by David Ellis
Hector watched me intently, his face coloring. He was thinking things over now and wasn’t sure how he felt about the progression of this talk. His eyes darted toward the other tables to ensure maximum privacy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said cautiously.
“See, if that’s the way you play it, then I’m out,” I said. “You’re taking way too many risks and if you don’t start talking to me before you do things, you’re going to get into trouble. And I’ll walk away before I get jammed up. Life’s too short.”
Hector was still debating this, but his instinct was to default to a denial. “I don’t know what secrets you’re talking about.”
I looked around, as if I were concerned that others might be listening, and then leaned inward and spoke in a quiet but harsh voice. “You think I don’t know why you came to me, after Talia died, and offered me a contract in state government? That lunch we had? You think I don’t know it was because of Ernesto Ramirez?”
He squinted his eyes. “Ernesto . . . ?”
“Oh, like you don’t know who he is.” I threw my napkin on the table. “I’m done, Hector. I’m done with this.”
Hector reached out toward me, all but grabbing my arm across the table. “Just hold on a second. Just—say what you’re going to say.”
I pretended to stew, which was easy because it wasn’t hard to feign hostility toward Hector at this point.
“You and I both know who Ernesto Ramirez is,” I said. “The guy who knew the real reason behind Bert Wozniak’s murder? The guy who knew about you and Delroy Bailey? About Starlight Catering? I mean, really, Hector, you think I didn’t know all of that? Did you hire good lawyers to defend you or shitty ones?”
Hector was speechless. I’d unloaded a lot there. I was acting as if it was something I’d known all along, as opposed to just putting it all together in the last twenty-four hours. That suited my purposes.
My heart was pounding but my hands were steady. “You felt bad about what happened,” I said. “That weekend, when I was supposed to take Talia and Emily to her mother’s? I mean, that’s why you offered to give me some legal work through the state afterward, right? That was you trying to make it up to me. Trying to ease your guilt.”
Hector winced. His eyes dropped. He ran his fingers over his coffee cup.
“For what’s it worth,” I said, “I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have known I’d be waiting for Ernesto to call.” I was mustering all of my will to control myself and think of the bigger picture. It was not an easy task. Breathe in, breathe out.
Hector’s chin rose up. He looked over my shoulder, scratched his cheek, cleared his throat. Delay tactics, all of them. Nervous responses. He nodded to the waiter, who refilled Hector’s coffee. “The timing wasn’t ideal,” he said, after the waiter departed. “But I didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t thinking about your personal schedule, Jason. You may remember that I was on trial for my life? Remember that part? And here you are, running this one-man crusade to find this guy and get him to talk. I was days away from the trial ending and you were about to open a very messy can of worms.”
My eyes rose to his. He was having trouble keeping eye contact. This wasn’t something he enjoyed recalling. I wasn’t having a load of fun, myself.
“So, yeah, I’m sorry—okay?” That, alone, was a lot for a guy like Hector to say, and he seemed almost annoyed at the same time he was repentant. “Yeah, of course, I wish the timing—I wish it had been different with your wife and all. But I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t have that guy Ramirez out there flapping his mouth. He was a threat, and I did what I had to do. I didn’t have a choice.”
There it was, the rationalization that helped Hector sleep at night: I didn’t give him a choice. Ernesto Ramirez was my fault, not his. Therefore, Hector’s subsequent reaction—having Ernesto killed—wasn’t his fault, either. And the fact that it coincided with my waiting for Ernesto in my office instead of driving my family downstate? Well, even I would concede, I couldn’t put that on him. I’d finally turned that page last night, and I wasn’t going to flip back to an earlier part of that story.
Still, Hector felt bad enough about how things shook out to follow up with me and try to give me something, the only thing a guy like him could give me—a perk from his government position. Ironic, wasn’t it? Had Hector not invited me to lunch and discussed the idea of getting some fat-cat contract with the governor’s office, I would never have made my way into the Procurement and Construction Board or the governor’s inner circle. The one thing that Hector did that was born of some goodwill was the thing that ultimately would result in his downfall.
And the one time he actually said something heartfelt would be the final nail in his coffin. Hector Almundo had just admitted on tape to the murder of Ernesto Ramirez.
One admission down, one to go.
87
MY HANDS WEREN’T SO STEADY ANYMORE. I WAS thinking about my family, about Essie Ramirez and her two kids. I was thinking about the F-Bird in my suit pocket, which now contained Hector’s confession to Ernesto’s murder. It was like a loaded gun. But I had to stay focused. I couldn’t screw this up now. I still needed Greg Connolly. And this was my last chance.
“My point isn’t to make you feel bad about what happened,” I said. “My point is that you were reckless. We could have neutralized Ernesto Ramirez some other way, if you’d told me. For Christ’s sake, you didn’t have to have him killed.”
Hector grimaced with that final word. He didn’t like hearing it aloud.
“Spoken,” he said, “like someone who wasn’t staring at twenty years in prison.”
“I know, Hector, but look what that got you. You cover up Adalbert Wozniak by killing Ernesto Ramirez. Then you have to cover up Ernesto Ramirez by killing Greg Connolly. Maybe you’re okay on Wozniak now, since you were acquitted—but that still leaves two murders. And one of those two was one of the governor’s best friends and top aides.”
Hector was back to his standby denial mode. He drew his shoulders in.
“The last I checked,” said Hector, his voice calm and even, “Greg Connolly’s death was being chalked up as a mugging on Seagram Hill.”
That was an answer that my federal friends would have described as slippery.
“Yeah, but tomorrow’s another day,” I said. “You thought you got away with Ernesto Ramirez, too, right? And then suddenly, Greg Connolly’s talking to the feds and you have exposure. Now you think you’re okay on Greg Connolly but who knows who else might turn on you? I mean, who else knows about that?”
Hector worked his jaw, his eyes narrowed in thought.
I said, “Joey Espinoza knows. Maybe not about Greg. But he knows about the contract you got for Delroy, right? And the real reason Wozniak died? I’m sure he’d know about that. And he knows about your relationship with Delroy, too. I mean, that’s why his wife is on Charlie’s payroll.”
Hector’s expression went flat. “Joey knows how to use leverage.”
“Right. You give his wife a cozy job while he’s in prison and he’ll forget to mention a couple of things to the feds. He’ll give Christopher Moody information about the Columbus Street Cannibals, because they’re already hot on that trail, but he dummies up about Adalbert Wozniak. And Delroy Bailey. He buys his wife some financial security while he goes to the slammer.”
Hector raised his eyebrows without enthusiasm. I’d hit the nail on the head.
“But back to my question,” I said. “Who else knows about Greg? Who do we have to be worried about?”
Hector, at this point, was beaten down. “I would have thought it was just me and our mutual friend,” he said. “But apparently that mutual friend told you.”
Actually, no, our mutual friend Charlie hadn’t told me about Hector’s participation in that night of fun and torture. If he had, this whole thing would have been over a long time ago. Still, Hector had given me an opening and I was going to use it.
I made a face. �
��Yeah, Charlie told me after your goons went medieval on me in some abandoned warehouse. I think I was owed some explanation after—”
“That was Charlie’s idea.” Hector pointed a finger at me. “Not mine. He was the one who wasn’t sure he could trust you.”
I leveled a stare on him.
“That’s not the way Charlie tells it,” I said, an extrapolation on my part, but I wasn’t concerned with follow-up conversations with Charlie Cimino at this stage. “Charlie said he didn’t want to do that to me. It was your idea.”
“Fuck that. Fuck Charlie.” Hector became aware of his surroundings and leaned forward, talking softly like I was, but blurting out the words through a snarl. “That asshole panicked. As soon as we figured out about Greg, he starts thinking about you. He wanted to get rid of you that night. Did you know that? I fucking kept you alive that night.”
He punctuated that final point with his index finger drilled into the table. This was precisely what I expected; Hector would want to change the subject to taking credit for something again, to get me back in his corner. I thought it was bullshit, what he was saying. From my vantage point, Charlie hadn’t been in charge in that room; he hadn’t been the one running those goons who worked me over. Charlie was trying to protect me in that room. Maybe I was wrong about that. I’d probably never know.
And it didn’t matter. Hector had admitted his participation, which was all that I needed. Hector was going down for Greg Connolly’s murder. It was done now.
“And by the way, Counselor, while you’re lecturing me on being careful? Keep in mind that what I did to Greg helped everyone. Imagine Connolly walking around with a fucking federal wire every day. I saved everyone. Carl, Maddie, Charlie, MacAleer—and you.”
Hector wasn’t completely off the mark here; killing Greg Connolly did help everyone. Who knows what Greg could have helped the government uncover? But in the end, Hector didn’t kill Greg for anyone but himself. Greg posed a direct threat to Hector because Greg, as chair of the PCB, had steered a contract to Hector’s paramour, Delroy Bailey, and because Greg either knew, or had an informed opinion, that what had happened later to Adalbert Wozniak and Ernesto Ramirez was related to that sordid affair. Hector couldn’t risk having Greg Connolly chatting away to the federal government.
“Not that anyone will give me any fucking credit for that,” he went on, seething now. “These assholes running around Carl, they’re cutting me out of shit and taking credit for everything, meanwhile I’m saving their asses by exterminating a rat. They’re fucking oblivious. They don’t even know I got their backs. I take all the risks and they get all the benefit.”
I started nodding along with him, supplying Hector more and more rope with which to hang himself. “That doesn’t seem right,” I said. “They don’t even know what you did for them?”
He sneered at me, took a quick look around, and leaned inward again. “Those pussies think they know what it takes? They don’t know shit. They’d probably piss their expensive little pants if they knew what I’ve done for them. They’ve never had to get their hands dirty. They’ve had everything handed to them on a silver platter. They don’t understand what it means to reach out and take something. I mean, really take something that isn’t supposed to belong to you. Charlie, he understands. He gets it. Nobody gave him nothing. He took it. He gets it. The rest of them? The ones who hang on coattails?”
Still nodding my head, I was. Hector was just warming up.
“Peshke? This guy’s dad was a congressman so that makes him smart? Maddie Koehler? She got some governor elected in Tennessee who could’ve won with his pants down and now she’s a genius? MacAleer? His dad was an old union boss. He’s just a dog who follows his master. And Carl? Carl’s a good guy, but c’mon. This guy was handing out marriage licenses until I came along. Try being a Latino politician for one goddamned second. I mean, sure, you can run in your legislative district, but try running statewide. See how many people are going to line up to help you when you have brown skin. Do any of them have to go to a fucking street gang to get contributions? Do any of them have the federal government targeting them because they’re successful?”
I had a nice comeback to that last question, but I’d let Christopher Moody handle that one. I was done. I really didn’t want to listen to this guy rationalize his behavior anymore. He was the thug I’d always suspected, but it hadn’t mattered to me, because he was my thug. He was my client. He bought the resources of the best law firm in the city and the best lawyer, Paul Riley, with me at his side, and we pulled it out for him. Hector was guilty of masterminding the Cannibals extortion and we’d gotten him off. He was guilty of killing Adalbert Wozniak—not precisely for the reason the feds thought, but guilty nonetheless—and we’d cleared him of that, too.
Just doing my job. It was true. I couldn’t be sorry about providing a zealous defense to a client. But I could be happy that some justice was coming his way now. There would be attorneys, in the coming days, who would criticize me for turning against a former client, but I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.
“I’m coming to you,” I said into my cell phone to Lee Tucker.
“Now?”
“Now. Bring another Bird. Ten minutes.”
“Why do I need to bring another Bird?”
I hung up the phone without answering. He didn’t need to know why.
88
I WALKED INTO SUITE 410 FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER. Lee Tucker had just shown up, still wearing his coat, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “The F-Bird didn’t work?” I handed it to him. “It worked just fine. I just thought you should have this right away.”
It wasn’t the real reason I was turning in the F-Bird early, but it sounded like a sensible explanation.
Tucker stared at the recording device I’d handed him. “This was your breakfast with Hector Almundo?”
I nodded. “Listen to that. You might be adding a name to that indictment.”
“Well—c’mon. Give me a preview.”
“Let’s just say you’re going to learn a few things about Hector Almundo. I sure did.”
“C’mon, Counselor. Don’t be a putz.”
I smiled, which felt odd. I hadn’t done a lot of that recently, and this surely wasn’t a time for mirth. “Greg Connolly,” I said. “It was Hector. Hector and Charlie.”
Lee Tucker nodded at me, but hardly reacted. Nothing in his eyes, nothing in his movements. “Okay. Anything else?”
“You knew,” I said. “You already knew.”
Tucker wasn’t going to say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.
“The guys he hired?” I asked. “You traced them back to Hector? Forensics? What?”
It felt silly, but I’d been living in my own little world, working up a case for these guys. I hadn’t considered the obvious—these guys were capable of some investigating of their own. They could have swept the place where I was interrogated for fingerprints or DNA—shit, the one goon spilled a pool of blood out of his nose after I clocked him. And they followed the car that dropped me off that night. They probably knew the names of both of those guys and had easily secured search warrants to access phone records and anything else they might need to trace those guys back to Hector.
“Well, now you have a confession, too,” I said.
Tucker paused, debating what he could say to me. “That will help us a lot. Let’s say it will confirm what we strongly suspected. Great job, Jason. Really.”
I held out my hand. Tucker put a new F-Bird in my palm but didn’t release it. “You’ll take one more shot at Snow? You’ll give it the old college try?”
I pried the new F-Bird from his hand. I looked him in the eye but didn’t answer.
“Jason, don’t be an idiot. You’ve done so much for this case. Hell, you risked your ass for us. Chris won’t prosecute you. Not if you take this one last shot. Even if you fail. Just try.”
Mom always said, if you don’
t have something to say, keep your mouth shut. So I did.
“But you tell Chris to fuck off now—Jason, c’mon, man, you know he’ll go after you. Don’t throw all your hard work away. Don’t do that.”
I thought Tucker’s impassioned plea was not entirely self-interested. Yes, he wanted to be part of an historic investigation that took down the governor. And yes, he could dutifully play the good cop to Chris Moody’s bad. But I thought Lee meant what he was saying. I’d earned something with him after everything I’d done. He was rooting for me, I thought. He wanted me to avoid prison. That sounded like an okay idea to me as well. But it wasn’t Tucker’s call.
It was Moody’s call. And, as Moody had said to me earlier, it really was up to me.
89
I DIDN’T GO DOWN TO THE PRESSROOM IN THE STATE building for the 11:30 media event. I couldn’t stomach the idea of watching the heads of State and Local Employees United and the International Brotherhood of Commercial Laborers announce their endorsement of Governor Carlton Snow. It was covered over the Internet, however, so I flipped it on in spite of myself and half listened to it, which is to say that it was on in the background as I packed up some of the few personal items I had brought to this office.
Rick Harmoning praised Carlton Snow’s commitment to the working class but forgot to mention how Snow got all of Rick’s family and friends jobs in the administration, veterans and better-qualified candidates be damned. Gary Gardner cited the governor’s support of the federal employee free choice law but not his soon-to-be-announced appointment of Gardner’s brother-in-law to the state supreme court.
I tried to care enough to be mad but I was punch-drunk at this point, numb from overexposure. And I was exhausted. I had done what I’d come to do. I’d found my killer and, only a few hours ago, had taped him over breakfast admitting to the crimes. His co-conspirator, Charlie Cimino, was already in the soup plenty for his role that night—much of which had been captured by my F-Bird—as well as dozens of other felonies Charlie and I committed for months before that.
