Muzzled

by Rosenfelt, David

  “That’s crazy, Andy.”

  “It’s also his best and final offer.”

  “Are you saying you think I should take it?”

  I shake my head. “No. You’d either die in prison or come out a very old man. There’s no upside in that.”

  “Is that why you’re saying it, or is it because you think we can win?”

  I’m always honest with my clients when it comes to … well, everything. They deserve that; it’s their life that is on the line. “I have no idea whether we can win. I’m not that far into it. Nothing I’ve seen so far fills me with confidence, but that could change.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “When you were getting on the boat, a witness says you were arguing with the other two guys. What was that about?”

  For a moment he looks surprised and confused. “Arguing? I guess it’s possible, but it would have been about business. And we wouldn’t have been screaming or anything.”

  “What would have been the cause of a business argument?”

  “We were planning to start a company, and we each had our own ideas of how and especially when to do it. We were leaving behind some money; Pharmacon was planning an IPO.”

  I know almost nothing about finance, but I do know that an IPO is an initial public offering, which basically means that the company goes public and sells stock to raise money. “And all three of you would have profited from it?”

  He shrugs. “Yes, though not as much as I once hoped. I doubt it will go very well. But they need to do it to get financing to keep going.”

  “Why won’t it do well?”

  He hesitates. “I need to be careful in what I say because I still have an obligation to them. I’m probably still an employee, unless they’ve already fired me. So let’s just say that the business depends on certain results and performance of their products, and … well, can we leave it at that?”

  “Yes, we can.” I sort of admire his sense of loyalty.

  “The IPO was significant to us though because of more than money. Once it happened, we would have been stuck there. Part of the deal for our getting the stock was our signing noncompetes; we wouldn’t have been able to leave and do anything else in that industry for at least two years. And if we left anyway and let them sue us, at a minimum we would have lost our stock, and probably much more.”

  “I’m going to want more information on that, but it’s not necessary now.” Now for a change of subject. “Did you ever work with explosives in your house?”

  His response is immediate. “Explosives? Of course not.”

  “Traces were found there after the explosion.”

  For the first time I see a flash of anger. “That’s impossible.”

  “The police forensics found it. I know the cop who was on the scene. If he says it was there, it was there.”

  “Then someone else put it there. My house was broken into; I read it in the paper. I don’t know what was stolen; I never got to go back there. But maybe the purpose was not to take things, but to leave those traces behind. Maybe Russo.”

  He continues to think that Russo is behind it because he had an affair with Russo’s girlfriend. But Russo would be no more likely to frame Vogel by planting traces of explosives than to send a boat out with hit men on it. Both would show way more finesse than he is capable of.

  Also, if Russo was intent on killing Vogel, Russo had no reason to frame him for anything. “It’s not Russo’s style,” I say.

  “It’s not my style either.”

  ‘So we’re turning down the plea deal?”

  “We are.”

  My world has few true geniuses.

  To me a genius is someone who has the vision and smarts to invent something that makes my life easier and more enjoyable. Whoever came up with the idea for ESPN qualifies. As does the inventor of the point spread for gambling purposes. The TV remote control is a perfect example of inspired brilliance; walking to the television to change the channel is a nightmare I have no desire to relive.

  Right at the top of the genius list is the man or woman who created chocolate-covered cherries. To take two perfect tastes like cherries and chocolate and combine them into one took an inspired intelligence I can’t even aspire to.

  Their invention even left room for users to indulge their personal preferences. My technique in eating them is to let the chocolate slowly dissolve, but I also respect those who immediately chew. The brilliant design allows for both approaches.

  I eat in awe.

  I don’t know any of the other kinds of geniuses, like scientists, mathematicians, and the like, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect them. Some of them might even rank up there with the chocolate-cherry guy.

  I might meet some of those kind of geniuses today. I’m at Pharmacon, where Vogel, Mellman, and Giarrusso all worked. I called Eric Buckner, whose official title is founder and CEO, told him who I was, and asked if we could meet.

  He jumped at the opportunity. The Andy Carpenter celebrity opens doors.

  The company is located in Paramus, just up the road from the Paramus Park mall. It’s not a terribly large building, two stories and not covering much land. It’s modern, all chrome and glass; the building looks like it was built about an hour ago.

  About thirty parking spaces are in the lot, and it’s only two-thirds filled, leading the deductive mind of Andy Carpenter to think that not a hell of a lot of people are working here. Either that or carpooling is a significant part of the company culture.

  The reception area takes up a much larger area than I would have suspected after seeing the place from the outside. It’s also modern and looks expensive to have put together; a lot of care went into this reception area.

  I doubt they did that to impress FedEx deliverymen; it’s more likely that they play host to investors. If the intent was to make a good first impression, I think they’ve pulled it off.

  All I have to do is tell the receptionist my name and she says, “I’ll tell Eric that you’re here.” If the receptionist refers to the CEO as Eric, I’ve got a feeling this is an informal work environment. It would be my kind of place, if I had the slightest bit of interest in being in any kind of work environment.

  Eric Buckner comes out to greet me, and he’s dressed like the kind of CEO that the receptionist could call Eric. He’s wearing sneakers, jeans, and a sport shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, although I know from his online bio that he’s thirty-four.

  “Andy Carpenter? Eric Buckner.” We shake hands; his shake is firm, overly so, as if he’s showing off. He also holds it a couple of seconds too long, which is a pet peeve of mine.

  My philosophy is shake and end it; it’s an introduction, not an intimate experience.

  As we head back to his office, we pass other offices with employees dressed similarly to Buckner. Two of them actually have dogs with them, one a golden retriever.

  Once we’re in Buckner’s office, he offers me a drink, and I take a Diet Coke. He opens with “I’m not saying this because you’re representing him, but there is no way that Alex Vogel did what they are accusing him of.”

  This is as good a place to start as any, so I ask him why he says that.

  “Because I know him, and I knew Stephen and Robert, and I knew the relationship they had. They were friends, but it wouldn’t matter if they were enemies. Alex could never intentionally hurt anyone.”

  “What did they do here?”

  “Robert was a chemist. Number two in the department on the chart, but easily the most talented. He was brilliant.”

  “So he worked on developing drugs?”

  Buckner nods. “Yes. A major loss not only to our company, but to medicine and good health everywhere. Stephen was in finance; in our industry attracting capital and investors is a constant challenge. For us more than most.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We’re a small company, and like most of our size we depend on one b
reakthrough drug. Ours is going to be Loraxil.”

  “Going to be?”

  He nods. “We haven’t completed the FDA approval process, but we will, and fairly soon. It’s going well. It will be one of the great advances in medicine.”

  “What kind of drug?”

  He tells me what I already know from news reports in recent years, that bacteria are becoming increasingly resistant to conventional antibiotics, creating so-called superbugs that can’t be stopped. “But Loraxil can stop them,” he says with evident pride.

  “If it’s so great, why is it hard to get investors?”

  He thinks for a moment, as if trying to figure out the best way to educate me. “Good question. Two reasons. The first, and it’s a problem with all antibiotics, is that it’s prescribed for a specific period of time. You have an infection, you get a ten-day regimen, and then you’re done.”

  “So?”

  “So the real money is in drugs that treat chronic illnesses. You take them forever.”

  “You said two reasons?”

  He nods. “You’re a lawyer, right?”

  I reluctantly admit that I am.

  “Take driverless cars. When they arrive in force, they’re going to have accidents, no matter how good the technology is. It’s inevitable. It will open up a whole new area of the law, trying to deal with the implications of it. Right?”

  I nod my agreement. “Very likely.”

  “Right. But would you go out tomorrow and hire a bunch of lawyers for your firm based on their expertise in driverless-car legal issues?” He answers his own question. “Of course not, because they’d just be sitting around with nothing to do. Those cases aren’t here yet.”

  “And your point is that those superbugs aren’t here yet?”

  “They’re here, but pretty rare. So rare that it’s hard to do human testing; we have to swoop in when we hear of a case. So our drug will be huge in the future, but to be ready for the superbug invasion, we have to develop it now.

  “But who is going to buy it when the need is not great yet? You’re not hiring those lawyers, and doctors and pharmacies aren’t buying these drugs.

  “So we have to have the financial ability to create it and bring it to market, because its time is coming. And then we’ll save lives and laugh all the way to the bank.”

  I decide to switch subjects. “Do you know why Vogel, Mellman, and Giarrusso were meeting on that boat?”

  He shrugs. “Probably planning to start their own company. Happens all the time. I once did the same thing; that’s why we’re sitting here.”

  “It wouldn’t have bothered you?”

  Another shrug. “They would have missed out on the IPO when we do it, but that’s up to them. I would have wished them well, hired replacements, and life goes on.”

  “It stopped going on for Mellman and Giarrusso.”

  Eric frowns. “That’s for sure.”

  “Any idea who might have wanted to hurt them? Or hurt Alex Vogel?”

  Eric shakes his head. “I really don’t, and I’ve thought about it. But I only knew those guys professionally; we didn’t hang out or anything. I’m sorry to say that there could have been major things going on in their lives that I just wouldn’t know about.”

  “I’d like to talk to some of their coworkers.”

  “Fine with me. I obviously can’t make anyone talk to you; people are still pretty shaken up. But I’ll put out the word that I approve.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Alex Vogel is a good guy; let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Someone wanted Alex Vogel dead.

  They may or may not have also been after Mellman and Giarrusso, but based on Alex’s story, he was certainly a target. So our task, while difficult to accomplish, is essentially a simple one. When we find out who wanted Vogel dead, we’ll know everything.

  The key to finding out the “who” is to learn the “why.” Something that Vogel did, or something he knew, created his enemy. To that end, Vogel has a theory. Actually, it’s more than a theory. In his mind it’s a certainty, and one that caused him to go into hiding.

  He believes it is Joseph Russo, Jr., because of the affair Alex had with Russo’s now-deceased girlfriend. I don’t think that’s at all likely, but it would be legal malpractice for me not to investigate it. Vogel was the target of a murderer, and he had given an actual murderer in the person of Joseph Russo, Jr., a reason to seek revenge against him.

  Even though I never believe in coincidences, I think this is possibly an exception. I just don’t see Russo behaving in this manner, but I would be dropping the legal ball by not checking it out. My first step in doing so is to call Willie Miller.

  Willie had a weird friendship with Russo’s father, Joseph Russo, Sr., who had run the crime family until he met his untimely demise. Willie and the senior Russo had been in prison together; Willie had been wrongly accused and convicted, while the same could very definitely not be said for Russo.

  Three inmates trying to make a name for themselves had commenced an attack on Russo with makeshift knives. Willie witnessed this, decided the odds were not fair, and rushed to Russo’s defense.

  Willie is a good defense-rusher. By the time he was finished, the three attackers were in the prison hospital, and Russo was indebted to Willie for the relatively short rest of his life.

  I have no idea if Willie knows Russo’s son, but it can’t hurt to ask. “Willie, I need to talk to Joseph Russo, Jr.”

  “Little Joey?” Willie asks, using a strange name for a mob leader.

  “Right. Little Joey. You know him?”

  “Sure. He’s a good kid.”

  “He’s into drugs, prostitution, and occasional murder.”

  “I’ve never seen any of that.” For a guy who spent seven years locked up with the worst elements of our society, Willie is blissfully naïve and trusting.

  “You might be right. Can you get me a meeting with him?”

  “Sure. What should I tell him it’s about?”

  “Can you not give him a heads-up? I sort of want to surprise him.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  There is literally nothing I could ask Willie for that he wouldn’t respond with “Sure … no problem.” Remarkably, he’s usually right. We leave it that he will call Russo and try to set something up.

  I head home to take Tara and Sebastian for their walk. Laurie has just dropped off Ricky at Will Rubenstein’s for a sleepover, so she’s free to walk with us.

  I like taking walks with Laurie, but only when Sebastian is with us. Left to her own devices, Laurie is a fast walker. She treats it as exercise, and keeping up with her makes me feel like I’m on the Bataan Death March. Sebastian is my antidote to that; he lumbers along at such a slow pace that even I have no trouble keeping up. When it comes to going from point A to point B, I’ve seen sofa beds move faster than Sebastian.

  I have no desire to think about the case, but Laurie brings it up. “I’ve been thinking. An important fact to consider is that whoever did this was not trying to frame Vogel; they were trying to kill him.”

  “What about the traces of explosives in his house?”

  “We think that was done after the fact. He was already in custody, so the bad guys latched on to that as the second-best outcome. But first and foremost, they wanted him dead.”

  “What’s your point?” I ask, though I see it. I want to make sure nothing is on her mind that I’m missing.

  “It’s likely that the reason they wanted to kill him still exists, especially if what they’re afraid of is something that he knows. They could make another run at him.”

  “I should have thought of that. I’ll put in a request for extra protection at the jail.”

  “Maybe I should be the one to do that.” She says that because I am widely disliked by all levels of law enforcement, even more so than most defense attorneys.

  “Are you implying that my charm might not be fully appreciated by some memb
ers of the jail staff?”

  “That’s one way of putting it; I was afraid I was being too subtle. A more direct way might be to say that your asking for Vogel to be protected might actually prompt one of the guards to kill him.”

  “Then maybe you should make the request.”

  She nods. “Good idea. Did you tell Willie when you want to meet with Russo?”

  “No. Whenever he sets it up will be okay. Willie is a trusting soul; he thinks Russo is a fine, upstanding gentleman.”

  “Right. A prince among men. I’m going to call around and see what we can find out about him; the more information you have going in the better.”

  Laurie means that she will contact some of her old friends on the police force whose job it is to put Russo and people like him behind bars. As research projects go, it’s not exactly an unbiased sampling, but it could be helpful.

  “Good idea. Find out if he’s likely to be dazzled by my boyish charm.”

  “How can he not be? I know I am.”

  Willie obviously had no trouble arranging a meeting with Joseph Russo, Jr.

  The meeting is tonight at eight o’clock at Russo’s house in the Riverside section of Paterson. I know the area well; I used to watch professional softball games nearby at Riverside Oval with my father. Not only did I enjoy both the games and spending time with my father, but a vendor there sold the best Italian ice in the history of the world.

  As promised, Laurie has contacted friends in the police department who could be considered experts on Russo. “So here’s what I learned. Junior is said to be trying to bring the operation into the twentieth century.”

  “This is the twenty-first century,” I point out.

  “One step at a time. His father ran it with a Wild West mentality. Junior is trying to install a business model, even though he does not have a business background. His primary problem is lack of funds; his secondary problem is lack of smarts.”

  “I’m surprised to hear that. Prostitution, gambling, and drugs aren’t moneymakers anymore?”

  “They are, but there are still huge expenses. Russo’s employees feel they should be well paid for committing crimes, and he seems to be having some trouble meeting that payroll. Nothing he can’t handle right now, but it could grow into a serious problem. He could start losing people, and when you’re hiring professional killers, the prospective employee pool is not that large.”