Miscarriage Of Justice (19 page)

“I’d rather talk in private,” Mariana said glancing pointedly at the three shady looking men seated at the table.

All three looked to Frankie, questioning his approval before making a move. The big man in black gave a curt nod and the three minions stood as a single unit, but politely excused themselves.

Not one of them offered to seat her, but Mariana didn’t mind. Had they made such a gesture, she would’ve likely refused. Putting up a strong front, she cringed inwardly, watching as they disappeared. Ironically, she was more worried about the three of them than anything concerning Ethan. He was a criminal by default, not likely inclined to nefarious behavior, but they were an unusual sort, a different breed. These men were acknowledged cold-blooded killers.

Turning the chair to a strategic angle, keeping a watchful eye on those behind her, as well as the door, Mariana sat down. Purposefully, she avoided looking at Frankie, suspiciously glancing around the room, making her distaste for him obvious.

Then, as if to demonstrate her nerves of steel and apparent unconcern, she stared him directly in the eye and said in a clear, strong voice, “I need a favor.”

“But of course,” Arimante smiled with phony sincerity. “Anything for the Lady, my friend who keeps me out of prison.” He spoke with an unmistakable Italian accent. “You have only to ask. I will be glad to work on your side of the law for a change.”

The words sounded almost genuine, and the way he smiled, the gentle tone of his voice, made what he said almost seem believable. The truth was though, he despised the very thought of being seen or associated with the D.A. in any way, professionally or even casually. But, business was business. If providing her with some tidbit of information on some smalltime operator would keep the legal wolves from his door, then it was well worth it. Still, he didn’t have to like it.

“This isn’t really an official visit,” Mariana began somewhat tentatively. “And nothing to do with my line of work. It’s more closely related to yours.”

Arimante’s eyebrows raised slightly. He did his best to conceal his surprise but now she definitely had his attention! Offering no comment and patiently waiting for her to continue, he noticed the nervous fidgeting, and how she kept moistening her lips; making it plain, she was uncomfortable with the subject. Amused and intrigued, the crime boss stifled a taunting comment that threatened to escape his lips.

“I need you to...” Mariana hesitated again, and took another deep breath. “I need someone to um,” once more she stopped, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to get the words to come out right.

Frankie continued to wait quietly, saying nothing while he impatiently stared at the out-of-place woman. He hoped she’d get to the point sooner or later.

Trying a new approach, Mariana took another stab at it. “There’s a guy who was recently released from prison,” she said. “He’s been stalking me, threatening me, and generally making a nuisance of himself.” Looking around worriedly, she finally blurted out. “I want him taken care of.”

The dark haired, thick mustached man still said nothing, digesting what he’d heard. This might not be so bad after all, he thought. Depending on how important it was to her, if he played it right, he just might be able to weasel out of this stupid deal he’d gotten himself into.

Uneasy with the silence, Mariana squirmed restlessly in her chair. “He’s become a royal pain in the butt,” she added.

Offering a more sincere smile, Frankie finally spoke. “So you’d like us to put a little scare into him would you?”

“No,” Mariana replied stoically. “I want him…” again she paused and then lowering her voice, abruptly she spit it out. “I want him dead!”

Frankie was surprised. Pleasantly so. This was going to work out after all, and should ensure his protection for quite some time to come. The fact that she was coming to him suggested there was more to the story than a typical ex-con being a nuisance. The lady seated at his table had the whole judicial system at her disposal for that.

He stared back at the D.A., his eyes alive with a mischievous twinkle. “You don’t generally kill a guy for being a pain in the butt. What’s really going on with him?”

Briefly, Mariana considered giving the whole rundown of the sorry saga. Then abruptly, she changed her mind. “I can’t give you any more details,” she told him.

Slowly, Frankie shook his head. Something didn’t add up. She was the District Attorney. There must be a dozen ways for her to deal with the man and at least that many judges who would be more than willing to throw the guy back into prison, just on her say-so alone. Not that it mattered to him really, he was just curious.

“Would I be given immunity from the court or is this a personal thing?”

Mariana stared down at the floor, chewing her lip. “It’s personal,” she said quietly.

Frankie let out a sigh. Being a personal thing, the woman would be much easier to bargain with. “It’ll cost you,” he said bluntly

“I think if you try, you’ll remember you already owe me,” Mariana reminded him returning a cold stare.

 “Information. I owe you information. This doesn’t qualify.”

Eyeing the man a moment, Mariana gave in. “So what do you want?”

“A free pass from you,” Frankie answered immediately. “A guarantee that I’ll never face any charges from your office. And,” he added, “our deal is over. I will no longer be expected to provide you with any information.”

Breathing a sigh of relief that the cost didn’t involve large sums of money, Mariana quickly said, “It’s a deal. The Lincoln County District Attorney’s Office will not pursue any legal action against you as long as I am the D.A., which may not be long if this guy stays around.”

Ah-ha, thought Frankie. So, there was more to the story after all. Things were beginning to make a little more sense now. Still, didn’t know any of the details—and he was a curious guy. “What’s he got on you?”

“Nothing.”

Frankie gave her a skeptical frown. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he spat. “Just because I’m not a paragon of virtue and not on the so-called “right” side of the law, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I know how the game is played.” Then, offering a glimpse as to why he was asking, he said, “I need to know what I’m up against.”

Staring down at the table, Mariana shifted uncomfortably. She’d hoped to avoid revealing her role in this, but she knew if she was going to get any favorable response out of the man he had to be told. “Sixteen years ago, I sent him to prison for a crime he didn’t commit,” she explained. “Murder.”

Frankie nodded. “That certainly explains why he’s ticked off, I guess, but it’s not that unusual. And it still doesn’t tell me why you can’t handle this the normal way, with the court. Even if they rule in his favor, you wouldn’t be held personally responsible.”

“I knew he was innocent beforehand,” Mariana stated matter-of-factly. “And he has proof that I knew.”

“Well, that certainly changes things doesn’t it?” Frankie commented. Then he suddenly burst out laughing, he couldn’t help it. Seeing Mariana’s bewildered expression, he explained the reason for his amusement. “Everyone has this grand notion that there are two sides to life. Good and evil; right and wrong, and when it comes to the law, legal and illegal. But this just goes to show there’s really no difference. None whatsoever. You’re just like me, along with the rest of the world. Right and wrong are only a matter of perspective. You,” he wagged an accusing finger at Mariana, “are on the ‘good’ side, as long as it’s beneficial, but the minute it becomes more expedient, you have no problem switching sides.”

The D.A. said nothing.

Shrugging, eyes gleaming with mirth, Arimante added, “I don’t blame you though, I’d do the same thing. Like I said, we’re just alike. We both do what’s in our own best interest.”

Mariana swallowed hard. Frankie was right. She wasn’t any better than he was. She’d gone to law school with the noble idea that someday she’d be able to make a positive difference in the world, clean up the criminal element; and put the bad guys behind bars. She wanted to effect a change for the better in Cedar Springs, in Lincoln County, the state and someday perhaps even the country. She simply wanted to make the world a safer place for everyone. It hadn’t seemed like such an extraordinary aspiration back then.

Many of her lofty goals and ambitions had been accomplished, but as Frankie had so dramatically pointed out, here she was switching sides for her own selfish reasons. She’d never thought it would go this far. Ethan’s trial was just one incident, something she earnestly believed to be necessary at the time. And it had been. Without that initial victory, it was doubtful her career would’ve been so successful.

But all that aside, it was too late now. She wasn’t going to let one ill-advised decision from years ago bring about her downfall.

Frankie interrupted her thoughts of self-pity. “What sort of proof does this guy, who you’ve failed to name, have? It might make more sense to just relieve him of it.”

Mariana shook her head. “The proof is twenty-four, no make that thirty or so, pictures.” She suddenly remembered Ethan’s claim of having additional pictures showing her at the Wyman’s house. “I’m sure he has them locked away somewhere safe.”

“A little careless of you wasn’t it?” Frankie chided. “Letting this guy get his hands on those?”

“Just tell me if you’ll do the job, or if I need to find someone else,” Mariana replied coolly.

“You still haven’t given me a name, or told me where I can find him,” Frankie reminded her.

“His name is Ethan Rafferty, and I don’t know where to find him,” said Mariana.

“Which prison was he in, and when did he get out?” Frankie asked, producing a pen.

Mariana filled him in on the few details she knew concerning Ethan. As the big man finished scribbling on a napkin, she finally got a definite answer. Frankie promised to deliver within a week.

Feeling a sudden strong compulsion to get out of the restaurant, away from Frankie and away from the picture of herself he’d so fluently painted, Mariana stood. Frankie remained seated, not offering to shake hands or give any other indication of their agreement. Unsure what to do, Mariana awkwardly turned and then silently walked toward the door.

Behind her, she heard Frankie call to one of his men. “Joey, I’ve got a job for you.”

Returning to her car, the D.A. felt a slight twinge of guilt, but easily pushed it aside. She hadn’t chosen this, hadn’t wanted it. If Ethan would’ve just accepted his fate like any other inmate, and been happy to finally be out of prison, none of this would have been necessary. The situation didn’t really thrill her, but she could learn to live with it. If things went well, it would soon be all over. Maybe her life would return to normal. Lately, she’d nearly forgotten what normal was.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

For one solid week, Ethan had been miserably confined to his hotel room. Not by choice, but due to necessity. He was sick. Painfully and severely sick, with all of the symptoms that came with it. It had started with a minor cough, and then came the runny nose. By the second day, he had a full-blown case of the flu.

Influenza. Some scientist or doctor’s name for a condition of an intensely rotten feeling. This one was a doozy. An excruciating headache, high fever, aching muscles and a severely sore throat combined for an overall feeling of nauseating illness.

Twice a day, every day, he called the diner on the corner and ordered the same thing, chicken noodle soup, crackers, and a 7-up. The therapeutic benefits of this traditional “sick diet” may have been only psychological; like every other child in America, his parents always insisted this was what a sick person should eat. As he’d grown older, he’d heard many medical reports from various doctors, citing numerous studies, which suggested the meal had no benefit whatsoever, no nutritional or healing qualities at all. No more than any other well-balanced meal, they’d claimed. He remained unconvinced. One study, he’d been told, had even maintained chicken soup was a sick person’s worst choice. Still, he didn’t care; eating it made him feel better, so that’s what he ate. Who could argue with him if he thought he felt better?

In the first couple of days of his ailment, he discovered that being sick, inside or outside of prison, was essentially the same. He spent each entire day and night locked away inside a cold, impersonal four walls, visited twice a day by an aloof delivery boy bringing him his food. In his foggy state of mind, it seemed like he was back in Granite Hills. With the high fever and resulting hallucinations of people chasing him, trying to kill him, he wasn’t sure that was not the case.

By the end of the week, he seemed to be improving, or so he thought until he tried standing up. As soon as his feet hit the floor, his legs turned to jelly and his eyes began to burn. Instantly, the light-headed dizziness returned. Lying back down, he spent the day on the couch watching TV. His mind was no longer in a fog, and he would much rather have been implementing more of what he had in mind for his favorite D.A., but judging from his shaky performance when he’d tried to walk, driving would probably be out of the question.

Exhausted, he crawled back to bed shortly before ten that night, ready to call it a day. Turning off the TV with the remote, he’d barely closed his eyes when he heard footsteps in the hall. The clumping footfalls came to a stop just outside his door. With his heartbeat crescendoing into something resembling a percussion section performing an orchestra piece, he lay still, listening; trying to determine if this was real or just another fever induced hallucination. Sitting up in bed to clear the cobwebs from his head, he heard no more noises outside the door. Was he really feeling better? No, he wasn’t, he decided, and apparently, his mind wasn’t quite finished playing tricks on him either. Shaking his head, and wincing with the movement, he eased back down onto his pillow. Another full night’s sleep might help.

Then he caught the unmistakable sound of a key grating in the lock. The dizziness and weakness forgotten, he was instantly on his feet and halfway to the door, as he watched the knob slowly being turned. Still not sure if it were real, Ethan squinted, straining to force open his burning eyes. Glancing around the room, he searched desperately for something he could use as a weapon. All he saw was the broken table leg. That would have to work. Grimacing with his aches and pains, he willed his body forward. With no time to clear the clutter off the table, he yanked out the loose leg. The table crashed loudly to the floor, as his computer slid from its perch, clattering and banging onto the carpet with a dull thud.