Blood Money (26 page)

“Unh, unh,” Kirby shook his head. “I have to hold it. It’s evidence. And I can’t let it out of my possession—not even for a second.” He guardedly opened his palm to reveal the tiny object.

“Turn it over,” the older girl said, cocking her head, her hands authoritatively folded across her chest.

Kirby obeyed, carefully turning it over in his palm to reveal a gouge purposely cut in the head. “That’s it. Yep. That’s my mom’s key. Now can I please have it?”

“No.” Kirby quickly closed his hand. “It belongs to the district attorney and to the city of Philadelphia and to the courts. It’s evidence.”

“You know that Gates bitch that won’t find my mother’s killer.”

Kirby reeled at the girl’s language as well as her intuitiveness. “Why do say that?”

“I read the papers. I see people snooping around here. I hear people talking. I know what’s going on. But nothing happens. Gates doesn’t want anything to happen. She’s covering for somebody. And what’s another Latino corpse to her?”

“Well,
I
want to find your mother’s killers before she closes the case and the guilty go unpunished.” Kirby lowered his eyes realizing that he stood before a child with more intelligence than most adults he knew—a child who knew the truth.

The girl sensed his sincerity. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” She held out her hand. “My name is Carmen, Carmen Lopez.”

Nick Ceratto sat in the hard wooden armchair behind the scarred walnut counsel table. His stomach was doing flips, but no one would know it. He was good at hiding anxiety and perfect at disguising fear. He knew that the best defense was an offense. He had learned this as a kid on the streets, and Joe Maglio had helped hone this natural talent to a perfect edge. He was dressed in his best imported trial uniform —a charcoal single-button Ralph Lauren suit that fit snugly around his muscular frame. His shave was fresh, his hair slicked back. His legs were crossed casually. His black Italian shoes glinted in the harsh lights of the poorly refurbished nineteenth-century courtroom. Air-conditioning units bulged from taped windows, and dappled brown stains surrounded the heating registers that had been carelessly gouged into the once impressive woodwork. Here, justice would be administered in the case of
The Estate of Sean Riley vs Victor Manin, M.D. et al
—here in the shabby courtroom of the Honorable Joseph Barnes.

Nick knew the nature of the contrary, power hungry beast which he would face. If he had requested a formal hearing on the record with a court reporter present, Barnes would have first conducted an informal meeting, off the record, and would have been forewarned and had time to think. If he requested a private meeting in the judge’s chambers, he would get exactly what he wanted—a formal conference, on the record, which would put Barnes between a boulder and a mountain.

His assessment had been correct. Nick sat and watched and waited as Barnes struggled with the bomb Nick had put before him, trying to figure out which wire to cut first.

The courtroom was silent. The jury box was empty. The court reporter was ready with her fingers poised on the keys of her machine. John Asher waited anxiously outside the closed double
doors guarded by security to prevent the intrusion of the everpresent, ever-pesky press. He wondered what the fuck Ceratto was doing in there alone with Judge Barnes. He felt assured that Barnes wouldn’t hurt him. They were members of the same golf club and frequented the Union League, the exclusive Broad Street club—a bastion of male dominance since the Civil War. He would soon find out the purpose of this meeting, and then put his objection on the record as to its privacy. When you didn’t know what to do, the motto of every lawyer was to do
something
, anything, rather than sit with your thumb up your ass.

Inside, Judge Barnes inwardly fumed.
I knew this little, fucking, corner-hanging, two-bit punk had something up his sleeve. How did I know that? Why did I put this mess on the record? I fell right into his hands,
he thought. He fidgeted on the bench.
Think, Barnes, think. Your life depends on it. And that little fucking machine between the bitch’s legs is going to tell the world what you say.
His tortoiseshell half-glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his perfectly straight, WASP nose. They dared not slide. They served a purpose. He could look over the rims and smiling, strike terror and causing stomachs to churn. He recognized fear in the faces and in the body language of those before him, and he relished it. But this time he saw none of that in Nick Ceratto. This time when he looked down, he saw his own reflection in the polished wood of his bench. And he recognized fear in that reflection—his own.

“This morning, this court, with a court reporter present, conducted a
private
meeting with counsel for plaintiff, prior to jury selection, at the request of Nicholas Ceratto, attorney for the Estate of Sean Riley, in the matter of
The Estate of Sean Riley versus Dr. Victor Manin et al.
As the record shows, Mr. Ceratto has requested that this court postpone the trial pending investigation into alleged misconduct of his former partners, Martin Silvio and Harold Levin, in orchestrating the death of plaintiff’s decedent, Sean Riley, in order to enable them to bring a and wrongful death case against Dr. Victor Manin, the surgeon who operated on Captain Riley prior to his demise. Mr. Ceratto has indicated that there is evidence that
one of his own witnesses, Nurse Doletov, the operating room nurse who is to testify on behalf of the Riley family, intentionally caused Mr. Riley’s death. Mr. Ceratto also indicates that his former partners, in some way, participated in the deaths of Joseph Maglio, a former partner of the firm, and of Celia Lopez, a receptionist in the firm, and of a woman named Maria Elena Maglio, a cousin of Joseph Maglio, in an effort to cover up their misdeeds. Mr. Ceratto, in essence, accuses his former employers of fraud and of conspiracy in the three deaths. He also accuses his own witness, Nurse Doletov, of perjury and murder. He also states that the witness he had intended to call to prove Nurse Doletov’s involvement is now dead. This nurse, Donna Price, was also present during the surgery performed on Sean Riley and witnessed the murder and fled to California in fear of her life. Mr. Ceratto states that she was subpoenaed to testify and was mysteriously murdered just prior to her appearance here in court. Mr. Ceratto has no other proof other than himself and a paralegal, Ms. Grace Monahan, who heard Ms. Price describe the alleged murder. Mr. Ceratto has no further proof of the involvement of his former employers in any plot to murder anyone, only sheer speculation based on coincidence. This court finds Mr. Ceratto’s accusations dangerous and defamatory. They should not be discussed outside this courtroom. Mr. Ceratto has indicated that his concern, and intentions, are to protect the integrity of our legal system and to protect the rights of all citizens including those of his opponent, the defendant, Dr. Victor Manin. He has requested that this court delay this trial until a full investigation into these allegations is conducted. He has requested not only an indefinite postponement, but also to be allowed to withdraw as plaintiff’s counsel at this, the final hour, on the day of jury selection. Mr. Ceratto cites ethical considerations for his request.

“Based on what this court has heard today from Mr. Ceratto, this court has determined that this trial will
not
be postponed, that it will continue on schedule with jury selection to begin in one hour. That based on no evidence whatsoever, Mr. Ceratto’s request is frivolous, foolhardy, and defamatory. It is the opinion
of this court that Mr. Ceratto’s conduct, if allowed to continue as requested, would breach the standards of ethical conduct required of a trial attorney to skillfully and zealously represent his client, in this case the Rileys. Mr. Ceratto would turn his back on his clients and prejudice their case with baseless allegations and dangerous speculation, something which this court cannot and will not allow.

“Therefore you will try this case, Mr. Ceratto. You will not offer, at any time, any evidence prejudicial to your clients’ case. You will not turn this court into a media circus. You will not embarrass me or your former employers or yourself with scandalous and defamatory accusations. And lastly—you will do nothing to prejudice your clients’ case. If you do, I will personally see that you never set foot inside another courtroom and that you will spend a long, long time regretting your actions—behind bars, if possible. This is a gag order, Mr. Ceratto. You will talk to no one about this—not to the press, not to Mr. Asher, not even to your own clients. Is that clear?”

Barnes’s face was the color of his tie. He loosened his heavily starched collar with his index finger, moving his head back and forth as if to pry it away. His eyes flashed with rage.
How dare this little wop do this to me
, he thought.

Nick stood, smiled politely, nodded his head. “Very well, Your Honor. It’s your call. I’ve given you the information. What happens with it now is Your Honor’s responsibility. Now, I’m prepared to pick a jury…Judge.”

Nick Ceratto studied them carefully as they shuffled through the jury box and into the scuffed wooden chairs they would call home until the trial was over. They were twelve, plain, ordinary folks, actually downright drab, the way they were supposed to be. Five men and seven women, bland and nameless people. For purposes of this case, they were perfect because they were nonthreatening to both sides, perfectly chosen by both Nick Ceratto and John Asher because of their neutrality. Those who had revealed any opinion on anything having to do with the justice system, cops, or doctors had been stricken. Nick had made sure there were no doctors or nurses, no one even remotely connected with medicine. And John Asher had struck all those in law enforcement, all city employees, as well as anyone who had a personal injury case: past, present, or anyone else who wished they had one.

The attorneys were left with solid citizens; blue collar, white collar, and the unemployed, who would hold the fates and futures of the litigants and their attorneys in their hands.

Nick had determined that there was nothing he could do at this point but try the case to win. He couldn’t throw it—it would be too obvious, plus doing so would ensure his disbarment. He had made the record, he had put the decision in Barnes’s hands. Now it was the judge’s problem. Nick would close his eyes to justice, to what was right and what was true, and do his job as directed.

Judge Barnes started. His booming voice filled the courtroom with his obviously canned opening: instructions on the flag, the privilege of serving it not only on the field of battle but also in the jury box.

The idea of the courtroom being a battleground was not new, certainly not to the trial lawyers. Certainly they were more like gladiators than combatants on the field; and the jury, spectators
who would ultimately decide who would live and who would die. He blocked the judge’s drivel out of his mind and focused on his client, the widow Riley, who sat quietly beside him clutching her Miraculous medal in her thin, veined hand. It was clear that she was scared to death. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from lack of sleep and crying. Her mostly gray hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her shapeless, black dress hung old and baggy from her hunched shoulders. She reminded Nick of a nun he once knew in grade school, but she looked far older. His sympathies surfaced as he deliberately put himself into a state to win.
She deserves something for her loss
, he thought,
regardless of who was responsible
. She was pathetic, he rationalized.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze of encouragement as Barnes carried on, warning the jury about the persistence of the press, and to resist the temptation to talk about the case. They were warned and re-warned against any communication with the outside or with each other. They were threatened with every sanction in the book, including fines and jail time if they failed in their duty. Judge Barnes paused for a moment, staring sternly at the jury.

“Do you understand your duties in this case? Do you accept the rule of silence regarding talking to any person about this case?”

The panel nodded, and mumbled their affirmation.

Juror number three, a wide-eyed schoolteacher, shook her curls as she moved her head up and down with approval. Most of the jurors were eager to begin and struck with the importance of the task ahead. Barnes made sure of that.

All except juror number one, who seemed angry at the world. Alonzo Hodge had just started a new job as a line chef at Dante’s Downtown, and he was mighty pissed that he just might lose it because of jury duty. Not to mention the lost income. He had been told that he couldn’t be fired for serving on a jury; but he knew better. They’d find some excuse, some legal loophole to fuck a black man. He sat erect, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his gaze intense. He said nothing, mumbled nothing. He didn’t shake
his head up and down with the rest of the jury. And he wasn’t afraid of the honkey with the black robe sitting on the throne—no sir.

Nick zeroed in on Alonzo. He had coal black skin, sharp intelligent eyes, and a face unmarred by complacency. It was a face unlike the rest; it was not the face of a follower. He would be a tough one to get through to, he thought. But if he was successful, the jury was his. Nick accepted the challenge. He knew that juror number one would be guided by his own principles, whatever they were, and not by Barnes’s, Asher’s, or the widow Riley’s. Nick liked that.