Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “Which he explained to you,” I replied.

  Gomez waved that off.

  “I sent a couple of officers to find these friends,” he added. “Found one still at the place, and she said your client was angry when he left.”

  “That’s a big leap,” I insisted. “From being angry at someone to beating them up then shooting them full of heroin. Especially when the victim is a lifelong friend.”

  “Maybe,” Gomez replied. “But it’s enough to hold him for tonight, and I expect the DA will file charges.”

  “I expect so,” I agreed.

  Gomez considered me for a moment, then waved the nearest cop over.

  “Take Mr. Lamon back to the cells,” Gomez instructed.

  The cop nodded, then squeezed between us as he went to retrieve my client. The detective and I both stepped back when the cop returned with one hand locked around Lamon’s arm. Lamon ignored the detective, but gave me a nod as he was led away.

  “I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other soon,” I suggested as I retrieved my briefcase.

  “Huh,” Gomez commented.

  I walked back to the door, but Gomez now stood in the doorway and blocked my exit. He looked me over for several moments, but refused to say anything or to move out of the way.

  “You know, this could be considered…” I started to say.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the detective snorted. “Look, you seem like a nice kid, and I’m sure you’re all excited about your first big criminal case.”

  I bit back the response I’d been about to make and let the detective continue.

  “But there’s a lot more to this than an angry ex,” Gomez added.

  I raised an eyebrow at the characterization of Francie as an ex.

  “Like what?” I prodded.

  Gomez studied me again, then stepped into the interrogation room and closed the door. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I tried to remember if I had anything heavier than the laptop in my briefcase. Not that I expected the detective to launch an attack, but then I doubted my client had expected to find his friend beaten and tied to a chair tonight, either.

  “What do you really know about your client, counselor?” Gomez asked.

  There was something in the way he asked the question that froze me in place. This was more than just a cop badmouthing my client. There was something more personal there, and though I knew to treat whatever he had to say with a great deal of skepticism, I also knew that I was probably about to hear something that would change the way I viewed my client. I could have left right then and never listened to the doubts I was sure the cop wanted to sow, but I refused to let Gomez scare me away from my duty.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know,” I replied as I set my briefcase on the table and took a seat.

  Gomez took in my attitude, then shook his head.

  “Be careful with that, counselor,” Gomez advised. “That’s the kind of cockiness that will get you killed around these people.”

  Chapter 4

  “These people?” I repeated in disbelief. “And what people would those be?”

  “You really don’t know anything about your client,” he chuckled.

  “He’s my client,” I agreed. “What else do I need to know?”

  “So who’s paying your bills?” the detective pushed.

  “That would be confidential,” I replied. “But if it will satisfy your morbid curiosity about my client, Mr. Lamon is a pro bono client of mine.”

  “Pro bono?” Gomez asked in disbelief. “You expect me to believe you’re not one of his father’s hired guns?”

  “I am not,” I insisted.

  Gomez sat down slowly in the other chair. We locked eyes for several moments, and when the detective didn’t speak right away, I grabbed my briefcase and started to stand up. Gomez waved me back into the chair and shook his head again.

  “Well, it’s not like Anthony has been a regular in the Post,” Gomez remarked. “Not like some of those cousins of his.”

  “Mmmm,” was all I said.

  “Lamon is his mother’s name,” Gomez continued. “He started using it when he went to college. Wanted to distance himself from the family business. At least, that’s what he claimed.”

  “The family business,” I repeated as I pictured Al Pacino behind the Godfather’s desk for the first time.

  “It’s exactly what you think it is,” Gomez replied. “Anthony Lamon is really Anthony Febbo.”

  “Febbo?” I said as I realized the name was familiar, even if I couldn’t remember why.

  “Salvatore Febbo’s kid,” Gomez continued. “They’re not as famous as some of the families, but they’ve been in the business for a long time. They know how to keep a low profile. Feds have been trying for years to bring them down.”

  “Wait,” I protested. “Are you saying my client is part of the Mafia?”

  “No one calls it that anymore,” Gomez replied. “Well, not officially.”

  “Fine, a racketeering organization,” I huffed. “Look, maybe his father is involved in that, but I have no reason to believe Anthony is.”

  “Salvatore had four kids,” Gomez mused. “The other three were all girls. You really think he’d let his only son stay clear of the business?”

  “This is the twenty-first century,” I pointed out. “I’m quite sure one of the girls could manage the family business.”

  “Maybe,” Gomez replied. “But there are some things that won’t change, no matter what century it is.”

  “Like leaving the family business to a daughter when there’s a son available,” I suggested.

  “Now you’re getting it,” Gomez said.

  “Be that as it may,” I replied, “I have no reason to believe that my client is involved. And even if I had, it falls under attorney-client privilege.”

  “That only protects you so far, counselor,” Gomez warned. “Do you really want to get yourself tied up in their affairs?”

  “Tied up in their affairs?” I asked. “I’ve represented Anthony Lamon twice now, both in criminal matters that have no Mafia ties.”

  “You think so?” Gomez mused. “Cause this current matter smells like a family matter to me.”

  “And you’re basing that on…” I asked curiously.

  “We’ll call it experience,” Gomez replied.

  “And what evidence, besides experience, do you have that my client is involved in any family business?” I asked.

  It was Gomez’s turn to fiddle with the water bottle. He studied the pile of paper Lamon had created from the label, then slowly twirled the bottle using the tip of his thumb against the lid.

  “You’ve already taken his fingerprints, obviously, so I don’t know why you’re being so careful with the bottle,” I pointed out. “Unless you plan to use it for DNA, which at this point, I would argue, you’ve already contaminated.”

  Gomez finally looked up and gave me a level stare.

  “Smart ass,” he sighed. “But okay, we don’t have anything that directly ties the kid to his dad’s business interests.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “Does it?” Gomez snorted.

  “He’s gone out of his way to avoid their help,” I replied.

  Gomez twirled the bottle one more time and then set it carefully in the middle of the table.

  “Even if the kid wanted to be free, it doesn’t usually work out that way,” Gomez said. “This isn’t some two-bit job you can just walk away from.”

  “But for now, at this moment, as far as you know, he isn’t a part of the Mafia,” I pressed.

  “As far as we know,” Gomez agreed.

  “Then why would you think the Mafia is mixed up in this current murder?” I asked.

  “Because…” Gomez started, then stopped.

  “Fine, don’t tell me,” I replied as I stood up. “I’ll be sure to mention the biased actions of the police when I file my motion with the court.”

  “Don’
t be a smart ass,” Gomez sniped. “Look, just trust me on this. There’s been some noise, especially about Salvatore. The kid makes an easy target, especially for a set up job.”

  “Why wouldn’t they just kill Anthony?” I asked. “Why all this nonsense with Francie?”

  “Because that gives the Febbo’s an excuse to start a war,” Gomez explained. “This way, the old man still suffers, but unless he can prove who was behind it, he can’t strike back.”

  “When did the Mafia suddenly become so interested in such complicated schemes?” I snickered. “Seems to me they would have simply killed Anthony, then Salvatore. Isn’t that how these things are done? No, if you want Francie’s killer, you need to find the man who gave her a ride home tonight.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Gomez said as he stood up.

  “Even if you are right, my client is still entitled to representation,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter who his family is, or who might be out to get him. My duty is to my client, and to make sure it’s the best representation I can give him.”

  “You’re being a smart ass again,” Gomez noted.

  We exchanged angry glares, and then I made my exit from the stifling room. I could feel Gomez’s eyes boring into my back as I returned to the lobby, but I kept my spine straight and my pace steady. Once I stepped outside, I took a deep breath and looked at the sky. Not that there was much to see beyond the hazy orange light pollution, but it gave me a chance to slow my heart rate with a couple of deep breaths.

  I knew I was still on an adrenaline rush after the confrontation with Gomez, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t been exaggerating when I told Gomez that Anthony Lamon deserved the best representation I could give him, but now I had to find a way to do that.

  Aside from the fact that I wasn’t supposed to be working any pro bono matters at the moment, I hadn’t handled such a potentially big criminal matter before. I’d worked on another homicide last year, but everyone on that case, including my client, agreed that he had killed his mother with a shovel after she’d complained yet again about the dirt he dragged through the house when he came home. My client, the woman’s thirty-two year old son, had shown remorse, barely, and agreed to a plea deal. The last I’d heard, he was now a model prisoner upstate and spent his daytime hours working in the garden.

  Lamon’s case was one that would require a lot more than just filing motions and doing legal research, and I was quite sure Ovitz wouldn’t be inclined to let me use some of the firm’s resources to help with that. No matter, I decided, I would find a way to do it on my own, though a few pointers might be helpful.

  With that in mind, I called the driver, who assured me he was only two minutes away. While I waited for the car to pull up, I tried to decide where to go for some friendly suggestions. I hadn’t kept up with most of my classmates, and while I could bounce ideas off Mark and some of the other associates, I had to be careful not to use up too much of their time. I smiled as I realized that left one real possibility, and I hoped that she wouldn’t complain too heartily about the late night call I was about to make.

  The car pulled up and I slid into the back seat. The car smelled strongly of coffee and cigarettes, and I spotted the cup of deli coffee next to the driver. There was no sign of the cigarette he had smoked, but I also saw the wadded up remains of the plastic wrapper. The driver pulled back into traffic while I lowered the window just enough to let some fresh air in.

  While the driver dealt with the late night traffic, I pulled out my cell phone again and dialed another number. This was one I used to call almost every night when I was in law school, and even for several months after we’d first graduated. But we’d ended up in different places and doing different work, and the phone calls had been reduced to once a week if I was lucky.

  “Hunter?” a muffled voice answered. “Is that you? Did you just butt dial me or did you get arrested?”

  “Neither,” I assured the woman on the other end. “But I have a pro bono client who has been arrested.”

  “Oh,” she murmured as the background noise of people talking faded away. “Okay, I’m alone now. What are you talking about?”

  “I picked up a pro bono case about a week ago,” I explained. “I got the prosecutor to drop the assault on an officer charge in exchange for my client paying the traffic violation fee, but he was picked up again tonight.”

  “You got an assault on a LEO charge reduced to a traffic ticket?” she asked in disbelief.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story,” I assured her.

  “Damn straight you will,” she agreed. “So what’s your client facing now? A burglary charge that you’d like to get reduced to a jaywalking charge?”

  “It’s a homicide,” I replied as I glanced at the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. The driver didn’t react although I was quite sure he’d heard every word.

  “Ouch,” my classmate replied.

  “I need your help, Liz,” I insisted. “I haven’t handled a case like this before. I’d like to talk to you about what the next steps are.”

  “You’re at Parish, McHale,” she pointed out. “Don’t you have gobs of money and access to every legal mind in the country?”

  “As I said, this is pro bono,” I said emphatically.

  “Ah, so not so much access to the resources,” she murmured.

  “Please, Liz,” I begged. “Your firm does nothing but legal defense and I know you’ve taken on plenty of criminal defense matters.”

  “I have,” she said with a pleased voice. “And I’ve even worked on a homicide or two.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner,” I offered. “And then we could brainstorm, just like our law school days.”

  Liz pondered the offer and I waited for her to respond.

  “I can do better than that,” Liz finally said. “I can help you with the case.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I need the pro bono hours as well.”

  “That would be awesome,” I replied.

  “When’s the hearing?” my one-time classmate asked in a more professional tone.

  “Nothing official yet, but probably tomorrow morning, in Queens,” I replied.

  “Text me if that changes,” she replied. “Otherwise I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She hung up before I could thank her again, and I slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket. I didn’t realize just how nervous the case had made me until Liz had said she would help.

  Liz was Elizabeth Bennet, so named by her Jane Austen loving mother. She was always at the top of our class every year, and she’d torn through Civil Law and Torts while the rest of us first years were still trying to figure out how to read a case. She was probably the smartest person I’d ever met, but she was anything but the stereotypical nerd. While the rest of us had ended up at big firms, or joined the mob of hospital hustlers, she had become the youngest member of a boutique firm specializing in criminal defense for the wealthy and famous.

  “We’re being followed,” the driver announced nonchalantly as I remembered a few nights when Liz and I had done a lot more than just read cases.

  “We’re what?” I asked in confusion as I tried to shake the image of a naked Liz from my mind.

  “We’re being followed,” the driver repeated. “There’s a Honda that’s been with us since we left the precinct. He’s pretty good, but there’s not enough traffic right now to really hide in if you got someone like me watching for you.”

  I started to turn around but the driver made a warning noise.

  “Don’t tip them off,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure what to do then. It was always possible that someone had been following us. Stranger things had happened in the city, and there had been a couple of incidents of people being mugged after a car service driver had dropped them off and pulled away. But it didn’t seem likely that someone would drive all the way to Brooklyn to mug me as I walked towards my apartment.

  Of cour
se, that was based on the theory that the driver was right, and we did have a tail. Since I had just been told not to turn around, I had no way of knowing if that was true. I couldn’t come up with a reason why the driver would make up a story like that, but as I said, strange things happen in the city.

  “I’ll just casually open my briefcase,” I said as I laid the briefcase flat, then turned sideways to look inside. I shuffled a few pages, then glanced casually out the rear window as I held up a folder.

  It took a moment, but as my driver turned on his turn signal and started to pull into the exit ramp, a pale blue Honda that looked like a moving time capsule of the 1970’s whipped around two other cars and darted into the lane behind us.

  “The blue car?” I asked as I put the folder back in my briefcase and faced forward again.

  “That’s the one,” the driver agreed. “I can call 9-1-1.”

  “No, not yet,” I told him. “Let’s see how far that driver is willing to take this.”

  “Sure,” my driver replied. “And hey, this isn’t a good exit anyway. We should take the next one.”

  With that, my driver stepped on the gas, and the car shot forward. We cut back into the regular traffic just ahead of the bend in the ramp to the sound of an angry horn from a minivan. The traffic sorted itself out soon enough and I glanced out the rear window again. At first, I thought we had lost our tail, but I heard the driver mutter a curse word and I spotted the pale blue dot as it settled in behind a rapidly approaching SUV.

  “There’s a twenty-four hour gym just down the corner from my apartment,” I said. “And there will be plenty of people going in and out of the place. Why don’t you drop me off there?”

  “You sure?” the driver asked. “I’ll call the police….”

  “I can call once I’m inside,” I said.

  “Sure, okay,” the driver replied as he slipped into the lane for the exit ramp again.

  This time, we cruised down the exit ramp to the stop light, the blue Honda two cars behind us. When the light turned green, the driver turned left and drove sedately towards my street. I could see his eyes as they checked the rearview mirror, and I fought the urge to look around as well.