In fact, we have no witnesses, not a single, solitary one. And we never will. But technically, it’s not a lie, since I could call Turi to the stand if I so wished. And he’s here, standing next to me, grinning like the cat that ate the blond canary.
You see, Rule 48 says that the state has 180 days from the time of arrest to bring this matter to trial. A violation of Rule 48 entitles the defendant to have the trial court dismiss the charges against him for want of prosecution. It’s what many outside the legal profession would consider a technicality. It’s what I consider a game. A game I like to call Beat the Speedy Trial Clock.
“Very well,” says the judge, a Filipino male in his midsixties. “Ms. Raffa, is there any way for you to proceed today?”
“No, Your Honor,” says the prosecuting attorney. “The arresting officers are unavailable to testify at the present time. We need at least another two weeks.”
Testifying in court is part of a police officer’s job, a part most of them do not like. Sitting in court, waiting to be called upon to take the stand, is less than adventurous. Being criticized and having your integrity put into question by some sleazy criminal defense lawyer is no day at the park. Being told where to be and when by some stuffed shirt with a law degree and a badge is no picnic either. Hence, police officers are frequent no-shows at the time of trial, particularly in misdemeanor drug cases, where the payoff for law enforcement is slim.
“Very well,” the judge says. “I am setting a new trial date for three weeks from today.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ms. Raffa and I sing in unison.
It’s another reason I’m lucky Turi waited to seek private counsel. Ninety days are already chargeable to the state, meaning we have only ninety more to go, including the twenty-one days just ordered by the judge. Should the officers appear in court three weeks from today, I’ll answer, “Not ready.” Our witnesses will suddenly have disappeared. I’ll request an adjournment, and the time until the next trial date will be excluded. However, the chances are that the officers who appear ready to testify will not appear again the next. If they do, I’ll request yet another adjournment. The object of the game is simple: play until you win.
Turi and I exit the courtroom together. I explained the entire strategy to him before we stepped up to the counsel table so that he wouldn’t look surprised when I mentioned our nonexistent witnesses or that we were ready for trial. He is dressed in the odd way criminal defendants dress for court. With varying degrees of success, they wear the best they own of everything. A worn black sport coat over a brand-new yellow T with silver denim jeans and a pair of brown Timberlands. He looks like a giant bumblebee that ate a small bear, landed on a metal trash can, and took a dump. But his smile, really, is all I see.
Turi pulls me close to him and traps me in a giant bear hug. It’s a brotherly embrace that makes me think of Brandon, and a similar hug we shared just before the start of trial.
“T’anks, Mistah C,” Turi says to me.
“Thank the founding fathers who drafted the Constitution, Turi. I’m just helping you exercise your rights as a citizen of the United States of America.”
His chubby cheeks lift even higher, illuminating the hallway the way few smiles ever could. All things considered, I’ve had relatively little to smile about in my career. Financial success did not bring with it the happiness I thought it would. Outside of Milt, I did not sustain a single friendship that lasted past my move. Not a single colleague, adversary, or client has bothered to keep in touch. I stand here lonely in a courthouse corridor envying a client charged with possession and sale of ice. I have no choice but to ask.
“Turi, why are you always smiling?”
He points toward the glass door leading outside. The sunbeams are beating it down, trying to break in. “Brah, the sun is shining. The birds are singing. The waves are hitting the shore. The land, it’s mine. And it’s waiting for me just outside that door.”
I nod my head, looking past him to the outside world. I wish, for just a moment, I could completely comprehend.
“Smile, Mistah C. It’s one beautiful day, yeah?”
And with that, he’s gone.
Still jittery from the incident at the aquarium, I shudder when I feel a firm hand grip my left shoulder. I breathe a sigh of relief after I turn to see Flan, a file folder tucked under his other arm. “How did you find me?” I ask.
“I called your office. Hoshi said you’d be here.”
I’m already alarmed. The look on Flan’s face tells me this is not a social visit. Yesterday, I provided Flan the names of the two goons I picked from the photo array sent to me by Milt’s friend in the Bureau. To better gauge the seriousness of the threats, I asked Flan to gather for me whatever information he could, including the date and time the bastards arrived in Honolulu.
“Kev,” Flan says, “we need to talk.”
CHAPTER 22
The two New Jersey men I picked from the photo array were identified as Salvatore “Lazy Eye Sal” Lopardi and Anthony “Tony Bitch-Tits” Antonazzo. Joey, who is apparently known to them as Joey Bangs, probably told his father every word I said, right down to the crack about Sonny Corleone. Now, I have two goons by the colorful names of Lazy Eye Sal and Tony Bitch-Tits threatening my life. It just proves further what Milt Cashman always said: aside from Frank Sinatra and Lou Costello, nothing good ever came out of Jersey.
Flan and I have moved down the hall to the Lawyers’ Room. It’s set up like a grade-school cafeteria, complete with folding tables, metal chairs, bulletin boards, and vending machines filled with crap. It smells more like a toilet than a cafeteria, but precious few places in the courthouse are as private as this, so we sit our asses down on the metal folding chairs to talk.
“I checked with my guy at Continental Airlines,” says Flan. “Sure enough, Lopardi and Antonazzo took a flight from Newark Liberty International to Honolulu Airport together.”
“I already know they’re here, Flan. I need to know when they got here.”
“I’m getting to that. Boy, Jake was right. You really need to calm down.”
I apologize, real genuine-like. I suppose it’s too much to ask of someone to get to the point. It’s one thing I miss about New York. The fast-talking, curt manner in which I could dismiss everyone throughout my day. There’s a certain attitude in New York. Give me what I need and let me be on my way. Here in Hawaii it’s different. Someone sells me a diet soda, and I’m supposed to kneel down and kiss their ass cheeks on both sides. Then I’m supposed to sit down for an hour and a half and listen to them talk story.
Talking story, Nikki told me, is part of the Hawaiian culture. It’s sitting down, talking, gossiping, shooting the breeze. Everything I live for.
“You are going to shit your pants when you hear this,” Flan says.
“I doubt I’ll shit myself.”
“Lopardi and Antonazzo arrived in Honolulu on the same day as Shannon Douglas and your client. Their flight touched down in Honolulu less than an hour after Joey’s.”
“Flan,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I just shit myself.”
“I warned you. I knew you would.”
My mind is spinning clockwise with hope, counterclockwise with fear. If I can show that members of the Fiordano crime family knew that Shannon Douglas was working for the Feds, then we’ve just discovered two more viable suspects in Shannon’s murder. But I’ve been put on notice. To pursue Lopardi and Antonazzo as suspects will place me in grave danger. My personal stakes in this case have just been raised. One wrong move and I’ll be facing more than just some cameras in my face. If I fuck up, the least I’ll have to worry about is a few humiliating headlines. One mistake, and this time I won’t just be leaving Manhattan. I’ll be kicked off the goddamn planet.
We know that the police and prosecuting attorney are aware that the Gianfortes are connected to the mob, thanks in whole to Carlie Douglas. What we don’t know is whether they know about Lopardi a
nd Antonazzo. We can’t let them know I was threatened because we’d be tipping our hand. They would quickly locate the duo and learn that they arrived on the same day as Shannon and Joey. If Lopardi and Antonazzo do have alibis, they’d find them, too. And we’d be back to square one. It’s difficult when those charged with the responsibility of protecting you are also the enemy.
“Do you want me to tail these guys?” Flan asks.
“No,” I say. “It’s too dangerous. If you get made, you’ll end up doing a face plant on Waikiki Beach same as Shannon.”
“They can’t be any scarier than my ex-wife.”
“Still. For the time being, just find out where they’re staying and learn whatever else you can from Carlie Douglas.”
“You’re the boss,” he says, sounding somewhat disappointed that I won’t let him lay his life on the line just yet. “Now that you have two plausible suspects, it seems like things are looking up, aren’t they, Kev?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Besides the fact I’d be placing my life in jeopardy, there’s something else bothering me about fingering Lopardi and Antonazzo as the killers.”
“What’s that, Kev?”
“Back in New York, Milt and I represented a good many members of the Tagliarini crime family. The family was in the midst of a war with two other syndicates. Bodies were surfacing around the five boroughs just about every other week for two years.”
Flan narrows his eyes. “And?”
“And,” I say slowly, flashing back through the thousands of crime-scene photos I examined during that span, “Shannon’s murder has neither the look nor feel of a professional hit.”
CHAPTER 23
Back at the office I find Jake in the conference room, the contents of the Gianforte file and an empty six-pack spread across the long cherry table.
“I thought you were too old for this shit,” I say. “I am,” he says, taking a last swig from his Sierra Nevada. “Still, there’s something about this case that draws me in like a moth to a flame. The victim is as complex as any I’ve ever seen or even heard of. A law student, working undercover for the Justice Department, dating the son of a Mafia underboss. She’s a beautiful brunette, clearly intelligent, yet promiscuous as all hell. She has sex with a local on the beach the night before she’s supposed to meet her law school professor for a two-week-long fuckfest. She drinks like a fish, she does drugs.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him. “What did you just say?”
“About the fuckfest?”
“No. About the drugs.”
Jake scans the table. The file I kept so well organized looks as if it were hit by a tornado. I don’t see a Doritos bag in the room, but orange fingerprints are all over my meticulous notes. He has clearly used the pleadings as a coaster and the retainer agreement as a place mat for his Doritos and pale-ale snack. He finally finds the document on the floor under his feet.
He tosses it to me. Despite the footprint I can see that it’s a toxicology report.
“Shannon tested positive for marijuana,” Jake tells me.
“Son of a bitch. How did I miss this?”
“Actually, you didn’t. I noticed the toxicology report wasn’t attached to the autopsy records. I figured you being so organized and all, if you had it, it wouldn’t dare be anyplace else. So I telephoned the prosecuting attorney’s office. A secretary faxed it over to us an hour ago. They must have forgotten to give it to you when you picked up the file.”
“I wonder what else they forgot to give me.”
“Like a shiny new pair of Nike sneakers?” he says.
I nod. Defense attorneys typically have to fight tooth and nail with prosecutors to obtain discovery. I was naïve to think it would be any different in paradise. Just because Barbara Davenport handed me some preliminary discovery with a smile on her face doesn’t mean they’re not holding back the good stuff. Law enforcement can utilize many tactics to keep the defense lawyer in the dark. If police found the footwear, they may have had it analyzed, then neglected to hand it over to the prosecuting attorney’s office. The police are under no duty to provide us with discovery. Only the prosecuting attorney is. Thus, the police and prosecutors usually have their own little “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.
Back to the marijuana. The pakalolo. Immediately, my thoughts turn to Palani.
“Palani has already admitted to police that he bought marijuana at the Waikiki Winds after he left Shannon on the beach,” I say.
“Don’t forget, son, the weed could have been in her system for up to thirty days.”
“It could have. But remember, Jake, she worked for the FBI. She wasn’t calling it a day and rushing home to smoke a joint. The Justice Department tests its employees on a regular basis.”
“Another fine reason not to become a Fed.”
“Practically speaking, I’m sure we could also elicit testimony from Shannon’s mother, who would assure us all that her darling little girl never touched the evil weed in her entire life.”
“Okay, son, let’s assume, then, that Shannon smoked the ganja the night she arrived in Waikiki. Where does that leave us?”
“Well,” I say, “let’s assume she didn’t smoke it at any of the bars. Even though Palani says he smoked a joint in the bathroom at the Bleu Sharq, I’m sure the owner and manager of the bar will call him a liar and say that sort of stuff doesn’t go on in there. The same goes for Margaritaville.”
“That would mean she smoked the weed sometime after she left the Bleu Sharq.”
“Exactly.”
“But Palani has the video surveillance camera at the Waikiki Winds as an alibi, son. Even assuming he was able to get back to the beach, kill her, and return to the hotel in the fifteen minutes or so that he left his post, he sure as hell didn’t have time to sit down with her to puff on a joint.”
“Right,” I say. “But what about his buddy, the other doorman? This J. J. Fitzpatrick. The guy who gave Palani the weed.”
“I hope you’re not talking about a coincidence, son. Juries don’t buy into coincidences.”
I shred some skin off my thumb and wince at the pain.
“No, Jake. No coincidences. Perhaps Palani was in a giving mood after his buddy J.J. lit him up. Perhaps Palani told his friend and colleague that there was a drunk, horny, half-naked girl down on a deserted stretch of Waikiki Beach.”
“You think you’ll be able to sell a jury on that, son? That the local boy wanted his friend to have a go at her?”
“As fucked up as it sounds, there’s precedence, Jake. Think about it. If Palani told his friend about the girl—which he probably did given the scratches on his face—then, at the very least, we have another suspect, one who doesn’t have an alibi in the form of video surveillance.”
“So what you’re surmising is that this friend of Palani’s walks down to the beach, finds Shannon, has a chat with her, smokes her up, then hits her with a reef rock when she won’t put out?”
“That’s one possibility,” I say, rising from my chair.
I walk down the narrow hall to my office. I step inside and close the door behind me. I step out of my shoes. I remove my suit jacket and pants, hang them neatly on the hook atop the cherry door. I remove my tie and my button-down shirt and fold them over my chair. I change my socks. I throw on a T-shirt and shorts, slip on a pair of sneakers.
On my way out of the suite, I pop my head back into the conference room and say good-bye to Jake.
“Where are you heading off to, son?”
“I’m going for a run. And I have a sudden urge to try to score some pakalolo.”
CHAPTER 24
No law bans the use of cellular phones while operating a motor vehicle in Hawaii. I read an article in the Honolulu Advertiser just a week ago stating that the latest bill to ban cell phone use was shot down in the state legislature. Ironically, the article was situated directly below the graphic photograph of a stomach-turning motor-vehicle accident, in which the dri
ver of one of the motor vehicles admitted he was distracted by his conversation on his Nextel cellular phone. Any group of learning-disabled eight-year-olds could tell you that fiddling around with a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle at sixty-five miles per hour will cause accidents and inevitably lead to serious injury and death. Yet the Hawaii legislature doesn’t quite get it. Kind of makes you wonder just what kind of people are writing our laws.
As I navigate my Jeep around a hairpin turn, I flip open my cell phone and dial information. I request to be connected to the Waikiki Winds hotel on Kapahulu. I am connected with the front desk, and a woman named Irene graciously asks how she can help me. I tell Irene that I stayed at the Waikiki Winds two weeks ago. I was incredibly satisfied with the exceptional service. The doormen were particularly helpful in carrying my bags, providing directions, and assisting my pregnant wife and invalid mother. Irene tells me she is delighted to hear that.
I nearly flip my Jeep as I try steering with one hand through the heavy Waikiki traffic. I tell Irene that I feel terrible because I lost my wallet early on in my vacation, and I wasn’t able to tip the doormen what I felt they deserved. I would like to make up for it by sending the fine fellows a check. Irene assures me that, although it isn’t necessary, the doormen would undoubtedly appreciate my good-hearted generosity. I tell Irene that one of the fellows was named Palani, and I ask if he’s working today. She tells me no, she’s sorry, he’s not.
I am cut off by some tourist as I turn onto Kuhio, and I have to momentarily release the wheel to give the son of a bitch the finger. My Jeep swerves and nearly strikes a pole. I regain control and tell Irene that another fellow was just grand, but I didn’t catch his name. I describe the individual I saw on the video from the hotel’s surveillance camera, the one whom Palani later relieved. Irene tells me yes, she knows him well. His name is James Joyce Fitzpatrick. Everyone calls him J.J.
“That’s the one,” I tell her. “I knew he went by initials. Is he working today?”
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