Blood Money: Joe Dillard Series No. 6

by Scott Pratt

  “Does she work for the CIA?” Dalton said.

  “I think a mental evaluation might be in order, judge,” I said.

  “Ah, the voice of experience,” Judge Lockhart said. “Mr. Dalton, have you been taking your medication?”

  “It gives me headaches,” Dalton said.

  “We’ve been through this before,” the judge said. “When you don’t take your medication you do things that cause you to wind up standing here in front of me. This time it’s more serious, though. Now you’re charged with a felony instead of a misdemeanor.”

  “It’s the waves,” Dalton said. “The microwaves they send at me. The CIA and the NSA keep trying to—”

  “That’s enough!” the judge said, raising his voice and holding up his right hand like a traffic cop. “I’ll order another mental evaluation, Mr. Dillard. You set it up, the state will pay for it. What it will tell you is that if Mr. Dalton doesn’t take his medication he will be unable to comprehend the charges against him and will be unable to aid in his defense. Therefore, without his medication, he will be unable to stand trial. However, if he takes his pills, he becomes perfectly able to understand and to aid in his defense and therefore become competent to stand trial.”

  “I take it this isn’t his first rodeo,” I said.

  “Third,” the judge said. “I’m also ordering Mr. Dalton to stay away from Veronica Simpson, the victim in this case. He may not go within a thousand yards of her. He may not contact her or communicate with her in any way, shape, form or fashion. If he does, he goes to jail, and I don’t necessarily think jail is the best place for him. Mr. Dillard, Miss Story, I will leave it to you to insure that your client complies with my order. He has family, although my understanding is that his family has become so frustrated with him that they’ve pretty much washed their hands of the entire situation.”

  “What about bond, judge?” I said. “If he can’t afford a lawyer he probably can’t afford to post bond. Are you going to keep him in jail? We ask that you release him on his own recognizance.”

  “I suppose we need to hear from the prosecutor regarding bond,” the judge said. “What say you, Mr. Garland? Mr. Garland? Are you paying attention?”

  Ramey Garland was the assistant district attorney in this particular division of General Sessions Court. He’d been with the DA’s office for thirty years, suffered from a degenerative eye disease, and was nearly blind. I knew him. He’d actually worked for me when I was the district attorney general. I’d heard complaints about his ineffectiveness, but he was such a nice man that I simply hadn’t had the heart to get rid of him. He was sitting at the prosecution table, surrounded by lawyers, studying warrants with a magnifying glass. Someone leaned down and whispered into his ear.

  “Beg pardon?” Ramey said from the table.

  “Clyde Dalton,” the judge said. “Stalking case. He probably can’t post bond. Are you opposed to me releasing him pending a mental evaluation?”

  “Nah, go ahead,” Ramey said.

  “Brilliantly expressed,” Judge Lockhart said. “Very well, Miss Story is appointed. Mr. Dalton will be released on his own recognizance pending a mental evaluation and subject to my prior order. Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Bailiff, take him back and bring in the next one,” the judge said, and Charlie and I turned and walked out the door.

  Chapter 9

  TWO days after they whacked Skinny Tony Leonetti, Johnny Russo and Carlo Lanzetti walked in through the back door of a small deli called Poppa’s on South Broad Street. Both of them were wearing their favorite designer brands: skin-tight Under Armour wife beaters and Nike sweat pants and shoes. Their hair was black – Johnny’s had blonde highlights – short, and spiked. Their bodies were bronzed by tanning beds. Their legs, chests, and underarms were freshly shaved. Johnny wore an Italian horn on a gold chain around his neck. Carlo wore a large cross on a silver chain. There was no particular significance in the symbols to either of them; they just liked the bling. Johnny led the way down a short hall and pushed a button on the wall. A couple of minutes later two deadbolts slid and they were face to face with Bobby “Big Legs” Mucci.

  “You’re late,” Mucci growled as he stepped back so they could enter.

  “You said three,” Johnny said.

  “It’s four minutes after. When I tell you three, it don’t mean four minutes after. It means three. You guys look like a couple of mopes, you know that? And you smell like French whores.”

  Johnny walked past Mucci without responding. He liked Mucci okay for an old-school guy, but the constant insults got on his nerves. Who was Mucci to judge his appearance, anyway? Mucci wore solid-colored golf shirts with logos and khaki slacks and loafers. He looked like bulldog dressed up as a golfer. He was in his late forties, shy of six feet tall with short, brown hair and a pock-marked face. His upper body was a little pudgy, but his butt and thighs were distinctly disproportionate – they were huge. “Big Legs” was a small-time sports bookie and controlled a dwindling numbers game that encompassed ten city blocks. He’d been a made member of the Pistone family for eighteen years and had done a six-year bit for aggravated assault. He talked the talk and tried to walk the walk, but like all of the other older wiseguys that Johnny knew, Mucci seemed defeated.

  Mucci walked behind a desk in the run-down office. The place smelled of rat piss and cigar smoke. There was a monitor on a table with a split screen that showed the hallway outside the dead-bolted door. Two computers that Mucci used to handicap ball games sat on another table next to the desk. There were no pictures on the beige walls, only jagged cracks in the ancient plaster. Johnny and Carlo sat down on a dusty, overstuffed couch. Mucci reached down and turned off the two cell phones that were on top of the desk.

  “I got good news and bad news,” Mucci said. “The good news is you guys did okay. Clean hit. Nice work. Everybody thinks so. The bad news is the books are still closed and they’re gonna stay that way for now.”

  Johnny looked at Carlo, then back at Mucci. “I don’t think I heard you so good.”

  “Yeah, you did. The books are closed.”

  “That ain’t what you told me when we took this contract,” Johnny said. “You said—”

  “I said I’d talk to them about it, and that’s what I did.”

  “So we clipped a guy for nothing? No money, and now we don’t get made? This ain’t right.”

  Mucci shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands, palms up. “What can I say? Business isn’t so good these days. It’s tight, capisci? Not the way it used to be. The government is offering millions in the lottery and every schmuck with a buck is playing. It kills the numbers racket. The sports bettors go online now. It’s a crime, all that money going to offshore companies. The drug trade is risky – too much competition and cops everywhere. It’s tougher to make money, so they don’t let many people in anymore. They open up the books, next thing they know the money is spread so thin there isn’t enough to go around.”

  “We make money,” Johnny said. “They take it every week.”

  “You gotta pay your dues.”

  “When was the last time somebody got whacked?” Johnny asked. He felt betrayed, anger coursed through him. He and Carlo had taken a huge risk, and now… “I mean here in Philly. Before we did our thing the other night. When was the last time the family ordered somebody gone?”

  “Been awhile,” Mucci said. “Since Sal went to jail.”

  “More than five years. That’s why you guys ain’t making no money. You’re soft. People don’t fear you. A little heat comes down from the feds, and all of sudden everybody’s a rat. They don’t respect you anymore.”

  Mucci pointed a thick finger at Johnny. “Watch your mouth, punk.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Carlo said, his face pink with anger. “Whack us? Johnny’s right. You guys don’t do that anymore. I tell you what we’re gonna do, though. We’re gonna quit paying. If you ain’t gonna let us in, we ain’
t gonna pay. Why should we? What are we paying for? Protection? We don’t need your protection. Me and Johnny can take care of ourselves. Connections? You don’t have any connections, and if you do, you ain’t sharing them with us. Do you and your wiseguy brothers support our business? Help us in any way? No. You just sit around with your hands out and wait for your tribute. You’re welfare gangsters, you guys.”

  Mucci narrowed his eyes and looked at Johnny. “What about you? That how you feel?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah. That’s how I feel. Screw you guys. We ain’t paying no more.”

  Carlo stood and took a step toward Mucci’s desk. He looked like the grizzly bears Johnny had seen on National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, hovering over his prey, panting, about to attack.

  “How about I just snap your neck like a twig?” A vein in Carlo’s forehead was protruding, a sure sign he’d gone into a steroid-induced rage and was about to do something violent. Johnny stood and put a hand on Carlo’s bicep while Mucci stared up at Carlo.

  “I’ll give you both a little time to think about this,” Mucci said. His tone had changed. It was less aggressive, lighter, not so self-assured. “Maybe change your minds. You’re young. You need to be patient.”

  “Patient? For what?” Carlo waved his hand and looked around the room. “So some day we can have all this?”

  A couple of minutes later they were on the sidewalk.

  “Short and sweet,” Johnny said.

  “Yeah. I’ll bet he pissed himself.”

  “He’s on the phone right now, ratting us out to the bosses. We just spit in their faces. They’ll do something. They’ll come at us.”

  “I hope so,” Carlo said. “I’ll make ‘em wish they was never born.”

  Chapter 10

  LIKE I told Roscoe Barnes the day I met him, money talks in the legal system. In this particular case, the amount had been five thousand dollars in cash, and it was paid to a well-qualified psychiatrist in Johnson City named Dr. Leland Holmes. Charlie had chosen him and made the initial contact, and once he received the money, the doctor became extremely accommodating. He’d set up an appointment for Roscoe immediately and had written a report that said exactly what we needed it to say. Roscoe was mentally competent. He was not a danger to himself or anyone else. As soon as I received a copy of the report, I called Nathaniel Mitchell – Roscoe’s son’s lawyer – and asked for a meeting.

  At 9:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, Roscoe, Charlie and I approached the front door of Mitchell, Skaggs, & Ward, the oldest and largest law firm in Northeast Tennessee. Charlie was dressed in a royal blue business suit and carrying a briefcase. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail and she was wearing a pair of dark-framed glasses that gave her the look of an attractive, studious young lawyer. I’d asked her to persuade Roscoe to wear something at least semi-formal, but he’d stubbornly refused and was decked out in his bib overalls and red flannel shirt.

  Nathaniel Mitchell’s firm’s offices occupied the entire top floor of a gleaming, ten-story bank building in Johnson City. The building sat at the top of a hill, the centerpiece of the city’s high-rent district. I’d been there a couple of times before, and I always felt as though I was entering a fantasy world, a world where, at least on the surface, everything seemed clean and perfect. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, varnished cherry wood molded gleaming marble floors, expensive paintings and tapestries covered freshly-painted walls. Even the people seemed unreal, all scrubbed and expensively dressed and utterly efficient. Charlie had told me that Mitchell, Skaggs & Ward was one of the law firms that had told her they just couldn’t have the daughter of a convicted drug dealer on their roster.

  We checked in with one of the receptionists and were accompanied to a conference room that offered a panoramic view of Buffalo Mountain to the south. As we walked into the room, Charlie spotted a large, glass bowl filled with small candy bars: Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth and Butterfinger. She walked over, fished two Butterfingers out of the bowl and sat down. She offered one to Roscoe, who shook his head. She wolfed one down and just as she was opening the second candy bar, the door opened and two men walked in, both wearing tailored, navy-blue suits, starched, white shirts and maroon ties.

  “Must be the uniform of the day,” I heard Charlie mumble. I stifled a chuckle, because I was wearing the same damned thing they were wearing.

  “Beg your pardon?” The older man was Nathaniel Mitchell. He was in his early sixties, tanned and fit, with a head of thick, meticulously-groomed, silver hair, a lantern chin, strong jaw, and lovely, ivory-colored teeth that were perfectly aligned. Mitchell was a mouthpiece for the rich and powerful in Northeast Tennessee. I’d met him at bar association meetings back when I used to attend and was well aware of his reputation as a shark. He always drove a brand new, silver Jaguar and carried himself with an arrogance that surrounded him like aerosol spray.

  “I was just admiring your suit,” Charlie said.

  The other man was Mitchell’s client, Zane Barnes, short and thin, in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair that had receded to the crown of his head. His face was pale and drawn, his nose ridged, his mouth small and tight. Zane Barnes was Roscoe’s son and his only living relative.

  We went through the introductions while Nathaniel Mitchell and Zane took their seats at the table. Once everyone was settled in, I slid a copy of Dr. Holmes’s report across the table to Mitchell along with a document I planned to file in court asking the judge to dismiss the case. Mitchell slid a pair of reading glasses onto his nose and scanned the documents.

  “My, my, you’ve been busy,” he said.

  “Just wanted to give you a heads up,” I said. “It appears you may have been misled by your client. You have no case.”

  Mitchell removed the glasses and smiled.

  “All this tells me is that we’re going to have a swearing match between experts,” he said, “and my expert is as well-qualified as they come.”

  “His examination was a fraud,” I said. “Once the judge hears the circumstances, I don’t think he’ll look too kindly on Dr. Heinz.”

  “I’m aware of your reputation in the criminal courts, Mr. Dillard, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in civil court. I bring that up because I’m sure, considering your many years of experience, that you understand how important relationships can be. You’ve spent a career building relationships with judges and attorneys and clerks in the criminal courts, and I’ve done the same in the civil courts.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you have the judge in your pocket?”

  “I said no such thing, and I resent the implication. Although I will say that Judge Beckett and I go way, way back. He was a member of our law firm for ten years before he took the bench and we’ve remained very close over the years.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “Maybe I should ask him to recuse himself since the two of you are such good buddies. Might interfere with his ability to remain impartial.”

  “I’ve been practicing in his court for fifteen years and there has never been even a hint of impropriety. As a matter of fact, I feel certain that Judge Beckett would be outraged by any suggestion or insinuation you might feel compelled to make in that regard. You might even earn yourself a contempt citation.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten sideways with a judge,” I said. “Probably won’t be the last, either.”

  “Listen to us,” Mitchell said with a smug smile, “fencing like a couple of first-year law students at a beer bust. I assume you asked for this meeting so that we might attempt to find some common ground, some resolution that allows all of us to walk out of this room feeling that we’ve accomplished something worthwhile.”

  “There is no common ground,” Charlie blurted. It surprised me, because I’d asked her to let me do the talking.

  “There is always common ground, Miss Story,” Mitchell said. “Zane is willing to negotiate. I’m willing to negotiate. We’re willing to give something as
long as we get something in return. That’s how this works.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Charlie said. “I may be a rookie, but I know when someone is being railroaded.”

  “You act like this is personal,” Mitchell said. “I’m representing a client, that’s all, and he has a case. Your client is clinically depressed and suffers from dementia. He’s a danger to himself, and we have an expert medical opinion to back up the claim. What you need to understand is that the stakes are high for your client. If he loses, if the judge rules against him at trial, everything changes for him. He’ll end up in a long-term care facility.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. We have a solid case, compelling evidence, which we will continue to build during the discovery process.”

  “So far your only witness is a prostitute, just like you.”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. I turned to look at Charlie, but she was so locked onto Mitchell that she didn’t even notice me. Mitchell put both hands on the table and stood. He nodded at Zane Barnes, who did the same.

  “I see that I made the right decision in not hiring you, Miss Story,” he said. “Sometimes people just can’t overcome their genetic predispositions. Go ahead and file your motion to dismiss, Mr. Dillard. Schedule the hearing as soon as possible so we can get in front of Judge Beckett and see what he has to say.”

  And with that, Mitchell turned and walked out of the room, followed closely by his client. The three of us – Charlie, Roscoe and I – remained seated while an awkward silence hung like around us like a thick cloud. After a few minutes, I said, “Did I just hear a young lady who hasn’t even passed the bar exam call Nathaniel Mitchell a prostitute to his face?”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “He was just so… so… holier than thou.”

  “Do you drink beer, Charlie?”

  “What?”

  “Beer. Hops and barley. Alcoholic beverage. Do you drink it?”