The Game Changer

by Scott Hildreth

  And then Gino.

  Gino then handed the card to Agrioli. Agrioli carefully placed it into the dish. In a moment, it turned to ash.

  “You are now one of us,” he said.

  Still incapable of speaking, I nodded.

  He poured a glass of wine for each of us, then offered a bandage for my hand. I declined, deciding to wear the wound as a badge of honor. After we finished the wine, he hugged me, holding me in his arms for longer than usual.

  “You make me proud, Michael.”

  I wanted to say something in return, but was still overcome with emotion. I simply nodded my acknowledgment of his kind words.

  He released me, and then waved his hand toward the other men. “We drink the wine to celebrate you being accepted into the family. Now? Now it is time to celebrate your commitment to become a member of my family.”

  I fought against the lump still looming in my throat, swallowed heavily and nodded.

  Sal opened the door.

  Then I walked alongside the members of the family out into the courtyard, and joined the members of my family to be.

  And I was filled with a sense of belonging I had never known.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Terra

  Michael walked across the patio with a certain grace that other men simply didn’t—or couldn’t—possess. The swagger that he expressed on a day-to-day basis was gone, and what remained was a confident man with an elegant walk and a beautiful smile.

  I beamed with pride as he approached Michelle and me.

  “Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

  He kissed me lightly on the lips. “I am.”

  I reached for his hand, and when I did, he pulled away. I looked at him, and then at his hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I cut it.”

  “On what?” I asked. “Let me see.”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Really.”

  “Let me see.”

  He turned his palm upward and opened his hand. “See, it’s nothing.”

  “It’s terrible. It needs stitches. What happened?”

  “It’s fine.” He looked at Michelle. “How are you doing this evening? You’ve been kind of sparse.”

  As with all women, my curiosity gnawed away at me. Being married to Michael was going to be no different than my mother being married to my father. I heeded her advice and realized if Michael wanted me to know, he would have told me. His decision not to give me an answer was his way of protecting me from something.

  “I’m good,” Michelle said. “It’s a great party.”

  It was a great party. It was exactly what I had hoped for. Everyone was having a good time, enjoying delicious food, alcohol without limits, and the company of family and friends they hadn’t seen in years.

  “Where’s Cap?” Michael asked.

  “They went to get food.” She pointed toward the house. “Actually, they’re coming this way. Excuse me, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  Just as Jimmy, my father and Cap walked up, the music changed to a slow dance song.

  “Papa. Dance with me.”

  “I’d love to.”

  We walked to the dance floor, a temporary surface they had assembled on the edge of the yard’s upper deck. While the soft music filled the air, my father held me in his arms. We swayed back and forth in tempo to the song’s melody.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Michael will be a good provider for your family. For your children.”

  “He will.” I leaned away and looked him in the eyes. “You’ll be a grandfather someday.”

  “When the day comes—” he pulled me into him “—I’ll be a happy man.”

  I closed my eyes and got lost in the moment. All my dreams were slowly becoming a reality, and the biggest of all was right around the corner. Having my family’s blessing on my relationship with Michael was overwhelming.

  I loved Michael so much that although I would have gone through with it somehow without their support, having it allowed me to share my love for him with them. My joy turned into their joy.

  Seeing it was one of my life’s greatest rewards to date.

  The sound of people screaming startled me. My eyes shot open.

  Oh my God.

  No.

  My father released me and turned toward the crowd.

  Men—dressed the way Michael was dressed on the night he went to save Peter—rushed through the yard. People were screaming and running in all directions. The men—armed with machine guns—kept coming, and coming, and coming.

  There were dozens of them, shouting out commands and making their way toward the dance floor. My eyes darted around, looking for Michael.

  “Papa...”

  “Essere ancora, mi acara.”

  Be still, my dear.

  As I stood at my father’s side and searched the horizon for Michael, three men, all dressed in military-type gear, rushed to where we stood. One of them had his machine gun pointed directly at my father’s chest.

  My father glared at him.

  “Anthony Agrioli, I’m Special Agent Whistler with the ATF. Are you armed?”

  My father spat on the ground beside him. “Fucking pig. You come to my house at this time of celebration?”

  “Get down on your knees and interlock your fingers behind your head,” the man demanded.

  One of the other men raised his rifle and pointed it at my father. The third man lowered his rifle and reached for my shoulder.

  A voice at my left side sent chills down my spine. “Touch her, and I’ll break your fucking arm.”

  I glanced left.

  Michael!

  Still dressed in his slacks, his jacket was off and his shirt was untucked. He held out his hand. “Come here, Terra.”

  “Ma’am, don’t move,” the second man said. “Are you armed?”

  “Don’t answer him, Terra. Just come here. He can’t do anything to you.”

  Slowly, I walked to Michael’s side, and then turned around.

  The man tilted his head to the side and glared at Michael. “Who are you?”

  “Arrest me, and you can find out.”

  The first man took a step forward, all but pressing the barrel of his gun into my father’s chest. “On the ground, Mr. Agrioli!”

  “Anthony!” Michael shouted. My father’s eyes shot toward him. “Ask if you’re being placed under arrest.”

  My father’s eyes went to the man in front of him. “Am I being placed under arrest?”

  “Yes, you are,” he responded.

  “Tell him you want an attorney present during questioning.”

  My father cleared his throat, and then lowered himself to one knee. “I want an attorney. And I refuse to answer any of your questions.”

  My eyes welled with tears. My dreams were being crushed right in front of my face. “Papa...”

  He looked at me. His eyes were filled with sorrow. “Mi dispiace. Pagheranno per quello che hanno fatto.”

  I’m sorry. But they will pay for what they have done.

  My father placed his hands behind his head and shifted his eyes toward the man with the gun. “Did you hear me, pig?”

  The man lowered his rifle, reached for his handcuffs and sighed. “I heard you.”

  “I’ll have an attorney waiting for you at the courthouse,” Michael said.

  As the other two men patted down my handcuffed father, the first man looked Michael up and down. “Who are you?”

  “It’s not that easy, asshole. You want to know my name? You better get another set of handcuffs.” Michael glanced at the other two men and chuckled. “And a whole lot more hel
p.”

  They lifted my father to his feet. Seeing him in handcuffs was crushing me.

  Michael put his arm around my shoulder and turned away. “Come on, Terra.”

  “But...”

  “Listen,” he said. “Let me handle this. Everything will be fine.”

  I wanted to believe him, but the knot in my stomach and my aching heart told me differently.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael

  Terra and I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and sharing awkward glances. Thoughts of Agrioli’s arrest consumed me, leaving me incapable of much more than worrying.

  Held in jail without bond and labeled a “flight risk,” his hearing date was a month away.

  His charges?

  Ordering the murder of Wallace Redman, aka Jackie Four Eyes.

  I knew enough about law to know if they were going to charge him with ordering the murder, they’d have to prove the victim was, in fact, murdered. Doing so would be a difficult task at best, as we had dismembered Mr. Four Eyes in Meatball Pete’s butcher shop.

  His flesh and bones were then fed to Pete’s hogs, leaving only the teeth as incriminating evidence.

  And I knew the ATF didn’t have the teeth.

  Because I did.

  “You’re not going to work?”

  “No. I’m trying to decide if there’s something I can do.”

  “It keeps playing over and over in my head,” she said. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but it’s like a bad dream—only I’m awake.”

  “It doesn’t sound ridiculous. I feel the same way.”

  “Do you keep thinking about it?”

  “I do.”

  Her father being arrested for a crime that I committed was eating away at me like a cancer. I looked up. She was genuinely concerned, and with good reason. It pained me to see her that way.

  “Does the attorney know what he’s doing?” she asked.

  “He does.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I wasn’t sure. I had no reason to doubt his abilities, but I did.

  “I’m sure he’s doing all he can.”

  “Is that going to be enough?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so?”

  “It’s all I’ve got. Hope.”

  “I want to know. He’s my father. He’s going to be your father, too.”

  She was right. I wished I was less reliant on the attorney, but there was little I could do on my own.

  “I know, but my hands are tied, baby. I wish there was—”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Who?”

  “The attorney, Michael. Are you even paying attention?”

  For me to trust an attorney, I would have to find one that was willing to fight no differently than if it was his life that was on the line.

  And I wasn’t sure that one of those men existed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know if I trust him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t trust attorneys.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  The answer was yes, but I couldn’t admit it. Not to her. If Cap was right and deceit was no different than a lie, there were times when lies were a necessary evil. This was one of those times. Protecting Terra from further harm would require shielding her from the truth.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t even know who Wallace Redman is, do you?”

  I didn’t know who he was. I only knew what we did with him. “No,” I responded, and I didn’t feel guilty for doing so.

  The worry that was painted on her face slowly faded away. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this,” she said, “but now do you know why I did what I did?”

  I took a drink of my coffee, and upon doing so, realized it was tepid. The morning was escaping me, but I didn’t seem to care. I tried to understand what she was asking me, but couldn’t make it make sense in my head. “What do you mean?”

  “This thing with my dad. It’s all over the news. People are going to wonder, Michael. They’ll talk. They’ll decide for themselves, no matter what the court says. Being the daughter of someone that the public despises isn’t easy.”

  She had a valid point. I, no differently than the people she spoke of, had developed my own preconceived notions about her father, but I didn’t dare tell her.

  “I understand.” I stood, stared down at my coffee cup and then looked at her. “My coffee’s cold.”

  She got up from her chair. “So’s mine.”

  I rinsed my cup and turned around. She draped her arms over my shoulders, and in response, I reached around her waist and pulled her toward me. Intimacy, however, was absent, and I wondered if she could sense it.

  Until her father’s case was resolved, it was possible she felt the same way about me. She rested her head on my shoulder. I stared at the floor behind her and wanted it all to be over.

  “I’m going to go see the attorney.”

  “Can I—”

  I pulled away and looked at her. I didn’t respond, but I didn’t have to. She could see it in my eyes.

  “It’s probably best that you go alone, isn’t it?”

  “Probably so.”

  “As soon as you’re done can we go visit him?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  She smiled, but it did little to hide her concern. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  His perfectly sculpted salt-and-pepper hair combined with the unnatural orange glow of his skin made him look like an actor, not an attorney.

  I had given him the benefit of the doubt.

  He crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair and offered me a nod.

  A smug nod.

  And then he smiled. “I spoke to the US Attorney about a plea bargain—”

  I jumped from my seat. “A fucking plea bargain?”

  I realized I shouted fuck but didn’t regret it. “You think a plea bargain is the answer?”

  “Sit down, Mr. Tripp.” He wagged his finger toward my chair. “I realize it’s an emotional time for everyone, but negotiating a plea bargain with the US Attorney on a capital murder charge isn’t easy.” He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and grinned a shallow grin. “But I’ve got a long history with him, so—”

  “You’re buddies with the prosecutor?”

  He shook his head. “Buddies? A working relationship is more like—”

  “No plea bargains.”

  A plea bargain would require an admission of guilt on Agrioli’s part, and in exchange, he’d receive a lesser sentence than the maximum allowed by law. Life in prison instead of the death penalty was my guess.

  I couldn’t let him plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. A crime I committed.

  “Hear me out.”

  “No plea bargains.”

  “I understand your concerns, but that isn’t a call for you to make. It’s—”

  I pounded my hand against the desk. He jumped as if I’d taken a shot at him. “Listen to me. Carefully. I paid the retainer. I’m paying for his defense. So, you’re working for me. There’ll be no plea bargains.”

  “With all due respect, sir. You may be paying me, but I’m working for my client. And it’s my duty to present him with the options. This is an option. The decision is up to him, not you.”

  I glared at him. This couldn’t be happening. “You can’t ask him if he’s guilty, can you?”

  “I can’t discuss the intricacies of the case with you. I’m only ab
le—”

  He wasn’t listening. His feeble mind wouldn’t allow him to. I leaned over the desk and cleared my throat. “You’re not listening. Listen. Can you, as an attorney, ask a client if he or she is guilty of the crime they are accused of committing?”

  “I assume all of my clients are innocent, and develop a defense based on the facts of the case. If a client admits guilt in my presence, I cannot defend them.”

  “So, you’re left to wonder if they’re innocent or guilty?”

  “I didn’t say that. I assume all of my clients are innocent, and develop a defense based on the facts of the—”

  I raised my hand. “Stop. I heard you the first time. Whether you’re going to admit it or not, if they’re accused—and you’re defending them—you’re left to wonder if they’re guilty. You already said if they admit guilt you can’t defend them, so you don’t know. You can’t.”

  “I assume—”

  “I paid you to defend him. You’re a defense attorney, it’s your job to defend him. Defend him as if he’s innocent. I want you to do your goddamned job. The feds? They don’t have a body, they don’t have skeletal remains, they don’t have a murder weapon, so they can’t prove murder. All they’ve got is a glimmer of hope that he hires some half-assed attorney that doesn’t have the aptitude—no, the desire—to fight them.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  I stood up straight. “You’re fired.”

  “Excuse me? It isn’t that easy, Mr. Tripp. I’ve been this family’s attorney for—”

  “I don’t give a fuck. You’re fired.”

  “You’ve retained me, paid in advance for the anticipated defense and—”

  “You’re fired.”

  “You can’t fire me. Twenty years. That’s how long I’ve been his attorney.” Incapable of grasping what was happening, he shook his head. “To remove me from the case, a motion would have to be filed, and then—”

  “I’ll leave that up to the new attorney to figure out.”

  “Mr. Tripp—”

  I fixed my eyes on his. “You’re. Fired.”

  I wanted someone who got the same satisfaction out of fighting for their client’s freedom that I got out of fighting for my country’s freedom.

  I knew exactly who I needed, but hiring him would first require someone to swallow a tremendous amount of pride.