Mob Lawyer 4 Page 2

  “Mr. Lombardi, did you threaten to kill that boy?” I narrowed my eyes on the young woman I didn’t recognize.

  Her badge read Queens Chronicle, and her bright blue eyes stared at my client with unwavering confidence until I held my hand out to stop him from answering.

  “My client has been acquitted of menacing,” I said and quirked an eyebrow at the reporter. “Or did you miss that part?”

  “I got it,” she replied with a smirk. “I just asked if he committed the crime and got away with it.”

  “Are you saying you don’t have faith in the jury who heard all the testimony and evidence in this case?” I shot back. “You don’t believe in the people of Queens?”

  “I don’t believe they would acquit a mobster of making threats unless they were threatened as well,” the young reporter scoffed. “It wouldn’t be the first time a Mafia guy got off on charges because his buddies tampered with witnesses or jurors.”

  “I would encourage you to watch your words,” I warned in a low voice. “I’d be happy to take on my first case of defamation or libel against you and the Queens Chronicle.”

  The color drained from her face before she looked down at her notepad and scribbled something I couldn’t see.

  “Mr. Morgan, will you be filing a civil suit against the alleged victim in Mr. Lombardi’s case?” another reporter jumped into the awkward break in questions.

  “That will be Mr. Lombardi’s decision,” I replied before I held my hands up. “I believe we’re done for the day. Any further questions can be forwarded to my office. I’m sure Mr. Lombardi is ready to get home and be with his family now that this fiasco is all behind him.”

  There were a few grumbles of dissent before I noticed a commotion behind us.

  “Oh, DA Ordman!” one of the reporters yelled and pointed.

  Ordman ducked his head and tried to avoid the onslaught, but he’d already been seen, and the reporters latched onto him with fervor.

  “Is your office focusing on criminals with mob ties?”

  “How do you feel about today’s verdict?”

  “Do you think you should have offered a lighter charge to Mr. Lombardi?”

  I considered staying for the amusement of watching him fumble to answer their questions, but I decided to get Lombardi to his car before the vultures came back for seconds. I led the way for my client and his daughter down to the Chrysler 300 that waited at the bottom of the steps. They climbed inside, and I started to shut the door when Lombardi reached out and shook my hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” he said softly. “I know Tony asked you to do this for him, but my daughter and I are grateful for getting me out of that mess. I can’t control my temper sometimes, especially when it comes to my family, so thank you for making sure I get to go back to them.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied with a smile. “Tony may have asked, but you made the case pretty easy by being innocent.”

  “Do you really think I’d have a case to sue that little schmuck that was after my baby girl?” he wondered.

  “I can look into it,” I answered. “I haven’t handled any civil cases since I left corporate, but if you want a fight, we’ll bring one to him.”

  “I’ll let you know.” Lombardi grinned and folded himself into the Chrysler before the driver eased the silver car into traffic.

  The thought of filing a civil suit on behalf of the mobster was somewhat daunting, but it would be thrilling to watch the stalker squirm like a worm on a hook. He deserved whatever Lombardi decided to throw at him, and I’d be in his corner every step of the way.

  I watched them for a moment, then pulled my phone from my pocket to call my main client while I walked to the parking garage.

  “Well?” Anthony demanded as soon as we connected.

  “Acquitted,” I answered easily. “They didn’t have enough, and they knew it. I have no idea why they continued trying this case. It should have been a quick plea deal with time served, but Ordman was determined to win the felony charge.”

  “Maybe he thought that would make the Serbs happy,” my client muttered with annoyance then cleared his throat. “I mean, thanks for getting him off. That kid who was stalking his daughter was a real creep. Good thing you aren’t in the Legal Aid rotation anymore. He’d probably end up needing your services soon.”

  Somehow, the idea of defending that little pervert sickened me more than defending members of the Italian mob did. At least there was an honor code of sorts among the mobsters.

  “Lombardi is thinking about suing him,” I said as I hit the button to unlock my Mercedes AMG and heard the familiar bleep. “Then I wouldn’t have to defend him.”

  As I opened my door, I turned and waved to the familiar black Chrysler that was parked across from me. I couldn’t see him, but I knew my bodyguard Hank sat inside in the dark as he waited for me to finish the trial. Since I was in and out of the courthouse all day, I couldn’t carry my Smith & Wesson, and my client had insisted I have a bodyguard near me, especially when I had no way to protect myself.

  “That would be rich,” Anthony laughed then paused. “Hold on. What the fuck?”

  “What’s going on?” I asked as I slid onto the smooth Nappa leather seats of my new luxury car and sighed. “That sounds suspiciously like a problem.”

  “It is,” my client grunted. “Hope you weren’t ready to go home yet.”

  The thought of returning to my small apartment and slipping on some sweats and a t-shirt had certainly been appealing, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be happening for a while given Anthony’s tone.

  “Where do you need me to go?” I asked.

  “Twenty-third precinct in Manhattan,” Anthony replied. “Gervasio Rossi, he’s one of my guys. I just got a message that he’s been picked up by the five-oh and is already in interrogation.”

  “He knows not to talk, right?” I muttered while I put my car in reverse and started to make my way out of the parking garage. “I need to talk to him first. What do you know?”

  “Not much.” I heard Anthony rustling around with some papers. “He hasn’t been in trouble since he started working for my dad about eight years ago. Not sure how or why he got picked up now, but these stronzinos are starting to piss me off.”

  “Who, the cops?” I wondered.

  “I don’t know if it’s them or the mayor,” he grumbled. “Maybe it’s even the Serbians. Who the hell knows! Either way, they’re messing with my business.”

  “Is Mr. Rossi a--” I started to ask.

  “You don’t get to know job descriptions, Counselor,” Anthony cut me off.

  The fiery anger of the young Italian caught me off guard for a moment. I often forgot how cold and calculating my client could be, but he was quick to remind me if I crossed the line with my questions.

  “Uh, yeah, my bad, Mr. Lamon,” I acquiesced.

  “He works for me,” Anthony continued in a low voice. “And I need him out of the NYPD’s hands. That’s what you need to know.”

  “You got it,” I agreed.

  There was a brief pause, and I could practically feel Anthony trying to calm himself. I’d been working for him almost a year now, but I’d made my negative stance on illegal activity clear, so I decided to take the outburst as his confirmation that he respected my boundaries. At least it made me feel better to think of it that way.

  “If another family is after my business, they’re stirring up trouble,” my client continued more calmly. “I care about my family and my money, and they’re messing with both.”

  “I’ll take care of Mr. Rossi,” I promised. “Maybe I can get some info about why he’s in there that will help you figure out who it is.”

  “That’s much better,” he sighed. “Once I find out who it is, I’ll handle it on my own.”

  “Let’s just leave it at that.” I didn’t want my client to say anything to incriminate himself to me.

  As an officer of the court, I couldn’t knowingly conceal or be part o
f a crime, which sometimes made conversations with my mob boss client a little difficult.

  “Oh, I know,” Anthony chuckled. “I won’t share the details with you, Hunter, but you should know something.”

  “What’s that?” I asked cautiously.

  “I will find out who’s behind all these cases,” he said, and his voice dripped with menace as it poured from the speakers of my car. “Putting my business at risk is something I take very, very personally.”

  Chapter 2

  I clenched my jaw as I weaved in and out of Queens traffic and made my way toward Manhattan. Anthony hadn’t given me much to go on, but I’d had worse in my pro bono Legal Aid cases I used to snag on the side. More than once I’d been given nothing but a last name and sent on my way. Even though those cases were hard to get started, I enjoyed pushing myself and getting in the criminal defense game. It had been my foot in the door.

  Before I’d worked for Anthony, I was so desperate to pay off my school loans, I’d taken a shit corporate job I hated with a fiery passion. My bosses were lifeless drones, my coworkers were better but still boring, and the cases made me want to vomit with tedium. I took some pro bono cases from Legal Aid since I enjoyed them, but my bosses at the white shoe firm were always on my ass about doing more for free than I did for them and their mostly legal money. When I stumbled across Anthony’s case, it had led into a life I could never have imagined.

  Those school loans were now paid off, my old Volvo had been replaced with a nice brand new car, and I’d started thinking about buying my own house. I lived in DUMBO, which wasn’t a bad area to be fair, but I drove pretty far to my client’s house for most of our meetings, and now, I was defending his associates in every borough. I needed to find somewhere more centralized to my work.

  Right now, though, I had to find the one and only Gervasio Rossi.

  I parked around the corner from the entrance and strode through the front doors of the twenty-third precinct with my briefcase in hand and a look of determination on my face. The desk sergeant looked up at my entrance, and his face immediately twisted into a scowl.

  It seemed the officer wasn’t a fan of attorneys.

  “I’m here for Mr. Gervasio Rossi,” I announced as I scanned the bullpen behind him. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll have to get the detective on his case,” the sergeant replied and picked up his phone. “You can talk to him.”

  “A detective?” I repeated with narrowed eyes. “What’s the charge?”

  “You’re his attorney, shouldn’t you know?” he retorted.

  I opened my mouth for a snarky reply, but the sergeant had already started to murmur into the handset just quiet enough to keep me from hearing him. Then he hung up and gave me a smug smile as he pointed to the glass door on my right.

  I pursed my lips and tightened the grip on my briefcase as I pushed through the door and into the bullpen. A handful of officers sat at their desks and filled out reports or answered phones. It didn’t seem to be bustling with much excitement, and most of the officers only gave me a quick glance before returning to their work.

  I looked around for the interrogation room when a man with a bushy mustache and matching eyebrows strolled out of a dark hallway and caught my gaze. He looked to be in his fifties, and his muddy-brown suit didn’t look much younger. He seemed to realize who I was and walked over with a grimace as he took in my appearance. The stench of cheap cologne floated in the air around him, and I assumed it was some attempt to cover up the strong odor of his apparent smoking habit.

  “You the mouthpiece for Rossi?” he asked in a thick Boston accent.

  “I’m the defense attorney for Mr. Rossi, yes,” I said as I narrowed my eyes. “Hunter Morgan. And you’re the detective on his case, I presume?”

  “Detective Toscani,” the bushy-eyebrowed man introduced himself. “I’ve been handling Rossi’s case, but he didn’t--”

  “What are his charges?” I cut him off.

  “First-degree assault,” Toscani answered and smiled to reveal yellowing teeth. “Once we get the victim’s statement, you’ll probably want to talk to our DA about a plea deal to save yourself the trouble of a trial. It could get pretty ugly.”

  “I can determine that on my own,” I retorted. “If you don’t even have a victim statement, why is my client being held here?”

  “You know we have twenty-four hours to hold him on suspicion,” the detective shot back. “And we have suspicion.”

  Suspicion without a report could only mean their alleged witness wasn’t keen on filing a report, either because he didn’t want to go through the trouble or because he was scared, and I knew mobsters could be scary guys. While I didn’t always approve of the Mafia tactics, this time it gave me an easy way out.

  “So, the alleged victim won’t even talk to you,” I chuckled and shook my head. “Are you seriously going to try to make an assault case without a victim?”

  “We have a victim,” he insisted. “And several witnesses, too.”

  “Witnesses to an assault on a victim who isn’t willing to fill out a statement?” I clucked my tongue. “Detective, you seem experienced enough to know that won’t last very long. Now, take me to my client.”

  “Not so fast, Mr. Morgan,” a familiar voice called out from behind me. “Patience is a virtue, or so they say.”

  I turned around to see Chief Flores striding across the bullpen. The other officers’ mouths dropped open in surprise as his five-foot-five frame weaved between their desks to approach me with a self-righteous grin on his wide face. The chief was built like a bull with wide shoulders and a puffed-out chest, but he was no taller than my chin, and talking with him always felt like I was arguing with a child.

  “Chief, nice to see you again,” I muttered as I moved my briefcase to my left hand and reached out for a handshake with my right.

  “Wish I could say the same.” The chief of the NYPD ignored my hand and turned to the detective. “Has Rossi talked yet?”

  “No, sir,” Toscani mumbled. “Hasn’t said a word.”

  “My favorite kind of client,” I said with a smile. “I’m assuming he’s waiting for me, so you can--”

  “He hasn’t asked for a lawyer,” Flores interrupted me and frowned. “How did you know to come?”

  “That would be attorney-client privilege, Chief Flores,” I replied. “I’m sure you’re familiar with that term, even if Miranda rights seem to escape you. If Mr. Rossi invoked his right to silence, it seems plausible he would also invoke his right to counsel. And here I am.”

  The chief looked flustered for a brief moment before he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. He didn’t like being made to look stupid, but it happened to be something I rather enjoyed.

  “I’m sure his employer called you, so we can cut the crap, Counselor,” the chief snapped.

  “You sure know an awful lot about Mr. Rossi for a guy who hasn’t spoken a word since he entered the precinct,” I remarked. “Have you been keeping an eye on my client prior to his arrest? Is it safe to assume you haven’t violated his Constitutional rights? Do you have any search warrants I need to see?”

  “We haven’t violated shit,” Flores hissed. “And everyone in Manhattan knows who he works for. Same goes for you.”

  “I’m a private practice attorney,” I scoffed. “I have clients, not employers.”

  “Mobster clients,” Toscani muttered.

  “Come on, detective.” I rolled my eyes. “I keep innocent people out of prison, something you may not be familiar with if you’re holding my client even though you can’t produce a victim to his alleged crime.”

  “Are Tony Febbo and his goons really innocent?” he sneered.

  “If you’re referring to another of my clients, I’ll have to remind you again, that information is privileged,” I said firmly before I turned on the chief. “Though it seems your department has taken a sudden interest in a specific group of people, is that right?”

  “
You mean criminals?” Flores asked with mock innocence.

  “No, I mean suspects with Italian names,” I shot back. “In case you haven’t heard, Mr. Lombardi was acquitted today, so your tactics aren’t even working.”

  “You got Lombardi off?” Toscani sputtered. “That case was open and shut! I know the detectives on it. They wouldn’t have messed it up. You must have pulled something shady to get the jury on your side!”

  “I provided the information the jury needed.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “They knew the DA was overreaching, and they called him on it. I didn’t have to do much more than that.”

  “So you put a scumbag back out on the streets,” Flores grunted. “You won’t be able to get every criminal out of trouble, Morgan.”

  “I never intended to,” I replied. “For example, I won’t be representing your friend Brian Chatel since I help the ones who don’t belong behind bars. I only want what’s best for my clients, and right now, what’s best is to talk to Mr. Rossi. So, if you don’t show me where he is, I’ll make sure to talk to the city council about the violation of his right to an attorney. Now, where is my client?”

  Flores and Toscani glanced at each other before the detective finally turned and waved me over. We left Flores standing in a tiny ball of fury with his arms crossed over his chest as I followed Toscani back into the hallway toward the interrogation room. The detective opened the door to reveal a burly Italian man sitting at a table with a stereotypical single light bulb dangling overhead.

  Rossi had to be at least six-foot-five with biceps the size of my head and dark eyes that watched us carefully. He was good at appearing not to pay attention, but something told me he was more observant than he seemed. His head was shaved nearly bald, but he had an impressively large beard that hung to the middle of his wide chest. He wore a plain gray t-shirt and sweatpants, which told me the police had already taken his clothing for evidence, though without a complaining witness, there wasn’t much they could do with it.

  I glanced at Toscani whose grumpy expression never changed as he motioned for me to go inside. I stepped into the room and looked around to see the two-way mirror to my left and a cinder block wall on the right with a single camera that featured a flashing red light. There were no windows, and the only way in or out was the doorway I stood in.