Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “No,” I sighed. “And, well, actually, this directly impacts you. You may not want me as your attorney any more, and I can understand that, though I think you should keep Liz on.”

  “What are you talking about?” Anthony asked in confusion.

  “I quit,” I said.

  Anthony stared at me in disbelief for several heartbeats and then burst out laughing. It took him a few moments to get his control back, and he had to wipe a few tears away when he did.

  “Are you serious?” he finally asked.

  “I am,” I said in my most stoic voice. “Things came to a head earlier today with one of the partners, and I realized that it was time for me to leave.”

  “So what will you do now?” he asked.

  “I’ve always wanted to have my own firm,” I said slowly. “But I don’t have much money saved up, thanks to my loans. I’ll probably take a job with another firm, but I’ll try to find one that does criminal work. Of course, I’d like to continue as your attorney, if you’ll have me.”

  I thought I sounded properly adult and professional, but Anthony was grinning again like I’d just told him the best joke he’d ever heard.

  “Damn, Hunter,” he finally chortled. “Your timing is impeccable.”

  It was my turn to be confused, and I stared at my client as he wiped a few more tears away.

  “Or maybe it’s just the Febbo family luck that Uncle Michael is always talking about,” Anthony finally sighed.

  “I’m not sure I would call this lucky,” I remarked.

  Anthony gathered himself again and then leaned back in the chair. He surveyed the room until his gaze fell on the wall of family pictures. The steel came back into his eyes then, and anger flashed there for a moment.

  “We don’t know how long dad will be in a coma,” Anthony said. “Or if he’ll even wake up.”

  “Ye-es,” I stuttered, unsure where my client was heading with this.

  “I know my father probably mentioned that he planned for Ben Kroger to take over,” Anthony added.

  “He might have said something like that,” I admitted.

  “And normally, I wouldn’t challenge my dad on anything to do with his business decisions,” Anthony continued. “But I’ve decided that I need to make sure things are done right while he’s on life support.”

  “Meaning?” I asked though I had an idea of what he was going to say.

  “Meaning I’ll be running the business for the foreseeable future, and Ben will be my second,” Anthony replied.

  The room became intensely quiet and the sound of my shoe scraping against the Persian rug as I shifted in my chair sounded unbearably loud.

  “I thought you hated the family business,” I said.

  “I do,” he said. “I did. I just need to make this right.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” I asked.

  “Meaning I let it be known that the Febbos are still in charge and that we won’t lose any of our business without a fight,” he replied.

  I shifted again, then nodded.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’ll have your father’s attorneys then.”

  “I will,” Anthony agreed. “If I want them. But see, I’d rather have you. And Liz if she wants in.”

  “I don’t have any resources right now,” I replied. “So I’d have to charge a fee. And there’s the question of finding a firm that will have me after my dramatic departure today. But as I said, I do want to stay on this case.”

  Anthony had started to shake his head while I spoke, and when I was finally done, he took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly.

  “You don’t get what I’m offering you,” he said. “I don’t want another law firm. The family’s got plenty of those. I want you, Hunter Morgan, to be my personal attorney. You don’t need to join a bunch of ambulance chasers or worry about how you’re going to pay the rent. Work for me, help me sort through everything, and you’ll earn enough to pay off your loans, buy your own place, and do whatever the hell you want to do with the rest.”

  “What about your father? What happens when he wakes up?” I asked. I managed to sound calmer than I felt, though truth be told, I could barely hear my own voice over the sound of my heartbeat.

  “He won’t renege on the deal,” Anthony assured me. “You’ll be well compensated. And you won’t have a bunch of clients to deal with. You’ll have one client, the Febbo family, for however long you decide to practice the law.”

  Anthony leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. He gave me an expectant look, but I remained silent. A thousand thoughts fired through my brain and a large portion of those were all sorts of warnings about the terrible things that could happen if I linked my fate to the Febbo clan. I could hear Duvernay’s voice warning me that it wasn’t the Febbos whose blood was spilled, and even the DOJ man’s claim that Anthony was in deeper than anyone realized.

  But most importantly, there was the whole reason I had gone to law school. I still had some old fashioned belief in justice and that everyone deserved their shot at a fair trial. The more I thought about that, the more I realized that Anthony was someone who needed my help if he was ever going to clear his name. If I put everything else aside and considered why I practiced the law, then there was really no way I could tell Anthony to take his offer somewhere else.

  And then it hit me.

  There were plenty of people out there who would be shocked by Anthony’s proposal, and most of those would have looked for the door before they’d even sat down. But this was what I wanted to do. This was the life I never knew I wanted.

  “So, what do we do next?” I asked my new boss. “Do we know anything about who shot your father?”

  “It’s being taken care of,” Anthony replied with a shark’s smile. “You have a big job to do, though.”

  “To get you exonerated for Francie’s murder,” I stated.

  “Leave no stone unturned,” he answered.

  I felt myself grin in response, and I knew I made the right choice.

  Chapter 16

  The next month flew by in a flash. I spent most of it filing documentary requests and subpoenas for Anthony’s murder case. But what I was doing was mundane compared to what Anthony had to deal with.

  Salvatore’s plan had been for his long-time lieutenant, Ben Kroger, to take over the family business after Salvatore ‘retired’, but Anthony had assumed the mantle of family leader, determined to keep the Febbos in control until his father awakened.

  Anthony’s move was followed by several more shootings among the various Mafia families in the days that followed, but a peace of sorts was achieved and the all out war that the police had feared never emerged. Not that I was privy to any of the details on any retaliatory measures that might have been taken by Febbo operatives. My focus was still on my defense of Anthony on homicide charges, which meant most of my energy was spent tracking down the person who had arranged the death of Anthony’s long-time friend, Francine Mott.

  My co-counsel, Liz Bennet, and I knew who had actually killed Francine. That was a goombah by the name of Giorgio Marinello, an old high school buddy of Anthony’s, who also happened to be working for a rival family these days. My mission for the day was to depose Marinello and see if I could learn who had ordered Francie’s death. Not that I expected Giorgio to simply tell me, but I felt confident that I could get him to admit it without him even realizing it.

  I contemplated all of this as I stood at the window of my Brooklyn apartment and watched the early morning wave of commuters leave the building and head for the subway. I sipped my coffee as I relished the idea of not having an office to report to anymore, then reminded myself that I did still have work to do. With a sigh, I slipped on my tie and checked my briefcase, then grabbed my phone from the charger. It rang as I picked it up, and I saw the number was for the Febbo estate out on Long Island.

  “Morning, Anthony,” I said as I checked my tie in the reflection on the TV screen.

  “Morning, Hunter,”
my client replied in a tired voice. “Is today the day you’re deposing George?”

  “It is,” I agreed. “I think we can learn a great deal about what really happened during our conversation today.”

  “Good,” Anthony replied. “You’ll call me after?”

  “Of course,” I assured him.

  “Well, there’s a meeting around the time you’re supposed to start,” Anthony added. “I expect it will take most of the day, so just keep calling until I pick up.”

  “What kind of meeting?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know. There were certain aspects of my client’s business that still made me nervous from an ethical standpoint. And while I couldn’t pretend such things weren’t going on, if I didn’t actually know anything about the family’s less legitimate operations, then I wouldn’t have to worry about my duty to report such activities as an officer of the court. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  “After the recent troubles, I’ve agreed to meet with the other families to establish some new… guidelines,” my client replied. “Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll fill you in later if there’s anything you need to handle.”

  “Okay, sure,” I agreed. “Well, good luck.”

  “You, too,” Anthony replied.

  He hung up, and I found myself staring at the phone for a moment. It was an odd phone call, since Anthony had made a point of not telling me all the inner workings of the Febbo empire, but I’d also learned over the last month that Anthony wasn’t one to do anything unless he had a reason. Maybe he really was suddenly interested in the deposition of Marinello, though he’d known about it since we’d originally subpoenaed George. It could also be true that Anthony wanted me to know about his own meeting, though I couldn’t guess why unless he thought there would be something for us to discuss later.

  In either case, I wouldn’t know until Anthony decided to tell me, and in the meantime, I had a deposition to conduct. Since I no longer had access to the McHale, Parrish conference rooms, Liz had arranged for me to conduct the deposition at her firm’s shared space near the Queens courthouse. It was an easy ride for me on the G, and though the train was crowded, I actually found a seat so I could read my email while the stations went by.

  I arrived at the shared space just ahead of the official videographer who would record the deposition as well as transcribe it. We swapped a few jokes about the itty bitty bagels the firm had provided, though we both ate several as we set up for the interview. Marinello’s attorney, a somber man with a pointed beard and thick glasses, arrived two minutes late, though his client was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Giorgio?” I asked as I offered the mini bagels to the other attorney.

  “He’ll be here soon,” the man assured me as he took a seat across from me.

  “He knows where to come, right?” I pressed.

  The subpoena had listed the office space, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Giorgio called to say he’d gone to either Liz’s office or even the old McHale, Parrish office just to annoy me. He was just that kind of guy.

  “He’ll be here,” the attorney repeated though I saw him glance at his watch and then the wall clock.

  Several more minutes passed, and I chatted with the videographer, a young woman with wide brown eyes and a tiny nose, about her career and her plans going forward. She turned out to be a film major at NYU who was paying her way through school by filming depositions. We talked about favorite movies and coolest scenes while Marinello’s attorney watched the clock and frowned every time the minute hand moved.

  “Let me try calling him,” Marinello’s attorney said as he stood up and moved towards the door.

  He stepped outside and walked back towards the main door, which left me alone with the videographer again. I shrugged and the videographer giggled, though she tried very hard to maintain her professionalism.

  “Have you recorded anyone famous?” I asked while I waited for the attorney to return.

  “Well, I’m really not supposed to say,” she replied as she glanced towards the door. “But I did have the chance to meet a certain hot actor who might be going through a divorce right now.”

  “What was that like?” I asked. It wasn’t hard to guess which actor she had met, since a certain divorce had been all over the local tabloids for months. There was talk of an affair with the nanny, not by the actor but his wife, as well as tales of on-set orgies and even a long weekend in the south of France spent binge-drinking.

  “It went on for three days,” the videographer said. “And the tabloids don’t know half of what was going on.”

  “Wow,” I chuckled.

  “One of these days, I’m going to write a book about the stuff I’ve heard on this job,” she mused. “Or maybe make a TV series. Each episode could be a new person that the main character has to record.”

  “Though it sounds like some characters might have to have a two or three-parter,” I pointed out.

  “At least,” she agreed.

  The door opened and Marinello’s attorney returned. He still had his phone in his hand though he scowled at it like it had somehow let him down.

  “My client’s not picking up,” he announced.

  “Maybe he’s stuck on the subway or something,” the videographer suggested.

  “We don’t have this room indefinitely,” I pointed out. “And I have other matters to attend to today.”

  The videographer nodded her agreement.

  “Let me try another number,” the attorney said as he scrolled through what I assumed was his phonebook, then stepped back outside.

  “What will you do if he doesn’t turn up?” the videographer asked.

  “Find him,” I said with a shrug. “Or let the police do it.”

  “Oooh,” she whistled. “What’s this case about, anyway?”

  Not that she wouldn’t find out once the interview started, but I was still reluctant to talk about the case around other people. Short and simple, I decided, was the way to go.

  “A girl was murdered,” I replied.

  The videographer’s eyes grew wide, and she glanced towards the door once again.

  “The guy you’re supposed to be deposing,” she said slowly. “Is he--?”

  “A person of interest,” I said as I fell back on the cop show cliche.

  “Whoa,” the videographer murmured.

  Marinello’s attorney returned, and I saw the videographer size him up. The attorney ignored her, as he had from the moment he stepped into the room.

  “No one’s seen him,” the attorney griped as if Marinello’s disappearance was a personal affront.

  “What should we do?” the videographer asked as she turned to look at me. “I get paid whether we stay or go, so it’s up to you.”

  I scowled at the other attorney, but he was focused on his phone again. He found yet another number and dialed that, without bothering to step outside.

  “Frank, is Giorgio there? ... Yes, I know he has the deposition today. That’s where I am. But Giorgio isn’t here ... How the hell would I know? I’m not his keeper! ... Yeah, yeah, just tell him to get his ass down here if you see him.”

  The attorney muttered under his breath after that conversation and seemed to consider a few other numbers. He dialed yet again, but no one answered and apparently, the voice mail didn’t pick up.

  “Let’s just give him five more minutes,” the attorney suggested. “If he isn’t here by then, we’ll reschedule.”

  “If he doesn’t turn up, I can have him arrested,” I pointed out.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” the other attorney insisted.

  We sat there for another ten minutes while the videographer and I moved on to TV shows and Marinello’s attorney, whose name was as forgettable as the man, started to drum his fingers on the table. After a few more attempts to reach his client, the attorney finally gave up and dropped his phone onto the table.

  “He’s all yours,” the attorney said as he
stood up. “You want to have him arrested, go ahead and do it. Otherwise, we’ll set up a new date just as soon as I can find my lazy ass client.”

  With that pronouncement, Marinello’s attorney stalked from the room. The videographer gave me a quizzical look, and I offered a shrug in reply.

  “I guess we’re calling it,” I said as I started to repack my briefcase.

  I helped the videographer with her equipment, and even toted the camera back to her car. While I carefully placed all of the equipment in the trunk, she wrote something in one of her steno pads. I thought she was just making a note of the time and reason for the no-show deposition, but when I had placed the last bag in the trunk and closed the lid, she ripped a piece of paper from the pad and handed it to me.

  “Just in case you need me for anything,” she said. “I’m available any time.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I replied as I studied the phone number she’d written down next to the name Rachel and a sketch of a video camera.

  She gave me a friendly smile as she pulled away, and I was left alone to ponder the sudden disappearance of our main suspect. The smart thing at that point would have been to call the police and have him arrested for violating a court order, but that would be low on the day’s priority list for the police, and that was assuming they would bother to even expend much energy on searching for him. Odds were that they would show up at his listed abode, and when he wasn’t there, report back that he was still missing.

  I tried to guess where Marinello might have gone to ground, and decided that the people who would know could all be found at the Italian-American social club I had been to with Desmond Duvernay, Liz’s contact inside the Treasury Department. With nothing else to do at the moment, I made my way back to the G and the ride to Brooklyn.

  I stopped at my apartment long enough to drop off my briefcase and put on a pair of jeans and a favorite sweatshirt. Add on a pair of scuffed but comfortable sneakers, and I looked like every other guy out and about in Brooklyn at that time. I walked from my apartment in DUMBO towards the edge of the Red Hook area and spent the time soaking in the busy vibes of the area. I even stopped at a favorite bakery and picked up a coffee to go, which I sipped as I walked along the sidewalk and peered in store windows.