Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  He had been sitting in his chair too long. He stood up to stretch, rubbed his buttocks, grabbed his hat, and passed Mary-Jo as he headed through the recently redecorated combined stenography/reception area that overlooked the Atrium. At the brass railing he looked below at the Atrium’s water fountain.

  Foot traffic reflected the afternoon lull that the Green experienced each day at this hour. Just past two o’clock on weekdays, thirty minutes before the close of public schools, attendance slumped. Mothers returned home or headed to school to pick up their children.

  This was the two-hour period Toby most often used to catch up on his backlog of paperwork. He was about to return to his office when he saw the woman out of the corner of his eye—eyes trained to see such things. His father could spot a school of surface feeders a mile in the distance, where to the untrained eye there was no sign of life at all. Toby spotted potential troublemakers.

  The woman moved suspiciously fast through the Atrium, wearing a wide-open blouse that revealed an ample amount of exposed bosom, obvious especially from above. She had no idea he was watching her.

  In one deft movement, she plowed into her mark and slipped the wallet out of the man’s back pocket. She dropped it into her shopping bag and stepped back to apologize. From where Toby stood, the mark seemed awestruck by her cleavage. He was further bemused as the woman bowed to apologize, giving both him and Jacobs a full view of her breasts.

  Jacobs reached immediately for his walkie-talkie’s handset and depressed the button. “This is Jacobs. Code Red,” he said, alerting Brock that this rated as an emergency. “Check the monitors on the Atrium. Locate a Caucasian female, twenty-three, five foot six, blond hair, white blouse opened in front, carrying a Harvey’s shopping bag. She just lifted a man’s wallet. Find her and stay with her. Also, keep your eye on the bald guy by the west side of the fountain. Get a guard over to him and detain him. Check your tape on the cameras and see if we caught that area of the Atrium in the last five minutes. I’m going after her.” He headed for the escalators.

  He bounded down the moving steps, doing his best to dodge patrons riding the escalator. A trained pickpocket would leave immediately, hide from view for a matter of seconds while removing any valuables from the take, and then ditch the wallet or purse on the floor of a concourse so that it appeared to have been accidentally lost.

  He saw one of his men approaching the pickpocket’s mark, so he didn’t bother to stop. He walked fast, eyes searching for the woman. Thirty feet up he spotted the man’s wallet on the floor. He cursed as he scooped it up, shoving it into his pocket and looking around for her. There was still a chance that she had stolen a credit card so he continued on. He knew that the more professional pickpockets dealt only with cash so that once they had dropped the wallet or purse they were free of any connection to the crime. He punched a button on the hand-held microphone of the walkie-talkie and asked, “Any sign?”

  “I saw her briefly, but I lost her. I think she might have taken the stairs down to a sub-level.”

  “Got it. Get me some help. Keep watching the monitors. Alert the crews on all sub-levels to keep an eye out for her.”

  The alarm on the fire stairs had been tripped. Nearly out of breath, he slipped his ID card into the slot by the emergency stairs, gained access, and hurried through the door. He heard footsteps below him. He leaped down two steps at a time, reached a landing, and rounded the corner. No one. He continued down as fast as he could safely go on his tired feet, reaching a door to Sub-level 2 that was just closing. He swung open the door and ran into the parking area.

  His eyes scanned the sea of parked cars alert for any movement. Nothing.

  A trolley passed, blocking his view. He searched the passenger’s faces, leaning this way and that to afford himself a view of all the riders. He didn’t see her there either.

  In his earpiece a tone alerted him and then Brock’s voice said, “We have someone who fits the description on camera C-Fourteen. She just headed into the ladies’ room. Should I send someone in after her?” All even-number cameras were mounted on the east wall, facing west. It didn’t fit.

  “Yes.”

  He sprinted back up the stairs, out of breath by the time he reached the top. He hurried to the door of the women’s toilet and waited. One of his female guards reached the scene quickly. Her name was Pollano. Her face was round and girlish, but she wore fake lashes and thick pencil in her brows.

  “You have a description?” Jacobs asked.

  “Yes, sir.” She went inside.

  The woman she came out with a minute later wore a white blouse unbuttoned to the third button. That was where the similarity ended. She was not a blonde but a redhead (the cameras were black-and-white), and she couldn’t have been over five foot two (some of the cameras were mounted too high, making a person’s height difficult to judge). She wasn’t carrying a shopping bag (no excuse for that). He explained their situation, apologized, and asked Pollano to arrange for a free booklet of discount savings certificates, which the woman gladly accepted.

  “So where’d she go?” he asked no one, picturing the pickpocket already on her way out of the complex. “Where the hell did she go?”

  13

  “It’s time to do something about the pervasive attitude that continues to oppress Hillsdale’s minorities and poor.”

  Roy Walker’s voice carried well. The community center, a cinder-block cubicle painted grass green, with overhead fluorescent lights that flickered annoyingly, held fifty chairs, twenty-five of which were filled. The small crowd listened attentively.

  Walker continued. “As a community, we were unorganized when Yankee Green’s expansion began to grab up our housing. We were unorganized as our rent climbed so high we had to move our families every six months just to have a roof over our heads. Well, it’s time we got organized.”

  The group nodded and applauded lightly. “So what do we do?” asked a deep-voiced woman from the back.

  “We do what we should have done a long time ago. We make ourselves noticed. We grab their attention. We demand change. We adopt a stance of nonviolent protest. It’s the one thing we can do that may have some effect. Our choice is to be unorganized and overlooked or organized and listened to.”

  “Protests need permits, don’t they?” asked a middle-aged Italian near the back. “You think they’re going to give us a permit to demonstrate at the mall? They ain’t. Maybe for downtown, but not the mall.”

  “If they won’t grant us a permit, then we may just have to get ourselves arrested,” Walker explained. “Arrests make the news. Arrests demand attention.”

  “Arrests cost money,” someone shouted. The crowd laughed.

  “Which only makes our point more strongly. We’re poor because they want us to be poor. If we do get arrested, we never lift a hand. You all understand that, I’m sure. We keep our heads, and we never lift a hand. If there’s any violence to be done, let them be the ones to do it. That only strengthens our position.” Walker looked dignified in his coat and tie. “Besides, we may not be breaking any city laws. Remember, the mall has lobbied heavily in the State House that it is private property. City parade permits are required for public areas. On private property such as the mall, civil charges would have to filed by the owner or owners. That means the High Star Redevelopment Partners would have to file civil charges against us and then call in the police to have us removed. I may be wrong, but I’m willing to bet the Green’s management won’t take that route, especially only a few days away from a major publicity event, the grand opening of the new wing. If they do press charges, we can use the media to our advantage—make the mall look real bad—and don’t think they aren’t aware of that. If they leave us be, then we’ve overcome our first obstacle.

  “The point is, and I quote Reverend Abernathy here, ‘You don’t have much, if you don’t have your self-respect.’ We may not win a change of attitude overnight. It’s important we all understand that before we start. But damn it, it’s
time we did something. It’s time we win back some self-respect. It’s time we stop being bullied and stand up for what we believe in. Downtown owes us that housing they promised. The Green is directly responsible for taking away our houses in the first place. The Green has the size, the clout, and the economic power to apply pressure on downtown, so we go after them. This afternoon I filed a one-million-dollar lawsuit against Yankee Green. I intend to win that legal battle.

  “People, it’s time for change in this city, and it isn’t going to happen without our efforts. We owe it to our forefathers, we owe it to ourselves, we owe it to our children. As the legendary Dr. Martin Luther King once said, Our time has come! Our time has come!”

  The crowd applauded him enthusiastically.

  Ben Parkes, an older man Walker remembered from his childhood, leaped to his feet. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So we all gotta call as many of our friends as we can. We don’t have enough here. Numbers are what counts. Standing next to that big sucker of a mall, twenty-some-odd of us are going to look like nothing. We need two, three times this many.”

  Walker agreed. “Everyone call all your friends, explain things to them. On Saturday morning we march on the mall as dignified citizens of Hillsdale. This Saturday things start to change in this city.”

  The crowd buzzed.

  Walker said, “Let’s hold hands,” and stepped to the front row to join in. He began the Lord’s Prayer, and the gathering joined in. Walker concluded by adding, “Dear Lord God, help us to find our self-respect as a community. Help us to understand each other’s problems more fully and be ready and willing to sacrifice our own selfish interests for the betterment of our fellows. Help us to follow the path of righteousness. And lead us not into the temptation of violence or arrogance, but lead us toward salvation. In your name we ask you…. We, your loving children. Amen.”

  “Amen,” chorused the crowd.

  14

  A hopeful expression on her face, Susan caught up to him in Pavilion A as he began his afternoon rounds. They said their hellos and he quickly explained the physical layout of the mall, how the pavilions roughly formed an inverted Y facing north-south, with C in the center; the stadium, then Pavilions A and B at the top; the sports pavilion, convention center, and convention hotel on the southwest branch; the new FunWorld wing on the southeast. She was familiar with the layout but listened with interest anyway. She found his professional side intriguing. He was all business as he inspected exits, waved to his guards, and peered into the fronts of stores. She could feel how well liked he was by everyone.

  She finally got up her nerve and said, “So tell me how your security works.”

  “First you tell me. You’ve got something or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Do you have any Gypsy in your blood?”

  “I’m loaded with it.”

  “I thought so.” He walked so fast she had trouble keeping up. She said, “I had luck on both fronts. Which do you want first?”

  “The explosives.”

  She withdrew a handwritten list from a file folder she was carrying. Handing it to him, she said, “Chronological,” in a teasing tone. “The most recent theft of explosives, reported in the newspapers, was six weeks ago. Some bridge work was being done just north of the city—”

  “Boston?”

  “Hillsdale. An entire case of dynamite was stolen from a construction shack. FBI turned the case over to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. I have a copy of the article for you,” she said, lifting the folder, “and a copy of the only follow-up article, which says that the investigation stalled out.”

  “Others?”

  “Eighteen months ago in Springfield. A case of hand grenades belonging to the Army Reserves was reported missing. Turned up three days later in inventory. Record-keeping error.”

  “I’m more interested in dynamite.”

  “A few others. They’re on the list. They go back several years, though, and in all but one case the explosives were recovered.”

  “Any details on that one?”

  “I’ll go the Boston libraries sometime tomorrow morning. They’ll have more film of newspapers than I had access to here. I’ll have more details then.” She tugged on his arm to slow him down and added, “I’ve pulled whatever names I could find in the articles and I’m looking into them.” She dug through the few papers in her folder. “Here’s a list of the arrested and the convicted. You’ll notice the difference in size. So much for our judicial system.”

  “This is good stuff. Thanks. Is that it?”

  “On the explosives, yes. For now. But I made an inquiry about Russo, as well.”

  “Busy girl.”

  “I prefer ‘woman’ to ‘girl.’ And I take my work seriously, just for your information.”

  Jacobs looked down at her with his warm brown eyes and nodded. Message received.

  She told him, “I know an aide to the prosecuting attorney who tried to nail Russo a couple of months ago on a kickback scam. I called in a favor. They never did nail Russo, but as it turns out, they found out quite a bit, and my friend was willing to share. He seems to think that the more bad press Russo gets, the more chance a grand jury will eventually get him.”

  “I doubt it. He’s too well connected.”

  “I agree with you, but I didn’t tell my friend that.”

  Jacobs waved to one of his guards across the concourse and then held the door for Susan as they passed from Pavilion A into Pavilion B. Ahead of them the crystal-laser display flashed through a pattern of colorful light sequences, and beyond that the gigantic replica of the space shuttle loomed. “So?”

  “You’ll have to walk slower.” She reduced her stride and Jacobs slowed to stay with her. “You’re wearing me out.” She had a tiny waist and matching feet. She wore turquoise slacks and a pleated white shirt with sleeves partly rolled up. She looked fresh and crisp. “Better,” she said.

  “Russo came up through the ranks. Started out as a construction gopher. Earned an apprenticeship. Joined the union nearly thirty years ago, at eighteen. The Vinetti family got their hooks in him in the late sixties after he had been elected to a minor union post. He’s played their game ever since. His finances are handled by an attorney and an accounting firm out of Providence. I wasn’t able to get any specifics, though they should be a matter of public record. He likes to toss his money around. Buys stocks on margins, that sort of thing. Takes big risks. Thinks he’s a latter-day Hugh Hefner.

  “What I did find out, that I think will interest you, is that he doesn’t play hardball.”

  Jacobs stopped and looked at her. The laser display continued behind him. “Just what does that mean?”

  “According to my source, he’s not a muscle man. Never has been. That doesn’t mean the Vinettis haven’t done him some favors. Maybe they have. Maybe they haven’t. But Russo is known more for leverage. Pressure. My friend guessed that his attitude stems from the way the Vinettis got ahold of him. The Vinettis don’t play rough very often either. They like to get you and squeeze you. It makes it hard for prosecutors, because a lot of what both Russo and the Vinettis do is aboveboard. It’s the modern-day mob. The old tactics are left for Jack Nicholson movies.”

  “You’re saying he isn’t connected to the bombing?” Jacobs said, continuing on.

  “I’m saying it’s not his style.” She took hold of his arm and slowed him down. “You walk too fast.”

  She had a strong grip. He felt tempted to place his hand on hers. “I have bad feet. The faster I walk, the sooner I get my rounds over with.”

  “Maybe you have bad feet because you walk too fast.”

  He slowed. “Anything else?”

  “Hey, don’t blame me if I find out what you don’t want to hear. I’m just reporting to you what I found.”

  “Sorry. Does it show that badly?”

  “Yes, it does. One other juicy tidbit.”

  “What?”

  “Russo seems to be developing his own ‘fa
mily.’ He’s related to three of the biggest contractors in the city by marriage. He married into the Ritigliano family.”

  “The Ritigliano family?”

  “The same.”

  “How can that be? Why wouldn’t we know that?”

  “Married her in a very private ceremony in Atlantic City two years ago.”

  “But he’s a womanizer. He’s famous for it.”

  “A marriage of convenience, I’m told. She has places in Fort Myers and Lake Tahoe. She has a few boyfriends of her own and loads of money. She doesn’t like the Northeast.”

  “If you’re the daughter of the biggest builder on the East Coast you have more than loads of money. You have dump trucks full.”

  “It’s all one big happy family. Sam Ritigliano had eight—count ’em, eight—daughters. Number two married Stump Vinetti. Number six is married to Russo.”

  “Now that’s interesting. Did you get the rest of the family tree?”

  “Working on it.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You did good, friend.”

  “Not bad for a few phone calls. Now, what about this place? I got the go-ahead for my article. Give the run-down.”

  He opened the door to Pavilion C and admired her as she walked through. She had a tiny rear end, flat and firm. “First my philosophy. Basically, there are two ways to handle security: reactive and pro-active.

  “Reactive responds to a crime already committed. That is typically the position urban police find themselves in. They react to an alarm or a phone call and they go after the perpetrator.

  “Pro-active, on the other hand, attempts to create an atmosphere or environment that discourages the criminal from committing the crime in the first place. We do that here by making Yankee Green so secure, so patrolled, that the criminal will think twice and go elsewhere.