Last Lawyer Standing

by Douglas Corleone

  “Except a dead officer,” I said. “And no one else for us to point to.”

  Jake shrugged. “Dapper Don would still have a hell of a tough time proving his case beyond a reasonable doubt. Hell, Narita might grant our motion to dismiss after Dapper Don finishes his case-in-chief. The evidence simply doesn’t support a conviction.”

  “And what about the Honolulu Police Department?” As soon as I said it I regretted it.

  “You know as well as I do, that’s not our problem. You can’t use Turi as a pawn to prove police corruption.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not unless you’ve grown a conscience since the Erin Simms trial and are suddenly more concerned with exposing the truth than winning an acquittal.”

  “And what if I know I can do both?”

  “Know is an awfully strong word for a trial attorney. You can’t predict what twelve idiots in a jury box will do any more than you can predict what voters will do four years from now in the next election.”

  I released my breath, unaware until then that I’d been holding it. “This is beginning to sound as though we’re playing role reversal, Jake.”

  He winked at me. “Maybe we are.”

  CHAPTER 39

  We knew where Lok Sun was, but getting to him was another story, Scott Damiano or not. So I hired a set of eyes to watch the Chinatown brothel and decided to approach this from the other side, by finding the pimp Gavin Dengler. Finding Dengler would put us one step closer to discovering who paid Oksana Sutin to have an affair with Wade Omphrey, Hawaii’s own unwitting Client Number 9. And discovering who paid Oksana Sutin to sleep with the governor might just lead us to the party who paid Lok Sun to murder Oksana Sutin. My best guess was that they were one and the same.

  The easiest way to locate Gavin Dengler, I figured, was to question one of his johns. The only john we knew by name was Yoshimitsu Nakagawa, the billionaire from Japan. Only I didn’t want to deal with Nakagawa’s bodyguards again—at least not while they were armed. So we’d have to catch Nakagawa somewhere men with guns presumably weren’t allowed. Somewhere Nakagawa would be hesitant to cause a scene. I decided we’d drop in on his next business meeting.

  Armed with subpoenas and my translator Hoshi, I parked the Jeep at Ala Moana Center and walked across the street to one of Honolulu’s most recognized business locations, a seventeen-story work of art in the Kapiolani Corridor.

  Getting past security proved a hell of a lot easier than anticipated. A quick, innocuous fib about a meeting with a patent lawyer whose name I snatched from the building directory, and Hoshi and I were given visitor passes and a code to reach the top floor. Try that in New York these days and you could very well walk out of a building in handcuffs.

  When we reached the top floor and exited the elevator, we walked to the end of the hall, where we could see into a mammoth conference room. I recognized Nakagawa right away. He was standing before a group of Japanese businessmen, presumably giving a presentation.

  “Perfect timing,” I said, pulling an envelope from my inside suit jacket. “Hoshi, you wait here. I’ll be out in ninety seconds.”

  I marched toward the conference room and swung open the glass door, prompting every man in the room to cast his eyes on me.

  “Pardon me for the intrusion,” I said. “Mr. Nakagawa, I need to have a word with you.”

  Nakagawa seemed to recognize me, too. He turned to his colleagues and said something in Japanese, then followed me back to the door, eyeing the envelope in my hand the entire time.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he said in perfect English as soon as we entered the hall.

  I waved Hoshi away. Turned out, I wouldn’t need a translator after all.

  “My name is Kevin Corvelli, and I’m a lawyer. I have a few quick questions for you and then you can return to your meeting.”

  “Forget it,” he said harshly. “Leave now before I have you thrown from the building.”

  I held up the envelope. “This is a subpoena. You can answer my questions here or I can haul your ass into federal court. It’s your decision.”

  He smirked. “I would like to see you try, Mr. Corvelli. I retain an army of lawyers who will have your subpoenas quashed faster than you can have them signed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend to.”

  He started back toward the conference room.

  “More important than your wife and six children back in Japan?” I called out to him.

  Nakagawa immediately stopped and turned to me. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Corvelli?”

  “That all depends on how much you value your family, your name, and your reputation, Mr. Nakagawa.”

  Nakagawa moved toward me, a fresh fire in his eyes.

  “On the positive side,” I said, “I’m sure your twenty-four thousand convenience stores will sell a hell of a lot of newspapers when your face graces the front page above the fold, along with a provocative headline linking you to an international sex scandal.”

  “Do you know what billions of dollars could do to a man like you, Mr. Corvelli?”

  I shrugged. “It could just about pay off my student loans.”

  “Go ahead. Make light. You have no idea who you are fucking with. But by all means, give it your best shot. Risk your life. Make your accusations. It will still be my word against yours.”

  “Not quite. It will be your word against mine—and the photos.”

  I could hear Nakagawa grinding his teeth as he surveyed my face to determine whether I was bluffing.

  “Surely, Mr. Nakagawa, you don’t think my friend and I were on your property just to examine your yellow hibiscus bushes. Though they were quite beautiful, they weren’t nearly as intriguing as the specimens inside your house—specifically, the white flowers with the long stems.”

  The billionaire stood silent for a long while.

  “If you’d care to see the photos, I could send them to my friend at the Star-Advertiser. I’m sure you’ll find captioned copies on your front doorstep first thing in the morning.”

  “Enough,” he said abruptly. “What do you want to know about?”

  “The girls.”

  “They are not mine,” he said flatly. “I rent them out.”

  “I figured as much. What I want to know is who you rent them out from.”

  Nakagawa scanned the hall. “I make a phone call.”

  “To whom?”

  “A man with a German-Austrian accent.”

  “Gavin Dengler,” I said.

  Nakagawa nodded.

  “Where does he live?”

  He shook his head. “That, Mr. Corvelli, I do not know.”

  “Give me the phone number.”

  Nakagawa unbuttoned and then reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an elaborate handheld device. His thumbs flew over the device like a child playing a video game. When he was finished, he showed me the screen.

  I took the number down on the envelope.

  “I can order a girl direct from Dengler by calling this number?”

  “You need a code,” he said, growing frustrated. “And a referral.”

  “You’re my referral. Unless you want to do this in court. Now, what’s the code?”

  “He will ask for a number, a letter, and a name. The number is ten. The letter is O. And the name is Sam.”

  I took it down: 10. O. Sam. “How much do these ladies run?”

  Nakagawa looked me up and down, his thin lips curling in a sneer. “More than someone like you can afford.”

  CHAPTER 40

  I made the call from a prepaid cell phone that night at Scott’s apartment in Waikiki.

  Five rings, then a voice with a German-Austrian accent answered, “Number?”

  “Ten.”

  “Letter?”

  “O.”

  “Name?”

  “Sam.”

  “Who referred you?”

  “Yoshimitsu
Nakagawa.”

  “What would you like?”

  “A redhead, tall and thin.”

  “No redheads,” he said. “These girls are not from fucking Scotland.”

  “A brunette then.”

  “I have one brunette, five-feet-nine, fifty-two kilograms. From Moldova.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand for four hours. Five up front.”

  “Do you take Discover card?”

  “This is not time for fucking joke. You want her or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me address.”

  I gave him Scott’s address and the apartment number.

  “She come up, you give her half. She go back down, give to her driver. He count, then she come back up and stay four hours. Before she leave, you give her second half of money. If you damage her, you give to me whatever money I lose. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “One hour,” he said, then the line went dead.

  * * *

  An hour later Flan and I were seated in my Jeep, waiting in the dark for a limo or a Lincoln or whatever. Scott Damiano was upstairs with $10,000 in cash and a grin that made me question whether this was the right plan.

  “This is bullshit,” Flan said for the fourth time. “Damiano’s up there waiting for a gorgeous brunette, and I’m down here sitting in a Jeep with you. I’ve been with the firm for years; he’s been here for a few months. I have seniority. How the hell does—”

  “He’s been instructed not to touch her,”

  Flan glowered at me.

  “Well, that’s what he’s been instructed,” I said. “Remember, these girls are being exploited.”

  “Yeah, by everyone but me,” Flan mumbled.

  Mercifully, a black Lincoln turned onto Tusitala before Flan could utter another word. We watched as a tall brunette I’d never seen before exited the vehicle and sauntered toward the entrance of Scott’s apartment building. She was dressed as if she had some place to go.

  “Scott’s probably going to have to move after this,” Flan said.

  “He’s only got a month or two left on his lease.”

  Less than ten minutes later the brunette stepped outside and hurried back to the Lincoln. She stuck her head in the window and handed the driver one of the two envelopes I’d given to Scott. Once she was safely back inside Scott’s apartment building, the Lincoln pulled away.

  We followed the Lincoln, but we didn’t have to follow it far. Just to the newest, most luxurious, most expensive hotel in Waikiki.

  Owned by the most recognizable entrepreneur in recent history, the Aloha International Hotel on Saratoga Road towered over its neighbors.

  I parked the Jeep across the street.

  “Think that’s where we’ll find Gavin Dengler?” Flan said.

  “Seems about right, doesn’t it?”

  Flan jumped out of the Jeep and followed the Lincoln on foot into the garage.

  I sat alone, thinking about Oksana Sutin, about Iryna Kupchenko, about the nameless woman now sitting in Scott’s apartment a few blocks away. Lawyers thought they had it hard, worrying about where the next client would come from, how much they’d get when they settled the next case. Senior associates at large law firms shrank behind their desks when their bosses crossed the halls in front of their offices, afraid of getting chewed out, of having another motion for summary judgment dumped in their laps. And it wasn’t just lawyers, it was everyone in the working world. Legitimacy was constantly being taken for granted.

  And on the other side, power was constantly being abused. Pimps such as Gavin Dengler, businessmen such as Yoshimitsu Nakagawa, they were all the same. Exploiting whoever could be exploited, whether it was renting out a woman or throwing a blue vest at a single mom and having her ring up imported garbage for minimum wage. Sometimes it seemed those with the right to complain were the only ones who never did.

  I had seen the worst of humanity when I practiced law in New York, but somehow it seemed worse that all this happened here in paradise. A dirty cop in Queens never caused me to bat an eye. Here in Hawaii it seemed a far worse crime.

  I popped a Percocet and waited for it to kick in, waited for that warm feeling to rush over my brain, to lighten my thoughts, improve my mood. To shut out the rest of this horrible night.

  By the time the pill kicked in, Flan was back in the passenger seat of my Jeep.

  He said only two words: “Penthouse suite.”

  CHAPTER 41

  By the end of the month, the bulge in the back of my neck had gotten to be too much. With Turi’s trial less than a week away and an October surprise looming in the governor’s race, my body was beginning to break down. So I finally broke down and made an appointment with Scott’s massage therapist.

  On the last day of September, I drove my Jeep into Chinatown and parked in a garage. The big, hard sun felt good on my face, especially since I’d spent the last few days holed up in my office preparing for Turi’s trial. The only two people who apparently spent more time inside than I did were Lok Sun and Gavin Dengler. Both the hotel and brothel were being watched around the clock. Lok Sun had his men and Gavin Dengler had his women run errands. But neither man could be found leaving his residence and walking the streets.

  I double-checked the address before I stepped into the massage parlor. An older Asian woman greeted me as though I were a regular customer. She came around from the counter and immediately took my suit jacket. The waiting room was so small there was barely enough room to turn around.

  “You here to see Lian, yes?” the woman said.

  “Yes, I have an appointment.”

  “Good, good. You like. She take care of all your stress.”

  “Is it that noticeable?” I said, forcing a smile.

  She smiled back but didn’t reply, and it struck me that her English vocabulary was probably limited to those words she used every day.

  A few minutes later a beautiful, young Chinese woman appeared in the doorway, dressed in a long, black silk robe. “You come.”

  I followed her into another small room with a narrow massage table sitting in the center.

  She handed me a white towel. “You undress. I be right back.”

  I undressed and wrapped the towel around my waist, then lay on my stomach on the table. The lighting was dim, and a few moments later a soothing melody permeated the room. I tried to relax. I lay there for a few minutes, my eyes closed, my shoulders feeling a little less tense already.

  Thank you, Scott. I wasn’t a massage man. I’d never had one before, at least not professionally. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was already relaxed by the experience.

  Lian reentered the room and I kept my face buried in my arms on the table. She got right into it, working the muscles between my neck and shoulders. Slowly, using oils, she worked her way down my spine.

  “Your muscles very tight. You carry your worries in your neck.” Her voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  As she worked, thoughts of Turi’s trial tried to trespass, but I pushed them back. In my mind I muted the governor’s voice as he attempted to concern me about the polls and John Biel’s October surprise. I didn’t need to decide just now whether I’d move from Hawaii following the verdict. All I had to concentrate on for the next hour was relaxation.

  After about twenty minutes Lian instructed me to turn over. Holding the towel tight above my middle, I did. Before I could open my eyes, she placed a warm, wet towel over them.

  Lian worked on my chest, then moved onto my arms, gently massaging my biceps. Her hands ran over my heart as though she wanted to make certain it was still beating. She stopped at my abs. “How you get this terrible scar?”

  “You’ll have to read the book.”

  Wordlessly, Lian continued, moving her hands back up my chest then down over my stomach until her long, lithe fingers reached the towel. Then, slowly yet suddenly and without warning, one hand dipped inside the towel.

  Wait a minute, I
thought as the blood rushed to my groin and I swelled.

  My heart pounded and the pain instantly returned to my neck. This was not what I ordered.

  When she turned to gather more oils, I lifted the towel from my eyes and looked over at her, only to find that she’d disrobed as well. Down the length of her back, from her shoulders down to her perfect round ass, was a familiar image: a rare bird escaping from its cage. Lian was the girl from Tam’s bar.

  “Lian…,” I said.

  She turned, exposing small pert breasts and a neatly trimmed—

  Suddenly the door burst open.

  “Police!” a man shouted, raising his gun. “Hands in the air.”

  My jaw dropped, my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. As I rose off the table, my towel dropped to the floor. It didn’t matter. Seconds later my naked body was hurled to the floor right next to it. My face was held down against the dirty linoleum as an officer planted a knee in my back and slapped on cuffs.

  “You’re under arrest for solicitation of prostitution. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  As I listened to him read me my Miranda rights, I realized exactly what was happening. My realization would be confirmed the moment they dragged me through the front door onto the street, where the photographers would be waiting. The police were undermining me and, by extension, any message I might have for Turi Ahina’s jury. Look at Kevin Corvelli, they were saying. A criminal just like his clients.

  To add insult to injury they refused to allow me my clothes. They covered me with nothing but Lian’s sheer robe, then shoved me in my sore back until we reached the front door.

  When the door opened, the big, hard sun hit me in the face again, accompanied this time by microphones and cameras. Every reporter on Oahu had apparently been tipped off.

  The reporters hurled unintelligible questions at me as the police led me slowly toward the waiting prowl car.

  “Looks like you’re famous again, Counselor,” one bastard cop whispered in my ear as another opened the car’s rear door.