Justice Hunter (33 page)
E
scorted by Detective Risotto, Albert Mancini made his appearance in the interrogation room, marching as if he’d been rudely interrupted during a board meeting. His suit screamed power and celebrity, and even Risotto, typically unaffected, seemed slightly awe-stricken by the icon’s presence in such humble surroundings. There was no question that Mancini owned the room—any room, in fact—and he fully expected the others around him to bow down in his presence.
Dillon trained his eyes on Hunter, still looking understandably hesitant, and grinned.
“Mr. Mancini,” said Hunter.
“Are you all right, kid?” Mancini’s concern came across as heartfelt.
“Yeah.”
“We need to get you some rest, huh? Big day tomorrow.” Of course, Mancini was referring to the Vito’s trial in the morning, perhaps the last thing on Hunter’s mind.
“I suppose—”
But Dillon interrupted before Hunter could finish composing a response. “Thanks for your support. You got my message?” Dillon was taking the credit for Mancini’s unexpected arrival.
“I did, Dillon,” he replied, clearly not wanting to be there. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me handle this.”
“My money’s on you.” Clearly Dillon’s words implied something more insidious. Yet Mancini wasn’t taking the bait. With his balls in a sling, all Mancini wanted to do was get out of there relatively unscathed. Hold up his end of whatever deal it was he made with Dillon.
With a comforting hand on Hunter’s shoulder, Mancini barely addressed Risotto, as if he wasn’t even in the room, “Isn’t that right, detective? We see no reason to hold Mr. Gray any longer, do we? He’s been more than cooperative with the investigation, I would assume.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, automatically.
“Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye on that.”
“We do.”
“And, of course, my client will remain available for any further questioning.”
“I understand, Mr. Mancini.”
Mancini helped Hunter to his feet, grounding him as he got to his feet.
“And again, sir,” Risotto volunteered. “Detective Rossi will be disciplined for his unbecoming conduct. With a written apology to follow.”
“Fine. I expect to be kept apprised, though,” he threatened.
“Of course.”
“The district attorney will tell you whether you need to contact me directly or not as well.”
“Right.”
“Good evening then, detective.”
Just that quickly and strangely, the unlikely triumvirate made their way to the main entrance. Not a word was exchanged—just deafening silence. The tranquility of Hunter’s first moment of freedom was short-lived, though, as a throng of reporters sprang from the relative darkness, feasting on their prey like ravenous jackals on their next meal. All Hunter could do was stare in wonder as a poised Mancini addressed the barrage of questions with grace and aplomb. The man was clearly designed for the media appearance, making believers out of critics as he tainted the jury pool for years to come and maintained Hunter’s innocence. It was a witch hunt taken right from the pages of history against a promising young attorney heroically delving into the nexus between the mob and Vito Armani’s estranged son. It was almost incomprehensible to think that Mancini was the same person who had traded verbal barbs with detectives just moments ago. He was a fierce adversary—one both Dillon and he had almost certainly underestimated.
The next day or so should be interesting
, thought Hunter as the dread boiled over into his imagination.
T
he ceremonial courtroom on the second floor of city hall was packed to the gills with throngs of reporters, members of the public, and others, all fascinated by the case that had been transfixing the Philadelphia region and even the rest of the country for months.
The City of Philadelphia v. Vito Armani
promised to be the most polarizing and conflict-laden battle in years, bringing politics to the fore along with unchecked xenophobia and intolerance. It was standing room only, with the observers spilling out into the dark corridors of the building, police running their plays in a disorganized attempt to create the appearance of order and wrestle control from the rabble-rousers. Like a tinderbox getting ready to explode, the rage polluted the already heavy air, sluggish from the humidity overpowering the senses on what was by far the hottest day of the year so far, breaking centuries of records and lending credence to the theories of disgusted environmentalists.
The dark cloud masses seemed to be parked over the head of William Penn, who adorned city hall’s clock tower in all of his bronze splendor. There was a certain irony as the heavens prepared to open and unleash a torrent of rain directly onto this national symbol of pacifism and tolerance. It was truly the calm before the storm.
Hunter and Dillon shoved their way past the factions tempting each other with hatred, waving makeshift signs through the air, like bumper stickers advertising one’s political and religious views. As if the rest of the world even cared. Hunter, delirious from yet another sleepless night, couldn’t help but think of his school soccer days as he looked into the hardened expressions of the protesters. At that moment the scowls and mania appeared no different from the faces of the students and parents cheering on their respective teams on the sidelines as if their lives depended on it. It was a validation of sorts, considered Hunter. People innately needed to know where they stood on things and to get behind them. It was just human nature. Nothing wrong there so long as the process didn’t hijack the beliefs, turn pacifists into murderers and egalitarians into racists or sexists.
The deadening air greeted them at the door as they continued past the pews toward the front of the courtroom. Hunter, who was taken off the case at the eleventh hour, the firm deciding it was too risky for him to try it in light of the murder investigation, caught a glimpse of Vito Armani on the defendant’s side, looking quite the celebrity. Tan, toned, and ready for the camera. Even his grays had been blacked out by an unnatural shade from the bottle, the intended effect backfiring with a couple years tacked on, not the other way around. The dangling gold chain, rap-star thick, held a crucifix over his form-fitting black tee. He laughed, flaunting his unnaturally white, capped teeth, as he conferred with his legal team. In his corner you had local counsel plus three lawyers from a Southern, legal nonprofit, rumored to be funded by right-wing Republican PAC money. The Southerners, one buxom blonde belle and two oversized men, one sporting an untucked shirt and suspenders, conjured images of a race trial in Hunter’s mind. They were the stuff of John Grisham’s Mississippi. The unbelievable thing, though, was that Vito Armani, heralded as some sort of a folk hero for taking a stand against non-English speakers, was the one being defended for intolerance.
It was a twenty-first-century dilemma in a way. The true victims, the Hispanics and Asians infiltrating the predominantly Italian, South Philadelphia neighborhood, had been labeled as the persecutors. As if being marginalized and unaccepted wasn’t enough, now they had to endure something doubly offensive: the suggestion that they were the prejudiced ones for playing a part in a misguided effort to silence the silencer himself, Armani. Armani was relishing every last second of this thing, and his lawyers, getting their fifteen minutes, were still pinching themselves for securing such a high-profile case. This was the first day of the rest of their legal careers. And a little flirting with the cameras never killed anyone. This was what it was all about. The pinnacle. Working on a legal issue that actually meant something. Press coverage with their names being bandied about in the media, right next to the likes of politicians, pro athletes, and murderers. Their names in lights. Who knows? Maybe even a book deal or movie?
“Can you believe that little bitch?” said Dillon, slapping Hunter out of his reverie. “Over there all casual. Pretending everything’s hunky-dory.”
“What?”
Dillon nudged Hunter’s shoulder with his own. “Wake the fuck up, counselor.”
Hunter’s eyes wandered over toward the city’s side, just starting to come into view beyond the scores of people standing alongside the benches.
“See him?”
“Yup,” he replied, nodding slowly as he absorbed the scene.
Mancini, dressed to the nines and doing his darnedest to exude calm, hovered near the human relations commissioner. The two men appeared to be speaking quietly, doing a little last-minute strategizing. Hunter knew the feeling well—that moment right before a trial when your instinct tells you to confirm one detail or another, wanting so hard to get the facts right and anticipate your opponent’s every move. Predictably, Stephanie Diaz, the seductive mole and his former co-chair on the case, stood loyally by Mancini’s side like an arm candy girlfriend playing the part of the loyal sexpot to the hilt, all for the benefit of the little rich fat guy flaunting the fact that he had enough money to pay for it. Of course, in this case, we weren’t dealing with some schlub. We were talking about one of the iconic legal figures in the country, trending very down and very quickly.
Stephanie noticed them, and her eyes feigned surprise. Mancini’s hardened stare followed. Still in character, she robotically began to break away from team Whitman to meet Hunter halfway—probably to suck him dry for information and report back to Mancini. But Mancini, like Dr. Frankenstein, anticipating his creation’s every move, held her arm. Playing the part all the way right up until the very end, she flashed a disappointed smile for Hunter’s benefit, trying to arouse empathy for her situation with Mancini. Being forced to succumb to his eccentric and overbearing methods. As she had facilitated Hunter’s independent field research over the past few days, the very stuff Mancini was hoping to control, it was the model of a domineering and callous chair of their firm that brought the two together. Made her want to go out on a limb. Cover for him. Help get the answers regarding the Mafia’s ties to the case. Her upbeat-slash-sullen expression conjured up his uncontrollable feelings for her, which were all based on a lie.
Hunter felt Mancini’s gaze upon him for a split second, just long enough to slyly peak over his shoulder, cued by Stephanie, to take a candid with his eyes. He would have an image of Hunter to ruminate over as he assuredly tuned out the unimportant rants of the commissioner, only speaking now for the benefit of the onlookers. Dressed as flamboyantly as ever, he was embracing his role just the same. The valiant leader of equality and social justice, the one whose signature (or not) had made this whole drama happen. But for him, there would’ve been no media circus.
Hunter tried to get Mancini’s attention, wanting a read of his own. But Mancini paid him no mind now. Mancini was giving him the cold shoulder, like a wealthy patriarch to an estranged, derelict son. The undeniable reality was that Hunter was a dead man walking at Whitman. And it was just the same for Dillon, too. Partnership aspirations for both of them were officially an impossibility. Even Hunter’s law license seemed to hang in the balance, with the Russo murder investigation looming over his head. He still didn’t know the particulars of the deal Dillon had cut with Mancini. All he knew was that in exchange for Dillon’s giving over the incriminating evidence, implicating Mancini in unprecedented judicial corruption, Mancini would be forced to ensure that the DA and the AG’s office left Hunter alone. Undoubtedly, though, and knowing Mancini, he was scheming of a way that very instant to break the deal. Implement Sun Tzu’s methods from
The Art of War.
He would prevail in the end, vindicated and stronger than ever. Meanwhile, he would devise a way to forever silence Dillon the Extorter and finger Hunter for Russo’s murder.
Suddenly a unified hush fell over the room. Ravenous eyes turned to the front of the courtroom to catch a glimpse of the Law making its grand entrance. The only thing missing was the pyrotechnics and synthetic smoke. And there they were, the three privileged commissioners assigned to the case, proceeding as if on cue to the mammoth wood table awaiting their presence. Straight-faced and judicious, they solemnly took their seats and stared ahead, concentrating on the lawyers and their clients. The youngest one on the end couldn’t resist doing a quick once-over into the crowd, more in an effort to impress everyone with his precociousness than anything else. Idle chatter here and there resurfaced, giving the chairman of the panel the perfect first opportunity to send a message and make his presence known.