Then, I see them. A pair of flip-flops on his feet.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about stumbling into your Waikiki hotel at four thirty in the morning wearing a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops.
Except, that is, when you left your hotel nine hours earlier in a pair of bright white Nike sneakers.
CHAPTER 20
The arraignment was uneventful. However, hearing our application for bail reduction denied still brought Joey to tears. He grabbed hold of me in a desperate embrace and left snot on the shoulder of my new navy blue suit. In that moment, I pitied the both of us. I chose to spare him, at least for some time, the news of Shannon’s employment with the Justice Department and our discovery of his unfortunate change of footwear. I’ll speak to Joey about these items next week. After all, there’s really no rush. He’s certainly not going anywhere.
That was yesterday. Today is Friday and the beginning of what I hope will be a long weekend. In New York, I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking a Friday off. Or even a Saturday, come to think of it. But Nikki insisted, and so I caved. And here we are, the two of us, at the entrance to the Waikiki Aquarium.
Nikki is dressed in a sexy, colorful midriff and tight, short shorts, which quickly extinguish every bit of excitement I had mustered for looking at fish. Nevertheless, hand in hand, we make our way inside. I pay the reduced kama’aina admission, and we are handed a pair of audio wands. The wands are black, about a foot in length, and I feel silly carrying one in my hand. The wands, we are told, serve as a virtual tour guide throughout our walk through the aquarium.
At Nikki’s insistence, I put the silly wand to my ear. We step in and stop at the first tank. The woman in the wand tells me that I am looking at coral, a hard substance built by sea creatures, taking the shape of lettuce leaves, rosettes, or solid stones. Magnificent. But I’d prefer to be having sex.
“Alika is upset with me for dating a haole,” Nikki tells me out of the blue.
“Really? Why is that?”
“He hates haoles. He doesn’t trust Caucasians after all that’s happened. He thinks haoles don’t belong here on the islands.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
We make our way left, and the woman in the wand tells me we’re looking at angelfish, butterfly fish, and puffer fish, all swimming in the protection of a sea anemone’s stinging tentacles. It’s all so beautiful and peaceful. I promise myself to get to know the sea.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Nikki asks me.
“I’m one of a kind. An only child.”
“Do you enjoy what you do? Being a lawyer, I mean.”
That’s a good question, one I haven’t really reevaluated since I moved to Hawaii. I thought I enjoyed practicing law in New York, but I didn’t. I enjoyed telling people what I did. I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed the money. I enjoyed playing the role of a criminal defense attorney, but I didn’t enjoy the actual practice of law. I hated my clients. I hated my adversaries. I was told by my shrink that I even hated myself. It was like that for a long, long time. And it all culminated with the death of Brandon Glenn.
Most lawyers will tell you that they hate being lawyers, and just about all of them are full of shit. You don’t get trapped by the law. You can leave it at any time. Sure, I sometimes feel like an indentured servant with the insurmountable school loans looming over my head. But I’m lying when I tell myself that’s why I practice law. I could do a lot of things to earn a living. But it’s like Milt always told me. Some people are just made for this shit.
And practicing law seems different in Hawaii. Or maybe it’s me that’s different. I’m certainly handling the Gianforte matter in a way different from the way I handled any other. I’m handling it the way a good lawyer should. Taking it apart piece by piece, instead of playing for the media and looking ahead to the next retainer. I feel good about myself. For the first time in my career, yes, I am enjoying the practice of law.
As I inform Nikki of my newfound contentment, the woman in the wand informs me that the rainbow of colors moving gracefully in the tank to our right are blue devils, cardinal fish, and lemon peels.
“How come a sexy lawyer from New York City doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Nikki asks.
I wince at the question. I don’t want to talk about relationship history. Not hers, and sure as shit, not mine. Of course, there is my standard response.
“I just hadn’t met the right girl.”
The woman in the wand saves me from any further talk on the subject. She tells me the next community of fish is more diverse. Convict surgeonfish, blotched foxface rabbitfish, flame angelfish, all swim about giant clams and coral.
As we turn the corner, two small children run into us, nearly knocking Nikki over. In my short time on the islands, I’ve already grown quite tired of tourists.
Nikki notices a sign for the ladies’ room and excuses herself. After watching her backside dance away, I turn to see something not quite so pleasant. A giant tank filled with some of the largest and meanest-looking fish I have ever seen. I make myself a promise not to get to know the sea all that well after all.
As I stand up against the tank, I feel the presence of tourists milling about behind me. Despite the packed subways and busy city streets, New Yorkers have the least tolerance for people who invade their personal space. I am certainly no exception. I press myself up even closer against the glass as the bastard tourists behind me move about. They are standing so close, I can feel their sickening breath on the back of my neck.
“That’s some ugly fish,” I hear from over my right shoulder, as a large threadfin jack passes across the glass. The voice is a deep, noxious baritone, coming from a man taller than my six feet.
“Yeah,” agrees a shorter man on my left. “Fucking hideous.”
“How ’bout you, kid?” says the voice on my right. His voice is lower now, but close to my ear, such that I can smell his foul cigarette breath. “You’re the opinionated sort. What do you think of the fish?”
I attempt to turn around, but my body’s pressed against the glass. They’re not letting me move an inch.
“Don’t turn around,” says the voice to my left. “We seen enough of your face in the Post.”
“Yeah,” says the voice on my right. “Sure hope you do a better job for little Joey Bangs than you did for that fag in New York.”
My heart is thumping so hard I fear it will shatter the glass on the tank. My first thought is of my son-of-a-bitch client. I should’ve known his promise would be good for shit. My second thought is for my safety. With my peripheral vision, I can see a crowd in the next room. My pulse slows just a fraction, until I remember my college class on organized crime. My paper was on the subject of mob hits, and I was fascinated by the boldness with which they were often carried out.
“We hear you been asking questions bout Mr. Gianforte’s business,” says the voice to my left.
I say nothing.
“Mr. Gianforte respectfully requests that you cease and desist, Counselor,” he says. “That’s lawyer-speak for ‘cut it the fuck out.’ Capiche?”
I nod but say nothing.
“And that goes for your friend, too,” he says. “The Jew lawyer back in New York. Got it?”
I nod but say nothing.
A reflection of the three of us is in the tank. I study their faces, starting with the one on the left. I have about an inch on him. His right eye is on me, but his left is looking out into space. He’s got thinning black hair, a wide nose, and pockmarks all over his face. The one on the right is broad-shouldered with curly black hair slicked in grease. His face is heavy, he’s missing a tooth, and he’s got three chins, at least. I take a mental snapshot.
“You got yourself a cute little girlfriend,” says the son of a bitch on my left. “I wouldn’t mind giving her a lei.”
“Yeah,” says the prick to my right, midguffaw. “I betcha her poi tastes pretty fucking good.
”
I say nothing.
When they’re through with their laugh, the fucker on the right reaches between my legs from behind and grabs my balls. He squeezes, as the bastard on the left covers my mouth with one of his foul-tasting hands. The other hand is behind me digging his wand into the small of my back. I feel faint, and I wait for everything to turn a bright white.
“Consider yourself on notice, Counselor,” one of them says.
And with that, they are gone.
Nikki returns not a minute later as I stand stone still, eyeing the threadfin jack.
“Sorry I took so long,” she says. “Some guy asked me and another girl coming out of the ladies’ room if we would come outside with him to help feed the sea lions. Then when we got to the tank, he couldn’t find the food. He went around the side and never came back.”
I look at the wand in my hand. “Nikki, my wand isn’t working. I have to run up front and get another.”
I push past the tourists and head for the front desk, where the chubby woman who distributes the wands is eating a Hot Pockets and sipping a supersize Coke.
“Excuse me,” I say, “do you recall two Italian-looking men purchasing admission? One was very large and the other had a lazy eye.”
“Yes,” she says between bites. “As a matter of fact, there were three. They just walked out.”
“Did they return their audio wands to you?”
She sets down the Hot Pockets and sweeps the area with her eyes.
“No,” she says with her hands on her generous hips. “As a matter of fact, they didn’t. They must have walked right out with them.”
She’s clearly displeased with this. She’s not the only one. Without their fingerprints from the audio wands, the only means I have of identifying them is the mental snapshot I took. The snapshot is of unquestionably poor quality and the picture’s fading fast.
I head back to Nikki, thinking of lame excuses along the way.
“I hate to do this,” I tell her, “but I have to end our date.”
Nikki doesn’t look pleased. A sadness in her eyes makes it almost impossible for me to lie to her. Almost.
“Hoshi just called,” I say. “Jake is really ill, and I’ve got to take him to a doctor.”
Nikki had made it clear to me that she wouldn’t tolerate a man who put work before her. I certainly can’t tell her I’m being threatened by the northern New Jersey Mafia for obvious reasons. I don’t consider myself a liar anymore. But sometimes women are so damned demanding that they leave men with no alternative but to lie. This is one of those times.
After safely tucking Nikki away in a taxi bound for Kailua, I race back to my Jeep, back to downtown Honolulu, back to South King Street, back to my office. I am through the door and past reception before Hoshi can manage an aloha.
I drop in my chair and dial Milt’s cellular phone number in New York.
“Speak,” says Milt. A lot of background noise is on his end.
“Did I catch you at a bad time, Milt?”
“No, Kevin,” he yells into the phone, “it’s never a bad time for you. I’m waiting on a jury verdict at One Hundred Centre Street. The DA’s offer was twenty-five years. I’m going to have my client home eating supper with his baby mama by six p.m. tonight.”
“Good for you, Milt. Listen, I need to see some photos related to the Fiordano syndicate. I’m looking for a couple of soldiers.”
I tell him about my run-in at the aquarium. About the threats made about both me and him.
“What is it with you goddamn guineas?” he says. “I’ll have the photos faxed to your office by later tonight.”
“I don’t want to put you at risk by having you poke around, Milt.”
“Me? At risk? C’mon, Kev. I’m a fucking Superman. Besides, these will be coming directly from the FBI.”
“You have friends in the Justice Department?”
“I have friends everywhere. Actually, my source in the Bureau and I have a mutual friend. You may have heard of him. His name is Benjamin Franklin. He’s deceased, but I always keep a few pictures of him in my wallet.”
I think back to when I first met Milt Cashman. I was a first-year law student, and Milt was lecturing at a seminar called “Making Crime Pay.” At lunch, we got to speaking. I wanted to learn something, but all he did was boast about his latest female conquests.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Milt had said to me. “I’m a short, bald Jew with big ears and rotten teeth.” He reached into his pocket and flashed a roll of bills as big as his fist. “But when I take this out at the bar, I’m six foot three with blond hair and blue eyes. Just like that, I’m Robert fucking Redford.”
I hear Milt ask the assistant DA if he’s ready to offer up time served and a plea to disorderly conduct in lieu of first-degree murder. A second goes by, then Milt laughs.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He told me to go fuck myself.”
“Good for him.”
“So, Kevin, I thought you left New York to get away from this shit. Now, from what you’re telling me, you’re balls deep in a murder case that’s getting national attention, and you got the New Jersey mob threatening to put you to bed with the fish. What the hell happened?”
“I guess, Milt, that what you told me ten years ago is true.”
“What’s that, Kev?”
“Some people are just made for this shit.”
CHAPTER 21
This early Monday morning, I am standing in a courtroom at the district court in Honolulu, which differs little from my legal haunts in New York City, except that the female court officers wear flowers in their hair. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting before I first stepped into a Hawaiian courtroom for Joey’s arraignment last week. Maybe palm trees where flag posts usually stand behind the bench. Tiki torches lighting up the gallery. Maybe prisoners shackled with fresh flower leis in lieu of handcuffs. But there’s none of that. It’s all business here in paradise.
The courtroom, any courtroom, is a welcoming place for few. But I am one of those few. I revel in hearing the sound of my voice as it echoes through the gallery. I relish in being pit against a foe. I delight in the duel, in landing blows from the podium and parrying with my objections like a valiant English knight. But, usually, I’m not so valiant. Usually, I sneak up on my adversaries from behind, pull out my sword, and strike them down cold. Indeed, that lawful underhandedness, I confess, provides me the greatest pleasure of all.
I am standing at the counsel table with the robust Turi Ahina at my side. He’s glowing like a candle, displaying for all who look upon him his bright, big signature smile. Ordinarily, I would tell my client to wipe that smile off his face before the judge does it for him. But I notice for the first time today that it’s not the show of cockiness I first took it for. The man is simply merry. He is a jolly, big fellow as some big fellows tend to be. He’s happy, and I can’t fault him for that. Though what in the world he has to be happy about is fucking beyond me.
The case of State versus Turi Ahina is called. I pull Turi’s file folder from my briefcase, File Number 00002. I considered using for Joey’s case the next available file number from my New York practice, but that wouldn’t allow me the fresh start I came here looking for. The Corvelli Law Firm was not the name of my firm in New York either. It was the Law Offices of Kevin D. Corvelli. But the Law Offices of Kevin D. Corvelli were the attorneys of record in the case of People versus Brandon Glenn. Anything I can do to distance myself from that case, I will. Even if it means legally changing my own name altogether.
Luckily for me, Turi didn’t seek private counsel immediately after his arrest. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have found me, since I wasn’t yet licensed to practice law in the State of Hawaii. It wasn’t until after his court-appointed lawyer began pressuring him into taking a plea bargain that Turi jumped ship and sought out some paid for. Yes, paid for is a term usually reserved for harlots, you know, hookers, whores, women of the night. B
ut when you think about it, is there really that much of a distinction between our two professions?
Luckily for him, he found me. I have no intention of attacking this case on the merits. If I did, I would walk out of the courtroom with a slash in the L column, and I don’t like to lose. Turi was caught in what is called a buy and bust. Simply put, an undercover officer makes a hand-to-hand purchase of narcotics from the suspect, then waiting officers move in for the arrest. A search incident to arrest will yield from the suspect the marked currency used by the undercover officer to purchase the narcotics. The testimony of the undercover and arresting officers, along with the marked currency and whatever else the suspect is found to be holding, will just about always be more than enough to obtain a conviction.
Enter Rule 48.
“The state is not ready, Your Honor,” says the young female prosecuting attorney from the table across the aisle. “We request a brief adjournment.”
Rule 48 is Hawaii’s speedy-trial statute. The U.S. Constitution guarantees a criminal defendant’s right to a speedy trial under the Sixth Amendment of the Bill of Rights. Maybe it’s the Fifth, I don’t know. That’s what the Internet is for. The states set forth their own speedy-trial rules, which are often broader than the rights granted by the U.S. Constitution. In New York, the speedy-trial statute is known as Criminal Procedure Law 30.30. In Hawaii, it’s known as Rule 48. The statutes are designed to promote justice and fair dealing. I like to think that they are designed for clever lawyers such as myself to manipulate the system and make a quick buck.
“Is the adjournment on consent, Counselor?” the judge asks of me.
“Absolutely not, Your Honor,” I say. “The defense is ready, and we are prepared to select a jury this morning. Our witnesses are all present and accounted for.”
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