The Vigilantes boh-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  But then his childhood buddy, Casimir Bolinski, showed up in town and told him he was a fool. His exact words: “Face it, Mickey, those bastards are screwing you.”

  “Those bastards” being the Bulletin’s management.

  O’Hara was told that they were not paying him his due. Mickey listened to his buddy, especially when Bolinski offered to represent him as a small token of appreciation-“I can never adequately repay you”-for taking the fall at West Catholic High.

  “If you’d ratted me out to Dooley the Drooler as your fellow numbers runner,” Casimir said, “I’d have been out on my ass, too. There’d have been no ‘The Bull’ Bolinski, no all-American trophy, no scholarship to Notre Dame, no career with the Green Bay Packers. And without the cushion from the Packers, both the pay and off-season time, I’d probably never have considered law school, and certainly not become a sports agent after retirement.”

  And as an agent, The Bull proved every bit as effective off the field as he’d been on it.

  Players liked The Bull personally, but the athletes really liked what he could do for them financially. And The Bull wound up making more money by repping the sports world’s top players-football, basketball, golf, et cetera-than he had earned actually playing the game.

  Negotiating Mickey O’Hara’s new contract with the Bulletin had been no challenge compared to the high-pressure worlds of sports and product endorsements.

  And as happy as O’Hara had been with his new benefits-from more pay and holiday time to a new lease car every year-The Bull showed his brilliance by including an exit clause in the contract. It was brilliant because the Bulletin signed off on it, and because everyone believed Mickey, happy with the contract terms, would write for the paper forever.

  Everyone including Mickey.

  But then came the newsroom brawl, in which Mickey punched the city editor. Roscoe G. Kennedy was no great fan of O’Hara-though he did grudgingly admit that Mickey could be a helluva writer despite not having attended the glorified University of Missouri School of Journalism, as Kennedy had. And there was no question that Kennedy resented the money and perks that the unschooled O’Hara enjoyed thanks to his buddy, The Bull, squeezing the newspaper management.

  Kennedy thought that Mickey O’Hara had become a prima donna in his expensively furnished office, someone who had the audacity to demand more space in the newspaper for his articles and photographs than the boss-J-school grad Kennedy-felt he deserved.

  O’Hara, who’d been at the Italian restaurant La Famiglia the night that Matt Payne put down the two robbers who’d beaten up a couple in the parking lot, had written a long article for Page 1A. He’d also delivered the photograph he’d taken of Payne in his tuxedo standing over one robber lying on the ground. Payne had his cell phone in his left hand and his Colt. 45 Officer’s Model in his right.

  What had set Mickey O’Hara off-and it happened in the presence of The Bull and his wife, Antoinette Bolinski-was Kennedy wanting to put a smart-ass headline on the photograph: MAIN LINE WYATT EARP 2, BAD GUYS O IN SHOOT-OUT AT THE LA FAMIGLIA CORRAL. Kennedy justified it by saying that Payne looked like a goddamn gunslinger who obviously liked shooting people.

  O’Hara put up his dukes, then dodged Kennedy’s swinging fists, putting him down with a left punch to the nose followed by a right jab to the abdomen. Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., then grabbed his client and-with Kennedy disparaging O’Hara before the entire newsroom staff, then declaring him fired-dragged him out of the city room, never to return.

  The Bull that day pulled out O’Hara’s contract-the signatures barely dry-and easily negotiated with the Bulletin management a thirty-day cooling-off period with pay for Mickey, plus public apologies from Kennedy for the city editor’s treatment of a Pulitzer Prize winner before newsroom colleagues.

  O’Hara decided to use his downtime to research a book on Fort Festung-a despicable shit from Philly who had been found guilty of murdering his girlfriend and stuffing her body in a steamer trunk, where she’d been found mummified.

  Mickey convinced Matt to accompany him to France in hopes of finding the fugitive-if only for a current photograph for the book.

  And, toward the end of their time in France, they finally tracked down the arrogant Festung, long-haired and goateed, living comfortably on wine and cheese with a new girlfriend in a French village.

  Mickey got his photograph-and it was of Philadelphia Police Department Sergeant Matthew M. Payne collaring the fugitive.

  And only weeks after their return to Philadelphia, Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., ever diligent in delivering for his clients, presented Michael J. O’Hara with the contract for his new position as chief executive officer and publisher of CrimeFreePhilly. com.

  Mickey, after signing the contract in mid-September, called Matt’s cell and told Matt to meet him at Liberties Bar for some good news.

  As O’Hara slid in the booth across the table from Payne, he said, “You may kiss my ring, Matty, as I’m now a triple-dipper. Say, ‘Congrats, Mick.’”

  Matt looked at the blue T-shirt Mickey wore. In white, it bore a representation of a pair of dangling handcuffs and lettering that read MAKE HIS DAY: KISS A COP AT CRIMEFREEPHILLY. COM.

  “Okay, congrats. But what the hell is a triple-dipper? And what the hell’s up with that shirt?”

  Mickey’s animated face lit up and he said: “Two weeks ago, The Bull told the Bulletin’s management that his client-me-was unhappy with the tepid apology, et cetera, of their city editor, and that at the expiration of the thirty-day cooling-off period, I planned immediately to execute the exit clause of my employment contract. That happened the following day, and triggered a lump payment equal to a month’s pay for every year that I’d been employed by the newspaper, dating back to when I threw the rag from my bike in West Philly. So that’s one deep dip into the moneymaking machine. And I just got the check, less The Bull’s five percent commission, for the publisher’s acceptance of my book on Fort Festung. That check makes for a double-dip.”

  “And the third?”

  He pointed to his shirt and said, “I’m now running CrimeFreePhilly! I have a five-year contract, renewable annually, which means every year I know if I have another five to go. If I ever get canned, I walk with the equivalent of four years’ pay. And I have stock options that vest if certain goals are accomplished, which gives me both incentive and a nice nest egg on top of what I walked away with from the Bulletin. Thus making me a triple-dipper.”

  “Impressive. But aren’t you going to miss newspapers?”

  Mickey shook his head. “Hell no, Matty. Forget that. Haven’t you been paying attention? Newspapers are deader than a double-crossing gangbanger in South Philly. Just like the TV nightly news killed afternoon papers, there’s this thing now called the World Wide Web that’s killing all newspapers. You really should try to keep up.”

  Payne flashed him the middle finger of his right hand, then changed to his index finger and pointed at the T-shirt.

  “I’ve heard about that but never looked it up.”

  “You should. Here’s the deal. It’s basically brand new. It was originally quietly funded by a philanthropist, a good citizen who’s simply fed up with Philly sinking in a cesspool of crime. The idea is pretty damned simple: support the good guys and get rid of the bad guys.”

  “Maybe too simple, Mick. There’s already a lot of money being thrown at crime. And speaking of a lot of money, I didn’t think newsy websites made money.”

  “Most don’t. Most are losing money. But profit isn’t the point. Cleaning up the city is. People are fucking fed up-”

  “Amen to that,” Payne interrupted. “Count me among the disenchanted.”

  Mick went on: “-and when The Bull heard about it, he put money in. A number of his clients did, too, some of them guys who broke out of the ghetto and want to help those still stuck there. Even though CrimeFreePhilly-dot-com doesn’t have to make money, I think it will. There’s also the sweetheart deal it has with KeyCom.
”

  “The cable-TV-slash-Internet-slash-phone conglomerate based here? That’s Five-Eff’s! Which means Francis Fulton is your secret moneyman?”

  O’Hara shrugged. “Some questions don’t need to be asked. All I know is I have both the funding and the moral backing of some heavy hitters to help this city. No pun intended concerning The Bull’s clients.”

  He paused, then his infectious energy kicked in: “Get this, Matty, I can run live, breaking news on CrimeFreePhilly, and then KeyCom’s massive computer servers send it-for free-out to any TV, computer, and even better, to any cell phone. Worldwide! I could never do anything like that at the Bulletin, where I fought for inches of copy. Anyway, with criminals infesting every city, we plan eventually to roll out a CrimeFree-dot-com everywhere-CrimeFreeNYC, CrimeFreeLA, et cetera, et cetera. All overseen by yours truly. Why would I ever work at a newspaper again?”

  Payne nodded, then said, “You think it’ll make a difference? I’m beginning to think it might be time to get off this sinking ship of a city.”

  O’Hara grinned widely. “Oh, yeah, Matty. It’s already working. People love those cops-and-robbers TV shows. You know, like Most Wanted in America, Homicide 9-1-1. We’re taking that a step-steps-further. We’re a one-stop shop for fans of those kinds of shows, plus have news articles on crime and crime prevention and profiles of the bad guys. We list who’s offering rewards for which criminals and for how much, and show how to search databases for criminals and submit tips on where they might be-new ones, old ones, fugitives like violators of Megan’s Law-and on and on.”

  Megan’s Law was the catchall name for any number of federal and state statutes concerning sexual predators. It was named after a seven-year-old New Jersey girl who had been abducted by a neighbor right after the pervert had gotten out of the slam where he’d been serving time for sex crimes. He raped and killed the little girl.

  Outraged citizens demanded that they had the right to know when dangerous people moved into their neighborhoods, leading to the passage of sex offender registry laws, first in Jersey, then across the nation.

  Payne said, “Aren’t you worried that that’s essentially encouraging people to take the law into their own hands, like Fuller’s Lex Talionis is doing? Not that I’m surprised, considering your secret benefactor.”

  “Uh-uh,” Mickey quickly said, shaking his head vigorously, making the red curls bounce like tiny coiled springs. “In that area, we’re simply a clearinghouse of sorts for a lot of things that are already available all over on the Internet. The key to any good source of information, Matt, is making it easy on the person looking for that information, whether it’s where to get the cheapest ground sirloin or how to finger a bad guy. You ever hear of a company called Google?”

  “Yeah, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of Internet search engines,” Payne said. “I take your point. I’m just not convinced.”

  “Hell, Matt, the FBI has a page devoted to a Wanted poster for that raghead, Whatshisname the Terrorist, with a twenty-five-million-dollar price tag for his head. And all sorts of bounties for lesser criminal shits. How the hell is that any different if we add it to our website?”

  After a moment, Matt nodded. “Okay, you’re convincing me.”

  Mickey went on: “And we’re also a place to give ‘attaboy’ accolades to cops who otherwise don’t get noticed, like a patrolman walking the beat in your neighborhood who unlocks your car after you’ve left your keys in it.” He pointed to his shirt. “Kiss a Cop.”

  “Now, that sounds like a stretch.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Matty. You ever read a positive piece on a cop? Everyone likes a pat on the back now and then.”

  “Well, you’re absolutely right about that. Rare is the day you ever hear anything good about cops doing their job. Just mention the name Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.” He smiled. “Sounds like we’re on the same side of this fight, Mick, just different teams.”

  “Exactly.”

  IV

  [ONE]

  Standing at the bar at Liberties, Harris looked from Mickey to Matt, took a sip of beer, then said, “You remember Danny Gartner, Matt?”

  Payne, his glass to his lips, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Really? ‘The shittiest lawyer in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, ’ as they call him in the DA’s office? Never could forget a prick like that. Can’t count the times in court during questioning that he tried to make me look stupid or crooked. So he’s the one who got dumped at Francis Fuller’s door?”

  Harris nodded and said, “Gartner and one of his loser clients, a cocky little shit by the name of John Nguyen, aka ‘Jay-Cee,’ ‘Johnny Cannabis,’ age twenty-five. And mean as hell.”

  Then he mimed that his right hand was a pistol. He put the tip of the index finger in the base of his skull and, moving his thumb forward, dropped the “hammer” and mouthed Bang!

  He said: “Apparently, a fairly big-bore weapon. Really made a mess of their skulls.”

  “I think I’m about to cry,” Payne said, more than a little sarcastically, then sipped at his single-malt. He feigned wiping at a tear under his eye and went on: “Nope, guess I was wrong.”

  O’Hara chuckled.

  Payne smiled. He said to Harris, “Should I know the punk client, too?”

  “Only if you were in on any of his dozen drug busts for possession with intent to distribute. Just two of which ever went to trial-both for running roofies and other date-rape drugs-because Gartner kept playing the three-strikes game. There was also a sexual assault charge that got tossed because of a broken chain of evidence.”

  “Three strikes, eh?” O’Hara said. “That has to be one of the worst rules ever. Whatever happened to the notion of a speedy trial, as opposed to a speedy dismissal?”

  Clearing out cases so there could be speedy trials was precisely why, at least in theory, the Municipal Court had invoked Rule 555 in the criminal court procedures.

  Despite the shared name, Philly’s three-strikes law had nothing to do with laws across the land which declared that if someone racked up three felony convictions, he or she was clearly a habitual criminal who hadn’t learned a damn thing the first two times in the court system-and, accordingly, deserved a long sentence that essentially locked them up and threw away the key.

  Philly’s three strikes, in fact, could be argued to have the polar opposite effect of those laws: Rule 555 actually put criminals back on the streets.

  When someone was arrested, they came before the court for a preliminary hearing. But, due to any number of reasons-busy work or school schedules, miscommunications, even having second thoughts about testifying against a known thug-not all the victims or witnesses would show up for a hearing. And if they were not there in court at the scheduled time, then the prosecutors had to inform the judge that they were not prepared and that they had to request a rescheduling of the preliminary hearing.

  An occasional request for rescheduling might be manageable for the court system. But with the understaffed DA’s office overwhelmed with cases, the constant juggling of hearing dates made court scheduling chaotic, if not impossible.

  In response, the judges came up with Rule 555. It allowed prosecutors only three attempts at a preliminary hearing. If on the third hearing date the victims or witnesses still had not made it before the court, the judge slammed his gavel and announced, “On grounds of no evidence, case dismissed!”

  And the accused walked.

  Criminal defense lawyers were not held to such a standard. And the manner in which Danny Gartner and others of his ilk abused the system was equal parts clever and slimy.

  One type of abuse was for the defense attorney to ask his client on the day of a hearing if he or she saw anyone waiting in the courtroom who could be called as a witness against them. If they did, the defense attorney told the accused to scram. When the judge called the case, the defense attorney came up with an excuse-“Your Honor, my client could not get free from his job” and “didn’t have
bus fare” were popular-and promised the court that the client would absolutely make a later court appearance-“even if I have to fry those McBurgers myself, Your Honor, then chauffeur him here.” The lawyer would request a delay.

  That wasn’t strike one, two, or three for the prosecutor.

  But it damn sure was an inconvenience for the prosecution. And especially for the victims and witnesses, who, unlike the judges and lawyers and cops, were not paid for their time in the judicial system. Accordingly, they genuinely might not be able to get another day free from their job or school duties, and would end up a no-show. And then their absence did trigger a strike against the prosecution.

  Another type of abuse was for the accused, or an associate of the accused, to intimidate the victims or witnesses back in the ’hood so that they simply gave up on pressing the case altogether. The message-Snitches are not tolerated-was not lost on anyone in the ghetto. It didn’t matter that such an act was illegal. It still effectively caused a case to go nowhere-and the accused to go free.

  And thus Rule 555 made the DA’s job of bringing cases to trial more difficult-if not damn near impossible.

  “Now,” Mickey said, “where were we on the pop-and-drops?”

  “Tony was describing how they found Gartner and his punk pal.”

  Harris nodded, then said, “Well, both of the victims were bound. They had their wrists and ankles taped with packing tape. You know, it’s clear and maybe three inches wide, designed for those handheld dispensers?”

  “Yeah,” O’Hara said, “I’ve got one. I just use the rolls by themselves, because every time I tried with the dispenser, that jagged row of teeth always wound up slicing my hand or arm.”

  Payne snorted. “I’ve had that happen.”

  “Anyway,” Harris went on, “it appears that the doer also used the tape without the dispenser. Through the clear tape you actually could see dirty fingerprints that were picked up on the adhesive side.”