“Game, set, match, right?”
“Not so fast sparky.”
“So?” Young asked.
“Two things. First Lydia Johnson, the woman who died two days after the abortion. Martison was probably guilty of medical malpractice, but did his negligence rise to the level of intentional conduct that satisfies the standard a jury would find sufficient for conviction? That is assuming the judge allows the jury to consider that count.
The second more troubling problem I see is establishing that the babies were born alive. The evidence rests entirely on the credibility of his assistant. Martinson claims he administered Digoxin causing the abortions. I’m reasonably certain Vito will challenge your witness’ qualifications to testify to that. She has absolutely no the medical training or background to rely upon. Add to that her failure to report what she claims she saw before the authorities shut down the operation,” Regan paused, “well you know what Vito’s going to do with that.”
“But we’re offering her as a fact witness, not as an expert,” Young responded.
“I hear you; I’m just saying these are the problems in our case. If Vito can convince the judge that the Digoxin worked and that no live babies were delivered, six counts of murder will be thrown out of the case before the jury has any opportunity to deliberate.”
Chapter 14
Ari Nooris rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation to his hands after one of the Military Police officers who had escorted him from Guantanamo removed the cuffs. He nodded his head acknowledging the instructions he was receiving from the representative from Israel, Alon Solomon, a Mossad agent who used to work for him before Nooris left the Israeli spy agency. Solomon and two other Mossad agents stood by as Nooris’ shackles were being removed. The CIA and the Mossad had agreed that it was in their respective countries’ best interests for the rogue agents to be returned to their homeland.
He turned and smiled at Rabinowitz whose handcuffs and leg shackles were also being removed. The prisoner release had been arranged within hours of the announcement of al-Zawanhiri’s apprehension.
They were in an isolated area of the Miami International Airport. The CIA operative, code name Mr. K, watched through a one way mirror. Nooris smiled at the mirror assuming someone was on the other side
“Ari you understand that your immediate return to Israel was part of the deal,” Alon said.
Nooris turned away from the mirror, “No it wasn’t.”
The Mossad agent exhaled, “Do you seriously believe you can remain here?”
“You haven’t read the documentation from the U.S. Attorney General have you?”
Solomon shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I read the documents or not. The Director wants to see you, and our ‘friends’ do not want you to remain here.”
“You can tell the Director we won’t be returning to Israel anytime soon. As to our friends” he turned back to the mirror, “they have granted us absolute immunity, so they cannot keep us in custody.”
The Mossad agent’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed Nooris’ arm, “Ari, we have charges pending against you in Israel.”
Without turning Nooris shook his arm free from Solomon’s grasp and said, “Are you sure about that?” He paused, “No?”
“Sir, unless you have a Writ of Extradition signed by a federal judge these prisoners are free to leave,” the major in charge of the Military Police detail told the Israeli agent.
“Sholom Alon,” Nooris said and walked out of the room with Rabinowitz limping behind him as the Israelis and Military Police stood in silence.
“I thought they had this covered?” Mr. K asked his associate.
“Apparently not.”
“Unfucking believable! Is surveillance in place?”
“The FBI has them covered.”
“I hope they don’t fuck it up...again.”
Nooris and Rabinowitz stepped out of the terminal into the humid South Florida afternoon. They waived for a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked without turning his head.
“Take us to the nearest ATM so I can get the cash to pay your fare, and I’ll tell you then,” Nooris replied.
The driver turned and was about to tell them to get out of the cab, but there was something in the look Rabinowitz gave him that stopped him. He drove away from the terminal without uttering another word. Two vehicles followed. Nooris nonchalantly looked back and nodded to his companion.
Nooris suspected the FBI or Homeland Security was following them. At present, he had no intention of trying to evade surveillance. As directed, the driver drove them to an ATM at a convenience store across the highway from the Miami International Airport. Nooris made his transaction and was pleased to see that there was a rare pay phone there as well. He placed several calls, got back in the vehicle and told the driver to take them to the Fontainebleau Hotel.
When they entered the lobby they were greeted by the hotel manager. “Mr. Nooris, your wardrobes will be delivered to your suite when they arrive as you directed. The masseuse will be up as soon as you and your companion are ready for her.”
Nooris nodded, handed the manager a $100 tip and took the two key cards.
“Please let me know if there is anything else you require,” the manager said as he escorted them to the bank of elevators for the suite towers.
They rode the elevator in silence to the concierge floor and entered a deluxe ocean side suite. They immediately stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and conversed quietly in Hebrew.
“O’Malley I hear yer niece and her husband have put off their honeymoon,” Danny Duffy said as Mike O’Malley took a seat at the table in the back room of Duffy’s bar in Northern Liberties. Duffy was the acknowledged head of the Irish mafia in Philadelphia. Duffy and O’Malley had been friends for several decades dating back to the time O’Malley had been an up and coming bantam-weight professional boxer. Back in the day he had also been one of Duffy’s leg breakers.
“I don’t think Chef Katey trusts me to take care of the Grape Tavern, while she and her hubby go on holiday don’t cha know,” he said and raised his glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” Duffy acknowledged the toast.
“Has our friend Flynn returned to Ireland?” O’Malley asked.
Michael Flynn had come to Philadelphia under Duffy’s protection for the Barnes job.
“Ya know the Flynns. They’re a tight lipped bunch. I assume the boyo made his way home safely,” Duffy replied.
“So Duffy, what was so important that ya couldn’t tell me on the phone?”
“The word is out that the eejits in Washington released that Ari Nooris character and his henchman from the prison in Cuba. Those two are ‘chancers’ fer sure. And no one’s seen that girlie that used to run with them either,” Duffy said and gave O’Malley a serious look. “Anyways, their plan ta cart the two wankers off to their homeland apparently went ta shite.”
O’Malley frowned as he digested the news. “I assume the police will be watchin out fer them until they sort it out.”
Duffy shrugged, “Yer niece and Liam are blood and we need to watch out fer our own. Keep yer socks up.”
O’Malley drained his drink and left.
“Commissioner, FBI Special Agent in Charge Howard Keel is on the line for you.”
He hesitated before picking up the call. In Regan’s experience an unexpected call from the FBI was never good news.
“Howard to what do I owe the honor of your call?”
“I have you on speaker, Special Agent Rico Valdez is here with me.”
“Commissioner.”
“Special Agent Valdez.” Regan liked Valdez, who didn’t come off with the typical FBI attitude most of his colleagues affected.
Keel told him about the screw-up.
“John are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“We have them under surveillance. They’re still in Florida. I just wanted to keep you in the loop. I’d like Special Agent Valdez to work with you and your people to make sure you remain apprised of our surveillance. You OK with that?”
“Special Agent Valdez’ assistance is always welcomed.”
After discussing the logistics of the assignment the commissioner hung up the phone. This was not what he had anticipated.
Chapter 15
April 1987
The Commonwealth’s case against Aron Heilman took over three weeks to complete. The prosecution’s final witness, Detective Isadore Ichowitz, was proffered to tie up the loose ends. Ichowitz was tasked with addressing the weakest element of the case, confirming the identities of the two bodies found in the shallow grave in the church cellar and connecting them to Heilman. His direct examination plodded through the investigation that concluded with the Department’s identification of Jinjing Lee and Bayani Sukarto as the murder victims.
Ichowitz explained the normal methods of identification had not been possible because both victims had recently immigrated to the country and there were no dental records or fingerprints available for a match. The investigation established that the women had been prostitutes who often ‘worked’ together offering their dates a ‘three-way’. The victims were last seen driving away from Frankford Avenue in Heilman’s car.
The Judge looked at his watch and said, “Mr. Coratelli, I assume your cross examination of Detective Ichowitz will take some time.”
“Yes your honor.”
“All right we’ll recess for an early lunch and resume at 1:30.”
As he left the court room John Regan approached, “Good job Izz. You put Heilman with the victims. You cleaned up the mess Coratelli made of the hookers who testified about Lee and Sukarto yesterday afternoon.” Regan was referring to the prosecution witnesses who claimed they had retired from their former profession. Both women testified that before they ‘retired,’ when they were on the stroll they had taken Lee and Sukarto under their wing. According to their narrative they warned their protégées to stay away from Heilman.
On cross examination Coratelli demolished both witnesses’ credibility by getting them to admit they were scheduled to appear on the Jerry Springer show and other paid appearances to talk about the case. These ‘former’ hookers were trying to cash in on their ‘celebrity’ status. By the time Coratelli had finished with them he got them to concede their claim of ‘retirement’ from the profession was ‘exaggerated’ since they had both been arrested less than three weeks before the trial for solicitation.
“I’m not so sure I was as effective as you think and I still have to go through cross examination. I’m not an attorney but I think the DA should have closed with the torture victims, Polanski, McGowan and Mosato. Their testimony was powerful and compelling. I saw how the members of the jury reacted. A number of them had tears in their eyes and shuddered when they described the torture they had endured.”
“I hear you did good in court today,” Joe O’Reilly greeted them when Ichowitz and Regan got back to Homicide.
Ichowitz looked back sheepishly, “Yeah, but I still have to face cross examination.”
O’Reilly grimaced, “Coratelli tore me a new asshole when I testified at the Preliminary Hearing in the Celebrity Room homicide case. You remember that happened on the first day you were assigned to the division.”
Ichowitz nodded, “That’s how I got the Heilman case.”
“Yeah you and your buddy Regan, snagged the big headline case, and I got stuck with a real dog.”
“So what happened at the prelim?” Regan asked.
“Coratelli is one smooth number. The dagos, Simonelli and Mastrangello,” he nodded his head in the direction of the two detectives of Italian heritage who the Irish detectives lumped together pejoratively, Ichowitz was ‘the Jew’, “told me young Vito Coratelli is not, as commonly believed, owned by the mob. When he got Mustache Pete Mastronardo’s son a life sentence instead of the chair, Pete put the word out on the street that Coratelli was a free agent. He was to be treated with respect and not like the pisello lawyers the mob usually hires.”
Ichowitz and Regan looked at O’Reilly with blank expressions on their faces. He shook his head, “Pisello means penis. Don’t you guys know anything?”
“Anyways, Coratelli convinced the judge we didn’t have a prima facie case and he tossed it. Better watch your ass when Coratelli does his thing.” He warned Ichowitz as he waddled out of the room.
Chapter 16
The Present
Michael Flynn was back in his flat in South Belfast. He looked out of his window at Great Victoria Street and Shaftesbury Square. Since he had returned from across the pond he could not seem to shake the sense of loss over the prospect of never seeing his son again. It wasn’t until after Nooris hired him for the Barnes job that he realized he would be in the same town with his ex and his boy. Seeing them made him reconsider the wisdom of agreeing to let them leave Ireland to get away from his family’s influence.
The dreary rain soaked square matched his mood. He checked the high tech monitor, a gift from the bartender at the John Hewitt Bar he had been seeing. She told him it was for their one month anniversary. He shook his head realizing it was time for him to move on before she got the ‘Irish Toothache’.
Flynn had been summoned to a meeting with his uncle Seamus. In his experience such meetings never brought good tidings. He had been given the family’s blessing to start a security consulting business for art dealers and private collectors. He found the irony that one of the most prolific art thieves in the UK was now being paid for providing advice to the community he had once victimized. It was just so typical of the Irish. Only six weeks in and his consulting fees had been far more than he had anticipated. He had convinced his uncles that broadening the family’s enterprises by expanding their legitimate business operations was the smart way to go. But he knew they were old school and he was concerned they may have changed their collective view of the subject.
He drove in the downpour to his uncle’s headquarters. “Mikey boy, dry yerself off and get a cuppa tea,” Seamus Flynn greeted him when the bullyboy escorted him in. Seamus’ private office was on the second floor of the warehouse near the Harland and Wolfe shipyard in the shadow of Samson and Goliath, the giant gantry cranes that towered over the harbor. On the wall behind his desk was a picture of the RMS Titanic that had been built there in 1912. Flynn was waiting for his uncle to retell the story of how, but for the grace of god, his great grandfather Michael Flynn, for whom he had been named, would have perished on the Titanic’s maiden voyage, in which event none of the Flynns would have been born.
God’s hand apparently moved in strange ways and young Michael Flynn, who was supposed to have worked as a stoker on the vessel, had been thrown in jail for some minor misdemeanor, something to do with beating up a local merchant and stealing his day’s receipts. The ship sailed without him, and four days later, on the same day Michael Flynn was released, the Titanic sank. He took those two events as a divine guidance that crime does in deed pay, and so it had for generations that followed.
Flynn took a sip of his tea and waited for the older man to reveal the purpose of his summons.
“I’ve news from our friend in Philadelphia that he wanted me to pass along to ya.”
Seamus was referring to Danny Duffy. Before emigrating to the States Duffy had been a member of the IRA who fled to avoid prosecution for a sundry list of violent acts he had allegedly committed during the Troubles. “Our friend has told us that the two gougers who blew up the party on July 4th that ya shot up the night ya left Philly are on the loose again. He thinks they might be holdin a grudge against ya for getting them arrested and shootin them and all. Anyways Duffy thinks they may decide ta take their frustration out on yer flesh and
blood, seein as how yer over here and out of their reach.”
“Jaysus,” Flynn said.
“Mikey ya should have put them down fer good when ya had the chance.”
“I’ve got to go back and make it right. Will ya tell Duffy?”
The old man nodded.
Rico Valdez appreciated the Police Commissioner’s concern over the release of Nooris and Rabinowitz. Had Michael Flynn not interrupted Nooris and his accomplice they would have murdered Ichowitz and Coratelli and possibly the commissioner’s son. Valdez couldn’t quite figure Flynn out. According to Interpol, Flynn and his entire family were dangerous criminals, although Flynn himself had never been involved in any previous known acts of violence. He was a thief, and by all accounts a very daring and successful one.
Valdez asked to meet with the commissioner to give him the FBI’s latest report on Nooris’ activities. “Sir, my boss wanted me to review the steps your department has taken to keep your son and his wife and her son safe in the event Nooris and Rabinowitz come back to Philadelphia. At present they’re still in Miami Beach. But Justice hasn’t been able to get the Israeli authorities to extradite them. The State Department and the White House are trying to work something out.”
“What about Shona Cohen? Does the FBI have anything on her whereabouts?”
“Negative. Nothing official.”
“How about unofficially?”
Valdez took a moment to consider his response, “My gut tells me Shona is still in the area, but I haven’t got anything concrete to rely upon. Based on her history she has absolutely no one in Israel. She lived in the States for the better part of the last five years. So …”
Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel Page 8
