropping, for that matter,” he assured Hunter. “Trust me. I have peeps over at the DA’s office. One of whom is smokin’ hot, I might add.”
Hunter glared impatiently, utterly amazed by Dillon’s insatiable libido.
“Anyway, they take the privilege pretty fucking seriously these days.” The attorney-client privilege is a bedrock tenet within the American justice system. There may be nothing more sacred. “Constitutional rights are no longer discretionary,” he went on. “The pendulum has swung and too goddamn far, if you ask me.”
“Obviously,” said Hunter, pointing to his nose.
“The system ain’t perfect,” he rebutted. “Exceptions to every rule, my friend.”
Hunter nodded reluctantly.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if they were listening in anyway. He might even kill two birds with one stone. Steadfastly maintain his innocence and shine a spotlight on Mancini’s extracurricular racketeering activities.
“So what are you proposing?”
“You’ve got nothing to hide,” observed Dillon, sounding as if the thought started with a big “If.”
“Right.” Yet Hunter wondered whether his ears had deceived him. He detected the faintest trace of hesitation in Dillon’s tone. And for some reason entirely unbeknownst to him, he suddenly felt the need to plead his case to Dillon. It was impossible to tell whether Dillon, somewhere in the depths of his soul, doubted his innocence. For the moment at least, Hunter chalked it up to paranoia. Perhaps his own subconscious was toying with him, feeding him the delusions associated with abandonment by supposed allies in the midst of an ill-conceived offensive against his decency.
“So my vote would be to get the lead detective in here. Explain away any,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “evidence.”
“He’s incorrigible. His mind’s made up.”
“I don’t buy it. Everyone’s pliable.”
“They found my prints in Russo’s chambers,” confessed Hunter.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I was there for that conference,” reminded Hunter. “The one where he tossed the Mediacast case.”
“So,” Dillon went on, exuding poise, “all we need is the transcript of the proceeding…”
But Hunter’s regretful expression and lifeless head shake spoke volumes.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No reporter.”
“And you didn’t think to request one?” chided Dillon.
“Like you would’ve done that! Don’t get sanctimonious with me!”
“I would’ve! Especially if I knew there was some whack-job judge out there gunning for me. I would’ve gotten every last grunt, moan, and syllable the lunatic uttered. And on the record.”
“So I dropped the ball,” ceded Hunter. Then he asked, upon noticing that Dillon had started to pace, “Now what?”
Hunter realized the prints were his greatest obstacle. Even if he could prove he was there for a conference, the fact that they were covering the goddamn place certainly wouldn’t help him. They were there regardless of how or when they got there.
There was a long pause.
Brainstorming, under his breath, Dillon said, “And my guy still hasn’t gotten back to me.” Hunter could tell he was frustrated.
Resigned to his fate, Hunter was sounding stoic now. A heroic grin overtook him. His compassionate and honest eyes assured his friend that everything would be all right. “It’s been decided. They’re charging me.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Very well may be,” he replied coolly, rationally.
“That’s it? You’re rolling over that easily?” Dillon snapped angrily.
“Just being realistic.”
“I appreciate your pragmatism. But we’re talking about your fucking life here, man,” he said, egging him on.
“Look!” Hunter exclaimed, growing frustrated with what Hunter perceived to be Dillon’s arrogant, even slightly delusional perspective. “I get it!” And then Hunter reeled himself in a bit. “Believe me. I understand. And I never said I was prepared to confess to something I sure as hell didn’t do.”
“It’s defeatist. You sound like a martyr. Might as well confess with that mentality. Come on,” pleaded Dillon.
Resisting Dillon’s combative style, Hunter settled back into the pocket. His inner strength, healing the psychological wounds with the force of vampire blood on a thousand-year-old corpse, caught him off-guard. There was an inner resolve even he couldn’t quell.
Dillon sensed the sea change and placed his hands atop Hunter’s shoulders. “Good. Now that’s better,” he said, massaging firmly with encouragement. “That’s my boy.”
“You know it’s only a matter of time before they turn it over to DACU.” DACU was an acronym for the District Attorney Charging Unit. They were the guys in charge of reviewing the file and formalizing the charges.
“Which means we need to get you the fuck out of here. Any way we can.”
“Any suggestions, counselor?”
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”
“Don’t think too long.”