The Wrong Man

7

I made it to my law firm the next morning by nine. I kept my own hours, and on days when I didn’t have court in the morning, I often worked out in the morning and arrived late. But today I wanted to finish up my notes on the prosecution’s evidence in Stoller and get them typed up for the beginnings of a crude database.

I pushed through the door bearing the stenciled lettering of T ASKER amp; K OLARICH and smiled at our young receptionist, Marie, who majored in archaeology and minored in the avoidance of productive labor.

“Hold all my calls,” I said. “I’m on with the Pentagon in ten minutes.”

She hardly looked up. There was definitely a document in front of her, so she must have been working very hard on it. “You have a ten-thirty.”

Right. I’d forgotten. Some guy who called a couple days ago and was vague about why.

My partner, Shauna Tasker, had a young couple in her office. My guess, a real estate closing for a husband and wife. Shauna was good about diversifying. She preferred litigation but took on all sorts of transactional matters, too, from real estate sales to corporate formations to employment agreements to falling asleep from boredom.

“What up, old man?” said the third member of our team, Bradley John, as he passed the office with a cup of Starbucks in hand.

“Hey, Rock Star.”

I’m only seven years older than Bradley, for the record. He’s been out of law school for three years and joined up with us three months ago. I like the kid but try not to let him know it.

I had court this afternoon on a state drug possession, and another appearance in federal court on a gun case. The drug possession was a guy running pills, including a couple that hit Schedule I and therefore could get the kid six years inside, even for a first offense. The gun charge was an arrest by city cops but was scooped up by the feds, who can kick the sentence on a gun crime into the stratosphere compared to state guidelines. I have a decent chance on that one, because the kid dumped the gun during the chase, but nobody saw the dumping.

All fine, they’ve paid up front and both will probably go to trial, which is the only thing that keeps my heart pumping these days. But my ten-thirty, from what I gathered between the lines over the phone yesterday, might be a homicide.

The guy’s name was Lorenzo Fowler. He was of medium height, thick across the middle, with heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes. He was wearing a dress shirt open at the collar and a cheap wool sport coat. He wore too much cologne-any cologne is too much-and shook my hand too hard when he sat across the desk from me.

He smoothed his hands over the arms of the chair and tapped his feet. Nerves. That’s not unusual in my line of work.

“So this is attorney-client, right?” he asked.

“Are you an officer of a publicly held corporation?”

He cocked his head. “What? No.”

“Are you going to tell me about a crime you plan to commit in the future?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then everything you tell me is confidential.”

He nodded.

“I’ve got some, uh, legal problems,” he said. That distinguished him from absolutely nobody who entered my office.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“It’s not important.”

Interesting response. “You wanted to hire me, what, to cater your kid’s birthday party?”

His eyes narrowed as he considered me. I don’t think he thought I was funny.

“They’re looking at me for something. Something maybe I did, maybe I didn’t do.”

I nodded along. “You need a lawyer.”

He shook his head. “No, I got a lawyer for that other thing.”

I was done trying to coax him. He’d get there eventually.

“Anyway.” He took a nervous breath and looked around the office. “If it ever gets hot, I’m thinking-see, I’ve got something I could trade. I know something about another case.”

I put my hands on the desk. Thus far, this conversation hadn’t called for copious note-taking. “Mr. Fowler, if you’re represented by counsel, talk to him. Or her. Not me.”

His head bobbed for a minute. He wet his lips and looked around the walls of my office, the cheap artwork and diplomas. Nerves flaring up again.

“This would be something I wouldn’t talk to him about.”

Something wasn’t connecting. Unless. There was only one way this made sense.

“Who do you work for?” I asked. “The Morettis? The Capparellis?”

He cocked his head, then smiled. I wish he hadn’t. He hadn’t received stellar dental care over the years.

“Capparellis,” he said.

Right. Fowler worked for the Mob, the Outfit, whatever remained of the old crime syndicate since the feds have taken a massive bite out of their organization. Not what they once were in this city, but still formidable. Guns and girls and gambling, plus drugs and protection. Rico Capparelli was the top guy of the family and went down on a federal racketeering charge-RICO, ironically. His brother, Paul, is presumed to be running things these days, though I know that only from press accounts. When I was a prosecutor, I focused on street gangs, not the Mob.

Whatever that other thing was that Lorenzo Fowler maybe did, maybe didn’t do, he was represented by the Mob’s lawyer. A Mob lawyer’s first loyalty is to the Mob, not the person he’s defending. Fowler had something to trade, but he couldn’t do it through his current attorney. Which meant he was going to sell out somebody higher up on the food chain.

“You want legal advice,” I said. “You want an idea of what kind of deal you could cut.”

“That’s it.”

Okay, that’s it. “What’s the thing you maybe did, maybe didn’t do?”

He hitched one shoulder. “Guy who owns Knockers. The strip club over on Green? He mighta taken a beating last week. He might not survive it.”

“Sorry for his troubles.”

“Not if you knew the asshole, you wouldn’t be.”

I thought it was possible that I could learn to like Lorenzo Fowler.

“Okay, so it’s an aggravated battery, maybe an attempted murder,” I said. “And one day soon it could be a murder.”

Fowler shuddered at the thought.

“What do you have to trade?” I asked.

That made him shudder all the more. His shoulders closed in. “Maybe there was another murder. A whole different kinda thing. And maybe I know about it.”

“Maybe you know who did it?”

“Say I do.” His expression didn’t betray his thoughts. It was probably a trait he’d developed over years of slinging bullshit.

“Okay, say you do. You can solve a murder for the police? That would be worth something. Probably not immunity, but something.”

He was listening very closely. “I wouldn’t walk?”

“From beating the strip club owner? I doubt it. An aggravated battery, if this guy lives? And murder if he doesn’t? It would be a stretch. It all depends on the circumstances.”

“Even if the name I’m trading is Gin Rummy?”

I didn’t catch the reference. I could see from the expectant look on his face that he thought I’d recognize the name.

“Who’s Gin Rummy?” I asked.

A brief smile crossed over his mouth. “There’s five people in the world that know that. You wanna be the sixth?”

I shook my head. “That’s up to you. I take it Gin Rummy is somebody significant?”

“To the coppers? Oh, yeah. The federal types, too. And to Paulie, for sure.”

Paul Capparelli, presumably, the top guy in the crime family now.

“Paulie always says, ‘Gin Rummy’s the man.’” Fowler laughed to himself.

“Gin Rummy’s a hit man?” I asked.

Fowler stared at me for a long time. Finally, he said, “Close enough.”

“An assassin,” I said.

“Right.”

“You see a difference between ‘hit man’ and ‘assassin’?” It wasn’t a helpful question I was asking, but this guy was starting to annoy me.

Enough of the cat-and-mouse. “Is that it, Lorenzo? Just Gin Rummy’s real name? Or do you have proof that Gin Rummy committed this other murder?”

He showed those hideous teeth again. “I got proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“Proof,” he said.

I was a few years out of date in what little knowledge I possessed, while a prosecutor, about the Mob and its assorted characters. But it sounded like this Gin Rummy was significant. And that could mean special consideration.

“You’re wondering about witness protection, that kind of thing?” I asked.

“Right. Problem is, this thing, this other murder I got information on, it’s stateside. Not federal.”

The state doesn’t really do witness protection programs per se, but the feds will cooperate with the locals if the payoff is good enough. I told Lorenzo all that.

“Oh, it’ll be worth it,” he assured me.

I’d have to take his word for it for the time being. “You’re not ready to pull this trigger yet, I take it?”

“Right. But here’s another question. If I wanna do this, can I go through you and keep it quiet and all?”

“I think we could work that out, Lorenzo.”

He leaned forward in his seat. His skin was flush. “And this thing we’re talking about, you won’t repeat it.”

“It’s a privileged conversation, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not asking nothin’.” His eyes went cold. He had quickly resorted to the bravado of the Mobbed-up thug. “I’m tellin’. You won’t repeat this. We understand each other?”

I have this thing where, whenever I get agitated, I try to count to ten before speaking. On occasion, I’ve been known to say inappropriate things, and it was a New Year’s resolution of mine to get along better with people. But that was two New Years ago, and it didn’t take.

I got all the way to four in my count. “Don’t threaten me, Lorenzo, and don’t ever contact me again,” I said. I got out of my chair. “And now we understand each other.”

Lorenzo Fowler turned right when he left his appointment and stood at the curb to hail a cab. He gave up after a few minutes and decided to walk through the commercial district.

From across the street, Peter Ramini stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Always, these days, with his hands in his pockets. He watched Fowler disappear down the block. No need to follow. It didn’t matter where Lorenzo was going next. All that mattered was where he’d just been. Ramini carefully removed his cell phone and punched a speed-dial button. Within four minutes, a black town car pulled up at the curb.

He got in the backseat, next to another man named Donnie. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. He waited until the Lincoln moved into traffic before he spoke.

“That appointment Zo made with that lawyer,” he said. “Name of Jason Kolarich. Well, he just had the meeting. Ask Paulie what he wants to do about Zo.”

Donnie was a big man with deep-set eyes and a midsection that looked like he was hiding an inner tube under his shirt. “Anything else?” he asked.

Ramini thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Ask him what he wants to do about Jason Kolarich, too.”