The Blood of Saints (Tom Connelly Book 2)

by Nick Dorsey

  I’m a fighter.

  No. It was too late for that. Jean sighed and said, “Eason and Will have a strategy. I think it would be best to let them run with it.”

  Juanita was shocked. She waved her hands. “Hold your horses. It would be yours again. Understand? You’re not second fiddle. You would run the show.”

  Jean laced her fingers together. “I have the utmost faith in Eason and his abilities. I’ll make sure he’s got all my notes.”

  “I didn’t think you would turn this down, baby,” Juanita said. “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “If you want me on it, I’ll do it. But I think Eason will do the right thing.”

  A few minutes later Jean left Juanita’s office. She felt like she needed to shower and brush her teeth, but she had done what she needed to do.

  Back in Sal’s office when she had been a thin hair away from death, Amelia LaRocca surprised her by asking everyone else to leave the room. In a moment Jean and the older woman were alone in the office and Jean felt her control. She told Sal to leave his office, a manly place, obviously his inner sanctum, and he had done so. Now they sat in the leather and old tobacco smoke, two women. Wherever Amelia LaRocca went, Jean thought, that was the seat of power in the LaRocca family.

  Jean wasted no time. “Tom is here?”

  “Tell me what you know,” Amelia said. She was leaning forward in her chair. Even infirm, she had the look of a coiled viper.

  Jean told her everything she knew about Erika Cheramie’s family. Amelia listened closely until Jean said, “And I want Sofia Adelfi released.”

  Amelia smiled a perfectly condescending smile. “That’s beyond me. You’re the lawyer. That’s your area of expertise.”

  “Sofia Adelfi is still locked up. I want someone to take the charge from over her head. You’ll get Dominic, but I need Erika Cheramie to make it to New Orleans to face the District Attorney.”

  “That’s a two-for-one deal.” The older woman waved a thin finger at Jean. “You’re getting the cream of this deal.”

  Jean was prepared for that. “No. You make sure Erika Cheramie takes the charge, I’ll ignore anything I might have seen involving your lawyer.”

  Amelia frowned. “What? What lawyer?”

  “Tony DiAngelo. He’s working for you, or at least for your brother. And he’s been cooking something up with Eason Kandinsky, another defender. I know enough to make it tough for both of them. So the deal is this: I get Tom. You get Dominic.”

  “If he’s even where you say he is.”

  “Then I get Erika. And your lawyer stays clean.”

  Amelia had clacked her nails on the arm of her wheelchair, glaring at Jean. It had been a bold move. She hoped Amelia would see it was a smart move for both of them.

  Now, Karen from client services scowled at Jean when she entered the courtroom. She was wearing pants crossed with grey and purple stripes. that threw Jean for a moment. The lines constructed a sort of optical illusion and Jean suddenly felt the floor was rising and Karen was growing taller than humanly possible. Jean blinked and righted herself. It wasn’t the pants. It was the meeting with Juanita. It was everything with Tom and Amelia LaRocca. How was she supposed to handle first appearances with that on her mind?

  Karen left her laptop and threw a hand toward the jury box, which was now full of men and women in orange and burgundy jumpsuits with O.P.S.O. stenciled on them. The seats were full and a contingent of men in chains were lined up along the rear wall. Busy weekend. “Where have you been?” Karen asked.

  All those people. All meat for the grinder that was the criminal punishment system. No. No time to be morbid. Whatever else they were, they were her clients and she had a duty to them.

  “I’m here now,” Jean said.

  She dropped her bag next to Karen’s laptop and picked up the hefty stack of reports. They were all there. She took a minute to close her eyes. To focus.

  I’m a fighter.

  I’m a warrior.

  She opened her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Before the words evaporated in her mind’s eye, she was walking to the jury box. She struck a pose between the two Sheriff’s Deputies guarding the defendants. Shoulders back. Head high. Trying to look taller than she was. No coffee stain on her jacket this time. She tried to meet a pair of eyes in the crowd and began her speech. “I need your attention. I’m Jean Perez from the New Orleans Public Defenders Office, and I’m going to represent you today. We’ve got about twenty minutes until court starts. Right now, I need you all to listen. Don’t talk about your cases anymore, except with me. Don’t talk with guards or your cellie or your cousin. You only talk to me. y'all understand?” Murmurs from the crowd and someone laughed from off to her side. Ignore it. Twenty minutes and the clock was ticking. “I’m not arguing your cases today. This is just a bond hearing, I’m going to do everything I can for you. Worst case scenario, I get your bond set as low as possible so you can get back on the street.” Some grumblings of disbelief from the folks in jumpsuits. “Okay. I’ll see you in the box.” She read the name off the top report. “You’re first.”

  They came into the plastic box one at a time. Some quiet, beaten down. Some trying to argue their case like Jean was a judge instead of an overworked and yes, distracted, lawyer.

  When an especially chatty client left the plastic box, Jean flipped through the next report. When she read the client’s name she said, “Oh, shit,” aloud. A Sheriff’s Deputy turned and gave her a disapproving look.

  So the plastic box wasn’t that soundproof after all.

  A blonde woman walked into the box, head high. She looked good, for being inside. Like a woman who knew the charges were bullshit and she would be a free woman before the day was through. Jean had to admit, she liked her confidence.

  “Erika Cheramie?” Jean asked.

  The woman smiled. Jean should have known she might pull this case. She hadn’t seen Erika Cheramie in the flesh before, but now that she had the woman to herself she decided that yes, Erika and Sofia Adelfi did sort of look alike. There was something sharper about Erika, though. Some cunning that Sofia didn’t have. Jean was used to knowing more about her clients than they knew about her, but this was different. In this case, she knew a great deal more than Erika could ever dream.

  “I have a lawyer. And I want to take a plea deal,” the woman said it like she had it memorized.

  “Right. Well, they’re not here, so you’re talking to me. This is just about bail, anyway.”

  Erika Cheramie’s sheet was full of words like Accessory. Aiding. Abetting. Jean launched into her questionnaire. How old are you? Where were you born? Do you have family? Children? A job?

  Erika looked okay on paper. Jean thought she could get her bond reduced by quite a bit if the charge wasn’t murder, but she was barely paying attention to Erika’s answers. Each question she asked felt more rote than rote. There had been times when Jean didn’t give her client all that they deserved. She was tired, or distracted, or too green to be the best lawyer for them. But with Erika Cheramie, she felt something new: indifference. She didn’t know how good she would be. Jean was glad this one had a lawyer. Because everyone deserves an enthusiastic defense.

  Even Erika Cheramie.

  She had to admit she was relieved when Erika turned away from her, looking through the dirty plexiglass to the green-walled gallery. A short, bulky man in a red sharkskin suit was walking through the doors, straightening his tie. “That’s him. That’s my lawyer.”

  Of course, it was. Tony DiAngelo rolled into the room, his suit almost flickering in the diffuse light of the courtroom. He hustled past the few spectators and approached the Assistant District Attorney. The same hipster with horn-rim glasses that they always sent to these early morning arrangements. What had he done to deserve such treatment?

  DiAngelo leaned over and extended his hand. His voice carried right through the plexiglass. “Yeah. With, Pascal and Associates.”

  Jean cracked a smil
e. That’s how it was. A sweetheart deal. Erika would take the charge. Sofia Adelfi might have gotten life, but with DiAngelo on her side, who knows how long Erika would be behind bars.

  She sent Erika Cheramie out with orders to send in her next client. Jean exhaled and flipped the page in her notebook. She tapped her pen. Trying to clear her mind. She still had a job to do. Court was eight minutes away and she still had a stack of reports to go through.

  It took a week for the DA to move his ass and even longer for the city to process all the paperwork. To her credit, Juanita kept their phone busy, checking in as often as she could just to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly. Thanks to Patton, the DA had evidence that pointed to Dominic Barese for the murder of Ernesto Adelfi. Dominic was dead, which was a problem. The DA always liked to have a live body on which he could hang a nice conviction. Instead of Dominic to take full murder wrap, the DA had Erika Cheramie as an accessory and whatever deal Tony DiAngelo had cooked up.

  Tom Connelly was in shirt sleeves, arms crossed and eyes crinkling as he stood in the afternoon sun on the sidewalk outside Templeman Five. The detention center made the news now and again, and not for any good reasons. Federal inspectors were constantly looking into the conditions inside Templeman Five and regularly described the place as something between deplorable and literal hell on Earth. Still, that’s where they were keeping Sofia Adelfi. He wasn’t sure if she was coming out of the big double doors out front or slipping out a back entrance, but he knew she was coming out.

  A little blue Mazda pulled up to the sidewalk just a few yards away from a No Parking sign. Jean Perez came out of the car. Tom cracked a smile and behind her dark glasses, he saw Jean’s face soften.

  “You didn’t have to come here,” she said.

  “I wanted to.”

  “She’s out today, but who knows when.”

  “I can wait.”

  So they did. Not speaking much, just two people standing in the street, waiting for something to happen. When Sal LaRocca’s Cadillac pulled up to the curb, Tom turned to her. “All is forgiven?”

  “Looks like it.” Jean shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Looks like he had some work done on the car. New brake lights.”

  Tom grinned at her.

  A few minutes later, Sofia Adelfi came out through the double doors. Head held high. She didn’t even look in their direction but walked slowly to the Caddy. Sal himself popped out of the driver’s seat to open the back door for her. In the dark of the car, wearing some sort of grey fur even though the weather was trending toward hot, was Amelia LaRocca. All the stars were out, it seemed, bringing Sofia Adelfi home.

  Sal shut Sofia in the Caddy and snugged his cap on. He turned on a heel, then stopped. The man twisted to look right at Tom and Jean. His nod was almost imperceptible, then he was gone. Around the front of the car, getting in, and pulling away from the curb.

  They both watched the car rumble past them, then Jean was looking at Tom. “She just goes right back to them?”

  “Moth to a flame, I guess.”

  Jean took off her sunglasses and her face was open. Not the hard, courtroom-firm face she had been wearing. She said, “With Patton out, there’s a need for an experienced investigator for a while. Juanita wants to know if you’re free.”

  “I could be,” Tom said, but he was cautious.

  “Somebody will be in touch. Check out your license. Get you a desk.”

  “Somebody? Not you?”

  Jean shrugged. He could see her building herself up, somehow. Working up the strength, or nerve, to bring something to the forefront. She said, “There’s some impropriety there, don’t you think? Me and you?”

  “I’m okay with that,” Tom said. “Impropriety is better than nothing.” He turned to her. “Let’s get dinner tonight.”

  She bit her lip.

  He said, “Or tomorrow. Whenever you’re free. We can talk about everything, okay?”

  It took Jean a moment to answer. “Okay,” she said. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “It’s going to be slow.”

  Tom said he was okay with that, too.

  Later that evening, the pitching machine a slow steady metronome and the spotlights above washing the rest of the world away, Jean Perez cursed each time she swung. The batting cages were empty. No other hitters, no hungry predators hanging from the chainlink ogling her and giving unsolicited advice. Just her and the machine and the lights and her thoughts.

  Everyone deserved a defense. Everyone deserved someone in their corner. She believed that in her gut.

  Even Dominic Barese?

  She let the machine pitch and the balls passed her by, rattling the chainlink.

  Sofia Adelfi was innocent, and she was walking around. Dominic Barese and Erika Cheramie were guilty, and they weren’t. That was something, wasn’t it? She felt like it was, but she couldn’t escape a creeping feeling. If she looked at that feeling too long she would see it for what it was, a fist of guilt and shame that threatened to pummel her into submission.

  A ball hurdled toward her and she swung hard, connecting.

  She couldn’t look at that feeling, then. She had to put it on a shelf somewhere. Lock it away. Because she had new cases all the time, new opportunities to do some good. Yes. That was it. She had court tomorrow and the day after.

  The pitching machine whirred and she settled into her batting stance.

  I’m a fighter.

  I’m a warrior.

  I’m a badass bitch.

  On the other side of town, Tom Connelly walked into the old house on Jefferson Davis Parkway and filled a styrofoam cup with coffee so hot it threatened to burn right through the bottom of the thing. He felt deflated, now. Worn out.

  When John, or James, called out for speakers Tom only waited for half a second. Any longer and somebody else would have taken the initiative, then what would he do? Probably slink to the back of the room and beat himself up for not talking. So he stood up and said, “I’m Tom and I’m an alcoholic.” He waited as the small crowd greeted him. “I almost got hit by a train on my way over here,” Tom said. Nobody laughed. “Same train that blindsided me a few years ago.” He looked out across the worn and weathered faces, each staring up at him. Listening. Patient. Trying to understand. He couldn’t tell them any more, of course. Nothing about the LaRoccas, or Jean, or any details. Nothing about how every part of him wanted to keep looking into Sal and Amelia. He still had notes, both his and Patton’s, and with them, he could trace a broad outline of the LaRocca family’s criminal enterprises.

  The only problem was, he wouldn’t be the only one to face the consequences of exposing them. Patton had already given his share, and the LaRocca family knew him now. They knew Jean, of course, and had their own file on her, too. She had set aside her qualms, had cordoned off some part of her moral and ethical self to help him. He had to try to do the same. He had to try to let it all go. He had to try to forget all he knew about the LaRocca family.

  Tom said, “So I’m standing up here wondering how anybody can know they’re doing the right thing. But I’m here. Standing and sober. So I think I’m on the right track.” He corrected himself: “Or off it. Anyway. The train is still out there, waiting for me. I just gotta let it pass me by.”

  Note From The Author:

  I owe a huge thanks to the folks in the Orleans Defenders Office. Everything I got right was because of their time and patience with my many questions, and everything I got wrong is on me. Some books come easier than others. Sometimes the words are ready to flow and you just have to turn the tap on. This one felt more like drilling for oil. Sometimes you strike oil, sometimes you’re just digging through dirt for miles and miles to no end.

  My grandfather started taking me to St. Joseph’s Day altars when I was young and I’ve always found them very special. A bit about them can be found here.

  I’ve got some very exciting (and super strange) projects and collaborations on the horizon, but I hope to get back To
m, Jean, and Patton very soon. Check out the links below to see more of my work.

  Thanks for reading,

  Nick

  Links to the Tom Connelly Series:

  Bleeding Levee Blues

  The Blood of Saints

  Links to the Unique Tales Series:

  The Jupiter Man

  Super Cowboy VS Everyone

  Email * Twitter * Facebook