by Rick Santini
***
There was a note on his desk when he entered his old chambers. It looked official. It was from the Chief Justice. He wanted to see Wally before noon. Probably to discuss his new calendar and what cases would be reassigned to him. Same old, same old, he assumed.
Recently Wally had been making a great deal of faulty assumptions. This was just the latest.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
Wally could feel the tension in the air. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
The Chief Judge was fumbling, looking for some papers. Obviously he was stalling. This was not good. Not good at all.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Chief Justice?”
Wally had not used that formal title since he was first introduced to Steven Saltmeyer.
“No, Wally. It’s just that for the time being, until things quiet down, you will be assigned civil cases only. I assume you understand.”
“No. No, I don’t understand. I have handled criminal cases here for the past ten years, probably more. What’s the problem now?”
Steve Saltmeyer took a deep breath, something he always did before a task he felt distasteful.
“Wally, you are the only judge in this district in the past ten years to grant a directed verdict as far as I can tell. In fact, in the past six years, you have granted the motion four times. In every single incident, it was a rape case. In every case, the jury believed the complainant and only you believed the accused. It just doesn’t make sense. Why, Wally? What were you thinking?
I was thinking of my late son Teddy. I was thinking of an overzealous prosecutor who needed a conviction ten days before Election Day. I was thinking of how he was convicted because some little girl was afraid to tell her father she had consensual sex with Teddy. I was thinking how he got shanked and died in the prison shower, you pompous son of a bitch. That’s what I was thinking.
“Sir, I did what I thought was right. The facts simply did not call for a conviction. I did what I was paid to do and I would do it again under the same circumstances. Does that answer your question, Mr. Chief Justice?”
It appeared all the air had been sucked out of the room. No one said a word, each waiting for the other to apologize.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Chief Justice?”
“No, Wally, that appears to be it. I’ll have your new assignments sent over to you after lunch. You will be assigned to civil cases only for the time being. I assume you enjoyed your vacation and had some time to think and relax.”
Wally did not respond. Had he said what he was thinking, he would have had all the time in the word to think and relax. Maybe till the day he died.
Without a goodbye, acknowledgement, or thank you, Judge K got up and left the room.
***
By the time his assignment list had been received, every clerk in the entire courthouse knew Judge Kolkolski was on the Chief Justice’s shit list. By nine the next morning, half the criminal bar knew Judge Kolkolski would not be trying their cases.
Robert Samuel Sugarman was not pleased. This had always been his ace in the hole.
Anthony Pauli Ricardo decided not to follow through on the criminal charges against his former attorney. There was nothing in it for him. Besides, the civil case had already been settled as far as he was concerned. Why waste time in court for no good reason?
The DA had no choice but to move to dismiss. The judge granted the motion, as if he had a choice, but not before embarrassing Bob Sugarman in open court by suggesting there had to be a better way to handle clients than by breaking their legs.
Everyone laughed. Bob did not think it was funny.
He said nothing. He would have been held in contempt of court had the judge been able to read his thoughts.
Now I have to find a new rabbi.
Bob was referring to the term used by many, meaning one who could be relied upon and could quietly help in an awkward situation. He had no one in mind. The very last thing he thought about was the black sedan that was following him that day.
It shouldn’t have been. The occupants of the black sedan had been busy.
CHAPTER 14
Oops, another mistake.
Not the first, not the last.
The computer generated note was stuck under the windshield wiper. All four tires in his year-old blood red Ferrari were flat. Sugarman couldn’t tell if the air had just been let out or if a knife had been used. He called Triple A and sat on the curb to wait. It had not been a good day; it had not been a good week, it had not been a good month. Ever since that damn directed verdict, his life had turned to shit.
Ever since those false flyers, business had dropped off considerably. His referrals from non-criminal attorneys, his real life’s blood, had dried up. No one wanted to refer anything to him for fear of being connected.
Bob Sugarman had the bad habit of most successful businessmen. He made it and he spent it. What good was busting your ass if you couldn’t enjoy the fruits of your labor? Bob had a big house and a big mortgage. He had a few high priced toys in his four car garage. Two of the four cars were paid for, the other two, not.
Money was going out faster than it was coming in. Much faster.
“Sorry, sir. It looks like the stems have been removed from all four tires. Not sure why but the tires do not seem to want to hold air. I would suggest we tow it to a Ferrari dealer. We’re just not equipped for this sort of problem.”
Sugarman knew every trip to the Ferrari dealership set him back at least a few grand. It had been a mistake to buy the damn money pit in the first place but ego overcame logic. Not for the first time.
***
The shock was totally unexpected. It was so far out of left field, no one could have anticipated it. It was beyond unreal.
Bob was sitting in his office when Vito, the service manager at the dealership, called.
“Mr. Sugarman, the tire problem has been resolved. The stems were removed and cement glue inserted. We ran a powerful solvent through the openings. The tires can be saved. But we were more concerned once we opened the hood. Where is the engine?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The engine, Mr. Sugarman. There is no engine in your car. It’s not something we could have easily overlooked. Someone, someone who had foreign car experience, removed the engine. What would you like us to do?”
“I’ll call you back—later.”
Son-of-a-bitch. How the hell am I going to tell the insurance company I parked my car a few blocks from the courthouse and when I came back, the engine in my new Ferrari was missing?
Bob then thought about the police. He would have to make a report in order to collect on his insurance. He would be the laughing stock of the courthouse. He could just see the flyers now.
Hot shot criminal attorney has engine stolen from new Ferrari in shadow of courthouse.
Damn Judge K. What was he thinking? I never expected the motion to be granted. It was just something you say automatically at the end of a trial. Motion for a directed verdict or I would like to thank the jury for their time, patience, and understanding in convicting my client.
It was too late now. His life was in the crapper and he knew no way of gracefully pulling it out.
***
On the other side of town, Viktor was asking his boss, “What do you want us to do with this engine, Mr. C?”
“Get rid of it. I don’t care where or how. Just as long as it can never be traced back to us.”
“Yes sir, Mr. C.”
The tow truck with the winch had not been difficult to obtain. All it took was money. The fact Mr. C himself was able to disconnect, chain it, and have it removed without scratching the car had been remarkable. A thing of beauty. Now it sat in a dingy, oil stained garage floor just outside the city.
Viktor and Boris both knew they could peddle it for 5k, no questions asked. It was a V8 Ferrari engine, for God’s sake. They also knew their lives were worth more than five
thousand. If they were ever caught disobeying an order, that would be their demise.
“Wait. Don’t dump it. I have a better idea.”
Boris and Viktor did not understand, but did what they were told.
“I want the engine carefully dismantled. We will return the parts, one at a time, to Mr. Sugarman.”
Alexey now had a smile on his face, for the first time in a long while.
***
The jokes, the taunts, the comments did not stop. Everyone was now a comedian. No one knew Bob had received two piston rings from the Ferrari engine the day before. The computer generated note merely said:
Try rebuilding what has forever been broken.
Bob clearly understood the message. Although he could never prove it, there was not a doubt in his mind who was behind it. To try and prove it could cost him his life—and he damn sure knew it.
Robert Samuel Sugarman could not walk ten feet without someone approaching him with a spark plug or useless part of an auto and asking if he had lost it. The cops called to state they had found auto parts on the side of the road and asked if he would like to meet them on the Garden State Parkway to identify them.
Everyone was having a big laugh at Bob’s expense. What goes around, comes around. Bob stopped answering his phone. If it were a new client or an emergency, they would leave a message.
Alexey was enjoying every minute of it. The cops were doing nothing to solve the crime. Sugarman was a rogue lawyer, one who made cops look bad on the witness stand. This was their way of getting back. They looked the other way. They had more important problems to handle. Looking for who stole an engine from a slime bag lawyer’s expensive foreign sports car was not one of them.
Bob Sugarman was now between a rock and a very hard place. He had no one to turn to. He now blamed Judge Walter A. Kolkolski for everything. Everything.
Only a fuckin’ idiot or someone with a long time grudge and hated the judicial system would have granted my motion.
CHAPTER 15
“Why is someone asking about Teddy? He’s been dead for almost twelve years. What are you up to this time?”
Wally sat at his desk in chambers and stared at the phone like he just heard a ghost. He knew who was on the other end of the line. How could he ever forget? He just didn’t know why.
“Bernice?”
“No, it’s your late saintly mother, Stella. Who the hell do you think it is? Of course it’s me. Someone called me here in Florida a few days ago. He’s looking for you, something about an overdue credit card bill, and he wants to talk to Teddy. I hung up on him. What’s going on, Wally?”
Wally could not talk. He was trying to process and not getting very far. Someone, and he was sure he knew who, was out to get him.
“Bernice, how are you?”
“Why the hell do you care? You didn’t give a shit about Teddy and me when he was alive, why would you care about me now?”
Wally had no answer. At least none Bernice wanted to hear. That was almost fifteen years ago. He never thought it was his fault. There had been pressure put upon him by all sides. If he didn’t do what the party demanded he do, he would be out of a job in a heartbeat.
“Bernice, I think we should talk. I’m in the middle of something right now but can I call you tonight, when I get home? By the way, I don’t have your phone number.”
There was a pause. It was Bernice that had called, looking for answers, and was more than a bit curious as to what Wally had been up to these past fifteen years.
Has he remarried? Is he living with someone? Does he ever think about me?
She gave him the number. “Don’t call after nine p.m. I have an important engagement early in the morning.”
The line went dead. The only engagement Bernice had the next morning was making a pot of coffee and watching Good Morning America on TV. For all practical sakes, she was unemployable.
Wally was sitting at his desk looking at the assignments the chief judge had just given him. A slip and fall case involving the owner of a bodega and an eighty-one-year-old woman with a now fractured hip; a four car pileup on the Jersey Turnpike where everyone was pointing their finger at the other guy and the insurance companies were playing hardball; a landlord/tenant dispute between ex-relatives, and finally a lot line matter involving two neighbors who had been fighting for years as to whose property the fifty-year-old oak tree was on.
Why the hell am I being punished like this? And why is Bernice calling me?
Wally had no outstanding credit card bills, or any other for that matter, and why would anyone want to talk to his son who was killed in prison? He began to shake—all over again.
All because that dumb ass lawyer, who I thought was my good friend, made that motion, knowing full well I would grant it. It’s all his damn fault.
The lines of hate, blame and self-pity were being clearly drawn.
Wally needed a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Maybe two.
He also needed answers.
***
Judge K was not about to waste a day or two on a simple slip and fall case. Yes, there was garbage, the plaintiff alleged there were overripe bananas on the stoop and she had not seen them. The owner should have cleaned it up; the old lady should have watched where she was walking. The insurance company was charging exorbitant premiums due to the rundown area. This was a case that would be settled. Wally had more important things on his mind and he was sure Mrs. Mendez did not need a walker all the time. He called in Henry Armstrong, who had been representing insurance carriers for the past twenty years.
“Mrs. Mendez is suing for thirty-five thousand. I think it’s about time someone sent a message to those damn grocery store owners that the streets of our fair city are not their personal dumping grounds. I think a judgment of fifty thousand would get their interest. Go back to your people and tell them they have no friend in this courtroom.”
Judge K then called in plaintiff’s counsel, a nice young man with barely two and a half years’ experience under his belt.
“Please tell your client she should look where she goes. She knows the neighborhood better than anyone. She has lived there all her life. It would be an absolute gift if the insurance company offered her ten thousand. Between you and me, I think I can get them to go as high as fifteen. Don’t tell the plaintiff that, but if you think fifteen would settle it, I’ll stick my neck out for you. After all, I was once a young starving lawyer and it would have been nice if an old judge had given me a break, like I’m giving you.”
Three hours, four phone calls, and a fair amount of arm twisting later, and the case was settled for $17,500. It was a win/win situation for everyone. The plaintiff received more than she anticipated, the insurance company laid out less than it had budgeted, the judge was a hero, and he had a free day and a half on his calendar.
Now all he had to worry about was calling Bernice before nine tonight.
***
Bill Johnson knew he was on to something. It had to do with Judge K’s son. Theodore Kolkolski had seemed to have dropped off the end of the earth. Teddy had not filed an income tax return in the past thirteen years. There was no record of his renewing his driver’s license, in New Jersey or Florida. He could find no record of a passport being issued.
He had to be somewhere.
As soon as he had a few free hours, Bill would resume his research. He was not about to give up. Judge Kolkolski was hiding something and William Lincoln Johnson was not about to rest until he found out.
You can take that to the bank, my good brother.
Directed verdict. Horse feathers.
CHAPTER 16
Wally stared at the kitchen clock. It read 6:51. He had been unable to eat dinner, such as it was. He had Italian out last night and brought home the Styrofoam box with half of the chicken parm and some angel hair in marinara sauce. It was good yesterday. Now it was a thick blob of microwaved leftovers.
Besides, how could he eat when in a few minutes he would be calling h
is ex? He drank some more coffee.
He did not want to appear overanxious but knew she had asked he call before nine. Seven thirty would be perfect. Wally made a fresh pot of coffee. He wasn’t wired enough from the earlier phone call. He lit another cigarette as the coffee brewed. He noticed, not for the first time, the nicotine stains on his right fingers.
I’ve got to quit one of these days. Before it kills me.
***
The police refused to do a damn thing. The FedEx packages were being delivered almost every other day. The return address was always phony. No one had any idea as to the description of the sender. The cops had more important things to do than help a turncoat criminal defense lawyer. They weren’t even sure a crime had been committed. Whoever was doing it was smart enough not to use the United States Post Office, not that it would have made a tinker’s damn to anyone.
Bob Sugarman was livid. It had more to do with the fact his own insurance carrier was dragging its feet on the claim.
“Mr. Sugarman, how is it possible you parked your new Ferrari, that still has a big lien on it, not two blocks from the courthouse, in broad daylight, someone pulled out a four hundred twenty pound engine, did not leave a scratch, and no one saw it? Can you explain that to us?”
“How the hell should I know? I parked the car, spent less than three hours in court, came back to find four flat tires and then I learned someone stole the engine out of my car. Do you think I hid it in my freaking briefcase? Would you care to search my closets or my law office? If I don’t have a check for whatever it costs to get a new engine in my car by next Monday, I’ll do what I have been trained to do, what I do best. I will sue your ass and post a blog on my website. Let the world know what a cheap bunch of bastards you guys really are. Am I making myself clear?”
