Mob Lawyer 4: A Legal Thriller Read online

  Chapter 1

  “I know the prosecution would have you believe my client is a heinous criminal with purely evil intentions, but as we’ve shown you over the past few days, this is simply not the case.” I walked in front of the jury and offered a dazzling smile as I continued my closing argument. “Mr. Lombardi absolutely told the alleged victim to stay away from his daughter. He absolutely told the alleged victim that he owned a weapon and wasn’t afraid to use it. These facts are not disputed. What is disputed, however, is that Mr. Lombardi’s actions constitute the felony offense of menacing.”

  I paused to look at each of the jurors individually. A dozen pairs of interested eyes were focused on me. I knew they’d already taken in my twelve-hundred dollar suit and Tom Ford briefcase, but I’d brought several witnesses and dozens of pages of evidence to support my client, and the jurors soon realized I was more than a fancy-dressed attorney.

  “According to the statute in question, the defendant must be guilty of second-degree menacing, which includes showing a deadly weapon and repeatedly causing the victim to feel he or she is in danger of imminent harm,” I explained. “It also requires the defendant to have been convicted of second-degree menacing or menacing a peace officer within the last ten years. Not one of these standards has been met by the state.”

  I had the jury’s attention, but I wasn’t sure if I had them convinced of Lombardi’s innocence just yet. The prosecutor had already shown Lombardi’s ties to my main client, Anthony Lamon, the son of a well-known Mafia boss, and the jury hadn’t responded to that information in my favor. I had to rely on the letter of the law to keep Lombardi from taking the fall in one of the most trumped-up cases I’d seen from the Queens DA so far.

  “Mr. Lombardi did not put the alleged victim in harm’s way,” I continued. “He did not repeatedly threaten the alleged victim, nor did he even show him any weapon. In fact, the prosecution has yet to prove that Mr. Lombardi even owns the gun he mentioned in his statement to the alleged victim, who has been accused of sexually harassing Mr. Lombardi’s daughter. I’m not a father yet, but I can empathize with the desire to keep our children safe from the real criminals of New York. Can’t you?”

  One of the male jurors clenched his fist when I brought up my client’s twenty year old daughter, who had already testified to the conversation she’d had with her father. Like any young woman, she’d been worried when some guy she met at the bar had shown up at her job, then at her favorite coffee shop, and finally at her apartment, catcalling and sending illicit texts. Her dad had decided to take matters into his own hands and make sure the young man stopped stalking her. It seemed at least one of the jurors felt he’d do the exact same thing, and I suspected he had a daughter or two himself. All I needed was reasonable doubt, and I could get that with a single juror.

  I gave one more dramatic pause before I thanked the jury and returned to my seat. I needed this case to go well. Anthony had started trusting me to handle some of his associates’ cases, and I had to prove that I was more than a corporate schmuck who got lucky a couple times with Anthony’s own cases.

  After leaving my old white shoe firm to take on the risky business of the Febbo family, I’d taken a lot of heat from both the former family attorney and law enforcement. Even though I’d always wanted to be a criminal defense lawyer, I hadn’t expected it to come in the form of a mob lawyer, but when Anthony’s assault on a police officer case had come into play, I couldn’t resist standing up for a guy who had seemed to be nothing more than a regular brewery employee who pulled the short straw. I’d had no idea who his father was, thanks to Anthony using his mother’s maiden name at the time, and I’d gone into court swinging for the fences. Now, I had to use the same strategy for each of his guys that I defended against bogus charges.

  “Does the defense rest, Mr. Morgan?” the judge asked.

  “We do, Your Honor,” I confirmed with a nod.

  “Then we will take a recess, so the jury can begin deliberations,” he declared before he turned to face the jurors. “The state of New York expects each of you to consider the information presented by both the state and the defense when deciding if the prosecution has met the burden of proof for the felony charge of first-degree menacing.”

  The members of the jury looked solemn as they filed out of the courtroom and into a side office to deliberate. Once the bailiff had shut the door behind them, we rose for the judge to leave the courtroom, and then the whispers of discussion began in the gallery.

  “The felony seems a bit much, right?”

  “Yeah, he should have given him a plea deal and left it alone.”

  “Maybe the DA is just trying to push the mayor’s agenda. Anti-mafia and all that.”

  It seemed the consensus among the regular court watchers behind us was the DA hadn’t proved the charge at hand, but I still wasn’t sure if the jury felt the same way. I tried to keep my mind on the empathetic father, and his reaction to my closing statement. All I needed was one person to agree the prosecution was wrong in charging my client with a felony. Even if the jury was hung, it would give us exactly what we needed to negotiate with the DA’s office for a better deal. I just didn’t know if I’d gotten that juror completely convinced yet, and the rest of the jury was even more difficult to read. I’d rarely had full courtroom trials like this in my short career, and the intense anxiety I felt was both exhilarating and exhausting.

  “Do you think we’ll win?” Lombardi whispered as he picked a ball of lint from his Armani suit. “I can’t read this jury.”

  “I think we’ve got a good chance,” I replied under my breath. “The audience seems to think Ordman went too far by bumping your charge up to a felony. We just have to hope the jury feels the same way.”

  Lombardi nodded and pursed his lips as he turned to search for his daughter. She waved from the second row and motioned for him to join her.

  “Am I allowed to go sit with her?” he asked.

  “You’re out on bail.” I ushered him into the gallery. “Go ahead.”

  “Letting him get in his goodbyes before he goes to Rikers for a couple of years?” Ordman sneered as he strolled over to my table and leaned against it. “At least he gets to see her one last time without a sheet of glass between them. I’ll be pushing for the maximum sentence of four years.”

  “He’ll be fine,” I retorted and forced some bravado. “You’ve already pushed your limit with this charge, and I had the jury eating out of the palm of my hand. They know you didn’t have enough to charge him with a felony.”

  “Did they?” the DA asked with feigned innocence. “That’s not what I saw. I saw twelve appalled faces while the victim recounted the horrifying encounter he had with your client when he told him he had an illegal firearm and had no problem taking a young man’s life. I’m sure he’s had plenty of experience with taking lives since he started working for the Mafia.”

  “And I saw that same look when I had him read the texts he sent Ms. Lombardi out loud.” I smirked as I crossed my arms over my chest. “Even he turned red when he had to read them. He’s the one that should be charged with harassment, but I’m sure that doesn’t line up with your boss’ anti-Mafia agenda.”

  Ordman’s face turned a lovely shade of crimson while he glared at me indignantly.

  “I decide who gets prosecuted in Queens. No one else.”

  “Do you?” I asked innocently. “Does Webber know that?”

  Mayor Webber was the slimy, two-faced politician who was unfortunately in charge of our city. He’d narrowly avoided being tied to the Serbian mob scandal that had rocked the Brooklyn DA’s office a few weeks ago, but I knew he was in bed with the Serbs just as much as his buddy Brian Chatel
was. Webber had backed Chatel in the election for Brooklyn DA, but my old friend from college, Alessia Pizzano, had swooped in and taken the win in a record-breaking victory after the scandal was exposed.

  Even as a latecomer to the political race, Alessia had surged up the polls and had nearly broken even with Chatel, but the scandal revelation had sealed the deal.

  In our digging to find out who was pulling Chatel’s strings, we’d found Webber seemed to have his hands in every cookie jar in New York, but we didn’t have any solid evidence against him. He was slick enough to make connections behind closed doors and without leaving a paper trail, so he’d slipped past the hacker who had exposed Chatel, and I couldn’t stand the fact that he continued to run New York and his anti-Mafia campaign while he was in the shadows doing just as much dirty work as any Febbo or Bonnano. I’d made it part of my mission to expose the slimeball for who and what he really was.

  “Whatever you think you know, just forget it,” Ordman hissed through clenched teeth. “It won’t get you anywhere, especially not with the mayor.”

  “I know what everyone else knows,” I replied with a shrug. “Webber openly supported the Serbian mob candidate, even though he is supposedly a staunch opponent of the mob and its criminals. Who knows what else he’s got going on behind closed doors?”

  “You talk a lot of shit for someone who has another case on the docket against me this week,” the DA huffed. “I’ll keep locking up your boss’ buddies every week if I have to, and de Luca is next on my list.”

  “Oh, right, the other blatant inflammatory charge your office put together on an innocent Italian man,” I shot back. “You’ve really got me scared now, Counselor. I’m sure Mr. Lamon is terrified as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Before he could respond, I pulled my phone from my pocket and sat down at the table to scroll through my notifications. Ordman stood in front of me for a solid five seconds with his mouth open before he finally snapped it shut and stormed back to his side of the courtroom while I blatantly ignored him and kept my eyes on my phone.

  I chuckled to myself at his frustration while I accessed my messages.

  How’s it going?

  What happened?

  Call me.

  Hurry up.

  Anthony had quickly lost patience with my lack of response during the court proceedings, but this judge was a strict enforcer of the no cell phones in the courtroom policy. I wouldn’t risk losing this case for a text, and I didn’t have any news yet anyway.

  Can’t text while judge is in here. Jury is deliberating. I’ll call you when we have a verdict.

  I hit the send button and switched over to social media. My Twitter feed was slightly less filled with news of Chatel’s scandal than it had been at the end of the election, but people were still talking about it. The mayor had finally distanced himself from the entire story and publicly backed Alessia as the Brooklyn DA. It was a bold move considering how his candidate had gone down in flames, but his mindless supporters ate it up. I didn’t think I’d ever understand how people couldn’t see through his fake smile and meaningless promises to better the city. Even at the press conference where he’d shown his support for Alessia, I’d wanted to throw a shoe at the TV with his over-the-top blubbering about how great it was to have a young, fresh face behind the DA’s desk. She and I both knew better, though. He’d already called me out as Anthony’s attorney, and I hoped he didn’t have anything up his sleeve to derail her career.

  My phone buzzed with my client’s reply.

  How much longer?

  I shook my head as I sent back a response.

  Not sure. I’ll keep you posted.

  As I tucked my phone back into my jacket pocket, the bailiff called for everyone to rise. Ordman glanced at me with a smirk while he buttoned his suit jacket. I rolled my eyes and turned to find my client making his way to the front of the gallery.

  “That was quick,” Lombardi murmured as he scooted around the table to stand next to me.

  “Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  Fast verdicts generally weren’t great for the defense, but I couldn’t think of the negatives right now. I’d given a solid argument about the lack of evidence the prosecution had in regard to the felony charge, and all Ordman had done was paint my client as a bad guy in general. It could still go well.

  It would go well.

  The judge reentered the courtroom while the bailiff ushered the jury back to their seats. He took a slip of paper from the jury foreman and took it to the judge who nodded and handed it back to the bailiff.

  “Foreman, on the sole charge of felony menacing, how do you find?” the judge asked.

  The foreman was an older gentleman whose hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the paper and cleared his throat.

  “We, the jury, find the defendant, Nicolo Lombardi, not guilty,” he read off in a quivering voice.

  Hell, yes.

  Lombardi grinned from ear to ear as most of the gallery behind us erupted into hushed excitement. Not all whispers were happy, however, and I smiled to myself when I heard the voices that came from behind the prosecution’s desk. The alleged victim and his family hissed at Ordman whose face had already flushed a deep red.

  “Order!” the judge tapped his gavel to quiet the room. “Mr. Foreman, jurors, the state of New York thanks you for your service. You are dismissed.”

  “Unbelievable!” Ordman huffed under his breath as he tossed his legal pad and pens into his briefcase. “What a joke.”

  “Counselor, I certainly hope you aren’t referring to our court system as a joke,” the judge admonished loudly.

  Ordman blushed an even darker shade of crimson as he shook his head and turned away from the judge.

  “I hope you give me a better challenge next time,” I snickered as I breezed past the DA’s table.

  I could practically hear his gritted teeth grinding together as he fumbled for a response before I grabbed Lombardi and pushed him toward the door. I knew the press had been eagerly awaiting the verdict, and I didn’t want us to become mired down in a scrum of reporters as we left the building. Lombardi took his daughter’s hand and pulled her along behind us through the crowded hallways.

  “Mr. Lombardi, do you feel the verdict was correct?” one reporter asked as he shoved a microphone into my client’s face.

  Lombardi’s mouth opened and closed awkwardly like a fish out of water before I stepped between them and put a gentle hand on the mic.

  “We’ll answer questions outside,” I said. “Feel free to ask there.”

  We shoved our way past the rest of the vultures until we stood on the steps outside the courthouse and stared down at the teeming pool of reporters who were already rolling their cameras as they sprinted toward us with microphones outstretched.

  “Oh, God, what do I even say?” Lombardi muttered.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Let me do the talking.”

  I motioned for the reporters to stand a few steps away from us, so I could keep an eye on each of them and be sure to answer the right questions. I smiled at the familiar face of Brenda Borowski with the Daily News, and she led the charge with the first question.

  “Mr. Morgan, are you and your client satisfied with the verdict today?” she asked.

  “Mr. Lombardi and I are certain that some justice has been served,” I replied easily. “The state was unable to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client was guilty of a charge that stemmed from a verbal dispute and was blown out of proportion by the NYPD and the DA’s office. The jury saw right through the state’s overzealous tactics and came to the correct verdict by declaring my client not guilty of their frivolous charge. We are satisfied with the twelve men and women who worked hard to take in every aspect of this case when they made their decision.”

  “So, you blame the police and the DA for this case?” another reporter chimed in.

  “Perhaps they thought the menacing charge was reasonable
,” I hedged with a shrug. “But the jury knew it wasn’t, and for that, I’m grateful for America’s great justice system.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Lombardi just one of several Italian clients you represent?” A young male reporter jabbed his microphone closer as he awaited my response.

  “Ethnicity isn’t a question I ask of my clients,” I retorted. “Though I have noticed an increasing number of Italian-American citizens being charged as of late with far higher crimes than in previous years.”

  “Do you think this has anything to do with Mayor Webber’s anti-mob campaign?” Brenda piped up.

  She had perfect timing.

  “I think it should worry all of our city that the mayor, DA, and NYPD have chosen to focus on one group of people and their alleged crimes,” I replied. “If they’re only searching for a certain type of person, how can they be expected to catch and charge other criminals? Whose last name is the most important when the police are searching for a perpetrator?”

  “Are you insinuating the NYPD is on a mobster witch hunt?” another reporter called out.

  “You can deduce what you will.” I shrugged and smiled. “I’ve reached my own conclusions, and I will continue to defend the innocent citizens of New York, so they’re treated fairly and reasonably in accordance with American and state law.”

  “Are you still dating DA Pizzano?” The question came from a reporter I recognized as a gossip columnist.

  “We were never dating,” I chuckled. “DA Pizzano has been a friend for many years, and I enjoyed supporting her during her campaign. Hopefully, she’ll be able to pencil me into her busy schedule for a glass or two between all the hard work she’s doing in Brooklyn.”

  “Do you think she’ll file charges against her former opponent, Brian Chatel?” another reporter asked as he stepped in front of the gossip girl.

  “I think Mr. Chatel certainly owes the people an explanation for his secret relationships and attempted political gains,” I replied sternly. “He had no business treating the citizens of Brooklyn like pawns while he tried to line his own pockets. If the investigating parties determine he’s culpable for a crime, then he should absolutely be prosecuted.”