Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “I have everything for the presentation,” Wes announced as he held up the litigation bags he toted in each hand.

  “Well, shall we get this over with?” Bob asked as he turned towards the doors.

  Even though we were expected, it still took several minutes to collect our guest passes and then move through security. Once we were through the x-ray machines, we wasted yet more time as we stood in the lobby and waited for someone to escort us to the meeting. Eventually, one of the DOJ attorneys we were meeting with arrived, and after shaking hands, we all retreated towards the elevators and packed into a car for the trip to the fifteenth floor.

  “We’re in the large conference room,” the attorney said as she led us past another security desk and through the glass doors.

  “Perfect,” Bob said heartily.

  The rest of the DOJ team was already gathered, and after exchanging hellos with them while Wes set up the laptop and handed out the print copies of the presentation, we got down to business. We spent a lot of time arguing over how much money was still unaccounted for, but by the end, we’d reached an agreement of sorts. While Bob hammered out the final details, I excused myself and went in search of the bathroom. In truth, I just needed a moment away from the room, and with the arguments all but done, there wasn’t any real need for me anymore.

  “Long meeting,” one of the DOJ investigators said as he followed me from the room.

  He was a short man with a bad comb over, but he also had every teensy, tiny bit of accounting arcana stored in his brain. He’d been our bane since the case had begun, and I was happy at the thought of not spending any more long days reviewing the ledgers with him line by line.

  “I think they’ll reach a settlement finally,” I replied.

  The man nodded as we wandered down the hallway together, past the bathroom and into the kitchen area. We both stopped in front of the vending machines and stared blankly at the contents.

  “Can I ask you something?” I blurted out. “On a completely unrelated matter?”

  “Sure,” the investigator replied. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to give you an answer.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “It’s just something that’s come up on a pro bono case I have.”

  “There’s not a lot of accounting questions in pro bono cases usually,” he chuckled.

  “Do you know Salvatore Febbo?” I asked.

  “I thought you said it was a pro bono case,” the investigator huffed.

  “It is,” I assured him. “And Salvatore isn’t the client. Like I said, this is just something that came up.”

  “Geez, what kind of pro bono case involves Salvatore Febbo?” he asked.

  “A parking ticket,” I replied. “But what can you tell me about his businesses? Is it true he’s going legit?”

  “You heard that in a pro bono parking ticket case?” the investigator demanded.

  I didn’t respond, just stared at the man.

  “There are rumors,” he finally said. “Not that I’ve been on any of those investigations, but I’ve heard that Febbo started several new corporations over the last year or so. DOJ’s been looking pretty hard at them, but so far, they all look legit.”

  “Who would be doing that work?” I asked.

  “The guys in RICO,” the investigator said with a shrug. “But they’re a pretty tight-lipped bunch, especially with outsiders.”

  “So no one would be willing to talk about Febbo’s latest business ventures,” I sighed.

  “Sorry,” the investigator said. “But you understand.”

  “Sure, sure,” I agreed. “What about the rest of the family? Are the kids involved in any of these new businesses?”

  “That I don’t know,” the man said. “Wouldn’t be surprised, though. Febbo was always good at keeping things within his family. That’s his actual family and not his business family.”

  “Really?” I said in disbelief. “I heard the kids were all working on their own.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they have their own stuff going on,” the investigator acknowledged. “But they’re not above helping dad out when he needs it.”

  “What, like getting rid of a rival?” I laughed.

  “Naw, nothing like that,” the investigator replied though he wasn’t very convincing.

  “Wait, you think the kids have done stuff?” I pressed.

  “Hey, it runs in the family,” the investigator said with a shrug.

  He wouldn’t say anything else about the Febbos at that point. Instead, he fed some change into one of the machines and bought a packet of crackers with peanut butter. He gave me a salute as he left the room though I barely registered it.

  I tried to make sense out of the two versions of the Febbo kids I had heard so far, though admittedly, both versions suggested that Anthony was still involved in the family business. The problem, I decided, was that Duvernay had probably already guessed what I wanted to discuss, probably based on something Liz had said. He had been better prepared to discuss the family and to deliver the version he wanted me to hear. The man I had just talked to, on the other hand, spoke off the cuff and it was probably closer to the truth, at least as far as he knew it.

  I glanced at my watch and realized I’d been gone too long. I gave up on the vending machines and returned to the conference room, where Bob had beaten down the DOJ attorneys with his Santa routine and reached a settlement that wouldn’t bankrupt our client. Nothing would be official until both parties had signed the agreement, which could happen either tomorrow or a year from tomorrow. It all depended on how stubborn our client was.

  “Not a bad conclusion,” Bob said once we were back outside the building. “I think Ballmer will go for the deal quickly.”

  “I think so, too,” I agreed. “He’s worried that if this drags on any longer he’ll start losing clients.”

  “Wes, you have the litigation bags,” Bob noted. “You should take a cab back. I think I’ll walk. What about you, Hunter?”

  It was tempting to walk and spend a few more minutes in the sunshine, but I needed to get back to the office and turn my focus towards the afternoon’s meeting. I would also need to start a draft of the settlement we’d just reached, plus a whole slew of other boring tasks that had yet to be completed.

  “I’ll have to take the cab,” I conceded. “But I’ll try to get the draft to you by the end of the day.”

  “See you back at the office then,” Bob said happily while Wes waved down a cab.

  Wes and I talked about the small theater group he had invested in with his longtime partner, then moved onto the latest scandal to emerge from Gracie Mansion. By the time the cab pulled up in front of our building, I was nearly blinded by tears from laughing so hard. We overtipped the cabbie, then piled out of the car onto the sidewalk. While the cab peeled back into traffic, we crossed the plaza to the main entrance, though the hilarity had been replaced with a more somber discussion about what steps remained on the Ballmer matter.

  While Wes returned to the caseroom, I made my way back to my office. It was surprisingly quiet, though I spotted my officemate’s briefcase behind his desk. I dropped into my own chair and booted the computer, then listened to voicemail messages while the computer went through its cycle. Fortunately, there was nothing critical in either the voicemails or my email, and with a sigh, I started on the pile of work that somehow needed to be done by the end of the day.

  Mark roused me from my work stupor when it was time for the next meeting, and I was happy to see that someone had the foresight to order sandwiches for the meeting. I grabbed a couple of the turkey and swiss, along with a bag of chips, and claimed a chair near the door. Noble was the last to arrive and he didn’t waste any time starting the meeting. I munched on my sandwiches and took plenty of notes, but there was still precious little to do without the actual request in hand. I stifled a yawn as Pru from Litigation Support started a lengthy talk on the best way to recover all of the electronic data from the vast array of server
s that comprised the client’s systems, and wondered if it would be rude to simply leave early.

  The meeting finally came to an end, and Mark and I returned to our office with almost nothing new to do after all the talk. I buried myself in the rest of my cases again and fought the urge to keep checking the time.

  “Your phone’s ringing,” Mark said loudly.

  “Oh,” I muttered as I stirred and grabbed for the cell phone.

  Mark snickered and turned back to his own computer where one screen had a document he was editing and the other screen had horse racing results from Aqueduct.

  “Morgan,” I said without bothering to check the number.

  “So formal,” Liz teased. “Perhaps I should introduce myself as Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

  “As long as you don’t start calling me Mr. Darcy,” I replied.

  “My mother would love that,” my co-counsel laughed. “But I do have a real reason for calling.”

  “Does it involve another friend inside the department?” I asked.

  “It does,” she admitted. “It’s about that 9-1-1 call. The police traced it to an apartment in the same building, but when they knocked on the door later that night no one answered. In fact, they haven’t been able to find the caller.”

  “Which apartment?” I asked.

  “Three E,” she replied. “Just down the hall, at the end. I checked with the management company and they said it’s rented to a Wendy Romer. The number they have for her is still in service, but no one picks up. Oh, and it’s the number that was used to call 9-1-1.”

  “Haven’t the police followed up?” I asked.

  “It’s low on their priority list,” Liz replied with a snicker.

  “But this is a homicide case,” I noted.

  “That they’re convinced they’ve solved,” she pointed out.

  “Still, it seems like someone should have made an effort to talk to her,” I mused.

  “Yeah,” Liz conceded. “That’s what I thought, too, but my friend couldn’t tell me anything else. I’ve tried calling the detective on the case, but all I get is his voicemail.”

  “Gomez,” I murmured as I remembered the detective that had tried to warn me about my client.

  “No,” she replied. “Someone else has the case now. A guy named Archer.”

  “Why the hell did they give it to a new detective?” I fumed. “And why didn’t someone call me?

  “I don’t know,” Liz replied. “No one at NYPD is talking much about this case. You’re lucky I managed to find out about the phone call.”

  I was quiet for a moment as I tried to figure out what was going on with the cops. I hadn’t discounted Duvernay’s warning about moles in the NYPD, but this was still unsettling. Did they really have that much sway inside the department? And if they did, what did that mean for my client?

  “Sounds like a visit to Wendy Romer is due,” I finally said. “And I’m happy to use that as an excuse to get out of here.”

  “I’d join you, but I have a late meeting with a client,” the blonde attorney sighed.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” I promised.

  I hung up, then stared at the computer screen for several seconds.

  “Heading out?” Mark finally asked.

  “I need to track down the person who made the 9-1-1 call,” I replied.

  “Well, it’s late enough that you can officially say you’ve put in a full day so they can’t dock you for that,” my officemate mused. “But you know Ovitz will be expecting you to work late. What shall I tell the grand Barbara if she happens by?”

  “I’m with Bob, working on the agreement,” I suggested. “Which is what I will be doing by text.”

  Mark nodded as I gathered up my jacket and briefcase, and after checking the hallway, I waved goodbye and jogged to the elevator. As I waited for one of the cars to arrive, I could hear Ovitz’s voice closing on my location. There was a sense of panic until I heard the ding. I planted myself in front of the doors, and brushed past a pair of paralegals who were trying to get off the elevator.

  “Hold that, please!” Ovitz commanded.

  I jammed the close door button several times until the doors slid shut and the elevator began its trip to the lobby. I exhaled slowly and promised that I would be in bright and early the next morning to finish whatever work popped up overnight. I slipped out of the building and decided to take a cab rather than deal with the subways again. I found an empty one easily enough, and despite some grumbling from the driver about the destination, we headed north towards Chinatown and the crossing into Queens.

  We managed to beat the worst of the rush hour traffic and the cab pulled up outside Francie’s building while the rest of Manhattan’s office workers were getting ready to leave their desks. The driver barely gave me time to get out before he was heading back towards Manhattan and the fares that would get him through the night.

  Unfortunately, the front door to Francie’s building was locked and there wasn’t any obvious way to get buzzed in. I saw a UPS driver start towards the building and I pulled out my phone like I was checking messages in the hope that I could slip in behind him. But the UPS driver walked past the front door and around the corner. I waited until he was out of sight, and then sauntered to the edge of the building so I could take a look.

  There was a delivery door along the side, and the UPS driver was handing his box to a guy in blue coveralls. The two men talked for a moment and then the UPS driver started back towards his truck. I waited until he had walked by, then darted down the side of the building towards the door. I really didn’t have much of a plan, just a vague hope that I could slip in through the side door instead of standing around out front and hoping that someone would get careless and let me in.

  The side door was closed and locked, and no amount of jiggling could force it open. Frustrated, I decided I would have to loiter around the front door after all and I turned to walk away. I’d only taken a few steps when I heard the lock snick and the door started to open. I spun around and held my phone to my face as I took a few slow steps.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going,” the man in blue coveralls called out.

  I looked up from my phone and managed to look surprised that he was standing in front of me.

  “Oh, sorry,” I muttered. “I was just checking my messages.”

  The man rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else as he hauled several bags of garbage to the nearby dumpster. I slouched against the wall close to the door, my eyes locked on the phone while I waited for the man to finish. Coveralls brushed past me when he was done, then opened the door with a large key and disappeared back inside. I waited until the door was nearly shut before I made a grab for it. I caught it just in time, and after listening for footsteps for several seconds, I slowly eased it open just enough to peek inside. I couldn’t see the maintenance guy anywhere, but the UPS package, along with the rest of the oversized mail items, were piled on a table nearby. I counted to ten, then opened the door wide enough to slip inside, then pulled it closed behind me.

  No alarms went off, and no armed men appeared from the shadows, so I walked as quietly as I could towards the door that I hoped led to the lobby. I cracked it open slowly and peered around the edge at a hallway painted in dusty beige. I could hear the clanking of weights close by as well as the buzz of television and realized that I was near the building’s fitness center.

  I stepped into the hallway, then walked towards the other end as confidently as I could. A middle-aged man and younger woman walked by me, both dressed in workout clothes, and we even exchanged polite nods all around. While the sometime athletes stepped through a door marked ‘Resident Fitness’, I continued ahead, towards the sign that said lobby.

  The lobby was empty when I arrived, though I caught a glimpse of the maintenance man through the open doorway to the ‘Office Space’. I didn’t want to press my luck with elevators again, so I found the internal staircase and climbed to the third floor.
Once there, it was easy enough to find Francie’s apartment, since it still had crime scene tape over the door, and then the caller’s apartment just beyond that.

  I knocked several times, but there was never a response and no sense that anyone was inside. It was possible the tenant was still at work, but the apartment somehow felt abandoned, though I couldn’t quite explain why. As I studied the area to try to figure out why I felt that way, I heard the bolt on the door across the hall slide back, and then the door opened a crack.

  “Oh, you’re not Julio,” the voice of an elderly woman said.

  “No, ma’am,” I agreed. “I’m not.”

  “You’re dressed rather too nicely to be fixing pipes,” she noted.

  “I’m trying to find the person who lives here,” I said as I waved towards the mystery apartment.

  “Which one?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Which one?” I asked in confusion.

  “The boy or the girl?” she demanded.

  “Wendy Romer,” I replied.

  “Wendy isn’t there any more,” she said.

  “But her name is still on the lease,” I protested. “And somebody used the phone in here just the other night.”

  “Are you with the police?” she asked.

  “I’m… conducting a separate investigation,” I replied.

  “Oh, you’re a private eye!” she said excitedly. “Like Magnum!”

  “Oh, ah,” I hesitated, but she’d yanked the door open to reveal a woman who was at least in her eighties dressed in a thin cotton house dress. She was stoop shouldered and had only a thin dusting of white hair on top of her head, but her eyes sparkled at the thought of encountering an actual private investigator.

  “Come in, come in,” she insisted. “I’m sure you’ll take me more seriously than the police did. Isn’t that right?”

  I hesitated, but I realized this was probably going to be my only chance to talk to someone inside the building. With a shrug, I followed the old lady into her apartment, where she directed me to sit on a plastic covered chair while she took a well-worn spot on the sofa next to a sleeping Persian cat.