Leader of the Pack

by David Rosenfelt

  “Yes. She said it was the hardest thing she had ever done. She said the look in his eyes was frightening, that he was crazed. He swore at her, and told her she would be sorry for what she did.”

  “So she was afraid?”

  Ellerbee nods. “Yes, very. She knew what he was capable of, and his family…” She lets the sentence trail off, so that every juror can finish it in their mind. And then she starts to sniffle again.

  Dylan wisely chooses that moment to turn her over to me. Ellerbee has the jury’s sympathy, and she probably should. For me to get up and attack her will annoy them. Unfortunately, annoying is who I am and what I do.

  “Ms. Ellerbee, when your sister told Mr. Desimone that their relationship was over, and his eyes were all crazed and wild, how did she defend herself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t he attack her in his enraged state?”

  “No.”

  “So he just walked away? He didn’t grab her, or shake her, or anything?”

  “He may have.”

  “She wouldn’t have mentioned that to you?”

  She’s in a slight trap; she doesn’t want to say that it didn’t happen, but she’s gone to such lengths to paint her and her sister as such close confidantes that she can’t admit the possibility that it could have happened and gone unmentioned.

  “I think she would have,” she allows.

  “I think so, too,” I say, and Hatchet sustains Dylan’s objection.

  “How many affairs did your sister tell you that she had?” The jury has heard previous evidence that she had at least five, so this is not breaking new ground. It also puts me in the delicate position of looking like I might be trashing the victim, never a good thing to be accused of doing.

  “I don’t recall the exact number,” she says.

  “At least five?”

  “Probably. She was trying to find herself.”

  “And each time you suggested she end it and go back to her husband?” If she says “no,” she looks like she countenanced adultery. “Yes,” and then telling her to dump Joey had nothing to do with Joey himself.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if she told Richard about this affair, or about any of her affairs?”

  “I don’t think she did.”

  “Because Richard could become violent?”

  “He was not a violent man.”

  I look puzzled. “Didn’t she ever confide in you that she called the police three times in four years because of domestic violence?”

  “They had gotten past that.”

  “But she was afraid that Mr. Desimone was going to hurt her, maybe kill her, because he was violent, and so was his family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she report this fear to the police? Maybe get a restraining order?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Did you report it? Because you were afraid for your sister’s life?”

  “No. I wish I had.”

  I’ve gotten what little I’m going to get from her, and don’t want to look as if I’m badgering, so I let her off the stand. Hatchet adjourns for the day, but I tell the bailiff that I need to talk to Joey in an anteroom.

  Joey is getting to know me pretty well, and once we get out of earshot of the bailiff, he says, “What’s wrong?”

  “Joey, what I am about to tell you I know secondhand, but I believe it to be true.”

  “OK.”

  “Your father has been murdered.”

  His look is of a man punched in the gut by Marcus. “No … that can’t be … I just talked to him the other day.”

  “This happened since then. I believe he was murdered by someone who worked for him, a man named Bruni. Mr. Bruni is no longer alive himself.”

  “But no one else knows this? It hasn’t been in the news.”

  “I have special access. Joey, you can try and reach your father, but I’m afraid you’ll find that I’m right. I’m sorry.”

  He’s very upset; the most since I’ve known him, and we’ve been through some pretty tough times together.

  We talk some more, and I ask him not to mention this to anyone. Finally I say that I have to leave, though I don’t tell him that I’m heading to the airport to fly to Washington, D.C.

  To become a lobbyist.

  I’m not really becoming a lobbyist, but I’m in a lobby. I’m in the Madison Hotel in Washington, and I’m twenty minutes late for my meeting. Which seems to be OK, because the person I’m meeting with is even later. It must be a Washington thing.

  “Andy?” I look up and there is a woman I assume to be Carolyn Greenwell, the assistant undersecretary of state for Latin American affairs. I got to her not because I have great connections in government, but because Willie and I adopted out a golden retriever to her brother, who’s a dentist in Teaneck.

  Six degrees of Andy Carpenter.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been waiting for you in the bar,” she says. “In Washington, if you’re meeting someone after ten in the morning, assume it’s in the bar.”

  “Sounds like my kind of town.”

  We head into the bar and order drinks. I’m looking around to see if I recognize any members of Congress. They’re sort of my heroic role models, in that they do even less work than I do. But nobody looks familiar.

  We start by talking about her brother’s golden retriever, who we named Bumper because he keeps banging into people in the hope that he can goad them into petting him. She met him when she was in Jersey for the weekend. “What a great dog,” she says. “I would love to get one, but I live in an apartment.”

  I explain to her that apartment living is fine for dogs, as long as they’re not high energy, and they get taken on a lot of walks. I suggest an older dog for her; when it comes to placing dogs in homes, I can’t seem to stop selling.

  “So, what did you want to talk about?” she asks.

  “Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, and Ecuador.”

  “What a coincidence, I’m going to Peru on Saturday, and then on to Ecuador.”

  “Why?”

  “Somebody’s got to, and the president is busy.” When she sees that I don’t fully get the Washington humor, she adds, “No special reason, other than we like to visit our embassies on a rotating and consistent basis. This week I drew the Peru and Ecuador straws.”

  “You don’t seem pleased about it,” I say.

  “You ever try and find a Giants game on TV in Peru?”

  “You’re not a Redskins fan?”

  “God forbid; I’m from Jersey,” she says. “But don’t mention that around here. What do you want to know about those countries?”

  I explain to her that I’m working on a case involving organized crime, and that one of the main players has been making frequent trips to the countries I mentioned, including being in Peru right now. “And I have reason to believe that something big is happening.”

  “What’s his name?” she asks.

  “Simon Ryerson.”

  It doesn’t seem to register, so she takes out a notepad and writes it down. “Any idea what the big thing might be? Drugs?”

  “I think it might have to do with arms trafficking.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of the players have trafficked in arms in the past, using boats. And those countries have large coastlines.”

  “You think the arms are going into, or out of, Peru?”

  “Don’t know.”

  She thinks for a while, then asks, “And this big thing that might be happening, you mean really big?”

  I nod. “Really big.”

  She frowns. “Doesn’t make much sense. Those countries get most of their arms from us anyway, and have relatively small armies. They certainly don’t produce much, so I can’t see that they’re exporting them.”

  “What about drug cartels?”

  She nods. “They certainly exist, and they are and want to remain armed, but how much do they need? They’re not invad
ing other countries. So could they want to bring in arms? Yes. Enough to fit your definition of big? I don’t see it.”

  “Is the drug trade substantial down there?

  “Very. For example, Peru is the second largest producer of cocaine in the world; more than two hundred metric tons a year. But they’ve become better at interdicting, with our help, and the traffic has slowed down remarkably in the past year. The problem is the political will.”

  “Here or there?”

  “There. The drug trade is woven into the fabric; people depend on it for their livelihood. They have for centuries. But like I say, unless they’re getting better at hiding it, we’ve slowed it down a lot.”

  “Somehow it’s got to be arms.”

  “I’ll ask around when I’m down there,” she says, and when she sees me react, she says, “Discreetly, of course. Without mentioning your name or situation.”

  “Thanks. If you find out anything helpful, there’s a golden retriever in it for you.”

  “Bribing a government official in the bar of the Madison Hotel?” she asks. “You’re an old Washington hand already.”

  Ryerson knew there was a problem when he got off the plane at JFK. Waiting to meet him was Tommy Iurato, who was not smiling.

  “Where’s Costa?” Ryerson asked.

  Iurato looked around at the people nearby, within listening distance, and said, “We’ll talk in the car.”

  Once they got in the car, Iurato said, “Costa is probably dead.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Iurato said. “But I’ve tried to reach him a bunch of times, and can’t get him. So I went to his house. He wasn’t there, but his blood was.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There was blood spatter, and a pool of it on the floor. My best guess is someone took a bullet in the head, and chances are it was Costas’s head. But there is another candidate.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Bruni. He’s nowhere to be found.”

  Ryerson paused to think things through, to piece together what might have happened. “Bruni have any reason to eliminate Costa?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of. They were pretty tight. But even if he did, why would he disappear? He’s been waiting for the payoff,” Iurato said, and then added pointedly, “We’ve all been waiting for the payoff.”

  Ryerson nodded. “And if Bruni did it, why get rid of the body?”

  “So maybe Bruni is dead as well.”

  “Somebody good enough to handle Costa and Bruni at the same time? You have any idea who that might be?”

  Iurato shook his head. “One guy could never do it. And I don’t know who would want to.”

  “People loyal to Carmine?” Ryerson asked.

  “Carmine’s dead. He had nobody left when he was alive. And dead? No chance.”

  “Another family?

  Iurato shrugged. “Always possible, but it really doesn’t fit.”

  Ryerson had a feeling that it had something to do with Carpenter, but didn’t bother saying so, because it wasn’t logical. Carpenter was a lawyer defending a client; killing two dangerous men wasn’t really part of the job description.

  There was always the chance that something happened that made Bruni decide to kill Costa. Ryerson’s fear was that whatever it was could conceivably have convinced Bruni to go to the feds and tell what he knew. That would be a disaster.

  “What do you want me to do?” Iurato asked.

  “Do whatever you can to find out who did this. Someone must know something. And we need to know if Bruni is alive.”

  Iurato realized what he was thinking. “There’s no way Bruni turned; don’t worry about that. If he’s gone, then he’s gone for good.”

  “OK; keep me posted on every detail.”

  “I will. I also think it would be a good idea to move things along.”

  “I will handle the timing,” Ryerson said, not wanting to give Iurato the satisfaction of agreeing with him, even though he did.

  There were a few more arrangements to be finalized on the U.S. side, and he had to get the final plan signed off on, but none of that would take very long. They couldn’t afford to let it take very long.

  If only it would start to rain.

  The most important moments in a trial are often not seen by the jury. That is because it’s one of the judge’s main responsibilities to screen what they see and hear, lest they be prejudiced. It’s the “you can’t unring a bell” theory; once the jury hears something they shouldn’t have heard, the trial is forever tainted.

  If the damage is great enough, a mistrial is the result. Judges basically prefer nuclear war to mistrials.

  So if there’s something that’s borderline as to whether the jury should be privy to it, judges let it be known that they want to hear it first, before the jury. Hatchet is extremely vigilant about this, and lawyers who cross him on it are never heard from again.

  Today is an example of this, and it’s clearly the most important moment of the trial for our side. Our defense is predicated on the theory that Richard Solarno was the intended victim, not Karen. We have to show that Richard had other enemies, dangerous ones, and that he was himself involved with criminal activities.

  But we have to get Hatchet to let this stuff in, and it will not be easy.

  The law on this is simultaneously simple and complex. Basically, anything that is relevant to an issue on trial can be submitted as evidence. However, evidence may be excluded if its probative value is substantially outweighed by the danger of unfair prejudice, confusion of the issues, or misleading the jury.

  Based on all this, if I were a fair-minded, impartial individual, which I thankfully am not, I would probably not let the evidence in. I think the probative value is limited, and the chance of prejudice of the jury is great.

  But there are two factors working in our favor, and one leads into the other. First, judges have substantial discretion over matters like this, and appeals courts are very respectful of that discretion. It is only when “abuse of discretion” is found that appeals courts will intervene, and that is very unlikely to happen here.

  The other factor helping us is that judges like to bend over backward to help the defense in evidentiary matters, and this time that will be even more true than usual.

  Once Hatchet granted us a new trial based on Dylan’s withholding the threat information from the Montana police, it would seem unlikely that he would then prevent the jury from hearing about it. And if the Montana information comes in, then the rest should follow.

  The issue is far more important to us than to Dylan. Dylan probably thinks he can survive it, but it pretty much represents our entire case. We need to muddy the water, and this is the only mud at our disposal.

  So with the jury tucked safely away in the jury room, Hatchet convenes the hearing to discuss the potential admission of the evidence. Dylan is about to wrap up his case, and we will then immediately start presenting ours. If Hatchet turns us down on this evidence, it will be a short presentation.

  Hike has filed a persuasive brief, and Dylan has responded in kind. Hatchet has had a week to familiarize himself with them, so he’s up to date on the facts. This hearing is to present oral arguments, though it’s certainly possible that Hatchet has already made his decision.

  “Your Honor, for six long years, while my client sat in a prison cell, the state failed to follow a crucial track in their investigation. They were aware of this obvious line of inquiry, as has been made clear. But whether or not they were aware of it, the relevance of that evidence is obvious. We need to be allowed to pursue it and the jury needs to be allowed to see it.”

  Dylan stands to respond. “It is a fishing expedition, Your Honor. That line of inquiry has now been investigated, and proven fruitless. There is absolutely no evidence that Richard Solarno was the target of the killers, or that those he did business with did him any harm.”

  “Your Honor,” I respond, “Mr. Campbell has u
sed as a lynchpin of his case that my client had issued a comparatively veiled threat aimed at Mr. and Mrs. Solarno. We dispute that he did, but if Mr. Campbell felt that went to motive and supported his case, then a threat from someone else is equally relevant. If other people, people with guns, had a motive to kill Richard Solarno, then it is obviously something the jury should hear about in detail.”

  “Many people have enemies,” Dylan says. “Murder victims have them as well. But for threats to become admissible, there needs to be independent, corroborative evidence that the threats were acted upon. That evidence exists in the case of Mr. Desimone; it does not exist elsewhere.”

  “The state did not look elsewhere,” I say. “Just because they made no effort to find it does not mean it doesn’t exist.”

  Hatchet obviously feels this subject has been beaten to death, because he says, “What about the organized crime connections that Mr. Solarno had?”

  “That has almost no probative value,” Dylan says, “and would be extremely prejudicial. Mere association with criminals, if true, is completely insufficient in the absence of other evidence.”

  I shake my head. “Mr. Campbell has turned mentioning my client’s family into a cottage industry, as if an accident of birth made it more likely that he was guilty. Clearly, having done illegal business with these people, as we will demonstrate Mr. Solarno did, is far more significant.”

  We go back and forth for a while, and I have the feeling that Hatchet is tuning us out. I’m nervous about this; if he rules against us we’re going to have a very short defense case to present.

  “I’m inclined to allow the evidence,” Hatchet says. “With the caveat that if it goes too far afield, I’ll stop it immediately.” He turns to me. “It will be your responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I take a quick look at an annoyed Dylan before I say, “I’m on the case, Your Honor.”

  I am unsuccessfully trying to discipline myself. I’ve been spending a great deal of time focused on the Desimone crime family in general, and Simon Ryerson in particular. The problem with that, although I think something major is going down with that group, is I have absolutely no concrete evidence that it has anything to do with the Solarno murders and Joey Desimone’s trial.