by Shenda Paul
"She’ll be thrilled, and I can’t wait to celebrate. Would you let me take you to dinner on Wednesday if you’re not working?" I ask.
"I’m not, and I’d love to see you," she replies without hesitation. "Why don’t you come here instead? I’m not much of a cook, but I’m sure I can rustle up something."
"That sounds fantastic, and I’d happily eat a sandwich as long as we have it together."
"I think I can do marginally better than that," she promises with a light laugh. "I’d better let you go, Adam, so you can eat."
"I’ll call you tomorrow evening; enjoy your lunch with Mom. Sleep well," I tell her when, in reality, I want to say so much more.
Chapter Two
On Wednesday, just after lunch, my phone rings.
"I can’t fucking believe it!" Jon exclaims irately.
"What?"
"Joseph’s been released into general population. I'm going to string that warden up by his balls!"
I understand just why usually unflappable Jon is so het up. Joseph’s move could prove disastrous. Remand prisoners are meant to be held in prison facilities and separate from the general prison population. These places, as a general rule, are not as restricted as prisons. Inmates held there are exempt from requirements such as work service, they’re allowed to wear their own clothing, and may be permitted more visitors, so there are distinct advantages to being held in a facility rather than with mainstream prisoners.
In reality, however, due to overcrowding, those meant for remand are often mixed in with the general prison population. In the case of the Cordi brothers, we petitioned the court for them to be kept apart from each other as well as the general population. The judge stipulated it as a condition of their confinement, so I'm more than a little curious to know how Joseph came to be moved.
"We need to question that warden, Jon. In the meantime, can you find out exactly who’s being held in that facility, who left, and who arrived during Joseph’s time there and let me know? I want to uncover why he was chosen for transfer and just how far his influence reaches."
"I've already demanded that the warden gets his ass down here. I want him to feel what it's like to be questioned at the precinct like a common criminal."
"When are you expecting him?"
"He was conveniently unavailable when I called, but I told his secretary that I expect him here tomorrow before ten. I’ve also said we’ll be out there later in the day to question Joseph and make sure he's back in remand."
"Sounds like you have it under control. Is there anything you need from me?"
"Just scare the shit out of him at tomorrow’s meeting."
"I’m sure we can manage that between us; I just need that list of remand prisoners beforehand."
"I’ll let you have it as soon as I get it, and I’ll confirm when the warden will be here," Jon says, sounding much more like himself.
.
.
That evening, Angelique and I are cleaning up after a delicious dinner she cooked and managing, somehow, to easily navigate her tiny kitchen without obstructing each other. It feels as if we've been working together in it for years.
"They're a couple?" she asks in surprise after I’ve shared an anecdote involving Jodi and Jon.
"They are; I consider myself a latter-day Cupid," I joke, and at her puzzled expression, tell how I encouraged their budding relationship.
"I don't think it was you, I think those chocolate croissants were responsible," she giggles. I can't resist the sound and embrace her from behind.
"Mmmm, I love when your hair’s in a ponytail, it makes this so much easier," I murmur, running my nose up her neck. She shudders delicately.
"I should have dressed up more," she apologizes, but I loved finding her in a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt; they show off the lines of her stunning body and accentuate the graceful way she moves.
"You're perfect," I whisper, inhaling her delicate fragrance.
"I'm not," she protests, another tremor running through her. I smile against her skin, thrilled to know I affect her as much as she does me.
"You're perfect to me," I say, placing a soft kiss beneath her ear before returning to my task of drying dishes. "Mom's over the moon about you agreeing to work with her."
She smiles because, by next week, Mom and Angelique will both officially be employees of The Thorne Foundation. Mom will, initially, work only two days a week as she helps settle in her replacement at her current job, whereas Angelique will be working full-time.
Eleanor’s Place is still under construction, and Angelique’s suggested setting up a section of her living room as a makeshift office for herself. I haven't mentioned it yet, but I plan on turning over an area at home as an interim place for her and Mom to work from. I can't deny how thrilled I am at the thought of her being there on a daily basis.
"I’m looking forward to working with her too… I don't know how to thank you both enough," Angelique says earnestly.
"There’s no need to thank either of us; we're incredibly lucky to have you," I assure her.
She smiles gratefully but then, as she turns to make coffee and tea, appears contemplative. Once settled on the sofa, I gently remove her cup from her hand and place it beside mine on the coffee table.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"It bothers me," she says, gnawing on her bottom lip nervously.
"What?" I ask, reaching out a finger to stop her.
"I…I'm far from perfect, Adam, and it disturbs me that you think of me in that way. I'm afraid you'll end up disappointed."
I lean in to kiss her. "How does that feel?"
"Good; really good," she says, her cheeks turning a rosy pink.
I ease her back into the armrest before wrapping an arm around her waist, and then, cupping the nape of her neck, I kiss her passionately.
"How does that feel?" I ask, releasing her with enormous effort.
"Wonderful," she whispers.
"Perfect?"
"Perfect," she agrees, her blush deepening delightfully.
"See, perfect for me, just as I hope to be perfect for you."
We spend the rest of the night talking and exchanging slow, heated kisses, and, at eleven, I reluctantly announce that I should leave.
.
.
Early the next morning, I receive a message from Jon, advising that Warden Banks will be at the precinct at nine-thirty and that he’s emailed me the list of remand prisoners.
"What happened to the paperless society?" I joke at the sight of Jon’s desk when entering the squad room.
"I'm not sure, but it obviously hasn't arrived here," he counters dryly.
"Is he here yet?"
"Been in the interview room for fifteen minutes, and I intend to keep him waiting for at least another five," he says with a self-satisfied grin.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?"
"You bet I am. He's an arrogant prick, and I can't wait to deflate his ego. I've got good news and bad news."
"Let me have it."
"The good is that we've located Victor Perez. The bad is that Joseph’s been taken to the infirmary complaining of stomach pains. I think that wily bastard’s just showing he can still control things; but whatever the truth is, we can't see him until a doctor clears him."
"Let's show him who really calls the shots by turning up unannounced tomorrow," I suggest after a moment’s thought.
"I like your thinking. What about Joseph’s lawyers?"
"I'll give Jones a call when we get there. It's only a forty-minute drive; if he's that worried about his client, he’ll make the trip at short notice."
Jon's smile practically splits his face. "Would you like coffee?" He gestures toward the refreshments table.
"No thanks, I’ve heard how bad the coffee is around here."
"Well, in that case, let’s go and put Banks out
of his misery, or add to it," he says, eagerly getting to his feet.
.
.
"So, what you’re saying is that you arbitrarily decided that Mr. Cordi was the best candidate for transfer?" I ask less than ten minutes into our interview.
I pause behind Banks’ chair, forcing him to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. He’s arrogant as Jon described. Tall, with a florid complexion and steely gray, short-cropped hair and an air of self-importance, it's clear that George Banks is accustomed to being in charge; and he's been trying to assert his authority in this meeting.
"That’s not what I said. I said, in my estimation, Mr. Cordi was best equipped to cope with general population," he counters, chin jutted out pugnaciously.
I move to face him and look him squarely in the eye. "Because he’s adept at managing a band of ruthless thugs, or because he convinced you he was the best candidate?"
"I’m not on trial; I deserve more respect, Mr. Thorne," he tells me, his face becoming even more flushed.
"More respect than you afforded the courts? You've yet to provide a plausible reason for Joseph Cordi’s transfer because none of the other prisoners on remand, including the new intake you claim you needed to accommodate, had court directives imposed on their stay.
"In my view, you either deliberately ignored a court ruling, or you were grossly incompetent. Which is it, Mr. Banks? Please explain how, in your estimation, you concluded that Joseph Cordi should be moved?"
I ignore his look of uncertainty; the first time during this interview he’s expressed that emotion. "Either way, you’re in contempt of court. You appear to be a smart man, so I assume you realize the seriousness of your position?" I turn my back on him to look at Jon whose face remains impassive. His eyes, however, tell me he’s entertained. When I confront the warden again, there’s no sign of his earlier bravado.
"And you’d know the penalties you’re facing," I pointedly add before returning to my seat beside Jon. I occupied it for only moments after entering because almost as soon as Jon performed introductions, I stood and assumed the demeanor I’d usually display when questioning an uncooperative witness. I intended, from the outset, to break George Banks down; incompetent or corrupt, he’d willfully rejected a court order.
"By ignoring a judge’s directive, you not only challenged the authority of the courts; you also provided a ruthless criminal with the opportunity to continue his illegal dealings from behind bars. You’ve facilitated the opportunity for him to reach out and intimidate potential witnesses, thereby obstructing the course of justice; and you've also, quite possibly, endangered lives. I intend to bring you to account for your decision, Mr. Banks. Thank you for your time, you are free to go," I conclude.
His expression turns fearful. "I…I… give me a chance…" he stammers.
Jon gets to his feet. "You’ve had more than enough time to explain, and as Mr. Thorne’s indicated; this meeting is over. We’ll be in touch," he says and strides across the room to hold the door open.
"Well, that was fun," he announces, shutting it firmly behind Banks. "Are you going to charge him?"
"I sure as hell am going make sure he faces a judge. Whatever the outcome, he’ll be taken down a peg or two. It will be a long time before George Banks ignores a court order again; and if we prove that he’s accepted a bribe, he’ll almost certainly find himself behind bars."
.
.
"What the hell do you mean, you're interviewing my client?" Bryce practically roars in outrage.
"Exactly what I've said. Detective Holmes and I will be interviewing Joseph Cordi in…" I check my watch, "exactly fifty-five minutes."
"You should have contacted me earlier; my client has a right to have his attorney present during questioning. "
"I tried, unsuccessfully, to contact Travis Jones; now I’m speaking with you. I've done more than can be expected, given the circumstances, and you’re wasting time if you want to be present for this interview, Bryce."
He’s still protesting when I hang up. I feel no remorse; Jones and or Bryce may not have had pre-warning of Joseph’s transfer, but he was out of remand for a week, so they should, in my view, have known. And knowing, they should have ensured their client’s return to the remand facility. They should also have notified the courts and the DA’s office of the breach.
I also gain a deep sense of satisfaction at the recollection of George Banks’ surprised confusion and then barely repressed anger at our unexpected arrival. He tried to bluster his way through with a reminder that visitors needed to be pre-approved, but I silenced him with a look, then told him we wanted to interview a prisoner, Ricardo, known as Ricky, La Fata immediately. I said we wanted to meet with Joseph half an hour later and warned him not to divulge the identity of his visitors. Banks’ eyes were filled with animosity as he tried to stare me down, but I held his gaze, silently reminding him of the precarious position he’d placed himself in. Then, while he arranged for La Fata to be escorted to an interview room, I called Jones and then Bryce.
La Fata’s served five of a fifteen-year sentence for trafficking cocaine. According to information Jon’s gleaned, he’s built quite a formidable reputation as the leader of a small, but ruthless, band of prisoners who run a protection racket. Prison officials suspect but are unable to prove that he’s also smuggling drugs into the system.
During his stay in general population, Joseph was seen having lengthy discussions with La Fata. We believe that he might have taken advantage of La Fata's links on the outside to contact his henchmen still at large. He probably used those same connections to have the note written and delivered to me, and we haven't discounted the possibility of him having made plans to intimidate potential witnesses.
Ricky La Fata, a bald, heavily muscled, and tattooed man stares at us impassively as a guard urges him forward.
"Take a seat, Mr. La Fata. I'm Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne, and this is Senior Detective Jon Holmes."
"I watch the news; I know who you are," he says with an intimidatory glare.
"Then we don't have to waste time on niceties," I counter coolly. I've been in the presence of hardened criminals many times, mostly from across the witness stand, I admit; and Jon, too, has had his fair share of encounters. If La Fata’s intention is to scare us, he's failed.
"We want to know what you and Joseph Cordi discussed," Jon comes straight to the point.
"The weather; isn’t that what strangers talk about?" La Fata responds impassively.
"Cut the bullshit, Ricky," Jon tells him.
"You're coming up for parole soon, so cooperating to put Joseph Cordi behind bars would look good on your record. On the other hand, it wouldn't take much to convince a review panel that you conspired to obstruct the course of justice," I add, watching the opportunistic gleam light up La Fata’s eyes. So much for the saying about honor among thieves; in my experience, it’s proven, in most instances, to be nothing more than a myth.
Just over half an hour later, Jon and I watch as Joseph is led in. Other than a momentary widening of his eyes, he shows no outward surprise. There’s no doubting the man’s self-assurance; his body language belies the fact that he is, in fact, incarcerated and facing the distinct possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison. His lips lift into a sneer as he lowers himself into a seat across from us.
"Good to see you again, Adam," he says, ignoring Jon's presence. I turn to Jon, an indication that he should start because yesterday, when discussing this meeting, I concluded that Jon should do most of the talking. By doing that, in my view, we’d be denying Joseph’s almost certain desire to turn the meeting into a personal confrontation between him and me.
Jon rises to his feet and strides across the room. "I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Cordi, and that you’re settled back comfortably in remand," he says. Joseph is forced to turn his head to look at him and, in doing so, provides us with
our first, small victory in establishing the upper hand.
"I am, thank you; prison food doesn't always agree with me," he replies evenly, but his smug smile confirms our assumption that he’d feigned his illness.
"We’re not here to discuss your diet," Jon returns.
"Why exactly are you here?" he asks casually, turning his gaze on me.
"To ensure you’re back in remand where you belong and to question you about your knowledge of some recent mail," Jon replies, moving again, but Joseph chooses to ignore him this time.
"Someone getting to you, Adam?" he asks snidely.
"Not at all, " I reply impassively.
"What makes you think Mr. Thorne was the recipient?" Jon demands.
"Why else would you both be here?" Joseph counters, his gaze still fixed on me.
"We know what you're up to," Jon says, unmoved by Joseph’s tactics.
"You know nothing, Detective," Joseph replies, sparing Jon a cursory glance.
"We know more than you think," I interject. "You don't have quite as much clout as you once did."
"Says who?" he challenges.
"Ricky La Fata, for one, and I'd say Victor Perez and Mick O'Flaherty when we bring them in," Jon replies, and Joseph’s face suffuses with angry color.
"That's right. Your new friend decided that having a chance at parole is much more rewarding than whatever deal you made with him. I'm also sure that, like La Fata, Perez and O'Flaherty will decide that cooperating with the DA’s office will help their cases," I add because La Fata, having weighed the possibility of his improved chances of gaining parole, decided to cooperate.
He revealed how, with his help, Joseph had been able to communicate with Perez and O'Flaherty through messages written on narrow strips of paper, which were then rolled into tiny balls for easy concealment. The missives were passed on to prisoners sanctioned by La Fata, who, in turn, unobtrusively transferred them to their visitors. La Fata's contacts on the outside retrieved and then delivered them to Perez and O'Flaherty.
