by Dave Daren
“Told you,” Bear murmured, and we snorted before one of the other volunteers rushed over.
“Mr. McDonald!” she gasped. “We--”
“Bear,” he corrected her. “No one calls me Mr. McDonald.”
“Yes, of course, ah, Bear,” the young woman stammered. “Um, we almost have the backdrop ready, and we have a few key points for Ms. Pizzano. Do you want to go over them with her?”
“I will,” he confirmed. “Thank you, Mallory.”
“Oh!” The young lady blushed at the mention of her name. “You’re welcome.”
She scuttled away, and I looked at Bear again, remembering what Alessia had said about him being easy on the eyes. He just looked like a regular guy to me, only bigger.
“Guess you have a fan,” I murmured.
“I have a few,” Bear chuckled.
The next hour rolled by while the team finished going over what Alessia needed to say, how she was going to sit, and what angle to place the camera. It all seemed crazy to me, but all the decisions were finally made, and she sat in a plump leather chair with her body angled with her injured arm away from the camera. Her sling was easily visible, and her hair was styled with gentle waves cascading down her back. She looked like a model for the sling when Mateo finally lined up his video equipment in front of her.
Then a handful of reporters were escorted into the building and sat in the folding chairs to Alessia’s left side. After a quick introduction from the campaign team, Alessia was on the spot with a dazzling smile.
“Good morning, Brooklyn,” she said in a cheery voice. “I’ve received dozens of texts, emails, and phone calls about last night’s events, so I decided to answer everyone here today. Let me start by saying thank you to everyone who checked on my wellbeing. While a gunshot to the shoulder doesn’t feel great, things could have been much worse. I owe another thank you to the brave men and women of the NYPD, who reacted so quickly to my attack and captured the culprit within seconds.”
The campaign team and the press applauded the statement before she continued.
“I take this threat seriously, but I will not be shaken,” Alessia said firmly. “I have made a commitment to the people to stand strong against the corruption that poisons our city government, and I will not allow anyone to turn me away from that goal. I am a strong Italian woman, and I won’t go down without a fight!”
The volunteers cheered a little louder this time, and even the reporters looked taken aback before one raised her hand for a question. Alessia nodded to her, and the woman stood with her notebook in hand.
“Ms. Pizzano, some stations have reported the suspect in custody is actually insane and had no political motivations,” she said. “What is your response?”
“I think that would be convenient for those who have been accused of getting rid of their competitors in violent attacks, wouldn’t you?” Alessia shot back. “If I had been accused of hiring a hitman, I’d certainly want the public to believe that hitman was acting of his own crazy free will, but I think the people are smarter than that. We’re all tired of politicians using any means necessary to clear their own paths to success, especially by destroying someone else. Politics should be about the people, not the politician.”
Another round of applause echoed around the room as the reporter sat down and scribbled a note, while another stood.
“Do you have any idea who was behind the attack, then?” he asked.
“It doesn’t benefit our people to share my ideas about scandals or murder-for-hire plots,” Alessia replied carefully. “I will continue to fight for justice, for a clean government, and for the right for everyone to pursue life, liberty, and happiness!”
The man grinned and nodded his agreement as the campaign team cheered, whooped, and hollered.
“Thank you, Brooklyn!” Alessia called out over the cacophony of noise. “You’ll see me again soon!”
Mateo cut the camera, and the campaign volunteers continued to clap and cheer for their candidate.
My phone buzzed inside my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a text from Anthony with a link attached.
Check this shit out.
Oh, boy.
I clicked the link and read a news story from one of the Mayor’s favorite newspapers. It was titled “Lunatic Wounds DA Candidate.” It seemed the Mayor was going to try hard to push the “crazy shooter” agenda, and I skimmed through the story with a scowl.
“What’s that?” Bear asked as he saw my face.
“Listen to this,” I muttered. “It says ‘Colin James Morrow, 43, is accused of shooting District Attorney candidate Alessia Pizzano last night at a town hall meeting in Brooklyn. Morrow was captured immediately following the attack and is currently under evaluation at Brookhaven Mental Hospital. Morrow claims he was in love with Pizzano, but he heard voices that told him she would never love him back, so he had to kill her. Morrow’s family reveals he has had a history of mental illness since his return from military service ten years ago. They believe such a violent action could only be explained by mental illness, as he is normally a kind and loving uncle and brother. Morrow has no spouse or children.’”
“So, he was crazy.” Bear nodded then looked at me again. “But you don’t believe that.”
“I’m not convinced, no,” I replied. “If Morrow was so crazy in love, stalking her, why haven’t we seen him before? He could have been at any of the events, sent her letters or emails, something. She hasn’t gotten anything like that, has she?”
“I’ll double check with the team, but I think you’re right,” he answered. “I don’t remember anything even close to a love letter. She’s had the occasional compliments about her looks, which is to be expected for a female candidate, unfortunately, but no declarations of love.”
“Let me know what the campaign team says,” I decided. “I’d like to know if this ‘crazy person’ story will hold any water.”
Bear nodded and headed for the volunteers as I responded to Anthony’s message.
It’s a load of BS. Webber must really be trying to get this guy off the hook for the shooting.
Dad thinks so, Anthony sent back almost immediately. He saw the story on his TV at the hospital. He said it sounded like a cover up. We need to know everything about Morrow. Think Gomez will tell you anything now that everyone has the name?
I doubt it, I replied and pursed my lips. I’m still not retained by anyone in the case. If he’s using Legal Aid, I may have a way to get more info that way. I’ll let you know.
Anthony sent back a thumbs-up emoji, and I shoved my phone into my pocket with a renewed interest in Colin Morrow and whether he’d had the money to get his own lawyer or if he would be using Legal Aid. I had a feeling I had just the person who would be in the loop on Morrow’s defense attorney situation.
I offered a quick wave to Alessia before I jogged outside and slid into my car. I had to get back to my apartment and look into Morrow, but I had a phone call to make on the way.
As I got on the road, I touched a few buttons on my car’s touch screen and dialed Bridgit’s cell phone. Bridgit was the liaison between my old firm and the Legal Aid office, and she had been the one who helped me find criminal defense clients to break up the monotony of corporate law. It was one of her calls that brought me to Anthony Febbo, who had been using his mother’s maiden name of Lamon when he was accused of assaulting a police officer.
“Is this my favorite curly-headed attorney?” Bridgit’s raspy voice filled my car with a note of glee. “Little old Bridgit getting a call from a bigwig criminal defense attorney?”
“Oh, stop it,” I laughed. “I’m no bigwig.”
“The office has been buzzing with your name for the past few weeks,” she said as she suddenly dropped her voice into a whisper. “They say you’re a Mafia attorney now. Is it true?”
“You know I can’t discuss my clients, Bridgit,” I chuckled. “Let’s just say I make a lot more money in my private practice.”
“Oooooh!” she squealed. “I knew it! The partners are so hush-hush about it, but everyone talks about your grand exit and how you’re working much more exciting cases now. Oh, anyway, you called me! I’m sure it wasn’t to catch up on the latest office gossip. What do you need?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about the Pizzano shooting,” I started. “And they have the shooter in custody. A guy named Morrow?”
“Oh, right, the crazy ex-Army guy,” Bridgit muttered. “Setting up his insanity defense nice and early, I suppose.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I agreed. “Have you heard if he’s using Legal Aid?”
“Ahhh, I see where you’re going with this,” she giggled. “One sec.”
I could hear her long acrylic nails tapping on her keyboard, and I pictured her at her computer in my old office building with her bottle-blonde hair and pictures of her Yorkies on her desk. I started to ask if she’d found anything when she shrieked with excitement.
“What is it?” I asked, and I could see my knuckles turn white as I gripped the steering wheel in anticipation.
“Your boy did indeed file for Legal Aid,” Bridgit confirmed. “But he was denied.”
“On what grounds?” I wondered how a man allegedly suffering from mental illness was denied services by Legal Aid.
“Assets,” she answered. “His liquidated asset amount is above the limit. It doesn’t say how much, though.”
“Very interesting,” I mused. “Thank you, Bridgit. You’ve been a huge help.”
“You’re welcome, sugar,” Bridgit replied. “You can call me anytime!”
We exchanged our goodbyes, and I ended the call as I pulled into my parking garage. So, the supposed lunatic dressed like a homeless man who could pull off a difficult shot in a crowded room had enough money to be denied a public defender or pro bono attorney. It seemed the Mayor was going to have to do something else to keep his golden boy out of Riker’s.
I skipped up the steps to my apartment and grabbed my laptop from the table. I opened it up in the living room and powered it on while I started to make a pot of coffee. Then I realized I was out of my favorite caffeinated drink and sighed to myself. I really needed to buy groceries more often.
So, I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and popped it open as I sat on the couch and got to work. I started simple and searched Colin James Morrow on Google. Dozens of news articles like the one I’d already read popped up first, and I scrolled past the recent news to dig further back.
I grabbed a legal pad and scribbled a few notes about the history I’d found. He had been recognized briefly in an article about war heroes returning to the United States about ten years ago, but it was barely a blurb. No medals or awards of valor had been awarded to him. He was married for a couple years toward the end of his service, and his wife had filed for divorce within months of his return home, citing “irreconcilable differences.”
Since then, his Facebook had been made extremely private. He had only a few memes his friends had tagged him in that you could see from the public view, and I didn’t foresee him accepting a friend request while in Brookhaven. I could see his hometown was Cicero, New York, though it seemed he’d left for the military and never looked back.
I moved on to check court records, but his name didn’t pop up once. The current case likely hadn’t been added to the system yet, so that wasn’t odd. The strange part was that in my experience, someone who has supposedly dealt with mental illness for the better part of a decade would have at least a traffic ticket. It was common to see public intoxication or trespassing among the mentally ill, though the cases were often dropped and the defendant recommended to receive treatment.
In Morrow’s case, there was absolutely nothing.
It was like he’d made sure to keep his nose clean since he’d come back from overseas, which was quite a feat for someone who was hearing voices and stalking politicians.
The first page of my legal pad was filled with my scrawled notes about the shooter, but I hadn’t come up with anything that would definitively tie him to Webber, Chatel, or the Serbians. His military service could have taken him to Serbia, but it wasn’t anything I’d find on a public website.
I groaned with frustration. I’d hit the end of the line in what I could find on Morrow. It was like I knew his public image, but I needed to know more, and I wouldn’t be able to find that out on my own. I couldn’t subpoena his bank or property records, text messages, call logs, nada. I had a whole heaping pile of information that meant nothing if it didn’t show me why he went after Alessia.
I grabbed my phone off the table and called Anthony.
“I feel like I know everything and nothing about Morrow,” I grunted as soon as he picked up. “How is that possible?”
“Because you can only search the surface without legal backup,” my client laughed. “Don’t worry, counselor. I have other backup working on it.”
“Of course, you do,” I muttered. “Do I want to know?”
“Just call him a private investigator,” Anthony chuckled. “He’s very good at his job.”
“I’m sure he is.” I smirked. “Don’t tell me anything else about him. If I don’t know, I can’t testify.”
“Do you want to at least know what he finds?” he offered casually.
“Well, yeah,” I replied. “We need to find the link between him and the Serbians.”
“I’m sure you could tell him exactly what to look for,” Anthony hinted.
“That’s true,” I murmured.
I paused for a moment. Anthony was right. I knew where an investigator was likely to find the information we needed to nail Morrow down. And it wasn’t like I was doing anything illegal by suggesting places to look.
“So, I’ll give you his number,” Anthony said slowly. “If you think of something he could check out to poke holes into Morrow’s story, you just text him and let him know. Your hands will stay clean, right, counselor?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so,” I agreed.
“Good,” Anthony said before he rattled off a phone number, and I jotted it down on my legal pad. “Just whenever you think of something. No rush, you know, except that he has that whole ‘speedy trial’ thing on his side.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “This is one of those gray areas, Anthony. I just need to think it through.”
“But you didn’t say no,” he teased. “I’ll let you think on it. You have the number when you decide.”
With that, he hung up, and I was left to stare at the ten digits in front of me with a mixture of emotions. I had several ideas where a private investigator-- if you could call it that-- could look into Morrow’s life. Bank transactions, phone records, the works. But it would be obtained illegally if the investigator didn’t have a warrant, which I’d imagine he didn’t.
Yet, realistically, I had plausible deniability. I could say I was merely providing advice to an inexperienced investigator as to what I would have done in his position. I obviously had no idea what exactly he would do with my suggestions or how he would obtain the information.
That seemed legit… right?
Close enough.
I sighed as I started to type out the phone number and then set my cell down again. I didn’t have to decide right now, even with Anthony’s speedy trial comment. There was no way Morrow would have even his first hearing before next week, so it wouldn’t hurt to take the rest of the day to chill out, get some sleep, and decide tomorrow.
So, that’s exactly what I did.
I pulled on my sweats, ordered a pizza, and camped out on the couch with a superhero movie on TV. Less than an hour later, the delivery guy knocked on my door, and I sat down on the couch with a steaming box of pepperoni and mozzarella cheese. I ignored my buzzing phone a few times before I realized it could be Alessia, and I checked my messages to see Bear had sent me a new poll.
The press conference this morning had done wonders for the campaign. The ADA was now just squeaking behind Chatel,
and the race was closer than it had ever been.
Badass, I texted back with a thumbs up.
When he didn’t respond immediately, I plugged my phone into the charger by my bed and returned to the couch. Before I knew it, I’d dozed off. I must have still been exhausted from the few hours of sleep the night before, and I slept like a rock until the sun peeked through my blinds the next morning.
I groaned as my back screamed at me for sleeping on the couch, and I shuffled my way to the shower to try to relieve my aching muscles. Once I was satisfied that I wouldn’t walk like I was about to retire anymore, I retrieved my phone from the charger.
I stared at the screen for a few minutes before I decided to just tear up the phone number. I couldn’t be tempted if I didn’t have the number. I strode into the living room, grabbed my legal pad, and stared at my notes.
This Morrow guy was fishy, and I knew it. For once in my life, the law was holding me back from figuring out how he tied into the equation.
Of course, the law held me back! I was a lawyer, for God’s sake.
Then another voice creeped into my thoughts.
Yeah, a mob lawyer.
Just like that, I knew what I had to do.
It was time to send a text message.
I got the number from my legal pad and entered it in before I began my message.
You can look for bank transactions, usually repeated payment amounts that stay under the IRS taxable limit. Also, property records for newly acquired land or buildings. And phone records, including text messages. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.
I hit send before I could change my mind again.
Then I paced around my living room as I waited for only a minute when my phone vibrated in my hand.
Give me 30 minutes.
Well, he sure was confident.
I flipped open my laptop and browsed the morning news. I was just about to head down the block for a cup of coffee when my computer dinged with a new email.
