by Dave Daren
“You’ve done this before,” I surmised.
“Yep,” she agreed. “I have a safe house I can work from until the story is ready to publish.”
“Are you really that close to publishing?” I asked. “I thought you wanted to talk to Anthony first.”
“I’d like to,” she replied. “But instead of one piece, I’m thinking this will be a series. Anthony is just one part of that, so I can interview him later if I need to.”
“The NYPD won’t be happy with that,” I noted.
“Wee-ll,” she drawled. “They won’t be the only ones who aren’t happy. Not if this goes the way I expect it to.”
I didn’t say anything right away, a fact that irritated her to no end. The reporter gave me a reproachful look as the waitress set our plates in front of us and refilled our coffee mugs. I inhaled a deep breath of fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, melted butter and real maple syrup, then took a large bite that I chewed very slowly.
“Who else won’t be happy with your reporting?” I finally asked just as she popped another bite of omelet into her mouth.
She scowled at me as she tried to chew quickly, but the gooey cheese made that difficult. I went ahead and took another large bite of my pancakes while I waited, and made a point of chewing slowly.
“I’m not sure I like this version of you,” she said when she’d finally swallowed the last bite.
“Sorry,” I said with a chuckle. “But you were so serious and so obviously fishing for me to ask.”
She crammed another bite of omelet in her mouth and started to chew even more slowly than I had. I snickered, then held up my hands for a truce.
“I am interested,” I admitted.
“My editor is limiting my first article to the NYPD,” she said after she’d swallowed her bite. “But my investigation of the department has led me to a broader level of corruption. I’m pretty sure that the Serbians have operatives inside the DA’s office as well, and probably the Mayor’s office.”
It was quiet at our table again, though this time I was simply trying to understand exactly what she was suggesting. New York City hadn’t seen that degree of corruption across multiple departments in a long time, and it was staggering to consider that somehow the Serbians might have somehow integrated themselves into so many branches of law enforcement.
“How is that possible?” I finally asked.
“No one pays attention to them,” she said with a shrug. “They tend to look at it the way the Mafia does. The Serbs are just the muscle.”
“Until they’re not,” I muttered. “But how did they get inside the DA’s office? Do they have a lawyer on the payroll?”
“I think so,” she replied. “The mayor’s office is the easiest in a way. There are so many aides and assistants, and they come and go so often, that it’s easy enough to slip someone inside, not to mention political campaign contributions.”
“But the DA’s office,” I said with a shake of my head.
“I know,” she replied. “And all I’ve got right now is whispers, really. That’s one of the other reasons I’m so interested in your client. It’s a test of sorts, to see how much influence the Serbs have over the DA’s office.”
“It explains a lot of things,” I said as I contemplated her suggestion.
“I think I can help your client,” she said. “But only if I get the interview in time.”
“He’ll do it,” I replied. “We just need to work out when he wants to do it. The timing will be just as important to us as it is to you.”
“I understand,” she said. “But you don’t want to wait too long. Once my story on NYPD corruption breaks, they’ll move to protect their other moles. That will only make your job harder.”
“And yours,” I pointed out.
She shrugged and took another bite of her breakfast.
“But I’m not the one who has to prove it in front of a jury,” she said around a mouthful of egg.
I grunted in reply, then turned my attention to my pancakes. They really were as delicious as promised, and I mentally thanked the clerk as I worked my way through the rest of my stack. Sadly, my other thoughts weren’t as happy, as I tried to work out the best way to protect my client.
The truth was, I didn’t have to prove there was a Serbian conspiracy to frame my client, I just had to raise enough doubts in the minds of the jury. The trick, as Brenda had pointed out, was in the timing. We were still a long way from trial, and with one witness already dead and another refusing to talk, we couldn’t afford to lose any more. If Brenda’s story came out too soon, then the NYPD would ‘clean house’, declare victory over the Serbians, and by the time we were ready to walk into court, the jury would believe that the Serbians were gone, and I didn’t have anything that would point to some vast conspiracy.
“When’s your story going to come out?” I asked when I was finally done with my meal.
“I’ve still got some information to confirm,” she said. “And I’m trying to talk to someone in Serbia, but they’re a rather tight-lipped nation.”
“So not tomorrow,” I noted.
“No, not tomorrow,” she laughed. “I’ll give you a heads up when I think it’s ready. Maybe that will get your client to move a little faster.”
I nodded as we both finished our coffee. The waitress swept by and left the bill on the table, and I snickered when I saw how small the bill was. For the cost of a large stack of pancakes, a huge omelet, endless coffee and plenty of bacon, I probably would have had a bagel, a coffee, and maybe a breakfast smoothie in Brooklyn. Another reason, I decided, that I should move outside the city.
“I think I can drive,” Brenda offered after we’d paid our bill and stepped outside.
“No, you can’t,” I said as I cast a stern look at her ankle. She’d paid for another packet of aspirin from the vending machine that morning and she was still limping around like a horse with a rock in its hoof.
She huffed, but since I still had the key fob from the drive over, she didn’t have any other options other than to hobble to the passenger side door and wait for me to unlock the door. It was hard to miss the sigh she made as she slid into the passenger seat, and she grimaced when I gunned the engine before putting the car in reverse.
“We’ll just go nice and slow today,” she suggested as I peeled out of the parking lot and sped back towards the LIE.
“Aren’t you anxious to get back to Brooklyn?” I asked in an innocent tone.
“That’s just it,” she said as I let the Viper fishtail for a moment. “I want to arrive in Brooklyn. In this car. Not in an ambulance.”
I finally slowed the car down as we neared the entrance ramp for the highway. With a precision my high school driver’s ed teacher would have appreciated, I kept the Viper a safe distance from the other cars and traveled at exactly the speed limit, even as we swept onto the expressway and joined the massive influx of cars heading for the city.
“You really think that poorly of my driving skills,” I sighed as I eased around a minivan with a smoking tailpipe. “Even though I managed to get us out to the Febbo house in one piece.”
“You’re not that bad,” she conceded. “But this is my baby. My grandfather won’t buy me another one, especially if I have to tell him that this one was destroyed by an overzealous attorney who normally drives a Volvo.”
I had to laugh, and after that, we were both more relaxed as I slowly navigated through the traffic. We talked about fast cars the rest of the trip, and Brenda told me about the vacation fund she was building. The auburn haired reporter told me about her plan to visit Modena, Italy, where she would tour the Ferrari museum, then take a drive around the test track in one of the fabled cars. It sounded like so much fun that I almost invited myself to join her.
“Should I drop you somewhere?” I asked as I neared the exit that would take us back to the garage.
“No, I’m not that far from the garage,” she replied as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll
collect my stuff and then head for my safe house. How about you?”
“I think the building I’m in is safe for now,” I replied. “But I may have to think about finding someplace temporary if it looks like the Serbs have figured out where I am.”
“Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “These guys don’t mess around. By the time you realize they’re there, it may be too late.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised her.
We eased out of the cars heading for the crossings into Manhattan, though we still had to deal with the crowded roads near the Brooklyn courthouses. Eventually, we made it across Atlantic Avenue and I pulled into the parking garage where our crazy trip to the Febbo estate had begun. I spotted several cameras as I drove the orange Viper towards its spot, and I wondered why no one had tried to contact Brenda about the assault in the garage.
“Did you get any phone calls?” I asked as I pulled into Brenda’s spot. “About the attack last night?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Though I don’t think anyone watches the camera feed all the time. It’s more just a recording system, in case something does happen.”
“Then I guess those two guys must have made it out of here before someone found them and called the police,” I mused.
“I can believe it,” she replied. “Once people get home from work, they don’t usually take the car out again.”
“Lucky for us,” I noted as I stepped out of the car.
“Or someone did find them and the Serbs convinced them not to call the police,” Brenda added as she pulled herself out of the car.
“That seems more likely,” I replied.
“I just hope they didn’t scare some poor office worker too badly,” she sighed.
“Do you need help getting back to your apartment?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she insisted as she stepped around the car and took a few steps towards the elevator. “See?”
“I don’t mind helping,” I replied as I followed after her.
“And I appreciate that,” she said. “But I’ll be fine.”
We took the elevator to the ground level, and though Brenda moved slowly, she was at least putting more weight on her injured ankle. The swelling had gone down as well, and though she couldn’t have run away if the Serbian duo suddenly appeared, she could certainly manage the walk to the exit.
“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” I asked as we stepped outside into what had become a cloudy day.
“Call me when your client wants to talk,” she replied as she started to walk away.
I watched her until she reached the corner and disappeared from view, then started the hike back to my own place. Everyone looked suspicious to me as I plunged through the crowds, and I felt my shoulders start to tighten again from the tension. I wasn’t sure if a gun would really make me any safer, but at least I would feel safer, and now I was determined to finish the paperwork once and for all.
Despite my efforts to scan everyone on the streets, I made it back to the apartment without encountering anyone who liked either of the men from the night before. I barely acknowledged the doorman as I scurried inside and climbed the stairs to my apartment. The building was quiet again, though I heard a TV in one apartment I passed.
I stepped into my own place, and after locking the door and kicking off my shoes, I grabbed the laptop and dropped onto my couch to check messages and email. I was surprised to see I had an email from the DA’s office as well as one from the e-filing system for the state. Both messages basically alerted me to the fact that a motion had been filed in the matter. I wondered what the DA was up to, and opened the attached pdf. I skimmed the boilerplate, then stopped when I got to the heart of the motion.
The bastard had asked for an emergency hearing tomorrow morning to request the judge to remove me from the case for potential evidence tampering, which would trigger a Bar Association investigation. It looked like Brenda’s theory about the DA’s office was right after all, and my career was about to become another victim of the Serbians.
Chapter 26
“Fucking asshole,” I muttered as I reread the motion.
After venting my anger with a few more curse words, I called Liz’s office to check in with Asha.
“Mr. Morgan,” Asha said sadly when she recognized my voice. “I saw the motion that was filed this morning.”
“It’s unbelievable,” I muttered. “Does Liz know?”
“I made sure to send it to her account in the London office as soon as it arrived,” she replied. “But I haven’t heard back from her yet.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “That gives me time to call this idiot and figure out what he’s basing this on.”
“Be careful, Hunter,” Asha said quietly. “The DA can make it worse if you go in there with your guns blazing.”
“How can it be worse than destroying my career before it goes anywhere?” I asked. “Jeez, he can get me disbarred for this.”
“The DA can get you blackballed from more than just the law,” she replied.
There was a long moment of silence while I pondered that, and then I asked the obvious question.
“Have you seen something like this before?” I asked.
“Once,” she replied. “A case up in Harlem. A woman was shot on her way home from work, and a teenage boy was arrested. The boy had a Legal Aid attorney, just out of law school. The boy said he had seen the shooting and knew where the shooter tossed the gun. The lawyer was able to retrieve the gun, and he sent it out to have it tested for fingerprints at an independent lab.”
“He didn’t turn it over to the police?” I asked in surprise.
“No, and after he got the results of the test back, he lost the gun again,” Asha replied.
“Cripes,” I muttered. “But I haven’t done anything like that.”
“They must think they have enough,” she replied. “Or they wouldn’t have filed the motion. Judges hate these kinds of things because it slows everything down.”
“I guess I should call and see if I can figure out what the hell this is about,” I sighed.
“Good luck,” Asha replied and then hung up.
I checked the signature and phone number at the bottom of the motion, just to make sure I was calling the right attorney. With a sigh, I dialled the number, though I figured it would probably either go to voicemail or be answered by a paralegal.
“District Attorney’s office,” a perky voice declared. “How may I assist you?”
At least I’d gotten the paralegal rather than the voicemail, so there was always the chance that I could get an answer to some of my questions. On the other hand, it meant I couldn’t scream into the phone, so I did a quick count to six and half, and then put on my most professional voice.
“This is Hunter Morgan,” I said. “I’m representing Anthony Febbo. I’d like to speak to James Ordman about the motion he filed this morning.”
“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” the paralegal said. “I’m not sure Mr. Ordman will be able to talk to you.”
“He’ll want to talk to me,” I assured the paralegal. “Unless he wants to face a counter motion to have him removed.”
“Let me see if he’s in,” the paralegal replied.
There was a click and then music began to play. It was vaguely classical, though I didn’t recognize it. The piece dragged on, and then died in what sounded like the middle of the performance. There was another click, and then a different song started, something that sounded more like a jazz number from a World War II era cabaret in Paris. I tapped my fingers and checked a few more emails, then sneezed into my sleeve.
After all that, I heard another click, and then the background sounds of an office. It was almost like a game as I tried to guess who had finally decided to talk to me.
“Mr. Morgan,” a decidedly more manly and not at all perky voice barked into the phone.
“Mr. Ordman,” I said pleasantly as I recognized the voice of the senior DA on the matter. Not that we’d talke
d all that often, since he seemed to prefer leaving most of the work to his underlings.
“You received the motion,” Ordman noted.
“I did,” I replied. “And I’d like to know what evidence I’ve allegedly destroyed.”
“I’m under no obligation to disclose that information until the hearing,” Ordman replied.
“If the judge grants the motion,” I pointed out.
“I expect him to do so within the hour,” Ordman replied, and it wasn’t hard to picture the smug smile he probably wore.
“Then I guess I should prepare my own motion,” I said. “The one that asks for your removal.”
“And what would you base that on?” Ordman sighed.
“Evidence tampering,” I replied.
I waited for Ordman to ask the question, though he proved tougher than I had hoped. There was a long pause, and then the sound of a soda can being opened.
“And what evidence tampering do you claim to know about?” Ordman finally asked.
“My client’s apartment,” I said vaguely.
“Yes, we agree on that,” Ordman replied.
I felt my hackles rise, but I kept my response in check as I tried to figure out what he was talking about.
“Someone broke into my client’s apartment,” I added.
“So you claim,” Ordman said. “But I have two police officers and a neighbor who saw you and your co-counsel and no one else at the scene. It was clear, both from the search of the apartment and the neighbor’s statements, that you were searching the apartment for something. When you left, you refused to allow the officers to check your cases.”
“Which we had every right to do,” I pointed out. “And my co-counsel and I were not the ones who searched the apartment. We interrupted the burglar, and he ran out.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Ordman asked in a bored voice.
“Do you have proof to the contrary?” I demanded.
“We have reason to believe that you or your co-counsel removed evidence when you left,” Ordman replied.
